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the-unidentified-author · 5 days ago

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I Want to Fill My Mouth With Your Name. I Want to Eat You Whole. | Robert 'Bob' Reynolds| Thunderbolts*

Warnings/ Tags: SMUT[NSFW], shy guy, smut, nerd, talks you through it, maybe not as nerdy as you thought, his eyes glow when he cums, he likes to talk you through it, consensual!

Summary: Youre working late at night and Bob joins you not wanting to be alone in the tower. One thing leads to another and now you have him in your mouth as he moans your name.

Word Count: 5,877

A/n: Long one again sorryyyyy.

Not my gif, if its yours and you would like me to remove it just ask <3

It had been a long day, the kind of day that left your head aching and your eyes bleary from staring at computer screens. Working later was something that you hated, but occasionally, it was a requirement. You were a scientist, one of the best, and you had been employed and set to work in the Avengers tower. Your work mostly consisted of studying the various skills of those that resided in the tower, along with cataloguing and keeping track of the super serums.

You’d been holed up in your lab for hours, the fluorescent lights harsh and unforgiving, the hum of machines a constant drone in your ears. You were tired, bone-tired, but you couldn’t stop. If you did, then you would just have to come back to it in the morning and well you were in the flow now.

And then, like a breath of fresh air, Bob had appeared in the doorway, lingering uncertainly, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “You’ve been down here a while,” he’d said, voice soft, hesitant. “I thought… maybe you could use some company?”

You’d tried to wave him off, to tell him you were fine, but he’d taken a tentative step into the room, eyes darting around like he wasn’t quite sure where to look. “I could help,” he’d offered, nodding towards a stack of haphazard files. “With the organising, I mean. If—if you want.”

You’d protested, but truth be told, you were grateful for the help—and for the company. The tower could be lonely, especially at night, and you knew Bob didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts any more than you did.

The work had gone quicker with Bob’s help, his presence a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. You’d fallen into an easy rhythm, a comfortable silence punctuated by the occasional soft comment or gentle tease.

“You know, I had no idea you were so good at filing,” you’d said at one point, shooting him a playful grin, trying to draw him out of his shell.

He’d ducked his head, a faint blush staining his cheeks. “Well, I—I have a good memory,” he’d murmured, eyes fixed on the files in his hands. “And I like to help. Where I can.”

Your heart had warmed at that, at the quiet admission, the vulnerability in his hunched shoulders, his downcast eyes. You’d wanted to reach out, to brush that errant lock of hair from his forehead, to tilt his chin up and tell him just how much you appreciated him, how much his presence meant. But instead you turned back to your work, trying not to think about him.

A few hours later and the two of you had made a sizeable dent in cataloguing and organising the myriad of files you had been sent. It was late now, the tower was hushed, the city’s glow beyond the windows dimmed to a gentle amber, as if even the bustling metropolis knew to give you this pocket of peace. You could almost forget the world existed outside these walls—almost. The only sound was the rustle of papers and the soft click of keys, a quiet symphony punctuating the stillness as you and Bob worked late into the evening.

You were pouring over mission reports and data readouts long after everyone else had retired for the night, the faint hum of the sleeping building a comforting backdrop. The room was warm, the air heavy with the scent of old books and new technology, the glow of computer screens casting eerie shadows on the walls.

Bob sat across from you, brow furrowed in concentration, golden brown hair tousled from running his fingers through it repeatedly. The soft light cast half his face in shadow, but you could still trace the bow of his lips, the line of his jaw, the curve of his neck disappearing beneath his collar. The play of muscle and tendon in his forearms, the hoodie he always wore pulled up them to just below the elbow.

He was close enough that you caught the faint, clean scent of him—not just soap and warm skin, but something indefinable, something superhuman. It was a heady, intoxicating scent, like sunshine and salt and power, and it made your head swim, made you want to lean closer, to breathe him in.

The surrounding room faded away, your focus narrowing on him—the way his lashes fluttered as he read, the way his fingers drummed on the table, the way his throat worked when he swallowed. You were caught, captivated.

You shouldn’t be staring. But you couldn’t help it, couldn’t tear your eyes away even as your mind raced, wondering at this sudden, intense pull you felt.

Why him? Why now? You’d known Bob for weeks. But something was different now, something had shifted, like a key turning in a lock, a door swinging open to reveal a room you’d never known was there.

Maybe it was the intimacy of the moment, the hush of the empty tower, the lateness of the hour. Perhaps it was the way he’d smiled at you earlier, warm and open and just for you. Or perhaps you were just too tired, you thought to yourself.

You’d always found him attractive, of course—what red-blooded person wouldn’t? But this was different. This was a yearning, an ache, a need that went beyond the physical, that tugged at something deep in your chest, something you hadn’t even known was there.

You wanted to know him, you realised with a start. Wanted to understand what went on behind those big, sad, blue eyes, wanted to trace the lines of his mind as surely as you wanted to trace the lines of his body. Wanted to see him, really see him, in a way no one else did.

And maybe, just maybe, you wanted him to see you too.

Reaching for a tablet, your hand accidentally brushed his where it lay on the table. He flinched—actually flinched, a soft gasp escaping. You paused, curious, watching him visibly compose himself, cheeks tinged a fascinating shade of pink.

“Sorry,” you offered, not sorry at all, mind already whirring with questions—and possibilities. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, it’s—it’s fine. I just—” He searched for words, fumbling, before looking away, abashed. “Sometimes I’m a little jumpy.”

“Jumpy,” you echoed, not quite a question, filing that reaction away. Your eyes traced his profile, the tension in his shoulders, the way his breathing had quickened just slightly. “Is it…me?”

He tried to laugh it off, but the sound was strained, the nervous energy lingering between you like a live wire. “It’s not you, I mean—it’s sort of me. It’s just… well, sometimes things feel a little… more, for me. With my powers.”

You angled your body toward him, curiosity blooming between you. “More?” you repeated softly, letting the word linger, inviting him to say more.

His fingers fidgeted with the edge of a folder, not meeting your gaze. “Yeah. It’s—my senses. All of them. Good, bad… it can get intense.”

You let the silence settle for a moment, thinking about what it would be like to feel everything turned all the way up—touch and sound and light, every sensation pressed close. “Is it always like that?” you asked, softer. “Even now?”

He shot you a glance, half sheepish, half defiant. “It’s worse when I’m…tired. Or if I feel—” He broke off, swallowing, his gaze drifting to his lap. “If I’m… nervous, I guess. Or… when something gets my attention.”

You felt your pulse speed up, imagining that you were the ‘something’ that caught his attention. “That sounds overwhelming,” you murmured. “Don’t you ever want a break from it?”

Bob gave a breath of laughter, shaky but genuine. “All the time. But sometimes it’s…not so bad. If it’s the right kind of feeling.”

You watched him for a long moment, the lines of his jaw, the vulnerable curve of his mouth. He was still tense, but there was something open in his eyes now, something that made warmth spill through you. Something stirred within you, something brave.

“What kind of feeling is it now?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper, afraid to break whatever fragile, electric moment you’d found together.

He met your gaze at last. There was a question there, but also hope, and beneath that, unmistakable want.

The room’s tension thickened, the city humming distantly outside, a quiet bubble forming around your corner of the world. That faint feeling of bravery started to burn, fill your chest. You knew what you wanted, and you decided to tip the boat out. You shifted closer, hesitating for just a moment before your next words came out, softer than before, careful: “Bob… what if… what if, I could make you feel good? Would you want that?”

His eyes found yours, uncertain but achingly hopeful. The tension was thick, and regret started to rain down on you. But then he nodded, just a small jerk of his chin. “I—I think I would.”

You held his gaze, your heart thumping hard in your chest, something warm and giddy rising in you at the trust in his eyes, the tentative want. Your fingers twitched at your side, but you didn’t reach out, not yet. You wanted to savour this moment, the sweet, heavy anticipation of it.

“Can you… can you tell me more?” you asked, barely above a whisper. “What does it feel like, with your powers? When it’s good?”

He swallowed, throat working. “It’s… it’s a lot, sometimes. Like—like everything is turned up, too bright, too loud. But when it’s good, it’s… it’s like I can feel everything. Everywhere.”

“Everywhere,” you echoed softly, something fluttering in your stomach at the thought. “And do you… do you want that? To feel… everything?”

He nodded again, a small shiver running through him. “Yes,” he breathed, voice rough.

Your gaze wandered over him—tracing the line of his throat, the breadth of his shoulders, the curve of his bicep straining against his sleeve. You imagined the warmth of his skin, the hitch of his breath, the way he might tremble under your hands.

“Where… where would you want me to start?” you asked, your voice shaking just slightly.

He wet his lips, chest heaving. “I—I don’t know. I just… I trust you.”

“Trust me,” you echoed, something warm blooming in your chest. “I—I like that. I like that a lot.”

You moved slowly around the table, and he turned to you, eyes watching as you moved closer. You reached out then—not to touch, not yet, but to let your fingers hover just above his skin, close enough to feel the heat of him. You traced the air over his hand, his wrist, his forearm, watching in fascination as he shivered.

“Is… is this okay?” you murmured, glancing up at him through your lashes.

He nodded frantically, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Please,” he whispered, and the word seemed to hang in the air between you, heavy with meaning. “Please.”

But still, you waited, drawing out the moment, letting the tension and anticipation build and build between you until it was a physical thing, a weight in the room, a thrumming in your veins.

“Bob,” you breathed at last, and his name on your lips was a question, a promise, a prayer.

“Please,” he said again, voice raw with want. “I need—I need you to touch me. I need—”

You started slow, stepping between his legs spread open on his chair, letting your fingers trail up his forearm, tracing the lines of his veins just beneath the skin. His arm was dusted with fine, dark hair, the muscle beneath solid and defined. You marvelled at the size of his hands—large, strong, capable—as they trembled ever so slightly at your touch.

He shivered under your touch, eyes fluttering shut, breath quickening. You could see the corded muscles of his forearms flexing, feel the heat radiating from his skin, the vitality pulsing just beneath the surface.

“Bob,” you murmured, voice low, soothing. “Just relax. Let yourself feel it.”

He nodded, throat working, and you could feel the tension in him slowly unwinding, his body leaning into your touch.

Your fingers danced up to his shoulder, tracing the curve of muscle there, before trailing up the side of his neck. He shivered again, a soft sound escaping his parted lips, and you smiled, something warm and powerful blooming in your chest.

“Is this good?” you asked, your lips just inches from his ear. “Do you like this?”

“Y-yes,” he breathed, voice shaky. “God, yes. More.”

You obliged, your fingers slipping into his hair, moving through the soft strands. He practically melted against you, a low moan vibrating in his throat.

“Bob,” you whispered, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Can I… can I kiss you?”

He nodded frantically, turning his face towards you, and you closed the distance between you slowly, so slowly, giving him every chance to pull away.

But he didn’t. He met you halfway, his lips soft and warm against yours, hesitant at first, then growing bolder, more desperate.

You kissed him slow and deep, pouring every ounce of want and care and tenderness you had into the press of your lips, the slide of your tongue against his. He responded in kind, hands coming up to grip your shoulders, your hair, anywhere he could reach, like he was afraid you might disappear.

When you finally broke apart, you were both panting, foreheads pressed together, noses brushing. You could feel the heat of him everywhere, like a brand on your skin.

“Bob,” you murmured, voice rough with want. “Can I… can I touch you? Really touch you?”

He nodded, eyes wide and dark and full of trust and a little lust, and you took a shaky breath, your hands sliding down to the hem of his shirt.

You paused there, giving him one last chance to say no, to change his mind, but he just looked at you, waiting, wanting.

So you slid your hands under his hoodie, palms flat against the warm skin of his stomach, his chest, feeling the muscles jump under your touch. He was all smooth skin and chiseled strength, his body trembling just slightly, like he was holding back, waiting for you to make the next move.

His abs were rock-hard under your hands, each muscle defined and distinct. You could feel the raw power coiled in him, barely contained, a thrill of exhilaration shooting through you at the thought of all that strength beneath your hands.

You took your time, exploring every inch of him, fingertips tracing the lines of his ribs, the dip of his navel, the curve of his hipbones. He shivered and shuddered under your touch, breath coming in soft pants, eyes squeezed shut like he was trying to memorise every sensation.

It struck you then, the contrast between the powerful superhero who could lift cars and crush steel in his bare hands, and the trembling man beneath your fingertips, vulnerable and open, willingly surrendering himself to your touch.

Each brush of your fingers drew soft gasps and whimpers from his throat, his body reacting with raw sensitivity to every caress. He was like clay beneath your hands, muscles shifting and flexing, following your touch like he couldn’t bear to lose the contact.

His hands remained fisted at his sides, his immense strength leashed, allowing you to set the pace, to explore and map out the topography of his body at your leisure.

“Bob,” you whispered, your hands sliding around to his back, fingertips digging into the muscles there. “Do you want… do you want more?”

He nodded, frantic, desperate, hips rocking up into your touch. “Yes,” he breathed, voice raw with want. “God, yes. Please.”

And that was all you needed to hear.

You took a shaky breath, your hand sliding slowly down his stomach, your fingers teasing just beneath the waistband of his jeans. He was panting now, his breath hot against your neck as he leaned in close, his forehead coming to rest on your shoulder.

“Is this okay?” you whispered, your voice rough with want, with nerves.

He nodded frantically, his hands moving to your waist, gripping tight like he was afraid you might disappear. “Yes,” he breathed, the word hot against your skin. “God, yes. Please.”

You worked the button of his jeans open with trembling fingers, the sound of his zip echoing in the quiet room. You could feel the heat of him through the thin cotton of his boxer-briefs, the hard ridge of his erection straining against the fabric.

You palmed him through the material, revealing in the way he bucked into your touch, the way his breath caught in his throat. He was pulsing beneath your touch, his hips rocking shamelessly, his hands tightening on your waist.

“Please,” he panted, his voice muffled against your shoulder. “Please, I need—”

You slipped your hand beneath the waistband of his underwear then, your fingers brushing against the hot, hard length of him. He was silky-smooth and scorching to the touch, pulsing under your fingertips, a pearl of wetness beading at the tip.

You teased him with feather-light touches, tracing the veins, the ridge of his head, the soft skin of his balls. He moaned low in his throat, hips jerking, hands clenching on your waist.

“Tell me what you need, Bob,” you whispered, your voice low, seductive. “I want to hear you say it.”

He shuddered, a full-body tremor that seemed to wrack him from head to toe. “I need you,” he breathed, voice raw with want, with need. “I need to feel you, all of you.”

You smiled against his hair, your fingers still teasing, stroking, exploring. “You want me to… what, Bob?” you teased, your teeth grazing the curve of his ear. “You want me to touch you? Taste you?”

He nodded frantically, his breath coming in harsh pants, his hands clenching and unclenching on your waist. “Yes,” he gasped, hips bucking shamelessly into your touch. “God, yes. Please.”

You closed your fist around him then, stroking slowly from base to tip, your thumb swiping over the sensitive head. He moaned a broken guttural sound, hips rocking into your touch, his breath hot and harsh against your neck.

“Like this?” you murmured, your voice low, rough. “Is this what you need?”

“Yes,” he gasped, nodding frantically. “Yes, please, more.”

You stroked him slowly, torturously, varying your grip, your speed, keeping him on edge. He was trembling against you, his breath coming in ragged pants, his hips rocking shamelessly into your touch.

“Please,” he panted, his voice muffled against your shoulder. “Please, I need—”

You leaned in then, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “What do you need, Bob?” you whispered, your voice low, seductive. “Tell me what you need.”

He shuddered, a full-body shiver that seemed to wrack him from head to toe. “I need you,” he breathed, voice raw with want, with need. “I need to feel you, all of you.”

You smiled against his skin, your teeth grazing the lobe of his ear. “You want me to… what, Bob?” you teased, your hand still stroking him slowly, torturously. “You want me to taste you?”

You let your hand slide away from him then, trailing your fingers up his thigh as you sank slowly to your knees in front of him. His eyes widened, breath catching in his throat as he watched you settle there, your hands coming to rest on his hips.

“Is this okay?” you asked, your voice low, rough with want. “Do you want me like this, Bob?”

He nodded frantically, his hands fisting in your hair, his hips bucking forward, seeking your touch. “Yes,” he breathed, voice raw, pleading.

You smiled up at him, your hands sliding slowly up his thighs, your thumbs brushing the crease of his hips. He shivered under your touch, breath coming quick and harsh.

“You want me to touch you?” you teased, your voice low, seductive. “You want me to taste you?”

He nodded frantically, his hips rocking forward, his hands tightening in your hair. “Yes,” he gasped, voice rough with want. “Please, yes.”

You leaned in then, your breath ghosting over the hot, hard length of him, and you could feel him trembling, feel the way his muscles tensed and jumped beneath your hands.

“Please,” he panted, his voice raw, needy.

And with that, you leaned in, your lips brushing the tip of him, your tongue darting out to taste the bead of wetness there. He moaned brokenly, hips bucking, hands fisting tight in your hair.

You took him into your mouth then, slowly, teasingly, your tongue swirling around the head of his cock. He was hot and hard and throbbing against your tongue, and you could feel the way he trembled, the way his breath caught in his throat.

“God,” he panted, his head thrown back, his hands tight in your hair. “Fuck, that feels so good.”

You took him deeper then, your mouth sliding down his length, your tongue stroking the underside of his cock. He moaned low in his throat, his hips rocking forward, his hands urging you on.

You could feel him pulsing against your tongue, feel the way his muscles tensed and jumped beneath your hands. You could taste the salt of his skin, the musk of his arousal, and it was heady, intoxicating.

“Please,” he panted, his voice rough with need. “Please, I’m so close. I need—”

You moaned around him, the sound vibrating against his skin, and you could feel him shudder, feel the way his cock throbbed against your tongue.

You worked him with your mouth, your tongue, your hands, driving him higher, pushing him closer to the edge. He was trembling against you, his breath coming in harsh pants, his hands fisting tight in your hair.

“Please,” he panted, his voice raw, needy. “Please, I’m going to—”

And with that, he came, his cock pulsing against your tongue, his hips bucking wildly in the chair. You swallowed him down, moaning at the taste of him, the feel of him throbbing against your tongue.

He shuddered, a full-body tremor that wracked him from head to toe, and you could feel the tension draining out of him, feel the way his muscles went loose and liquid beneath your hands.

You pulled back slowly, your tongue darting out to lick the last drops from the tip of his cock. He moaned softly, his hands falling from your hair to your shoulders. Then as his breath steadied, his hands cupped your face, his thumbs stroking your jaw.

“God,” he breathed, voice rough, sated. “That was—”

You smiled up at him, your hands sliding up his thighs to rest on his hips. “Good?” you teased, your voice low, playful.

He was still panting, his chest heaving, as you rose to your feet. Before he could say anything, though, he reached down, tucking himself back into his boxers, with shaking hands. You watched him, your heart racing in your chest, anticipation coiling tight in your belly. Then his hands found your waist again, tugging you closer until you stood between his spread thighs, your bodies flush against each other.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice soft, sincere. “For trusting me. For letting me… letting me take care of you.”

He shivered, his arms coming around you, holding you tight against him. “Thank you,” he whispered back, his voice rough, emotional. “For… for everything.”

You held him like that for a long moment, just savouring the feel of him in your arms, the steady thump of his heart against yours. Eventually, though, he pulled back, his hands coming up to frame your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones.

He looked at you, his eyes dark, intense. “I want… I want to take care of you too,” he murmured, his hands coming to rest on your shoulders, toying with the collar of your lab coat. “Can I… can I touch you? Can I make you feel good?”

You shivered, your breath catching in your throat, and you nodded, leaning into his touch. “Yes,” you breathed, your voice rough with want. “Yes. Please.”

He smiled then, slow and wicked, and his hands slid down your body, pushing your lab coat off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a crumpled heap. You shivered, feeling exposed, vulnerable, but so, so wanted, his fingers going to the buttons of your shirt. You shivered, your skin prickling with goosebumps, your breath coming quick and harsh.

He undid the buttons slowly, carefully, his knuckles brushing against your skin with every one. You could feel the heat of him through your shirt, the faint tremor in his fingers, and it sent a thrill through you, a shiver of anticipation.

When he was done, he pushed your shirt off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor on top of your lab coat. You shivered, feeling exposed, vulnerable, but so, so wanted.

“Beautiful,” he breathed, his eyes roaming over you hungrily, taking in every inch of your body. “So beautiful.”

You moaned softly, arching into his touch, your hands fisting in his hair. He teased you with feather-light touches, his fingers skating over your skin, tracing the curves and planes of your body.

“Bob,” you panted, your voice rough with need.

He cut you off with a kiss, his lips hot and demanding against yours, his tongue delving into your mouth to taste you, claim you. You moaned, kissing him back just as fiercely, your hands roaming his body, desperate for the feel of his skin against yours.

Bob stood, then He walked you back towards the lab table just a few steps behind you, his hands sliding down to cup your ass, lifting you easily. You wrapped your legs around his waist, grinding against him shamelessly, your fingers digging into his shoulders. He pulled his hoodie over his head, his head tilting slightly as you looked at him. Bare chest and rippling muscles, he liked the way you looked at him.

“Please,” you panted against his lips as he kissed you again.

He moaned, his hips bucking against yours, his cock hot and hard against your core. “I’ve got you,” he promised, his voice rough, needy. “I’ll take care of you. I’ll make you feel so good.”

He set you down on the edge of the lab table, his hands sliding up your thighs, pushing your skirt up around your waist. You shivered, the cool metal of the table against your bare skin, the heat of his touch branding you.

“Lean back,” he murmured, his voice low, commanding, and you obeyed, your elbows resting on the table behind you.

He smiled then, slow and wicked, and his fingers hooked in the waistband of your underwear, dragging them down your legs, discarding them on the floor. You shivered, feeling exposed, vulnerable, but so, so wanted.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his eyes dark and hungry as he took in the sight of you, spread out before him like a feast.

He leaned in then, his breath hot against your core, and you felt his tongue dart out, tasting you, teasing you. You moaned, your hips bucking shamelessly, your fingers tangling in his hair.

It was hard to believe that just minutes ago, he had been shy and uncertain, his cheeks flushed as he confessed his desires to you. Now, there was no trace of that hesitation, that nervousness. In its place was a hunger, a need that bordered on animalistic.

“Is this what you need?” he murmured, his voice low, seductive. “Do you want me to taste you now? To make you feel good?”

You nodded frantically, your hips rocking against his mouth, your breath coming in harsh pants. “Yes, Bob, I want that.” you gasped, your voice rough with want.

He smiled against your skin, then leaned in, his tongue delving into your heat, tasting you deeply. You moaned, your hips bucking against his mouth, your fingers tightening in his hair.

He feasted on you like a man starved, his tongue stroking, probing, exploring every inch of your sensitive flesh. He moaned against your skin, the sound vibrating through you, sending shivers down your spine.

You could feel the heat building in your core, the tension coiling tighter and tighter with every swipe of his tongue, every brush of his lips. You were panting, moaning, your hips rocking shamelessly against his mouth, seeking more, more.

“Bob,” you panted, your voice rough with need. “Please. I need… I need to come. Please, make me come.”

He moaned against your skin, his tongue moving faster, harder, his fingers digging into your thighs. You could feel the scrape of his teeth against your sensitive flesh, the suction of his mouth as he drew your clit between his lips.

The contrast between his earlier shyness and this hungry, desperate man was intoxicating, overwhelming. You could feel the last of your control slipping away, feel the tension cresting, crashing over you.

You came with a cry, your hips bucking wildly against his mouth, your fingers tightening in his hair. He moaned against your skin, his tongue stroking you through your orgasm, prolonging the waves of pleasure that washed over you.

As you came down from the high, your breath slowing, your body going limp against the table, you marvelled at the transformation in him. This man, this hungry, desperate man, was the same shy, uncertain boy you had comforted just minutes ago.

He stood then, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes dark and hungry as he looked down at you, sprawled out on the table like an offering.

“Do you want this?” he asked, his voice low, rough with want. “Do you want me, all of me?”

You nodded frantically, your breath still coming in soft pants. “Yes,” you breathed, your voice raw with need. “I want all of you, Bob.”

He smiled then, slow and wicked, and he reached down, to the waistband of his jeans, pushing them down his hips along with his boxer-briefs.

You moaned softly at the sight of him, hard and leaking, the evidence of his want, his need for you. He was beautiful, every inch of him, and you wanted him, all of him, with a desperation that bordered on madness.

He stepped between your spread thighs, his hands coming to rest on your hips, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin there. “I’ll be gentle,” he promised, his voice low, earnest. “I won’t hurt you.”

You nodded, trusting him, loving him, needing him. He lined himself up with your entrance, the blunt head of his cock nudging against your heat.

He pushed in slowly, carefully, his eyes locked on yours, watching every flicker of emotion that crossed your face. You were tight, so tight, and he was big, stretching you, filling you.

“God,” he breathed, his voice raw with pleasure, with awe. “You feel… you feel incredible.”

You moaned, arching into his touch, your hands fisting on the table behind you. He bottomed out inside you, his hips flush against yours, and he stilled, giving you time to adjust, to breathe.

Fuck, she’s tight, he thought, his breath catching in his throat, his heart pounding in his chest. So tight, and so warm, and so… fuck, she feels like heaven.

He could feel the way your walls gripped him, like a fist, like a vice, and it took everything he had not to move, not to thrust, not to lose himself in the incredible feel of you.

Gentle, he reminded himself, his hands trembling on your hips, his thumbs stroking soothing circles on your skin. I need to be gentle. I can’t hurt her. I won’t hurt her.

“Move,” you panted, your voice rough, a command. “Please, Bob. I need you to move.”

He obliged, pulling out slowly, then thrusting back in, his hips snapping against yours. You moaned, your legs coming up to wrap around his waist, urging him deeper, harder.

His jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck and shoulders bunching with the effort of holding himself back. “Ah, fuck,” he grunted, his voice rough, strained.

She feels so fucking good, he thought, his teeth grinding together as he fought for control. So tight, so hot, like she was made for me.

His arms trembled with the effort of holding himself up, his muscles taut and straining. He was fighting himself, fighting the urge to let go, to lose himself in the incredible feel of you.

Can’t… can’t lose control, he thought, even as his hips continued to move,

He started slow, careful, like he was afraid of hurting you, of losing control. But it felt so good, so right, the slide of him inside you, the friction of his skin against yours.

“Harder,” you panted, your hands sliding down his back, your nails digging into his skin. “Please, Bob. I need… I need more.”

He moaned, his hips bucking against yours, his pace increasing, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper. He was losing control, his movements becoming less careful, more desperate.

Fuck, fuck, I’m losing it, he thought frantically, even as his hips continued to snap against yours. I’m going to hurt her, I know I am, but fuck, she feels so good, so tight, so perfect.

He could feel the last of his control slipping away, feel the need, the hunger, the desperation clawing at his insides, demanding more, more, more.

“I’m so close,” you panted, your voice raw with need, with pleasure. “Bob, I’m so close.”

She wants this, he thought, his hands sliding down to grip your hips, his fingers digging into your skin. She wants me, all of me, even like this, even out of control.

He shifted his angle, his cock rubbing against that perfect spot inside you, and you saw stars. You came with a cry, your walls clamping down on him, your nails digging into his back.

Fuck, she’s coming, he thought, his hips bucking wildly, his cock pulsing inside you as he followed you over the edge, spilling himself deep into your heat. His eyes glowing gold. She’s coming, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

He collapsed on top of you, his breath harsh against your neck, his body trembling with the aftershocks of his orgasm. You held him close, your arms and legs wrapped around him, your lips pressing soft kisses to his hair, his temple, his cheek.

“Wow,” you breathed, your voice rough, sated. “That was… that was incredible.”

He chuckled, his lips curving into a smile against your skin. “You’re incredible,” he murmured, his voice low, earnest. “Absolutely incredible.”

And in that moment, sated and safe in each other’s arms, you knew that you would never let him go, this shy boy, this hungry man, this unbelievable, wonderful person who had captured your heart so completely. You wondered if it would be okay for you to ask him for round two.

A Link to My Complete Inventory

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roach-works · 4 months ago

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Why did wheat become a widespread staple crop given that it's difficult to harvest/transport/etc? This is not meant to be snarky or combative in any way, it's a genuine question. Are there any books you'd recommend for learning more about this kind of economic and technological history? Thanks.

sorry, i've long since forgotten all the actual books i've read about it, but i will always recommend This Guy:

also as very much a non-expert, my semi-informed opinion on Wheat is that growing complicated and difficult compared to going to the grocery store, and doesn't stack up very well to living in a food forest like north and south americans managed, either.

however, wheat is a grass, and grass grows in a lot of places that people also like to live in, and so wheat farming isn't as crazy a venture as it might otherwise seem.

in a lot of climates, it's possible to plant the grass, harvest the grass seeds, and store the seeds long enough to get you through the part of the year where there's nothing much to eat. if you manage your social and material technology right, you can store a lot of the seeds, and you can even transport them around before they rot, meaning you can now export the seeds from places where grass grows into places where it doesn't. the stalks of the grass that you can't eat provides food for the animals you need to help you grow the grass. and transport the seeds, too.

the social structure required to grow wheat in bulk (a steep and violent hierarchy) does three things: feeds everyone in it with enough extra that the guys on the bottom of the organization can survive to grow more wheat next year, and allows the guys on the top can sequester the rest as profit, consolidating their power. the third thing is that as land is converted to wheat fields, it stops yielding any other food but wheat, which locks people into the system for good. once a people depend on a staple cereal grain for their main source of calories, there isn't an easy way back: forests are chewed away for more wheat fields and those woodlands that remain are shifted towards hardwoods for agricultural tools, rather than food forests with fruit/nuts/shrubs, and even those maintained as game preserves still can't support the needs of entire villages.

in arid and semi-arid conditions, it's even harder to step away from dependence on grain farming because there the agricultural development is along rivers where the land can be irrigated, and the population of people supported by grain production is extremely concentrated into those small areas rather than spread across the entire biome.

in the northern parts of eurasia where grain couldn't be produced at scale because it was too rocky and too cold, people mostly went fishing, and when they grew stuff it was hardy root crops like beets and turnips.

DISCLAIMER: this is all very approximate. but now you know as much as i know.

P.S actually here's the last thing about wheat: it probably all started as a way to reliably source and produce beer, which was invented a long time before bread. bread was invented from wheat when the guys who were producing the beer seeds wanted to start exporting beer seeds to people who wanted beer far away, so they baked the seeds into tablets you could easily transport and then ferment with water once you got to your destination. eventually the traders who were transporting the beer kits started eating them, too, and crackers as a snack food really took off. look up the wikipedia article on beer if you don't believe me.

#wheat #agriculture #you want kings? that's how you get kings #you start out just wanting to source some beer reliably #then you fucking get kings #what a racket

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oditeksolutionsyaass · 1 year ago

Text

MEAN STACK DEVELOPMENT

MEAN Stack, comprising MongoDB, Express.js, AngularJS, and Node.js, is a powerful collection of JavaScript-based technologies for building dynamic web applications. Each component serves a specific purpose: MongoDB for database management, Express.js for server-side scripting, AngularJS for front-end development, and Node.js for handling server-side operations.

MEAN Stack excels in cloud-native applications and single-page applications due to its scalability and ability to manage concurrent users effectively. MongoDB offers scalability and flexibility in handling large data sets, while Express.js ensures smooth data transfer between the front-end and the database. AngularJS simplifies front-end development, and Node.js facilitates scalable server operations.

The architecture of MEAN Stack involves AngularJS handling client-side requests, Node.js processing server-side operations, Express.js managing requests to the database, MongoDB retrieving data, and Express.js sending responses back to Node.js, which forwards them to AngularJS for display.

OdiTek Solutions, as a MEAN Stack development company, offers various services including scalable web applications on the cloud, real-time communication product development using WebRTC, enterprise-grade web application development, e-commerce development, CMS development, migration and porting, and API development and integration. Their skilled developers are proficient in MongoDB, Express.js, AngularJS, and Node.js, ensuring the delivery of robust and scalable applications.

Overall, MEAN Stack provides a simplified yet robust framework for building dynamic web applications, making it an ideal choice for businesses seeking faster development and easier maintenance.

#mean stack #mean stack architecture #mean stack technologies

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oddlydescriptive · 2 months ago

Text

Reset, Chapter Thirteen

Series Masterlist

Thanks for being patient and supportive, guys. I am going to try to get two out on top of this, as this is technically last weeks chapter, but I am doing my best. I had some really awesome people reach out and check-in on me this week and honestly, I needed it. I put a lot of pressure on myself with every chapter- i feel like it's been so good up to this point so with each chapter I am pressuring myself to keep the quality up and sometimes it's just a lot. Your guys' support means everything to me.

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The car’s quiet except for the faint hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of paper from the back seat. Just a daytrip- a quick jaunt to London for a sim technology conference. A few presentations, more than a few handouts, a mediocre lunch service. A stop-in before Brazil. Necessary evil. For RedBull. For Redline. Just business.

Christian drives with one hand on the wheel and a tired sort of ease, eyes focused on the dark stretch of motorway that cut back toward Milton Keynes. Max sits in the passenger seat, arms crossed, cheek propped against his knuckles, watching the world smear by through the window- headlights, hedges, the vague shape of trees pressed up flat against the night.

In the back seat, you’ve turned the quiet into something else. Not noise, exactly. But motion. Intent. Working- of course you’re working- your laptop balanced between your knees, a mess of pamphlets and printouts spread across the leather seat like a dealer laying down cards. Brows drawn, your mouth slightly parted in concentration as you thumb through the stack, cross-reference a spec sheet from another, then type something with sharp, purposeful taps.

Every so often, you pause- chewing at your thumb, the nail already raw from a day’s worth of absent-minded worry- before returning to the keys with renewed precision. Max can hear it: the rhythm of you cataloguing, organizing, making sense of all of it. Like it wasn’t enough to have gone to the presentations, shaken hands, taken the obligatory photos- no, you needed to digest it. To dissect it. To turn just business into something useful before the car even hit the roundabouts.

Max doesn’t turn to look. He doesn’t need to. He can feel the energy coming off you like static- tired, but alive. Like you’d spent all day holding yourself still and were only now allowed to exhale, alone in the backseat with your chaos.

He shifts in his seat, jaw tight. It was easier when you weren’t in motion. Easier when he could convince himself you were a moment. A blip. Not someone with velocity.

Christian’s phone buzzes against the dash, screen lighting up with a name. Max’s eyes flick to the center display: Franz Tost. Christian exhales through his nose. Not annoyed. More... contemplative.

Max feels it immediately- whatever this is, it’s not for public consumption. Not immediately. Not without decision. Christian reaches for the phone, thumb hovering over the screen a beat too long. "Should I- " he mutters, mostly to himself, then glances in the rearview mirror.

Whatever he sees must make up his mind. He hits accept and toggles it to Bluetooth with a practiced flick of his thumb. "Franz," he says, slow and even. "You’re on speaker. I’ve got company."

A pause. Static. Then Franz’s voice comes through the speakers- faintly German-accented, clipped, all business. "Ah. I see." Christian doesn’t reply. Just keeps driving, one hand steady on the wheel.

"I’ve looked through the numbers," Franz says finally. "Not exactly standard."

"It’s what was offered," Christian replies.

"That’s clear. Still surprising."

Christian lets out a soft huff of breath. "It’s lean."

"Very."

Behind them, the rhythm of keystrokes falters. Then stops. Max hears the soft click of a laptop being closed. Paper shifts. Something about the silence feels intentional- weighted. Max can feel it. The way you’re listening now. Still as stone. Like even the creak of leather beneath you might give something away.

“Do you think… the dynamics of the workplace will be an issue?” Franz says, voice low, deliberate.

Christian shrugs like it’s nothing. Like they haven’t all spent months navigating politics sharp enough to draw blood. “I have yet to be concerned. Besides, if we were worried about workplace dynamics we’d start letting robots drive the cars.”

There’s a pause- thin, wire-tight. “Pipeline?” Franz asks.

Christian doesn’t even blink. “Not an option. We’ve already had this conversation.”

“And Helmut?”

Christian’s fingers shift against the leather steering wheel. “Aligned.” That one lands hard. Max feels it settle in his chest like cold water, the kind that bites deep, spreads slow. The shape of it starts forming before he can name it. Something real. Something decided. Like he can feel what’s coming before he knows it.

Franz exhales, measured. “So we’re settled, then.”

Christian glances briefly toward the passenger window, then back at the road ahead. The lights of the motorway slide past in rhythmic blurs, gold and white and rain-slick. “We’re settled,” he says.

In the backseat, you don’t move. You’re leaning forward now, just slightly- one hand braced against the center console like it might pull you closer, the other curled in your lap, knuckles pale.

You don’t say a word.

You just listen.

Christian adjusts his grip on the wheel, his tone suddenly lighter. “She’s in the car,” he says, like it’s an afterthought. “If you want to say it yourself.”

A beat of static follows. The sound of breath caught somewhere in the ether. Then Franz, as calm as ever, as clinical as a scalpel: “Welcome to Alpha Tauri.”

You freeze.

No sound. No movement. Just a single breath drawn too sharply through your nose. One hand lifts, slow and instinctive, pressing against your mouth like you can catch the words before they settle. Like you can hold them inside a moment longer, keep them suspended.

Christian smiles, not unkind. “We’ll let it sink,” he says. “I’m sure she’ll be calling you shortly.”

The line clicks off.

Silence rushes in- not gentle, not still, but dense, like a pressure front collapsing inward. It doesn’t settle so much as press, heavy against Max’s chest, coiling in the space between words that never arrive.

Christian says nothing. His hands stay steady on the wheel. Max doesn’t move. Even the road quiets. The tires hum low beneath them, more suggestion than sound, a soft whisper across wet asphalt.

It hangs there. The weight of it. The finality.

You’re on the grid.

Max is still chewing on the words when he hears it.

A sharp crack- plastic slapping leather- your laptop shoved aside with zero ceremony, skidding half off the seat before your bag catches it. Papers follow in a loose explosion, fluttering across the backseat like confetti fired from a gun. Handouts, notes, color-coded madness- gone, scattered.

And then-

You scream.

Not a yell. Not a cheer. A full-throated, spine-snapping howl as you slam the window control. The glass barely halfway down before you’re already half out of it, one arm braced on the door frame, the other thrown back like you’re summoning gods.

“FUCK YEAH!” you roar into the night. “I’M ON THE FUCKING GRID!”

Christian twitches behind the wheel, startled. Max blinks. Then you’re laughing- wild and sharp and goddamn unstoppable- as the wind slaps your hair across your face in tangled streaks. Your voice rips through the air outside the car.

“SEE YOU IN BAHRAIN, MOTHERFUCKERS!” you shout, head tipped back like the stars are listening. “I’M ON THE GRID, ASSHOLES! YOU HEAR THAT?!”

Your joy carves itself across the motorway. A minivan swerves slightly in the next lane. A lorry honks, long and confused. Someone flashes their brights from behind. You don’t care.

You’re laughing too hard to breathe, shoulders shaking, half-out the window and fully alive, clinging to the door like the car can’t hold you anymore. Like you might just launch.

Max stares straight ahead. Jaw slack. Heart pounding. Vision tight. Christian chuckles, low and amazed. “Guess it’s sunk in.”

You make a sound- something between a gasp and a growl, half-feral, wholly triumphant. “Fucking- yes.” Then you fall back into your seat, limp with joy, breath hitching, face flushed and lit from somewhere deep. Your hair’s a wreck, your papers are gone, your voice is probably halfway to hoarse-

But Max has never seen anyone look more alive.

He was still angled toward you- barely- just enough to see you in the mirror’s corner. And God, it was like looking directly into the sun.

He’d seen you a lot of ways. Snapping. Spitting. Glaring at him across conference tables with a heat that made engineers forget their talking points.

He’d pressed you, more than once, just to make you crack. Just to see if you would. He liked the fury. Liked knowing it was in you. Liked proving to himself you were human. Mortal. That the clean professionalism and perfect posture was just a veneer. Poking, needling, pressing on every bruise until something bled.

And you had snapped- sometimes with anger, sometimes with ice. You’d lashed back at him, sharp and venomous, and every time he’d told himself good. That’s what she is. That’s all she is.

But this?

This was the first time he’d seen you raw with joy.

You look alive in a way that almost hurts to witness. Like if Max blinks, you might burn out entirely. Like he’s seeing something he was never meant to. Not in the wild. Not without armor.

In the driver’s seat, Christian chuckles, low and warm. “You get it all out?”

You don’t lift your head- just groan through a smile, breathless and giddy. “For now.”

Christian glances back, a casual flick of the eyes that still carries weight. It’s not mocking, not patronizing. Just... paternal. The kind of look that says you’re still a kid to me, no matter how many contracts you’ve signed or late nights you’ve spent grinding data until your hands cramped. The kind of look older men give young people when they forget, for a moment, that the person in front of them is already pulling weight like someone twice their age. “You should call your friends,” he says. “Go out. Get a beer. Raise hell.”

You blink up at the ceiling of the car, dazed and glowing. “God,” you rasp, voice still wrecked from screaming, “a beer sounds incredible.”

Then you turn your head, just slightly, and aim it at Christian with a deadpan delivery so dry it nearly evaporates in the air. “But Christian… my only friend is a thirty-seven-year-old man who’s probably eating dinner with his wife and children right now.” Your words are casual. Inevitable. Like you’ve already made peace with it.

Christian laughs- but there’s a stutter in it, like it catches halfway through.

Max doesn’t laugh at all.

The silence after your sentence lands just a little too sharp. Not cruel. Just honest. The kind of silence that fills a room when everyone realizes they knew, but didn’t think about it long enough to feel it.

Christian recovers first, though his voice is a shade softer now. “Yeah,” he says, smiling again, but less brightly. “That’s right. I forgot.” He looks forward again. “Eighty-hour weeks don’t leave much room for socializing.”

“Shocking, I know,” you mumble, dragging a hand over your face.

You don’t sound bitter. You don’t look like someone who got lucky. You look like someone who fought. Who scrapped. Who bled. Who won. For the first time all night, Max turns. Really turns. He looks at you. And doesn’t say a thing.

Because it hits him- not as thought, but as truth:

You’re not going anywhere.

You’re not fading. Not flinching. Not folding under the weight of it all like he used to tell himself you would- had to, eventually. That the system would grind you down the way it does to everyone who shows up too bright, too earnest, too unwilling to play the long game.

But you haven’t gone quiet. You haven’t disappeared. You’re not dissolving under pressure like a sugar cube in rain.

You’re here.

And not just physically, not just taking up space in the backseat of a car you didn’t drive, but here, in the way that matters. Unshakable. Bright. Absolutely alive. Max feels it settle- not like a punch, but like something heavier. Slower. A recognition that doesn’t ask for permission.

For the first time, Max knows- really knows- that whatever he believed would happen to you, isn’t going to happen. Whatever he wanted to believe- whatever petty, bitter hope he might have nursed- that somehow this would be temporary, a half-season-long disruption, a footnote… that you would do- or not do- something to send you packing and out of Redbull, out of Formula, out of Jos’s fucking mouth… he knows better now.

You’re not going to get overwhelmed and disappear.

You’re not going to say the wrong thing in a meeting and lose your shot.

You’re not going to flame out under pressure, or back down when the paddock sharpens its teeth, or get so disillusioned you hand back your badge and walk away quietly like a shadow that never mattered.

No.

You’re going to fight. You’re going to stay. You’re not passing through.

You’re arriving.

And it’s happening right in front of him.

He watches you, sprawled in the backseat with your hair still tangled and your smile too big for your face, like you’ve cracked open and joy is leaking out in every direction. Your papers are a mess. Your laugh is too loud. Your voice is still hoarse from screaming at the motorway.

And he can’t be mad about it.

Not right now.

Because it’s hard to be bitter when you’re watching someone’s dream wrap itself around them in real time- hard to resent the way your eyes keep slipping closed like you’re trying to hold it all in, to stretch the moment before it passes.

It makes something ache in him. Nostalgia, maybe. A memory long buried. And God- he remembers what that felt like.

The first time the call came. When he got his call. When everything he ever wanted was suddenly, actually his- and nothing had gone wrong yet.

When someone outside the walls of home- outside the garage, the track, the echo chamber of expectations- just said it, plain and certain: You’re good enough. No stopwatch. No lecture. No icy silence after a second-place finish. Just a voice on the other end of the line saying, You belong here. You, yes you.

When for one, fragile moment, it wasn’t about consequences. Wasn’t about slammed doors or missed dinners. Wasn’t about endless laps in the cold, and the rain, and the dark until his fingers felt closer to shattered glass than part of his hands. Wasn’t about waking up too early and going to sleep too late, body humming with exhaustion and nerves because he couldn’t afford to mess it up again.

When it wasn’t about making up for the weekend before. Or the one before that. It wasn’t about hearing that voice- sharp, cold, disappointed- repeating the same five words on loop: You should’ve done better.

When all the pressure hadn’t calcified into armor. When his name hadn’t yet become a shield. Before the PR machine. Before the politics. Before the paddock turned love into leverage and every podium into proof he deserved to be there.

It didn’t matter that it took Jos all of forty-five seconds to get on the phone and start planning his promotion from Toro Rosso.

Because that one single moment was his. And you’re standing on the edge of that moment right now, drunk on it- without even needing the beer.

And Max-

Max feels something sharp twist in his gut. It’s not hatred. It’s not even resentment.

It’s longing.

Melancholic. Jealous, if he’s honest. Not of your talent, or your seat, or even your rise- he has his own throne, his own empire. But of the feeling. That raw, high-voltage, maybe this is really happening kind of magic that only happens once. Maybe twice, if you’re lucky.

He didn’t realize how long it’s been since he felt it. How much he misses it.

And now here you are, soaking in it like it’s sunlight, and he can’t look away.

He remembers that version of himself. Bright-eyed. Hopeful. New. A kid that joked with Carlos and followed Danny around like the ground he walked on held secrets worth learning.

And somehow, that’s what he sees in you. Even now. Even after everything. And for the first time in a long time, Max doesn’t can’t bring himself to resent you for it. Maybe he will. Maybe tomorrow. That’s okay.

But not tonight. You can have this one. He’ll allow it.

The car settles again. But the silence isn’t heavy now. It’s expansive. Open. Like someone cracked the seal on a room that had been airless for too long. Only the rhythmic click of the blinker breaks it when Christian changes lanes. The faint drag of tires. And every so often, your laughter- quieter now, but still alive, still glowing. It’s a small sound. Crooked. Half-choked, like it sneaks up on you before you’ve decided to let it out.

Like the disbelief keeps reappearing in your chest, uninvited, and all you can do is laugh it off.

Max doesn’t turn back again. Not directly. But every time it happens, every time that sound breaks through the quiet- low, giddy, almost disbelieving- his eyes flick to the mirror. Just once. Just long enough to catch the outline of your shoulders trembling with it. Then he shifts back to the window, like it’s nothing.

Like it doesn’t land.

It does. It lands hard. That laugh- it gets under his skin, sure, but deeper than that. Under everything. Under the detachment, under the static, under the thick layer of contempt he’s wrapped around you for months. He doesn’t know how to describe it. Only that it sounds like something he’s never been allowed to feel.

Freedom.

They drive like that for ten more minutes. No one speaks. Christian hums softly under his breath, barely audible, the sound light and tuneless. You’re still stretched across the back seat like gravity let go of you. One boot perched against the center console, your head tilted just so against the cool window, your body loose with joy.

Max doesn’t check the mirror again- eyes forward- and that’s when he clocks it. The exit they always take- the familiar loops that gives way to the roundabouts toward the factory- slides past on the left, untouched. Christian doesn’t slow. Doesn’t glance. Just keeps driving, calm and unhurried, like this is exactly the plan.

Max straightens a little. Frowns. “You missed- ”

“Got anywhere to be?” Christian asks, voice casual- too casual to be innocent. Max glances at the clock. It’s late. But not late enough to matter. Not like he’s missing anything.

There’s no warm meal waiting for him at home. No one checking the time, waiting for the plane to land, watching the door, asking him how the event went, if he learned anything useful at the presentations. He’s not getting texts. Not really. There’s always someone to talk to, sure. Always someone to entertain the idea. But no one waiting.

And that’s what it comes down to. There’s no one waiting for Max Verstappen. So he shrugs, voice even. “No.” And it’s the truth. He has nowhere to be.

No one to be there for.

Christian just nods once. Says nothing else. Doesn’t explain. Doesn’t need to.

He flicks the indicator, turns onto a narrower road without hesitation. The headlights carve through a tight lane lined with old brick, terrace house fronts with trimmed hedges, and lampposts glowing, warm. It’s not unfamiliar, exactly. It looks like any other suburban stretch near Milton Keynes. Just unexpected.

From the back seat, you must notice- slow and half-alert- blinking off your daze like it’s something you can set aside. Max can hear your diagram confetti rustle as you sit up. “Where are we going?” Christian doesn’t answer. Just keeps driving, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth like he’s enjoying whatever surprise he has planned. And then the car slows.

A small pub sits ahead- not some posh gastropub or dimly lit cocktail den- but a squat, weathered building tucked just off a residential bend. The paint on the wooden sign is chipped, peeled in layers down to bare grain. Warm light glows behind the glass, spilling across the wet pavement in patches that flicker against the cooler silver of streetlamps. Each time the door opens, muffled music and laughter leak into the air, caught and swallowed again when it slams shut. It’s not dingy, but it’s old- dated in the way that means history. Too lived-in to be a tourist spot, but too loved to be a complete shithole. Everything about the place looks aged and uneven- the kind of pub that’s been there longer than the people inside it.

Christian pulls into a small space right outside. The engine goes quiet. For a moment, no one speaks. Max flicks his eyes toward the pub, then toward the rearview mirror.

“What are we doing here?” you ask, voice hesitant, caught somewhere between confusion and quiet amusement as you lean up between the front seats and look out the windshield- like maybe the side windows had tricked you- like you maybe weren’t parked in front of a neighborhood pub.

Max watches you from the corner of his eye- your gaze flicking between Christian and the battered old pub with a strange mix of suspicion and something softer. You sound like you want to laugh, but you’re not sure yet if it’s safe.

Christian doesn’t miss a beat. “We’re getting a beer.”

He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like it doesn’t mean anything. But Max knows it does. Small as it is, this- this- is Christian giving a damn. Maybe not loudly. Maybe not in words. But enough to drive off-course. Enough to stop here.

You just blink at first. Max can see it- how the words take a second to sink in, like your brain needs time to register the gesture for what it is. You look out at the pub again- at the weathered door, the faded signage, the people slipping out of it, hunched against the cold, heads ducked low in the kind of wet that soaks you before you feel it.

Then your mouth tugs upward. Slow. Like you’re not used to smiling for no reason.

“This place is…” your voice trails as you scan it again, and Max sees the way your shoulders twitch- something uncoiling, piece by piece, not quite sure if it’s allowed. “...perfect.”

You don’t bounce out of the car. Don’t flash your teeth or strut toward the door like a woman who owns the world.

But you do move with purpose. Like maybe the world is giving you something tonight, and you're not going to waste time questioning it. You step out into the night, trailing behind the glow leaking from the pub’s front door like you’re trying to catch up with warmth before it changes its mind.

Christian follows a beat later, stretching like an old dog before straightening his jacket. He gives the place a once-over with that strange brand of affection older men save for even older bars. Like a decent pint is something personal.

Max stays where he is. Hands resting in his lap. Still. Watching. Hesitating.

He doesn’t know why he hesitates. He doesn’t hate pubs. He’s been to plenty. But this place… this moment… it feels like it wasn’t meant for him. Not really. Like he’s accidentally stumbled into someone else’s memory being made.

And you look so happy.

Not in the way he’s seen before- not the polished post-race smiles, not the forced cheer of sponsor events. This is different. Bare. Quietly radiant. You’re not floating just out of orbit of this world anymore. You’re walking right into it, like it finally has space for you.

Max breathes out through his nose. Slowly. Then he moves.

Deliberate. Grounded. Shoulders drawn tight under the weight of something he won’t name. He climbs out of the car, planting his feet on slick pavement, the cold nipping at any exposed bits of skin- his face, his ears, the sliver of skin where his pants are tailored just so to the tops of his shoes. His hands slide into his coat pockets, fingers curling into the seams.

Not because he’s cold. But because he doesn’t quite know what to do with them when a night starts to feel this gentle.

“This place looks like it hasn’t passed a health inspection since the ‘80s,” he mutters, mostly to himself. Flat. Observational. No real teeth.

You glance over your shoulder, eyes catching his for a flicker of a second. Your mouth quirks. “It’s personality.” It’s teasing, it’s just two words- but it might be the first time you’ve ever said anything that borders on being friendly to him- not professional, not heated, not frustrated. Not what he makes you to be. Just… what you are. Warm. Kind. Like you’ve forgotten what a pain in your ass he is.

Christian just laughs, the sound low and amused, and claps Max on the shoulder with a firm pat that borders on a shove. “One beer. You’ll live.”

Inside, the air smells like fryer grease and varnished wood, like carpets that have soaked up too many rainy shoes and Sunday pints. A tapestry-patterned grid of carpet stretches out beneath scuffed tables and mismatched chairs. There’s a low hum of conversation, football playing on two TVs mounted high in the corners, sound just under the level of speech. One chalkboard lists drink specials in smudged white chalk; another advertises upcoming game coverage on SkySports and a Sunday poker night in barely-crooked block letters.

It’s not a shithole.

It’s just... used. The way good things are.

Max pauses just inside the doorway, his eyes scanning the room like he’s trying to map out exits. There’s a stiffness in his spine, a quiet discomfort that doesn’t read as fear- just unfamiliarity. The place is too normal, too small, too honest. Nothing here needs polishing. A dozen patrons, maybe fewer. Mostly older men, coats still on, eyes half-lidded as they nurse their drinks like they’re waiting to be tired enough to sleep.

No one looks up. No one gives a shit who just walked in. This place doesn’t want anything from him. And for reasons he doesn’t understand, that feels... almost comforting. Max exhales through his nose. Something tight uncoils in his chest, just barely.

“This,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else, “is my kind of place.”

Christian beelines for the bar the second they’re inside, already tossing a half-wave at the barkeep like he’s a regular, or just pretending to be one. His voice disappears into the low hum of the room- easy, warm, familiar.

And just like that, Max is left trailing behind you.

He doesn’t mean to. Not really. It just sort of happens. One step after the other, unthinking. The carpet firm underfoot. The air too warm against his face. He watches the way your head tilts slightly as you scan the room, the subtle pause in your step when you realize he’s following you- not like a bodyguard or a shadow, but like someone who didn’t make a decision fast enough and now doesn’t know how to back out.

You don’t say anything.

But your shoulders pull a little tighter for half a second, the way people do when they’re trying to decide if they’re being hunted or accompanied. Then, with a misdirected kind of purpose, you veer toward the left. Max follows.

The side room is empty. Blessedly, perfectly empty.

Same worn tapestry carpet, same faint scent of beer and furniture polish, but quieter. Detached. A few scattered tables and chairs. A dart board. One pool table- it doesn’t match either of the ones out front. And a jukebox against the wall- an actual jukebox. Old-fashioned. And mechanical. Not touchscreen, not curated. The kind that requires real coins and real commitment.

You hover near the doorway for a second, then walk in, slow and casual, pretending you’re assessing options but already choosing. You pick a table in the back- half-tucked near a radiator that clicks softly under the window. You don’t look at Max, but you know he’s there. You can feel him behind you.

He hesitates in the doorway again, just for a beat, before stepping inside. His steps are slower now. Intentional. He slides into the chair across from you, because like fuck is he going to sit next to you. And then it happens.

That terrible, silent, brutal minute where neither of you says a word.

Because no one made you sit here, together. There’s no team debrief. No overbearing fathers. No media duty. No camera crew waiting to catch the dynamic. No podium to share. Just... a table. A chair. And the awful weight of silence.

Thick. Ugly. The kind that knows it’s silence. The kind that grows louder the longer it stretches.

You glance toward the main bar, then back at Max, your expression flickering into something a little too neutral. Your voice is light but strained, like you’re trying to casually toss something into the void to break the tension.

“Do you think Christian’s ordering for all three of us or… do you think I should- ?” You gesture vaguely toward the door, a half-lifted hand that immediately regrets existing.

Max blinks at you. “He’ll get three.”

You nod a little too fast. “Yeah. Right. That makes sense.” And that’s it. Nothing else. Just those sad, wrinkled words sitting in the air like a damp napkin no one wants to pick up.

Silence again.

It’s impossible to tell if the talking or the not talking is more awkward.

Neither of you looks at each other.

Christian returns- mercifully- carrying three pints with the kind of practiced balance that says this isn’t his first pub trip. The tray is plastic, probably older than all of them, and each glass is filled to the brim with a different shade of gold.

He doesn’t say much. Just slides the drinks onto the table like he’s delivering a verdict and claims the seat beside you, sighing as he shrugs off his jacket.

“Here we are,” he says. “The best thing I’ve done for either of you all week.”

Your hands are already around the glass before he finishes talking.

Pilsner, probably. Crisp. Cold. Head still holding. You stare down at it like it’s a religious experience.

Max watches as your fingers tighten around the glass. Your shoulders are still a little hunched from the lingering discomfort of whatever the hell that silence was, but now there’s something else bubbling up behind your eyes. Energy. Relief. Joy.

You lift the pint slightly, almost toasting with yourself, and then just laugh- a short, breathless thing as you shake your head. “I’m trying to think of something to cheers to,” you say, voice warm and hoarse. “But all I can think about is how fucking good this is going to be.”

You grin down at the glass. “I haven’t had a beer since I moved here. I- God.” You cut yourself off with another soft laugh, this one less strained. “It just looks so good.”

You say it like it’s more than beer. Max watches you. You’re entirely infatuated with your glass, which makes it easier to do.

He hasn’t seen you like this. Not really. Not happy, not glowing, not vibrating with the kind of low-key anticipation people usually outgrow once the world teaches them better.

He shifts in his seat and picks up his own pint. Ale. Bitter. Familiar.

Christian raises his glass and taps it gently against yours with a knowing grin. “Then stop thinking and drink it.”

You don’t need to be told twice. You lift the glass with both hands and knock back a third of it like you’ve just been pulled out of the desert. It’s aggressive, almost theatrical, except it’s not. You don’t even seem aware of how intense it looks- just drink until the foam’s down your throat and the glass is heavy again on the table.

“Fuck,” you breathe, wiping the back of your hand across your mouth. “That was exactly as good as I knew it was going to be.”

You sit back in your chair with a soft thump, spine loose, mouth curling like the weight of the day finally slipped off your shoulders. Max watches it all with a kind of passive disbelief. Not judgment, not exactly. Just… surprise.

You don’t look like yourself.

At least, not the version of you he knows. The one clipped and coiled, always tucked neatly into meetings, simulator data, tight-lipped PR nods. This is different. This is you opened up, like someone’s unzipped your skin and let something feral crawl out.

And it’s… weird.

Not bad. Not good. Just wrong somehow. Off-kilter. Like seeing your teacher at the grocery store in sweatpants, or hearing someone usually stiff and composed let loose a bark of laughter that doesn’t belong in their mouth.

“Best beer I’ve ever had,” you say into the foam, laughing softly to yourself. “Not even close.”

Christian’s grinning, already halfway into his own pint. “That’s because this is your first proper pint.”

“Hm. Probably.” You nod, like he’s just confirmed something sacred, then shift your attention toward the jukebox across the room. “Wonder if that thing still works.”

Christian cranes his neck, squinting toward the machine. “Not unless you’ve got change.”

Without missing a beat, you grab your purse off the floor and haul it into your lap, already unzipping a side pocket. “I’ve probably got a few twenty-pence pieces in here. My order at the work vending machine always gives me 20p back.”

You dig around, knuckles disappearing into the depths- keys, old receipts, some rogue stick of gum. Then the jingle of metal.

Max watches, eyes flicking from your hands to your face and back again. You’re buzzing. Not just from the beer. From something else. Movement. Relief. The sheer absurdity of the moment.

And he can’t figure out if it’s entertaining or uncomfortable. He doesn’t like you. Not really. But seeing you like this- unguarded, messy, alive- it feels like catching a stranger undressing in a room you weren’t supposed to enter.

He doesn’t look away.

But it doesn’t sit right, either.

A scatter of coins clatter into your palm. Mostly 10ps and 20ps, one suspiciously sticky quid. Then, with a pleased hum, you stand and cross toward the jukebox, slotting the first coin in with a satisfying clink.

Max follows, slow and curious, hovering beside you, scanning the vinyl list for something that he’d like to listen to.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. He just assumes.

Of course you’ll hand him one. Why wouldn’t you? That’s what you do. If he asks for a file at the factory, you get it. If he shows up late to a meeting, you fill the gaps. You’re polite. Accommodating. Always willing to smooth over his edges, like that’s part of your job description.

So he holds out a hand. Expectant. Waiting.

You turn. See his outstretched palm. And for a moment you just blink at it. Then you burst out laughing. Not a scoff. Not a bitter exhale. Laughter. Full-bodied, surprised, involuntary.

“Oh my God,” you choke out, grinning wide. “You really just assumed I was gonna give you one. Like, full faith.”

Max blinks. Hand still out, suspended in the air like a loose wire. You just shake your head, still laughing, and tuck the rest of the coins into the back pocket of your pants. “What?” he says, flatly.

“What?” you echo, eyes wide and tone syrupy-sweet, the kind of sweet that makes your teeth ache. “Oh, sweetie, bless your heart. You must’ve forgotten- we’re not at the office. I don’t have to kiss your ass here.”

Max freezes, not because the words sting, but because they don’t. And your tone- it’s like creamed sugar. It’s too gentle. Too soft. Like there’s a knife slipped under the lace of your reply.

And he doesn’t know exactly what just happened.

But he’s pretty sure you made fun of him.

He stares at you like you’d just malfunctioned. Max leans in, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His tone is measured, almost too calm- because the idea that you wouldn’t hasn’t even occurred to him. “Just pass me one.” he says.

You don’t even bother to lift your eyes. “Why would I do that?”

He blinks, as if surprised by his own impulse. Like he’s just remembered he’s supposed to ask. “Because I want to pick a song?”

You finally meet his eyes, and in them you catch something warm- a glimmer that isn’t full mockery, but rather a spark of amusement, light and unexpected. “And I want to own oceanfront property in Arizona. Guess we both have dreams.”

Max blinks.

You're serious.

He stares at you, genuinely gobsmacked- more from the unexpected tilt of the moment than from your words- because it’s not just that you’re refusing, it’s that you’re enjoying it. That the second you’re off Red Bull property, the second you're not in your work clothes and obligated to keep things diplomatic, you put your foot down.

Over a twenty pence coin.

For months, you’d always given in to him, you’d always played the part as best you could, no matter how he acted: polite, professional, bending just enough so he could assume it was his idea.

But now?

Now you laugh- loud, unreserved laughter that rings out clear as you fish a single coin out of your pocket and hold it up like a prize. It’s the kind of laugh that feels raw and real, and it cracks the weight of the past wide open. The idea that you might hand him a twenty-pence piece simply because he wants one is absurd- so absurdly funny that it seems the universe itself has tipped the scale.

Max’s mouth parts in a tentative “You’re serious?”

“Oh, deadly,” you reply, your tone light but edged with challenge.

And it’s not just a boundary- it’s a message.

I don't owe you anything.

He narrows his eyes, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself. “Come on.”

With a casual flourish, you hold the coin between two fingers, letting it catch the light- a tiny sun in your grasp. “If you want a song that bad,” you say, your voice sweet and teasing, “I’ll give you one. But you have to get on your knees, right here, and tell me I’m the best support driver you’ve ever had.”

The room between you shrinks in that moment. It’s more than the clink of coins or a request- it’s a defiant echo of balance, a playful wager that recasts every past slight into something strangely equal. And in the soft glow of the jukebox’s failing neon tubes- Max, for a brief, unguarded moment- is wrestling with that truth.

He lets out a breath through his nose- almost a laugh. Almost. No chance. Max Verstappen is not going to beg.

That’s the one thread he clings to, even as the night starts to loosen around the edges- warm light, cheap beer, and the comforting weight of anonymity settling over the room like a blanket no one asked for but doesn’t mind.

But asking again doesn’t really count as begging, right? It’s not like he’s on his knees or anything. He’s mulling it over when ‘just one beer’ unanimously becomes ‘just one more.’ He doesn’t remember saying he’d stay this long. But he doesn’t remember not saying it either. He also doesn’t remember asking for a second round, but one shows up anyways- probably Christian’s gesture of good will or penance or plain old morbid curiosity, but either way, Max doesn’t argue. He takes the pint and lets the chill hit his hand, then his throat, and plans his next move through half-lidded eyes.

It’s not that you’re being mean. Not really. You’re just… unbothered. Casual. Infuriatingly in control of this very stupid, very small situation.

He waits until you’re halfway through your second beer to try again.

Max hovers just behind you with his mug, arms crossed loosely, watching as you slot another twenty-pence piece into the old machine, your fingers dancing along the laminated list like you’re selecting fine wine instead of vintage trash-pop. He’s scowling, hovering just close enough to keep asking. Needling. Pestering. Because now it’s a matter of principle.

“You can’t possibly need all of those.”

“Probably not,” you hum. “Think I’ll hang onto them just in case. Unless?”

When two locals approach the edge of the room- one in a Saints jersey, the other nursing a cider- and ask if you and Max want to team up for doubles on the lopsided pool table, you glance at him for just long enough that he thinks his respectable performance might have bought him some leverage. Wrong. Denied. Kneel. He scoffs.

“I’m Max Verstappen.”

You shoot him a look so full of icy amusement that it could be a patented cooling system. “Kind of embarrassing if you can’t afford 20p then, you think?” There’s something so pleased in your voice, like you can’t believe he’s gift wrapped you a third opportunity to tell him no in the same night. Like you’ve already collected the return on your little shenanigans, and now Max is shoveling over interest for free.

He doesn’t get it. He really doesn’t. You’ve always been accommodating. Tolerant. Even when he was an asshole- especially then- you still handed him things without making it a fight. You played the part. Took the hits. Smiled through clenched teeth.

Every appeal he makes, you swat down without lifting your voice, without raising an eyebrow. Just that same calm, clipped response- get on your knees. It becomes a rhythm. A bit. A game that neither of you acknowledges as a game, but plays to win.

You make your next selection, humming under your breath again, and Max stares at your hands- at the last few coins still gleaming in the half-light. They might as well be orbiting stars. Unattainable.

The worst part is that now he really wants to play a song. Not even to win. Not even to prove anything. He just wants the satisfaction. The hit of dopamine. The petty victory of hearing his music next.

And you’ve made it a hostage negotiation.

He paces. He sighs. He sits down on a barstool for thirty seconds, then stands back up. Sighs again. Another drink. Maybe his third. Or fourth. Time gets weird in warm places with sticky floors. Fuck, he wants to play a song.

And then it happens. Something cracks.

He groans- loudly, dramatically- and drops down to one knee right there in front of the jukebox, his jeans collecting samples of whatever filth settles on the floor of a place like this. “Fine,” he spits. “You’re the best support driver I’ve ever had.”

His voice drips with so much sarcasm it practically coats the walls. “Truly. Couldn’t have done a single thing without you.” You stare down at him like he’s a sewer rat that’s learned to tap dance. Amused. A little revolted. Deeply entertained.

And then you grin. It’s not cruel. It’s not even smug. It’s pure, unfiltered delight.

Then, without fanfare, you flick a twenty-pence coin toward the floor. It falls soft on the carpet. Rolls. Spins to a stop just out of his reach. You don’t say a word. But the look on your face- God- you don’t have to.

You’re glowing. Not in the clean, polished way people look when they’ve just won something shiny and official. No, this is something messier. Deeper. Satisfaction pulled from the pit of your stomach, slow and earned.

Max stares at the coin.

Then at you.

Then back at the coin.

And fuck- it’s humiliating. Which might be why it’s perfect. After everything he’s put you through- the weeks of sabotage, the debrief interruptions, the psychological bruising dressed up as excellence- you get to watch him bend.

He reaches down and picks it up.

You laugh. Low and loose and entirely unbothered. Like the idea of him groveling for your spare change is the funniest thing you’ve seen all week.

And maybe it is.

Because he feels it. In his spine. In the back of his throat. The shift. The tilt. This isn’t just a joke anymore. This is power. Yours.

And for a moment- a long, stretching second longer than either of you probably intends- he holds your gaze. That coin is still cold in his palm. Small. Silly. Heavy in ways it shouldn’t be. Then he turns to the jukebox. Scrolls deliberately. Finds the most obnoxious ABBA song in the catalog. Hits play.

Out of spite. Out of principle. Out of sheer, fucking petty survival.

Your laughter follows him as he walks back toward the table- bright and alive and echoing like it’s chasing him down. And God help him-

Max doesn’t even mind.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

The car hums low beneath them, dark outside now- later than it feels. Streetlights streak through the windshield in rhythmic bursts, washing Christian’s hands on the wheel in gold every few seconds. The roads are mostly empty, quiet, tucked in.

The silence in the car isn’t awkward.

It’s something else.

Max slumps slightly in the passenger seat, just enough for his spine to ease off the tension that’s been riding him all day. He’s not drunk, not entirely. But there’s a looseness in him now- beer-soft and slow, like someone’s untied a knot in the center of his chest without asking his permission.

His gaze drifts, half-lidded, unfocused- then catches the rearview mirror.

There you are.

Sprawled back in the seat again, just like you were earlier, but this time you’re warm with victory and booze and something that looks dangerously close to peace. Your head’s tilted toward the window, eyes half-closed. One sneaker up on the seat, your jacket unzipped, your fingers idly fiddling with a keychain that had come in your convention bag.

Max forces his eyes forward. Then a beat later, they drift again.

Back to the mirror. Back to you.

He keeps doing it. Keeps catching himself. Keeps looking. And every time he does, the image plays again in his head like someone queued it up and hit repeat:

That coin.

The way you held it between your fingers like a king holding court. That smirk. That casual little toss to the floor, like the indignity of him crawling after it might scratch the surface of what he actually deserved. And fuck- maybe it did scratch the surface.

Maybe that’s what’s been clawing at him all night.

Because in that moment, on the grimy floor of some shitty pub, he had deserved it. And you’d known it. Had looked at him like yeah, fucker, I’ve got you. Like pulling him down to the floor made up for every interruption, every data sabotage, every small, cruel, calculated erosion.

And the worst part?

It worked.

He hadn’t felt humiliated. He’d felt- God, he doesn't even know. Exposed? Levelled? Something so real it almost hurt.

You’d leveled the field with one coin.

He rubs at his jaw, tilts his head like it might shake the feeling off. His eyes flick back to the mirror.

You're still there. You’re always fucking there. Soft now, somehow. Not unguarded, not entirely, but less braced. Like the night gave you something back. Like you won something that didn’t come in a contract or a race result.

Max shifts in his seat again. Clears his throat. Doesn’t say anything.

But he looks.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

You’re folded into the backseat, the hum of the road under you and a pub buzz still warm in your veins. Not drunk, not really. Just soft around the edges. Floaty. Like your body hasn’t caught up with your life yet.

You’re going to be in Formula One.

You say it again in your head- quietly, like a secret. Not because it is a secret anymore, but because something about the shape of it still feels fragile. Like saying it too loud might undo it. Pop the balloon.

Formula One.

God, you can’t wait to tell your mom.

The thought hits you hard enough you blink at the window, like the reflection might steady you. You picture her face. The way her eyes will go wide, her mouth open just a second before the joy breaks loose. You can already hear the way she’ll say your name- half disbelief, half vindication, all pride.

You feel it rise in your chest, tight and hot. You would cry, probably. If you were capable of that sort of thing- of happy tears. So you settle for smiling into the dark window instead.

And then- eyes.

You catch them by accident. Just a flicker in the rearview mirror. A flash of blue. Max. It’s not a look. Not really. Not loaded. Just… brief. The ghost of eye contact. But the second it happens, both of you look away. Like it burned.

You turn your head, pretend you were adjusting your jacket. He shifts in the front seat like something itched. And that should be it. Should’ve passed. But you don’t mean to- you swear you don’t- but your eyes flick back up to the mirror, just once, just to check if he’s still- He is.

Staring.

Not in that cold, calculating way you’ve come to expect. Not annoyed. Not unreadable. Just... watching. Quiet. Caught.

So you stare right back. You don’t know why. Pride, maybe. Challenge, probably.

Fuck, why is it electric? It’s not charged with romance. There’s no tenderness to it. It’s something else entirely. Like striking flint. The glint of blade against blade.

He doesn’t look away. Neither do you. You don’t move. And in that breathless little standoff- somewhere between the motorway and the factory- you realize something terrifying.

He might see you.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

Series Masterlist

#f1 #max verstappen #max verstappen x reader #f1 x reader #formula one #f1 fanfic #max verstappen x y/n #max verstappen x you #mv1 fic #mv1 x reader #mv33 fic #mv1 #mv33 #mv33 x reader #formula 1 x you #formula 1 #formula 1 x reader

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justagalwhowrites · 6 months ago

Text

Joyeux Noël - A Lavender AU Christmas Story

Joel and your daughters plan something special for you for the holidays. A Christmas one shot set in the Lavender AU Universe.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

Warnings: Smut. No outbreak AU. Fluff fluff fluff. Christmas fluff. No use of Y/N. Minors DNI 18+ only

Length: 3.6k

A/N: JOEL AND DOC ARE BACK FOR THE HOLIDAYS BECAUSE I MISSED THEM (and hopefully some of you did, too.) This can be read as a stand alone fic with the understanding that Joel and reader are a married couple with a shared biological daughter as well as Ellie and Sarah. I hope you enjoy this tooth rotting-ly sweet fic!

AO3 | Lavender Masterlist | Lavender AU Masterlist | Full Masterlist

December 24, 2024

“You’re sure you’ve got everything?” Sarah asked, her son, Carson, squealing in the background.

“Pretty sure,” Joel said, frowning a little.

“Put me on FaceTime,” she said. “Show me.”

Joel sighed and fussed with his phone until it became a video call, Sarah on the other end with a smudge of flour on her nose.

“Busy over there, baby girl?” He teased.

“Your grandson got me in the face when we were making sugar cookies,” she said. “I haven’t had the chance to get cleaned up yet, the kitchen is a disaster but that’s beside the point, show me Mom’s suitcase.”

Joel fussed with the phone again - having to search for the little button that let him do it, not a fan of figuring out technology without the help of any of his girls - and got the camera to flip around.

“So I put in some of the sweaters she wears a lot,” he said, showing Sarah the stacks. “Some of the pants she likes, too. Got this one dress she looks real good in, real good…”

“Ew,” Sarah said.

“Shut it, kid,” he said. She laughed. “Got the shoes she says are comfortable, some that are pretty, too…”

“Do you have a bag for her?” She asked.

“What do you think you’re lookin’ at?”

“Not that kind of bag,” she rolled her eyes. “I mean a purse.”

“Wouldn’t she just bring the one she uses all the time?” He asked.

“Dad, you’re going to be walking around Paris,” Sarah said. “Spending hours in museums and in stores and lounging at chic cafes, she’s not going to want to carry that giant thing around. In her closet, in one of the dust bags at the top is a smaller bag that Ellie, Evie and I went in on for Mother's Day, grab that one. It’s cross body so she can just wear it, she likes that when she’s walking around a lot. Also, do you have her hair stuff?”

“Hair stuff?” Joel frowned. “Don’t they have that in the room?”

She sighed.

“See, this is why I make you show me,” Sarah said. “Yes, there’s shampoo and stuff but she uses serums and oils and things, she needs those. Bathroom next.”

Joel obeyed his oldest daughter’s instructions, thankful that the two of you were so close that she’d know these kinds of things. He got what she told him from the bathroom and packed it.

“Alright,” she said. “I think you’re all good! Just let her get a book or five at the airport and you’ll be golden, old man.”

“Thanks, kiddo,” he smiled a little. “You still good to take your sister for a while?”

“Of course,” she smiled back. “I love Ellie and Evie can stay as long as she wants until she wants to go back to school. Plus Brandon could use someone to give him a run for his money on this new video game, he’s getting over confident.”

“Thank you for keeping an eye on Ellie,” Joel said. “We’d like to get all you girls on a trip like this with us sometime but for the first one…”

“It should just be the two of you,” Sarah finished for him with a smile. “She’s going to love it, Dad.”

He sure hoped so.

Joel had been planning this for a while. Decades, really.

Back when the two of you were young and flat broke, a trip to Paris had been a pipe dream. You talked about it that way, the same way Ellie talked about going to the moon now, something that you dreamed about but didn’t expect to ever have.

Then Evie came along. Then you were in med school and then you were an intern and resident and attending and Sarah got married and Ellie joined the family and life had just gotten in the way, as it always seemed to.

But it had been a beautiful life and you’d never even come close to complaining about not getting to visit France the way you’d dreamed. As you’d always done, you put everyone else’s needs and wants before your own, constantly looking for a way to make Joel or your daughters’ lives better before thinking of yourself.

But the Paris trip was possible now. The two of you had made more money than Joel had ever dreamed of making, Sarah and Evie were off on their own and Ellie was in a good enough place that she could spend a few weeks with her sister. Things were even calm at work for both of you - Tommy could run the business for a few weeks and Joel had coordinated with your boss to get you time off. It was the perfect time to finally give you something you’d been dreaming of as long as Joel had known you.

Joel didn’t want to put more work on your plate, though, so he worked with Sarah, Evie and Ellie to plan everything. Sarah traveled a lot - she’d made it to Europe long before Joel ever had - and knew how to find a good hotel. Ellie told Joel about the different museums to visit, her passion for art coming in handy as he was planning. Evie - who had even taken after your knack for language - helped Joel learn a few phrases in French (though he was going to be pretty dependent on you to get around.) But that was fine. As long as you were happy, he didn’t care if everyone around him was speaking gibberish.

“Dad!” Ellie yelled from down the hall. “Mom just texted, she’s almost home!”

“Shit,” Joel said, zipping the suitcase quickly. “Stall her for me, will ya?”

“Can do!” She yelled back and he heard her pounding down the stairs to intercept you.

Joel hauled the luggage downstairs the best he could, stashing the packed bags in a room just off the garage so he could wrestle them into the trunk later. He finished just as the garage door opened and Ellie went racing past him to catch you in the car, giving him a chance to slip into the living room unnoticed. You joined him just a minute after he got there, flopping on the couch next to him.

“Tough day?” He asked, putting his arm up so you could snuggle into him.

“Just long,” you sighed. “That early start the day before a holiday made this shift feel like 20 hours, not 12. But at least I have Christmas off to spend with you and the girls before I’m back in on Thursday.”

Joel tried to keep from smiling at the fact that you didn’t know that, by this time on Thursday, you’d be across the world.

“Want to watch a movie?” He asked. “Your pick.”

“Sure,” you snuggled closer. “But let’s see what Ellie and Evie want to watch, I’ll be happy as long as I’m with you guys.”

He kissed your forehead and called the girls down, the two of them settling on Elf followed by Die Hard and you not even putting in a vote for your favorite because you never tried to put yourself first in anything. That’s why Joel was doing all this, to make sure it happened at least now and then. He made you a plate of Chinese food and you fell asleep against him when you finished it, still wearing the Christmas-themed sweater and earrings you’d worn that day to the hospital.

“Alright, girls,” Joel said quietly. “Upstairs, Santa can’t come ’til you’re in bed.”

Evie and Ellie shared a look before looking back to Joel.

“Goodnight, Dad,” Evie said, getting up and helping Ellie to her feet, too. “I hope Santa can get Mom upstairs OK…”

He snorted and watched the girls go to their rooms before laying you gently on the couch. He went and got the presents out of your closet and stashed the suitcases in the back of the car. He stuffed the stockings - you sleeping peacefully the whole time - and set up the living room the same way he’d done since Sarah was little before gently rousing you from your long winter’s nap.

“C’mon, baby,” he said softly, cupping your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “Bed time.”

“But…” you sat up, groggy. “We gotta set up Christmas and…”

“Already done,” he smiled. “Let’s go, sleepyhead.”

You sighed contentedly as he looped an arm around your waist and guided you groggily to your room.

“You’re the best husband in the world, you know that?” You said as you burrowed against his chest once you were both in bed.

He smiled.

“Doin’ my best, baby.”

***

You definitely missed having little kids on Christmas morning but having older ones had its perks.

You woke up before Joel, your unreasonably early day - and bed time - on Christmas Eve rousing you before the sun.

Your husband was still snoring gently and you just watched him for a moment, a peaceful look on his face in the red and green glow of the lights on the eaves outside. You smiled. There was something so damn beautiful about the man you’d married more than 20 years ago, just getting to look at him while he slept made you feel unreasonably lucky, like you were getting away with something you shouldn’t.

You ran your fingers through his hair, slow and gentle, and he stirred, smiling every so slightly before delicately catching your wrist and bringing it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your pulse.

“Merry Christmas,” you whispered.

He smiled broader, his eyes still closed.

“Merry Christmas.”

“Want one of your presents now?” You asked and he opened one eye so fast it made you giggle. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

You leaned in close and kissed him softly, almost chastely, before moving down his body and nudging him onto his back as you went. Your lips went over the firm expanse of his chest, the soft warmth of his stomach, down to the top of his pajama pants where his thick length was already hardening for you.

You tugged the pants down enough that you could get at his cock. You licked the tip of him, tongue circling his head before you wrapped your lips around just the very end, sucking softly at his precome.

“Goddamn baby,” he said, already breathless, his hand coming to the back of your head as you took the whole of him slowly, tantalizingly into your mouth.

Once you swallowed him into your throat, you moaned and held him there, sucking and savoring him before starting to move over him. You pressed your tongue against the thick vein that ran along the underside of his cock, making his head run along the roof of your mouth as he started to move in shallow, gentle thrusts, working himself deeper, groaning as he did.

“Can I have that soft little pussy, too?” He asked eventually, sounding desperate, his grip tightening on your head. “Because goddamn baby if I don’t need you right now.”

You sucked him all the way to the tip before releasing him from your mouth.

“You can have as much of me as you want,” you said, breathless yourself. “I’m all yours.”

Before you had the chance to start sucking him again, he tugged you back up his body, laying you beside him before rolling to face you. He gripped your thigh, tugging your leg over his hip and tucking your panties to the side before petting at your leaking entrance.

“Good,” he whispered. “Just the way I want you.”

The tip of his cock replaced his fingers and he thrust just the head of himself inside of you, stretching you enough that you had to press your face into his chest to muffle your moan.

“How do you always feel so goddamn good, baby?” He asked, tugging you closer as he pushed inside. He tucked your head below his chin, one arm below you and around you, his fingers spread wide between your shoulders, his other on the small of your back holding you in just the right place. You were completely enveloped by him as he filled you to the root, everything about your husband completely surrounding you. “Don’t deserve something as good as you.”

You just groaned in protest, not really able to form words, too overwhelmed by the way Joel was completing you.

Instead, you rocked your hips against him and he responded in kind, the two of you moving slowly, firmly against each other. Heat drew low inside you, concentrated on where Joel was shaping you to him and you grew tighter and tighter around him, your orgasm growing sure and steady.

“You gonna come for me?” He whispered in your ear. You moaned and nodded against him. “Good, want you to come for me, let me feel it baby, milk me dry, c’mon.”

You let out a strangled little sob as you obeyed, your channel fluttering and rippling around him.

“There she is,” he breathed, keeping his pace inside you, the tip of his cock pressing into the soft place within you that made your back arch and toes curl as he ground himself deep. “That’s it, baby, keep coming, come on my cock. Fuck, you take it so well, come so pretty for me, just keep… keep…”

He squeezed you tighter, thrust impossibly deeper and you felt him come apart inside you with a needy grunt, throbbing deep and hard as he filled you, drawing your orgasm out as he did.

You went limp in his arms as your climax eased and his hold on you loosened just enough that he could kiss you, his lips gentle on yours as both of you came back down to earth.

“Dunno that anything’ll top that present,” he teased lightly and you laughed.

“One of the upsides to not having little kids running in here at six in the morning,” you smiled before kissing his chest and snuggling closer. His cock was softening inside you, the combination of his come and yours starting to drip from you. “Can we just stay like this for a while? I miss you when you’re not inside me.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his fingers trailing over your spine.

“Course baby,” he said softly. “Think we got a bit before the girls start moving.”

You luxuriated in the slow start to the morning, drifting in and out of consciousness with Joel’s cock nestled inside you, your husband thrusting slowly and gently now and then so he stayed deep. The sun had just started to peek through the blinds when you heard a toilet flush down the hall and you kissed Joel one last time before slipping him from you, adjusting his pants and your panties before the girls were knocking on your door.

You loved Christmas morning with your family, loved the sense of joy and closeness as you watched your daughters open presents while you sat on the couch, snuggled up to Joel with a cup of coffee in your hands. You’d never had a holiday quite like this one growing up, always just you and your grandmother making the best of it. You treasured that, too, but it was different now, when you were surrounded by the people you loved more than anything else who loved you in return.

Ellie was super excited about a set of really nice markers you’d asked Andrew for help in researching, Evie shrieked with glee over concert tickets for her and her girlfriend and Joel kissed you so deep when he opened the fancy coffee maker you got him the aching place between your thighs throbbed again.

After cinnamon rolls and bacon and coffee made with Joel’s new toy, the four of you headed to Sarah’s, laughing as Carson showed you everything Santa brought him and giving Joel a look when he gave his grandson candy behind his daughter’s back.

“Well,” Joel said, downing the last of his beer as your entire family sat around Sarah’s table after dinner and dessert, you tucked contentedly against his side. “I’m afraid we gotta hit the road.”

You frowned, twisting to look at him.

“What?” You asked, looking down at your watch. It was barely five. “No we don’t, I don’t need to be in until tomorrow afternoon, we can hang out and…”

“No, Mom, you do really need to go,” Sarah said, a serious look on her face.

“Yeah,” Ellie nodded. “Don’t wanna be late.”

“Late for what?” You said.

Evie looked up from her phone.

“I just checked and everything is on time,” she said.

You laughed, looking around at your husband and daughters.

“What are you talking about?” You asked. “What’s on time, everything is closed. Are we going to a movie?”

“I mean, we can when we get there if that’s what you wanna do,” Joel shrugged. “But you’d have to translate for me the whole time.”

You frowned, looking around again, all your children looking like they were about to burst with excitement.

“Can someone clue me in?” You laughed again. “Because I’m at a loss…”

“Oh, right,” Evie said, going into her purse, pulling out an envelope and handing it over. “Guess you’ll need that.”

Joel was trying to hide his grin but you knew him too well for that and you just raised your brows at him as you opened the envelope. He just shrugged a little, his smile getting harder and harder to conceal.

“What are you all up to?” You teased as you opened the envelope, unfolding the papers that were inside.

“Guess you’ll have to look,” Joel shrugged.

You rolled your eyes good naturedly before looking at the pages in your hands.

It took you a second to realize what you were holding: a flight itinerary.

You frowned.

“Joel?” You asked looking over at him.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Joel, this…” you looked back at the paper, your heart racing. “Joel, this is a plane ticket.”

“Is it?” He asked, smile apparent in his voice.

“Joel,” you looked at him again. “This is a plane ticket to Paris. And it leaves in four hours.”

“Technically, I think it’s two plane tickets,” Joel said, sitting up to look over your shoulder. “First class, in case you wanted some room to sleep on your first overseas flight.”

“But…” Your eyes ranged over the ticket before looking around, all your daughters grinning like the cats who ate the canaries. “I have work!”

“Well, see, that’s where you’re wrong,” Joel smirked. “Talked with your boss back in October, you’re not due back to the hospital for a few weeks.”

“I…” you looked down and back up again. “I need to pack!”

“Wrong again, Mom,” Sarah smiled. “Dad took care of that. And I checked his work, you’re good.”

“We need to plan…”

“I gave him a list of all the coolest museums,” Ellie said proudly, cutting you off.

“And I helped Dad be a little less totally useless in French,” Evie added.

You looked around at all of them, tears stinging at your eyes.

“You all planned this?” You asked, a lump in your throat. “For me?”

“Been a long time coming, baby,” Joel smiled, his large hand cradling your elbow, thumb rubbing gentle circles over you. “You deserve it. Have for a while.”

“He’s right, Mom,” Sarah smiled, too. “After taking care of all of us over the years, it’s about damn time.”

“You’re the best mom in the world,” Ellie agreed. “Figured it was time that you see some of it.”

“You always do everything for all of us,” Evie said. “We really should return the favor now and then.”

You looked back at the tickets, covering your mouth with one hand, giving up on trying to keep from crying.

“I…” you sniffed. “I don’t know what to say!”

“How about we just say bon voyage,” Evie said. “Because you need to get on the road or you’re going to be late for your flight!”

You let your children usher you and Joel to the car and you gave everyone hugs as Evie and Ellie got their bags from the trunk so they could stay with Sarah. You hugged them all goodbye, having to dry your tears every time you realized exactly what was happening: You were finally going to Paris, a place you’d always wanted to go, on a trip planned by the people you loved most.

Joel drove the two of you to the airport, you practically glowing the entire way. Joel didn’t let you carry your own bags and you were still in disbelief as you settled into your seat on the plane, a glass of champagne in your hand as you waited to take off.

“So,” Joel smiled, watching you. “You excited?”

“I can’t believe it,” you said, laughing a little. “I can’t… You really shouldn’t have done all this, not for me!”

“Oh baby,” Joel reached out and cupped your cheek. “You’ve done nothin’ but take care of everyone else as long as I’ve known you. Don’t think I can ever do enough to repay you for that but you gotta let me try, at least at Christmas.”

You smiled and leaned over to kiss him.

“I think I can handle that.”

He smiled.

“Merry Christmas, baby,” he said. “Or should I say… joyeux noël? That right?”

You laughed, his accent comically bad but so charming you had to love it.

“That’s right,” you said. “Joyeux noël.”

#fanfic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #lavender #joel miller x oc #joel miller smut #christmas fic

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fieldghoul · 3 months ago

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Ministry Office Tech Roundup

Oh boy! Oh boy!! New filming location means new set dressing and new technology to identify!! All of the following is from Chapter 20: Arrival of a Secret Agent.

For starters, the phones on the desk are the NEC DT330 in the 32-button layout option, sold c. 2010

(I cannot find photos of the 32 button DT330 in woodgrain but they sold it! Trust me! I found the 2010 BTB sales catalogue!)

Our dedicated clergy member has her papers stacked on top of an HP Pavilion DV7-6163CL, sold c. 2012

Judith's desk has a Casio Memory B-1 calculator, produced c. 1978

Frater's absurd battlestation consists of:

NEC Cromaclear P500 Monitor, c. 1996

Perix Perimice-209 Mouse, c. 2017

Generic RGB Gaming Keyboard, c. 2020

(I think it gets rebadged under multiple brand names -- the reference photo is from "KUIYN" and the the keyboard has used different keycaps over the years.)

Of course a monitor is useless without a computer, so everything is powered by a laptop under the table. It appears to be an HP laptop, something along the lines of a 14inch HP Stream c. 2020 onwards.

#listen i understand logistic filming reasons for why this set up is the way it is but it's still really funny to me #i like to imagine he broke the laptop hinge and the screen stopped working #frater!! turn on the keyboard rgb lights!!#stuff in ghost videos #ghost #ghost bc #ghost the band #ghost chapters #cardinal copia #papa emeritus iv #frater imperator #ghost lore #fieldghoul makes gifs #me @ the production crew: covering all the logos on the monitor with stickers cannot and will not stop me from finding it!!

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captainjamster · 6 months ago

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Pairing(s): 141 x Reader Warnings: mentions of (pixel) animal death, butchering of a pixelated cow (rip thank u for ur sacrifice) Wordcount: 2.3k Summary: How I think you would get the boys into Minecraft and/or what it would be like playing with them. AO3 Link: Right here! <3

A/N: Hello why yes, this IS my first post in four months despite the mountain of unfinished fics I have xD I will edit any errors out of this later, but I'm making myself post this because I'm tired of avoiding uploading until something feelings perfect lol

We're pretending Mojang is competent so ignore any inaccuracies to how Minecraft actually works <3

Full fic under the cut <3

Price just plays to amuse you, but he becomes competent at the game ridiculously quickly. Yes, he might jokingly be an old man, as his favourite youthful commander would put it – but this ‘old man’ can learn new tricks, and he’s pretty sure some of the technology he works with would make a civvy’s head spin. Though he’s unfamiliar with most video games and consoles, sacrificing his youth for service, that doesn’t mean he hasn’t heard of them or played a game or two. John will admit; he doesn’t see much point in it, but adores the excitement you glow with as you’re adventuring and building.

“Alright, so it’s w, a, s and d to move, right? And then the space is to jump.” Your hands barely stretch over his, guiding them to the keys.

“S’easy enough, I suppose,” he rumbles, giving you that smile that crinkles his eyes. You resist the urge to kiss them as he adjusts his hands over your keyboard, giving the buttons experimental taps and watching how the screen reacts.

“Yep, and then you use the mouse to control your head, look around and stuff.” You nudge it over to him, and he gives it a shake before looking around.

“More bloody blocks. What’s that thing, there?”

You squint, looking closer. “A sheep, don’t worry about it. You want to try moving around?”

Once you’ve taught him the basics, his rapid acclimation to the games and controls are jarring. While he doesn’t become some Minecraft speed-runner pro, he’s an equally capable player in fights and foraging, and your base is ridiculously plentiful. You’re never lacking resources, and although he never mentions it, you can see John bloom with pride from the corner of your eye whenever you praise him for the neatly organised provisions.

You have to laugh at his suspicion of everything – “is this hostile?”, “this one hostile?”, “s’hostile one?” – and the way he takes protecting you seriously, scolding you for not wearing armour and giving you his own until he can make more.

The first time his dog dies, you think it might be over for your Minecraft run. He goes silent, aggressively hitting the keys as he slaughters the mobs around you, only speaking up when the area is clear. “I didn’t know that would happen,” he mutters, picking up the dropped loot as you make a sympathetic noise. When you log on the next time, waiting for John to come back with snacks from the corner, you don’t mention the small fence with a sign reading ‘Price Jr’ tucked into the oak trees at the edge of a pond – but the next time you check it, there’s another daisy swaying in the wind next to yours.

-----

Gaz knows what Minecraft is AND he’s played it – you’ve even played it together before. This boy is a gamer, and he’s down for a night of co-op couch games and take away with a cosy blanket if you are too.

Though he tries his hardest not to let it show around you, Kyle is aggressively driven in becoming competent, and that includes in video games. You never have to worry about dying, although it becomes a little frustrating when his experience level is more than triple yours – but you can’t even stay frustrated, you learn, as he unfalteringly drops his items and starts building a dirt stack that he jumps from, exploding into clouds and XP that floats towards you with a light, twinkling chiming. When you scold him for doing something so unnecessary, he gives you a kicked puppy look over his shoulder, pouting up at you. “I didn’t want you to wait for me to make a mob farm!”

Unlike Price, this man IS a Minecraft pro – he’s pulling out the water bucket to save you from falling, using beds to fight hostile mobs in the underworlds, zooming around with fireworks and an elytra to find that rare, specific coat of cat you’ve been running across the map looking for. You’re pretty sure that he could’ve beat the Enderdragon twice as fast if you weren’t there, but he still insists you were an equal champion of the fight as he proudly places the dragon head on your trophy wall.

Gaz is always prepared when the 6-month Minecraft fever hits and you make a new server. He’s sending you pinterest links of cute house ideas, making comments about adding another coop for the chickens and a pond for turtles. Hell, he’ll build them with, or even for you, if you want him to.

Playing with him can sometimes be similar to one of those youtube tutorials that cut back to a clip after some ‘offscreen building’ and they’re standing in front six life-scale cathedrals and a replication of Mt Everest – each time you log back on, you swear he’s expanded your base by another chunk, and you can’t even be mad you didn’t get to do anything because your world looks GOOD, and Gaz makes damn sure of it.

He has just about everything you can think of, and if not? There’s a sign next to his bed for you to note anything missing. Your main base is situated within a town of villagers with minecart roads and furnished houses, bakeries, animal centres, banner and dye stores – hell, he’s even built a zoo and an aquarium for the animals you can’t tame. All of your pets have names that he refers to fondly, each with their own little houses in a miniature version of the village. Despite the effort he puts into housing them, Gaz is a menace to the villagers – bad deal? Executed, or imprisoned at best. Sometimes logging onto for a session turns into a dramatic medieval roleplay as you dutifully play the executioner, triggering the trapdoor to give way to the pool of lava while Gaz finishes dramatically reciting the villagers’ crimes from a book - gives the ones that get to live names like ‘village dunce’ and ‘emerald hoarder’.

When you do build by yourself, he’s your project advisor throughout the process, patiently supplying the materials and helping you with the details. “Babe, this doesn’t seem right,” you grumble, head in your hands, “can you please come look?”

He’s quick to slide his chair across to yours, leaning on the sides. “This one,” he announces after a quick scan. “You added an extra block.”

You recount again, letting out a groan as you start breaking the blocks, and Gaz dutifully rolls back to help you. He’s your partner in crime, complicit in indulging your abandonment of any appropriate sleep schedule, staying up until he calls out your name to find you asleep, drooling on the keyboard.

-----

Soap does not give a shit until you mod the fuck out of it.

Yes, he knows what Minecraft is, thank y’very much bonnie, but he just doesn’t care for games that much. Like Price, his youth was spent either trying to get into the military, or actually being in it. The only games he’s entertained are his small selection of first-person shooters he plays occasionally off deployment that you can never beat him in. The topic first comes up is over dinner after a call with Johnny’s family, as he’s grumbling between bites.

“My sisters weans play all sorts ‘o stupid games, bloody bite my head off if I call ‘em the wrong thing – Minecraft, Roblox, aren’t they all the same?”

“Aren’t all shooter games the same, by that assumption?” You point out to his distaste, and he makes a face at you, reaching over the table to steal a bite of your food.

The next day, you pull up Minecraft for him to properly check out. Johnny isn’t particularly enraptured by the charm of the game, but he perks up when you mention the redstone mechanics. “So, it’s really just all block-y? And ye smack things wit’ yer hand?” He frowns, leaning against the back of your chair.

“That’s one part, yeah. But you run around and gather resources, by mining and stuff, so you can craft and build better things to survive – you know – Mine, craft. Minecraft.”

Johnny scoffs, wrapping his arm around your shoulders. “Y’think I’m daft, now? Taken too many knocks to the head, aye?”

“Let go of me, you’re going to get me killed!” You squawk, and he lets you struggle for a moment before he kisses the top of your head and releases it, wandering into the kitchen for what you assume is a snack, knowing Johnny.

The next time he takes interest, you’re still up when he stumbles in blearily, rubbing his eyes. “Bonnie? Yer not really still playin’ this, are ye? Y’haven’t even slept?”

“I was going to sleep soon,” you huff, turning back. “I just need to get a few more things and go back home.”

There’s an incredulous noise amongst footsteps over your shoulder, and his voice is suddenly a lot closer in your ear. “Soon? S’five in’ the morn’ bon, are ye just gon’ sleep the day away?’

You pause the game, spinning the chair around to meet him with a glare. “Why are you up this early?”

“International meeting, don’t go changin’ the subject.” He spins you back around despite your protests, leaning back upon your chair once again and peering at the screen. “Cannae see what yer enjoyin’ about this.”

“Wh – I mean, it’s not like last time. This time, I’ve downloaded these files that modify the games contents, and there’s way more crazy shit. You can mod it so much it’s like a new game.”

Johnny makes a noise of interest, dropping down to settle against your shoulders. “Really now?”

“Yeah, like look at this. I’ve got a gun in the game.”

A shotgun appears in your hand as you scroll to the hotbar tab, and you shoot a shell into the ground, listening as Johnny clicks in appreciation, surprisingly satisfied after his scrutinising. “Alright, show me ‘er properly.”

He hovers over the chair for a few more minutes, taking in your overview of the mods. “Oh, and this one! Hang on, look.” You hit a cow, and Johnny watches as it falls to the floor. Grabbing the body, you drag it over to a pixelated hook, and show him how you break the carcass down through the stages, collecting parts down to the bones.

He makes a noise of interest. “Si would like that. Can ye play with other people?”

You spin around to give him an excited grin, feeling the sleepiness retreat with your rapidly building enthusiasm. “Why, you want to join?”

Johnny scoffs, but there’s no hiding how his eyes gleam as a smile tugs at his lips to mirror yours. “Only after I finish the meetin’, and y’get some decent fuckin’ rest.”

-----

Ghost doesn’t care until Soap asks him to play.

When you originally ask him, it’s a late evening, and he’s curled up on the bed with a book as you deliver the question. There’s a pause in the turning of pages, and you get the usual dead-eyed stare when you say something he thinks is stupid over the edge of his book. ‘Y’want me to play a kid’s game?”

You give him your own scrutinizing look back, before turning back to the screen. “It’s not a kid’s game, Simon. Video games aren’t just for kids.”

He doesn’t press the topic any further, but you know his mind is often unchanged - so it’s a nice surprise when he brings it back up again a month or so later over the quiet chatter of some foreign film he’s watching, stirring you to look up from the words of your book.

“Oi, what’s that game y’were talkin’ about? Bloody… Mineshaft?”

You think Simon knows perfectly well what the game is called, but you humour him, pulling the blanket down slightly to look at him. “Minecraft?”

He snorts, leaning back into the armchair. “Yeah, s’one. Johnny’s bird got ‘im into it, won’t stop yappin’ ‘bout it now.”

You hold your breath, doing your best impression of nonchalance, directing your gaze back to the book. “Oh, yeah? That’s nice, sounds like he’s excited about it.”

Simon gives a non-committal grunt, but you can tell his focus is beyond the screen he’s looking towards. “Asked me t’play it with ‘im, bloody bastard. Said ‘e’d paid for a server or some shite.”

Excitement explodes in the back of your mind as you mentally praise your husband’s co-worker, thanking him for his influence as you steady your tone. “Well, why don’t you?”

He snorts with a cross of his arms, holding the remote against his chest. “Don’t know how to do all that rubbish.”

You close the book, sitting up and waving off his statement assuredly. “I have it installed already, you don’t have to do anything – oh, but can you ask him if he’s playing with mods?”

He’s not impressed with the request, frown deepening. “What, ‘m I your personal messenger now?”

But you’re onto him already, guiding the topic back on track. “Alright,” you give him a dry look, “give me his number then.”

The show pauses, and Simon looks back at you. It takes a moment, but you know you’ve won with a roll of his eyes, grumbling under his breath as he pulls his phone out and passes it to you after another message comes through.

>> Bonnie got me a whole folder of mods. Liek a whole nother game. Yer gonna play minecraft with me?

“So what?”

“Okay, well that’s easy to set up.” You pass the phone back to him, settling into your comfy nest of blankets. “So?”

“Are you going to play with him?”

(A month later, there’s another desk snug against yours while Simon fumbles with his screen settings as a broguish laugh comes from the headset, and Friday nights are something you’re realising you’ll never get back from that goddamn pixel game)

Headers and Dividers by saradika-graphics

#141 x reader #price x reader #john price x reader #price x you #john price x you #gaz x reader #kyle garric x reader #kyle gaz x reader #gaz x you #soap x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #soap mactavish x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #idk i hate doing tags bro there's too many #cod fanfic #call of duty fanfic #jams writings

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