#sixty's fucking antics

[gutsby]

Waiting Game

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: Joel Miller has mastered the art of self-control in all areas except one: not fucking his friend’s daughter. A cross-country road trip home from college takes a hard turn when he’s forced to share a motel room with you.

Warnings: 18+. Protected p-in-v. Praise. Overstimulation. Sweet, possessive, slightly obsessive and pussywhipped Joel. Daddy kink. Drug use. Angst. Accidental creampie. Joel fucking you while on the phone with your father.

Part 2 | Part 3

“You okay, hon? You sound…distracted,” your dad presses. A hint of concern rises from his end of the line.

At length, Joel grips both of your legs and brings them up over his shoulders, and he grins before kissing your ankle and shoving his cock even deeper.

“Yes!” you yelp as you crush the phone to your ear, hoping your father can’t hear any of the filthy sounds down below, “Just a little stretched—I mean stressed out, is all.”

Aside from the fact that he smoked like a chimney and bumped far more Billy Joel than any man ever should, Mr. Miller was an A-OK friend—your father’s best friend.

All you needed was a ride home for the holidays.

From the second you’d set foot in his old Ford Bronco, you sensed this trek wouldn’t be an enjoyable one—thirty-hour road trips rarely ever were—but you leaned back in the passenger seat, propped your feet on the dashboard, and bopped along to ‘You May Be Right’ for the fifty-fifth fucking time that morning and smiled.

Joel frowned.

“Dogs off the dash,” he muttered, swatting at your bare, polished toes before you kicked his touch away.

“Shotgun puts her feet up, driver shuts his cakehole.”

That wasn’t even how the saying went. Oh well.

Joel slowed the car to sixty in the right-hand lane and smacked your ankles even harder. You yelped.

“Hey! You can’t hit a woman!”

“I’m not hitting a woman, I’m hitting a little gremlin,” Joel tried not to grin as he delivered another tart slap to your foot, and you almost jerked into the passenger door.

He momentarily righted the car before it went veering into the lane beside it, seized one of your feet, and tried to forcibly shove it off the dashboard, to no avail. As soon as he moved one limb, the other would glide right back up to take its place; Joel’s hands were big, but they weren’t massive enough to grab hold of both of your legs at once and make you stay the fuck there, Christ’s sake.

You liked to see him flustered. Brought a whole new hue to his tough, stubbled cheeks that folks rarely got to see. You squirmed in your seat when he reached for your side.

“Wh—NO! No tickling!” you cried, trying your hardest to roll away.

But the man was nothing if not a lover of cheap shots and filthy antics. He’d never played a clean game in his life and wasn’t about to start now.

His gaze darted from the road to your writhing form, pinned against the door and begging him to stop, while he pressed his foot harder on the gas and smirked.

“Too much?” he teased, “Say pretty, pretty please.”

In other words: give up. You would do no such thing. Your elbow jutted out to the side and clipped his fingertips sharply, and right before he could reach for you again, you were heaving yourself up and leaning almost halfway out the open window, trying to shy away from his touch.

“You fuckin’ nuts?! Get down!” he yelled.

“But it just may be a luuuunatic you’re lookin’ for!” you sang along to your old friend Billy Joel and pretended not to see, or hear, Joel Miller twisting desperately across the center console to take hold of your belt loops.

“Get—I swear to God, kid—DOWN!”

Joel had just managed to finagle a loose, feeble grip on your denim waistband as he tried to keep the car from soaring across three lanes of traffic, was just about to yank you back inside and give you a red-faced, fatherly lecture of a lifetime, when a sound startled you both.

A siren, and a set of flashing blue lights behind you.

You scrambled back in your seat and swallowed a lump in your throat the size of a peach. You turned off Mr. Long Island.

“Great! Good fucking going,” Joel griped beside you as he flicked on his blinker and started to pull off the road.

Dogs no longer on the dash—and a very pissed off cop pulling up behind your car on the shoulder of the road—you got the feeling this would be a long couple of days.

You hadn’t even made it outside the city limits of Boston.

Somewhere between Richmond and Roanoke, the two of you turned off the highway to find a place to sleep.

Joel had sat and stewed and ignored you for the customary duration of about two hours before choosing to re-engage in conversation, but deep down, you knew he was still kind of irked by that reckless driving citation he’d received. You couldn’t help but feel responsible.

Though it had been pretty funny when the state trooper had approached the car and pointedly asked, “What the hell was your daughter doin’ danglin’ outta this thing?!” Joel was nowhere near as amused as you, but he managed to roll with it and told the cop you were just trying to wave to the cows in the fields passing by.

The police officer hadn’t bought it.

He probably would have arrested you both if you hadn’t been such a coquettish flirt and somehow managed to persuade the man to let your ‘dad’ off with just a ticket.

You had hoped that would temper Joel’s anger some, but if anything, the sight only seemed to make him more mad at you. You weren’t sure why.

Presently, you pulled up to Balmaceda’s Mountain Lodge and cast a bleak look at the front office before you.

This looked nothing like the snug, homespun mountain retreat you’d been picturing in your mind. Ahead of your car, there stood a single-story concrete slab of a motel, tilted to one side and consumed almost entirely by the dark of night and wide open wilderness. A big block letter neon sign displaying the owner’s name in red now barely flickered above a muddied, pinkish glow. You groaned.

But before you could complain to your travel companion, Joel was already stepping out of the car and heading toward the main office. Hastily, you followed after.

“No way, Miller. No fucking way are we staying in Murder Motel,” you hissed.

“Bal-ma-ceda’s,” Joel intoned with a maddeningly accurate lilt, ignoring your protests, “I think that’s a Chilean name.”

He swung the door wide for you to enter and pretended not to see you shoot him a glare as you strolled in.

“Needin’ a room?”

The lady behind the counter barely graced your entrance with a look.

“Yes ma’am. Whatever you got,” Joel replied, smiling.

“Smoking or non?”

“Smoking, please.”

Of course he would. You could already feel the fetid stench of American Spirits wafting up to your nostrils.

“King or two Queens?”

“Queens,” you and Joel answered in unison.

At first, the woman nodded, flicked through a rolodex on her desk and nosed through a couple yellowed pages in front of her. Then, frowning, she looked back up.

“Sorry. All the Queens are took up. Rest of the rooms are being fumigated but the one—” she tapped a manicured nail on the motel map, “—and it’s got a King. That okay?”

No. No, it was not. You opened your mouth to speak but were shortly cut off by the woman before you could.

“Of course, if you don’t want dad hoggin’ up all the sheets, there’s a pull-out sofa for him to sleep on.”

The sixty-something desk clerk offered a smile, and you likely would’ve returned the favor if you hadn’t been so deeply nauseated at the thought of everyone around you assuming that Joel was your father. You chanced a look at the man, who seemed equally uncomfortable as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. You sighed.

“Alright.”

Defeated, but marginally pleased that you wouldn’t have to share a bed with your ‘old man’ that night.

Joel paid and signed the papers without another word, or look, to you or the woman. By the looks of it, he just wanted to book the room and get the hell out as fast as possible, his brow pinched inward and lips zipped tight.

He’d turned to leave so quick that he was almost approaching the door when the lady called out,

“Mr. Miller! You forgot your keys.”

You hardly needed to steal a glance in Joel’s direction to see that he was flushed. Even blushing a bit.

You strode over to the counter and intercepted the keys she was dangling for someone to take, then politely, finally, were able to manage a smile and a thank-you.

You turned back to Joel.

“Here you go, Daddy.”

In a blink, the small silver set was pelted in his hands, and the man nearly dropped them—and lost his balance. By some miracle, Joel managed to catch them between his big sweaty palms and step aside just in time for you to saunter past him, straight through the door.

“I’m starved,” you announced, then, averting your face to hide your smug expression and lower your voice a bit, “Feed me, Daddy.”

In that moment, Joel thanked every last one of his lucky stars that his pants were made of denim, and that the denim itself was thick. And that the woman at the front desk was swift to turn her attention back to her tabloid magazine, away from you two, and didn’t look up again.

If they weren’t, and if she hadn’t, it would’ve been plain as day to see that Joel Miller was sporting a hard-on.

A huge, swollen hard-on that made it almost impossible for him to walk and haul luggage and try to keep apace with your steps as you sailed along the gravel drive. So big the man had to will himself not to limp, not to make it known how stiff he was, until he eventually failed at both.

Once you’d grabbed your bags back at the car and made it up to your place, you entered Room 102 with a lightness you hadn’t felt all day. Joel slogged behind with all of the baggage and a boner beneath his jeans that probably could’ve cut sheet metal, if needed.

He was fucked. No doubt he’d have to enlist in the Witness Protection Program after your real father found out that his best friend had gotten visibly bricked up for you, his one and only daughter. How awkward holiday dinners were bound to be from that point on; how humiliating it seemed to him to pop a chub at a thing as dumb as saying ‘daddy’; how batshit insane it was that he hadn’t gotten laid in almost a year, and you were still, somehow, the only one he wanted to break the dry spell.

Joel was better than this. A fucking pro at self-control and all things dirty old guys didn’t do. He could chill out.

He just needed to rub one out in the bathroom, fast.

So, while you flopped down on the bed, Joel dropped every bag and made a beeline for the toilet. Slammed the door so hard he probably could’ve knocked the thing off its hinges, but he didn’t care. He was wrestling his belt, button, and zip off in a second. Then haphazardly turning on the sink to mask the sounds of all that was to come. No pun intended.

He yanked his thick, throbbing, rock-hard member out of its confines and had to hiss through his teeth to keep from moaning. The sensitivity he felt was unbearable, the front of his boxers already painted with pre-cum.

Gingerly, Joel wrapped one hand around his cock and raised the other to anchor himself against the sink. He slid his palm, which he’d just barely lubricated with some spit of his, up and down the shaft and groaned. A welt of pleasure formed in his chest, and he rubbed even faster. And, in spite of his legs feeling a bit like jelly, he stood there and fucked his fist and wished with every bit of himself that it was your warm, lush folds opening around him instead. Stifled a groan and would’ve paid any sum of money to hear your moans spilling out while he thrusted. The act here was more mindless and reflexive than anything else—jerking himself and soaking in the sharp, fiery sensations that shot up through his body.

To him, at least, it was all purely physical. Mechanical.

Nowhere near as euphoric and otherworldly as it would have been with your hand actually curled around him.

Or your lips. Or your tongue. Or your tight, wet cunt.

Fuck, he needed a shower.

Blindly, Joel moved inside the tub to his left and yanked the curtain shut over a space almost two times too small for his frame. He turned on the water and made it hot. Then he fisted his cock again, pressed his head to the shower wall, and pumped himself as fast as his forearm would allow him—trying all the while not to think of you.

You, with all your wily, shrewd ways were still the daughter of the man who guzzled down IPAs with him at the local dive bar every Thursday night over jalapeño poppers and buffalo dip. The man who clapped him over the shoulder and shook his frame with the kind of good-natured sneer that only a best friend could make, ‘A man as suave as you oughta get some tail every now and then. Go find you a gal and fuck her brains out, Joel!’

But the only ‘gal’ Joel wanted to rail was the one who called that man ‘dad’—and just called him ‘daddy’ for the first time that night—and he hated himself for it.

Sparks of pleasure continued to ignite across his lower half as he jerked himself in the shallowest, short pumps. He flicked his hand back and forth, circled the tip with his palm, and felt a groan start to claw at his throat. He tried to picture any face but yours but failed miserably.

All he could think, see, or breathe was you—imagining your lips enveloping the head of his cock, jerking him softly, taking him down to the back of your throat and bobbing that pretty little face up and down his length.

That sweaty, desperate fist of his just wasn’t cutting it.

For the first time, Joel couldn’t make himself cum.

Now even more pent-up and pussywhipped than he’d been when he first started, he slammed his palm against the wall and flung the shower handle in the opposite direction—turning the water as cold as it could get.

Five minutes passed, and the icy spray had scarcely left a dent in his raging erection. Joel stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his hips, and stood in front of the mirror to see that he was still very hard.

Fuck this.

He bunched his strewn aside clothing together and held it over his crotch, discreet as he could, and waddled out.

And, either the temperature inside had just jumped fifty degrees or the world outside had just caught fire, but Joel’s face was flooded with heat the second he exited.

You were sprawled across the bed wearing nothing but a thin white tank, shorts, and fuzzy socks—and a scowl.

“Sofa’s broke,” you said.

Joel blinked.

“Broke?”

You nodded toward the busted sleeper couch at the far end of the room, torn to pieces and kicked a half-dozen times since you’d tried unfolding it in Joel’s absence.

The jaws of the old steel frame had simply refused to give way, and now the sofa was so out of sorts and misshapen that you had no hope of putting it back the way that it was. You sank further in the bed and pointed to the floor.

“You can sleep there.”

Joel eyed a flat sheet and a pillow laid across the carpet, visibly coated in dust and grime. He turned back to you.

“You’re smokin’ crack if you think I’m doin’ that.”

“Be grateful I’m not making you sleep in the car, daddy.”

Again with that fucking name. Joel tightened his grip on the clothes he was holding over his dick and tried to fight a thousand dirty thoughts threatening to seep back into his head.

Unfortunately, the dirty thoughts had hands—and were beating his ass to a bloody pulp when he first caught sight of your nipples poking up through your shirt. Just when the man might have started to drool or else begun humping that pile of clothes, you snapped your fingers.

“Miller Lite. Eyes up here.”

Fuck.

“Got a…stain on your shirt,” he grumbled in his defense.

“Shut up. Now, we can flip for the bed if you want.”

By turns, Joel’s focus was slowly coming back, and the man was trying like hell to find a place on your face that didn’t arouse him to no end—to help ease the intrusive thoughts and all. So far his search had yielded nothing.

“Like, uh…coin?” he asked. Endearingly stupid.

“Heads, I win,” you said, nodding, “Tails…”

Joel swallowed.

“Tails, what?”

“Tails, you tell me what was going on in your head when you were jacking off to the thought of me just now.”

Your words came out in a hurry, almost too quick for Joel to comprehend. He still heard them, though, and nearly choked on his spit when he tried to swallow again.

“I wasn’t—”

“You were,” you bit back, “I heard you moan my name.”

Joel didn’t remember that. Joel didn’t remember much of anything that had taken place in that bathroom apart from being implacably horny and unable to bust a nut. You stepped off the bed to stand in front of him.

“What? Cat got your tongue all of a sudden?” you sneered, “Think I’m just gonna run off and tell my da—”

“Don’t,” Joel’s response was immediate, insistent. Then, setting his jaw in a way you knew too well, contemplating about fifty different thoughts in the span of two seconds, he pressed the clothes pile to his crotch even tighter and sighed, “Don’t…do that, please. I’ll take the floor.”

You raised both brows, mildly amused.

“I said we could flip for it. C’mon,” you said.

“Ain’t got any coins.�� Joel was already retreating to his makeshift sleeping pad on the floor, eyeing the shag carpet for any traces of blood, piss, or rodent droppings. Before he made it too far, you reached for his arm.

Joel tensed under your touch.

“We can try something else.” Your voice was cloying, almost too sweet to be trusted.

It had just dawned on you then how bare the man standing before you was. Clad in only his towel, every taut, toned inch of Joel’s body was there on display—coated with sweat and a fine sheen from the shower, his skin practically shone in the glow of the bedside lamp. You watched him shift in place and saw the towel around his hips stir along with it. He never let those old clothes in his hands move an inch away from his groin, though.

“What game?” he asked.

“Something my roommates showed me,” you began, “‘Too Hot.’”

“Too Hot?”

“You heard me.”

“What, like— like Spin the Bottle, or some bullshit?”

Joel could just picture it: a gaggle of your college pals huddled around an old, empty bottle of Bud Light as you watched it turn circles again, and again, and again on the dorm’s linoleum floor. You tugging at the sleeve of some oversized man-child from a frat Joel couldn’t name, leaning in and beaming like the insatiable flirt he knew you to be, asking that boy if he wanted to sneak off somewhere and let his tongue take a tour of your mouth.

The thought made Joel’s stomach turn.

Presently, you wrinkled your nose up at him.

“Spin the Bottle? That’s rookie shit,” you made another face reminding Joel, once more, how little he knew of the life you lived 1,900 miles away from Austin, at college.

He still couldn’t shake the thought of those boys.

“No, Joel,” you shook your head, drawing your syllables out for effect, “‘Too Hot’ is just…edging your opponent.”

Joel’s throat tightened, and he tried not to let his eyes widen too much, but he was almost certain they had. Before he even knew the words he was saying, the thought of your father taking his fist—or a shotgun—to his face made him blurt out in response, stammering,

“We can’t— I can’t— can’t lay one finger on you, darlin’, you know that. Your dad would murder me.”

To his surprise, the smile on your face only widened.

“Bingo,” You stuck one pretty finger in his face like he’d made the world’s finest discovery, “You can’t touch me.”

“Huh?”

“That’s the whole fuckin’ game, Miller. We can kiss, but we can’t touch each other with our hands. First one to crack and grope the other player loses the game.”

Your expression now was something just shy of sadistic. Watching him with keen, narrowed eyes and a wicked little grin, it seemed you were half-expecting him to fold on the spot. No way was this a game your college friends taught you; you just wanted to play him. Make him lose.

And Joel was a man who couldn’t stand to lose, no matter the stakes.

You watched that failure-averse glint eclipse every shade of lust in his eyes, at least momentarily. Suddenly, Joel didn’t look so fearful of your father’s wrath or what lurid implications this night might bring—he just had to win.

“You suck, you know that?” he said, at last, dropping his makeshift shield from the front of his towel and knocking you flat on the bed with a single push.

“You wish I would,” you grumbled, heart still jumping up in your ribcage all the same. You scooted back.

“I bet you will.”

The man was a menace when he had the will to be.

At length, Joel crawled over your body and made room for himself snug between your legs. The bulge that he’d been trying to hide all this time was now heavy on your center, pressed tight to your stupid-thin shorts and the panties you’d conveniently forgotten to wear. He grinned.

“Are tongues allowed?” he hummed.

“Everything but hands,” you shrugged.

Try as you might to play it cool with him, though, every fibre of your being was alight with desire for the man on top of you. You flitted a look between his soft brown eyes and slightly parted lips and could’ve melted in that bed had Joel not lowered his head and dove right in for it.

His mouth was far gentler than expected. Reverent, even. He slotted his lips between your own and made a fine, delicate showing of just how tender and adept he could be while imparting his slow, sweet kisses. Skirted his tongue across your bottom lip before driving it inside, coaxed your mouth open to him in a matter of seconds. He was graceful. And patient. And lithe with that tongue.

Joel Miller was showing off for you—the bastard.

“Sweet little thing,” he groaned against your mouth, “Ain’t felt a tongue this shy on mine in a long time.”

Of course he’d try taunting you, too. Same old Joel.

“What’s it been? Two years since a woman let you touch her?”

“Twenty since I felt one this good.”

You would’ve liked to reach around the back of his head and seize a clump of that thick, dark, grey-speckled hair. But you couldn’t. Your hands remained plastered to the duvet beneath you, and then, just slightly, your fingers started to curl inward. Joel’s palms laid flat on either side of your head.

It felt weird; mashing lips, teeth, and tongue with a man who’d been alive about twenty years longer than you and went further back with your father than you could even remember. What felt even stranger was the fact that you couldn’t touch him, or take him between your two hands.

Joel’s tongue continued roaming every contour and crevice of your mouth like he had an ache for this taste that he just couldn’t quench. Your tongue tried keeping up, too, but frankly, you were too preoccupied by a pulse between your legs—your parts and Joel’s practically throbbing in time with one another—to work just as hard.

Even through the towel, he felt huge.

You whined when Joel started to grind up against you, and shortly, those fingers of yours that had just been grazing the sheets before were gripping them. Tight.

“Earlier…” Joel murmured between kisses, hips working a vicious pace against you, “You said you were hungry.”

“Yeah?”

“Sorry—starved,” he corrected himself, and you almost could’ve smacked him for being so smug about it.

“What’s your point, Miller?” You were fisting the sheets beneath your palms and gyrating your whole body to meet the motions of the man currently dry-humping you.

All of a sudden, Joel’s movements stopped.

He peered down at you with a curious look.

“I could go for something to eat, too,” he declared.

You blinked. Stared. And just when you’d opened your mouth to say, well, maybe you should’ve grabbed us a bite to eat when we passed that Burger King on the way in, dipshit, Joel’s torso started to move down your own. Slow and painstaking as ever as he made sure not to graze one inch of your skin with his hands while he did.

You leapt back against the headboard, almost cracking your skull on the wood.

“Joel— Joel,” you hissed as the heels of your feet dug into the mattress below, and Joel just sank even further.

Then he was slowly, scrupulously pinching the fabric of your shorts between each index finger and thumb, gaze trained close on your lower half to make sure he never touched you, and he started pulling it down.

“This isn’t—” you started again, only to be offered a soft shush and an even quieter rustle of the cotton material sliding down both your legs.

You dropped your head on a pillow and probably could’ve burned a hole in the ceiling with the wide-eyed look you fixed on one spot, in utter disbelief of what he was doing.

“No panties, huh?” Joel observed. Gentle puffs of his breath were now fanning across the whole bare expanse of your lower half, and your pyjama bottoms were shortly discarded. His face was just hovering there, and you could tell that he knew you knew by the way he lowered his voice and brought his head to have only the tips of his chin stubble grazing your abdomen, “You needed this.”

Some lone remnant of ire flashed in your eyes.

“I don’t need shit from you, Miller. You need me. And you’re gonna lose this.”

Even though your gaze was still trained to the ceiling, you could feel him grin against your delicate skin.

“Hey,” he mumbled, “You said tongues are fair game.”

Fuck me, you wanted to keen the second his lips made contact with your…lower ones, and Joel swiftly got to kissing you there just as he’d done to you above. Hot, soft, and tender as the first rays of morning sun heralding a new day, he sponged his lips across the seam of your heat and made as if to massage the place, gently.

You could hear as well as you could feel that effusion of desire leaking out of your cunt and pooling around the man’s mouth. How eager he was to lap it up with his tongue, to grace your ears with those delectable squelching sounds, he caressed every inch between your folds and only sank deeper when you whined above him.

“Joel.”

Right now you couldn’t look down. Not with the way your legs were already trembling around his head, your chest heaving with the fastest, most frenzied breaths. You’d sooner die before you watched him unravel you like this.

“Darlin’, you’ve got a man soaked.” Some sound almost resembling a chuckle reverberated between your thighs and sent a brand new shockwave of pleasure in its wake, “You like it when daddy uses his mouth on this needy, wet cunt, don’t you?”

Yes, yes, you did. But your answer was nonverbal: a sharp curl of your toes and a grip between your fingers so tight across the sheets that he saw you veritably could’ve torn the linens in two.

Neither of you had laid a hand on the other.

Joel was perfectly content to make do with his mouth for now.

“Got those sheets all balled up, you’re fixin’ to rip ‘em.”

“My tongue make ya feel that good, honey?”

“Poor thing can’t even breathe it feels so nice, right?”

So he’d seen you hiccup, try to steady your breaths, and fail before succumbing to a string of lewd moans. Joel saw you, and knew how you felt, as if he’d had his own secret gauge for how good his mouth was doing you in.

Surely, he could’ve sensed the words before they ever came out of your mouth.

“Touch me, Joel, please.”

His tongue was just then making a lazy circuit around your clit, mouth saturated in your juices, when he smiled.

“Nah.”

Curt and cruel as ever. Then:

“No matter how fuckin’ perfect this pussy is, I ain’t losin’.”

He completed the arc with his tongue and took your bud between his lips, sucking in. You almost screamed.

“Motherfucker.”

“Miller, baby, Miller. Close, though.”

And just when you thought he’d had his fill of cheeky games, Joel sucked your clit even harder and flicked the tip of his tongue against your bundle of nerves until you were writhing, crying on the bed above him,

“JoelbabypleasebabyfuckmefuckohfuckitfeelsoGOOD.”

It was a bit tough to decipher through your strangled, desperate moans, but Joel got the picture. Heeding your requests, he kept at that pace above your clit and slid his tongue back and forth, over and over, lapping up your honeyed glaze like it was the finest thing he’d tasted. Scruff harsh against your thighs, lips soft in a perfect suction, Joel Miller had your head swimming in desire and your better judgment dissipating before your eyes.

At the first sign of bliss, your muscles clenched, and the last linchpin of your resolve crumbled right along with it.

You carded your hands through Joel’s hair and grabbed hold of those locks with a full-throated moan, using his head for shameless leverage to buck and rut your hips into his face as you rode out the peaks of your high.

And, ever the gentleman, Joel fought like hell to keep his lips and tongue connected to your core while you writhed above him—this time at liberty to work his arms under your thighs and hold them since you’d given up the game. He would’ve smiled if he weren’t so narrowly preoccupied, seeing you thrash about and moan out loud and fuck his face like it was the last thing tethering you to earth. He liked seeing you come undone beneath him.

A bit too much, if he were being completely honest.

While you made the languid descent from ecstasy and your breaths were still slowing in your chest on the bed, Joel was back on his feet. Padding toward the bathroom door, slamming it shut behind him as he had before. When he returned in a minute or two, he was clothed. He fished for his keys in the pockets of his snug, stonewash Wranglers and made a face. He didn’t look at you.

“I’ll be back,” he said, starting toward the door.

“Back?” You sat up, perplexed, “The hell ya goin’?”

“Out.”

This motherfucker.

“Did I miss something? Were we not just seconds away from getting down to some how’s-your-father?”

Joel visibly grimaced at your choice of sex slang. Under the circumstances, you would concede it wasn’t ideal.

“O-kay, sorry,” you returned, crossing your legs out in front of you, “I mean…don’t you want me to get you off?”

Again, Joel’s expression twisted into something just shy of overwrought, weary, and repulsed—a look that you couldn’t begin to understand, for the life of you—and you watched him flit his eyes from the bed to the door, again and again, seeming to be pining for the sweet release of leaving your shared motel room as soon as possible.

You’d been with your fair share of emotionally avoidant fucksticks, but most of them didn’t ghost until after they’d gotten their nut and felt no reason to stick around. Joel’s exit seemed premature. Strange.

“So you don’t want to fuck?” you asked, deadpan. You’d never been one for beating around the bush.

“Can’t,” Joel shook his head, bringing one hand to rest on his hip while the other fiddled uncomfortably with his car keys, “Your dad…that’s just— that’s crossing a line.”

“And being nose-deep in my cunt isn’t?”

You stared him down, incredulous.

So now he decides to claim the moral high ground, after coaxing you to soak every inch of his beard and cum all over his tongue? How very fucking charitable of him.

“That’s different,” Joel retorted, rubbing his knuckles in a nervous tic, “That was a game. I won. We’re done.”

You set your jaw just tight enough to keep your tongue in check and refrained from firing off a brash, unsavory remark. It wouldn’t do either of you a lick of good.

You let him leave. Joel had told you that you could keep the bed, he didn’t mind, and then he slipped out the door without another word. Leaving you cold and alone on the soiled, tawdry floral bedspread of Room 102, wondering what the hell had gone so wrong in the span of the last five minutes. From the center of the bed, you could see Joel’s Bronco pull off into the silent, frigid night.

You were still hungry as shit.

Rolling onto your side and rummaging through the bags at the end of the bed, you found nothing even remotely edible—save for, literally, one of Joel’s brownie edibles—and you groaned out loud. You threw your shorts back on, stepped into your old Luccheses, and did a quick circuit around the room to find your jacket before you left. As it turned out, you’d forgotten it back in Joel’s car.

You dropped to your knees and went back to tearing through luggage, searching for some suitable outerwear.

By the end of that second suitcase foray, though, you found you had nothing of your own that was hefty enough to brave the below-freezing temperatures outside, so you had to settle on a dark brown, fleece-lined coat from Joel’s bag. It was durable enough but about four sizes too big—and reeked of cigarette smoke.

You trudged outside, not really knowing where you were going or what you were hoping to find. Your stomach growled, and a few cool gusts of wind came to lap at the bare skin of your thighs where Joel’s spit was still drying.

You stepped a few feet out and turned toward the road.

Bal-ma-ceda’s, you read the seedy neon sign and heard Joel’s enunciation of the name ring between your ears.

What you wouldn’t give for the greasiest, girthiest, barely-FDA-approved 7-Eleven corndog to kill your thoughts about that sleazy little fucker right now.

You started toward the convenience store across the street but quickly found that it was closed—along with every other establishment on that stretch of road. You glanced toward the front office and caught a glimpse of your old friend dozing behind the counter. The speakers outside were playing a tinny rendition of ‘Piano Man.’

Just as you tried not to barf in your mouth at the sound and silently primed yourself for a long, long trek through the boonies to the nearest gas station, you stopped.

In a compact little breezeway that cleaved the motel in two, you saw light pool around an old vending machine.

You almost fell over yourself trying to get to it.

Never mind the fact that there were about half a dozen ragtag teens decked out in camouflage and comically tattered denim cutoffs crowding the area. All absently smoking and blowing o’s, or else sipping on cans of beer in the cramped, concrete passage, they looked bored. A couple lazy smiles broke out upon seeing your approach.

You nodded back and sidled up to the snack dispenser.

Then you zeroed in on the first sugar-packed products you could find: a pack of sour gummy worms and a bottle of Sprite—no, Mountain Dew—and a chocolate bar. Maybe a bag of Cheetos or Fritos thrown in for good measure. All of the snacks were probably stale as shit and hadn’t seen a replacement since dinosaurs roamed the earth, but you didn’t care. You were prying singles out of your wallet and salivating before you could think.

“Gotta kick it a couple times ‘fore it’ll spit anything out,” one of the boys lounging around you piped up.

You’d just inserted a couple bills and were waiting for the machine to dispense your gummy worms, when the thing appeared to stall. Stuck in its tracks, like he’d said.

You raised a brow and tapped the toe of your boot to the appliance, turning toward the one who’d addressed you,

“Like this?”

“Nope. Nuh-uh.” The redhead got up and strode over, where his much bigger, square-toed boot delivered a kick to the vending machine that almost toppled it.

A bag of Trolli Sour Brite Crawlers dropped out.

The kid—who actually happened to be nineteen years old and a student at some college a few states away, along with his whole group of friends—was kind enough to repeat the same ritual for all of your treats. You’d just gathered your stuff together and were about to thank him for his services, when the guy presently stuck a hand in your direction and introduced himself as Connor.

Then Blake. Then Micah. Then Wyatt. Then Trent. All traveling with their team for a tournament that weekend.

Then a beer was held out to you. You declined. A little homemade deer jerky? No, thanks. How ‘bout some Oreos? I’m good on snacks, really. Well, shit, you seem a little high-strung, why don’t you take a hit right here? And Connor pulled his dab pen out from his pocket.

Well.

You hadn’t smoked in a minute. You might’ve decided to take a bite out of Joel’s brownie back in the room, but you hadn’t known how strong it was—or where the fuck he’d gotten it. The pen this stranger was offering you was one that looked similar enough to the kinds you’d seen passed among your friends a hundred times before that you felt comfortable taking one hit, maybe. Two max.

You felt stupid as soon as you’d sucked in every breath, but you ended up taking four hits in total.

You hacked and sputtered and blinked up at Connor, who was grinning big.

“Alright, hardass,” he chuckled, taking back the device.

“Daddy know you smoke?” Wyatt cut in with a sneer.

Daddy?

There was no fucking way Joel looked that old for everyone to think he was your father. You inwardly cringed.

“Y’all been spying on us?”

“Ain’t shit else to do around here.” That was Blake.

You tried to swallow but found your throat much drier than it had been before. And not just from the weed.

“He doesn’t care,” you said, managing a shrug.

It wasn’t entirely false. Joel did give no fucks about you.

“Dude looks like a— a fuckin’ DEA agent or something,” Micah said, amused.

“Like that guy from Narcos,” Trent snickered.

You’d never seen the show and didn’t particularly care to know what law enforcement archetype Joel appeared to embody—in fact, you didn’t want to discuss him at all.

Just as the first fuzzy beads of warmth began to roll into your head, you were already planning your exit strategy. Thank Connor for his selfless assistance and cannabis, bid the group a good night and the best of luck in their upcoming lax tournament, and be done with this shit, ASAP. You were still trying to steady your tongue in the bone-dry cavern that had become your mouth when one of them kicked at a near-empty case of beer at their feet.

“We’re about out.” Micah announced.

Seconds later, Connor was turning to you.

“Wanna…restock in our room?” he asked, the corners of his lips twisting into a smile as he looked down at you.

You crinkled your nose and shook your head. Connor leaned his whole weight against the vending machine between you, seeming unconvinced by your answer.

“I don’t believe you,” he said, “I think you wanna come.”

“Do I?”

You only entertained the backtalk because your brain was currently swimming in a far-off, pleasant void of contentment and indifference. Every sharp edge dulled in your mind, to an extent, and your body at ease. You didn’t have to be home to anyone, anytime, and Joel was probably halfway plastered at a dive bar down the road. You didn’t move back when Connor stepped forward.

He wasn’t even that close. You could leave whenever you pleased.

“For sure. I think you’d enjoy our shitty beer and even shittier company. We can smoke some more, too.”

The man certainly had a way with words. He muscled in a bit closer.

“You think so?” you hummed.

“I do. I really do.”

“And you’re willing to risk the wrath of my dad if he finds out where I am?” You made it sound like a challenge.

“Wyatt can fight.”

Connor motioned toward his friend, who was mindlessly chomping on deer jerky in his lawn chair off to the side, glossy-eyed and hammered. You couldn’t help but laugh.

“Okay, but make sure he’s ready. I can only stay for five.”

Connor seemed wounded as he put a hand over his heart in mock dismay.

“Only five minutes?” he griped, “Why not ten? Or twenty?”

“Six.”

“Fifteen at least.”

You folded your arms over your chest and felt an opaque haze beginning to settle over your brain. It wasn’t quite a high, just a lightness of being that drove tender little streaks up your spine. Like Joel, tickling at your sides while you writhed around in the front seat of his car.

This time you took the beer Connor offered and cracked it open. He seemed pleased—and taken by surprise—to see you down the drink in spite of the overflowing foam.

“Ten,” you returned once you’d swallowed it all.

“Twenty.”

“Honey?”

The last voice didn’t belong to anyone in the group. You turned on your heels and almost coughed up your beer.

It was Joel, of course.

Standing at the threshold of the breezeway like a surly, disconcerted parent, of all things, watching you like he’d just caught you red-handed in the most horrific of acts.

Clutched in one hand was a Burger King takeout bag.

“Daddy. Hi,” you breathed.

Apparently your attempt at casual came across more slurred than anything else, because Joel stepped closer.

‘Let’s go’ was all he said. No accusations, no threats, no outward displays of emotion found anywhere on his face. Just a gruff ‘Let’s go,’ and a free hand reaching for yours.

Instinctively, you recoiled.

“We’re just talking,” you said, gesturing behind you. If you could have seen the uniform looks of discomfort and agita, damn near treading on fear, among them all, you probably wouldn’t have bothered.

“Good. Now you’re leaving,” Joel supplied in a moment.

He was blissfully indifferent. Asserting his will in a space where, less than one hour ago, he couldn’t bear to share a room with you, much less impart a shred of dignity or care to your condition. He had nerve, that was for sure.

“I’m not leaving,” you said, a touch more venom in your voice than you intended.

Joel raised both eyebrows.

“No?”

His expression, directed to you, was infuriating.

“Fuck no,” you answered.

A few of the guys behind you sucked in a breath as if to say, ‘Okaaaaay, time to go!’ but then Joel pressed,

“For someone who wants to be treated like an adult—”

“Adult?” you scoffed, “You treat me plenty like an adult, Joel. Just whenever the designation suits your needs, huh?”

No one moved.

Well, Joel flinched a bit. Then he squeezed your wrist.

Truly, you never failed to underestimate the man’s brute strength when it came to carrying you off at will—but there you were, being yanked behind the big, bad Joel Miller as he hauled you off to who-knows-where. You scowled but didn’t bother to steal a glance behind you at the beer, boys, or vending machine treats you were being forced to abandon. All you could do was stare a hole through Joel’s skull and tug back—largely ineffectually.

“You’re an ass,” you spat, digging your heels into the gravel terrain as he pulled you along.

“You’re a brat,” he fired back.

In a minute, the exterior of Room 102 was coming into view; Joel was practically toting your ass like a knapsack.

“You just abandoned me back here, Miller. You— you don’t get to pretend like you give a fuck now.”

“I was getting you Burger King, for Christ’s sake.”

Joel was fiddling with the lock now. Simultaneously juggling your hand, the paper bag, and a set of keys that didn’t seem keen on cooperating, he huffed, disgruntled.

“Even got you those—” Joel grunted, thrusting his shoulder into the door, “—fuckin’ curly fries you wanted.”

Your jaw slackened. That was supposed to make it okay?

“Joel, FUCK your curly fries!” you cried, “Are you seriously still trying to play good guy right now?”

“If that’s what you—”

“No. You don’t get to tonguefuck your friend’s daughter and buy her a goddamn Double Whopper and act like it’s all good. Sure as hell don’t get to dictate who I talk to.”

Like he had before, Joel cringed to hear your crude language—particularly as it related to what he had done to you but didn’t seem capable of owning up to just yet. You couldn’t bear another second of that look.

“Fuck this. I’m sleeping in the car,” you grumbled.

You thrashed your arm out of Joel’s hold and started off in the other direction. Picked up your pace when you heard the bag of fast food drop to the ground and Joel trotting after you. Calling your name.

Even at your most brisk, you knew you couldn’t outstrip those big, beefy legs of his. He gained on you in seconds.

So you took off running.

Joel gripped his side, thinking, ‘Aw, hell’ before breaking out in a sprint just as fast.

You were pissed at how far he’d parked this time around. You caught sight of the old Bronco perched a ways away from your room and almost opted to change course on the spot, to the front office—maybe dive behind the counter and beg that poor old woman to give you another place to stay—but you kept at it, anyway. For once, you were glad to have had Joel beat by so many years, because the man’s endurance was, evidently, shit.

“Hey, s— stop!” Joel shouted after you.

Fat chance, Miller.

You closed in on the car. Joel rarely ever locked it.

Your hand secured a grip on the door and jerked it back. It swung right open.

Just as Joel was pulling up the rear, you had the driver’s side slammed shut and your palm laid flat on the door lock knob—shoving the little black lever down each time Joel tried to unlock the car.

It was a fruitless endeavor, you knew; you couldn’t keep the man out all night so long as he had the car keys in his hands. You could piss him off some more, though.

“You won the fucking game, just take the bed!” you said, straining against the door with your weight pressed hard on that knob. Joel was furiously working to get it open.

“I mean it, Joel, I-I don’t wanna sleep in there wi— shit.”

You leapt back in your seat as Joel flung the door wide open. You scrambled across the center console, made a desperate grasp at the passenger door to climb out the other side, but your ankle was taken between two hands. Just as you tried to slink out on the opposite end of the vehicle, Joel pulled you right back in. Flipped the center console up so you were sprawled flat across the bucket seat at the front of his car and pinned underneath him.

Then he pulled you over his lap.

Not into it—nestled on top of his crotch, with your ass pointing up in the air. Joel’s big ass Carhartt jacket was bunching up around your torso, collar crowding you up to the chin. Your twisted just far enough to meet his gaze.

“What do you want from me?” Joel demanded, “What?”

You stared up at him, poring over your options in the span of what seemed like two milliseconds. Wondering, silently, why he wasn’t touching you anywhere.

“I want you to fuck me, Joel,” you replied at length.

Seated between driver’s side and shotgun, Joel looked perfectly unperturbed, raking a hand through his silver-flecked hair and letting his gaze trail up to the ceiling, as if considering something of grave importance.

“And what after that?” he asked, still staring at the roof.

Before you could reply, though, he was forging ahead,

“What happens when I can’t even look your dad in the eye knowin’ I’ve been balls deep in his little girl, and every fuckin’ time I’m over at your house or you’re over at mine, I’ll be thinkin’— no, dreamin’ of what it was like to have you wrapped around my cock, screamin’ my name and takin’ it so deep inside you like I know ya want it?”

You paused a beat. Had to bat your eyes a couple times to rid your head of those filthy thoughts he’d planted.

“We could, uh— fuck…then…too,” you ventured quietly.

Joel grinned at the spot he was watching, humorless.

“That easy, huh?” he mumbled.

Again, before you could speak, Joel continued,

“I can’t even cum with you on my mind,” he said, and for a split second you thought that might mean he wasn’t attracted to you in that way, when he swallowed hard and closed his eyes, “I’ve tried beating off twice today—in the bathroom and as soon as I left earlier—and I can’t…even get close with you here. You fuck with my head.”

You fuck with my head.

Without meaning to, your hips stirred over his, and Joel audibly groaned. At last, he dropped a palm to your ass and gave it a taut smack, and your whole lower half reverberated with the sensation—and a welt of pleasure.

“You think I want it to be like this?” Joel said, voice strained, fingers kneading over the flesh he’d just struck, “Think I enjoy havin’ the biggest set’a fuckin’ blue balls known to man whenever I’m around ya, honey?”

You winced when you were spanked again, letting out a whimper into the seat’s charcoal-colored upholstery.

“I can help with that,” you hissed, feeling him massage the spot once more. You arched your back into his touch.

“No. You’d make it worse,” Joel shook his head, “Once I get a feel inside this sweet cunt I’ll never wanna stop.”

At the soft rumble of his words, you felt yourself growing aroused. Noticeably so. Your skin broke out in broad swaths of gooseflesh every place he touched, and in the wake of those hands grew a pool of dull warmth. Sticky, slick, soak-straight-through-your-shorts sort of warmth.

Joel’s hand hovered about an inch from the source.

“We’d get bored eventually. It’d be fine,” you said, words crawling off of your parched tongue with some difficulty now. That faint, heady feeling from before had become a high, finally, and it seemed every sense you possessed was ablaze with desire. You were barely able to breathe, much less speak, but there you went, rambling anyway,

“Soon enough, you’ll get over the thrill of screwing me, and I’ll find a nice, polite, age-appropriate boy to spend the rest of my life having nice, polite sex with, and we can both pretend like this never happened. Deal?”

It was quite possibly the dumbest offer you’d ever made.

Joel slotted his hand between your legs to rub against that dampened patch of fabric. You almost jumped.

“Yeah? Just fuck around and forget about it?” Joel spoke, and you truly couldn’t tell if it was a sneer or real sincerity, as your eyes were squeezing shut, “Is that all you want from me, sugar?”

His fingers slipped beneath your shorts and made swift, easy contact with your heat. You buried your face in the seat and tried to muffle the sounds that were clawing their way out of your chest, while your hips tilted up.

“Please, Joel,” you whimpered.

By now, your head was spinning, in a daze, that you almost didn’t notice him tug your shorts down your legs. Or take them off at your ankles. You did get a sense of when he was breaching your folds—taking two, meaty fingers and trailing them up the slick glaze of your cunt.

“Doesn’t seem like this pussy wants ‘nice and polite’ to me,” Joel murmured, eyes gradually fastening to that lovely, exposed spot pointed up to him. He wet his lips, “Needs somethin’ else, doesn’t she, darlin’?”

Speaking of your pussy in third-person wasn’t something you ever thought could be hot, but coming from Joel? While his fingers traced up and down the seal of your entrance, tips circling your tight, hot, throbbing hole? Arousing didn’t even begin to cover it.

You pushed your ass back, and Joel chuckled above you.

“Wanna fuck daddy’s fingers? Is that it?” he taunted.

No, no, no—you wanted his cock buried inside you. But now you just needed reprieve from that ache, and your senses were practically on the fritz trying to get it.

Your hips rocked back and forth over his fingers—sliding the two digits in and out of your cunt with each motion—and, as much as Joel would’ve liked to make you beg and wait a little, your desperate pleas as you fucked his hand were more than enough to satiate him. He worked his free arm under your body and pinched hard on one nipple, eliciting a soft moan of ‘Joel’ underneath him.

“Oh, baby,” he breathed, watching you rut your hips for more friction, “That’s it, baby, fuck daddy’s fingers. Use my hand to make yourself feel good— that’s my girl.”

At the last, you probably could’ve cum on the spot, and Joel could tell by the way you clenched around him. He nudged a third finger between your plush, sensitive walls and heard your moans take on an even higher pitch.

“Hurts,” you whimpered, with no real indication of pain. You just felt stretched out, stuffed, and aching again. The only ‘hurt’ was not having even more of him in you, “Need more of you daddy, please. It hurts.”

Joel wanted to see you cum on his fingers. He really did. But when you got down to begging and pleading for his cock like that, the man’s whole heartbeat throbbed in his jeans, and he simply didn’t possess the resolve to refuse.

He hoisted you upright in his lap so you were straddling his hips. The fabric of his jacket hung loose off your frame and both of your arms as you latched around him.

“Are you high?” Joel asked, voice evening out all of a sudden to pin you with a serious look.

“Yeah.”

“How high?”

“I can consent, Joel.” Your thighs tightened around his sides, and your hips had already begun to stir.

“Not just can consent—do consent. Do you want this?” Joel’s hands moved from the small of your back to cup your face. You gave him a squished-together pout.

“Yes, I want this,” you managed through pinched cheeks. When Joel released you, you lowered your own hands to the buckle of his belt.

It felt foreign and familiar at once—this age-old ritual of fumbling for each other’s clothes and wrestling to get them off, like your bodies might catch fire if you didn’t act fast enough. Joel was a tad more graceful as he shrugged his jacket off of you, peeled your tank top off, and helped you maneuver your bare limbs around him. You, on the other hand, felt half-feral and every bit the wide-eyed novice while you stripped his body garment by garment and wordlessly told him just leave the jeans, I can’t wait another fucking second. Joel bit back a grin and had to steady you above him, feeling his cock twitch against his tummy but still slowing down enough to remind you, shhh, shhh, honey, it ain’t goin’ nowhere.

You had a tough time remembering that as you rubbed your wet centre over his shaft. Feeling so good you feared the feeling might escape any second, you whined.

“I know, baby, I know,” Joel cooed as your head fell in the crook of his neck, “Still hurtin’ somethin’ awful, hm?”

The tip of his cock just barely grazed over your clit and you buried your face even deeper, nodding furiously; Joel leaned forward to grab some item out of the glove compartment behind you and braced your body to him.

He tore something with his teeth. You craned your neck just slightly.

“Don’t laugh,” Joel muttered, voice momentarily stifled by bright, metallic wrapping.

“Is that…” You straightened up enough to cock a brow at him. Joel’s tongue rolled across the inside of his cheek.

“Cobwebs and all.”

Beneath your gaze was the flimsiest, dust-ridden, damn-near vintage condom—a decade old, at least.

“You buy that before or after the Great Depression?” you teased.

“Shut up.” Joel was already working it onto his dick.

“So Prohibition-coded.”

“I can find something to shove in that mouth, y’know.”

You were having too much fun at the old man’s expense, blissfully unaware that Joel was about one Gen X joke away from making you suck three of his arousal-soaked fingers. When you opened your mouth to speak—to try another wisecrack or else question the integrity of this ancient relic of a rubber—Joel crashed his lips against yours and made you mute with his tongue instead.

At the same time, he slowly eased himself inside you.

Your mouth fell open when you sank down on his length, fully, but no sound came out. You just gripped Joel’s shoulders and peered into his face as if to say, ‘Shit.’

No way any man was ever meant to feel this good.

No shot your walls were fitting his cock like a glove.

Joel soaked in your gaping, wordless stare with a nod.

“Good?”

“Great.”

You’d give all eight inches of the man a goddamn standing ovation if your legs weren’t feeling like jelly. Joel let out a small grunt when you clenched around him.

“Nice and…easy,” he said, as much to himself as to you. He pinched your hip in one gigantic hand and held you there, “Let ya take a second and adjust, alright, darlin’?”

“But Joel—” you whined, already trying to slide back up.

His grip kept you impaled on his dick, anchored in place. With the other hand, he brought a thumb to your clit.

“Just feel me, sweet pea,” Joel said, slow and languid as molasses while he touched you, “Ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

You couldn’t be sure if the man was a sadist or the world’s biggest fan of cockwarming—or just polite.

The bare, slightly-less-sexy truth was that Joel hadn’t done this in a very, very long time. Even the sex he’d had, close to a year ago, was something more of a flashbang than a bona fide carnal experience; he’d just bent a perfect stranger over the bathroom sink and drilled her. This was a fever dream, a first to end all firsts, and at present, Joel felt himself toeing a razor-thin line between self-restraint and bliss by just your presence alone.

In short, he didn’t want to fuck it up by busting too soon.

When you rolled your hips and squeezed your eyes shut above him, well, Joel almost fell into a panic.

Think of golf. Differential equations. The weather in Kuwait. Anything to get his mind off of how tight your pussy was holding him in, how lithe your body worked to grind above him while he sat there, so helpless and—

“Big,” you whined, stretched to the fullest you’d ever been. Unable to bounce up and down like you wanted but still squirming for more friction, “So big, daddy.”

Hockey. Geometry. Wind patterns around the Maldives. He held you even tighter, but your motions were growing desperate. You had to start moving.

“Joel, please,” you begged him.

“Baby, I’m—”

About to cum. I am two seconds away from cumming.

“Need you now, need you so—” your voice broke off in a moan as you sank your nails into his muscly shoulders, “So bad, daddy, please, please, please—”

On the seat beside you both, your phone lit up, buzzing:

Dad 💙

Fuck.

FUCK.

Your eyes locked on Joel’s in a shared look of panic and horror, and for once, your bodies stopped, perfectly still.

You knew your dad too well. Just as much as Joel did.

Your father wasn’t the type to call late at night unless something was up. And he wouldn’t stop calling until someone picked up.

“Should we…?” That whisper came from you.

Joel was frozen in fear, eyes now glued to the screen.

“Just…give it a sec,” he breathed, “Might be nothing.”

But his tone couldn’t mask the dread behind his words. He gritted his teeth and watched the phone ring.

It stopped.

Then started again.

The pair of you clung to one other in the old Ford’s bucket seat like your dad might veritably hear the two of you having sex from 1,300 miles away if you moved.

It stopped once more.

The screen stayed black.

You let out a small sigh and felt your eyes start to close.

Then the trill of a ringtone under Joel’s ass started up the second they’d fluttered shut, and suddenly your gaze was wide, and frightened, and freaking the fuck out when you realized that your dad was trying to reach Joel.

“Answer,” you hissed.

“What?!” The whites of Joel’s eyes were bigger now than you’d ever seen them.

“He’ll know something’s up! Just—” you slipped your hand under Joel’s rear, completely devoid of any sexual insinuation this time, and yanked his old iPhone 6 out of his pants, “Answer it. Now. Be cool.”

Joel’s expression was still paralyzed with terror, but he brought the ringing phone to his ear anyway. Gingerly tapped ‘answer’ once you’d smacked him on the bicep.

“He-e-y man.”

You were so fucking dead.

Your face hovered mere inches away, and you could almost hear the warble of your father’s voice on the line.

“Great,” Joel answered, stilted as a puppet with someone’s hand up its ass, “So good. How are you?”

A beat.

“She’s good, she’s good.”

For a moment, Joel’s gaze flitted to the spot where your bodies were still connected and you saw a flash of desire, followed by guilt, then his head tip back to close his eyes as he tried to concentrate on the conversation at hand.

“In the bathroom…Uh-huh…Phone must be dead…”

“No, she’s been a trooper—just fine…”

“Somewhere just shy’a Bedford, I think…”

You listened to Joel drone on and clench his jaw, and every now and then you’d feel a squelch in that tiny space between you two when one of you moved, and it occurred to you then that it probably was not in your best interest to stay seated on his dick while he talked. You shifted your legs underneath yourself to get up.

When you started to slide up Joel’s shaft—the first time you’d ever really moved, mind you—you felt a knot in your tummy start to tighten. The friction was to die for.

You sank back down and heard a hoarse little cry spill out from your lips before you got the chance to swallow it.

At the same time, Joel groaned. Then stopped himself. Then coughed—profusely.

“Sorry, just got a little—” Suddenly, a fiery set of eyes were searing holes in your head, angry as they were desperate, “—tickle in my throat is all.”

You ignored the strained Southern drawl and the eyes that looked ready to put a bullet between your own, and you rocked your hips again. The sensation was just too good. Your body practically acted of its own accord, and suddenly you were bouncing up and down in Joel’s lap.

The man beneath you looked enraged. Aroused.

Ready to wring your neck and maybe spit in your mouth.

“World’s movin’ too. damn. fast,” Joel seethed, trying to communicate to you semi-covertly while you rode his cock, “She’s one hell of a— firecracker, man, I’ll tell ya.”

You heard your dad’s laughter on the other end. While the sound subsided to chuckles, Joel grabbed your neck. He covered the mouthpiece for a second, then, in a murmur,

“This is not a fucking game.”

He squeezed your throat so tight you probably could’ve lost all circulation going to your head, but you smiled.

In spite of the hot, glowing embers of pleasure taking shape at the pit of your stomach and the coil that kept twisting and swelling inside, you grinned down at him. Then you mouthed, softly, ‘Yes, it is,’ and you rocked your hips against him even harder.

Joel drew in a breath through his teeth and watched you ride him with bleary, half-hooded eyes—keeping one hand on your carotid as the other hand cradled the phone to his ear. The man was transfixed.

By the pinch of just one set of fingers, you knew you were done for. A dwindling supply of oxygen, combined with your high and the hundreds of nerve-endings being brushed by Joel’s cock every other moment, you were spiraling toward release and didn’t know how to stop it.

When Joel pursed his lips and lifted his hips to start fucking up into you, you had to let go. Couldn’t hold on. You grabbed hold of his forearm, still hovering across your throat, and you moaned as the bliss washed over you. You slid your needy lower half back and forth, squeezed that tanned, tough arm practically bulging with veins above you, and you came around Joel’s cock. You whimpered his name, again and again, feeling him stroke your walls and fuck you through a euphoric high.

The next thing you felt was the seat cushion behind you—and the shift of Joel’s body weight pinning you down.

His cock hadn’t slipped an inch when he flipped you over; his grip was still secure on the phone.

The only thing that had changed was that look: malicious and vindictive with the hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. Joel felt you pulse around him, starting to come down from your high, and he just decided to fuck you even harder.

“Shouldn’t be much longer now…” Joel hummed aloud, lowering a hand to your throbbing clit and muttering a soft ‘Uh-huh’ to your father while you clawed at his wrist.

“Joel,” you choked.

Now the feeling was too much. You were still so wet, raw, and sensitive that the pad of his thumb almost drew a shriek from your chest when he moved his finger in circles. You heard them chat about football. Joel shared a short, strained laugh with the man on the other end and pretended not to hear your whines as he continued to rail you senseless in the front seat of his car.

With the diversion of the phone call keeping his own climax at bay, Joel was free to fuck you as rough as he pleased—and couldn’t be more in awe seeing you veer close to the edge, again.

“Please, daddy, please,” you beseeched him, tears springing to your eyes as Joel’s thrusts kept shaking you.

He just shook his head and smiled as if to say, ‘Hold still.’

“It’ll be fine,” he said, “Mahomes is next-level. Best they can do is keep their heads down and take it, y’know?”

Your own soft, aching hole was taking the beating of a lifetime, and somehow, you managed to meet Joel’s gaze with a look that almost struck him as loving. That blissed-out, cockdrunk look of pure debauchery crossing your eyes in a way he hadn’t come to find in ages, if ever, was intoxicating. He felt the first fluttering pulses of your orgasm squeeze around him again, and suddenly he was pumping you faster, drilling you harder, gripping your throat and starting to sense his own climax draw near.

He couldn’t finish off like this.

Not talking shop and Super Bowl to your father—no.

Joel had to do something you might rightly hate him for for the rest of your life, and never forget, or forgive.

He lowered the phone, and right before he did, said,

“She just stepped outta the bathroom, actually. No, yeah, she’s right here. Wanna say hello?”

Your heart skipped a beat and nearly jumped into your throat. You tried to shake your head—fast—and even went so far as to try and dodge the phone when Joel brought it down to your ear, but that motherfucker had a grip like you couldn’t believe and wouldn’t stop stroking inside you or holding you down. You hated that you found Joel’s total dominance and control…kind of hot.

You flashed him the most nasty, bratty, ‘I’ll get you for this, Joel’ look you could muster anyway, and when he pressed the phone to your cheek, you mouthed a few more silent expletives before changing your air entirely:

“Hey, dad!”

Joel knew he was cooked from the second you said hello. Something objectively malevolent inside him got a rush to hear you speak to your dad in such a contrived, high-pitched tone of voice, knowing the unspeakable things he was doing to your body the whole fucking time. He could focus, now, with no need for any strained civilities of his own, but deep down, he knew it wouldn’t last long. He would not last long.

Might as well make it fun while it lasts.

“He…did,” you hummed, flitting your eyes up to Joel when he brushed your lower lip with his thumb—still holding the phone up for you while he rutted into you, “No, nuh-uh…Mr…Mr. Miller didn’t mind, no sir.”

Shit, the sound of you saying ‘sir’ was something that made Joel’s whole body lurch with pleasure. He made a mental note to have you call him that later and stroked your lip once more.

You tried to turn your face away—telling Joel, wordlessly, that you couldn’t keep up this conversation with your father if you had a thumb in your fucking mouth, but Joel didn’t care. He watched you pause for a moment, let just the tip of his finger press into your tongue, then, battling your better judgment, wrap your lips around the digit almost cautiously and suck. He knew you liked it, too.

He knew it by the way you bobbed your head, hummed, and nodded every time he thrust inside your aching walls and dragged his cock back out. The way your teeth clamped hard on his thumb whenever he grazed a particularly sensitive spot and how your lips held him in like a gag, or some other thing to keep you quiet amidst the moans and the whimpers bubbling up in your chest.

Suddenly, Joel was at your other ear, lips grazing skin and tongue praising your every move.

“My sweet girl.”

“Doin’ such a good job stayin’ quiet.”

“Takin’ daddy’s cock so well, aren’t ya, darlin’?”

From that point on, every single one of your father’s words over the phone fell on deaf ears—all you could hear was Joel. All you could feel was Joel. Your lips parted as if starting to speak, but all that would come out were small puffs of air, perfectly in sync with each one of Joel’s thrusts.

“You okay, hon? You sound…distracted,” your dad pressed. A hint of concern rose from his end of the line.

At length, Joel gripped both of your legs and brought them up over his shoulders, and he grinned before kissing your ankle and shoving his cock even deeper.

“Yes!” you yelped as you crushed the phone to your ear, hoping your father couldn’t hear any of the filthy sounds down below, “Just a little stretched—I mean stressed out, is all.”

The sick, smug fuck currently wedged eight inches deep inside you almost burst out laughing. If you weren’t so perilously close to your fourth orgasm of the night, you would’ve told Joel to take a long walk off a short bridge.

“Just worried about grades a-a-and all,” you stammered.

Joel leaned forward and almost tore a scream out of your chest—his tip was kissing the edge of your cervix now.

“Yes, sir. I will.” You tried your hardest not to whine and almost let out a sigh, “I’ll…ask him about it, for sure.”

As bone-crushingly fun as this all was, Joel was close.

He could feel it in the furthest recesses of his stomach; he was about to blow his load.

So, leveraging his weight to strike just the right angle and pushing his thumb in to stifle your moans, Joel sped up and drew even closer, face-to-face, so he could see your every expression from a hair’s breadth away.

He was so near he could hear your dad’s droning voice. See you struggle to take cock the closer you got to your release. You hadn’t cum in such quick succession…ever, really. All but one of the guys you’d let between your legs before seemed like amateurs compared to Joel, and to be honest, you weren’t sure if you could make it to four.

You popped his thumb out of your mouth and mumbled some ‘Sure, okay’ or other to your dad before casting a pleading look up at Joel. His hips were working up to a ruthless pace.

You covered the mouthpiece.

“I can’t, Joel.”

“Sure you can, sugar.”

“Joel,” you hissed, and tried to grab his wrist, when you felt your stomach start to cave. Every exposed inch of skin gave way to waves of heat, and your toes curled in. Worst of all, Joel was letting out sounds you hadn’t ever heard—short, ragged breaths that broke off in low groans—and it felt as though he were cradling your head. Holding you to him. Your eyes were locked on one another, your mouths practically panting in time, and what parts of you had not yet become commingled with him were practically coated with sweat. And shaking.

Then, in tones that rang like music to your ears:

“Alright, I’ll let ya head to bed, then. G’night, pumpkin.”

Your dad hadn’t even fully hung up the phone before you flung it across the car. Heels dug deep in Joel’s back.

“Cum for daddy,” Joel coaxed, “Cum all over this cock.”

You didn’t need much more instigation than that.

You came. He followed.

And it probably split his eardrum in two having his name screamed so fucking loud, but frankly, Joel hadn’t seen a reason for going deaf that he could’ve enjoyed so much.

Then, he didn’t sink so much as simply collapse on top of you while you both kicked back and let the waves of ecstasy roll over you. You adored his warmth in spite of the heat practically suffocating you both in that car.

Until it was in you.

Sticky, sweet dripping inside you.

You pushed Joel hard in the shoulder.

“Did it…”

“What?”

“Joel!”

You flipped your legs down and tapped his abdomen furiously, telling him, pull out, pull out right fucking now, and Joel gently obliged. Dragged his cock three-fourths of the way out when a frail, tattered condom came loose around the head of his cock and almost fell off entirely. That damn prehistoric rubber had broken inside you.

“JOEL!”

“I’m sorry! Fuck, I— fuck.”

Joel scrambled to get his cum-drenched cock and what remained of the condom away from your body, but the damage was done. You started throwing on clothes.

“I’m ovulating this week, I am so fucking fucked!”

Joel swallowed, shimmying his boxers and jeans back into place and scoping the front seat for his shirt.

“What’s…ovulating?”

You wanted to tear your hair out at the root.

There was no way this man had survived half a century on earth and didn’t understand the menstrual cycle.

“It means I can get pregnant if we don’t get a Plan B up in this bitch immediately. Let’s GO!”

That part seemed to click. Joel almost fell over himself trying to find his keys, while you slid out of the Bronco.

“Where are you going?!”

“To— to try and get some of this shit out of me first!”

Joel bounded after you, and within the first steps, you were sprinting across the parking lot. Your sweaty, half-naked companion tried—and failed—to slow you down.

“Are you not on birth control?” Joel huffed.

“Are you not capable of buying condoms more than once every fucking decade—or three?” you snapped.

Your strides were growing wider and more frantic by the second. Joel clutched his side and struggled to keep up.

“I’m…sorry,” he grunted, more embarrassed and worn-out than anything at the moment, “I’m sorry, darlin’.”

“‘Sorry’ doesn’t get your cum out of me, daddy.”

Your words couldn’t have gotten any more caustic or merciless—or inopportune—if you tried.

As it was, you were passing by the breezeway where all the bored lacrosse players were still lounging around, cracking cold ones, and craning their necks to see what the fuss outside was all about. The sounds of your feet racing fast on gravel and you and Joel’s raucous, bickering back-and-forth had caught their attention, and shortly, Connor was sticking his head around the corner. His expression—along with all the faces behind him—had twisted with horror. Confusion. A visible look of disgust.

Joel had just slowed down to catch his breath. He doubled over and braced both hands on his knees.

“I’ll fuckin’…duct tape my dick next time I hit it, honey!” he wheezed, barely loud enough for you to hear but perfectly audible to all the terrified guys around him.

Joel turned his head and almost groaned.

Then he was straightening himself back up, starting to retreat from the group who had him pinned with genuinely frightened—and nauseated—looks.

Joel normally wouldn’t care. This time, though, he threw his hands up and thought, fuck it, I’ll clear the air.

Over his shoulder, he grinned, yelling back to the guys:

“I’m not actually her dad!”

All of them stared back. Half-jealous, half-awestruck, Connor stood up, raised his beer, and called after him:

“I SURE FUCKIN’ HOPE YOU’RE NOT!”

[honkytonk-hangman]

In Sickness...

Jake Seresin x Aviator!Reader

Summary: Jake feels his pulse jump and his stomach fly when he talks to or about you. Obviously, this must mean he's gravely ill.

Notes: mentions of a cheating boyfriend, jake convinced he's sick when really he is in loooveeee

Masterlist

“Hey, Hangman, can I talk to you for a minute?”

Jake, despite his usual goal of doing everything in his power to get on Phoenix’s nerves, finds himself ignoring the need to be quite annoying. His antics aside, he knew his fellow aviator well enough by now to recognise when she was up for his shit, and when she absolutely wasn’t.

That doesn’t mean he’s not going to be a little bit of a douchebag, though.

“Give me a second, Trace, I’ll need to start my timer.” he makes a show of observing his watch and starting a countdown from sixty seconds. Phoenix ignores him, and in place of possibly giving him a dead arm, she instead comes to a stop in front of him, her arms crossing over her chest in a way that was just a Natasha Thing, and not actually a sign of closed body language-thing

“You’re going to be at Mav and Penny’s later, right?” she asks, even though he knows he’s never given the impression of having any other plans, and she knows it. Jake simply nods, still pretending to count down.

“Right. Well… maybe take it easy on Cricket tonight, okay?” Phoenix asks him, her voice soft and quiet in a manner that makes Jake mess up his countdown, and subsequently drop his wrist and the bit entirely.

“I’m under the impression that I always take it easy on my favourite member of the orthopteran insect family,” he poses, and it's not untrue. He didn’t snipe with Cricket like he did with the others, mostly because she never sniped back, so trying to maintain a faux adversarial relationship would just be boring. No, Cricket was far sweeter and more wholesome than literally anyone he’d ever met, like Elle Woods had a lovechild with Barbie, and instead of banter, he’d found it irresistible and perpetually rewarding to tease her about her Certified Disney Princess status.

(Jake will never let her forget the time a small child at the beach approached her to ask if she was a mermaid, and that wasn’t even the only instance he’d witnessed something like that happening.)

 Phoenix shifts uncomfortably in front of him and purses her lips.

“Look, just… give her a break tonight,” she pushes. Jake frowns even deeper, his own mood becoming solemn now.

“What's wrong? Is she alright?” the questions leave his mouth before he can really consider perhaps only asking one, to keep some semblance of cool. Phoenix dances from foot to foot again and nods, but then quickly makes the universal noise, gesture and expression of ‘well, no, actually’.

“She, uh, broke up with her boyfriend a few days ago.” Nat reveals, and oddly, it's the last thing Jake was expecting to hear, and the last thing he’d expect her to divulge to him.

“Oh.” he says, a little unsure of what else to say. Blinking rapidly, Phoenix starts nodding again, this time in a sort of commiserating manner, as if they often gossiped.

“Yeah, she came home to find the prick was fucking one of his colleagues…” She all but spits the words. Her hands form fists where they’re still tucking into her folded arms.

“She's actually really torn up about it, but you know Cricket. She’s not very good at not being positive, you know? So she’s just bottling it up, and I figured, maybe your usual game with her might not be so lighthearted right now. You know she would never tell you if you actually hurt her feelings, so…” Phoenix manages to catch herself before she descends into a full on ramble.

In all the years he’d known her, Jake had only ever witnessed Phoenix fully ramble once, several years ago back in Lemoore, when she and Halo had downed eight shots in ten minutes, and she then proceeded to give him a thirty minute TEDTalk about how cockroaches were basically just incredibly simple AI machines, interrupted every so often when she dozed off against his shoulder, only to pick right back up like nothing had happened.

Pushing the memory aside, Jake takes in her words slowly before at last he releases a deep breath.

He actually finds himself a little taken aback by the sheer depth of anger that lances through him at the thought of Cricket being treated like that. Nobody deserves to be cheated on, but Cricket was simply someone that Jake doesn’t believe anything bad should ever happen to. Around the same time he comes to this conclusion, Jake also becomes aware that as his anger simmers down, he’s struck with the need to seek out his squadmate, and comfort her, something which, if Jake is honest with himself, is not something he has much experience with. He was much more likely to offer space to someone in need, so this sudden urge causes his brow to furrow.

Jake chooses to compartmentalise this oddness for now, but makes a mental note for later to figure out when exactly he’d developed such a strong fondness for Cricket, and more importantly, how exactly that had happened without him knowing.

For now, Jake just gives Pheonix a level nod, and what he hopes is an expression she takes to mean he understands. He then tries to get a hold of his rogue fondness and leashes it with what he thinks is a brotherly, friendly reaction, a more normal reaction for him to have towards his squadmate.

“Does she want him punched or something?” he asks, feeling as though anything more would reveal too much of his scattered, fond thoughts. Jake purses his lips when he realises that ‘fondness’ was quickly becoming an understatement he’ll have to address at some point.

Phoenix's lips curve into a genuine smile, and she chortles softly, shaking her head.

“Well, you’ll have to get in line if she does. I’ve got first dibs.” she states, cracking her knuckles and then her neck, making Jake snort, and shrug, glad to know that perhaps he wasn't the only one suddenly feeling protective.

“I’m sure we could come up with a wrestlemania-worthy finishing move, a la The Hardy Boys to sort him out.” Jake chortles, imagining he and Nat in matching championship belts, and ignoring her raised eyebrow. He knows from that one movement alone that she is filing this information about him away to whip out like a trap card, but compared to the other information she might have gleaned from his reaction to the situation, he doesn’t care so much.

(Besides, Jake felt no shame about his love for Attitude-Era WWE, and if he ever gets the chance to repay her for the thirty minutes of cockroach facts he could have lived his whole life without needing to know, well, now he knew exactly what his topic of choice would be.)

Four hours later, Jake, for some reason, cannot stop thinking about his conversation with Phoenix. He tried chalking it up to the fact that it was an unusual request she’d made of him, but he knows that is bull. Jake is far too invested all of a sudden in your personal life, in your feelings, in a way that honestly, he never has been before. Or at least, has never realised before, because the more Jake lingers on the idea that you were cheated on, he has to confront the fact that these feelings might just have been there all along, and that actually, your happiness and wellbeing are extremely important to him.

He keeps his distance when you arrive with Halo at Penny and Mav’s, but he eyes you hawkishly anyway, uncaring if he’s obvious about it or not. He wants to believe that if he hadn’t known, he’d have spotted your much more reserved demeanour immediately, but honestly, he's not really sure of anything now when it comes to you. Jake isn’t sure if Phoenix spoke to the others, if he was just the last to know, but there is an air of tenderness in the way the others greet you, which wasn't entirely unusual in itself, yet the softness is palpable even from where he sits on the other side of the yard.

He watches you put on a good show, smiling sweetly at Penny as she rushes over to say hello, but the moment you dont think others are paying attention, your features fall and Jake decides that it is basically unacceptable for you to look that sad ever again.

When you disappear through the backdoor, to put the share platter you’ve bought into the fridge he assumes, Jake doesn’t even excuse himself from the conversation he’s supposedly in before he’s beelining for the house. Behind him, he can vaguely hear Javy and Payback protest, but he doesn’t pay them any mind.

Jake steps through the sliding back doors quietly, closing the door behind him and shutting out the rest of the barbeque, if only for a few minutes. He moves softly through the small back room and towards the kitchen, once more surprised to find out just how pleased he is when you turn to look at him right away. That was new… or was it? Jake thinks perhaps he should stop trying to figure things out.

“Hey! Jake!” you greet cheerfully, and he’s comforted a little that your smile reaches your eyes.

“I didn’t catch you this afternoon, so I didn't get to find out your fruit platter preference, but Javy told me anything but pineapple–” you launch right away into friendly conversation, and oddly, this small normality brings him comfort too, after his afternoon of quiet worry. Jake nods at your words as you continue explaining your fruit platter, and if he hadn't other things on his mind, he would have voiced his amusement at the fact you’d somehow managed to cut or arrange all the fruits into the shape of jets.

Anger bubbles in him once again, at the idea that anybody would do anything to cause you to be upset. You, who cuts fruit into themed shapes, and who makes sure to ask every member of the team their food preferences, and who, he’s almost certain, has made the yoghurt dip you're currently unwrapping completely from scratch just for this casual get together.

How could any sane person know you, know how sweet and caring and fundamentally, altogether good you are, and still choose to do something that would hurt you?

More importantly, how could a man be with you and want anyone else?

Jake takes a step forward and fixes you with what he hopes is not an expression that reflects his inner anger, but gives off something more like softness. He’s not sure he’s ever really had a serious conversation with you before, especially not one that wasn't about work, so he’s surprised how natural it feels to show you something more genuine than his usual playful amusement.

“Are you alright?” he hears himself ask you, almost regretting it when your expression drops immediately, and you look away from him, back to your fruit platter which you now seem to be pointless rearranging just so you don't have to look at him. You attempt to wave him off after a few moments, plastering a smile on and scrunching your nose as you continue to not look at him.

“I’m okay. Really. Things weren’t right for a while, so it’s sort of a relief, really.”

Jake thinks that maybe in a few months time, those words might actually be believable, but Phoenix was right. You were such a naturally happy and uplifting person, it’s clear to Jake that you were struggling to let yourself be sad or angry about it all.

You seem to be expecting him to speak, because you glance back at him several times before you seem to really get a look at his face, at which point you stop messing with your platter and turn to face him properly.

“Thank you for asking, though, I… I really appreciate that,” you murmur, wringing your hands together, before realising what you’re doing and smoothing them out over your sundress instead. Jake feels his pulse speed up. Or maybe it slows, he’s not sure, he just knows that his heart beat becomes irregular, and before he knows what he's doing, he’s stepping even closer towards you.

“Cricket,” he begins, a frown beginning to crease his brow, which your eyes flicker to consciously, as if you were concerned about his feelings. “Just say the word, and his nose will be irreparably broken. For the rest of his life he’ll be telling people it's an old football injury. Maybe he’ll even need surgery to fix it enough that it’s even remotely normal again,” Jake watches your eyes widen and blink as he speaks, but he makes sure to keep any trace of humour from his voice, so you properly understand just how serious he’s being. “Hell, it doesn't even need to be his nose. I’ll break his collarbone, I've heard that's the most painful in the long run…”

When you let out a soft sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh, Jake almost thinks he needs to rephrase his offer, but your soft smile and the almost shy look you shoot at him before you drop your gaze for a moment assures him you understood that he wasn’t joking, even a little.

“Sometimes…” you purse your lips and frown, struggling to find the right words, but you begin wringing your hands slowly again and the movement seems to lend you some confidence. “Sometimes I really wish I could be more like Phoenix… or, more like anybody else, really–” Jake has to physically clamp his mouth shut to stop himself protesting that point and let you talk.

“Sometimes, I wish I was someone who would take you up on that offer. I… I feel like I should want to want that… but I don’t…” you trail off and sigh again, but this time, the exhale seems to take a weight off your chest, like simply admitting these feelings out loud was what you really needed.

You look back up at him properly, and smile again. Jake thinks his pulse has stopped altogether now, and begins to seriously consider reporting to medical first thing Monday morning.

“But, I promise that if I ever change my mind about the severe breaking of certain bones, I’ll know exactly who to talk to.” Your smile widens just slightly, a little mischievous almost, like even just joking about it was very cheeky of you. Jake on the other hand, just believes it to be the only correct course of action.

He opens his mouth to respond, but you begin talking again, dropping your fidgeting hands to hang more relaxed at your sides.

“A lot of my life I haven’t really been surrounded by people who’ve looked out for me, or folks who I can really trust… and I know we’re not really friends, more like work friends, but–” you suddenly cut yourself off and shake your head with a little chortle.

“It doesn’t matter, ignore me–”

“–We’re friends.” Jake can’t stop himself from protesting this time. You blink at him like this is surprising to you. “We are friends, Cricket… I know I–” Jake cuts himself off like you had just done and grinds his teeth a little. This was not a conversation he went around having very often, if ever, at all. “You know I wouldn’t poke fun at you if I didn’t care. I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t think we were friends,” he says, hoping his words didn’t give away exactly how much he cared. You seem to search his face, but you’re nodding, as if he was the one who needed assuring in this situation.

Jake starts to wonder then if he was actually becoming seriously ill, and all of his reaction to this afternoon has just been one big fugue episode. That idea is genuinely more believable to him at this moment, that Jake is really, actually currently unconscious in the on base hospital, with a skyrocketing fever and some other terrible things, than all of this sudden personal change and inner realisation happening so naturally and smoothly and without him having a say in it.

But then you’re smiling at him again, bright and genuine and all thoughts of climbing fevers and sudden illness evaporate. As sad as it sounds, Jake would never dream of you smiling at him like that, the sight so affecting and sweet that he could never come up with on his own. However, he does conclude he’ll probably be seeing it a lot in his dreams from now on. He thinks this should cause panic in him, he should not be planning to dream about one of his squad mates smiling at him, but unsurprisingly to him now, panic is the furthest thing he feels about it.

“Well, I just know that I’m not always good at asserting myself, but I know that you guys… you guys will do it for me.” You give a little shrug. Jake feels a little shame then, that he’s worked with you for several months now and has not once picked up on the fact that you were completely aware of your own tendency to be a bit of a pushover.

It dawns on him that every time he teased you for being ‘too nice’, and every time you laughed or shook your head in amusement, the real joke was on him. It’s a joke that Jake doesn't find particularly funny right now. He’s not sure he ever will.

“Sorry, I’m being so dramatic and grim!” you say suddenly, and this time your mood change isn’t fake or put on. Jake shakes his head at you, and at last feels some of his regular programming begin to seep back in. He chooses to make a show of leaning back against the counter and carefully crosses his arms over his broad chest in a way that he knows looks incredibly sexy (Javy has assured him), a small smirk slowly spreading over his features.

“Cricket,” he drawls out slowly, somewhat relieved that he feels more himself again. You double take as you look back up at him from where you’ve started fiddling with your fruit platter again, your eyes blinking rapidly as you now quickly try to avoid his whole side of the room. Jake’s grin grows ever so slightly when he has your attention, even if you seem too nervous to look at him now.

Unlike most of the women Jake had worked with, you didn't seem to try to, or perhaps you simply were unable to, hide the effect Jake had on you, how he could so easily make you flustered. It's not something he’s totally unfamiliar with, after all, plenty of women around the Hard Deck were the exact same, but the fact that you aren't some civilian looking to get laid, and are in fact one of the best aviators he knows, makes it all the sweeter.

(Jake had once tried to reconcile the way you handled yourself in the air, with the way you were at all other times, but he could never quite do the maths on it, so it was better for his brain if he didn't think about it at all.)

Honestly, Jake knows his getting a reaction out of you is an act of self ego-stroking, but he loved making a spectacle of himself, just to watch how you would sputter and go all mushy, and if he’s even more honest, a big part of his enjoyment lay in the thought that perhaps, he was doing you a favour, giving you something to think about, boyfriend be damned. He supposes he doesn’t need to worry about that being a problem anymore.

Jake then pauses then, and wonders when exactly you having a boyfriend had become a ‘problem’, a threat to him specifically, because the more he thinks about the idea now (hypothetical as it is), the more his skin starts to itch under his shirt.

Perhaps he was getting sick after all.

“Yes, Jake?” you ask, still avoiding looking his way, and trying to use a tone of voice that was either exasperated or ignorant, but your slightly higher pitch gives you away.

“You didn’t say that I was your friend, too,” he faux complains, watches you shake your head a little, but fail completely at keeping the smile off of your face.

With your platter now deemed ready, you pick it up and turn toward him, holding it out for him to take. Jake, without thought, does so.

“You are my friend, too, Jake,” you tell him, far more sincerely this time, and Jake feels his pulse do that odd thing again. He swallows thickly, and nods, before you direct him out the back door.

For the rest of the afternoon, Jake can’t help but hover, never moving too far away from where you are, and when he doesn’t have an excuse to linger close to you, he always keeps one eye directed your way.

[callmehopeless]

Prompt

Idea: "True Love's Kiss Motif". In which a prince is cursed to live an immortal life. He enjoys life at first but grows bored easily. Begins his search to find true love's kiss by courting various women throughout his life. Playboy phase (multiple women)?

Grows old and has never found true love. And he tries to off himself more than once to many failures.

But one day, he somehow awakens right before he's brought back to life at the crossroads between worlds. He meets Death. He decides then and there that the only way to truly die is to obtain a kiss from Death. But while he courts Death and shows him/her/them how to live-- he finds himself falling for him/her/them.

(Can be any characters or pairings? Go wild with funny antics, angsty, Happy Ending or Bittersweet… I love everything you write <3)

Moo loaded a shotgun and pointed it right at my chest.

BETWEEN SPACES

Ominis Gaunt x Male!OC (very nonspecific)

Word Count: 1500ish

This is just incredibly painful angst with very small comfort, PLEASE ENJOY!

Ominis Gaunt met him, in the shadow and the night.

Long after life should have left him - after his bones ought to have been dust, and the world had turned without him. Long after his friends had passed into nothing, and on, and on: onward, until the world had changed irreparably.

Anne had gone first. Lovable, gentle Anne. Anne, who had survived so much: who had courted death and run from him. Anne had gone in quiet slip - somewhere in the middle of her life. Ominis had grieved her, so sudden and quick - and asked death to take him, too.

Death had not.

And so Ominis Gaunt had sought. Bony hands, pale fingers; undressing women with the talents of a gentleman. The efforts of a man of his station: the Prince of Slytherin, and the heir to all of its curses and wants. He had fallen into desperation, almost: feverish, to find meaning and purpose and something to explain it all.

Once, a handful of years ago - a boy had whispered something in his ear.

“Don’t you grow tired of all of this?”

 They had been sixteen, then, and he had not known kisses or love. He had known of stories, and music, and had liked to imagine them as things that were real, and proper, and meaningful as anything.

He could fall in love. He could.

His face had been a mysterious thing - only felt a handful of times, and only in the throes of the moment. He had been alive, in the creases of those cheekbones. When the pad of his thumb had run over those lips.

And then - that boy had vanished, too. And he had forgotten entirely that life could be vast, and music could be good. Stories could have meanings, and not simply morals.

But that was long ago. And the days turned to months, and the months into years.

Sebastian was next. His brother, and his life. War. Muggles have always liked war, and Sebastian had always been fit to raise one. When he received the letter, and his wand traced the paper of it: he had not cried. Not properly.

He had drank, and drank, and tried to forget. He had lain in the grass and tried to picture the colours of the sky. He had wondered what he should feel - whether someone who had lived half as long would feel twice as much. Whether the curse that had been laid at his feet meant, in the end: he would slowly feel himself seeping through the cracks of the pavement, worn away by the bombs dropped from afar.

The Great War came, and ended. Another. Another.

He had fucked his way through it. Women - always women. Always the curves of them against him: and never too much of anything else. Anything else would hurt, too much, too quickly: too many things lost along the way. And he had kissed, and fucked, and touched, and lit matches under himself that burned out. The fifties had come, and he had looked much the same. Not that he had known that, of course - but he had kept himself well, and groomed.

Smoked? He had smoked most in the sixties. He had wondered if it was yellowing his teeth, or making him smell acrid - but he stopped caring by the seventies, and he yearned for the old smoking bars. The comfort of the continual rise of it. The coughs, and the jackets. Christ, but he missed the dinner jackets.

The time passed in a haze. Everyone was gone, by then, and he was frozen. A piece of time, long antiquated. Most of his days spent in vague states of removal from reality. He missed Anne for most of it, and Sebastian for half of it (though that half, he thinks, was an agonising half). He found he missed the gargoyles in the classes, and Professor Binns’ innocuous droning. He missed everything.

Wizarding War. He had a brief, painful realisation of the truth of it. His own flesh and blood. That inclination would have inspired something in him, if his life hadn’t been so bloody long.

But then it was done. And then the eighties. And then the nineties, and he only briefly measured that a boy came to stop what would try to pass.

The millennium came over the Thames, and Ominis Gaunt would sit and listen to the cars, and the water, and the traffic as it moved over Tower Bridge. His heart would barely oscillate - he would go home, some nights, and lay on his bed.

Once, a handful of years ago - a boy had whispered something in his ear. He forgot. He forgets the words.

It is a night in November, and the first frost is skating over London.

He has always preferred the cold. Ominis thinks, like him: it touches everything, and then melts away. Leaves it no better nor worse for the privilege. Entirely the same as it has always been, and that is quite alright. His felt coat wrapped tight, and he walks to the bridge. Breath clouding in the air.

His wand is barely needed, now. But he holds it in his sleeve, as he has for a hundred years. A presence, on the bridge: a man. Tall, and imposing. The rest left to the air and the sky.

“How many years has it been?”

The man asks him, and the voice is strange. The elocution is beautiful; sharp, and from another time entirely. The moment Ominis hears it, something within him balks. Hairs stand on end. The planet, in its wisdom, feels as though it slows.

“I’m sorry–?”

He has missed feeling confused. The world has become full of certainties.

Snow falls, soft and cool. Kisses on skin. The touch of cold fingers.

“You have run for so long. Don’t you grow tired of all of this?”

Oh.

Tired. Dear God, but he is tired.

He used to sleep in the Transfiguration Courtyard. His head on a thigh, and his heart in his throat. Someone was there; someone warm, and loving. Someone who kissed him, quietly. A boy who loved him before he could love himself - and perhaps long after he stopped.

A step forward. Another. A third, and he reaches out with his hand.

A robe meets his fingers, and he tugs on it. Soft, smooth; draped. He has not aged much since he was sixteen, and neither has Ominis Gaunt. Somewhere, in the madness - a curse had fallen on him, and all things had stopped.

Everything has its time.

“Where did you go? I–”

Ominis’ voice cracks. Something in him wrenches. His eyes burn, and it is the first time in so long that it feels like lead.

“--it wasn’t a mercy. It wasn’t. I would’ve gone with you years ago. I loved you–I’ve loved you all my life.”

Through loving Anne, and Sebastian, and Noctua. And the wars, and the moments between them: there has been blood, and sex, and pain, and knowledge, and a sadness that goes on and on.

Death is cold. Death is so terribly cold.

He would have loved Death all his life, if he could have.

He has always loved the cold.

Death reaches out to him, and the hands are not so cold as he remembers. Not really. They feel like Anne, in her soft whispers at the end. Like Sebastian: the steadfast drive of him. The way he would never depart from what he needed. Death came for them both, and loved them just as much.

“I’ve loved you all these years,” Death tells him, with a gentle movement of his voice. The snow is softer, then, and Death reaches out with both hands.

Ominis does not take them.

Instead, he leans forward. His own fingers - cold and dry as they are, and full of youth - reach up, and they touch the boy’s face.

Hard lines, and soft skin. He isn’t cold; he is warm, and kind, and good. Death did not snatch - Death carried. Death held, and Death let everything be where it ought. In its time, in its way: everything to its nature.

To gentleness; Death brought kindness. To fight; Death brought war.

But to love–

A swallow. Ominis’ glassy eyes move about, unseeing, and he traces his thumb over the pad of a lip. Over the curve of the flesh, there, and he wishes for a taste of it. It is all he has wished for. He cannot think of anything else he has wanted more.

The snow falls on the Thames, like smattered, pressed kisses in the dark.

“Kiss me,” Ominis pleads. He pleads, and remembers.

And Death does not hesitate for a moment. Death does not judge him the years; nor spend another second without him. Death does not think on promises that were not made, nor things lost.

Death has waited so long,

And Death has loved him so much.

I'm not crying, fuck you, you're crying.

(Much love, Totomoo! Thank you so much for your support <3)

Feel free to send requests!

[honey-beann]

🐾

🐾 - Pet names

Thanks for the drabble request, anon! I hope you like it, I had a lot of fun writing something this lighthearted :)

Also I totally went over the word count here but since it took me less than an hour I've decided no one can question or judge me about this >:)

Honeyed Words (I'm Yours)

rk boys (Nines, Connor, Sixty) x Reader

Word Count: 1,849 (yeah... I know)

Leaning forward against the back of Hank's sofa with your arms folded over one another, you couldn't help but roll your eyes and fight back a sigh at the sight of the movies that Gavin, Tina, and Chris were saving to tonight's potential watch list.

"All rom coms? Seriously guys?"

You scoffed, watching as Gavin all but sneered in response, turning slightly to face you as you continued.

"Come on dude, where's your Halloween spirit?"

You teased, nudging him with your knuckles gently as he rolled his eyes at your antics, clearly far less amused than you were.

"It's September 23rd, don't you talk to me about Halloween until the month is over."

Groaning, you flung your body to the side, pressing your spine against the back of the couch and extending your arms straight out to either side of you as you pouted exaggeratedly,

"C'mon Reed, do you have to be such a stickler for seasonal deadlines?"

Instead of responding, your coworker just flipped you off, opening his mouth to call into the kitchen where all three of your boyfriends and their familiarly gruff father figure were standing around like divorcees at a barbecue.

"Hey robo cops, could you please come get your feral creature before I put it down myself?!"

He shouted, a smirk crossing his features when you pulled away from the couch to glare at him, already hearing the familiar sound of slightly swishing fabric and nearly silent footsteps that signaled the oncoming arrival of one of your partners.

"Y'know Reed, if you're really so worried about her being feral, you could consider getting a rabies shot. You've been looking a little sickly lately."

Sixty countered easily in response to your coworker's previous quip as he flung his arm across your shoulders, pulling you against him with a slight smirk.

You smiled at his easy embrace, nearly vibrating with joy as he kissed the top of your head, smiling down at you with that lopsided grin that always made you feel so giddy inside.

"Oh fuck off bullet brain, you're the one who let her do three shots of tequila tonight, don't act like I'm not allowed to be annoyed by her weird ass antics."

Sixty hummed in response, clearly feeling no urge to argue as he began guiding you towards the kitchen.

"C'mon Sugar, lets get some real food in you hmm?"

He purred against the shell of your ear, instantly lighting your cheeks on fire both with his proximity and his use of one of his favorite pet names for you, which never failed to give you butterflies.

As you grew closer to the dining area, he pressed gently on the small of your back to urge you past the threshold, though clearly you were a bit more tipsy than he'd realized, because you absolutely would've toppled over if not for the pair of familiarly strong hands that caught you by your shoulders.

You looked up slightly, taking in the sight of pale arms dotted with freckles that were barren of sleeves all the way up until just above the elbow, kept in place solely by the incredibly thorough job this individual had done while rolling them upward.

And that could only be...

"Nines."

You breathed out softly, feeling yourself melt a bit as you looked up into his eyes.

After well over a year of affection from all three of your partners, you just never got used to the way they all looked at you, or the sweet and familiar things they would call you in favor of your name.

And speaking of...

"Well hello there, Darling."

Nines spoke gently, quirking a brow at you in minor amusement as he looked you over for any signs of injury just in case he'd missed something during your brief fall.

You felt your cheeks grow warmer as the sound of his affectionate pet name for you passed his lips, making you melt even further beneath his persistent gaze.

"I uh, got kicked out of the living room."

You explained quietly, watching as Nines tilted his head slightly in response before looking towards Sixty, who shrugged before taking a few steps closer and placing his palm on top of your head affectionately.

"Gavin wasn't impressed at her input regarding tonight's films of choice. I figured if she was being that disruptive she likely needed something to eat. Isn't that right, Sweetheart?"

You blushed harder as yet another pet name passed his lips, but nodded nonetheless, hoping they hadn't noticed just how much you enjoyed it when they spoke of you so sweetly.

Of course, they had long since noticed your reactions, in fact, it was almost a bit of a game now to see who could get you to blush the hardest with affectionate nicknames alone.

Not that they would ever tell you that.

"Is that so?"

Nines questioned gently, his hand raising to your face to push a stray hair of yours behind your ear before his thumb and index finger trailed down to your chin, which he caught with ease between the two, tilting your face upwards to make sure you were looking at him as he spoke.

"Have you been up to no good, Little one?"

He all but purred, making you squeak a bit in response as you attempted to find words that just wouldn't come.

Thankfully though, you did have one saving grace, and his name was Connor.

"Are you two tormenting her again?"

He asked as he stepped away from the stove, wiping his hands off on a nearby dish rag before he moved closer to you, offering his open arms for you to all but leap into, happy to have the opportunity to hug the one android who you hadn't gotten the chance to be affectionate with since before you'd even arrived at the house earlier.

Sixty scoffed at Connor's question, but Nines simply gave a dismissive hum, leaning back against the counter and watching as you nuzzled against his predecessor's chest with a content sigh.

Meanwhile, Connor glared at his successors with mock disappointment, hoping to appease you and your childish attitude (tipsiness) by offering them a fake scolding.

"You both know better, look at her, she's being perfectly good tonight."

He said pseudo-sternly, smiling down at you with a grin that immediately left you breathless the moment that you looked up and took it in.

God, why were they all so damn beautiful?

At the sight of your eyes meeting his own, Connor leaned down to kiss your forehead, bringing one of his hands up to palm your cheek lovingly as he did so, stroking is softly with his thumb all the while.

He continued this in silence for a few moments before giving you yet another reason to attempt melting into the grout marks in Hank's kitchen floor.

"Don't you worry about them Honey, they're just being difficult because they want to see you squirm."

You swallowed thickly at the familiar and yet still immensely impactful nickname, which never failed to make your heart leap in your chest.

"O-okay."

You whispered, watching as Connor nodded in satisfaction at your response before guiding you back into the waiting arms of your other two android partners, who were watching you with marked amusement.

"I'll bring dinner out to you in just a few minutes."

Connor murmured against the back of your head as he pressed another gentle kiss to it.

"I was thinking you could go pick a comfy spot in the living room for all of us to sit together while you wait though. Does that sound alright, Baby?"

He asked gently, taking you by surprise yet again with his use of another pet name that made you feel like you were left gasping for air.

Still, you managed a floundering nod in spite of yourself, and followed Nines and Sixty out into the living room, where they helped you make a rather comfortable seating area on the floor, one that consisted of two huge bean bags, several couch pillows that no one was using, and at least four big blankets, one of which was for you to lay under.

And with that, the seating arrangements were completed, and all that was left to do was actually use them, which with how dizzy you were beginning to feel from the tequila earlier, was something you were quite eager for.

Nines chuckled as he took a seat a bit further back on one of the beanbags, spreading his legs apart for you to sit in between as he held himself up on his palms so that you could lean against his chest.

This was a fairly normal position for the two of you, but even so, it made your heart race as you felt his firm chest press against your back, solidly holding you up without any issue.

Still, even with this added distraction, your persistent urge to celebrate the upcoming holiday had you complaining to Gavin once more about his list of potential options, although this time you were hoping that at least one of your loving boyfriends would consider helping you out.

Sadly though, they seemed far too amused by your insistence to actually say anything, instead choosing to press gentle kisses against your head and the back of your hand as they laid the blanket over you wordlessly.

"Aww c'mon you guys, do you really wanna watch any of this junk?"

You asked, motioning towards the screen with a grumble of annoyance.

From the left of you, Sixty chuckled and raised your knuckles to his lips without a word.

Nines on the other hand, did speak up, placing a kiss to your cheek just before he did so, a certain level of amusement to his tone that had you squirming between his strong legs.

"I couldn't care less about what we watch, Sweetling."

He murmured against the shell of your ear, immediately causing you to shiver.

"And honestly, I think these are all movies Connor has mentioned wanting to see. Don't you want to make him happy?"

He teased, running a finger up and down your cheek as you nodded almost dreamily, sinking into his touch as if your body were suddenly weighed down by bricks.

"Y-yeah, sure, okay."

You said quietly, hearing Nines hum from above you just as Connor came out of the kitchen with a steaming bowl of food to offer you, Hank hot on his heels with a large bowl of popcorn for him and the other couch users to share.

You dug in immediately, not paying any attention to the movie choice debate until it was basically over, and by that point, you were already so sleepy that you hardly realized anyone was talking at all.

Drowsy and more than a little bit intoxicated, you sighed contentedly as you moved to squeeze between Nines and Sixty, allowing Connor to rest his head upon your lap as you played with his hair all the way up until you lost consciousness entirely.

Yeah, okay. Maybe rom com movie nights weren't so bad after all.

I hope you enjoyed this little drabble fic! If you want to request one for yourself feel free to check out this post :)

masterlist

AO3

[aquilacalvitium]

Rating my favourite fictional characters on how much I'd trust them to do my top surgery

Wander 🎩🪕(Wander Over Yonder) - Bugs Bunny level antics that waste about eleven minutes of everyone's lives and leave every single person convinced he couldn't do it. It would be the cleanest and easiest top surgery on record and I would walk away unscathed.

Commander Peepers 👁💥(Wander Over Yonder) - He'd take it deadly seriously and spend the whole thing nervously sweating. He would get it done but it wouldn't be flawless. Gods help me if Hater walks into the room during the surgery.

Jack Skellington 💀🎃(Nightmare Before Christmas) - A scientific and analytical mind bodes well for surgery. However. He is a skeleton and I'm fairly certain he doesn't understand how human bodies work or that we can't dismantle ourselves like some monsters. 0/10. Love him to bits. Wouldn't trust him as far as I can throw one of his rib bones.

Fantoccio 🧵🎭(Billie Bust Up) - I mean... I think? He'd take it seriously enough but I'm not sure he'd know what he was doing.

Barnaby 🦉☠️(Billie Bust Up) - Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me. ☠️☠️☠️

Alastor 🦌🔪(Hazbin Hotel) - Must I repeat the above. ☠️☠️☠️

Ingo/Emmet 🔼🔽🚂(Pokemon) - Yeah actually I think they'd do well. They'd take it seriously, do it flawlessly and I'd walk away with a chest flatter than Emmet's hopes and dreams after Ingo got Isekai'd

Sun/Moon ☀️🌙(FNAF) - Ha. HA. HAHAHA. I can't trust them with children's safety scissors.

The Innocent 🪁🐕(Koozå) - Sir/Ma'am/Other title. That is a child.

The Trickster 🪄🎁(Koozå) - Wouldn't even need to go under. I have seen this man summon people out of nothing, my chest would be flat before I could blink. He'd make a performance out of it though and probably make me feel not entirely safe because he is peak moral ambiguity.

The Doctor ⏳️🌌(Doctor Who) - One would take it seriously but I wouldn't trust his unsteady hands. Two would probably have an anxiety attack so that's a nope. Three, Four and Five I trust to get it done safely and seriously. Honestly Six is... well he's certainly the most eccentric regeneration so probably not. Seven I'm not sure would do it properly even though he could take it seriously. Then again he could surprise me, he's more compitent than he appears. Eight and Nine? Ah shit I dunno honestly. Ten's a yes, Eleven is a huge nope, Twelve is a very safe yes and Thirteen is also a safe yes. Fourteen is just Ten repeated so also a yes. I don't know Fifteen well enough to say yet.

James "Jamie" McCrimmon 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿🗡(Doctor Who) - He's got the steady hands and seriousness needed, yes. Unfortunately he is from the 18th century and about sixty years before anaesthesia was invented.

Sebastian 🖥🕸(Stardew Valley) - Yeah, actually. I think he'd take it seriously and have steady enough hands for it. I'm in safe company there 👍

Nico the Accordion Man 🪗⚙️(Kurios) - ??? I have no idea??? He's a handyman which bodes well and whatever he was doing with his fingers during Hypnotique tells me he's got the hands for it, but also Have You Seen the Way This Man Moves?

Chief Clown 🤡🎪(Classic Doctor Who) - (Oh yeah I'm getting hella obscure for some of these characters.) I'm pretty sure this man is a homicidal maniac. I have seen the face he makes when he kills someone. I wouldn't trust this lunatic within one mile of me while I am fully conscious and he is unarmed. Especially considering he has been unarmed every time I have seen him kill.

Sweet Cap'n Cakes 🎶🥯(Deltarune) - I love these three adorable sweethearts with my whole chest. And if I let them near my chest with anything sharp I'm afraid I won't have anything left to love them with.

Rouxls Kaard ♥️♦️♠️♣️(Deltarune) - This man. This indigo beanpole. This walking homosexual disaster. Can't make a puzzle more complex than "put box on button." Respectfully and deeply affectionately... ✨️no✨️

Wally Darling 👁🍎(Welcome Home) -

Hatbox Ghost 🎩🦯(Haunted Mansion) - NO. To both film and ride versions for different reasons.

Ghost Host 🪓➰️(Haunted Mansion) - 2023 film Hosty? Never. Put that axe down, sir. Ride Hosty? Well... He's a goober who's not half as dangerous as he appears. But I still wouldn't trust him to know what he's doing or particularly care too much if he accidentally killed me.

The Phantom 💀🎩(Phantom Manor) - Quite honestly I couldn't say. This man was adept at murder but only when given a reason, like his victims wanting to marry his daughter. I can thankfully say that I am queer enough for that to not apply to me. Doesn't make me trust him though.

The Prophet 🖤🎤(Legion of the Black) - Uh. Yeah, I think so. Yeah I think I'd be in okay hands, it wouldn't be flawless but it'd get done well enough.

Captain Rex 🪖🚀(Star Wars: The Clone Wars) - While I'd like to say battlefield first aid would give him some experience - which is true - surgeries are left up to droids. But even so I would say I'd be in safe hands. I trust him to get the job done well.

Ahsoka Tano 🗡🔶️(Star Wars: The Clone Wars) - Oh yeah. OH yeah. Safer than a Jedi holocron in the Jedi Temple library vault (before Cad Bane showed up, anyway).

Natemare 👁🎸(Natewantstobattle) - Ah yes because that is a level of mental instability that I trust to safely and confidently give me surgery. /s

Phantom 📜✒️ (Natewantstobattle) - If you know Phantom you're probably expecting a no, but he holds up his ends of any deal he makes! I absolutely trust him to give me the easiest, cleanest surgery ever. What I don't trust him to do is let me enjoy it for long because whoopsy-doopsy I'm now trapped inside his cane forever.

Lukas 🐈📖(Minecraft Story Mode) - Oh honey no, you stick to your books. He can kick ass and write a good story but he could never perform a surgery.

Helsknight ⚔️🔥(Hermitcraft) - The only things this man knows are Quote Meme, Rap and Be Pathetic. He made a pitfall trap for Welsknight because he forgot that literally every single Hermit has elytra and can fly, and then boasted about it, only to get deeply humbled. He has a total brain cell count of -1. I think you know my opinion.

[blackacre13]

loubbie having wild rough sex with a strap then realizing how good they are at it even if they’re in their 50s already lmao this is silly but like it goes something like “how are we in our 50s?” or whatever fits

“It was not,” Debbie snorted, her face turning red with laughter as Lou shook her head.

“I shit you not. Right in the dishwasher.”

“Next to Dani’s pink sippy cup?”

“I’m not a monster,” Lou rolled her eyes. “I’d never put it next to her favorite  one. It was next to the green one.”

“You’ve lost it, Miller,” the brunette grinned. “Now get over here. No more delays.”

“First off, it’s the most efficient way to clean them both,” the blonde pointed out, crawling onto the bed. “Second, you’re the one who asked me to find the bigger one.”

Lou sat the dildo down on the night table, the base suctioning to the surface with a bubble-like sound. “Now are you gonna kiss the hell out of me, Ocean, or not?”

“Get over here,” Debbie smirked, pulling the blonde in closer and wrapping her arms around her neck as she tugged her up along the bed and laid Lou flat against her.

“I thought you’d never ask, Mrs. Miller,” the blonde murmured, nails raking down Debbie’s chest as their lips meant until Lou was drifting down her wife, running her lips over her breasts, sucking at her nipples, biting her way down her stomach, making a detour to nip at her thighs before circling back to Debbie’s simmering heat to swirl her tongue through Debbie’s pooling arousal.

“Fuck, I love when Tammy takes the kids for the night,” Debbie moaned.

Lou looked up at Debbie from between her legs, arching an eyebrow before she wiped Debbie’s slickness off her lips with the back of her hand pointedly.

“Please don’t use your ex’s name and the word love in the same sentence, especially while my tongue is inside you.”

“She’s your ex too,” Debbie exhaled, pushing Lou’s head back down as the blonde laughed against her, grazing her clit maybe a little too hard with her teeth as Debbie cried out. “Was merely grateful for her as a babysitter precisely so I could have your tongue inside me.”

Lou bit down on her thigh before she looked up again. “Then clearly, I’m not doing enough to get your mind off of the kids,” she smirked, blindly grabbing at the dildo before plunging it into Debbie without warning, the brunette letting out a deep moan as her nails dug into Lou’s neck.

“Jesus, Fuck, Lou.”

“Had to shut you up,” Lou hissed, pumping the dildo in and out as Debbie groaned, cursing and grabbing at the blonde, biting down on her shoulder after reaching an entirely new level of loud to keep from going completely shrill. “Still thinking about anything else?”

“Just…your strap,” Debbie panted.

“Just the strap?” Lou asked, her rhythms stopping with the dildo just outside of Debbie, the tip brushing against her teasingly.

“And you…only you…Fuck!” Debbie moaned, Lou plunging the dildo all the way inside her. Hard. As Debbie fell over the edge, clinging to the blonde.

“Not bad,” Lou spoke aloud, an hour or so later, her finger running along Debbie’s exposed spine, tracing over her skin softly as Debbie let out a sleepy hum of agreement. “Glad to know we’ve still got game.”

“Strap game,” Debbie chuckled.

“That’s all mine, love.”

“Takes two to tango, Miller.”

“Also takes two for the finale,” Lou giggled, tugging at a fistful of Debbie’s hair to catch an additional moan from her partner before Debbie rolled over with a lazy smile.

“You get the Chinese and I get the ice cream?” Debbie asked.

“Just let me throw on some boxers.”

“Don’t,” Debbie grinned, watching the blonde stand up, walking towards the bathroom before placing a kiss on Debbie’s forehead. “Did you ever think we’d still be up to our same antics in our fifties?”

“Honey, you just wait until we hit our sixties,” Lou winked.

[soupedepates]

Emerens belongs to @hel-phoenyx

TW suicide mention and emotional incest

I loathe being vulnerable. I feel like I am dying. It isn't a feeling of shame, diffused, insidious, poisonous shame. I have forgotten what shame feels like. The last time I felt shame, yaya was showering me, I don't remember if I got dirty or just because she had said so. I was like, ten, perhaps? A bit old for that, but to be fair it stopped when I got sexually active and I really wanted her not to know.

It sounds so bad like that. It was mainly because my sense of hygiene was, is still, pretty bad. And she just wanted me not to catch any disease. She was always fretting about me being sick, or hurt, or whatever, she is still calling me every day to be sure I am not dead. That doesn't mean I always answer. I never do unless Aristophane is bugging me about it on the family groupchat. Or if I have over sixty missed calls. I am perhaps over a hundred today.

I lie still; I am here since yesterday, why? Emerens found me wasted on the rooftop, I was daring the devil and not caring what would happen if I fell. So he brought me at his place, probably because he wanted to feel superior, sir Van Heel wants to see a worse human waste than him. Oh, I let him the pleasure.

"Hey. You're awake", he says while throwing his backpack against the wall.

I don't have the strength to utter a word, so I give him a thumb up.

"Thanks God who doesn't exist, nobody has to clean up after your dead body. Can you imagine, someone going through your dump of a room?" Emerens laughs while opening his laptop. "#WherePapoulos is trending on the campus' twitter, since you missed Amane's class. Like, the only class you don't actively ditch."

I sigh and sit on the bed, rolled in the blanket. I reach for my phone, just to see the many notifications I've missed. Georgia has been blowing up my phone, hasn't she. I send her a text to prove me a living man.

"Anyway... You're planing to stay on mute or..."

If I talk, I would start ranting about the all-consuming emptiness, the void in my head, when it isn't a storm urging me to destroy everything around me. And you know, I loathe being vulnerable. I can not afford to be vulnerable. I text him "promise you won't tell anyone".

"Promise. First rule of the server." "I can't handle that", I whisper. "My brain can't handle that." "What. Depression? Big deal, everyone is depressed." "I am not. I can't be." "Dixit the guy that hasn't showered in days, whose primary alimentations are cigarettes and booze, and who tried to jump off the roof", he replies quickly. "Fuck you", I sigh. "I... I have been ignoring it successfully for the past month. I didn't care. It was good. Wonderful, even. It was empty, so a bit boring, and..." "That's why you've been pissing everyone off. You were ignoring your depression and you were bored." "Basically. And I wasn't feeling it, you were the one depressed, not me", I argue. "Wo-o-ow. Rude."

He giggles unsincerely. Is he really trying to lighten up the mood? That's stupid. Why does it feel nice?

"And well, yesterday, I was wasted and I needed to get rid of that weakening feeling. It had to be radical. So the rooftop. And the rest is history." "Honestly, coming from anyone else and said with this monotonous tone, it would have me really concerned. It just ridiculously makes sense with you."

I burst out laughing for the first time in weeks. A genuine laughter, not a cruel giggle after some antics of mine.

"I bought you food", he says while handing me a konbini plate. "I am not hungry..." "Do you feel dizzy?" "A bit." "Big stomachache and wanting to puke?" "Yes..." "You're hungry. So eat."

[elecman108]

"They do get a bit... quirky, but there's so many of them that, in all honesty, if you get sick of one there's bound to be another that will piss you off even more." -Vincent, probably, to some new hire

Fuck! I finished the Fazbear Crew and almost forgot Manora Mouse from Popgoes! There's a few from Popgoes that I skipped over (Cody Coyote, Lillie Lamb, Holly Robin, Morse Mole, Owen Owl), some mainline characters I skipped (Jeremy Fitzgerald, Fritz Smith, William Afton, the Mimic, Map Bot/Staff Bots, Music Man, there's probably more I'm forgetting), and some that I do have that are missing for specific reasons (eg. Lefty missing bc Marionette is here, Fredbear missing bc Goldie is here, Spring Bonnie missing because Springtrap/Vanny is here*), and some other Fangame characters I probably would want to add, but this is already like, seventy characters. I'm taking a break from them lol.

You're insane for clicking the readmore by the way. All characters, in order of left to right, by colour set:

PINK: Helpy, Cindy, Pigpatch, Pete, Mangle, Bonnet, Cupcake, Chica, Cyan, Katlynn, Minirena, Bidybab, Electrobab.

RED: XOR, Bane, Roxanne Wolf, Foxy, Ned Bear, Stone, Ray, Eclipse, Circus Baby, Ennard, Cassie Stevens, Ella, Marionette.

ORANGE: Sun, Penguin, Gregory Fazbear, Freddy Fazbear, Bloodmoon**, Jackal**, Grimm**, Jackie**, Orville, Manora, Fen, El Chip, Wendy.

YELLOW: Deedee, Doug, Blake, Princess**, Springtrap, Goldie Fredbear, Blank, Plushtrap.

GREEN: Popgoes, Happy Frog, Lolbit, Virtua**, Dreadbear, Chester, JJ, Montgomery Gator, Glitch.

BLUE: Mike Schmidt**, Reiyn, Vanessa, Ballora, Carnie, Bonbon, Lolzhax, DJ Music Man, Candy, Sara, Moon, Balloon Boy, Bonnie, Stanley, Liz Schmidt**, Discord, Vanny, Monika.

PURPLE: RXQ**, Rachel, Saffron, Mystie, Mr. Hippo, MXES, Shadow**, Vincent.

*Vanny AND Springtrap are both technically "Spring Bonnie", as Springtrap is the original Spring Bonnie and Vanny took over the appearance as the "original" Spring Bonnie given Springtrap had transitioned decades ago.

**Everyone with this has an alternate name, so in order: Jack-O-Moon, Jack-O-Bonnie, Grimm Foxy, Jack-O-Chica, Nightmare Cupcake, Delilah Afton, Michael Afton, Elizabeth Afton, Alex/RWQFSFASXC, Steven.

And, for anyone wondering about the relationships across the board with so many random Bisexuals...?

(Shit Pic Quality is my passion <3)

Mystie divorced Mr. Hippo forever ago and she's well over it because she has so many kids (the adult Animatronics like Cupcake, Foxy, Monty, etc) and grandkids (the kid-like Animatronics like Minirena, Bonbon, etc) to take care of. Mr. Hippo is still sad about it and keeps trying but it ain't working.

Katlynn and Wendy are my favourite girls, yes they're OCs, but they're in my AU so they go here. <3

Shadow and RXQ are my two favourite dead spectral idiots who are kind of like sandpaper against everyone else but each other. They're the perfect flavour of weird for each other yet grate the nerves and invade the privacy of everyone else around them on purpose just to get a rise out of them.

Foxy and Goldie are like hell together - they're in love, then Foxy's over here flirting with every man at the bar and Goldie's in the arms of DJ Music Man and flirting with Sara for some reason. They are both entirely unfaithful to each other yet still keep the other in the loop of their actions and it's a disaster. They've been besties for so long and the mutual pining for sixty years is REAL.

Baby and Ballora met each other once and decided to be essentially married. They have been together since their location had it's opening night, and have three kids (Minirena, Electrobab, and Bidybab). They're essentially like Freddy and Bonnie, but well before Freddy and Bonnie even existed. They're the ultimate power couple.

Doug and Rachel both owned a business and are actually married. Rachel jokes that her coworkers (Ray, Bane, Pete) are kind of like her kids because she's always telling them off for antics, and Doug is just madly in love with his rabbit wife.

Vincent died once. Springtrap got a new lease on life. They're both exes of the disaster couple that is Foxy and Goldie. Springtrap tries to be smooth and Vincent ignores him, but the second Vincent is mildly romantic Springtrap overheats and faints and requires repairs. They are the true disaster duo.

Chica and Roxy are absolutely out to be gay do crime insult Moon and get away with it. Chica is the buff chef and Roxy is the shockingly good driver and enjoys cleaning. They probably have unofficially adopted Cassie too, don't get them wrong.

Balloon Boy is that one weird kid who hangs around his nerd Marionette and somehow they're perfect for each other. Marionette is the most normal of the Toy Series aside from Mangle, and Balloon Boy eats batteries. Need I say more?

Freddy adopted Gregory as his son. Bonnie adopted Bonbon and Bonnet when he learned that the rabbit kids' dad (Funtime Freddy) and his boyfriend (Funtime Foxy) were scrapped. You ever play Dream Daddy? A similar thing is going on here with these two dads.

There are some former relationships that I didn't include (Delilah and William, Mangle and Toy Chica, Lefty and Rockstar Foxy) because one side of the relationship is very destroyed. There's a lot of relationships where both sides are destroyed too. Also Delilah/Virtua totally divorced William's bitch ass before he murdered her and turned her into a robot in my AU.

--

And, because it's Pride Month and I probably don't have more art for you, here's a bonus D&D Crew Set!

I think there's an additional one since the last time I posted about my D&D PCs, but that'd be just Cyrus. I have another one I'm cooking up (maybe an aasimar of some sort) but I'm gonna think about it some more before posting about them.

[kmp78]

So does he stay at Sixty Soho or does he just get his fuck buddy a room there for their antics?

He's been a regular at S60 for yeeeears... 😏

But it's been very 🤫.

He stays there when he FOR SOME REASON doesn't want the Bowery kind of pap attention. 😏

[technohumanlation]

Whumptober Day 8

The ever so lovely @whumptober2019 made a list of prompts to complete every day for the whole month of October and I’m giving a shot at it this year! 

As always read what you can handle and do not read if you are squimish to any of the warnings. 

Stab Wound

Characters: Hank, Nines, Sixty

Warnings: Blood, body mutilation, cursing, sixty’s fucking antics

I wrote this one to “Till the Light” goes out by Lindsey Sterling on repeat, and holy shit...this was so fun to write. 

The situation was critical. A human had played god once again. Had become twisted using his android lover as an experimentation. Driven by madness and the lack of self-control, Jonathon Packer had dug around Peppermint's head too much. Peppermint was a pet name they had collected from the many notes scribbled upon open books and pages strew across bloody work tables. Even the walls held scribbling of his obsession over his lover.

Peppermint was nowhere to be found.

But Jonathan was, on the basement floor of their home.

Hank placed his hands into his pockets, the firm shroud of practiced indifference prevented the brothers from deciphering what the man was thinking.

Sixty was the first to speak. "He honestly had it coming." He tilted his head upon the sight of a bloody wooden stake shoved into his open mouth. It was identified to be the other half of a rake handle, "But probably not that." He poked the cut up and torn body with the tip of his boot.  

Connor backhanded him in the chest. “Stop that.”

Nines stepped forward circling around the man with a predatory focused gaze before he settled at the man’s shoulder. He scrunched his eyebrow together. His face was skinned and torn apart. Not with a knife nor tool. But brute force.

His limbs were also twisted and broken forcefully.

He reached forward to dab a finger pad into the blood.

Connor raised his hand to shield Hank's eyes. "Yeah, thanks." He said, swallowing his voice as nausea took him over.

“Aw c'mon, I wanted to do that!" Sixty pouted.

“Let's not. The last time you did it, you were slurping it up like a fucking sicko," Hank said, pointing a finger in his general direction.  

Nines took the sample of blood to his tongue and closed his mouth, swirling the sample through. "High levels of Oxycontin and Red Ice are detected. Jonathon Packer died at least an hour ago." He looked up to Hank. "This Peppermint he speaks of may be still here."

Ice ran through them all. “And he did this, correct? Because...” Connor began.

“Great, just what my agenda called for. Finding a psychotic android with a blood fetish.”

“Like you’re one to talk, Six-.”

All three brothers looked up to Hank when his voice suddenly cut off. The sound of flesh tearing and giving way to unnatural brute force.

“Hank!” Sixty yelled out.

The human before them held his hands to his abdomen, where a bloodied stake had gone through his stomach.  

It was the other half of the broken handle to a tool.

And, behind them, their missing android stood. Its eyes were colorless and white, chest and cranial unit mutilated open. Sixty was the first to react, the other two moving, as they thought the same.

With a growl, the android plowed himself into the android, shoving him into a nearby rack of garden tools.  

Connor nor Nines gave the beginning brawl a second glace. He knew their brother would be more than fine handling the crazed android. Connor was the first to catch the lieutenant from falling over. Hank's hands shakily gripped the wooden stake in his abdomen. "S-Shit..."  

Nines assessed the wound going to Hank's side on his knees as Connor laid him onto his side. "We have you, Hank, hold on."

“It went clean through." He shakily observed. "Internal bleeding and damage have been done though...I...can't. I've never seen him like this. It's..."

Connor flicked his eyes up from Hank to his brother.

“Nines, focus! I called for backup, and the paramedics are on their way. For now-," A crash and a loud growled curse had him looking over to Sixty cradling his jaw. He turned back to Nines. "We need to get him out of here."  

“All of you need to get out of here! I got-"  

Sixty was suddenly thrown towards the duo. He landed on his backside, legs careening over his body to place him onto his front. He recovered quickly, swiping a split lip with a crazed smile. "Hey, guys..." He breathed.

“Sixty-are you-?” Hank breathed but coughed. It was shaky and clotted.

“Fine..." The android stepped forward from the wreckage. Peppermint began to speak. Ice ran through their lines. Instead of words, its voice was made up of mangled screeches and corrupted tones.

Its head ticked unnaturally and never broke it's white gaze from Sixty as it ripped a metal pipe from the concrete wall nearby. Water began to splash onto the floor.  

“He really likes me." He spat out thirium, dribbling down from a broken nose. "Alright, you two get him out of here. I'll deal with Peppy." He stood up in one fluid motion, hands raised into fists.  

“Sixty you can’t-!” Sudden motion had Connor gasping as Peppermint charged forward.

“I said, go!" He barked, meeting the android halfway. A sound of metal hitting plastimetal buckling and cracking under the force, along with a grunt, caused the brothers to cringe.  

It was Connor to snap into action and heed his brother's command. They both helped Hank to his feet, blood pouring down his jacket and onto the floor in hearty splotches. Slowly, they made their way towards the basement doors that led to the front yard.  

Nines unlocked and rammed his shoulder into the heavy rusted bilco doors, the fresh, crisp air a sign that they gave way.

Peppermint turned its attention to the sound and yelled out in anger, darting towards the trio. Sixty growled, wrapping his arms around the broken android from behind to pull it back. "Oh no, you're not done with me, baby."

Sixty yanked the pipe out of its hand and pulled the metal against his throat. The android in his grasp was strong, diligent, and determined to kill anything that moved...or tried to escape its hell for that matter.

From this angle, the cracked open cranial unit was swimming with thirium and half-hearted wires. Sixty shivered. Oh yeah, Jonathan had it coming, all right. The poor android wasn't at fault, and Sixty knew this. Containing him was the only mission he had on his mind. He hurt Hank, could have possibly killed him, but the teachings of his father stood true.

Sometimes, in rare cases, the bad guys were the victim. And even if Hank was bleeding out and dying, he knew Hank would try to find him.

“Peppermint, if you're in there, you don't have to do this!" He gritted against his strength to get the android to stand still.  

The android hissed and screeched out intangible words causing the android to cringe.

“C’mon!” He urged.

An elbow was shot into his chest, but Sixty remained strong. Another warbled cry came from Peppermint. The more and more he held him, the more and more he became wild and fought harder.  

The android was lost to the demented happenings of Jonathan Packer. His lover of whom he trusted. The thought of pity for him was forced out of the forefront of his mind. He had hurt Hank, and he was now a danger to more than just androids or humans. He was a danger to himself.  

He was spiraling further and further into whatever half-assed programs were downloaded into his hardware.

Sixty tightened his hold, kicking Peppermint's knee out, forcing him to bow forward. The android released an insidious screech. Its hands released the metal pipe held against its throat in exchange for Sixty's shoulders.

“No, no, not again, dammit!" Sixty was flung over and hit the ground harshly. He coughed once but recovered fast when the metal pipe was raised over him to strike down. He turned to the side, widening his eyes at the vibration and loud thunk of the metal pipe going through the concrete.

“Jesus Christ." He rolled once more to get more space between them both, but the demented android was faster.

Again, Peppermint slammed the pipe down. It landed into Sixty's right shoulder, pinning him to the ground.

A pained shout left him eyes twisting shut. Shaky curling hands reached for the metal. He opened his eyes blearily. Above, the android clicked and ticked its head unnaturally, curious at the bug it pined against the cushion.

He dove onto his hands, hunching it's back as it climbed over Sixty's body. It raised a hand, fingers twitching, then suddenly wrapping their grip around his jaw. With grunts of protest and Sixty's forearm pressing against his chest to keep him as far away as he could, he finally opened his mouth.  

It whispered it's broken language, taking the pipe from out of his shoulder, earning a pained yell.

Too focused on its eventual mission to stab the pipe through an open mouth, it didn’t realize it set his broken arm free.

Sixty struck Peppermint across the face, the satisfying crunch of plastimetal crackling.

It was enough to distract it as Sixty ripped the pipe from its hand.

With all of his strength, he forced the pipe into Peppermint's face. It fell onto its chest, and for a moment, Sixty thought he had won.

He pushed the android off of his body and stood, taking a handful of steps away from the android for good measure. "Fucking bastard. I'll teach you to fuck with us." He spat, dropping the now dented pipe to the ground with a clatter. He tested his shoulder and tisked in pain. Damned thing was useless now.  

He swiped the back of his hand against his nose and cringed. It still bled and stung.

A click and warble.

He sagged his shoulders. “Fucking a...” He rolled his head in exasperation

The android rose to its feet with shaky and quirky motions, arms hanging forward limply. Slowly it looked back up, its jaw hanging by one joint. It clicked and crackled, its tongue lolling with thirium dripping forth. It reminded him of a hungry rabid animal. No, a demon from hell.  

Sixty sneered, holding his shoulder tighter as they squared up once again. Cold wetness seeped into his boots. Sixty looked down. The water from the pipe was flooding the basement and reaching to where they both stood.

He looked in time as Peppermint charged at him again, its hands out to rip Sixty limb from limb.

Quickly he picked up the pipe again, raising it in front of himself to brace against the body slamming into him. With a grunt from Sixty and a choked shriek from Peppermint, the pipe lodged against its throat. The sheer force and will behind the android had Sixty tripping backward and into the concrete wall of the basement.

Sixty gritted his teeth, determined to keep the android arm's length, as the android desperately clawed for him. There was no way of stopping Peppermint. He would keep fighting and wanting to rip anything that moved to pieces. The water below began to swirl a dreary red as blood from Jonathan's body stained it.  

He looked back up to Peppermint’s dead eyes.

He would keep going until he was nothing but a shivering mess of wires and limbs. Programmed to destroy until he was destroyed.

What a sick, cruel fate.  

But, Sixty would not let it come to that. He was growing tired and would only be able to last for so long until his reserves ran out. His brothers needed him. Hank needed him, most importantly.  

He looked around the room as he grappled with the android. He had to think of something fast. Peppermint grew stronger and stronger and more desperate by the second.

To his left, in the low ceiling of the basement, hung wires leading to the floor above. The idea was dangerous, impulsive, but it would be sufficient. The wooden rack would be his safety. He knocked the momentum of the android's force to his side as he dove for it.  

Peppermint recovered quickly. Sixty barked out a cry as it shoved him hard against the wall. His head slammed against it blacking out his vision for a much worrying second too long. Sixty forced to open his eyes again when the pipe was ripped out of his grip, almost taking his hand with it. His world tilted dangerously, the reasoning coming to him in the form of a message popping into his vision claiming his gyroscope was damaged from the blow. He immediate reset it. Error.  

The android before him tossed the pipe away to its side. Yeah, he was getting tired of it too. Sixty cursed again teeth grinding as he growled. He attempted again to re-calibrate his balance but failed.

The wires dangled so closely to his left now. He reached out, the electricity practically dancing across his fingertips.

He failed to realize why it wasn’t interested in the pipe any longer.

Peppermint screeched, its hand shoving into his right shoulder to pry apart the gaping wound. Sixty yelled out his vision spinning more wildly.

Pain was good. That’s the mantra he taught himself to get by in his twisted life.

Peppermint planted his other hand into his good shoulder, pinning him to the cold, cold concrete. Another scream of pain was ripped from his throat. He was so close. So close to the wires.  

He inched his hand out to his side, and the android immediately pinned it down. He yelled out as it pulled against he broken join in his shoulder.  

He placed his head against the wall, closing his eyes in a desperate prayer. His chest heaved heavily from forced breathing, and his eyes watered.  

Before him, the android continued to click and hiss quietly satisfied that he had his victim finally and was to reap its rewards soon.

Further and further, his arm was yanking free from its socket.

A sacrifice was willing to take if he were to be pulled further away from the wires.

Finally, finally, he yelled out as his world spun, and his arm was ripped with a series of sickening squelches and snapping of wires, leaned towards the wires gripping them in a tight fist. He pulled downward with all his might and fell to the wooden rack. He opened his fist. The open end of the wires fell into the water, and the light show began.  

He watched as the android's body twitched violently, the dying screeches leaving its mouth in wet gargles and frantic cut off glitches.

Sixty stared, lip upturning as it finally died, its eyes never taken off of him. Everything went quiet as the house fell into darkness and an eerie silence.

Outside, Nines and Connor waited, staring at the open bilco doors as the sounds of the violent exchange between the two androids continued.

“We have to help him.”

"You need to stay here," Nines said firmly, brushing back stray sweaty locks of gray hair from Hank's face. Nines kept a firm hold on the wound and stake with his jacket. Slowly, the brilliant white turned crimson against the darkness around them.

Hank had gone into shock, his pained breathing turning shaky and shallow. He was in no form stable but barely holding on. Nines looked back towards the doors. “He knows what he’s doing.” He murmured.

And just like that, there was silence. Connor stood up, thinking the fight was over. Suddenly around them, street lamps and lights from homes began to flicker violently. From the basement windows flashes of white pulsed and crackled.

And then as soon as it happened, it was over. The world and homes around them went dark.

Everything was silent.

“Shit...” Connor gritted.

He ran towards the house but was stopped when a shadow lumbered forward. It stepped onto the damp ground of the outside world on shaky legs, its body quivering. "rA9…" Connor stopped dead in his tracks. A messy mop of hair fell over his eyes as the android dangerously swayed forward. "Sixty..." He sighed in relief.

The youngest brother swayed on his feet as he tried to walk a straight line, thirium dripping from the broken stub of a shoulder that he held with a weak grasp. Connor bounded the remaining steps between them, shucking off his jacket. No words were said as he wrapped it around his shoulder to stem as much of the bleeding as he could.

The youngest brother leaned forward and placed his head against his chest, exhaustion setting in. Blood from his nose streaked across Connor’s shirt. “Um, he’s gone...yeah.” He wasn’t smiling from yet another “thrilling” encounter. Not this time. It was bad.

“Alright...alright...”Concern pitched his eyebrows together as he nodded. “C’mon.” Connor urged gently.  

He pressed his side into his brother, wrapping his arm around his shoulders to guide them to the others.

“The shocking end..." He stumbled forward, attempting humor. It sounded like a croaked plea. Gently, Connor lowered him to the ground next to Hank.

Nines couldn't offer any tangible comfort to Sixty, too focused on keeping their father stable. Hank was barely awake. With a bloodied hand, he cradled the old man's face.

From down the street, sirens rang out.

"Hang in there, Hank.” He slapped his face gently. “Help’s coming...”

He looked up, exchanging glances from Connor and Nines. "And if you don't mind..." He lay on his good side and sighed. "I'm lying down too."

[clarrissanewt]

Don't talk

Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x fem!reader

Warning: nswf, not much but yes, pinning, slight rutting

Summary: your neighbor keeps on ordering weird shit, but he doesn't want to face the delivery person's judgement, so bakugou katsuki keeps on using your address instead. Also, maybe including 'fucking jackass deku' was the brightest thing you did.

When your door bell rang for the seventh time today and sixty second time this whole fucking week, you actually lost your mind.

Bakugou fucking Katsuki, you muttered under your breath, wait for it. You'd regret.

You had this excruciatingly painful task of being his next door neighbor. You almost laughed at your thoughts. Since when being a neighbor was even a task? Sure it was when pro hero Bakugou shuffled in the blankets next to your house.

You churned your angry antics as your fingers toyed with the lock of the door.

Today, you told yourself, is the last time I entertain his bullshit.

You caught the familiar orange and blue uniform of the delivery person, who himself looked tired of coming to your door at least twice a week. You couldn't blame him. Fuck, you would never.

"Thanks," you put on a tight lipped smile as the delivery person tried not to scoff at the hospitality. "Have a great day ahead."

You could hear the person thinking, not as long as you are alive, so as soon as they disappeared from the door, you legit banged it shut.

Life was so torturous. Like, a mind reading quirk + bakugou katsuki's hundreds of deliveries because he didn't want to come across the delivery person's judgement + his cocky attitude and shit eating smirk.

How could one be so attractive and repulsive at the same time? You'd think about it later, you decided as you heard a faint clink of his door opening and a loud curse of 'shitty door like that shitty deku'.

You just clutched the light package in between your fingers, dug your feet in your Gucci sneakers and skidded to knock on his door.

"No bloody time," he spat when he saw you, his lava-red eyes gleaming dangerously. "Later."

"Later," you mimicked his raspy voice (and failed nonetheless), marching close to him, and though a sane part of your mind told you not to inch further, you ignored it.

And of course, you had more brains than to use your quirk in front of him. He could catch you with just a slight float of your hair.

"You are so insufferably annoying, ordering hundreds of packages of weird assortment, and yes, not to mention, leave my address with it. Like seriously?"

He snatched his package from your grip and when you protested, he towered over you, pinning you to the...what was it?

You realised that unfortunately and painfully, your back landed straight on the knob, and blasphemy to that smirk as he enveloped that particular portion of your back with a large, scarred palm. And it didn't help how he smelled of burning sugar, not burning exactly and your stupid brain couldn't comprehend what that word from 'c' was.

"Yeah?" He challenged, his blond stubble lightly grazing by your face as he leaned into you.

"Remind me to kill you please." You wished that it came out a bit assertive and strong, but to your dismay, your voice sounded so whiny and brat-ish.

May the door knob engulf you.

"Tch. You fucking wish," his fingers scrapped away your stray hair away, his other hand pressing you into the door. "Now does the brat wants another reminder?"

You probably didn't, but you blurted 'fuck you, even deku is better' through gritted teeth.

Your head reeled at the speed of Bakugou's hot lips prancing upon yours, the air around suddenly feverishly hot while he continuously nipped at your lower lip.

"Don't talk," you moaned as he bit harshly, "of that fucking jackass deku."

"Yeah? You are scared?" Locking your fingers against his neck, either you pulled him closer, or perhaps he pulled you away from the door and pinned to the wall, but you didn't feel the pain. Only teeth and tongues clashed.

"B-bakugou," he pulled away slightly, wondering whether he had crossed some line, but you just dramatically fluttered your lashes as if he was the most foolish person alive. "I wonder if that 'fucking jackass deku' has more balls than you to- fuck," you leaned forward onto him as he rut into you, your eyes shutting tightly, "to f-fuck me."

Probably the worst combination of words that tumbled out, but hey, you didn't complain.

"Don't make me order a stupid wheelchair for you, shitty woman."

Join the taglist! Requests are always open!

[enderwoah]

ORIGINS SMP HEADCANONS (because i love them): SEASON TWO EDITION BAYBEEE

(this is really long ENJOY :gun:)

tommy

he is phil's son smile

phil's most recent son at least

he's got like one more somewhere

he picked this one up off the dangerous streets a few years ago and he's been sticking with phil ever since

his wings are small- not too small to fly, but they're untrained to the point where it would take a lot or work to get him off the ground

but at first, he didn't really seem to want to learn all that much?

(he has three scars on his face- all from trying to learn how to fly when he was younger)

(he gave up after the third one)

("if at first you don't succeed; try, try again" is his motto, and he tried all three times)

but!! phil and wilbur are very persuasive :) and now that he knows he can fly, he's not going to rest until he does

he's a little manipulative to get what he wants sometimes, but can you blame someone that lived on the street for so long?

he had to do that to survive! it's not his fault.

(it's a great excuse.)

he laughs like a kookaburra amen

he squawks when he gets scared

he chirps. he tries not to because it makes phil go absolutely bird-brained but he does sometimes and he hates it.

tubbo

NOW'S YOUR CHANCE TO BE A B[GUNSHOTS]

god he is. so fucking annoying (/rp)

he simply does not know when to stop

he ignores social cues to see when someone is annoyed

(see: he can read social cues. he does read social cues. when you get annoyed that's when he starts being more annoying, because you're more likely to give him what he wants to get him to shut the fuck up.)

he loves talking to (at) people, especially people he doesn't really know that well

so he's trying to be friends with ranboo, but the absolute prick keeps trying to avoid any actual conversations, so that's not working

he buzzes when he gets excited-happy

his fingertips are completely blackened and horrendously sharp, functioning as ten individual stingers

they don't do any actual damage but he's working on that

techno

wither hybrid (??)

how can you be a wither hybrid?? nobody got down and dirty with the wither

he's an experiment

the reason we haven't seen him yet? he's staying away from the main area of the smp

he doesn't want to ruin its natural beauty with his withering effect, so he keeps to himself on the outskirts of the smp

which sucks

withers get health from killing things

he's not fully a wither, so he gets energy from being around people and sort of draining their life force a little bit

he feels terrible when he's with just one person because they are Literally his life support and it makes the person feel like shit

when he's with a big group of people its great!! he only has to take a little bit from everyone and its barely noticable!!

but then there's the wither part. so he has to stay away.

he's always tired

always exhausted

he's a farmer, so taking it from animals works, but god does he miss people

but he can only visit a few times and for very short

(he's afraid that one of these days he'll get so bad that the next time he sees someone he'll accidentally kill them)

(it already happened once. he's blessed that he's been forgiven, even made friends with by the victims, but he doubts he'll be able to pull that off again with no consequences like last time)

wilbur

phantlings are dead elytrians, and given that wilbur was phil's son...he's a phantling

he died in the late 50s and was a librarian when he was alive, so he's very possessive (ha) over all of his things

you should never ask to "borrow" anything from him, he will hound you about it until you give it back

it's best to just say that you want something from him to keep

even if youre going to give it back

just for your own peace of mind

phantlings can feel fear and get a genuine feeling of elation from scaring people

of course, sometimes its unwelcome (feeling large amounts of fear from someone they care about in a bad way just makes them pissed)

but for the most part, wilbur loves appearing in the corner of people's visions just to jumpscare them a few minutes later

all in good fun, of course!! it's just hilarious :)

being the lighthearted, fun guy he is, he's not particularly secretive about his method of death

"how did i die? well, it all started -- ended -- on november 16th, 1958!"

"i walked out of the library late, since i took the shift for my wife since she was feeling sick and i worked there anyways,"

"the streets were dark and only lit up by gaslamps...and out of an alley...appeared..........."

techno.

he didn't mean it. wilbur isn't at all mad at him (anymore)

he was starving. he didn't know that one touch would be enough to fully revitalize him...

and murder wilbur where he stood.

sneeg

has details on everyone on the server

you Cannot Hide Shit From Sneeg

its impossible

if you find of his any shittly little mouse holes then you're doomed

you find one and there are twenty more

he's under your floorboards while you're having your important discussion about trapping the nether roof

sucks to suck ig??

he seems to be the favourite of many, which is weird since he rarely goes out of his way to actually talk to many people

he's the only person that tubbo doesn't actively try to annoy (or maybe he just doesn't find tubbo's antics all that annoying)

he's the only person that ranboo stays around (or maybe he stays around ranboo- he and Phil seem to be the only ones not off-put by his slightly sadistic and whiny demeanour (not counting tubbo, who annoys him anyways)

phil seems to be more protective of him than he thinks is normal (he lets sneeg ride on his shoulder while travelling, so he doesn't really complain)

niki is completely protective over him (again, not complaining)

contrary to popular believe, he does not get high from sugar

if anything he gets

high-per

(get it)

(high-per)

(hyper)

he's literally just a nine-year old getting a sugar rush leave him alone

phil

take the normal "bird-brain" headcanons and multiply it by like sixty-four

and you've got origins phil

he can't see glass- or, rather, he can, but it doesn't register that 'hey, this is a solid surface i am going to slam into'

its very funny for everyone else but he's pretty sure he has permanent brain damage from the blunt force trauma

if there is ANYONE on the server who dares to chirp, bird or no, they must understand that they are signing away their privacy and giving phil the right to go absolutely bonkers over them momma bird style

(shoutout to tommy, wilbur, ranboo, and fundy for having to suffer through this)

"oh??? you don't have wings?? you don't have feathers?? omg?? then what's this im preening?? what do you mean im just braiding your hair?? nono this is preening smile"

god help you if you dare to have wings

poor tommy, wilbur, sneeg, and tubbo

phil can't help himself alright

do you think he wants to be any sort of protective over sneegsnag?

no!! but he cant stop himself!! sneeg might damage his wings if he keeps flying those super long distances!!! nnnno! carry the bug man!!!

it's weird, he's always had that protective sense over ranboo, too

but ranboo very obviously doesn't have wings, so he doesn't get it...

ranboo

yes ur a peasant

yes ur poor

yes im cooler than u

what r u gonna do about it

the enderdragon's son! partially a dragon, partially enderman, partially human (don't ask, his other mom is a hybrid), all spoiled brat!

given that he has a ton of dragon genes, he's extremely possessive over his stuff and Yes He Does Do The Hoarding Thing

he has a pile of rings and gold chains and necklaces and most of his jewellery hidden underneath his bed

(if you ask him, no, he doesn't)

not to wear

just to Have

one time, fundy stole one (1) bracelet from the hoard and ranboo was sent into a panic for a good 24 hours

he wouldn't leave his cave and kept counting and recounting as if that'd make the missing piece reappear

(when fundy had to give it back because of the guilt, he expected to get his face bitten off)

(instead, he just watched as the prince was flooded with relief, telling him to get the hell out and nothing more)

it's weird, he has so much gold and even a crown, and yet here he is

living with all those people ^^^

truth be told, the enderdragon isn't a very nice dragon

nor is she a very kind queen

nor was the other queen

nor was her son

there was a mutiny in the end, leading to the dragon queen and her wife being killed brutally by the crowd of angered people

they went after their son next, who had ordered executions and worked servants to the bone just as much as they had

they cut off his wings in the middle of the square

he was sure he was going to die until a random person (a peasant) jumped up and yelled at them for publicly torturing a child

but ranboo didn't really catch all of it, given he was delirious from pain

he got to get some stuff quickly and escape with his life

this wasn't too long ago, either, so he's still trying to...adjust...to people talking rudely to him

(he's also trying to adjust to not having wings)

(hence why he hurls himself off the edges of cliffs and then has to teleport to the bottom instead of glide. he keeps forgetting.)

[babbushka]

Mrs Z! Thank you for doing a Flip special!

What about throwing Flip a big surprise party with lots of people and he’s not happy about it. You make it up to him by letting him have his way with you before you cut the cake. Maybe he’s too into and gets carried away with being loud and noisy or gets caught somehow and that’s his birthday party, is his guests cheering his bedroom antics or roasting him.

2.6k; humor & NSFW (blowjobs/face fucking, hair pulling, come swallowing)

“I don’t remember you forgetting anything here.” Flip frowns, as he pulls the Chevy into his usual parking spot at the CSPD.

It’s his birthday, and he hadn’t taken the day off of work to avoid drawing any suspicion, so he’s a little irritated that when he gets all the fuckin’ way back home to you, finishes having the delicious dinner you cook for him, and he’s just about to ask if you want to engage in a little birthday love-makin’, that you groan and announce that it’s urgent he take you back to the station.

He already gets sour enough on his birthday as it is, but he had hoped that he could enjoy a quiet -- or maybe not so quiet -- evening in bed with his wife, just the two of you tucked up against one another to distract him from the passing of time.

“It was my Pyrex, I left it in the breakroom, it should be in the sink unless someone moved it.” You’re too determined to get the damn thing back, and Flip loves you, so Flip drove you in his truck that he parks, eyeing his work.

“And you want me to go in and get it?” He complains, deep voice too gravely for it to be a true whine, “Can’t I wait in the car?”

“You’re going to abandon your most beloved wife in her hour of need?” Your eyes are wide and clear and he hates how he gets lost in them, how he meant it when he said he’d do anything for you. He hates how you know it.

“That’s not fair.” Jabbing a finger in your direction, you only lean forward enough to cup his cheeks in your hands, sweetly pressing chaste kisses to his lips, your lashes brushing against his cheek as you draw him in with the smell of your perfume.

“Please?” Your voice is breathy in the way that makes Flip go weak in the knees, and even though he knows he’s being manipulated, he’s not mad about it.

“Fuck, alright fine.” He gives in, making you brighten up immediately as he turns the car off so the engine doesn’t idle, being sure to keep the windows cracked even though Colorado in May is a balmy sixty-five degrees. “You just, I don’t know, sit here and keep being pretty.”

“Yes sir.” You wink, and Flip isn’t so sure he likes the twinkle that he sees in your eye.

Walking through the CSPD lobby, he notices it’s quiet.

Too quiet.

No one is calling in emergencies, no one is typing away at their desks, no one is chatting by the water fountain. Something must be very very wrong, and Flip halfway wonders if there was some kind of national announcement, if Ford was making a speech somewhere.

His suspicion only grows, when he turns the corner to the break room, and opens the door frowning to himself and muttering, “Why are all the fuckin’ lights turned off?”

When he flicks the light switch, he’s so startled that he takes a step backwards, as seemingly the entire station jumps up to shout in his face a big loud, “Surprise!!”

“What the fuck -- ”

“Happy birthday Zimmerman!” All his friends and co-workers are there, the guys from the narcotics division, the folks down at homicide, all the higher ups, secretaries, rookies and seasoned pros alike.

Everyone gathered in this room that is way too small for them, organized by someone to give him a goddamn heart attack. A hand gently rubs at his back, and Flip whirls around to see you there.

“Is this your way of saying you want a divorce?” He jokes dryly, making the entire room chuckle, because really only Flip would have this sort of reaction.

“For the record this was not my idea.” You say, not wanting him to think the blood is on your hands, “Ron insisted. I tried to tell him.”

Ron steps forward then and hands Flip a card, one that he’s not going to open now because he’s sure he’d die from the embarrassment of floundering with the envelope in front of all these people, but he does bring Ron in for a hug.

“It’s signed by all of us here.” Ron gestures with one of those big handsome smiles of his, the kind that shows off all his teeth, and Flip doesn’t have the heart to be angry about all this attention to his face.

“Thank you.” He says instead, feeling so fucking out of his depth, completely out of his element, palms sweating as he reaches for you with a quiet pleading, “Ketsl?”

“I’m right here.” You whisper as you take his hand, grounding him in the present.

Everyone is looking at him, and it reminds him of when he had to give presentations in school. He doesn’t know what to say, the tips of his ears going crimson red.

“You guys didn’t have to do all this.” Flip pulls you tight against his side, his arm stretching across your shoulders. Maybe if he just holds you close enough, he can use you as a human shield for conversation, he thinks.

“We had no idea it was your birthday! No one ever can figure it out -- but don’t worry, we’ve put it in your file so we know for next year!” One of the older secretaries, Ms. Rosie, cheerfully pipes up, making dread creep up Flip’s spine.

He looks down at you, and you give him a sheepish smile. He wants to complain like the grouch that he was, but then his attention shifts to the big table of food and drinks that is spread out on the table against the wall of the break room.

“...Is that chocolate cake?” He tries not to sound too hopeful, and the break room laughs again, because even the strongest most stoic man truly can be lured in by cake.

“I made it for you special. We’ll do candles after everyone’s had a bite to eat!” You announce to the room, patting Flip’s back as the crowd begins to murmur excitedly amongst themselves, a queue forming for the hot fresh pizza. You lean up to whisper in Flip’s ear, “If you can play nice, I’ll give you one of your presents before we get to cut the cake.”

Raising his eyebrows at you, he blinks a little. The surprises just kept comin’, didn’t they?

“Can’t I get it now?” Flip tries, but you only chuckle and shake your head.

“Go say hello to everyone, and then meet me in the back of the file room.” Patting his back once again, you slip away, an incentive for him to get this over with as soon as possible.

Flip doesn’t think he’s ever shaken so many goddamn hands, or kissed so many cheeks in his life. On the one hand, it felt nice somewhere deep down inside, to know that so many of his co-workers decided to take part of this party. He felt valued and appreciated, even if he would have rathered this never happen in the first place, would have rathered to be in bed with you right now...which brings him to the other hand; he’s achingly hard in his fucking jeans, thinking about what’s waiting for him in the file room.

He doesn’t have to wait much longer though, because soon the last person has been spoken to and thanked, and he’s excusing himself to go to the “bathroom,” heading in the complete opposite direction of the bathroom.

“Ketsl, honey?” Flip prompts softly, looking around for you in the low light of the room, “You back here?”

“Took you long enough.” Your voice sounds from around the corner, and like a glass of cool water on a hot day, there you are, arms reaching out for him.

“Would’ve been sooner if you hadn’t invited so many fuckin’ people.” Flip lets himself be wrapped up in your embrace, his palms smoothing around your sides to caress your back, one of them dropping down to give your ass a firm squeeze.

“Ron did, not me. Like I said, he insisted.” You remind him, kissing your husband deeply, licking into his mouth, voice soft and breathy, “Let me make it up to you?”

The hair on the back of Flip’s neck stands up when you sink down to your knees, not breaking eye contact. He holds his breath, his cock twitching at the implications of that motion, pulse already starting to pound a little harder.

You rest your cheek against his strong thigh, popping open the button on his jeans, sliding the zipper down tantalizingly slow, making a real show of it. Flip hums, pets at your hair, smooths his palm against your cheek as he watches your eyelids grow heavy. You nuzzle against the palm there, suckling on his fingers just a little bit, teasingly, playfully.

“Oh fuck yes.” He quirks a little smile at you.

When you finally pull his dick out, you’re licking your lips, wetting them, drooling over yourself. He’s just as affected, pre-come already leaking out of the tip of his cock, and he groans when you swipe it up with your tongue. Time is of the essence here, and as much as you would like to drag this out, you can’t, so you cut right to the chase.

“Shit -- your moth’s so hot.” He grunts as your mouth opens wide wide wide for him, tongue flattening as you suck the head of his cock between your lips, careful of your teeth.

One of your hands braces yourself on his thigh, while the other holds the base of his cock, keeps him steady. Flip has a tendency to buck and choke you when he’s too wound up just like he is now, so the grip holds him in place as you swallow him down inch by inch.

Fuck, your husband’s dick is big! It’s not just long but thick too, the girth of it always something that has your jaw aching. You open your mouth wider to take him, relaxing your throat so that he can slip deeper and deeper, breathing through your nose. Never once looking away from him, you can see how antsy, how impatient Flip is getting, and if you could smile, you would.

But you can’t, because your mouth is filled to the absolute brim, so you tap the side of his thigh to signal that he can start moving.

“Yes!” He says maybe a little too loudly, “That’s it, oh fuck that’s it.”

And oh, does he fucking move. The second you’ve given him permission, he’s gripping your hair and thrusting hard. Moans and grunts pour out of his chest as he holds your head in both of his hands, keeps you snug against his groin. Your nose is nestled in his dark thatch of hair, and you can’t deny the way the musky smell gets you flustered, gets you wet. He’s not going to have time to fuck you properly here, but that’s okay -- this was only the preview of the evening to come.

“God you feel so fuckin’ good, my good girl, fuck -- ” Breathing hard and fast, Flip fucks your face hard, keeping you steady so that you don’t accidentally take him down at a wrong angle and splutter and cough.

Relaxing for him, you let yourself be used, the salty sweaty taste of his cock running over your tongue, plunging down your throat soothing and familiar in a fucked up way that only over a decade of marriage can bring.

“Fuck!” He snarls when your tongue wriggles against the veins that throb along his shaft, sucking down hard everything that you can, one of your hands moving to cup and roll his balls, “Oh baby that’s it, just like that, keep doin’ that, oh god your tight fuckin’ throat feels good.”

Tears start to prick at the corners of your eyes when it becomes so much that your jaw aches, and you squirm, wanting to be touched, wanting to be fucked even though you know you can’t have it yet. Right now is about him, about the pleasure he gets from the way you suck him down, and then you’re swallowing hard, and the friction has him cursing loud loud loud, coming down your throat.

“Damn, ketsl!” he pushes his cock all the way down your throat one last time, before pulling away to watch his come shoot all over your tongue, your lips, your chin. Painting your face with it, he grunts, pulling your hair to angle your face up some more, a better view. You stick your tongue out for him, and another pulse of come bursts out of his cock from the sight, his filthy fucking whore of a wife, love of his life, on your knees like his own personal pornstar.

You fucking look like one anyway, and you sure as shit sound like one with the way you’re moaning and breathing hard, nipples so hard that he can see the way your blouse peaks out from over them.

Wiping away the come on your face and licking it off your fingers, swallowing every drop of evidence that you can, you and Flip grin at one another, his orgasm having him in a much more pleasant mood.

“We should get back out there, huh.” He gives you a hand and hoists you off your knees, pulls you close and kisses the taste of his come off your lips.

“People are gonna wonder where you went.” You smile, giving him your lovey-dovey eyes, glad that he’s enjoyed at least one part of this surprise. “You can’t disappear at your own party. How do I look?”

“Too beautiful for your own good.” Pinching your nose and giving you face a little shake, the two of you leave the records room behind.

“Well well well, if it ain’t the lovebirds!” Sergeant Trapp announces the second that you and Flip walk back into the main lobby of the station where everyone has spread out with their food and drinks.

“You two really can’t go two seconds without goin’ at it like rabbits, can you?” Ron laughs, teasing in a way that has Flip’s scowl coming back after all your hard work.

“Mrs. Z I gotta admit I’m impressed you’re still standin’, that sounded like quite the time.” Jimmy winks at you, and you slap a hand to your face. You hadn’t even thought about the noise that you must’ve made -- all the shelves moving, the grunts and groans, the cursing.

“Watch your mouth Jim, or I’ll be forced to do something about it.” Flip warns, but there’s something warm in the threat, playful. You’re fuckin’ glad for that, the last thing you needed on Flip’s birthday was him getting fired for beating the shit out of his friend.

“Oh yeah like what? I’m surprised you’ve got the energy for threats, old man.” Jimmy only eggs him on, all eyes on the two of them.

“That’s it -- ” Flip lunges immediately, making you rush forward and grab him by the scruff of his neck, preventing a wrestling match, even if a friendly one.

“Boys please, have some cake and maybe you’ll calm down.” You roll your eyes.

“You know,” Flip says later, when you lead him through to the breakroom where someone’s lit a fuckton of candles in an attempt to guess how old he is, and you’re curled up on the couch next to him as he licks the frosting off of his fork, “I’m starting to think there never was any Pyrex.”

And it’s all that you can do to just kiss him and shut him up, letting him get away with being an idiot because he’s your birthday boy.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Tagging some Flip friends! @mochabucky @sacklerscumrag @artsymaddie @bitchydecisions @direnightshade @reyloaddict55 @thembohux @kylorenswhxre @sunflowersinthesnow @babayagakeanu @safarigirlsp @steeevienicks @materialisthicc @hswritingrecs @han68000 @rosi3ba3z @chapterhappygirl @loverofallthings @groovetoob @bxnnywriting @glassbxttless @angel-bxby3 @smallgirlbigpersonality @lovelyyy-luna @2000andwhat @raddo1975 @cornmousequeen @metsienmenninkainen @caillea @painttheskylineforme @holding-on-to-starwars

[thedisguisedaltruism]

fond stares, vast place, loud heartbeats

genre: fluff, best friends to lovers, concert au

pairing: wonwoo/gn reader

summary: wonwoo hates the crowds, but he has to save up all his energy since you’re taking him as your concert buddy for taylor swift’s 1989 tour. little did he know, he will soon realize that he was actually in love with you, thanks to taylor and her wicked songwriting.

word count: 2,192

a/n: dumping this shit because too much feels for you are in love live :((

2015

“Wons, turn it up, turn it up!”

Wonwoo couldn’t help but snort from your excitement to see your longtime idol live. You worked hard to save enough so you could see Taylor Swift since then, and now you’re about to witness your turning point in life.

...together with your best friend, not to mention how he loathes crowds.

I Know Places is currently playing on the car stereo and you're warming up as you hit the high note in the chorus, dramatically pressing your chest with eyes shut. Wonwoo takes his final turn as you finally arrive at the stadium.

"Missed the note there, my friend." He teases. You could care less from his assed remarks because your mind's been in euphoria since you woke up from a power nap a few hours ago.

Outside the venue has already gathered a big crowd, and you patiently wait for your best friend who's double-checking the doors if they're surely closed.

Wonwoo has been your best friend for five years, and being grateful to have him is an understatement as he has witnessed your ups and downs in college. He knows that apart from your family and him, Taylor and her music has already played such a great role from adolescence until adulthood.

As a sucker for books, Wonwoo was undoubtedly impressed by Taylor's songwriting prowess since he listens to your discussions during the free time about the lyric analyses that you read across the internet, and you usually play her live performances whenever you pull off all-nighters that's why he agreed to be your concert buddy because he wants to see the person who could give rainbows to the person he likes.

Yes. The person he likes.

Wonwoo thought being in a Taylor Swift concert is not bad at all. It's like having a big crowd of best friends gathering in one huge place to have fun with their most talented best friend. Everyone's perfectly singing along to every lyric, breathing to each punctuation, and screaming at the top of their lungs.

Honestly speaking, he was having fun, and boy, he could sing along to a few songs while waving with his light-up bracelet. 

Aside from being fascinated by the live performances, he would sometimes steal glances at you, making him amused by your kaleidoscope of emotions you've shown from the past eight performances. Sometimes you'd turn to him just to sing while holding your chest, and go back to screaming how much you love Taylor Swift.

After the succeeding crowd-jumping performances, Taylor comes out with her black Gibson acoustic guitar to perform an acoustic version of her song just like the old days. The crowd has once again roared, and you scoot close to Wonwoo to whisper that Taylor's going to sing your favorite song from 1989.

He knows the story behind it. You told him on your graduating year at the rooftop of your college building while chugging an energy drink just to keep yourself awake from pulling off an all-nighter for your thesis, it was about Taylor’s known actress friend falling in love with her producer on this album—someone with the name Jack—if he could still guess correctly.

Taylor has already ascended for a clearer sight of crowds from the top seats, instructing everyone to sing back the specific words. Wonwoo watches you hugging yourself while craning your neck so you could see Taylor from above.

One look, dark room

Meant just for you

Time moved too fast

You play it back

Buttons on a coat

Light-hearted joke

No proof, not much

But you saw enough

  You and Wonwoo first met at the same elective during college freshman year. You were sitting near the door, sparing the next seat with your bag since someone from your class politely asked you to but unfortunately, she never came back and it was perfectly timed that Wonwoo immediately spotted the vacant seat beside you, exhausted from running before he gets late (yes, in a goddamn first day of class). 

  He learned that you’re taking up creative writing that’s why said elective was important for your course. He told you that he was taking up computer science, but he still needs to take the elective.

  ...and then, your friendship started.

  You have friends, but they’re few for your liking because socializing is exhausting. Wonwoo, on the other hand, despised being exhausted around people and that’s the reason why both of you became friends quickly. Reading was Wonwoo’s stress escape and yours was binge-watching k-dramas and reality shows.

  You can hear it in the silence, silence, you

You can feel it on the way home, way home, you

You can see it with the lights out, lights out

You are in love, true love

You are in love

  Since both of you chose to live in dormitories at college, sometimes you’d walk together around the university park late at night and talk about stuff happening in your life outside academics. One time, you told him how you’re pissed at your family’s insights about coming out since they happened to share once about how your cousin came out at a family gathering and the next moment, he was already in the hot seat. You told Wonwoo that you wished you were there to end all of your religious hypocrite relatives.

  Wonwoo, within the years of friendship, was never the type to initiate a conversation, but he’s an excellent listener. He could watch you talk about Taylor Swift, the perennial hate for your Major professor who’s academia-obsessed since she sets a standard too high for her liking while her class is on the brink of dropping out, and how you were fascinated about him staying up all night for computer games and still ace programming exams.

  Suddenly, the crowd started to roar out of the blue, making him shake his head from spacing out. Still standing, much to his surprise since he hates getting tired, he realized that he’s just watching you being helplessly in awe at Taylor Swift no matter how neck-stiffening it is, how your eyes sparkled with bliss just like the days when you talk with him about the things you love.

  And then he felt the pace of his heartbeat quickened.

  The crowd was already singing along with excitement—he has no idea what kind of reason it is—but he remains watching you like you were excruciatingly hard to reach, despite how you could hear his loud heartbeat if this was an empty place.

  One night he wakes

Strange look on his face

Pauses, then says “You're my best friend”

And you knew what it was

He is in love

  You screamed you’re my best friend at the top of your lungs together with other sixty thousand people at Taylor despite how your best friend, who’s silently watching beside you, couldn’t calm himself down unnoticed.

  You can hear it in the silence, silence, you

You can feel it on the way home, way home, you

You can see it with the lights out, lights out

You are in love, true love

  Suddenly, you turn to Wonwoo as Taylor does her guitar break before singing the bridge, and you were surprised to see him just staring at you instead of watching Taylor from up above and tell you how skilled she was at playing guitar. The way he’s looking at you wasn’t even judging, teasing, or the usual antics that he does.

  He’s just looking at you fondly and you thought maybe, he’s extremely happy that you get to see your longtime idol live after all these years and you deserved it so much.

  ...except that your tentative guess is incorrect.

  “She’s really good, isn’t she?” you yelled at him proudly while pointing at Taylor with emphasis.

  Your best friend could only nod and gesture at you to look back on your idol.

  And so it goes

You two are dancing in a snow globe, 'round and 'round

And he keeps the picture of you in his office downtown

And you understand now why they lost their minds and fought the wars

And why I've spent my whole life tryin' to put it into words

  That made Wonwoo look up to Taylor Swift in an instant and judged her as he could so. As Taylor stopped, the crowd screamed once again, but nothing is deafening as his heartbeat while watching you cheer in chorus.

  He didn’t know if he should feel betrayed, because you were his partner during graduation ball and you were just having the best time of your lives because fuck it, despite being anxious about what’s to come after the graduation, both of you were so happy to have been able to survive despite the shit hole life your university has given.

  He also happened to frame a picture of you in his office peacefully sitting beside the stacks of scratch papers for software development. He secretly requested for its original copy at the official student publication of your university during that one major event as he saw it on Facebook.

  He realized that he’s in love with you after all this time.

  Much to his misfortune, you suddenly looked at him again and your eyes met that he couldn’t look away, but this time it was replaced with worry. You caught him twice, and knowing Wonwoo, he’s not usually vocal when it comes to express his discomfort.

  You gently hold Wonwoo’s hand. “Are you having a bad feeling? We could go out if you want to,” you whispered just audible enough for him to hear.

  And that’s how he lost it. 

  It took him another deep breath to sink in that you chose his well-being over your once-in-a-lifetime moment with your idol.

  Like… holy shit, he was so lucky to have you in his life and he thought this time, he wants to step out of his shell and gather the courage to tell you how much you mean to his life. He’s had enough secretly pining over you for years.

  But first, he wants you to be happy and enjoy your time with Taylor. He shakes his head no and holds your shoulders to turn to Taylor who’s now descending for the next performance.

                      “I can’t believe she’s real, what the hell, she was fucking real, Wonwoo.” you sighed. “Oh my god.”

  You couldn’t stop wiping your face after spacing out which made Wonwoo chuckle. After the concert and almost a painful hour of waiting to get out of the stadium, you mutually agreed to stop by the nearest convenience store.

  Although you only bought a coffee and went back inside Wonwoo’s car.

  “Me too.” Wonwoo whispers. That made you remember what happened during You Are In Love performance. You looked at him and tapped his shoulder.

  “You looked unwell this evening. Were you honestly okay, Wons?” you ask.

  He only blinked in response.

  It took Wonwoo a few seconds to gather up his courage. Now that it’s only the two of you alone, he thought he must let it out.

  “Yeah, I was just overwhelmed. You don’t have to worry.” he jokes, his attention remained at the store. He could see from his peripherals how your eyebrows furrowed, obviously not convinced enough by his excuse.

  “What you told me about Taylor the first time you introduced her to me was...true,” he sighed deeply. “She sings what we couldn’t put into words.”

  For someone like Wonwoo whose eloquence is something to look up to, you were confused by what he meant.

  Wonwoo turns to face you and takes your icy palms to wrap them with his large, slender, and warm ones. 

  “I love you.” He says, straightly looking into your eyes.

  Your eyes widen in surprise.

  “Please don’t joke around!” You hit his shoulder, but all he does is let out a burst of breathy laughter.

  But honestly, your heart skipped a beat after hearing his sudden confession.

  Tracing circles on your hand, Wonwoo smiles at your bewildered expression. “You were wondering if I was having a bad time? No, it’s all Taylor’s fault for making me confess to you tonight. That took me a long time I guess.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “I love you and Taylor made me realize that I should confess before it gets too late.”

  You looked up at Wonwoo while pulling your hand from his gentle hold and laughed. It was unbelievable how both of you have been painfully oblivious despite being helplessly pining towards each other.

  It was your best friend’s turn to get puzzled so you took the time advantage to confess.

  “Idiot, I liked you too, ever since we first met.” sounding bashful, you looked away hoping that you didn’t sound like an idiot. So much irony for making fun of your best friend a few moments ago. “I have no idea that you felt deeper than I thought I have.”

  Even if you already knew how Wonwoo’s mind works for five years, he is always full of surprises.

  Or maybe he was so happy tonight that he kissed your hand and never let go of it as he started driving you home.

[santacarlasweetheart]

Back Door Man

hi! this is the first fic i have EVER written ! based on my honey @theyreonlynoodlesmike ‘s hc (that cracks me up every time) that Paul has a thing for married for women <3

Warnings: swearing, discussions of sex, paul being gross 

------------------------------------------------

An unmistakable howling laugh echoed off the walls of the cave. 

David looked up from the book in his lap to see the tall, slender blonde bounding down the entry stairs. “Do I even wanna know what kinda trouble you just caused?”

Paul laughed, tossing his head back as he rocked on his heels “Oh man you guys are gonna flip-”

“At this point you couldn’t surprise us if you tried Paul.” Dwayne hadn’t turned to look away from the crate that held a portion of their vinyl collection. Kneeled down next to it and flipping through records, he was seemingly uninterested in the other man’s antics. His indifference was simply an act though, he was always willing to hear about his friends’ escapades.

“Nah nah nah, this is a new one.” Paul had made his way over to one of the couches by now, opening up the large steamer trunk that acted as both storage and a makeshift coffee table. “So,” he spoke as he dug around in the trunk, looking for his pot stash to roll himself his usual post romp joint. “I was with that babe from the diner, ya know-”

“Wow, never heard this one before.” Marko commented from beside him on the couch, cutting Paul off before he could even name the woman in question.

“Wouldya shut up and let me tell my story! Jeez, anyway,” He was bent over his rolling tray now, nimble fingers quickly moving through long practiced motions. “She takes me home. It’s this real nice place in the suburbs, cute lil’ house. So, we’re gettin’ down to business,” He wiggles his eyebrows, mostly to himself, but also on the off chance one of his friends might actually be paying attention to him “Right on the living room couch dude, she didn’t even bother to take me to the bedroom.”

“Nice.” Marko says and at the same time David sighs out “Gross.”

“Yo, Dwayne you want me to roll you one before I put this shit away?” Paul paused his story, he might have been Santa Carla’s biggest sleaze but he always had manners when it came to his friends.

“Yes please.” The brunette responded as he finally settled on a record, standing up from where he'd been crouching. “Might make your grossness a little easier to stomach.” A smile tugged at his lips as he turned to join them in the sitting area.

“So,” Paul huffed out a laugh, both at Dwayne’s response and the direction his story was going in. “I’m like, straight up goin’ to town on her,” He leans back in his seat, tipping his head back as he raises his voice for emphasis. “She’s screaming, clawin’ at my back and shit. Like a damn cat in heat. And then.” He pauses to lick the joint between his fingers and pass it to Dwayne. David rolled his eyes at the lull. He thought after sixty-something years he’d be used to Paul’s inability to smoothly tell a story, but that day was yet to come. “And then I hear somethin’, sounds like a car pulling up in front of the house. I dont really think anything of it because fuck if I care right?” He pauses yet again to put his own joint into his mouth, light it and take his first hit. “I keep goin’. I’m tryna get my rocks off after all. She’s tugging at my hair and shit. She's got this absolute vice grip on my-”

“PLEASE don’t say dick.”

“My waist, you fuckin’ pervert,” And if that wasn’t the pot calling the kettle black. “Absolutely screaming my name, the neighbors could probably hear.” 

“Paul,” Marko said, turning in his seat on the couch so he could look at his best friend. “This sounds exactly like every other sexcapde you’ve ever told us about.”  As Marko was chastising him, Paul had started to shrug out of his jacket, and that’s when the dark brown splotch on the shoulder of his white shirt came into view. “Is that fucking blood!?” Marko was painfully aware of the way his voice came out almost like a screech.

David’s head actually snapped up at that, tossing his book into his chair and moving to sit on the arm of the sofa in one fluid motion. “Jesus Christ, Paul.” 

Dwayne looked over at the three blondes, his brown eyes gone wide and his brows knitted together in concern.

Paul barked out a laugh, “I'm getting there you dipshits! Also, I’m obviously fine, creature of the night just like you three. Remember?” His companions relaxed slightly, he did have a point after all. However, he now had their full attention. “Where was I? Oh yeah yeah, I’m nailing her and suddenly. The fuckin’ front door opens.” 

David pinches the bridge of his nose.

Marko’s eyes widened slightly, his eyebrows shooting up towards his hairline. He was pretty sure he knew where this story was going. 

“Oh man!” Dwayne was starting to giggle as he leaned back into his chair.

“It’s her god damn husband,” Pauls talking with his hands now, the way he always does when he starts getting to the good part of his stories. As he gestures, Marko plucks the joint from between his fingers and takes a drag. “Not boyfriend, not fiancé. Husband. He was supposed to be on a business trip or some shit I don’t know. Point is, he was home early and he was pissed.” 

“He walked in on you screwing his wife,” David interjected as he slid his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. “Of course he’s pissed.” The other three men snickered at his remark.

“Dude starts screaming. At me, at her, oh my god it was madness. I’ve never pulled out so fast in my life.” 

Dwayne chokes on the smoke he had been pulling into his lungs and doubles over, laughing between coughs. “Ya know what,” He says as he rests his cheek against his knee, “For some reason I believe you.”

“He got outta that pussy at warp speed.” Marko giggled quietly. 

“Hey, hey hey!” Paul said as he turned to Marko, taking the last hit off the joint. “It’s my story, I’m the one with the jokes here.”

“Can we please get to why you're bleeding.” David said, gesturing at Paul’s shoulder. 

“Yeah yeah, grouchy bitch.” He drops the roach into the closest ashtray, settling into the couch to finish the rest of his story. “I grab my shit and I’m tryna get outta there. Zero interest in being in the middle of the start of the divorce-”

“Like you’re not the reason for the divorce.”

“Pants on, shoes on, shirt halfway on, jackets in my hand. There was no way in hell I was gonna get between them, so I turned my happy ass around, go to the kitchen. Hopin’ and prayin’ this place has a back door-” Paul’s abruptly cut off by Marko barking out a laugh.

“I’m a back door man!” The smallest blonde belts out, poorly and off key.

“Imma. Back. Door. Man!” Dwayne joins in, tilting his head back with his eyes shut. Like he’s singing to the ceiling of the cave.

David can’t help the little smirk that forms on his face, hearing his friends poorly belting out The Doors’ version of what they had decided was Paul’s song. Paul is currently grinning like a maniac and isn't bothered by yet another interruption of his story. “Okay, okay. Get on with it.” 

“Right yeah, we’re comin’ to the end here. Thank the lord in Heaven, there was in fact a back door. A screen backdoor that slammed behind me, you guys know how fucking loud those things are.” Paul sighs. “I take off, climb the fence, but “Mr. Can’t Satisfy His Wife” comes out behind me, onto the porch. Next thing I know, I hear a gunshot.”

“Sweet Christ.” David mumbles.

“He fucking shot you Paul?” Marko practically growls. Paul looks over at him nonchalantly and nods, smirking ever so slightly at Marko’s protective rage. 

“Dude.” Dwayne says as he adjusts himself in his chair yet again, “You gotta stop sleeping with married women.”

“Not a chance in hell Dwayne-O.” Paul says, his face splitting into a full grin, like he's the cat that got the cream. 

[nikkialena]

More Than Just A Number

What he do now, was the first thought to cross your mind when Obi-wan requested a meeting with you. As long as you've known Anakin you've learned that he's a magnet for trouble, not that you were any different as a padawan but you were both generals now, there was a time for games and a time to be serious and Anakin couldn't seem to differentiate the two. Although a small smile tugged at the edge of your lips at the thought of seeing a couple of old friends, as you walked into the Jedi temple you were greeted by an overly eager Anakin whisking you into a hug and an annoyed looking Obi-Wan. "Hi Ani, long time no see huh whatcha been up to," you asked as he let you go and smiled his signature cocky grin "well you know stuff" he muttered scratching the back of his neck, "so getting into trouble and causing problems for everyone else?"

A couple of Jedi council members snorted including Obi-Wan, Anakin just crossed his arms "you call it trouble I call it thinking outside the box" he mumbled with a slight hurt look on his face, "it's good to see you [Y/N] but we called you here because we need another general in my absence...also nobody else really wants to work with Anakin" Obi-wan mentioned while rubbing his temples. "Hey" Anakin shouted but you ignored him as Yoda and Obi-wan briefed you on the rest of the situation, "why me though I mean I don't mind but these hundreds of other Jedi" Yoda touched your shoulder as a gentle smile touched his lips." Strong with the force you are, strong like Anakin" and that's how you ended up babysi- working with Anakin, currently you were locked in a tense battle of dejarik waiting for him to make a move. Either way, he was fucked he only had one character left with two hp while you still had three with full hp, if you looked close enough you could see beads of sweat forming on his forehead as he tried to think of a way to outmaneuver you but that wasn't likely, whaling softly he accepted defeat and moved his character forward which proceeded to be pummeled by yours.

Throwing your hands in the air you snapped your fingers and swished your hips in a little victory dance "face it sky guy you'll never beat me in this game", Anakin snorted and crossed his arm "I'll have you know I came very close to winning last round...anyway I have something to attend to" he uttered briskly standing up. "You mean someone" you teased and he blushed softly speedily walking away leaving you to go talk to his precious Padme, ever since you were little kids she was all he could talk about, you remembered the day they met he came back to you shouting 'hey guess what I saw a girl a real girl' you'd given him a pointed look hurt evident on your face. He quickly tried to fix the situation by mumbling how you were a girl but not like a girl girl nonetheless, it hurt your feelings.

This is why to this day you always wear a hooded robe, you were an interesting character to look at since your mom was a twi'lek and your father a zarak most people gawked at you whenever you removed your hood. Walking into the bathroom you splashed your face with cold water before staring at yourself in the mirror, with hesitant fingers you pulled back your crimson hood allowing your lekku to fall freely, two of them draped over your shoulder while the other two hung behind you reaching a trembling hand to the crown of your head you traced one of the jagged horns sprouting from your scalp. They completely circled your head like a mangled crown of sorts, you'd cut them off multiple times before but they just grew back with a vengeance standing taller than before, almost like they were mocking you for your futile attempts. Your hand slowly reached for your saber attached to your hip when you sensed a presence from outside the door, quickly throwing on your hood you dried your face with your sleeves and opened the door, "how may I help you, Captain Rex?"

He stared at you for a second before fixing his posture and saluting you "oh um nothing ma'am general skywalker just sent me to check up on you because you weren't answering your comlink", you stared down at the comlink blinking on your wrist and held in the urge to facepalm you were so lost in thought you didn't hear Ani calling out to you. A soft blush of embarrassment washed over you as you scratched the back of your hood "I can assure you I'm fine Captain Rex" he gave an acute nod before turning to leave, you weren't exactly sure what compelled you to grab him but you reached out and grabbed him. "Sir," he asked questionably looking down at your delicate fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist, you could feel his confusion through the force and your confusion as well, clearing your throat you nodded at the game "fancy a game captain?" He was wearing his mask so you couldn't see his eyes but you could feel his surprise and you didn't even need to use the force to sense it, "me" came his confused voice.

You rolled your eyes and shoved your hands in your pockets "no the wall...of course you", you sensed a slightly joyous aurora oozing from him as he sat down across from you, taking your seat a small smirk touched your lips as you motioned with your hand "you can go the first Captain". Damn. You hadn't expected this much of a challenge usually you'd crush your opponent in under ten-fifteen minutes flat but Rex, was built differently he'd seen through all of your ploys and called all your bluffs holy fuck he might actually beat you. It was your turn to sweat as your fingertips hovered over different characters altogether. You had about fifteen health points to his sixty, you were growing quite frustrated mostly because you couldn't read him.

Part of your strategy was being able to see your opponent's face but he was wearing a helmet, technically he couldn't see your face either but that was an irrelevant factor, "take off your helmet I wanna see the shocked expression on your face when I cream you". He chuckled and it was deep sexy and raspy, "I don't think that's going to help you much general but okay" with one sift motion his helmet was off and neatly placed on the table, you felt your smile flatter as he once again saw through you and your antics but boy was he gorgeous. He had a hard jawline with a small cut etched into the bottom of his chin, two golden orbs pierced your soul reading your every thought before you could make them, his skin was sunkissed and his hair a bright blonde styled in a low buzz cut a small smile formed on his lips as he uttered the words "your move".

You could feel the confidence oozing from him and it irritated you, that's not how you liked your men exhaling a low breath you moved one of your characters, it punched his heavy hitter, and took a critical low leaving it with one hp left. You shifted your [e/c] eye to his with a slight nod letting him know that it was his turn, unable to contain his smile any longer his lips curled into a sinister grin as he worked a combo on your characters ultimately massacring them, your shoulders slumped in defeat as he almost jumped from his seat but composed himself. "Good game Captain" you grouched extending a hand out to him he reached a handout and shook it, his hands were big and warm as they enveloped yours "thank you ma'am better luck next time" he sang in a slightly arrogant tone "you don't have to call me sir or ma'am you know my name is [Y/N] just call me that" you could feel a whole plethora of emotions coming from him joy, pride, confusion and honor he hesitated for a moment before mumbling. "Okay ma'- I mean [Y/N]" he quickly corrected himself as he slowly began to rise from the chair you arched a brow "where are you going?" He looked at you confused as you nodded at the game "it's best out three bitch" he smiled softly and plopped back down "well if you really want to lose that bad I guess" he teased