#mike faist riff

[minnie-cai]

༊*·˚ Working Man

pairing; mechanic!riff lorton x housewife!reader

tags/warnings; infidelity, significant age-gap marriage (older husband x younger reader), emotional neglect, implied marital coercion, sexual themes, references to fertility pressure, implied manipulation and gaslighting, mild period-typical misogyny, mentions of abandonment and child neglect, smoking and alcohol

word count; 4.1k

summary; In late 1950s West Side New York, you’re a young housewife stuck in a marriage built on duty, not desire. When a trip to the garage introduces you to Riff—a grease-stained, sharp-eyed mechanic who sees you for who you really are—it sparks a slow, dangerous unraveling. What begins with a glance becomes a ritual. And then, a reckoning.

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•���•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

The screen door creaks behind you as you step onto the sun-warmed porch, the hem of your yellow cotton dress brushing against your knees, a bit too modest for the way the July heat clings to your skin like syrup. The cicadas drone in the trees. Somewhere down the road, a radio blares a tinny tune, cheerful and out of place. You grip your woven basket in both hands like it��s a lifeline.

Your husband, Gene, had handed you two dollars that morning with a grunt and a half-mumbled list: tomatoes, string beans, new mason jar lids. And, as he’d said last night with a dry cough and that same tired glint in his eye—“We’ll try again tonight, alright sweetheart? You ain’t pregnant yet, and the Lord wants us fruitful.”

You hadn’t said much. Just nodded. You never said much around Gene.

The flea market’s only two blocks into town. You know the route by heart. Past the church with its peeling white paint, past the dry cleaners with the gossiping wives out front, past Joe’s Auto Repair, where the air always smells like hot rubber and gasoline.

That’s where you see him.

Leaning against the brick wall just under the “Goodyear Tires” sign, Riff is striking a match, cigarette pressed between his lips. His coveralls are unzipped to the waist, white tank undershirt clinging to sweat-dampened muscles like a second skin. His hair is slicked back, the kind of defiant wave no comb dares tame. Grease stains his hands, his forearms flex as he lights up, and for a moment, he squints toward the sun—and right at you.

You freeze like you’ve stepped barefoot on a snake.

His gaze lingers. Not in that polite, blink-and-gone way most men in town look at you. No, he sees you. His jaw ticks, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, and you can’t look away even as your fingers tighten on the basket’s handle.

You walk past without a word, heart pounding too loud in your ears.

It’s three days later when Gene says he needs a belt picked up for the Ford. “Rattlin’ again,” he mutters, spitting into the sink after brushing his teeth. “Go down to Joe’s. I called ahead. They’ll have it.”

You know exactly who they is.

You take your time getting ready. Lipstick, just a little. Your best dress—powder blue, tight at the waist. When Gene leaves for work, you wait a full ten minutes before stepping out, basket empty this time, but your stomach full of nerves.

Joe’s is half-shadowed by the sun when you arrive. You walk through the open garage door and the air changes—warmer, louder, alive with the scent of oil, rust, and man. Tools clink. A radio plays slow blues from somewhere deep in the garage. You don’t see Joe.

But you see him.

He’s under the hood of a car, brow furrowed, sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted with grit. Riff.

He notices you instantly. Straightens. Wipes his hands on a rag. Doesn’t smile, but recognition flickers behind his eyes.

“You lost, girlie-girl?” he drawls, voice rough as gravel and twice as dangerous.

You try not to blush. Fail miserably.

“No,” you say, forcing a smile. “My husband called ahead. For a… a fan belt.”

“Right,” he says, tossing the rag onto the workbench without looking away from you. “Gene Miller’s wife. I remember the voice.”

He steps closer, close enough for you to smell the smoke and sweat and something else—raw masculinity. You tilt your chin up to meet his eyes, your throat dry.

“You got a name?”

You hesitate.

“It’s alright,” he says low, a smirk tugging at his lip. “I’ll learn it eventually.”

You don’t remember breathing until you’re walking back out with the belt in your hand, your fingers still tingling from where he brushed them handing it to you.

The affair doesn’t start that day.

But it starts then.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

You told yourself you wouldn’t go back.

Gene had the belt. The car ran fine. There was no reason—none—for you to return to that garage. But the days after felt longer. The silence at home heavier. You went through your routines like a ghost, vacuuming rooms already clean, peeling potatoes with slow, mechanical hands, your thoughts drifting to smoke curling from a cigarette and forearms streaked with grease.

You start walking to town more. At first, it’s just to the market. Then the bakery. Then nowhere in particular.

But each time, you find yourself walking past Joe’s.

And sometimes—sometimes—he’s there.

It becomes a quiet ritual. A glance. A flick of his eyes to yours. He never waves, never calls out. But you feel his stare like it’s a hand on your back, pressing. Daring.

Until one morning, two weeks later, you walk past and he says, “You always in such a hurry, darlin’?”

You stop. The heat blooms across your chest like a sin exposed.

He’s sitting on the hood of a cherry-red Impala, legs apart, arms folded, like he owns the street and knows you’re about to fall to your knees on it.

“I—” you start. “I was just walking.”

His lip curls, not quite a smile. “Seems like you’re always just walking. But never stopping.”

You swallow. “Maybe I shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. The gold band on your finger glints in the sunlight. His eyes flick to it. Then back to your face.

He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

And just like that, he hops off the car and turns his back to you.

You stand there, stupid and burning.

The next day, you don’t pass by. You walk into the shop.

He’s under another car when you come in, and your heart is hammering hard enough you feel it behind your eyes. You wait until he slides out from under the chassis, rag in one hand, hair damp with sweat.

“Well,” he says, looking you over slowly. “Didn’t expect to see you on purpose.”

You walk in further, past the signs that say “Employees Only,” past the point of decency.

“I was just… in the area,” you lie, voice barely more than a whisper.

He leans against the lift, folds his arms again. His eyes don’t leave yours. “That what you told your husband?”

You flush. Look down.

He chuckles. A rough sound. “Don’t be shy now, doll. You came all this way.”

Something in you snaps. Or frees itself.

You raise your chin. “I wanted to see you.”

That silences him. His gaze sharpens like a blade.

He doesn’t move. Not yet.

But he nods toward the back. “Come on. Office is quieter.”

You follow him past stacks of tires and the smell of gasoline, your heels clicking on the concrete. The office is small, hot, and dim. A fan rattles on the desk. There’s a chair, a filing cabinet, and not much else.

He closes the door behind you with a soft click.

The sound is deafening.

“Alright,” he says, stepping closer. “Now what?”

You open your mouth. No words come out.

So he steps even closer, and now your back is to the filing cabinet and there’s nowhere to run.

“You got a name?” he murmurs again, slower this time, like he wants you to hear what it sounds like on his tongue.

You whisper it.

He repeats it, almost reverent.

And then he leans down, just enough so you can feel his breath on your neck.

“You sure you wanna do this?” he asks. “Once I touch you, sweetheart, you don’t get to pretend anymore.”

You nod.

Barely.

And then his lips are on yours.

Not gentle. Not soft. But hungry—like he’s been waiting for this moment since that first glance on the street, and he’s done pretending it’s anything but what it is.

His hands cup your face first, then slide down, rough and warm, smearing a faint line of grease across your cheek. He tastes like smoke and something wild. Your fingers curl into the front of his coveralls and pull.

You don’t care about the ring.

You don’t care about Gene.

You only care about this.

This heat.

This escape.

This man.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

You’ve never floated home before.

The pavement barely exists beneath your feet. The houses blur past like half-painted scenery, the smell of motor oil clinging to your skin like perfume. Inside, your mouth still tingles. Every part of you feels rewired—sensitive, alive, flushed with the echo of Riff’s mouth and the pressure of his body against yours.

You touch your lips once before stepping through your front door.

Inside, the kitchen smells like stew. You’d left it bubbling low before you went to town—Gene likes it with potatoes and thick carrots, heavy on the salt. You pull your apron on, check the oven, and set the table, your hands moving on instinct while your mind spins somewhere else. Somewhere far from the sterile yellow wallpaper, from Gene’s heavy footsteps and the muted clink of his belt buckle tossed onto the nightstand.

You’re humming.

You never hum.

Gene notices.

He walks in around six, same as always, rubbing his back like he always does, frowning at his shoulder like it’s personally failed him.

But then he looks up.

And he stops.

“Huh,” he grunts, dropping his coat on the chair. “You look… different.”

You tilt your head. Smile a little. “Different how?”

He squints, like you’re a painting someone hung crooked.

“You’re glowin’ or somethin’. Been in the sun too long?”

You shake your head. “Just had a nice walk.”

Gene grumbles approval. “Maybe it helped clear your head. Been uptight lately.”

You serve him stew. He eats in big bites, loud, satisfied. You barely touch yours, too busy sipping the warmth of remembered heat off your tongue. Your thighs press together under the table. You think of grease-streaked fingers pressing into your hips. A voice rasping in your ear.

After dinner, you wash dishes in the sink. You feel Gene’s eyes on your back.

That quiet, calculating look.

Then his voice, low and hopeful. “Why don’t you get ready for bed early tonight?”

You pause, the dish slipping slightly in your hand.

“Sure,” you say.

You brush your hair longer than usual. You don’t bother with the long nightgown—just the slip. You crawl under the sheets, and when Gene joins you, the mattress sags the same way it always does.

But you are different.

He kisses your neck—clumsy, always too damp—and usually you lie still and wait for it to end. You let him climb over you, breathe heavy, grind and grunt like a tired machine hoping it’ll work if it just tries hard enough.

But tonight…

Tonight you close your eyes.

And picture Riff.

You pretend it’s his mouth on your collarbone.

His weight pressing you down.

His voice whispering filth.

You arch without thinking. Your hips move with rhythm. Your mouth falls open and lets out a soft, startled moan.

Gene freezes.

“…You alright?”

You moan again—louder this time—and grip his shoulders. You’re not even looking at him. Your eyes are locked on the dark ceiling, vision painted with the image of Riff’s face between your thighs.

Gene pulls back slightly, looking down at you.

You’ve never looked like this. Not once.

“What the hell’s gotten into you?” he asks, almost suspicious. “You drunk?”

You shake your head, panting. “Don’t stop.”

Your voice is breathy. Needful. Almost pleading.

Gene hesitates.

Then he picks up the pace—clumsy, encouraged—and you turn your head away, biting your knuckles as you come with a soft gasp, thinking only of the man who kissed you like you were made of fire and sin.

When it’s over, Gene collapses next to you, panting.

He doesn’t say anything right away.

Then: “You ain’t never sounded like that before.”

You don’t answer.

He glances over at you.

You’re smiling.

Just a little.

And that unsettles him more than your moans ever could.

You don’t knock this time.

You walk into the garage like you belong there, the morning sun casting long shadows across the concrete floor. It’s early. Earlier than any decent housewife should be out without a reason. But you didn’t want decent today. You wanted him.

Riff’s got his head under the hood again, sleeves pushed up, tank top stained, a smudge of oil across his jaw. You just stand there for a second, watching him.

He looks like a man who moves. A man who works for what he has. Sweat down his neck. Grease under his nails. No gold watch. No sagging belly, no sagging expectations. Just muscle, movement, and heat.

And he’s your age. Your actual age.

When he hears your footsteps, he straightens—glances over, then grins.

“Well, look who came crawling back.”

You lean against the nearest workbench, crossing your arms under your chest. “You knew I would.”

He chuckles, tossing his wrench onto the tray. “Yeah. But I figured it might take longer.”

You try to act casual. You really do.

But then he’s walking toward you, wiping his hands, and your heart starts doing that desperate little dance again. He gets close enough that the heat rolls off him in waves.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low and real.

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“You got that look again. Same one you had when you walked in the first time. All quiet, like you’re tryin’ not to scream.”

You smile faintly. “I feel better now.”

“Yeah?” He steps in, closer. “Tell me why.”

You don’t hesitate. “Because I kissed someone my age yesterday. Someone who doesn’t make me feel like I’m just a hole for babies and hot dinner.”

He stiffens—just a little. Eyes narrowing.

You go on. “Gene’s twice my age. You know that?”

“I figured.” He crosses his arms, watching you now like a puzzle he wants to solve with his hands. “He treat you like a kid, too?”

“He treats me like a recipe. Do this. Be that. Bake it right and it turns into a son.”

Riff’s jaw ticks.

You look up at him. “You—you don’t look at me like that. You don’t talk down to me. You look at me like I’m… I don’t know. A woman. One you actually want.”

He leans in, nose almost brushing yours. “That’s because you are one.”

You close your eyes for a second, breathing in the scent of him—sweat, metal, Marlboros.

“And you’re the first man I’ve kissed,” you whisper, “who didn’t taste like medicine and stale whiskey.”

That gets him.

He groans low in his throat, hands going to your waist, pulling you to him with that same casual control that makes your knees weak. His lips are on yours again, but this time it’s slower—surer. Like he’s claiming the moment, not just stealing it.

When he finally breaks the kiss, he rests his forehead against yours.

“You know how good it feels,” he mutters, “to be wanted by someone who sees you?”

You nod. You know exactly.

You look down at your fingers on his chest. “I dreamed about you last night.”

He smirks. “Yeah? You think about me while you’re lying next to that old bastard?”

You nod again.

“Did he touch you?”

Another nod.

“Did you moan for him?”

You bite your lip.

“Or was it for me?”

Your breath shudders. “For you.”

He laughs once, dark and pleased.

“Good girl.”

And the thing is—it doesn’t feel demeaning. Not like it would coming from Gene.

It feels earned. Shared. Desired.

You don’t feel small. You feel dangerous.

Because for the first time, you’re not just somebody’s wife.

You’re his.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

It’s a slow afternoon at the garage.

Clouds hover like a threat overhead, thick and swollen with late-summer rain. The air smells like hot pavement and ozone, and inside the garage, it’s quiet except for the distant hum of the fan.

Riff’s stretched out on the creeper, legs splayed, one boot tapping a lazy rhythm on the concrete. You’re sitting on an overturned milk crate, sipping a soda he pulled from the machine out back, glass bottle sweating in your hand.

Neither of you’s in a rush today.

“You always this quiet?” he asks suddenly, voice drifting from beneath the Buick he’s half-tucked under.

You glance over at him. “Only when I’m thinking.”

“What are you thinking about?”

You pause. Then answer honestly.

“That I’ve never had a moment like this before. Just… sitting. Talking. Not waiting for someone to need something from me.”

Riff slides out from under the car and props himself on one elbow, looking at you with an expression that’s more curious than flirtatious for once.

“No one ever talks to you?”

“They talk at me. Gene does. The women at church do. But it’s always about dinner or babies or what makes a good wife.” You swirl the soda in the bottle. “Nobody really asks what I like.”

Riff wipes his hands on a rag and tosses it aside. “Alright then. What do you like?”

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“I’m askin’. What you like. Not your husband. Not your preacher. You.”

You bite your lip. “I like walking alone when it’s not too hot. I like when songs on the radio end soft, like they’re afraid to leave. I like the smell of cigarette smoke—but only on you.”

He chuckles, low and surprised. “That last one’s dangerous, sweetheart.”

“I know.”

He sits up, resting his arms on his knees, eyes never leaving you now. “You ever think about what you’d do if you weren’t… you know. Stuck.”

“All the time.”

“What’s the dream, then?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. It used to be getting married. That’s what girls are told to want. A house, a man, a family. But now…” You shake your head. “Now I just want a place where I can sit with someone and not feel like I’m playing a part.”

He looks at you for a long moment. Then: “That’s not a dream. That’s just being free.”

You nod slowly. “Maybe that’s the new dream, then.”

Riff leans back against the wall. “You could have that, you know.”

“I could have it with you?”

He doesn’t smile. But he doesn’t look away either.

“I think you already do.”

You let the silence settle between you, not heavy—just full. Full of what hasn’t been said yet. What might never be.

But for now, it’s enough.

You sip your soda and let him work, and he lets you sit close, and for the first time in what feels like years, you don’t feel like you’re in someone else’s story.

You feel like you’ve started your own.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

It rains harder than it has all summer.

Thick drops pound the roof of the garage, echoing like war drums, rattling the roll-up door. The sky is dark, wind slashing through the trees out back. The kind of storm that keeps everyone home. Everyone but you.

You showed up soaked to the knees, breathless from running the last few blocks, cardigan clinging to your shoulders. You didn’t even knock. You just walked in, giggling like the place belonged to you now.

Riff didn’t say a word—just grabbed a faded shop towel and started drying your arms, slow and careful, like you were something breakable. He came close. His cigarette was barely hanging off his lips and his brows were furrowed while he mumbled something about how you’re going to get sick. Your head tilted to watch his face with a soft smile before you playfully started pressing small kisses around his face, making him break into a reluctant grin.

Now you’re both sitting in the garage office, the cot folded down, the air heavy with petrichor and engine oil. You’ve got a blanket wrapped around you, hair still damp, and he’s sitting at the edge of the cot, nursing a cigarette between two fingers.

Neither of you’s in a rush to speak.

Eventually, you do.

“You ever think about leaving this place?” you ask, voice soft under the noise of the storm.

Riff exhales smoke, watching it curl toward the ceiling.

“All the time.”

“Then why haven’t you?”

He glances over at you, one brow raised. “Maybe for the same reason you haven’t.”

You look away.

“Where would you go?” you ask instead.

“Out west,” he says without hesitation. “Arizona. Maybe New Mexico. Somewhere hot and dry where the air don’t stick to your skin. I’d open my own shop. One I could name after something that’s mine.”

You smile a little. “What would you call it?”

He shrugs. “Don’t know. Maybe after a girl.”

You go still.

He looks over again, something warmer in his eyes now.

“Not sayin’ who. Just… maybe.”

The rain softens outside, just a little, turning to that gentler rhythm you could fall asleep to if you let yourself.

“You ever miss your family?” you ask after a pause.

He goes quiet at that.

“I don’t know if you can miss what never really felt like yours,” he says eventually. “Old man drank himself into a pine box before I hit ten. Ma packed up and left a year later. I learned early not to expect anyone to stay.”

You reach over and take the cigarette from his fingers, press it to your lips. It’s still warm. Tastes like him. You hand it back.

“I’m still here,” you say.

“For now,” he replies.

There’s no accusation in it. No bitterness. Just truth.

You scoot closer. Press your side against his. The blanket shifts with you, and he lets you lean into him, lets you rest your head on his shoulder like you belong there.

“You know the worst part?” you whisper.

“What?”

“I never used to think I deserved more than what I had. Not until you.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then:

“You always deserved more. You just needed someone to remind you how to want it.”

Outside, the rain keeps falling.

Inside, you hold that warmth like a secret between your ribs.

You don’t kiss him.

You don’t have to.

He just puts his arm around your shoulder, keeps you close, and for once, neither of you needs anything else.

Not yet.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

The next time you see Riff, the sky is overcast, thick with the smell of rain and exhaust.

You don’t bring a list. You don’t need a reason.

He knows that now.

You step into the garage and he doesn’t ask why. He just looks up from under the hood of a pickup and wipes his hands, like he’s been waiting for you since the moment you walked away last time.

“I’ve only got ten minutes,” you say softly.

“That’s enough.”

It is.

You’re in the back of the shop again, this time not quite naked, but close enough—his hands up your skirt, your mouth on his throat, the ache in you too loud to ignore. Every breath is a betrayal, and yet it’s the most honest thing you’ve done in years.

When it’s over, you lie there in the quiet, legs tangled in his, your head on his shoulder. The fan hums. The radio crackles something low and moody from the next room.

“I thought about leaving,” you whisper.

He doesn’t respond right away. Just runs a hand through your hair, fingers slow and thoughtful.

“Thought about what I’d pack. Where we’d go.”

Still nothing.

Then finally—carefully—he says, “But you didn’t.”

You shake your head against his chest. “Not yet.”

He exhales through his nose. A short, humorless sound.

“Still waiting for the right moment?” he asks.

“I don’t know if there is a right moment.”

He shifts beneath you, not angry, just aware—that edge creeping back into his voice.

“Or maybe you’re just waitin’ for someone to decide for you.”

That stings.

Because he might be right.

But you sit up slowly, smoothing your dress, and look at him with eyes that have seen two lives now—the one you were assigned, and the one he lets you steal piece by piece.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“You already don’t have me,” he says, soft but sharp. “Not really.”

You lean down, kiss him slow—less like a goodbye, more like a promise.

“I have this,” you murmur. “And I’m not done with it.”

He grabs your wrist before you pull away. Not to stop you. Just to feel you. Like he doesn’t trust you’ll come back, even though you always do.

“You come when you need to,” he says. “But don’t expect me to wait forever.”

You nod. “I know.”

You slip out the door, heart tight in your throat, and walk home under the drizzle with your stockings damp and your lips tingling from his kiss.

Gene is in the living room, snoring in his chair.

You step over his feet, hang your coat like nothing happened, and start peeling potatoes for dinner.

Outside, thunder rumbles softly in the distance.

Inside, your pulse still hasn’t slowed.

There’s no decision yet.

Just want.

And the quiet, steady promise that you’ll find your way back to Riff again.

Because you always do.

[auspicious-manner]

Hi, could I request mike faist x reader where they meet through mutual friends and at first reader is a bit sceptical about him, because he is an actor and she thinks he must be full of himself but gradually she gets to know him and she falls for him, getting to know how humble and kind person he in reality is.

hi guys! i turned my requests off for the time being, just because i have about 7 drafts i need to work on right now and any more might make my head explode. as soon as i get caught up though, i’ll open them up again :)

fem reader x mike faist

warnings: insecurities?

mike taglist: @diorgirl444

Charming

•

“what would you say to a blind date? i know a guy,” your friend alyssa asked smugly.

you had met alyssa while in college at nyu, and remained close friends after graduation. you had even recently moved in together into a small apartment. you were the introvert to her extrovert, the quiet to her loud. she pulled a lot of guys, and you didn’t, and you had accepted that. it was just the way it always had been.

you scoffed. “alyssa, i love you, but your taste in men is horrible. i don’t trust you to set me up with anyone.”

you were sitting at a coffee shop with her, and she leaned across the table. “Y/N, your love life is nonexistent. you need some action. trust me, i went to high school with this guy. he’s super nice, you’d like him.”

you tilted your head knowingly. every time alyssa has tried to introduce you to a guy, he was either never your type or was never interested in you. things never went well when she set you up with guys.

you knew you definitely needed help with relationships, though. you had never been in a real relationship, and it’s been years since you’ve been on a date. for a while, you were fine with that. you had bigger and better things to focus on anyway. but, you also felt ready to date again. alyssa was your best friend, and that’s sometimes enough, but you were ready to find a boyfriend. you were ready to find your other half.

you sighed. “okay, fine, you win. but if this doesn’t work out you can’t say that i didn’t tell you so.”

alyssa smiled wide. “thanks Y/N! i promise you, this one is different. he’s not the typical guy i’ve set you up with before.”

you rolled your eyes. “yeah, sure.”

she had planned the date for you: you were to meet the mystery man down town at an italian restaurant at 7pm on friday night.

“lyss, whats the dress code for this? do i have to dress nice?” you asked after getting out of the shower, wearing your robe. alyssa sat on your bed, smiling complacently.

“semi-formal. i want you to look hot and put together, but not pretentious.”

you giggled. “okay, fine. whatever you say.”

you did your wavy hair routine and applied curl cream, gel, and mousse before diffusing your hair. it laid over your shoulders, your natural waves looking lively and bouncy.

you did a light makeup look, only applying mascara, a bit of eyeliner, blush, highlighter, and a nude pink lipstick.

“i have the perfect dress for you,” alyssa said, pulling a dress out of her bag.

your eyes widened as she held it up. “are you serious?”

“try it on!”

you went into the bathroom, slipping the dress on. it was a small, black cocktail dress that stopped midway down your thigh. it hugged tightly around your curves, and the long, black mesh lantern sleeves accentuated your arms.

you walked out, and alyssa’s jaw dropped. “Y/N, you look hot.”

“don’t you think this is a little…” you looked down at your dress. “much?”

“not at all,” she replied, placing a silver necklace on your chest to match your dangling silver earrings. “you look ready for a date.”

you sighed. “if you say so. you seem to know best.”

she grinned. “that’s right, i do know best.”

as alyssa drove to the restaurant, you tried to get as much information as possible. “can’t you tell me anything about this guy?”

“his name is mike.”

you laughed. “thanks lyss, that tells me so much,” you replied. “what if this guy’s a murderer or a real dick and you’re just throwing me head first into danger?”

alyssa threw her head back. “he’s not, Y/N! i know this guy, he was always great. give him a chance, okay?”

you pulled up to the restaurant right at 7. “if this ends badly, i think i’m going to have to find a new best friend.”

you opened the car door as alyssa lightly shoved you. “that’s what you always say, and i’m still here.” you stepped out onto the street, getting one last “good luck!” before you closed the door and nervously walked into the restaurant.

the restaurant was dimly lit, but lively with customers. you walked to the hostess stand, your heart beating out of your chest.

“hi, is there a mike waiting here yet?” you asked apprehensively.

the woman smiled. “yes, i’ll show you to your table.”

you followed the woman to the back of the restaurant, where you rounded a corner into a private room. at the table was the man said to be mike.

immediately, you thought he was, surprisingly, very handsome compared to all the other guys you’ve been set up with in the past. he had chiseled and defined features, and bright blue eyes. his body was bulked like he worked out often, but not entirely ripped. he had a dusty, brunette head of hair that was neatly combed. he gave you a smile, and you had no choice but to smile back.

“i’m assuming you’re Y/N?” mike asked. when you nodded as you sat down, he reached out a hand for you to shake. “i’m mike faist, it’s great to meet you.”

“it’s good to meet you too.”

he looked down at the table before looking up at you again. “i’m not used to doing things like this, so i’m sorry if i seem a little rusty.”

you moved your hand as if you were brushing something away. “don’t worry about it, i am too. it’s been a long time since i’ve been on a date.”

a silence fell over the table, and you searched your brain for conversation starters. “so, um, what do you do for work?”

mike smiled like he had expected this question, and looked away briefly. “i’m an actor.”

you nodded. “that’s really cool, actually. what kinds of things have you booked so far?” you asked, not expecting the answer you were going to receive.

new york was the city of dreams, and there were a plethora of aspiring actors and performers in the city. you assumed he was one of them, looking for a way to make ends meet.

“oh, you know,” he started, shrugging. “just a few broadway shows, a few off broadway shows, a few movies and tv shows, the works.”

your jaw dropped slightly. you firmly believed all actors of mike’s caliber had only their best interest in mind. they were full of themselves, pretentious. they would do anything to keep their fame. you should have known this guy seemed too good to be true.

you nodded, amused. “no kidding,” you started, resting your chin on your hand. “tell me everything,” you said sarcastically.

your smiled was probably a dead give away that you were trying to get him to walk right into your trap. you wanted him to keep going about his career so you could rub it in alyssa’s face, once again, that her playing matchmaker was never going to work.

“well,” mike started, looking unsure. “my work can wait for some other time, it’s not all that interesting to most people. i want to hear about you. what do you do?”

your smug smile fell. you didn’t expect him to be more interested in you than he was in himself. “oh, yeah, um,” you said, caught off guard. “i own a small coffee shop, a few blocks from time square.”

he nodded, a real smile on his face. “awesome, maybe i could get a coffee from you some day while you’re there.”

you smiled against your will. this guy was probably used to charming people to get what he wants. “you can certainly come and visit me someday.”

mike smiled. “i just might have to.”

you couldn’t help but grin back. there was a short, comfortable silence before it was interrupted by the waiter coming by to take the orders.

after the waiter left, mike turned back to you. “i don’t know what you were planning for the check, but don’t worry about it. i have it covered, this is my treat.”

“it’s fine, i know you’ve got a lot of money from all this acting you’ve been doing, but i can cover my own.”

mike shook his head. “that’s not why i want to cover it. it’s the right thing to do, that’s all.”

at this point, you were trying to find reasons to dislike this guy, but you couldn’t come up with any reasonable ones yet. he was totally different from what you expected.

mike lightly scrunched his nose. “why do you have that look on your face?”

you sighed and looked down at your hands in your lap, your fingers nervously fidgeting. “because i’m trying to come up with reasons why i shouldn’t like you.”

mike looked at you confusedly, but with a curious look that prompted you to keep going. “i’m used to these blind dates going south very quickly, and that hasn’t happened like i thought it would, and now i don’t know what to do.”

mike’s confused glares went to sympathy. “i’m glad i can be the different one for you.”

you lightly blushed. you decided to let your rough exterior fall around him. “that’s enough about me, tell me about you.”

he grinned. “well, i have a play coming up that i have to start rehearsals for soon.”

you tilted your head. “no kidding! that’s really cool, actually,” you replied, genuinely meaning it.

the rest of the night at the restaurant, you and mike continued having conversations about your lives, passions, and everything in between. it felt oddly liberating, because you were so used to only ever having one person to talk to, and that one person talked about herself most of the time.

it got to the point where the restaurant had to tell you two to leave, because you were sitting there for so long and the restaurant was closing.

“can i give you a ride home?” mike asked as you walked out of the restaurant.

“i would love that.”

he opened the passenger door of his car as you got in. you were trying to hold in a giddy smile; against your better judgment, you really liked mike.

“thank you for tonight, mike. i really enjoyed getting to know you,” you said as he drove into the streets of new york city.

“always. let me know if you want to do it again,” he said with a grin.

you laughed. “i might just have to take you up on that.”

mike glanced at you while he drove, then looked back at the road. “it’s been a long time since i’ve enjoyed a date this much.”

you were full on smiling at this point. “i’ve never even had an enjoyable date until now.”

he glanced at you, but for longer this time. “okay, you win.”

when he pulled up to your apartment building, you both looked at each other.

“do you think we should…” you said, trailing off. “do a lap around the block?”

mike nodded. “yeah, definitely.”

he drove slowly around the block as the two of you continued talking, and then he pulled up to the building again. “should we…?”

“keep going,” you answered.

he made another lap around the block, your endless conversations continuing, and finally you both decided that was enough and he parked the car in the lot. you both got out, and he stood in front of you. he towered over you with his height as you looked up at him.

“you have my number, right?” you asked him.

he nodded. “i’ll let you know what days i’m free to do this again.”

you bit your lip. “i’m sorry for being kind of an asshole at the beginning of the night. i was hesitant to let my guard down, i was going into tonight thinking it would be a disaster and i was hoping i could tell alyssa that her plan failed once again.”

mike looked down at your hands, and hesitantly took your fingers in his. your heat rate immediately picked up.

“you don’t have to apologize. i didn’t think it would go well either. until it did,” he said with a laugh.

you stood on your tiptoes and planted a small kiss on his cheek. “thank you again, mike.”

he wrapped you in a welcoming hug. it was comfortable, and you felt like you could live in that moment forever. you never thought this would be happening on one of alyssa’s blind dates.

“of course, Y/N.”

you pulled away, and waved goodbye as you walked into your building. you noticed mike didn’t get back into his car until he knew you were safe inside. before walking to the elevator in the building, you stood against the wall, smiling to yourself. 

when you had finally made it upstairs, alyssa had opened the door to the apartment before you had a chance to get your key out of your pocket.

“how’d it go?” she asked breathlessly, a wide smile etched on her face.

you sighed. “i hate that you might be right about this one.”

*

you met up with mike two more times after that, and feelings were definitely building between the two of you. you spent most of your free time calling or texting mike, and flirting while playing mario kart and imessage games. at first, you worried the connection you were building wouldn’t translate in person; but it did.

you thought it would bother you that mike was somewhat of a celebrity. you expected to hear all about his work and his extraordinary life as a famous performer, but he rarely talked about that side of his life with you. he always made sure to make it about you, even though you wouldn’t mind hearing about his work every once in a while. now you just found it cool that he was doing what he was doing. but, he didn’t want your relationship to be entirely covered up by his work, which you appreciated.

on your fourth date, mike took you to an art museum within new york city, and you dressed classy for the occasion.

you walked out of the doors to your apartment building, where mike was also dressed classy, leaning against the hood of his car.

he looked you up and down, his eyebrows raising. “well, look at you.”

you blushed. “look at yourself.”

mike looked down, then looked back at you. “we clean up nice, don’t we?”

you smiled and stood in front of him. “we really do.”

you got into his car, and as mike sat down in the drivers seat, he instinctively reached for your hand, leaving his palm up on your thigh. you grabbed it, your heart feeling like it was about to explode. it felt right, despite only knowing him for less than a month.

you got to the museum, and mike opened the passenger door for you, letting you out of the car.

upon walking in, the art on the walls and the displays were mesmerizing. your eyes lit up at the beauty on the walls, and you caught mike staring at you from the side, lightly smiling.

“what are you smiling at?” you asked, turning your head to face him as you walked.

he shrugged. “you. i like seeing you excited.”

you blushed and covered your face with your hands, suddenly embarrassed. “god, you were staring at my horrible side profile.”

mike stopped you from walking by stepping in front of you. he grabbed your wrists gently, taking your hands off your face for you. he held your wrists still, scanning your eyes with his.

“you have one of the prettiest faces i’ve ever seen, Y/N. believe me.”

you bit your lip and nodded timidly. he let go of one wrist, but took your other hand in his as you continued to walk.

“my side profile has always been one of my biggest insecurities.”

“why?” mike questioned, squeezing your hand a little tighter. his touch felt reassuring.

“i don’t know, i guess i just think my nose is too big, and my jaw is kind of square, and my teeth aren’t perfectly straight,” you told him. it was true, your side profile was one of the things that made you most insecure. “there’s nothing i can really do about it though.

his thumb gently rubbed the back of your hand. “i don’t know if my opinion counts, but i think you could fit into any one of these art pieces here.”

you giggled, stopping again and standing in front of him. your bodies were close, and if you made one more move, you could easily plant a kiss on his lips.

you placed your hands on his chest, looking up at him. “you always know how to use your movie star charm to make me feel good.”

mike smiled, taking your face in is hands and leaning down to give you the most euphoric kiss you could ever think of.

“i only do it for you, sweetheart.”

[alraedesigns]

"When you're a Jet

You're a Jet all the way

From your first cigarette

To your last dyin' day..."

Mike Faist as Riff in West Side Story (2021)

Colored pencil, 6"× 8"

[jordiemeow]

pairing: riff lorton x uptown girl!reader

summary: riff has never pressured his pretty lil’ princess into having sex. he wants to make your first time real nice for you, special. but a man has needs… and you’re eager to satisfy them.

warnings: smut, m!receiving oral, inexperienced!reader, uhh sry i hate tagging general nsfw warning. giving riff head for the first time

This is how it usually goes. You in Riff's shitty little apartment every Tuesday night when your daddy is at the gentlemen's club; sometimes you clean together (because this place sucks), sometimes you sit and talk about your lives, or sometimes you just sit on his couch and shove your tongues down each other's throats.

Like now, for example.

Hands in his hair while he licks behind your teeth, the taste of your peachy lipgloss mixing with the gum he always chews in preparation of your arrival. He's particularly handsy today, with you perched on his lap and his fingers groping at your thighs under your dress. Maybe it’s the fact you’re wearing red, or the way you keep mindlessly grinding down against him, but he’s no saint.

It’s only natural that his cock is getting hard in his jeans. Restrained by the tight material, the friction of the denim each time you shift sends little jolts of pleasure up his spine. It’s not the first time you’ve given him an erection—no, far from it. But it’s the first time it’s felt this bad. Like he might just cream in his pants if you don’t ease up a little.

"C’mon, girly—" He starts, breaking away from your mouth. He has to fight back a laugh when you chase after his lips; for a virgin, you’re always just so eager to push things. Cute. "Gotta stop, m’kay?"

"What? Why?" You blink, a tiny little pout on your pretty lips. He can’t tell if you’re oblivious to his plight or the fabric of your dress just means you can’t feel the bulge in his jeans.

"‘Cause you’re gettin’ me a lil’ too, uh…" Riff jerks his head to the side, as if that’s a proper explanation. Most other girls would get his meaning, but you’re just so innocent with your little bewildered frown. He feels like he’s leading a damn lamb to the slaughter when he’s with you.

"Too worked up," he elaborates. He guides one of your hands from his hair to the space between you, placing your palm against his arousal. He has to suck in a breath and fight back the urge to grind up against your hand to relieve the tension when your fingers curl instinctively against it.

"Oh," you blink. You aren’t stupid—you know what that means. But it’s a little flattering that he’s sporting such a raging boner after just making out for fifteen minutes on his couch.

"Oh," he echoes in agreement. "So… m’gonna need you to stop."

Your mouth opens to protest—no doubt something like "but Riff, it's just kissing!"—but he's already easing you off his lap. Oh, how he wishes he could just kiss that pretty little pout back off your mouth again. He rises to his feet with you, giving your hip a playful little pat.

"You'll live. But I need a cold shower."

You tilt your head. "What—"

"Makes it go down," he explains.

... Ah. Your gaze flicks down to the bulge contained within the denim of his jeans.

"Weren't you complaining your water bill was too high?"

Sneaky little minx, you are. He has to give you credit for that one. One little shower won't make much of a difference, but he's definitely rubbing off on you with that line.

And you're looking to rub off on him. Literally.

"I'm sure I could try to... you know." Your cheeks heat up at the implication of your words, but your gaze is unwavering as you blink up at him. You look way too innocent for what you're offering.

"... Balls in your court, girly. Don't wanna pressure ya," he says. But that little quirk of his lips is enough to indicate that he very much wants you to relieve his little (big?) problem.

Riff's living room seems to hum with energy; it's not just the stifling heat of the summer New York air between you both anymore. Then you step forward, hands moving gingerly to the buckle of his jeans.

Riff feels his throat go a little dry at the movement, watching the way your fingers find his button, undoing it and slowly, oh so slowly sliding his zipper down. The sound of it feels obscenely loud in the quiet of his apartment. His fingers curl into fists by his sides, blunt nails digging crescents into the calloused flesh of his palms; he's unsure whether he wants to pry your hands away and tell you to stop, or yank the damn jeans down himself.

Both of your hearts are in your throats as you undress him. Pushing his jeans down past his hipbones, past the 'V' of his hips, revealing the taut muscle and trail of hair leading into his boxers. The denim falls to his ankles, and the remaining fabric surrounding his crotch does nothing to hide the aching arousal underneath.

"Fuck."

Oh, you hadn't even meant to say that out loud. But you've never seen a man down to his boxers before, never mind fully naked. Seeing the tent in his briefs is going straight to your head, and your tongue darts out to wet your lips nervously. But hearing that curse come from your mouth—because he can count on one hand the amount of times he's ever heard you swear—goes straight to his head, too. (Which one... well, he's not so sure.)

He's not going to pretend that you staring in such aware at his bulge isn't doing a lot for his ego. The only thing stopping him from making a "you like what you see, girly?" comment is the lump in his throat.

You hesitate for a moment to just take in the sight, before your hand moves forward. Tentatively placing it over his clothed cock, the sensation is foreign. You never expected it to feel so... firm, you suppose, as the warmth of pre-cum seeps through the fabric as you touch him. You aren't entirely sure what you're doing. Are you touching him for the sake of exploration or actually trying to pleasure him yet?

God, this is all new territory.

Riff thinks it's cute how you don't know what you're doing, though, and the way you're hesitantly palming him over his boxers is only really serving to make him harder. The little movements would be kind of pitiful if he wasn't so damn head-over-heels for you. But he's not complaining, not when he's got you touching his cock like that after months of lusting after you and satisfying those needs with his own hand in the dark of the night.

And he's definitely not about to make you feel stupid for being a little ignorant. He's a smarmy prick on a good day, but he's a little more tactful when it comes to you (... sometimes.) Besides, he's pretty sure you would burst into tears if he made a comment that wasn't lavished in praise for your efforts.

He reaches up to your shoulders and gently pushes, a silent request for you to fall to your knees. Which gives you a little pause, eyes flicking up to him, uncertain. On your knees? For what? But you oblige anyways, because you trust him, and soon your knees are pressing into his scratchy carpet.

The look in your eyes is so sweet, so innocent, almost a sense of trust, and it warms his heart seeing you down there on your knees. The battle between arousal and affection is a potent one right now.

"You sure you wanna keep going, girly?" he asks softly, and his hand comes up to lovingly caress your cheek, his thumb sweeping over your bottom lip.

"Yeah, of course," you say, with a jerky little nod of your head. The lip he's currently touching is drawn between your teeth with a shy little smile. "Just... not really sure what I'm supposed to do."

God, he loves when you’re all bashful like this, and the way your face looks in this moment is just so goddamn cute he’s about to combust. Or maybe cum in his boxers.

"It’s alright." He pushes the tip of his thumb against your bottom lip, just to watch you bite down on it. "I’m gonna show ya."

You’re just downright adorable, sitting there at his feet, looking up at him all sweet and eager to please, and it makes his chest swell up with warmth (and his cock swell with blood). He lets his hands slide away from your face, and reaches up to hook his thumbs in the elastic of his boxers, pushing them down over his hipbones.

The first thing that hits you is the scent. It’s musky, heady, thick in the air and emphasised even more by the heat. The second thing is, of course, the size. You can only hope the expression of awe on your face isn’t too obvious. But Riff has never been one to be shy with his body, and he’s not about to start being modest now, not when the look on your face right now has him feeling that damn cocky.

He gives you a little moment to just sit there and look at it, before he speaks.

"See that?" He says, and there’s something almost lazy to his drawl; it's safe to say he’s enjoying the experience of having you look at him like this for the first time. "See how it’s all nice and hard because of you, sweetheart?"

You just nod, hands flexing when they're sitting in your lap atop your red skirt. You really have no idea what you're supposed to be doing right now, carpet digging into your knees, wide eyes fixated on his length. But you trust him... somewhat.

Riff can see your uncertainty coming through in the way you look at him, in the way your hands are just sitting there like you’re too nervous to do anything about it. So he gently takes one of your hands from your lap, and guides it up to his cock, just to let you touch it with your fingertips. And Jesus, even that first bit of contact is just electric. Your fingers are so damn soft on him, nothing like the working girls he's ever been with.

It almost feels wrong, having a pampered little princess commit such a filthy act on him with your unblemished hand.

"Yeah, like that, like that," he murmurs, as he guides your hand, letting you wrap your smooth fingers around the base of his cock. You're still a little hesitant, but you allow him to hold you in place there, just feeling the way it throbs beneath your touch.

"It’s not gonna break, you know," he tells you, a lopsided smirk quirking at his lips at how delicately you're handling it. He gives a little squeeze of his fingers around your hand for emphasis. "You can keep goin’."

You do your best to take notes on how he guides your fingers. It's different than playing with yourself, that's for sure, but that probably comes down to the anatomy difference. He seems to be enjoying himself, though, if the way his breath seems to quicken is any indication. Your eyes flick back up to his face, with another sheepish smile.

"... Yeah. Yeah, okay," you say, your voice a little quiet as you grow used to the feeling. You begin to pump your hand up and down experimentally under his guidance, watching the way the veins on the underside of his cock seem to pulse with the movement. It's fascinating, in a weird way.

You have to fight back the urge to make a comment about them, because you know he'll laugh at you for it. "Jesus, girly, you're jerkin' me off 'n' givin' yourself a biology lesson at the same time?" Yeah, just the thought makes you smile, and your motions grow a little more confident.

"Yeah, just like that," he murmurs, his breaths coming out in soft, uneven grunts with each stroke of your hand. "Nice and—Jesus—slow, nice an’ easy—"

It’s a little clumsy and awkward, but it’s already better than any handjob he’s ever gotten before. Sure, your pace is still a little off, and your movements are a little jerky and unsure, but you’ve got a really good grip on him, and the way you feel wrapped around him is something fuckin' else. He can only imagine how good it’s gonna feel to have you wrapped around him in other ways.

He's getting a real kick out of being your first, that's for sure. Something about corrupting a sweet little daddy's girl into jerking him off in his messy apartment, dolled up all pretty just for him. He almost climaxes at the mere idea of it all.

"Slow down, slow down a little bit—" There's a little hitch in his breath that betrays just how much it's all getting to him. How just a few firm jerks of your hand and his imagination are threatening to release months of pent-up arousal.

Slow? You're not sure whether that's because it's too much in a bad way or a good way. But you can't bring yourself to ask (because you're already nervous enough), slowing down the pace of your hand to stroke him a little slower. But if the amount of pre-cum leaking out of his tip to make the motions slicker and slicker with each stroke is any indication, you're doing okay.

He lets out a moan of approval when you slow down. "Yeah, like that," he says again, managing to sound somewhat even despite the almost-whimper that had left him just a minute ago. "Need ya to do somethin' else for me, m'kay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, okay," you agree breathily as your eyes shift from his throbbing cock to his face.

"Keep goin'," he instructs gruffly. "But I need you to—ah—need you to open your mouth for me."

Open your mouth? Okay, that doesn't make any sense to you. Your friends recounting losing their virginity to upperclassmen did not prepare you for all the foreplay. But you oblige, lips parting obediently as you look up at him, still pumping your hand slowly up and down his length.

"Atta girl," Riff croons. And oh, he almost loses it right then and there at the sight of you. All pretty and wanting, just for him.

He holds it together just enough to gently rub a thumb across your bottom lip, tugging it down gently. "Mhm, jus' a little wider for me. You're gonna put my cock between your lips 'n' then suck it for me."

Oh, okay. Now that makes a little more sense, even if you do seem caught off guard for a moment... because, what? Is this really a common practice? It seems so filthy. He's lucky you love him enough to actually try it. Your hand keeps moving dutifully at the base of his cock as you lean forward just to take the tip in past your lips. The heady scent is so much stronger up close, and you can taste something... salty? on your tongue. Weird.

It's a miracle Riff manages to keep himself still. His hands move to brush your hair out of your face, gripping it in a loose fist to keep himself occupied. It takes a lot of self-control (which he has very little of in the first place) not to push your head down a little further. No, no, he reminds himself. Easy does it for his princess' first time. But god, if seeing your mouth stretch around him as you gingerly take it in a little deeper isn't enough to test a man's patience...

"Mhm, watch your teeth. That's it," he coaxes. "You can move your hand faster again 'n' just—yeahhh—that's good, baby."

You're taking all of his vaguely moaned instructions in your stride. Stroking the parts you can't take into your mouth with your hand, using your tongue (he really seems to like the attention to his slit), moaning around the intrusion in your mouth... Yeah, he should have had you try this out ages ago. Didn't know you'd be so fuckin' eager to please.

At one point, you take it a little too deep for someone of your experience, or lack thereof. You pull your head back following the trigger of your gag reflex, the hand on his cock stilling as you cough into your other fist. He's too aroused to feel guilty about how pretty he thinks you look when your eyes start to water, lips slick with saliva.

"Sorry," you manage to choke out. Too damn sweet.

This is the party where he's supposed to reassure you, right? He can do that. He's capable of being decent. You're not some quick lay he picked up on the streets, after all—you're his girl. "Hey, s'alright. You're doin' jus' fine for me." He can tell you're feeling a little self-conscious by the way your eyes don't quite meet his, and your grip has gone completely slack around his length. "Just need to remember it ain't supposed to go that deep, alright? We'll work on that another time."

Yeah, you bet he's already planning on easing up that gag reflex of yours. The thought of doing this again (and taking it deeper) is enough to make you feel a little nervous... and yet your thighs are clenching in anticipation. Riff doesn't bother hiding his smirk when he picks up on that little motion. Duly noted.

"C'mon. Keep goin' for me. You can do it. Wanna make me feel good, don't ya?"

Another jerky little nod of your head in reply. "Mhm," you confirm, a little too eagerly for a girl who was gagging and regretting doing this in the first place just thirty seconds ago. You take a few deep breaths, and then you're taking him back into the warmth of your mouth.

You're definitely getting the hang of it now. A few more mishaps occur where you gag and pull off, but Riff just laughs and encourages your head back onto his cock. "Watch yourself," he teases, only to break off into a low groan when the heat envelops him again and your hand squeezes around his cock.

You've mastered being able to breathe through your nose without having to pull back for a gulp of air. Progress is progress, right? Still a little too much teeth, but if Riff is being honest with himself... he kind of enjoys it. Doesn't stop him from being a little condescending about it; you're too busy trying to take him deeper to really listen, though.

It doesn't take that much longer until his hand is tightening its grip around your hair and he's gritting out, "m'gettin' real close, girly."

Close... to his release, you assume. That's enough of an indication for you to redouble your efforts to push him there.

Despite the fact he's a panting mess, he smirks down at you. "Y'gonna swallow for me, huh?"

Wait, what? Swallow? Oh, surely that's just a joke. He can't actually expect you to—

Before you can even finish that train of thought, your mouth is being filled with more of that warm, salty taste you've been getting traces of over the last ten minutes. Your nose scrunches up distastefully, and any attempts to jerk your head back are stilled by his hand in your hair. Yeah, okay, a little bit of a dick move... but he's been on his best behaviour this entire time.

Give him a lil' leeway, okay?

"Hnghh, jus' like that, yeah— take it all f'me, that's right— that's a good girl— ungh—"

The hand on his cock moves to join your other one on his hips, curling into the skin there enough to bite into it. You can feel your eyes tearing up; it's not entirely unpleasant, just very unfamiliar, and it takes a lot to try and stay still until his climax has passed and there's nothing left to swallow.

He finally loosens his grip in your hair, and you're able to pull back with another series of coughs. Riff doesn't look remorseful in the slightest, but he does have the decency to wipe the drool from your chin. You give him the dopiest little smile from your place on the floor. Pretty girl.

"Real fuckin' proud of yourself, ain'tcha?" He laughs.

"Shouldn't I be? I mean, that was good, right?" You ask breathlessly. Your eyes are a little wet, but you're mostly unscathed, save for your wet chin and slightly hoarse voice.

He helps you to your feet with a crooked smile. "Don't go gettin' too cocky on me now, ya hear me?"

You give him a sheepish little smile, pushing yourself up on your toes to kiss him. Which, of course, he dodges, and your lips end up planted against his cheek. He has no intentions of tasting his own cum, thank you very much.

You don't seem very bothered by it, though; you're still feeling too over the moon about actually not making a total embarrassment to take much notice about where your lips are landing. At least he plants a kiss on your forehead before he shimmies his jeans back up. What a gentleman.

"Bet your daddy doesn't think you're out suckin' cock while he's at the gentlemen's club, eh?"

... Okay. Moment ruined.

[musingsofheaven]

Hello!! I adore your Art fics and was wondering if you’d do one with top/dom!Art x Sub!reader and she has a really bad oral fixation throughout her normal day buts it’s especially bad when she’s upset, and she is, also if possible if you could somehow fit in NSFW themes I’d really appreciate it! Once again love love love your work!💕

Sorry if this is gibberish I suck at requesting stuff

SLURRED, SLIPPY, SHINY.

summary: It’s not new. You’ve always had a thing for using your mouth when your feelings get too big and you go quiet. And Art knows that silence, knows exactly what you need when it hits. He never makes you explain. Just cups the back of your head and tells you, “Breathe through it, baby.”

pairings: ceo!art donaldson x young girlfriend!reader

warning: 4.2k words. mature themes. oral fixation. age gap. power imbalance. oral sex (m!receiving). gagging / light choking. spit / drool / mess. aftercare. read responsibly.

note: this request has been sitting in my inbox since june 7 and i swear i wasn’t ignoring it :(! sorry … sighs. anyway, i saw “oral fixation when she’s upset” and i immediately felt exposed. why would you call me out like that. do you know how many things i’ve put in my mouth just to not cry?? like it was a coping mechanism. and surprise!!! it was!!! 🤪 and yep… we’re here now. she’s soft. she’s messy. she’s gagging a little. and she’s regulated by one (1) emotionally available dom named art donaldson. (I WANT SOFT DOM ART) To anon, i’m sorry it took me long. i love you. thank you for requesting this. 💗

You should’ve grown out of it. That’s what everyone said- quietly, politely, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it’s just a phase. Just something you’d stop doing once your brain settled, but it’s not. As much as you want it to stop, it didn’t. It started when you’re young, with your thumb, then your shirt collar that you’re subtly putting between your mouth when you’re alone, hoodie strings chewed until they frayed. Note: Each one of your hoodies.

Teachers, doctors, and relatives offered solutions: rubber sticks, bracelets, soft pens. You tried. But nothing worked like having something in your mouth. It doesn’t work. You almost broke down when someone asked what it was when you left your bag open. It wasn’t just a habit. You know that. It was need- pressure, focus, quiet. It’s something. It’s yours. Something to help you feel safe. A comfort.

You learned to hide it as you got older. No more thumb sucking (when you’re at public), but your pens still had bite marks. You went through straws too fast. Got flattened and looks like it has been murdered. You pressed your fingers to your lips, mouthed your sleeves, and gnawed your cheeks. You thought it would fade. It didn’t. There’s a time you think it’s fading, not until it happened again, when something triggered you.

It’s worse when you are upset, more than the normal things you do. You didn’t cry or yell. You just went quiet. You bit down. Sucked your fingers raw. Let your sleeves stay wet. Full of drool. You hated how it looked. How did it make you feel small. It can be disgusting, but a good feeling at the same time. You tried to be better. Find solutions on your own when you get older. Therapy, coping tools, breathing tricks- you did it all. But your mouth always ended up full again. Again. And again.

It got harder to ignore around people, especially during sex. When your mouth was busy, your head was quiet. Not because you wanted to be good. Just because it helped. But it got messy- too much drool, too fast, too desperate. You look like you’re eager to suck them off or get fucked. You could always tell when they felt weird about it. They’d pull away. Wipe your chin as if it’s giving them problems. Give you a break you never asked for.

So you stopped letting anyone see it. Bit your cheek. Sometimes it’s too hard you can taste the metallic flavor from your blood. Swallowed the need. Tried to act normal. Masking it in front of other people. Tried to stay quiet without help. You didn’t want to explain. It’s too hard to do it anyway. You didn’t want to see that look- confused, a little uneasy, like they didn’t know what you were doing, or why it mattered.

And then you met him. A quiet gala. A borrowed bracelet. A drink you didn’t finish. He noticed you- not because you were young or pretty, but because you stirred your glass too long, because your fingers kept brushing your mouth like they didn’t know where else to go. The way you lick your lips too much to the point it’s making them dry. You didn’t even realize. But he did.

And for once, someone didn’t look confused. He just watched you more than he spoke. Noticed your jaw, your hands, the way your voice caught when your mouth was empty. But he never pointed it out. Never asked. He just made space. Let you sit closer. Let you speak less. Let you handle yourself. Let you do your mannerisms. Let you know it. And for the first time, you didn’t feel like you had to hide.

Now- now that you’re here, curled up on the floor of his penthouse, sleeves damp, fingers trembling, mouth aching for something to hold- he still doesn’t ask questions. Just let you stay there. Not really get you up because he knows your habits by now. And he’s in the middle of a meeting. Remote. Earbud in, laptop open, voice low. Even as he talks about projections and timelines and things you don’t understand but his other hand- his free hand- is resting gently on your face, two fingers pressed into your mouth like it’s second nature.

You keep his fingers warm inside your mouth. You’re curled against his thigh, knees tucked under you, breathing soft and shallow as you suck on them. Slow. Steady. Sloopy. Like it’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart. You’ve already soaked his skin. Spit clings to the knuckle and to your chin. Your jaw aches. Your lashes are wet. You don’t even know how long it’s been.

You haven’t spoken since you crawled across the floor and tugged on his sleeve. Soft and with the purpose of disturbing him in the middle of his meeting. Your chest is tight and your eyes are glassy, too full to say a word. You didn’t ask. You didn’t have to. He looked down once, watched your lip tremble, and slipped his fingers past your mouth like he was giving you medicine. Like he knows what you need. Like it’s your fix.

You’ve been like this ever since- mouthing and whimpering, drooling quietly while he keeps talking like there’s nothing unusual happening. Nothing at all. Just you. You’re on the floor. His fingers dig deep into you. “…no, we’ll review it again on Thursday,” he says, thumb brushing under your chin.

“I’ll send over the final numbers after this call.” You whine around his fingers- quiet, desperate- and he doesn’t even blink, just looking straight at this damn meeting. “Shh,” he quietly murmurs, barely audible. His pinky strokes your cheek. “You’re fine, baby. Just keep going.”

You try to behave. You really do. Keep going, he said. But the second he pulls his fingers free- spit, wet, and warm- your mouth feels too empty to breathe right. So you whimper again unintentionally, lips still parted, breath catching in your throat like you’re falling.

He doesn’t look down. Just wipes his hand on the thigh of his sweats and lifts the edge of the desk with his knee so you can crawl more between him. You do- immediately, silently, settling between his legs like you’ve done this before. (You do. Multiple times. Like you already trained for it.)

He’s seated in his office chair, laptop balanced in front of him, camera on. Framed from the chest up. Mic hot. Voice calm. Authoritative. Composed. “… No, we need to revise the it if the acquisition falls through. We can’t afford a delay.” You kneel more comfortably under the desk, hands light on his thighs, cheek pressed to his lap. Like a lap dog. But you didn’t do anything much, you just pressed it, just for closeness, just to feel him- but the second you catch the heat of him through the fabric, your lips part again. You mouthed at him through the cotton. Lips moving with intent. Soft. Unthinking. Your body leads before your brain can follow. A soft noise escapes your throat- barely anything- but enough to be heard.

There’s a pause. “…everything alright over there?” He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t shift. Doesn’t glance down. His voice doesn’t change. He’s acting like you’re not below him. Like you’re not needy. Like you don’t want more of him in your mouth.

“Yeah,” he says. Just a beat. “All good.”

His hand slips under the desk again, finds the back of your head, and presses down gently against his thigh. Then, without pausing the call or breaking eye contact with the screen, he pulls his cock out- slowly, one-handed- just tugging the waistband of his sweats low enough to let it rest heavy and flushed against his thigh.

“Come on,” he whispers to you, too quiet for the mic to catch. “Since you’re already shaking.” You lean in automatically, lips parted, spit already pooling, and wrap your mouth around the head with a soft sigh. You lick the tip like a lollipop. Tasting his pre cum under your tongue. He exhales through his nose, doesn’t react. “…we’ll circle back on Friday,” he says into the call, calm and smooth, while you suck him quietly under the desk.

He doesn’t know what upset you. Not yet. Not ever since you crawled underneath, since he’s already in the meeting when you did that. But he knew something was wrong the moment you knelt beside him- sleeves tugged over your hands, mouth trembling, silent. You hadn’t said anything. You didn’t need to. You just looked up with your glossy eyes, like you just came from crying and your mouth shining with spit. You touched his wrist, and he gave you his fingers like it was instinct.

Now your mouth is stretched around something thicker, deeper, and you’re curled between his legs, hands braced on his thighs, jaw working slowly. Your spit drips down your chin and onto your hands, but his voice doesn’t change. “…that’s fine. Just update them before it goes to legal,” he says evenly. You hum around him like you’re agreeing. Like you’re part of his little meeting. His hand flexes at the back of your head after you hum, must the vibrations of it have affected him. He holds it not for praise, not control. Just contact. You always need contact.

He glances down once. Just to see you like this- lips soaked, brows furrowed, throat working hard to take more than you should. He almost thrust so deep that you could be stuffed, but he didn’t. He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t slow you down. He knows you’ll talk later, after your jaw stops aching and your head clears. Right now, this is the only way you know how to speak. But you’re struggling now- your lips stretched wide, eyes burning, spit messier by the second.

The harder you try to stay quiet, the worse it gets. The more noise threatening to escape your mouth. A whimper escapes, soft and broken, and he feels it. He’s aware of how you are acting below him. Still, he doesn’t pause the meeting. He just lifts one hand off the desk and presses his thumb into the corner of your mouth- not rough, not gentle, just there. Steady. Firm. Guiding.

He eases you off with slow pressure, lets your lips fall from his cock with a gasp. Then pushes his thumb over your tongue, wetting it, quieting you. Grounding you from breaking from it. He knows sometimes you can get overstimulated even if you've already stuffed your mouth.

He lets his cock rests hot against while his thumb plugs into mouth beside it like a stopper, keeping the sound in. “…yes, I’ll review the contract tonight,” he says calmly to the meeting. “No changes on my end.” You blink up at him, glassy-eyed, his thumb still resting against your tongue. You suck on it too, softly, rhythmically, just to keep yourself grounded. To stay in your body. To not cry.

And he lets you. Keeps you there- knees sore, chin sticky, heart pounding, mouth full of him- because this isn’t about making you feel better right now. It’s about keeping you still. Quiet. Held. Just content until the meeting concludes. He doesn’t stroke your hair. Doesn’t tell you you’re good. He just finished his work. Lets you stay where you are, sucking on him like it’s the only thing tethering you to the ground. When the meeting finally winds down- just wrap-up and sign-offs- he clicks once, flatly: “I’ll review everything by tomorrow. Thanks, everyone.” And then he ends the call.

Click. Silence. Like he’s so eager. The shift is instant. He exhales once, slow, and reaches under the desk to grab your wrist- not rough, just firm enough to say: you’re not staying down there. You don’t have time to react and you barely get your hands beneath you before he’s pulling, slow and steady, making you crawl out with your knees catching on the floor. You pout at him because it made you remove your mouth from him.

Your lips are swollen, eyes stinging, his spit and slick cock brushing your cheek as you move. You end up kneeling between his thighs, half slumped in his lap, fingers clutching at his sweats like you’re afraid he’ll take it all away again. But really? In this state? You’re afraid he’ll do it. His thumb shoved back inside your mouth, lazy and wet, soaking from how long you’ve had it before he pulled it out for a moment to get you underneath the desk.

He brushes your chin, glances at your face- pink, glossy, ruined... and pretty. “You gonna tell me what that was about?” he asks, voice low. You shake your head. Just enough. Too shy to say it. Not ready to talk about it. “No?” he repeats, brow twitching.

You pull off his thumb slowly, spit stretching from your lips, then whisper, “Don’t wanna talk...” It cracks your voice. He knows what it means. He knows what he needs to do. You sound shameful. Quiet. Like it hurts to admit. He looks at you for a long second, blank, unreadable- then leans back in his chair and spreads his thighs. “Alright,” he says. “Come get it.”

You’re already moving the moment he said that, dragging your palms up his legs, mouth open before he finishes speaking. You open your mouth wide enough to cater it. You take the head in first- soft, slow, then deeper. Just enough. Maybe the tip is almost kissing your throat. He doesn’t guide you. Doesn’t hold your head. Just watches. Admiring the way you take what you need. The way your lips wrap around it. The way you look.

When you moan around him, eyes slipping shut, he finally lets one hand drop into your hair. “There you go,” he murmurs. “Take what you need.” You press your palms to his knees and sink until your lips meet the base, breath catching, tears stinging your lashes. But you don’t gag, you move slowly, adjusting to it even though you’ve done it many times now. He doesn’t move. Just lets you fuck yourself on him- slow, sloppy, desperate- until your spit coats his thighs, dripping in strings from your chin. Your whole body trembles from the stretch, from how full you are, from how long you’ve been holding everything in.

Then he shifts. Just a little. He put his hand on your hair and grips your hair tightly, not in a way that hurts. He tilts his hips forward once, deep, slow, and the sound you make around him shudders straight up his spine. God, you sound so good, so he does it again. Then again. Three soft thrusts, lazy and controlled, just enough to hear you choke. Just enough to test you to see if you can take it much today. You flinch, but don’t pull away.

You moan- weak, ruined- and he groans softly. “Fuck. You’re really not gonna stop, huh?” Another push, deeper now, hitting your throat. “Not even gonna try.” You look up at him through wet lashes, mouth stretched, eyes pleading. He holds you halfway down, barely letting you breathe, cock throbbing on your tongue like it’s trying to get something out of you you haven’t said yet.

“You needed this bad, didn’t you?” he murmurs, brushing your cheek, wiping spit from your lip. “What happened, sweetheart? Hm? Who made you like this?” He asks. So filthy, making you squirm. Making you feel the tingling through your body because of the sound of his voice. And then, just to feel your throat a little panic, he thrusts again, rougher now, and you gag, tears spilling free.

He doesn’t stop. Just sighs, voice soft. “There you go. That’s better.” Even when your throat clamps, even when your nose presses tight to his skin and your jaw starts to shake, you don’t stop. You learn to love this, giving a head, because he makes it enjoyable. You make a noise- high, wet, almost hurt- but you take it, nails digging into his thighs, spit dripping down his cock like it’s what keeps you breathing.

He exhales again, heavier this time, brushing your hair back from your face. His thumb wipes your chin clean, then strokes your cheek, down to the corner of your mouth where you’re still twitching, still open, still aching. You let him caress your face while you rest there, and your mouth is still full, but he’s not moving yet. “You still with me?” he asks, voice quiet. You nod, slow at first, then again, more sure-eager, already needy.

“You want more?” he asks, voice warm, cock still heavy on your tongue. You whimper around it. He smiles. “Yeah? You want me to fuck your throat, baby?” Your eyes widen- shiny, breathless- and you pause like the weight of it just hit you. You know he’s asking for a consent, knowing that it can be overwhelming for you to do it... especially when he fucks your throat, considering he’s above average and thick too. Then you pull off with a wet gasp, gaze locked on his, and say it like a confession: “Yes. Please.” That’s all he needs. “Good girl.”

He gathers your hair in one hand, lifts your chin with the other, and slides back in with no resistance- just heat, just hunger, just you opening for him like it’s instinct. “Breathe through your nose,” he murmurs, guiding you like always. Reminding you of the same things even though you already know what to do.

“Tap my leg if you need me to stop.” And then he starts- slow, careful, one deep push forward until he meets the back of your throat. He holds there, steady. Not teasing. Just giving you time. Like he’s training you. His hand stays in your hair, grounding you while your body adjusts, while your breath learns to shape around him.

You’re already trembling. Not from fear- just from fullness. From the weight. From the leak. From quiet. Your lips tremble around the base, your fingers curl into the arms of his chair, and your eyes flutter shut as he begins again- a slow drag out, then deeper on the next thrust. His thumb strokes your cheek. “That’s it,” he says, calmly.

“Don’t rush.” You hum before you feel the gag, soft and shallow, then swallow around him, and he groans- not from need, but from how good you are. How willing. He moves again, never too deep, never rough- just enough to feel your throat clench. “You feel that?” he murmurs. “That’s your limit. We’re not going past it yet.”

Your jaw aches. Spit spills freely now. He lets you sit there, face pressed to the root of him, mouth stretched and wet, like you’re trying to breathe through need alone. “You’re doing so good,” he says, like it’s just the truth. “Making space.” Then he slides out, dragging slick along your tongue, and pushes back in deeper this time- firm, measured, until your nose brushes his stomach and your whole body gives out. You’re crying again- he can feel it in the way your throat tightens, then relaxes. In the shift of your breath, the way your hands go soft. The way you go quiet.

“That’s my girl,” he breathes, and this time he means it. He rocks forward again, deeper, surer now- committing. You don’t gag. Don’t flinch. Your lips are red and swollen, your throat open and warm, and you’re wrapped around him like you were made for it. He feels the moment you surrender- when your tongue goes lax, when your breath slows, when your whole body holds still like you’ve given up everything but him. And it hits him all at once- not restraint, but awe. The way you fall apart just to feel full. Just to be good for him.

He lets you breathe there a moment, thick in your mouth, thumb brushing under your jaw while your lashes flutter and your body twitches. Then he leans forward, voice low and too gentle for how he’s looking at you. “Can I go a little faster now?” he murmurs, thumb swiping your spit-slick bottom lip. “Only if you want it.” You blink up at him, tearful and eager, nodding before your brain even catches up. You try to say yes, but it comes out muffled around his cock- your throat flexing like your body’s already answering for you. He groans quietly, settling back in the chair with both hands in your hair, still gentle, still grounding. “That’s my girl,” he says softly. “You’re sure?” Another desperate hum from you. That’s all it takes.

He starts slow again, but this time there’s rhythm, pace, weight, and pressure. His hips roll deeper, steadier, his grip guiding you only slightly as your lips stretch around him. Not forced. Not rushed. Just deliberate. Just enough. You gag once, shallow and quick, then breathe through it, moaning as your spit runs down your chin. You’re making a mess, and he loves you like this- loves how badly you want it, how completely you give yourself up to stay full. “So fucking good for me,” he murmurs, breath catching. “Look at you.”

And then he starts fucking your throat- slow and controlled, rocking into you with more force now, just enough to give you what you asked for. Something to keep your mouth too full to cry. “You’re okay,” he says through gritted teeth. “You’re doing so good.” And you are. You take it all, steady, obedient, dripping, and let him use your throat like it’s the only thing you were built for. You fall apart quietly, trembling with each deep push, your whole world narrowed down to the pressure, the stretch, the weight of him keeping you still. You’re safe. You’re here. And your mouth is where it belongs.

He’s getting close. You feel it in the way his hips start to stutter, the way his breath catches, how his cock throbs a little harder with each thrust. He slows down, lets you breathe around it, and rests heavily on your tongue. “Gonna come soon,” he murmurs, voice low. “Can I do it in your mouth, baby?” You nod right away- messy, needy, already whimpering for it. You don’t pull back. You don’t even think. Just press closer, mouth slick and stretched and shaking, and he groans when he sees how much you want it. “Good girl. Don’t move.”

He doesn’t thrust. Just holds you there- deep, swollen around the base- as he comes in slow, warm pulses, filling your throat while you take it, tear-streaked and open and perfect. You don’t stop. You swallow around him like it’s all you’ve ever known how to do. His hand stays in your hair, thumb stroking your temple, like he’s holding you together while you shake. You stay like that even after he’s finished, mouth still parted like you’re not ready to let go.

He slides out slowly, wet and sensitive, and your breath hitches at the loss. His thumb catches what’s leaking from your mouth and tilts your face up, not rough, just enough to see you. Your eyes are red, your jaw still twitching, your lips parted like you don’t know how to close them yet. He says nothing. Just breathes out quietly and reaches for your wrist.

You’re still trembling when he pulls you into his lap, steady but gentle, guiding you into place like he’s done it before. The office chair isn’t built for this- not wide enough, not soft- but you climb in anyway, folding messy and small. One leg drapes across his, the other hanging off the edge, and you curl into him instinctively, arms around his neck, face buried against his shoulder like you’re trying to disappear.

He holds you close. One arm across your back, one hand in your hair, thumb stroking slow circles through your sweater. You don’t speak. You just breathe, quiet and uneven, body limp but safe. The crying hasn’t stopped completely- it’s softer now, more like the aftershock than the storm. Your knees shake. Your mouth aches. Your fingers curl into his shirt like you’re holding onto gravity.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, voice low against your temple. “Shh. You did so good,” he whispers. “It’s over now.” You nod faintly. He asks if it hurt. You shake your head. “Good,” he says again, lips brushing your hair. “That’s all I care about.”

He doesn’t ask what upset you. Doesn’t press. Just holds you tighter, arms wrapped around your back like you’re something worth keeping still. You’ll tell him later- when your throat doesn’t burn and your heart isn’t stuck in your chest. Right now, he lets you stay soft.

You melt into him slowly. Floaty. Boneless. Barely blinking. Your hands relax in his shirt, breath slow against his neck, and when you nuzzle closer, he tilts his head, letting you burrow. Then the kisses start- quiet and light, scattered across his jaw, below his ear, the curve of his throat. Sleepy little thank yous. Not for effect. Just instinct. He smiles softly and curls his hand around your head. “You’re really sweet when you’re like this, baby.”

You hum in response, kissing his pulse once more. You don’t move. You don’t need to.

Then, quieter than anything: “Love you.”

It just slips out- muzzy and honest.

He stills. Just a beat.

Then sighs into your hair, arms holding you closer.

“I know,” he murmurs. “Love you too.”

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[cosmic8tar]

i swear these photos of him with a calico critter/sylvanian family have ruined me

he's so giant and it's so little in his man hand 😔

[lvve-talks]

not a fuckin' toy. `✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹ tw gunplay

His body was all sweat slick heat against yours, both of your chests heaving in time as you caught your breath from tustling around in his threadbare sheets. One of his arms was haphazardly thrown around you as he leaned against the wall his bed was pushed up against, lacking a headboard.

It was always like this on lazy days with Riff. Lounging around in each other’s body heat in between rounds, never really cooling off. Especially in the summer when the heat pressed in from the outside, too. The window was thrown open for the occasional breeze, but you’d both rather stay naked all day for a couple of reasons.

You slide out of his rickety old bed casually, your feet dropping onto the wood floor to carry you across the room in search for his cigarettes and a lighter. You picked through the clothes strewn across the floor when something catches your eye on his dresser, sticking out from under one of his shirts thrown across the top.

It glinted in the light as you approached, tugging it out from its hiding spot and feeling the weight of it in your hands. The steel was heavy for something so small, cool compared to the heat of the air around you. You turned halfway to face him, rotating the gun in your hands.

“The hell do you have this for?” You question, shooting him a look as you tear your eyes away from the metal in your grasp.

“Don’ worry ‘bout it. Put it down,” he answers dismissively, pushing his dark hair off his sweaty forehead and beckoning you back to the bed with a jerk of his head.

You ignore him, a strange fascination with the piece in your hands taking over you as you look back down at it. You grip it like you’ve seen in the movies or like the cops do, admiring how it looks in your delicate hand.

“Hey,” his voice is a bit sharper now when you don’t listen to him. “That ain’t a fuckin’ toy. Put it down,” he demands again.

To his dismay, his tone only makes you feel even more defiant, a mischievous smirk settling on your lips as you approach him, pointing the gun right at him. “Put your hands up, delinquent.”

His eyes narrow dangerously at you. It’s not loaded, he’s not fucking stupid. The safety’s on, and your finger’s not even on the trigger. But seeing you point that thing at him…

When you get close enough to the bed again, gun still pointed straight out in front of you, directly at him, he rises to the challenge. He leans forward, pressing his forehead directly to the end of the barrel. One wrong move and you could splatter his brains on the wall behind him.

His eyes burn as they look up at you, almost in a dare. He’s daring you to take his challenge, to squeeze that trigger and hear the mechanical click of a quick death. Your heart is beating faster now, your expression falling at the sudden intensity of the moment. There’s something so inherently intimate about the illusion of holding someone else’s life in your hands, and them letting you.

And then his hand is on the gun, snatching it away from your hand as he uses the other to wrap around your waist and pull you forward into him. His expression is still just as intense, his fiery gaze never leaving your face.

“You don’t play around with this shit, you hear me?” He asks, his eyebrows raising expectantly as he waves the gun out of your reach. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re doing, could blow someone’s goddamn head off,” he hisses and you give a little nod feeling like a scolded kid.

“You feel all tough with this thing pointed at me? Huh?” he questions, making your body shiver as he runs the cool metal up your thigh. “You feel like a big girl?” he suddenly presses the length of the barrel against the heat of your core making you gasp and shudder.

“Was jus’ messin’ around, Riff,” you mumble, your hand gripping his wrist tightly, but you're unsure whether you're wanting to push him away or keep him right where he is.

“Yeah. Exactly,” he huffs, breaking your grip to toss the gun aside. “Don’ want you messin’ around with your life,” he pulls you down to straddle his lap by his grip on your hips, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

Your life. You were the one holding the gun out at him and he was concerned about your life.

Riff Lorton already knew he was heading for an early grave, but he’d be damned if you were resigned to the same fate.

[jadadonaldson]

I love my nerdy husband 😍

[rkiving]

Mike Faist in Challengers (2024) West Side Story (2021)

[minnie-cai]

mechanic!riff lorton x housewife!reader

It starts with a chore. Two dollars in your hand, a list from your husband, and a summer heat that clings to your skin like sin. The streets of West Side New York are loud and cracked, lined with gossiping women and the smell of city sweat—but it’s the garage that stops you. Him. Riff. Smoke curling from his mouth, coveralls unzipped to the waist, looking at you like you’re not just somebody’s wife. Like you’re someone. You tell yourself you’re just passing by. But the truth is, you keep walking past Joe’s Auto like it’s gravity. And he keeps watching like he knows. You weren’t looking for freedom. But you found him. Grease-stained hands, soft with you. A body that wants, not owns. And in a city built on noise, you find silence in the space where he touches you. The affair doesn’t start that day. But it starts then.

⭑*•̩̩͙⊱••••✩••••̩̩͙⊰•*⭑

✧˖° mechanic!riff who never calls you by your name until he’s got you pressed to a wall, breath warm against your throat, whispering it like a secret he earned.

✧˖° mechanic!riff who doesn’t ask why you’re there, just hands you a bottle of Coke and wipes his hands slow, watching you like he’s waiting for the truth to fall out of your mouth.

✧˖° mechanic!riff who laughs low and dangerous when you say you’re married, like he already knows you’re not taken where it counts.

✧˖° mechanic!riff who touches you like he’s fixing something—patient, precise, and with reverence only he believes you deserve.

✧˖° mechanic!riff who calls you “good girl” and makes it feel like rebellion, not obedience.

✧˖° mechanic!riff who holds you after, smokes in silence, and doesn’t need to talk—but always listens.

✧˖° mechanic!riff who smells like sweat, smoke, and gasoline, and now you can’t smell any of it without tasting him.

✧˖° mechanic!riff who knows you’ll always come back. But doesn’t know if you’ll ever stay.

[teaxanime]

“do you mind? all i got is love for you. are you mine? i will make time for you, too.” — ennis del mar about jack twist, probably

[newrochellechallenger2019]

category is: characters who haunt the narrative and are in love with their male best friend!

[bratrick]

oh lord, y’all know what i’m thinking

[houseofblve]

i love when he looks mousey 😭😭😭😭 my baby

[danielcrown21]

hi

[xxyoucallmelavender]

hi guys this is my boyfie btw