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fangirl-dot-com · 1 month

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🧡❤️Dating Your Enemy's Sibling

*part of the reverse trope series*

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Verstappen!Reader Genre: Fluff/Humor/SMAU Summary: How to get under your enemy/rival's skin? Charles answer was to start dating his younger sister. But now, he's glad he found love along the way. He only had to tell Max about the relationship when you won a race. That's won't be any time soon though . . . right?

*in honor of Lando's first win - here's this next installment of Reverse Tropes! I know that Max and Charles really aren't enemies. Maybe I should have done like a Pierre and Esteban thing, but I don't write for them. So here we go and please enjoy!*

TAG LIST IS CLOSED

Charles Leclerc and Max Verstappen.

Predestined rivals, written in the stars, invisible string, yada-yada-yada.

Putting it simply, Charles had an apt for pissing Max off and vice-versa. The world thought they would kill each other in karting, especially after the 2012 incident. The population sighed in relief when Max was taken from F3 and put in a Formula 1 car, while Charles took a bit longer.

And then Charles made it to Formula 1 in 2018. However, he was put in a HAAS, a car that was not really made to play with the other cars in the front of the pack. The earth was saved yet another year.

Well, until 2019 when Charles suddenly became the “It Boy” for the Prancing Horse. Meaning, that he could finally go back to terrorizing the grid and Max. But with terrorizing the grid came loads of trouble and hatred.

And more pissing off your rival.

Charles seethed on the podium as he listened to the Dutch national anthem and watched Max point to the stupid “H” on his race suit. He held in a scoff. At least the Ferrari logo was much better looking than that.

It wasn’t fair. He had the racing line and Max pushed him off. If his mind wandered, it would go back to a certain kart race back in 2012 where he pulled the same move. But that didn’t count because the race has already finished. Charles would have rather been disqualified instead of having to go through the torture of being up on the podium in second.

First loser as they call it.

The Monegasque driver held no happiness in his body as Max started spraying his winner’s champagne. Charles just picked up his bottle and drank it.

Still wasn’t as sweet as victory champagne would be.

He deliberately separated himself from Max as they stood for a picture. The visible gap made it much more hilarious for everyone around them.

When the festivities finished, he hightailed it out of there, just wanting to avoid the Dutchman presence. Charles sighed loudly as he walked back to the garage, definitely not in the mood to talk to anyone.

“Charlie!

The Monegasque stopped in his tracks, annoyance almost wracking his entire being. Can people just let him wallow in defeat? He straightened his shoulders and turned around, PR smile plastered on his face. However, the very fake smile turned into a real one when he noticed that you were almost jogging to catch up with him.

Y/n Verstappen.

You had always been a part of his childhood. Where Max was, you were one step behind him, following him in your small racing overalls. He remembered how little you always seemed compared to your brother. But size didn’t matter on the karting course.

Most of the time, the two boys found themselves trying to shake you off and others were behind your kart, picking up the dirt that you sent their way. And that’s why Charles put your name down as recommendations for his Prema seat after he won the championship in 2017. Because of him, you were able to graduate to Formula 2 and were on the track to make a debut in Formula 1 in the coming years.

“Hey Y/n,” Charles said softly, still not in the mood to really talk to anyone. But for you, he’d always make an exception. And he was supposed to fly back with you and Max, something he was still dreading.

You look at the Monegasque with sympathy. Charles wasn’t able to find any type of pity in your blue eyes (that matched Max’s).

Your brows furrowed as to talked to him. “What Max did wasn’t the right way to race. But Formula 1 is getting more and more competitive.”

The man, er boy, wanted to huff. He did not need this conversation from you. He almost turned around, but the next few sentences stopped him from making any motions.

“Charlie, you’ve always found ways to beat him. If he wants to play like this, then you just have to give him a taste of his medicine, get under his skin. Do what you always do and somehow get around him.”

He cocked his head, before his eyes lit up.

Get under his skin.

You watched as Charles’s eyes filled up with some light, making the green in them really shine. You could almost see ideas concocting in his head.

Charles went to say something, but was interrupted by his team principle. He swerved to respond before he turned back to you. There was a glint in his eyes that you really couldn’t put a finger on.

His took a deep breath before asking, “Do you want to maybe get dinner with me?”

Your eyes widened. Sure, the Monegasque was very attractive, but those were not the words that you were expecting to come out of his mouth.

Oh.

Now you got it.

Your facial expressions melted a bit, eyes pointed toward the ground as you kicked at it. Your arms crossed as you huffed.

“Using me for gain over my brother wasn’t what I was meaning Charles. I was thinking more like unfollow him on social media while we’re on the plane or something.”

The harsh “Ch” that began his name had him wincing. Like your brother, you had a small lisp which normally softened the two consonants to the point where his name sounded like it was supposed to be. And what was “Charles?” You rarely ever called him that, choosing to pick the more boyish nickname.

Although, your idea about Instagram wasn’t a bad one.

Charles looked a bit guilty as he scratched the back of his head. He honestly was endeared by you and your determination to never give up. He found you, well, cute. You were still 19, younger than him by a bit more than three years.

But if you were cute back in 2012 hanging on to Max’s wet overalls after the puddle, and you were cute now trying to console him instead of celebrating your brother’s victory, you would still be cute in the following years.

He sighed, knowing that he had to leave soon or he was going to get an earful from Sebastian for being late to yet another meeting. The Ferrari driver stepped forward a bit, getting closer to you. He looked down at his helmet before looking back to your eyes.

“When I win and when I beat your brother, then can I take you out to dinner?”

You mulled over the question in your head.

If he beat Max before you went out with him, then that meant that he was actually genuine and wasn’t using it to his gain. You also smirked, knowing that indeed it would piss Max off whenever he found out. Your position as an annoying younger sister would still be intact and possibly stronger.

You held out your hand, which Charles took in an instant.

“Deal Leclerc.”

“Deal Verstappen.”

When Charles took the top step in Spa, pride filled his chest when he noticed Max’s glare at him. He had beaten the Dutchman at his home race. Albeit, it was a DNF for Max, but a win either way. He swayed back and forth as his national anthem played and then sang quietly along with the Italian anthem. Deep in his heart, he knew the true weight of the win.

For Anthoine.

He knew somewhere he made his French friend proud. Just like Jules. And Just like Papa.

Charles watched down below as you looked like you could hardly keep a smirk off your face. And it was bad too as you stood next to Max, who looked like he wanted to be anywhere but there below Charles.

The Monegasque raised his eyebrows when you locked eyes. You just hoped that Max wouldn’t catch on that he was staring right at you. Thankfully, you were right next to a Ferrari manager, so Max could guess that Charles was looking at him.

When the winner finally got ready, you were waiting outside his garage.

“Hi,” you whispered, putting your phone away. Charles didn’t verbally respond, but he wrapped his arms around you. You melted in his arms, still smelling a bit of the champagne in his hair.

He looked down at you.

“Are you ready for dinner?”

Your eyes held a playful glint. “I hope you chose a good restaurant Leclerc.”

He scoffed, keeping his arm around your shoulders as the two of you turned to leave. “Only the best Verstappen.”

The dinner went really well, but you weren’t expecting it to be a continual thing.

And then Charles won in Monza the next week, and he once again asked you to dinner. And once again, the Monegasque set expectations higher than you every imagined. You were saddened when Charles wasn’t able to win any more races while your brother seemed to get better and better each race.

You could only giggle while you watched them still avoid each other in Singapore.

But, the dinners turned into texting, and texting turned to other dates, and dates turned into dating, and dating turned into a relationship, and the relationship turned into an almost five year commitment that you or Charles weren’t planning to end soon.

The relationship saw your brother become a world champion in 2021, Charles becoming a world champion in 2022, and you joining the grid as a rookie for McLaren after a disastrous attempt for an Alpine seat.

Charles had been furious and Max had almost found out about the relationship. The two of you were still scared that Max might hold some coldness for the past. But when he called Charles “Charlie,” the special nickname that you had for him, you thought that it might be a good idea to tell him.

“But mon ange, he will run me off the track if he finds out,” Charles whined into your stomach as you played with his hair before the Miami Grand Prix.

You rolled your eyes and tugged at the strands. “No he won’t. You have to worry about your teammate doing that to you instead.”

Another whine left Charles making you giggle.

“At least you’re starting on the front row. I have to start P5! Oscar has been making fun of me all weekend.”

The Aussie had been such a God send for you during your rookie season. The elder by a few months had taken you under his wing. The two of you had been so close to a win last year, and with the upgrades this weekend, you were sure that you or him would start on the front row.

And then you had to be hit during the sprint, which didn’t help the mechanics in the hours before the race quali. That in turn made your car feel weird and P5 was the best you could do. Maybe Charles was secretly transferring his unluckiness into you.

The Monegasque turned his head to look you in the eyes. You smiled as you leaned down to kiss the top of his head.

“We’ll tell him when I win a race. How about that?”

Charles knew that you were just unlucky as he was when it came to winning a race. Last year, you had been close in Spa, but a rouge rainstorm saw you spinning out on the second to last lap. Austin you had pole, but Max fought you on into turn one, making you go wide. You never saw your brother after the first lap as you fell down the grid. Charles held you each night as you cried.

The red-clad-driver sat up and held your head in his hands. “You’ll win soon enough. Maybe not this weekend because I don’t have any time to prepare.”

You laughed and just brought him in to a kiss. There was literally no way you could win this weekend. Beating Max Verstappen with pole from P5 on a track that he had a 100% win rate at?

Impossible.

Charles thought he was going to cry as he crossed the line in P3. From you winning or having to tell your bother that he defiled his baby sister, he didn’t know.

What he did know was that he was going to get out of his car and congratulate you immediately. What were the odds that you won on the anniversary of the stupid inchident, the first time that Charles had ever seen you with Max.

(And yes, he did remember the anniversary but didn’t want to bring it up.)

You, however, were frozen in your car. You took some deep breaths as you took the steering wheel off, stood up a bit, bent to put it back on, and straightened, holding your pointer finger up. Your fists clenched as you raised them, automatically hearing the crowds roar when you waved.

A tug on your sleeve brought you down into Max’s arms. You were a bit disappointed that it wasn’t Charles, but that would be too obvious.

“YOU DID IT!” Max yelled in your ear, well, your helmet as you hadn’t taken the neon thing off yet.

You really didn’t want people to see the tear stains on your face. But right now, you’d just stay in the protection of your brother’s arms. When he let go of you, he lifted your visor, twin eyes meeting yours.

“You did such an amaz-”

“I’m dating Charles.”

Blink.

You took the moment of a frozen Max to turn to your team. You looked over your shoulder to see that the Dutchman was still stuck in his place as you got farther and farther away. You grimaced, knowing what was to come if Max and Charles met at any time when you weren’t there.

An arm around your shoulders brought you out of your head. The light blue caught your eyes, signaling that it was Charles. He patted your shoulders, trying to stay as inconspicuous as possible. You did feel a bit of pressure move your helmet, so he must have quickly smushed his face into the black swirls. A helmet kiss if you would guess.

You wanted to turn around to warn him of the imminent danger that was waiting for him in the form of Max Verstappen, but you were led away before you could.

Your fears immediately went away though when your eyes finally landed on your team. Helmet thrown to the ground, you made the decision to throw yourself at them as well. Your laughs could be heard as your mechanics lifted you higher as everyone seemed to want to congratulate you for their first win since Monza 2021, which you weren’t even on the team then.

When Charles stepped into the cooldown room, he could feel the awkwardness. It also didn’t help that Max was glaring at him from the corner. Charles was a bit worried. He thought that Max was fine with him now after they had both sort of mended their weird friendship during 2023.

He turned to you as you walked in, all sweaty.

Charles still thought you looked very pretty.

“Eyes off Leclerc.”

Charles froze in his place and looked between the siblings. He looked at you, then Max, then you, and then Max again. You winced, not looking him in the eyes. Realization flooded his body and he thought for a moment he was going to pass out.

“Mon Dieu.”

“We will be talking after this,” Max pointed, drinking from his water bottle, not taking his eyes off Charles.

When you were called to the little Jeeps, you quickly got into the bright pink Barbie-esque looking one, still buzzing from your win. Even if the two men behind you had put a damper on it.

Charles’s eyes only fixed on one of the cars, not even seeing the third one behind the second. He climbed right in, eyes closed as he sat down. However, his eyes shot open when the car tilted and a thigh was touching his. He gulped rather loudly, refusing to look to his right.

This was Vegas all over again.

Max kept his voice low. “When did it start?”

“2019. After Austria.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to get to know her more.”

“What was the reason Charles?”

The Monegasque sighed as he ran his hand over his face. “I was angry at you and wanted to get back at you somehow.”

He knew he was about to be punched on live television, but he continued hoping for redemption.

“But, I knew that was wrong. We didn’t even go out until Spa. And then again in Monza. And then it just happened.”

He turned to look directly at Max, knowing that he only had a few more moments before they had to go out onto the podium.

“Max I love your sister. I have the ring and everything. We’ve been happy for 5 years and have made it work. Please, she’s really all the good I have left. I would throw everything away for her. And-”

Max’s laughs stopped him from continuing. The Dutchman slapped a hand on Charles’s thigh, making him wince a bit.

The Red Bull driver’s eyes were crinkled with a smile as they pulled up to the parking spot.

“Just keep her happy, or I will run you off the track.”

“Y/n! I told you he’d threaten me!”

“Max!”

“Oh come on I did not!”

y/nverstappen4 has posted

y/nverstappen4 WE DID IT! P1 BABAYYYYYYY 🏆

nothing beats a podium with me on the top step surrounded by my boys 💙🧡❤️

liked by mclaren, team_quadrant, charles_leclerc, and 2,903,940 others

queeny/n LETS ACTUALLY GOOOOOOOOO

mclaren that's our girl 🧡 well deserved

lecstappenshipper this is basically a hard launch

y/nhaswins such a beautiful race y/n!!!!

charles_leclerc so so proud of you mon ange 🧡❤️ *liked by y/nverstappen4*

charles_leclerc celebrations tonight? 😈

y/nverstappen4 but of course

maxverstappen1 I know where you sleep leclerc 🙂

y/nverstappen4 DRINKS ON MAX TONIGHT

oscarpiastri YEAAHHHHHHH 🍾

maxverstappen1 what?

charles_leclerc thank you max ☺️

maxverstappen1 I NEVER AGREED TO THIS

oscarpiastri mega job mate 👊

y/nverstappen4 ossieeeeeee 👊 don't worry, you'll be up there soon! just gotta wrap your car in bubble wrap to protect it from evil ferrari 😠😤

charles_leclerc ☹️

y/nverstappen4 NOT YOU CHARLIE - THE OTHER ONE (LEWIS HURRY UP)

lewishamilton you don't think I'm trying 🤨

mcy/n she's so funny what the heck?? 😂

chefy/n we said - LET HER COOK

TAG LIST: @fionaschicken @myxticmoon @cherry-piee @blueberry64857959 @glitterquadricorn @lizzypiastri @sam-is-lost @spilled-coffee-cup @ilove-tswizzle @the-untamed-soul @allenajade-ite @starssfall @torchbearerkyle @judespoision @halfdeadsage @juniper-july19 @severewobblerlightdragon @thatgirlmj @gods-menace @ineedafictionalman @namgification @dark-night-sky-99 @samantha-chicago @2pagenumb @treehouse-mouse @fangirl125reader @megatrilss1885 @kagatinkita @itsjustkhaos @nikfigueiredo @awekbachira @vellicora @skepvids @sunrizef1 @stan-josie @fanficweasley @hiireadstuff @barcelonaloverf1life @c-losur3 @graciewrote @bruhhhhhhhhehhhhhhh @tallrock35 @ashy-kit @kat-s2 @minkyungseokie @lozzamez3 @leslieis-crying @adventuresofrose @lighttsoutlewis

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coryosbaby · 5 months

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—ꜰᴏʀᴄᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄʜᴏᴋᴇ ᴍᴇ ‘ᴛɪʟʟ ɪ ᴘᴀꜱꜱ ᴏᴜᴛ !

(Luke Castellan x bimbo! Reader)

Content warning . Victory sex? Choking, size kink, dumbification, marking, Sub! Reader, Dom! Luke

“Baby!”

Luke’s excited voice echoes throughout your empty cabin. Your curious eyes look up at him, distracted by drawing on pink lipstick with a fine tipped brush. Your lovely boyfriend wraps his arms around you from behind and kisses you flat on the mouth.

“We won,” he says, grinning. “I took the flag.”

You smile excitedly, turning around to hug him.

“That’s so amazing, Luke!” You reply. “ I’m so happy for you!”

It’s true. Your lover may be the best fighter in camp, but that doesn’t mean you don’t get giddy everytime he wins (yet another) capture the flag game.

Not to mention he’s like, insanely hot afterwards. Taking note of him, he’s sweaty and flush with the thrill of battle, and you think this is his best look: when he’s claimed something for his own.

You guide him to your bed, checking him for any major cuts or bruises. He never has any, and that doesn’t change today. You drop to your knees regardless, and nuzzle your face against his thigh. It’s one of your favorite ways to show affection towards him at times like these, when he needs to calm down and let his body rest.

However, you can’t help but clench when his hand wraps around your hair and he pushes his hips towards you. He does it unknowingly, out of instinct, but that doesn’t stop you from pressing a kiss to the crotch of his jeans.

He pauses, a smirk forming on his face.

“Need something, baby?”

You nod, a small “mhm” leaving your lips.

His eyes are teasing as his fingers grasp your chin, directing you to look at him.

“Are you going to be good?” He asks, all serious and deep, and you smile up at him, doe eyes gleaming as you excitedly play with the zipper on his jeans.

“I’ll be so good, Luke. Promise.”

“That’s my girl.”

He thumbs over your bottom lip, watching your hands much tinier than his unzip his fly. You pull out his hard, aching cock, the tip pretty and pink. You watch a pearl of arousal slide down his shaft, watch as he looks down hungrily at you. Your mouth waters.

You kiss his cockhead, letting his stringy precum glaze your lips, before sticking out your tongue and gently licking him. He lets out a heavy breath, his hand falling into your hair.

“Fuck,” he groans, sighing. “Such a good little princess for me.”

You whine, beginning to guide him into the warm heat of your mouth. His smell, all sweaty and musky, makes your brain fuzzy. It’s disgusting really, how desperate you are for him after a tournament. Letting him fuck your throat after a game is almost tradition.

And he knows it, too, teases you as you take him all the way in the back of your throat and choke on him. He presses you further down and lets your nose rest against his pubic bone. Your eyes roll back.

“Mmm,” he groans. Tears leak out of your eyes and smear your mascara as your throat contracts. “ Does my dick taste good, baby? How’s it feel having the greatest swordsman in the entire camp fuckin’ your throat, huh? Y’like that?”

You can’t reply, and he knows that. But you let out a guttural moan, making Luke growl.

“Such a stupid little thing. I asked you a question, baby, I expect you to answer it.”

Your lips slide off of him with a loud pop, your lipstick smearing on the side of your cheek as you gasp for breath.

“Love it, Luke. Love your cock so so much, just wanna suck on it forever…”

He grins, then, lets out a little chuckle between his lips as he guides you back down on his cock.

“That’s better.”

You trace your tongue filthily along the vein on him, move your hand down to palm one of his balls. You’re almost dizzy with it as you suck him, and you think you can stay like this for the rest of your life with his hands in your hair and his cock down your throat.

Luke has a primal stare as he watches your lipstick coat his cock in pretty pink stains. His hips buck up, once, twice. He’s about to cum, so he pulls you off of him.

“Gorgeous girl,” he compliments softly, wiping your mouth with his thumb. Drool drips down your chin and neck. “Want you on your clothes off and you on your back, okay? Can you do that for me?”

You nod obediently. Your wobbly legs lift up and you begin to unzip your pink jacket, then your Bebe top underneath comes off with two perfectly manicured hands. You slide your skirt off, and unclip your bra. But before you can take off your heels, Luke tsks. Ever the gentleman (to you, at least), he puts your foot on his thigh and undoes the laces on them.

“Are these new?” He asks, genuinely curious, as if he isn’t about to fuck your pretty brains out.

You nod, heart racing as he smiles up at you.

“I like them,” he drawls, gently tickling your ankle. “They’re cute.”

“Cute?” You say, giggling. “My shoes are cute?”

“Of course they are. They’re stilletos.“

You smile at the fact that he’s remembering the type of shoe because of your many rants to him about clothes. You let him remove them for you before sliding your panties down your legs and crawling onto the bed. He gives your ass a teasing slap as you crawl over him to your fluffy pink pillows.

He towers over you, slipping his shirt off and revealing his bare torso. You almost blush like a school girl, and pinch one of this biceps.

“You’re getting so strong,” you say in awe, feeling the muscle underneath your hand. Luke laughs, kissing your jaw.

“Gotta get big to protect my girl, don’t I?”

You bite your lip, his words sending a throbbing sensation straight to your already dripping core. He pushes his jeans and underwear past his meaty thighs and hastily kicks them off before giving his cock a few heavy strokes. He brushes his tip up against your folds, teasing. You whine, burying your face into his shoulder.

“I need it,” you say against his ear, sugary and sweet. “I need you.”

And how can he resist that, when you’re so pretty and pliant underneath him? He groans, pressing himself into your tight entrance, his hands going to either side of your head as he splits you open. Your thighs spread of their own accord, inviting him in even further.

“Such a tight little slut,” he moans out, watching how your pussy lips practically choke his cock. Your back arches.

“All for you,” you whisper.

“That’s right, sweet girl,” he punctuates each word in between thrusts, his pace increasing ferociously at the thought of owning you. “This little pussy? These tits? That fucking brain of yours, it’s all mine. Mine to toy with, mine to use… all of it.”

Your eyes roll back as he begins to mercilessly pound your pussy into the mattress. His big hand plays with your throat, then his fingers wrap around it and he squeezes. Your airflow is nearly cut off, and you gasp for breath as he presses harder. Your pussy gushes slick at the movement. Your lips press against the vein on his wrist, and you stick open mouthed kisses to the skin there. It isn’t long before you need to be let up; however, Luke’s grip on your neck doesn’t move. In fact, it tightens— you try to move it off, try to lift your head up to breathe, but Luke slams you back down into the pillows. Your hand grabs his much bigger one, a small, choked murmur of his name tumbling from your lips, begging, “Luke.. please”.

And that makes his hips stutter. He knows you want this, knows that this is something you’ve always liked. If he had actually hurt you, you would’ve said the safe word.

He shoots inside you with an animalistic growl, his cum coating your inner walls in thick white ropes, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. Your legs shake and squeeze his hips as he empties himself into you, your clit still throbbing hotly. Luke isn’t a non giving lover, and while his softening cock rests inside your cunt he reaches down and rubs slow, deliberate circles into your clit.

“Cmon,” he breathes out, watching your pussy spasm. “Cmon, baby, give it to me. Let me see you cream on my fucking cock.”

You whimper loudly, your orgasm hitting you so intensely you fear you may pass out. Your back arches up into Luke’s touch as he helps you ride out your high. When you come down, shaking and sticky with release, Luke’s fingers leave you and he wraps you into your arms. He presses a kiss to your hair, and you sigh happily when he pulls you on top of his spent body.

“Luke?” You ask him. Your fingers play with the hand shaped bruise forming on your throat.

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

@mysticpenguincreation @nightmare-niko @iheartinkonpaper @claireyberryy @becauseseaotters @emmalandry

#bunny writes ͟͟͞☆#luke castellan #Luke Castellan x reader #Luke Castellan x fem! reader #Luke Castellan x bimbo! reader #Luke Castellan smut #Luke Castellan fanfic #Luke Castellan blurb #Percy Jackson #percy jackon and the olympians #Percy jackson fanfic #Percy Jackson series #luke Percy Jackson

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bookishtheaterlover7 · 6 months

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I’m a Chris Evans fan and I completely understand the outrage and anger over this mess, but I see some people in tumbkr and elsewhere love calling this man irrelevant when they’ve been discussing his life choices for the past year or more…..when someone is “irrelevant” you don’t spent your waking moments constantly discussing them, so jokes on them I guess, 😂

Anyway o hope whatever mess Chris is in gets resolved soon. ☺️

Jokes on them.

But I'm also guilty of calling Albitch irrelevant, when I mention her every few posts just to hate on her... But I did call her by a different name, and I didn't tag her in almost all of my posts.

Which reminds me, she didn't make the Celeb list of Tumblr, did she?! 😆

Small victories, my beautiful Fandom. And still praying that Chris gets out.

#An🫶n asks #booky reacts #booky answers #chris evans #chris evans fandom #small victories

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cherry-bomb-ships · 8 months

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CONGRATULATIONS, you beautiful couple!! 😭💖✨️💖✨️💖✨️

8w8

AAAAAAAH THANK YOU SO MUCH!! 💖💖💖💖💖💖

#ruby answers #ixupi94 #💜: the man of my schemes #💍🧠: one small victory

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august126 · 3 months

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Scenes from an Italian Restaurant

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: Joel Miller is a lot of things: your dad’s best friend, your boss, your next-door neighbor. And, y'know, the guy you’ve been harboring a massive crush on since your freshman year of college.

You're pretty sure your feelings aren't reciprocated... until one night that changes everything.

Warnings:Age Difference,Joel is 49 and Reader is 24,Oral Sex,Car Sex,semi-public sex (sort of),Flirting,Masturbation, and Dirty Talk

Words:12,334

a/n: so sorry it took me almost a month to post something new ffs - life got busy and my inspiration simultaneously disappeared.

___________________________________________________________

“Y’know, while ‘m happy that you’re livin’ with me again, I’d appreciate it f’ya started tryin’ to find a job that put that fancy degree t’use.” You peer over the top of the book you’d been reading at your dad, who’s taking up a spot at the end of your pool chair. His arms are crossed over his navy work shirt, drenched in sweat from working all day in the roiling heat customary of a Texas summer, and he’s watching you expectantly for an answer.

You set your book on your chest and sigh. It’s not that you aren’t thankful or don’t appreciate your dad allowing you to move back in with him after graduating from college a year ago. You fully understand how fortunate you are not to have to worry about paying rent; you’re also eternally grateful to your dad for hooking you up with a decent-paying job as a secretary at the contracting business his best friend owns. However, you were getting very, very tired of having this conversation.

“And you know that I am lookin’, but it’s silly for me t’apply for an entry-level position at a firm that’s gonna pay me less than what ‘m makin’ now.” Your dad rolls his eyes and grumbles something snippy under his breath, his go-to combo when he doesn’t like that you’re right. You pin him with a pointed stare. “Care to repeat that?”

“Said maybe I oughta tell Joel to dock your pay then,” your dad states, but any lingering irritation in his tone dissipates by the time he’s finished speaking. He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, and his slight frown turns into a small, teasing smile.

“Somebody say my name?” Your gaze shifts from your dad to the sliding glass door behind him… or, rather, the man who opened it.

Joel Miller is a lot of things: your dad’s best friend, your boss, your next-door neighbor. And, y'know, the guy you’ve been harboring a massive crush on since your freshman year of college. Currently, Joel Miller is the tanned, broad, tall man striding leisurely through your backyard, navigating around your pool, and stopping beside your father.

He slaps a hand on your dad’s shoulder in greeting and shoots you a bright grin as he coos, “Hey, lady.” Although Joel’s addressed you with the pet name for years, it never fails to cause an eruption of butterflies in your belly and a crimson blush to paint your cheeks.

“Hey, Joel,” you respond, trying to appear nonchalant even as you’re reining in your thundering heart and halting the pulse throbbing just south of your belly button. “Dad was jus’ sayin’ how he’s gonna ask ya to give me a pay cut.” Joel turns to your father, shaking his head.

“And risk losin’ my best employee? No can do, bud.” Even if he’s only joking, you preen at Joel’s praise. You cock an eyebrow at your dad, waiting for some sort of a comeback, but he only glares at you both before huffing.

“I don’t like when the two of ya gang up on me.” You giggle, and Joel shoots you a lazy wink and a warm, victorious smile. “Anyway,” your dad turns his attention back to Joel, “you said reservation’s at 6:45?”

“Uh-huh, so we oughta get our asses movin’,” Joel asserts, and your dad starts heading swiftly back toward your house. Joel’s eyes shift to you, still lounging on your purple pool chair, and he nudges your foot with the toe of his boot. “That means you too, lady.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“Sarah’s birthday,” Joel answers incredulously, and a lightbulb goes off in your head; that’s why you felt like you were forgettin’ something all day. “Please tell me ya didn’t forget my daughter’s birthday. Your friend’s birthday,” Joel teases, shaking his head in feigned disappointment.

“ Of course I didn’t forget,” you lie, narrowing your eyes. Joel sees right through it.

“I bet. Now go get changed ‘fore ya make us late … unless you plan on wearin’ that to dinner.” The blush you just managed to school comes back in full force as he unabashedly rakes his eyes over your body, and only now do you realize how little the tiny black bikini you’re wearing covers.

Joel’s pretty brown eyes, usually so teeming with emotion, are utterly unreadable as you stand from your chair and begin heading inside. As you pass him, you mumble, “Don’t see why you’re complainin’.”

“Didn’t think I was.” You stumble a bit, glancing over your shoulder to find Joel’s gaze slowly sweeping down your body. When his stare lands on your ass, practically bare save for the minuscule cover your bikini bottom provides, his attention snaps back to your face, an impish grin on his lips that makes your skin flush.

“Fuck off, old man,” you reply cooly, flipping him off as you saunter inside; you can still feel Joel’s gaze on you as you ascend the stairs, and if that makes you sway your hips more than usual… well, who the fuck cares?

Once you’ve entered your bedroom and stripped off your bathing suit to assemble an outfit for dinner, your mind drifts into a space you’ve grown all too familiar with over the last five years.

It wasn’t like you didn’t understand how wrong your crush on Joel Miller was. Ignoring the fact that he’s been your dad’s best friend for years, he’s also over two decades your senior and has a daughter only a few years younger than you. It’s disgusting, really, that you have even the slightest hint of attraction toward the man. And yet…

You really can’t find it in yourself to care. You’re no longer a college student parading around under the guise of adulthood. No, you’re a woman now, a woman with autonomy who is perfectly capable of making her own choices. If one of those choices is fucking her dad’s best friend, well, then so be it.

Even as you tell yourself this for the thousandth time, the sentiment feels weak. Sure, the opportunity to fuck Joel Miller is perfectly viable, in theory. However, so many things would have to go right for a thing like that to happen, and you are a notoriously unlucky person; quite frankly, you can count on one hand the number of times you’ve gotten lucky to the degree that you would need to for something like having sex with Joel to happen.

For one, no one would ever be able to find out. Your dad, Sarah, any of your nosey neighbors. Not to mention that the logistical feat of such a thing would be tricky. Where would you guys meet up? Not your house, not his house, and anything public like a bar would be far too risky. No, it would have to be a one-off deal, and you’re not so sure you’d be able to stop at just a single taste of Joel.

And that’s all assumin’ he’d even want me, you think as you comb through your closet looking for a summer dress right for the occasion. Joel Miller had never, never shown a flicker of interest in you. That display by the pool, him ogling your ass in your skimpy bikini? That was just him keeping up the incessant string of banter that passed between the two of you. Sure, he was older than you, but that didn’t matter when it came to the way he treated you, as if you were his friend.

Right, his friend.

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. This line of thinking was an absolute rabbit hole, forcing you down, down, down until there was a headache ebbing at your temples and your veins were licking with equal parts frustration and lust.

Three quick knocks come on your door, and your head whips around at the sound, pulling you out of your Joel-induced stupor. “Hey, lady?”

Fuck. You stand in your closet, stunned into inaction like a deer in headlights as you realize the only thing separating you, butt-ass naked, and Joel is the mahogany of your closed bedroom door.

“Just checkin’ to see ‘f you’re ready yet. Sarah jus’ texted, said her and what’s-his-face are waitin’ at the restaurant.” You take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. You off-handedly wonder why you haven’t just slipped a dress on over your head on the off chance Joel decides to swing open your door, and you realize with a sick sort of excitement that you wouldn’t entirely mind Joel walking into your room at this very moment.

“Almost,” you call out, forcing your words to come out smooth as the image of Joel entering your room enters your mind unbidden; you imagine how his eyes would take in your naked form, how it’d take three short strides for him to reach you, how he might drop his head and lick one of your already hardened nipples into his warm, waiting mouth. You swallow thickly before calling out, “Just need another second s’all.”

A dull throb begins at the apex of your thighs as you picture the man on the other side of the wall putting his rough, work-worn hands all over your soft, supple skin. You wonder what his calloused touch would feel like against your flesh, if his honeyed skin would grow rosy under the thorough ministrations of your wet tongue, if his eyes would grow dark and a deep groan would drip from his lips as you closed your mouth around his-

“Sweetheart? Y’alright in there?” You think you mumble an airy affirmation as you mindlessly trace your fingers along your collarbone, imagining that they’re longer, thicker, belonging to another individual entirely. Any semblance of rationality escapes you as your other hand creeps down the smooth skin of your belly, and you cup your sex with a groan you’re barely able to muffle. You’re so outside of yourself, caught up in the slow path your fingers are tracing along your body, that you don’t notice the doorknob begin to turn.

Only when your door starts to lurch open do you fall back into your body from where you were floating a few seconds earlier. Your eyes blow wide, a strangled cry of surprise and horror falling from your mouth as you realize the precarious situation you’re about to be thrust into. “WAIT.”

The slow sway of your door opening halts immediately, and you let out a breath, spinning on your heel to face your closet. “I- ‘m jus’ comin’ in t’make sure you’re alright.” You hastily decide on a sage green strapless dress, something you can slip into quickly and inconspicuously, and rip the silk garment from its hanger.

“Yeah, no, ‘m good, Joel. Great, I’m great, jus’… yeah, gimme a sec.” You throw the dress on, its hem falling to your mid-thigh as you grab a pair of strappy sandals from the bottom of your closet and slip one on, hopping into the other as you approach your door.

“Y’sure, baby? Ya sound-” You slip your shoe on and grab the door handle in one movement, opening it fully to give you an unobstructed view of the man you’d just been on the verge of touching yourself to. Wouldn’t be the first time, you think to yourself unhelpfully.

He’s looking down at you, concern and curiosity bubbling in his gaze, and you raise your eyebrows at him. “See? ‘m fine, all good. Jus’ needed a minute.” Joel’s eyes blaze a lackadaisical trail over your body, and you swear you can feel him cataloging each inch of bare skin you have on display. He reaches out, plucking one of the flimsy green spaghetti straps between his thick fingers before letting it go to snap back against your shoulder. You stifle a gasp, and he brushes the hair careening down your chest back over your shoulder.

“This is pretty,” he says, voice low and velvety, and you can feel your pussy beginning to grow wet at his praise. He bends down until his mouth hovers just next to your ear, and you’re suddenly overwhelmed by the scent of him: musky cologne and citrusy body wash and something unidentifiable yet so undoubtedly Joel. “Did ya mean t’be wearin’ it backward?”

You look down at yourself, heat rising to your face when you realize that he’s right: you’ve managed to put your dress on the wrong way. You shove Joel’s shoulder, and he takes a step back, a smug grin painted on his lips that makes you roll your eyes.

“You’re a dick, y’know that?” He chuckles at your dig, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

“And you’re makin’ us late to this dinner. Now, can I trust ya to fix your dress yourself, or do ya need me to help?” He delivers it like a joke, and the logical part of your brain reminds you of that the moment your pulse begins to flutter. He’s just teasin’ you like he always does.

However, the dark, hunger-tinged stare Joel is pinning you with doesn’t feel humorous. You swallow thickly, saliva pooling in your mouth and pinning your tongue to the roof. “I-” you stutter, words failing you as he continues dragging his eyes slowly over your flustered form. “You-”

“Spit it out, baby.” Baby. You turn the endearment over in your head a few times, testing the weight of it on your tongue. Finally, the corners of your lips pull up in a cheeky smile and your eyelids grow heavy as you gaze up into Joel’s face.

“You askin’ to undress me, Miller?” And this doesn’t feel like your typical banter. No, this feels weighted, laced with something headier. Something full of innuendo and promises and an unquenchable appetite for… something. And then your dad’s voice is cutting harshly through the fog.

“Hey hon, I’ll be- oh, Joel, didn’t realize ya came up here.”

Joel doesn’t even spare your dad a glance, eyes still on you as he says, “Jus’ wanted to check and see if your slow-ass kid was ready t’go.” Your dad snorts, and you narrow your eyes at Joel before turning the withering look to your father.

“Don’t laugh at that.”

“Sorry, sweetie, but ya are kinda slow.” Joel’s smirk only grows, and you huff incredulously. Your dad, apparently oblivious to the bubble of tension he popped, continues. “Anywho, was jus’ sayin’ that I’m gonna head out to the car ‘cause we need t’get goin’, so quit your dilly dallyin’ and let’s get a move on.” He raises his eyebrows at you expectantly, and you sigh in defeat.

You look at the ground as you mutter, “Yes, Dad, ‘m just about ready,” and your reply is met with a loud clap of your father's hands.

“Wonderful!” he exclaims, rubbing his palms together before bringing a heavy hand down on Joel’s shoulder. “C’mon, Joel, you can wait with me in the car. I need t’talk to ya ‘bout some work shit anyway.” Your dad begins to drag Joel down the stairs, but not before Joel can get the last word in between you.

He cranes his head back, catching your glare as he descends the stairs. “Y’heard your daddy, no more dilly dallyin’,” he sing-songs, and you scoff.

“Oh, fuck you, Miller.” “Language, ma’am,” you hear your dad chastise sternly, and you grumble a half-assed apology as you close your bedroom door behind you. It only takes you a minute to flip your dress so that you’re wearing it the correct way and throw on a pair of light pink, lace panties, bounding down the stairs and out the front door when you’re ready. Before you know it, you’re seated in the backseat of Joel’s old pickup truck as it cruises down the highway toward Austin’s metro area.

You watch the residential neighborhoods littered with little kids running through sprinklers and elderly couples sitting in chairs on their front porches morph into the city, full of streets tightly lined with buildings and bar-hoppers entering their first destination of the night. The sun still hangs rather high in the sky, dappling the world in a warm amber glow as Joel pulls up outside a quaint Italian bistro nestled between an ice cream parlor full of bright-eyed children and a sushi restaurant rattling with the heavy bass of the music from within.

“Cute lil’ place,” you say, surveying the old brick exterior of the building and the burgundy awning hanging over the open front door that bears the name of the restaurant, Palermio’s, in loopy, white script. “Sarah’s choice?”

Joel reaches his hand behind your dad’s headrest, using one hand to turn the wheel while he starts to squeeze his truck into the last snug parking spot outside of the bistro. “No, darlin’, I did.” You stare at his side profile as he maneuvers the truck, surprise lacing your features. It’s not until he’s parked the car and meets your eyes in the rearview mirror as he’s straightening out in his seat that you realize he’s bullshitting you.

“Asshole,” you mutter under your breath as you throw open your door and slide from the backseat, and he’s following you a second later.

“Y’know, you oughta be nicer t’me. I am your boss,” he says as you round his truck, his arm brushing yours, and you look up at him. “Could fire ya for bein’ disrespectful, ‘f I really wanted to.” You smirk at him and shrug.

“Ya could, but then you’d be losin’ your best employee, right?” His chest bounces as he laughs, and you smile at the pleasant noise before getting distracted by how his relatively new-looking cream-colored t-shirt bearing the album cover of Fleetwood Mac’s Rumors stretches tautly over the slopes of his wide shoulders.

“Damn right, lady,” he agrees, his gaze crawling over your body as he drags his thumb over his mostly pepper, slightly salt mustache that decorates his upper lip. Your skin crawls pleasantly as you feel him examining you, and you’re just about to reach your father, who’s waiting for the two of you by the entrance to the restaurant, when you hear Joel quietly say, “Prettiest employee, too.”

Your head whips around, feet planting on the concrete as you wait for Joel to say something, anything else. Much to your chagrin, he struts right past you shamelessly, heading inside as your dad gives you a confused look.

“You comin’, honey?” You shake your head, trying to dispel the medley of thoughts whirring around your brain. Did I hear him right? No, no, he didn’t mean that. Definitely not.

“Yeah, sorry,” you say, stepping inside with a sheepish smile in your dad’s direction. “Thought I heard someone callin’ my name, ‘s my bad.” Your dad just nods his head in understanding before draping an arm over your shoulder and steering you toward the back of the restaurant, where you can see Joel already greeting the members of your party who have already arrived.

As you draw closer, you watch him envelope his daughter in a firm hug, rocking back and forth for a few seconds as he whispers something in her ear. She giggles, punching him lightly in the shoulder, and when Sarah pulls back from his embrace, her deep brown eyes, which are almost identical to her father’s, catch a glimpse of you over his shoulder. Before you have a chance to react, she’s colliding with you so hard you grunt.

“You came!” she squeals, jumping up and down as you wrap your arms around her and giggle.

“Course I came, Sarah. Wouldn’t ‘ve missed your twenty-first birthday for the world, ‘re ya kiddin’?” She takes a step back, holding you by the shoulders before drawing you back in for another tight hug.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Jus’ didn’t know ‘f you’d be able to make it, didn’t know ‘f you’d have other plans or somethin’.” She bites her lip when you pull away this time, trying to hide the way she’s beaming at you, and a big smile paints your face.

“Nah, no plans more important than my best friend’s birthday.” She smiles and leads you back to the table, where your dad and Joel have already found their seats. You lean against her and whisper conspiratorially, “Did have to fight with my boss t’get some time off for the occasion, though. He can be a pain in the ass sometimes, like ya wouldn’t believe.” Sarah giggles, leveling you with a knowing grin.

“I’m sure I’ve got some idea,” she says as she takes her seat at the head of the table, and you slip around to take the only empty seat, which happens to be between Joel and Tommy, his younger brother that you’ve only seen a handful of times. You offer the younger Miller brother a polite smile, which he returns with a cheeky smirk before you turn back to the birthday girl.

“You’ve ain’t ever been that excited t’see me,” Joel says accusingly at Sarah, jerking his head toward where Sarah had practically tackled you, and you stifle a laugh at the hint of playful jealousy in his tone.

“‘s ‘cause I’m not a grumpy old man,” you snark, and Tommy guffaws beside you, reaching around your back to slap Joel’s shoulder lightheartedly.

“She gotcha there, big brother,” he says, accent saturated with his heavy Texas twang. Joel grumbles something incoherent and Tommy shoots you an amused wink. You watch your dad snort with laughter in his seat across from you, and Sarah’s boyfriend, Luke, who’s seated on her other side opposite Joel tries not to look too entertained by your ribbing of his girlfriend’s father, wisely busying himself with the menu.

A few minutes after ordering your drinks your waitress reappears carrying a large tray brimming with an assortment of alcoholic beverages. You take a sip of your Pinot Noir, hiding a small smile behind the fruity flavor as the waitress sets a large cocktail layered with green, white, and red liquid and adorned with a small Italian flag attached to a thin, black straw in front of a wide-eyed Sarah. You’re unable to mask your laughter, however, when Joel’s eyes find the massive drink and he nearly chokes on his sip of Peroni.

“Babygirl,” he sputters, still recovering from his small conniption, “that’s a lotta-”

“I’m twenty-one now, Dad, I can handle my alcohol,” Sarah assures him with an annoyed roll of her eyes and a look at you that says can you believe this guy? And it’s true, Sarah is more than capable of handling her drinks if the videos she’s shown you of her time at college are any indication.

“I know, jus’... jus’ pace yourself, yeah?” She concedes with a small huff, and you wiggle your eyebrows at her tauntingly.

“Yeah, Sarah, make sure ya pace yourself. Got a while ‘fore ya can hang with us big dogs. Right, Joel?” You elbow him in the side, and he looks at you disdainfully.

“You’re a little shit, y’know that?” he murmurs under his breath. You shrug, snagging a piece of fresh, warm bread from the basket the waitress sat in the middle of the table and dipping it in the plate of olive oil and seasoning before stuffing it in your mouth.

“Learned it fwom the besht,” you say merrily, grinning at him through your mouth full of food, and he sneers at you in disgust before turning his attention to your father and Tommy, who are in a heated debate over the Dallas Cowboys chances of success in the upcoming season.

“I’m tellin’ ya, Tommy, this s’our year! We jus’ picked up that kid from- from… aw shit, where’s he from again?” Your dad rubs his temples, hoping to dislodge the information from some small, dusty compartment of his brain.

“Notre Dame,” Joel chimes in as he reaches for his own piece of bread, and your dad snaps his fingers as his face lights up in remembrance.

“Notre Dame!” he bellows, and you shoot him a look that he promptly returns with an apologetic wince. “Notre Dame, yeah, s’right,” he says, quieter this time with a little smile, and you leave him and Tommy to continue their chat as you tune in to the conversation at the other end of the table.

“Anyway, Dad, so Becca-”

“Which one s’that?” Sarah looks at Joel in disbelief.

“Becca. Rebecca Landry. My best friend in high school, goes t’LSU with me, we lived together ‘fore I moved in with Luke…” Joel just stares at his daughter with vacant eyes, and you snort. “Dude, come on, ya literally grilled for her graduation party.” Joel shakes his head, taking a swig of his beer. You watch how his throat bobs as he swallows and quickly avert your eyes, hoping no one caught you gawking.

“Sorry, hon, doesn’t ring a bell.” She huffs, and Joel smirks, clearly just giving her a hard time.

“Whatever. Anyway, her boyfriend proposed to ‘er last week, and it was jus’ the cutest thing. Real private ‘cause y’know how she is. She told me they don’t have a date set yet, but they’re thinkin’ ‘bout next Spring. Said t’ask if she should add ya to the guest list.” Joel hums non-committally, clearly lacking an opinion on the matter, and you pinch his elbow. He jerks out of your grip, looking at you with annoyance, and you cock your head in Sarah’s direction. When he turns to see her expectant glance, he huffs, head leaning back as he stares at the ceiling.

“Tell ‘er I’ll be there,” Joel capitulates, and Sarah beams in excitement before giving you a grateful grin.

“Awesome! She’ll be so excited, she loves ya.” Joel crosses his arms over his broad chest, shaking his head slightly as he leans back in his chair and spreads his thighs farther. You have to try desperately to keep your breath from hitching at the action.

“Speakin’ o’ weddings and proposals n’ all that,” your dad says, giving Luke a friendly clap on the back. “When’s it your turn, buckaroo? ‘s been, what, three years of datin’? Gotta be soon, hm?”

Luke looks like he wants nothing more than to melt into a puddle and sink into the floor at the line of questioning, something your dad remains completely oblivious to. Feeling bad, you throw the guy a lifeline.

“Leave ‘im alone, Dad. Jesus, you ain’t even that interested in my love life,” you huff, sipping your wine. Luke seems to remember how to breathe, a look of thanks on his face as your dad scrunches his nose up.

“‘s cause I’m not. Don’t wanna know about some boy who’s wastin’ your time ‘cause he ain’t good ‘nough for ya.”

“Your daddy’s right, hon, ya deserve more than what some boy can give ya ,” you hear from your right side, and then a thick arm drapes loosely over your shoulders. You turn to look at Tommy, who’s closer to you than the last time you paid him any attention.

“Knock it off, Tommy,” you hear Joel grumble, and you watch Tommy’s eyes dart over your shoulder and narrow minutely. An expression of innocence plasters over his face to quickly replace the mischievous smirk previously there.

“Knock what off, big brother?” Your gaze shifts to Joel, and you nearly wilt at the stormy look he’s shooting his brother. His eyes are simultaneously full of emotion and totally unreadable, jaw ticking in… wait, is he jealous?

“Quit.” You bristle at Joel’s harsh tone, not realizing until it’s too late that when you shrink back at his timbre, you lean further into Tommy. You can feel the egotism rolling off of the younger Miller brother, and the tension building in Joel’s figure seems to grow until he’s at serious risk of snapping. You’re sure that the only way this ends is with Tommy making another haughty comment that results in Joel leaping over your lap and strangling the man…

“Alright, who ordered the lasagna?” Your waitress’ voice dissipates the thunderous air instantaneously, and everyone’s attention snaps to her. The wide, practiced smile she’s wearing falters for just a second, and she shifts uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, ‘m I interrupting somethin’?” The tight pinch of Joel’s face evaporates before your eye, and you watch, stunned, as he turns toward your waitress.

“Nah, darlin’, you’re alright. Reckon that’ll be mine,” he says, cool as clam. By the time all the food is dished out and you’re digging into your respective dinners, the near fight is long forgotten. Unfortunately, you’re not able to shake the bitter feeling of envy that twisted in your stomach at hearing Joel call the waitress “darlin’”.

Before long, all six of your plates have been cleaned, and each of you sits back in your chairs, thoroughly stuffed full of rich Italian food. Your dad belches, drawing a laugh from the other men at the table while your and Sarah’s faces pinch in distaste, and the casual conversation continues as the street outside grows raucous with the Austin nightlife.

Your dad, ever the chatterbox, is going on about some upcoming project at his contracting firm when you feel it: the firm weight of an arm draped over the backrest of your seat. You pay it no mind at first, chalking it up to Tommy’s touchy but harmless hands.

That is until you feel soft, gentle shapes being drawn into the bare skin of your bicep on Tommy’s side. Your brain doesn’t comprehend the logistics of this immediately, and your head snaps in Tommy’s direction to find the younger man’s attention focused raptly on your father with his hands in his lap.

Your back straightens, and goosebumps prickle across your skin when it finally clicks whose hands are on you; you slowly, inconspicuously face your father again, pretending like you’re listening so as not to spark anyone at the table’s awareness, all while peeking at Joel out of the corner of your eye.

At first glance, it appears that he, like everyone else at the table, is completely engaged with the words tumbling from your dad’s mouth. But you know Joel too well. You pick up on the slight quirk of his lips, the way his thick thighs spread almost obnoxiously wide so his knee grazes yours, and how he’s drumming the thick fingers of his other hand rhythmically against the table. Joel felt how your body reacted to his touch.

And he liked it.

That piece of information is what has the low burn in your belly from earlier in your bedroom reigniting, blazing up your skin and making your neck and chest flush a deep red. Joel must be able to sense your blundering state because he removes his hand from you altogether, causing your heart to drop. Your whole body begins to slump in disappointment just as you feel Joel replace his touch on the bare skin of your thigh, exposed when you sat down and the already short dress you’d thrown on in a panic earlier rode higher up your legs.

He squeezes you there, thumb passing back and forth lightly, and your thighs spread of their own volition to allow him more room. You can see his eyebrows raise slightly in surprise, but he’s able to play it off easily as a reaction to your dad’s story. You do the same with the small smile that stretches your lips as his hand begins to creep higher up your leg.

And it’s risky, what you’re doing. Allowing your dad’s best friend, the father of the girl you’ve lived next to almost your entire life, your boss, to inch his big, calloused hand closer and closer to where you want him most right here at this very public dinner.

And yet, you simply do not care.

Well, you don’t care until you feel the pad of his thumb brush your sex over your panties, and you jerk at the sensation, thighs closing to stop the movement of his hands. The action draws your dad’s attention to you, and his brow furrows as he scans your face.

“You okay, hon? You’re not lookin’ too hot.” Your pulse thunders in your ears as you fumble for an excuse.

“No, yeah, ‘m fine. Jus’... yeah, not – uh, not feelin’ too hot.” Everyone at the table looks at you with concern. Even Joel, though his eyes possess an air of arrogance at your state. The bastard.

“Babe, you can go home ‘f ya need to,” Sarah says, and your eyes go wide as you shake your head.

“No! No, ’m fine, really. I wanna stay for you, ‘s your birthday ‘n all.”

She waves her hand as though she’s physically batting away your excuse. “Party’s basically over anyway. Luke and I were gonna meet some friends at a bar a few blocks over anyway, so y’all are good t’go whenever.”

“Well, I’m ready t'head home now,” your dad says, beginning to rise from his chair. “Rangers game ’s on at 9, and 'f we hurry, I won’t miss more than the first inning.” Joel, reading your dad’s eagerness to get home as his cue to be ready to leave as well, stands, and you catch the way he subtly adjusts himself on the way up. You resign yourself to the fact that the fleeting, secret moment between you is slipping through your fingers, and, albeit reluctantly, you follow his lead.

Tommy’s still seated, sipping casually from his beer, when he informs your dad, “Nah, man, it’s Friday night in downtown Austin. Reckon y’all won’t get home ‘til the third inning, at least.” Your father curses, running a hand over his semi-bald head in genuine worry, and you almost have to laugh at the concern twisting his features into a grimace. The urge to laugh quickly fades as you watch Tommy shrug his shoulders and carelessly say, “There’s a place 'bout five minutes away, lil’ sports bar my buddies and I go to t’watch the game sometimes. Can get kinda rowdy, but you’re welcome to tag along, ‘f ya want.”

Your jaw almost falls off at Tommy, who’s completely oblivious to the bone he’s just thrown you. When you turn just enough to allow you a view of Joel out of the corner of your eye, you immediately notice his almost imperceptibly stiffer posture. You watch your dad’s face light up with excitement, a hell yeah on the tip of his tongue.

And then, suddenly, his expression drops and he’s looking at you guiltily. “Aww shit, Tommy, that sounds great, but ‘f this one,” he says, jabbing a thumb in your direction, “ain’t feelin’ well, I oughta get ‘er home.” Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

You go to object, to insist, practically beg your dad to take Tommy up on his offer so that it’s just you and Joel on the ride home, but Joel beats you to it. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, man, I’ll take ‘er.” For the second time in mere minutes, you’re filled with the overwhelming urge to gawk at one of the Miller brothers.

“You sure, Joel? Don’t wanna inconvenience ya or nothin’.” You watch Joel shrug, and then he turns to you, pinning you with an unreadable stare.

“Y’alright with that, lady?” You stare at him, speechless. Are you alright with spending the entire ride home, perhaps even longer if your dad stays to watch the whole game and Sarah is bar-hopping, alone with Joel Miller right after his hand was brushing against your wet, wanting pussy?

Yeah, you were pretty fucking alright with that.

Your silence must draw on for an uncomfortably long time because Joel raises his eyebrows at you, prompting an answer. “Yes!” you say, just a touch too loud, and you take a deep breath before turning back to your dad. “Yeah, sounds good – cool, ‘s cool with me.”

Your dad gives you one more half-hearted once-over, verifying that you don’t need his escort home, but he’s in a losing battle with himself; the moment that Joel offered his services, your dad was sold. The coy little, “Well, ‘f you’re sure it’s not too much trouble,” he extends to Joel is like a tepid stamp of finality as his mind is already half-full with Rangers jargon.

Joel gives your dad a nod before jerking his head toward the door. “C’mon, darlin’, let’s get ya home.” And you try, you really do try not to walk with your chest puffed out the entire way to Joel’s truck. You try to keep up the facade of illness that was brought on by your lustful tizzy.

But Joel called you darlin’, and fuck if it didn’t sound better falling from his lips when it was directed at you and not some waitress.

***

Tommy, for perhaps the first time in his entire life, was right; traffic absolutely crawled in the downtown Austin area at this time on a Friday night. You’d peeled away from the restaurant almost thirty minutes ago, when the sun was beginning its descent.

Now, the analog numbers on Joel’s dash blink 8:57 p.m. , the summer sky having just shifted from muddy brown to steel grey and will soon start to give way to the dark of night and the whisperings of stars, and you’ve just managed to make it out of the city.

Thirty minutes, nearly two thousand seconds, and each one totally void of speech. Joel stared straight out the front windshield, hands carefully gripping the steering wheel as you leaned your cheek against the cool glass of the passenger window and watched the metro landscape give way to soil and farmland, groups of clubgoers replaced by black and brown spotted cows.

It’s not until the current CD in Joel’s radio reaches its end and the gears click, switching to the familiar crooning voice of Bob Dylan, that your soft singing breaks the silence.

“What was that?” Joel asks, and you turn your gaze to watch him, focus still intent on the road in front of him.

“Nothin’, just singin’.” He looks at you then, just a quick glance in your direction, but it makes your blood sing.

“Y’like Bob Dylan? “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door”, hm?” You shrug noncommittally, and his responding smirk makes you sit up in your seat.

“What’re ya laughin’ at?” Joel just shakes his head, and you lean over and swat his bicep playfully. “What?”

“Nothin’, baby.” The word sounds perfect in his low, gruff timbre, and you grin stupidly. When he sees your expression, he reaches over and wraps his big palm around your knee, giving it a shake. “Got good taste s’all. Didn’t expect it from ya.” You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest and trying to pretend like the large spread of his hand over your bare skin doesn’t make your core throb.

“Don’t act so surprised, Miller. You should know better than anyone how much I like old shit.” He clucks his tongue, sliding his hand farther up your leg and squeezing your thigh in warning.

“Careful,” he advises teasingly, but you’re not feeling particularly cautious tonight.

“Says you.”

“Says me?”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no heat behind the action as all the warmth in your body is currently shooting to a spot in your tummy. “Yeah, Joel, says you. I wasn’t the one with my hands between your legs in the middle of dinner tonight.” You watch Joel’s posture straighten and you try to hide your grin at his reaction.

Bingo.

You bite your lip and watch his eyes dart in your direction. Even in the ever-darkening dusk, you can see the hint of hunger in his pupils. “Didn’t see you complainin’.” You adjust in your seat, and Joel’s hand slips higher, his pinky just barely dipping beneath the hem of your dress.

“‘s ‘cause I liked it,” you say matter-of-factly, and you watch him exhale heavily. His head swings lazily to look at you, eyes dropping to where his palm rests on your slightly spread thighs before traveling up to meet your stare.

“Yeah? Liked me touchin’ your pussy with all those people ‘round? Any of ‘em coulda caught us, pretty girl. Coulda caught me feelin’ how fuckin’ wet you were, soakin’ through your panties.” And you’re almost sure Joel’s trying to make a point in there somewhere. That what you two did was risky in and of itself, not to mention the fact that he was touching you like that in public.

And yet all you can focus on is that name. Pretty girl. You think it’s your favorite thing he’s ever called you.

When you don’t answer right away, Joel looks back to the road. You watch him check the rearview mirror, and then he’s making a left down a long road and parking the car on a small dirt pull-off a few hundred feet in.

You look around, surveying your surroundings; tall prairie grass decorates your side of the road while a large cornfield stretches over the side closest to Joel, and the only thing lighting the earth for a few miles in any direction is the soft glow of the moon overhead. When you focus your attention on Joel again, half of his face is shadowed while the gleam of lunar opalescence illuminates the other half.

Your breath catches in your throat at the sight, and you can’t help but stare. You reach toward Joel, cautiously at first, but emboldened when he squeezes your leg. You cup his jaw and rub your thumb over his stubbled jaw; his eyes flutter closed at the sensation, and you shuffle closer, Joel’s hand falling away from you as you sit up on your knees and reach across the center console to cup the dark side of his face with your other hand.

His palm finds a new position on your hip, and when his eyes open again, revealing his dark, chocolatey irises to you, your body leans closer toward his of its own volition. As if something inside of him, perhaps the very marrow of his bones, is magnetized to yours.

“Joel,” you say, soft voice cutting through the silence in the cab of the truck.

“Hmm?”

“Is this… is this bad? What we’re doing?’ His eyes dart around your face, taking in your heated gaze with a warmth of his own. He sighs as his other hand traces up the side of your body before slipping around your shoulders and resting on the nape of your neck.

“I wouldn’t say it’s good.” You nod, scratching your nails lightly through the salt-and-pepper beard he’s let grow.

“Should we stop?” It comes out as a whisper, laced with apprehension, tediousness, and want. So, so much want.

“Probably.” And he’s right. Whatever this thing between you and Joel is, it’s not feasible. Sure, it would be great. Amazing, even… until it’s not. Until the appetite for each other dies out and what’s left is a hollow skeleton of awkward encounters and forced conversation to keep up appearances.

Either that or the hunger becomes all-consuming, to the point where you can’t eat, can’t breathe, can’t sleep without thoughts of Joel dominating your mind.

And maybe that’s worse, you think. Finding out what Joel tastes like, what it feels like when he sinks into your wet heat, just for it to one day be stolen from you.

Because there isn’t an angle to approach this from that doesn’t end in the same unfortunate reality; Joel can’t be yours. He will never be yours.

And, so, yeah. You probably should stop. But as you go to pull away, to take your hands off of Joel and sit back in your seat while Joel returns the truck to the main road before depositing you safely at home like the good friend he is, Joel’s grip on the nape of your neck tightens. And then he’s tugging your mouth to meet his and your hands, still cupping his cheek, are pulling his face in to meet you halfway.

When Joel’s lips slot against yours, you’re surprised by how soft he is. Joel Miller, perpetually gruff and probably born with callouses etched into his hands, is so inconceivably gentle at the first contact of his mouth against yours. You sigh, breathing him in as he threads his fingers into your hair, and a moment of tranquility washes over you. This truck is the only place that has ever or will ever exist, and you and Joel are the only two people in the world.

You slide one of your hands from his jaw to his neck, stroking the solid strength of his throat, and a rough noise vibrates from him. You repeat the motion experimentally, and he groans into you, tongue darting out to politely ask for entrance into your mouth.

You accept with an enthusiastic moan, and that’s when the seemingly endless reservoir of Joel’s reserve drains dry. He licks into you, tongue caressing yours when you part your lips for him, and the hand in your hair tightens, keeping you held steadily against him. He feasts on you, stealing the air you breathe as he kisses you ferociously.

Joel sucks on your tongue when you go to mewl, and the sound is replaced by a wanton whine. You roll your hips over nothing, and Joel clocks the movement immediately. You feel his reluctance as he drags his mouth from yours, and you sit and wait, carefully assessing every minute change in his expression as you try to regain your composure.

You’re sure you’re supposed to be embarrassed right now, ashamed that you couldn’t keep your neediness in check. However, you can only think about two things: how fucking horny you are at the moment, and how that was probably the only time you’ll ever kiss Joel because this entire thing is about to come crashing down in short-lived, fiery oblivion.

But Joel does something. Something that really shocks you, leaves you vulnerable to attack and exposed right down to the root of you. He looks you up and down, from the slightly frumpled state of your green dress to the no-doubt wild gleam in your eyes, and smirks before saying, “You need t’be filled up, don’t ya, baby?”

You smile and nod, licking your lips as you appraise the man sitting in front of you. He’s so intoxicatingly broad, the sleeves of his shirt stretching tightly over his biceps while the legs of his jeans pull taut along his thighs. You shift in your seat again, causing Joel to pull you closer, and though you’re uncomfortably sprawled across the center console, you’ve never felt more right than you do right now.

Your lips are brushing Joel’s, so close you can feel the warm puffs of breath leaving his nostrils, and any slight surge forward by either of you would connect your mouths again. Instead, you stay like that, so close but still too far for your liking.

“Tell me what it is you want, sweetheart.” You angle your head, pressing a soft kiss to the side of his mouth before drifting your lips back to hover over his.

“Want your cock, Joel.” Your bluntness must take him by surprise because his head falls back against his seat and he groans. You take the opportunity to drop your lips to his neck, kissing it lightly before licking up the column of his throat and biting delicately at the junction where his neck meets his jaw.

“Yeah?” He takes one of your hands and drags it down his front, letting you feel the muted strength of his abdomen tailored from years of manual labor and the soft swell of his belly before landing on the thick bulge in his pants. You pull away from where you were beginning to leave a small bruise on his neck to look at where your hand cups his clothed erection, and you practically drool at the sight. “You want this, hmm?”

“Yes,” you confirm airily before your eyes snap up to meet his, heavy-lidded and clouded with lust. “Please, Joel, I- I need it.” He nods, the hand that guided yours leaving you to your own devices and drifting back up to rub his thumb over your lips. You take the opportunity to massage him through his pants, and he sighs, smirking at you.

“Tell me where ya need it, honey,” he lilts, and you grip his bicep as you squeeze his cock lightly. “Need it here?” He nudges his thumb gently between your parted lips, and even as you shake your head, your mouth opens to him, allowing him to push his finger inside. You swirl your tongue over the salty pad of his thumb, switching to mellow kitten licks before taking it deeper.

“No?” he asks, quirking a brow at you. He presses his thumb down against your tongue, and you open your mouth wide so he can see down your throat. “Gotta tell me where then, baby.” You close your mouth again, sucking on his thumb briefly before pulling off of him with a lewd pop.

Your eyes never leave his, and you watch them turn impossibly darker when you tell him earnestly, “My pussy. Want you to stretch my cunt with your fat cock.” He huffs lightly at the vulgarity of your words, and you squeeze him through his pants again.

“You’re a dirty fuckin’ girl, y’know that?” He looks almost in awe, and you smirk at him, beginning to crawl across the center console to straddle him. When he stops you with a hand to your sternum, you look at him in confusion. “We can’t tonight, darlin’. Wanna take my time with you when I fuck ya, gotta make sure I get ya ready.”

You’re so utterly disappointed you ache with it, pouting at him as you draw in close. “But I’m ready now, Joel. So fuckin’ wet for you, have been since the restaurant.”

He gives you a chaste kiss before pulling back and jerking his head toward your seat. “Show me.” You smirk as you slink back into your seat. You rest with your back against the car door, your right leg dangling off the seat while you tuck your left leg up and spread your knees farther apart, causing the hem of your dress to ride up your thighs until it’s brushing your tummy. You can tell by the wrecked look in Joel’s eyes that from this angle, he has a perfect view of the damp spot decorating the slip of pink lace that is your underwear.

“Fuck, baby, ya weren’t lyin’,” he mutters, fingers smoothing his mustache. “Pretty lil’ panties are soaked. That all for me?” You bite your lip and nod, pupils blown wide and eyelids heavy as you ghost your fingertips over the soft skin of your thighs. He makes a noise of appreciation as he watches your movements hungrily, fist clenching as your digits move closer to your aching core.

“Mhm, f’course it is,” you assure, letting out a breathless, needy gasp when your fingers brush your clit over your underwear. You’re sure you must look fucked out, and you’d be embarrassed by that fact if it weren’t for the heady look Joel’s pinning you with right now. You whine as Joel brings his hand down to palm the thick, rigid outline of his cock bulging against his jeans, and your mouth goes dry at the sight. You roll your hips and whine at the stimulation, doing it again without breaking eye contact with Joel.

He squeezes himself and groans as you rut slowly against yourself, dipping a finger down to tease at your soaking entrance over your damp panties, and he smirks. “You gonna show me how ya fuck yourself, baby? Show me how ya like it, hm?”

And you would. You really, really would. Except Joel Miller is sitting in front of you with nothing but a few measly scraps of fabric preventing you from his hard length, and you think that it would be such a waste to not take advantage of that fact.

Besides, you’ve already made yourself come more times than you can count with Joel Miller’s name on your tongue.

“No, baby,” you shake your head, and his brows pinch in confusion. You lick your lips, hand halting its ministrations as you sit up on your haunches and stare at Joel. “Want ya to fill me up.”

He huffs exasperatedly at that, and his tone is laced with annoyance when he says, “Jus’ told ya, ‘m not fuckin’ ya t’night-”

“Joel.” Your interruption shuts him up and he watches you lean in. You brush your lips over his, along his jaw and up his cheek before halting by his ear. “I want you,” you say, dragging a hand down his chest to rest over his in his lap, “to put your cock in my mouth and fill me up.”

You apply pressure down over his hand, making him squeeze himself and the sound he makes is something close to a growl. He angles his head so that your lips meet for a heated kiss and he licks into your mouth immediately, tongue dancing with yours.

“Yeah?” Joel breathes into your mouth, and the hand not palming his dick threads into the hair at the nape of your neck. He tugs, pulling your head back so that you look down your nose at him with wide eyes and heavy lids. “Ya wanna suck me off?” You smile almost shyly and nod, and he tuts at you, bending to kiss the hollow of your throat before licking a stripe up your neck.

“Don’t go quiet on me now, darlin’. You had so much t’say earlier, know this pretty mouth s’good for more than just takin’ my dick.” You whine, pressing your thighs together as best you can and rubbing, trying to give yourself some, any friction.

“Wanna taste you, Joel,” you murmur, already delirious and you haven’t even gotten your mouth on him. “Want it so bad, please.”

He rakes his eyes over you, takes in the needy glide of your thighs against each other and the ragged pants making your chest heave. He must take pity on your haggard form because he grins affectionately and releases his hand from your hair.

“Since ya asked so nicely,” he says, palm gliding around to sit on your shoulder. He strokes the column of your throat a few times, watching you with a hooded gaze before nodding toward his crotch. “Go on, baby. Show me how much ya want it.”

You don’t need to be told any more than that before you’re hastily undoing his belt, ripping it from his pants and tossing it into the backseat while simultaneously popping the button on his jeans. Where your movements are hurried and ravenous, Joel’s are soft and sweet; he strokes your back lightly, broad, calloused palm feeling heavenly as it tracks over your bare skin.

You lower the zipper on his jeans and he lifts his hips, allowing you to drag the coarse fabric down his thighs. It takes you a second after you’ve maneuvered his pants out of your way to realize you’re face to face with the stiff outline of Joel’s cock, straining against the black fabric of his boxers. Your mouth goes chalky when you see the small dot of moisture near his fat tip, and you can’t stop yourself from leaning over and pressing a kiss to the spot.

Your groan is in unison with his, and Joel must be growing impatient because his hand snakes up to gently cradle your neck. “Don’t be a tease, pretty girl,” he scolds tenderly, and the endearment causes you to look up at him through your lashes. What you find in his eyes is something lusty, full of desire and want and… pure, unadulterated awe. It makes your pussy flutter around nothing.

“Wasn’t bein’ a tease,” you say, bending back down to mouth at his cock over his boxers, and he moans when you lave at his swollen tip through his underwear.

“Nah, jus’ so needy ya can’t even wait ‘til I get my cock out t’put your mouth on it, hm?” You lick up his dick and feel it twitch, his thigh tensing underneath the hand you have braced there. You smirk, looking up at him as you dip your pointer fingers under the band of his underwear, hooking your digits and arching your eyebrow.

He acquiesces with a lazy smile, lifting his hips, and you slowly drag the tight fabric of his boxers down to where his pants pool around his knees. However, you don’t immediately look at Joel’s length after fully freeing it from the confines of his clothes. You’re not sure why a cool feeling of nervous anticipation washes over you, but you find yourself stalling, rubbing your thumb over the inside of his knee and kissing his thigh gently.

Joel, the attentive man he is, picks up on your nerves immediately. He massages the area where your spine meets your skull, and you practically melt at the feeling. “Y’okay?” he says softly, and you nod, turning your head to rest on his thigh. Your eyes avoid his dick, jumping up to land on his face. His expression is so kind, so compassionate and observant, that it makes you ache.

“‘m fine. More than fine, ‘m good. Great.” He nods, stroking your cheek before he frowns.

“Y’know, ‘f ya aren’t feelin’ it anymore, we can stop. We don’t have’ta-”

“S’not that,” you mutter, and he stops talking, waiting for you to go on. You inhale deeply, looking for the courage to speak your thoughts into the charged atmosphere of the truck. “I jus’... don’t want ya to regret this.” He flashes you a perplexed look before tipping his head back and laughing. Your cheeks blaze with heat, embarrassment creeping in to tamper the fire of want, and you bury your face into Joel’s thigh to hide.

“Baby,” he says, and when you don’t respond, he grabs your jaw and makes you turn to him. “Baby. Look at me.” You stare, lip twisted in your teeth, and you can’t help but feel small under the weight of his gaze. He angles your chin down then, and you finally let your eyes fall, taking in the cock you’ve tried to conjure in your imagination while your fingers were stuffed in your pussy more times than you can count.

In a word, Joel Miller’s dick is pretty. Thick and long and tan. Veiny and girthy, easily the biggest you’ve ever seen. His tip, which is a few shades darker than every other part of his length, is an angry red, weeping precome from the little slit at the top. The thick weight of him bobs up and sits at attention against his belly, resting against him obediently. Your mouth pools with saliva at the sight of it.

Through the cotton in your ears, you can just barely make out when Joel says, “You tell me, honey. ‘s that look like regret t’you?” You swallow thickly and shake your head.

“N-no,” you stutter, sitting up slightly. You admire the way pearly beads of precome trail down his length and subconsciously lick your lips.

“No.” You can feel his stare on the side of your face, but you can’t focus on anything except the cock in front of you that has you drooling while your cunt begs to be filled. “Want this, sweet girl, jus’ as bad as you, and that ain’t gonna change tomorrow or the day after or next week. I want this,” he says, and he says it with such confidence and surety that you have no choice but to believe him. You nod, almost in a trance, before bending over and pressing a chaste kiss to his fat head.

He must not have been expecting that response from you because at the contact of your lips against his hard member, his head falls back against the seat and he groans, the sound drawing out when you start to press soft kitten licks to his slit.

“That’s it, honey – fuck, feels good.” You preen under his praise, smirking as you spread your lips to wrap around his tip. He hisses through his teeth, and the noise is all you need to start slowly working him down your throat. He’s so big, and even just the head of his cock has your jaw straining slightly.

You know that there’s no way you’ll be able to take him fully in your mouth, that you’ll have to use one, if not both hands to stroke the rest of his long, thick dick as you focus your attention on the head. But that doesn’t stop you from trying.

You pull off of him quickly, and he responds with a disappointed little grunt, mouth turned down in a depressing little frown. That is, until he watches you spit into your hand and place your palm around his base, stroking him slowly. A lopsided smile replaces his previous expression and when you twist your fist at the same time your mouth latches back onto his cock, he can’t help but jerk his hips. Joel’s thrust makes his tip kiss the back of your throat and it takes you by surprise, making you gag.

You watch his eyes go wide in worry as he immediately murmurs, “‘m sorry, baby,” his voice utterly wrecked. You lick from the space your fist occupies and swirl your tongue over him a few times, looking into his eyes as you catch your breath.

“S’okay, Joel,” you purr, lips against him as his cock twitches at the low cadence of your voice. “I can handle it, I won’t break.” And then you’re right back to easing him down your throat. Drool dribbles from your mouth as you work him in your fist, stroking and twisting and pulling while your tongue focuses on the sensitive area you’ve discovered just under his head.

The cab of the truck fills with the melody of your slick mouth sucking Joel off, punctuated by the sweet sounds falling from his lips. Joel isn’t a particularly talkative person, but you’re incredibly happy to find that all that changed when your head was bobbing up and down his length.

“Good girl, perfect fuckin’ girl,” he grits out, tightening his hand into a fist and slamming it against his window a few times as he struggles to keep his hips stationary. You hum around him, taking his hand in yours and guiding it to thread into your hair to encourage him to move. A throaty groan rips through him as he realizes what you’re asking, and he thrusts lightly into your mouth.

You relax your throat, allowing him to push deeper than he had been just a minute ago, and the feeling of being so utterly full of him makes you whine, shuffling slightly to relieve the pressure building at the apex of your thighs.

“Y’like that, sweetheart? Like when I fuck your pretty face?” The utter filth he’s spewing at you makes you gasp and whimper, and he laughs almost smugly at your reaction to his words. “Yeahhh, you like that. Go on, baby, touch yourself while you suck my cock.” You don’t have to be told twice, snaking your hand down to rub frantically at your aching clit while he slowly, gently jerks his hips into the tight, warm, wet vice of your mouth.

You feel yourself teetering on the edge of orgasm in no time, seeing as how you were already thoroughly worked up from your little display at the restaurant and everything that’s transpired in Joel’s truck since. Actually, if you’re being honest, you’ve been soaking into your panties since that stunt you pulled in your room before you even made it to dinner.

You feel stuffed to the brim, Joel’s cock hitting a spot in your throat over and over that has tears of pleasure dripping down your cheeks to combine with your spit lathering his cock. He brushes his big thumb over the path a tear careens down, brushing away the wetness as he drags his hand down to cradle your throat.

“Doin’ real good for me, doin’ perfect.” He squeezes lightly around your neck and curses. “Shit, darlin’, I can feel my cock right here.” He taps your throat and you whine, eyes rolling back as you rut desperately against your fingers. You’re so, so close, and you can tell that Joel is too by the way his tempered pace is growing more erratic, his shallow thrusts less controlled. The noises dripping from his lips to meet your ears are gruffer now too, words he’s failing to string into sentences as they're cut off by expletives and needy moans.

Joel looses a low, gravelly groan that signals he’s mere moments from reaching his peak, and you hear him choke out, “Where do ya want it, baby?’ just as the pull of pleasure burning in your tummy goes taut. You don’t answer, opting instead to simply pull off of him and seat your open mouth at the head of his cock, sticking your tongue out and looking up into his face. Joel smirks as you continue jerking him off with the hand not paying attention to your clit, but his smile falls into a slack-jawed look of lust as his balls pull tight and he comes.

The thick ropes of warm cum spurting over your tongue and decorating the inside of your mouth are just what you need to push you into your own climax; your legs shake and you let a high-pitched sound ring through the truck cab as your cunt clenches hard around nothing, wetness seeping from your underwear and coating the insides of your thighs.

Despite your own orgasm, you make sure to catch every last drop of Joel’s spend, holding it on your tongue for him to see. The space goes silent for a few seconds, both of you basking in your respective post-coital bliss as your eyes scan over each other. Your gaze hangs heavy as he takes in your sweaty, disheveled form languidly before landing back on your face. Joel shoots you an endearing, sweet look, before brushing the hair plastered to your sweaty forehead away from your face.

“Go on, honey. Swallow it f’me.” You do as Joel says, swallowing the sticky fluid he’s shot down your throat, and you find the salty, tangy taste surprisingly pleasant. You clean the corners of your mouth where some of his seed landed with your thumb and, with his eyes on you, push the digit into your mouth, sucking it dry. The dirty act makes Joel shake his head and chuckle, and once you’ve finished, you open your mouth and tip your head back to show him that you’ve taken care of his mess.

You both sit there for a while, just staring at each other with your head resting on his thigh as he strokes your cheek. You’d almost call the gesture loving, but you don’t want to be presumptuous. After a decent amount of time has passed and the stars have come to bear witness to your dirty deed, you turn your head and catch the pad of Joel’s thumb in a soft kiss.

“Oughta get back,” you say, reluctantly breaking the silence. He nods, and you stay like that for a second longer before sitting back in your seat. Joel starts the truck and traverses down the lonely path toward the main road. As he pulls back out onto the black asphalt, likely still warm from the summer sun that’s long disappeared, you can’t help but wonder if this moment will forever belong to the space between that long stretch of prairie grass and corn stalks.

You can’t help but hope that it won’t.

***

As Joel nears your development, you pull down the sun visor on your side and flip open the mirror. Your mouth falls open and a little gasp slips at the sight that meets your eyes. Joel must hear it because his gaze flickers in your direction.

“Somethin’ the matter?” he asks, worry lacing your tone, and you almost giggle at his concern.

“I’m a fuckin’ mess,” you groan, raking your fingers through the hair that Joel’s fingers knotted. Your lips are swollen and chapped, your eyelids heavy with the look of lust, and there’s a track of mascara streaking down your cheek from your tears. To put it bluntly, you look like you’ve been freshly fucked.

Joel looks at you again and barks out a laugh as he turns down your street; he pulls into your driveway and puts the car in park so that he can turn to you more fully. You’re frantically trying to will the bright blush on your cheeks indicative of sex from your cheeks as you wipe furiously at the now-dried trail of black mascara.

“Waterproof” my ass.

Your head snaps in Joel’s direction when you hear him chuckle again, your eyes wide with a plea for help. He shrugs, smirking slightly. “Better get inside ‘fore someone sees ya, or else they’ll know what we’ve been up to.”

You know he’s teasing, but his words make you deflate slightly nonetheless as they feel a little bit like he’s kicking you out; however, you steel yourself quickly. There was nothing for him to kick you out of, and it was silly of you to think otherwise. Sure, you’d just sucked his dick and made him come down your throat. And, yeah, maybe he’d almost gotten caught with his hand between your legs at dinner. But that didn’t mean anything.

Just two adults engaging in a casual hookup. That’s all.

Even as you try and convince yourself of this, your reasoning, and consequently your attitude, falls flat. You grunt with thinly veiled annoyance as you grab the door handle and make to leave. “Could’ve jus’ parked at your house, I woulda walked,” you mutter, irritation simmering in your gut as you go to open the door, but then a strong hand reaches across your lap to wrap around your hand on the handle and pull it back shut.

When you try again and are met with the same result, you huff and turn, coming face to face with Joel. His brows are furrowed and the corner of his plush lips are turned down. You hate yourself for wanting to kiss him right now, even though he’s actively telling you to go while not allowing you to do so.

“What?” you bite out, and it comes out harsher than you mean it to. He squeezes your hand, and you feel tension you didn’t realize was making your body go rigid ease.

“What’s a’matter, baby?” The pet name makes you blush, and now you feel even more stupid.

“Nothin’,” you lie. Rather convincingly too, you think proudly, until Joel cocks an eyebrow and informs you just how shoddy your facade is.

“Know ya too well t’believe that bullshit. Tell me what’s wrong.” You huff, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth. You drop your hands into your lap, eyes falling to watch your thumbs twiddle. You don’t think you can look into those all-consuming brown eyes right now.

“Jus’... I dunno, bein’ dumb. Thought you were kickin’ me out or somethin’.” You shrug indifferently, and he sits there for a second, watching you fidget nervously. You see him scan your surroundings out of the corner of your eye, making sure no prying eyes are around, and before you can even react, Joel’s gripping the back of your neck and turning your head to meet his lips in a bruising kiss. You melt into him, sighing in relief at the feeling of his tongue licking the seam of your mouth.

You stay like that, greedily tasting each other. Or, in Joel’s case, greedily tasting the lingering flavor of himself in your mouth. He pulls back suddenly, chest heaving and eyes dark, and you lick your lips and grin at him.

“I’ll see ya soon, baby,” he says with conviction, and you nod slowly. But apparently your response isn’t convincing enough for him, because he pulls you in closer and says against your lips slowly, “I will see you soon.”

“Okay,” you breathe into his mouth, and he kisses you chastely once, twice before opening your door and tapping your thigh.

“Now get.” You smile, hopping out of his car, and you can feel his eyes on you the entire way to your front door. Even when you’ve disappeared into your house, you can feel the brand of his gaze on your flesh.

You watch through the window as he sits in his truck for another minute, and then he reverses down your driveway and pulls into the one next door, hopping out of his truck and leisurely heading up to his front door. You watch him walk into his house, and only then do you stop watching.

You’re not entirely sure how you get up to your bedroom, but you’re almost able to believe that you floated there like an apparition, head airy and thoughts bordering on dream-like. When you collapse on your bed, your mind is on the feel of Joel’s tongue in your mouth, of his cock thrusting into your throat, of what that same tongue and those same thrusts might feel like in your pussy.

What you’re not thinking about is how utterly fucked you are. You’d told yourself once that you wouldn’t be able to do a thing like this with Joel because you’d never have your fill, always wanting more after that first initial taste of him. But you’d gone against your better judgment tonight, and now that little crack of yearning had split into a yawning chasm of want; greedy and unsatiated and hungry.

Hungry for one thing, one person, one man: Joel Miller.

Yeah, you were fucked

___________________________________________________________

#joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #dad!joel miller #dbf!joel miller #joel miller x f!reader #dbf!joel #joel miller x fem!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfic #joel miller imagine #joel fic #joel the last of us

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anisespice · 29 days

Text

“ the fuck-it list ” || hq! pt. 4

one || two || three

synopsis: there’s a list going around consisting of hot guys on campus that are deemed “fuckable” with theories as to what they’d be like in bed. it’s all fun and games until somehow your boyfriend ends up on this list.

pairing: seijoh4 x gn!reader [ oikawa, iwaizumi, mattsun, maki ]

warnings: mature content. MDI. cursing, suggestive language, mild objectification, the word “dick” said over a million times lol this chapter is basically bigdick!4 supremacy, corny behavior, camboy!maki, slight mentions of degradation, iwa’s is the shortest (I’M SORRY), some minor errors probably and i think that’s it :] !!

notes: I AM SO SORRY FOR THE WAIT :'))) life was kicking my ass and the last thing i could think about was getting metaphorically dicked down lol but hope you enjoy, thank y'all so much for your patience, and the last couple parts coming soon!

tagged: @daedaep69 , @ahahadumbo , @viktoryn , @mdsb , @ourgoddessathena , @ushygushybaby , @hyori2 , @lumpywolf , @fantasycantasy, @captaincyberqueen , @tsukiran

OIKAWA would be the reason the list even exists, let’s be honest.

But, for the sake of the plot, we’ll pretend otherwise.

Once again, without fail, after another grand win for the great king, he’s swarmed by his devoted groupies—Shoving their phones, gifts, and themselves in his face hoping to catch even a sliver of his attention.

And once again, you stood on the sidelines, impatiently waiting for him to leave the spotlight; irked your soul sometimes.

It’s not that you were against him being praised or anything, even though his head was fat enough to begin with, you loved the admiration people had for him. But there’s a fine line between being a fan and being a straight-up weirdo.

And right now, they’re tap-dancing on that line something fierce.

“Tooru!~ will you sign right here?”

One pulled down the collar of her shirt, exposing more of her breasts that were pushed up damn-near to her chin whilst wearing a sultry smile. You caught a small glimpse of panic flash across his features before he covered it with a nervous laugh, eyes subtly shifting over to you as he replied. “..How 'bout a photo instead?”

Things went on like that for the next few minutes. Someone would even take it a step further by flat out asking for his number, or if he was single. They already knew the answer to that, it was the same every time, yet they continuously tried their luck as if someday, through the power of delusion and manifestation, his answer would miraculously change despite you always attending his practices and his games, wearing his spare jersey, holding his hand, shoving your tongue down his throat, didn’t matter—Them hoes were relentless.

But, so were you.

“Oh, Tooru!~ If you don’t wrap this up, you’ll be walking home!~” You sang, mirroring the tone of the girl from earlier. The semi-empty threat made the setter perk up like a hound, eyes wide as that same panic returned as well.

Although this time, he wasn’t so quick to play it off.

“U-Uh,” he squeaked, then immediately covered by clearing his throat. “Yes, uh, well, it’s been great chatting with you all tonight. Thank you again for your love and support for the team, it's always appreciated. I hope you’ll continue to cheer us and myself oninthefuture—WAIT! [____]-chan! Don’t leave, y’know my poor legs won’t survive the walk back! Baby, c'mon, wait up!”

Oikawa whined as he scrambled to catch up to your retreating form, no longer concerned with the crowd of disgruntled faces he left behind as they watched their object of affection slip away yet again. A small part of you wanted to turn back and stick your tongue out at them in petty victory, but you refrained. The sound of their great king pleading for your attention was satisfactory enough.

You barely made it outside before his long arms wrapped around your front, locking you to his chest as he leaned almost his entire weight on you. You could feel his heart thrumming against your head as he panted. Eventually, he huffed, no doubt pouting as he gently swayed you in his arms. “You’re mean.”

Keeping your gaze forward, you frowned. “And I have the right to be. You said you’d tell some of those ‘fans’ of yours to chill out—it’s getting way out of hand, Tooru. That one girl practically flashed her damn tits at you, and you gawked like a virgin.”

He chortled, incredulously, “I did not! She caught me off guard..!”

“And yet, you rewarded her with a photo instead of calling out her inappropriate behavior. Make it make sense.”

You attempted to shrug him off only for his hold to tighten, spinning you around to gaze at you with chocolate brown eyes resembling that of a puppy out in the rain—One of the unfair tactics of Tooru Oikawa to get back on your good side. You had full intent of ignoring him, standing your ground…but how could you possibly stay mad at that adorable face?

Easy. By not looking directly at it.

“Nuh uh. I don’t think so,” you gently pushed away the setter’s face, earning another whine in protest. “You’re not getting off the hook that easily. I’m really upset with you.”

“Buh I dinit do anyfing,” he said through smooshed lips.

“And that’s the problem. You need to set boundaries with them, Tooru. Things’ll only continue to get out of hand the longer you enable it. Next thing you know they’re clawing and biting at your flesh so they can take a piece of you home with them under their nails and in their teeth.”

Oikawa grimaced, leaning back. “Ew. Graphic. They’re fans, baby, not rabid animals. I think you may be exaggerating.”

You cocked a brow. “Am I now? Well. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

—

The team had never seen their captain move so fast in their entire season. This was the first time he’d just straight up avoided his entourage and head straight for the showers after practice, scurrying off like his ass was on fire. Questions would spark around the gym about this drastic shift in behavior.

“What’s his deal?” One player voiced. “Usually he sticks around at least another hour to entertain his cult.”

“Not sure. After our last game, he’s been skittish.” Another replied.

A third jumped in after taking a swig of his water. “Think it’s got something to do with that..thing we saw the other night?”

The small group thought back to when all of their phones went off at the same time, social medias in a frenzy about their very own star player. At first glance, they figured it was just highlights of their game, specifically highlighting Oikawa. But, upon further inspection…it was something else entirely.

'Tooru Oikawa. 6’3ft King of the Court, and also our hearts. Being notoriously known as the campus pretty boy, loved by many and envied by the rest, it wouldn’t be far-fetched to consider him the blueprint—The default setting of everyone’s wet dream. He’s a tall, talented, smooth-talker with playful eyes and a panty-dropping smile, a textbook definition of ‘Prince Charming’. Everybody and they mama, daddy, even bald-headed granny would kill to jump this man’s bones. Many would see him as the romantic type, but there’s something more…unhinged hidden beneath the pretty-boy persona. After much debate, our beloved setter is to be dubbed a whole SWITCH, no nintendo. At first he’ll play the dominant role, but edge him long enough and you’ll bring the Great King to his knees, quivering, drooling, you name it. He’s shameless. 9.5/10 - half a point deducted for his inferiority/superiority complex. Get some therapy, babe. ♡’

They didn’t think much of it at the time, when it came to their attention whore of a captain, it wasn’t completely unexpected, especially if his groupies had anything to do with it. The players looked at one another, then back at the gaggle of hormones waiting for the brunette in question by the doors. It was unanimous.

“Yep.” “Uh-huh.”

The third player snorts. “‘bout time it sucked to be him for once.”

When Oikawa eventually exited the locker room, he did everything in his power to appear small, tip-toeing across the floor with his head down and shoulders hunched in crouching tiger-like fashion. He would’ve gotten away scott-free…if not for his petty teammates.

“See ya tomorrow, captain!”

It bounced off the gym walls, the setter grimacing as his devoted followers instantly looked in his direction, predatory gazes stunning him like a deer caught in headlights. Oikawa shot the players a nasty glare over his shoulder, flipping them off and continuing for the exit. He attempted to stiff-arm his way through the hoard, ducking and dodging their grabby hands and shutting down their…bolder advances.

“Tooru-chan!~ Let me show you what I’m capable of, I’ll have you begging in no time, just say the word!~”

“Unhinged men are so my type—Step on me, spit on me, call me names until I cry, I want it all!~”

“I bet it’s bubblegum pink, right? Does it curve to the left or right?”

Oikawa blanched. “Ladies, please, this is ridiculous! You all know I’m in a relationship with-”

“They don’t have to know.”

One had tried reaching out to touch him, but was quickly thwarted when the setter grabbed her wrist. Not tight enough to hurt, but enough to get the message across—Too far. Everyone came to a hush at the sudden display, cowering slightly at the intensity that pooled in his eyes, dark and cold as he fixed the whole group with a stern expression. You were right (obviously). Things escalated the second they were given an inch, with complete disregard to his boundaries and what you meant to him.

These weren’t fans. Not real ones, at least.

Oikawa deeply exhaled through his nose, calming himself down to keep from saying something he’d regret. Releasing the girl’s wrist, the setter gently moved her out of his personal space, resadjusting his bag and sporting a rather disinterested expression.

“It appears you all have misunderstood your place. I’ll forgive that disgusting comment only once. But, if this obscene, rude, and down right shameful behavior continues, I’ll have no choice but to inform the coach of your harassment and have you banned from future practices and games. Do I make myself clear?”

When you arrived to pick up Oikawa per usual, you were surprised to see that he was already waiting for you, not a single group ie in sight.

Skeptical, you looked around as you approached him, thinking those buzzards were still in listening distance, just waiting to pounce. But, when all you’re welcomed with was a big hug and kiss, you relaxed. Oikawa pulled back and gave you a sheepish smile. He explained everything that had happened, rubbing his the back of his neck in embarrassment. When he finished, he looked down at you with those same puppy eyes he gave you the other day.

“Please don’t say I told you so?”

You cooed, reaching up to fiddle with his hair at his nape. He leaned into your touch, content. Until you said, “I told you so.”

He frowned. “You’re MEAN.”

Once IWAIZUMI learned it involved Oikawa in any way, that’s all he needed to know to have no interest in the list. Sort of like Sakusa, if the topic gets brought up, he finds himself tuning out. The last thing he needed was to get dragged into whatever mess his dumbass best friend got himself involved with. But, unfortunately for him, one doesn’t simply choose to be on the list…the list chooses you.

And one afternoon, the former ace was the unlucky winner.

‘Hajime Iwaizumi. 5’10ft hunk made of pure Husband Material. We’re talking the man who’ll open doors for you, pull out chairs, hold your bags without fuss, give you massages, cook you hearty meals, the whole nine yards. With that information in mind, you can’t tell me he’s not an absolute DOG in the bedroom. I’m talking about a man who’ll bully your insides, manhandle you and call you his “favorite cocksleave” or his “pretty little whore”. He’s the type to say the nastiest shit in your ear and tease you for the cute reactions you’d give him before shoving his tongue down your throat, while his dick kisses your appendix. Definitely a Hard Dom who only rewards good behavior, so if you plan to be a brat to this man—Good luck. But, as soon as he’s fucked that attitude outta you he’s back to being such a sweetheart! So so so attentive, so devoted, and will do anything for you. He’s God’s favorite. 1000000/10.’

“Oh? .. Hey, babe.” You said, curiously. Iwa grunted in response. “You know that list thingy Oikawa-?”

“Nope.” He easily answered, eyes focused ahead and he continued bench pressing the heavy bar.

You slap his chest. “You didn’t even let me finish!” He responded with a playful smirk, making you lightly slap him again.

Straddling his lap while he pumped iron was routine. It consisted of him doing what he does and you keeping him company, soaking up his presence until you inevitably left for your next lecture. Sometimes you kept count for him, other times you’d happily just be a distraction; today you did both.

“Haji,” you whined, wiggling a little. He ignored you on purpose, stubbornly refusing to indulge the topic. But that didn’t deter you from pestering him. “Ha-ji-me!”

“Ba-by-doll,” he echoed, grunting shortly after when he placed the heavy weight back on the rack, finished with the set. Panting, he sat up and readjusted you in his lap, hands resting on your thighs as he finally looked at you, amused at your scowl. “I don’t get why you’re so interested in that shitty list.”

“I’m not…until now.”

“Why?”

Turning your phone screen to show him the updated post, Iwa’s eyes scanned it before his brows furrowed in confusion, then tightened with irritation, jaw clenched and annoyance clear on his face. He let out a heavy sigh, closing his eyes to unsee it and merely laying back down on the bench. “Block them.”

You gaped. “What? No way!”

“It’s nothing but perverts with too much time on their hands,” he grunted, lifting up the bar and beginning his set. “It’ll rot your brain. Or what’s left of it, anyways.”

With a dramatic gasp, you retorted with, “Jerk. I’ll retweet and tell them you also love sucking on toes, how ‘bout that?”

Iwa paused mid-push. He eyed you from his laying position, voice dangerously low as he said, “Try it and I’ll bench press you next.”

“Hm.”

Through squinted eyes, MATTSUN briefly scanned the bright screen of Maki’s phone displaying the updated post that started circulating around their group for the past few minutes. Without much reaction, one would think he was too buzzed to be able to even comprehend it.

But he understood all too well.

‘Issei Matsukawa. 6’2ft lazy ass with a third leg. Doesn’t matter if he looks like he uses 5-and-1 body wash, he smells DELECTABLE. And don’t get me started on the gray, low-hanging joggers he usually wears around campus—He needs to be arrested walking around with a concealed weapon in those sweats—sir, put it in me AWAY. The literal embodiment of “If it slaps his thigh when he walk, I’ll listen when he talk.” The ultimate brat-tamer tbh. You can’t get under his skin, he’s so nonchalant and laid back, your attitude would just be foreplay for him (HIS FREAKY ASS). And if you think he’s already big on soft??? Bitch. Gon head and call outta work for tomorrow. 50/10.’

“Uh..congrats?” Kindaichi gave an awkward thumbs up.

Maki snickered, tongue in cheek. “Yeah, man, how’s it feel being ‘dick of the week’? They’re even givin’ it nicknames ‘nd shit.” He scrolled further into the depths of debauchery. Peering from over his shoulder to see for himself, Kunimi‘s face scrunched in mild disgust.

“Someone called it ‘The Door-Knocker’? Fucking cringe.”

“Fucking retweet.” The strawberry blonde hummed in approval. “Oo, I like this one—‘The Punisher’. That’s badass.”

Yahaba snickered only to then start choking on his drink, snatching Kyotani by the front of his shirt for support as he hacked for air. The wing-spiker merely glared, winding his hand back to beat the shit out of his back. “Ack! Kyo—fuc-! BRO STOP.”

“I’m helping.”

“You’re killing me!”

“Same thing,” he grunted.

Mattsun snorted, taking another swig of beer. After skimming through the thread, he lowly drawled out, “Cool, I guess. No big deal.”

He didn’t know much about the list, only that if you ended up on it you were pretty much an ace in the game of dick-slanging. But, he didn’t need some thirsty randoms on the internet telling him that he fucks. He had you to attest to all that, and your opinion was the only one that truly mattered. Not that either of you would kiss and tell.

His friends, on the other hand, felt otherwise. As far as they were concerned, Mattsun was a single man. And right now, he was shitting on a blessing sent from the gods. Maki halted his sip to eye his best friend, beer can lowering suspiciously. “No big deal?”

Mattsun shrugged. “t’s what I said.”

Yahaba finally caught his breath, chiming in with a winded, “Yeah right…you’re probably itching to check your DMs. Tell me ‘m wrong.”

“Ok. You’re wrong,” he replied, chugging the remainder of his beer can before crushing it. Yahaba went to argue, but Mattsun cut him off by speaking through a burp. “Don’t got the energy…to entertain someone who just wants my dick.”

“Don’t you mean, ‘Door-knocker’?” Kunimi teased.

“I thought it was ‘The Punisher’..?” Watari asked, uncertain.

“I saw ‘Horse Cock’ on there.” Kindaichi grimaced.

Mattsun shook his head. “Whatever. Point is, ‘m not interested in racking up my body count anytime soon, so those DMs will just go unanswered. Hell, maybe even deleted.”

“Bullshit,” Maki challenged. He points an accusing finger. “There’s another reason. It’s ‘cause you’re already screwing around with someone, aren’t ya?”

A silence fell upon the group, all eyes instantly honing in on the taller male with metaphorical ears raised high in scandalized curiosity, some (read: Kindaichi and Yahaba) more obvious about it than others. Mattsun merely gave a halfhearted shrug, neither denying nor confirming the information. “Aha! See, see, look at ‘em, dodging the question! He’s so cuffed.”

“No shot,” Yahaba deadpanned, “mister ‘Noncommittal’ himself?”

Mattsun glared. “Oi. I commit to stuff.”

“He’s gettin’ defensive.” Kunimi pointed out with a wry grin.

“Must be true, then.” Kyotani nodded, mischievous glint in his eye.

The others hummed in agreement, theorizing about his type in partners and how there could be a potential special someone in their senior’s life, while the bastard behind it all watched smugly on the couch, sipping his drink like a gossiping old biddy. Mattsun squinted in annoyance at his best friend. “Et tu, dumbass?”

Maki raised his hands, “Hey, don’t get mad at me. You basically told on yourself. No guy in their right mind would ever pass up on that many opportunities unless he’s A) Stupid, B) Aro/Ace, or C) Spoken for. Now, my vote’s between A and C, but feel free to update me on your sexual orientation.”

Mattsun flipped him off, sporting a sarcastic expression.

His phone then began to vibrate on the table. As quickly as they looked at the former middle blocker, everyone’s gaze shot toward the offending device, then back on him; expectantly. Despite his calm exterior the brunette felt his heart-rate spike, brow twitching at the childish looks and jeers he started getting, borderline peer-pressuring him to pick it up.

After a few seconds of continuous ringing, Kunimi huffed in mild annoyance for him to, “Answer it, already.”

Maki added fuel to fire by saying, “Unless you want one of us to answer for you-” Mattsun snatched the phone off the table.

With the grace of a gorilla, he stood from the couch and quickly shuffled to the corner of the room. Answering it, he cleared his throat, face flushing at the chorus of snickers coming from behind him as he greeted you with a simple, but elated, “Hey.”

“Hey, ‘sei!”

“Hey,” he said again, breathing out a small chuckle. “Can’t sleep?”

You responded with your own chuckle. “Yeah, actually. I was wondering if you’d wanna maybe…ride around with me? I’m thinking McDonald’s. Oo! Or that wing place by campus, y’know, the one with the teriyaki flavor you liked? I think they don’t close until, like, 2am. Or…was it 1am?”

Mattsun snorted at your rambles, leaning against the wall as he let you continue. Unbeknownst to him, the guys were practically stacked on top of each other, stretching their ears to hear your voice. From what they could pick up, you sounded so upbeat, animated as you spoke. They watched in awe as their senior barely spoke but was engaged in whatever you were saying, nodding along and humming to let you know he was still listening. If he wasn’t faced the other way, they were certain they’d see a smitten expression on his face.

“Mhm.. mhm. Yeah, ‘m sure that squirrel really appreciated you sharing your almonds, baby.”

“BABY???” The group exclaimed.

The brunette jumped slightly, completely forgetting where he was for a moment there. He briefly looked over his shoulder before turning back towards the wall with a groan—Every single one of those bastards were either grinning or gaping in shock. Mattsun cursed under his breath. You made a noise of confusion.

“Are you with the guys? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt! We can totally chill another night if you-”

“Nah, was just about to leave. Think I’ve entertained these assholes long enough.” He grumbled, walking over to grab his jacket, but not before thumping Maki on the head; the latter hissed through his teeth in pain as he held the throbbing spot. “Rather be with you anyways. I’ll send the address, lemme know when you’re outside.”

“O-Oh, okay then!” You giggled, flattered. “I’ll see you soon. Love you!”

He turned back to look at the group, smug as they still watched him with disbelief painted on their faces as Mr. Non-committal was ditching them to hang with his commitment. Like he tried to tell them before, he didn’t need some thirsty randoms on the internet. He had you, and that’s more than enough.

“Love you too, [_____].” Then, he walks out. Leaving the room in even more chaos compared to when he first answered the phone, immediately on his ass as the scrambled after him for answers.

“[______]?????”

Who would’ve guessed their sweet, beloved volleyball manager from high school was the one getting visits from “The Punisher”.

Within his inner circle, MAKI is usually overlooked. He’s not popular like Oikawa, nor jacked like Iwa, and he’s doesn’t have the whole ‘sexy aloof’ vibe like Mattsun. He’s just…tall. And funny—The ‘Pete Davidson’ of the group. At least, that’s what your friends called him. Somehow, once again during your outing with them at the mall the topic of your relationship became the focal point of the conversation, stretching their brains for why you were so enamored with a guy like him.

“He gotta be packin’. Like, I’m talking anaconda.”

“Type shit. Y’know what they say about them tall and skinny ones.”

You rolled your eyes, wry smirk spreading across your face as you busied yourself sifting through a clothes rack. The conspiratorial discussion had been going on for the past ten minutes, throwing anything and everything at the wall until something stuck—Meaning, waiting for you to confirm. “[_____]. Be honest. It’s ‘cause of his dick, right?”

A lady standing on the other side of the rack gasped in shock, face twisting up in revulsion as she clutched her purse before stomping away, scandalized. You snorted, peeking over your shoulder to raise an eyebrow at them while they struggled to suppress their childish merriment at the poor woman’s embarrassment.

“Quit it before they kick us out.” You attempted to sound stern, but there was no hiding your own amusement. One friend playfully nudged you while the other began to snicker. “And no, it’s not because of that. It’s a bonus, though.”

The first gasped, then exclaimed, “So it is big!”

“’m not finna start with you,” you replied looking back at the clothes, pretending not to know them as nearby customers gave the side-eye. Neither one paid any mind as they continued to gossip. “We have this conversation every time we go out. Give it a rest.”

“Not until you tell us what you see in him.”

“I mean, I get it, but then I look at his friends and…” she hissed through her teeth, shaking her head. “I’m just saying. You fumbled.”

“I’m not taking that from someone who slept with a door dasher just because they got the restaurant to put extra sauce in your bag.”

The guilty party gaped, “It wasn’t included in their instructions, they were a real one for that!”

“Still don’t know why you did it,” the other friend sighed. “The food was cold, and I’m certain they took some of my fries.”

“Shut up, we’re not talking about my poor life choices, we’re talking about [_____]’s.”

“Fuck you,” you laughed. “You two need to get off my man. You haven’t even properly met him yet. He’s a sweetheart, he treats me like royalty, and I don’t care what y’all say, that man is fine.”

“Please. You’re just dickmatized.”

“Enough about his dick already!”

Your outburst drew the attention of a nearby employee; the store manager. Even though she wore a professional smile, you could see death in her eyes. With a nervous smile, you gave an apologetic wave before quickly grabbing your friends by their arms and escorting yourselves out before you got banned. Your closet was getting full, anyways.

“Look…I know the guys I’ve dated in the past were…questionable. But, I really like this one. And I swear the pictures I showed you don’t do him justice, his goofy ass just never sits still.”

They looked skeptical, having heard that one before. You huffed.

“Alright. How about I invite him over tonight? That way you have a chance to get to know him better. And if you’re still iffy, then…then you’ll have to get over it because you love me dearly and want me to be happy and just because you don’t think he’s attractive doesn’t mean I don’t, he is very gorgeous to me-!”

“[_____], honey, breathe.”

You stopped to inhale, then concluded with a small, “Please?”

They exchanged another look of skepticism, until the second added one condition. “He better not show up empty-handed.”

—

When the doorbell rang, the mood instantly shifted in the room, your friends going silent and gazes sharp as they looked at your door. Unbeknownst to all of you, on the other side of the door, Maki shivered, confused where that sudden chill came from. You gave them an eager, though strained, smile before scampering over to greet your awaiting guest. Upon opening the door, your smile slowly dropped at the sight of Maki sipping out of a large styrofoam cup with the words 'Big Gulp' written on it, dressed casually in sweats and a beanie, appearing very empty-handed.

After he swallowed, he gave a drawled, "Yo."

Your eye twitched. "Takehiro." He hummed, taking another sip of his drink. "Remember that important thing we discussed over the phone? Literally the only thing I asked you not to be when you got here?"

He thought about it, taking note of the daggers you were shooting at his cup. Maki made a noise of realization. "Oh, right. I bought snacks too, buuut I accidentally ate ‘em all on the way. My bad. But, look," he shook the cup, "technically still not empty-handed."

A small part of you wanted to be mad, frustrated at the least...but there was no hiding the giggle you rewarded him with, of which turned into more giggles. With sigh, you stepped forward to wrap your arms around his middle in a hug. "You’re so dumb."

"Missed you, too." He playfully rolled his eyes, returning the hug and craning his neck to kiss your forehead. The two of you stood there for a moment, just basking in each other's warmth. But, the moment was short-lived when he gave a long, exaggerated exhale through his nose before murmuring, "Ready?"

"...No." You groaned.

"Damn, do they bite or something?"

"No, they’re just...unfiltered. I love them, don't get me wrong, but they can work on your nerves to an olympic degree. You'll see once we get inside...They're gonna ask about your dick, by the way. Just ignore it."

Maki snorted, bewildered. "I'll try my best."

"Also...try not to mention that...other thing."

"What other thing?"

"You know," you raised your brows, looking over your shoulder in case they were eavesdropping before softly continuing, "that post."

It took a second, but he eventually caught on to what you meant.

‘Takehiro Hanamaki. 6’0ft shameless manslut (affectionately) who’s taken the campus by storm with his rather...interesting side hobby that pretty much has every student reaching for their wallets and switching to incognito mode on their browsers. Who would’ve guessed that lanky, low-eyed beanpole had the talent to film such erotic content and put a whole industry to shame with just his smartphone and a couple LED lights? After getting past the paywall and binging his videos (for research) it’s safe to say this man is very much a power bottom, maybe even a top depending on his mood, with a fowl mouth that’s not afraid to moan like a porn star. Best $200 I’ve ever spent (FOR RESEARCH). Highly recommend if you’re interested in having the best guided orgasm of your life—Link is in the thread! Get that bag, king. 10/10.’

A shit-eating grin stretched across his face instantly. He bounced his eyebrows, leaning down to teasingly say, "Ohh. That post. What? Don't want 'em to know how I make my living? Or, you scared they'll find out you're my number one supporter, always touching themselves just behind the camera-"

"Hiro!" You hissed, face set ablaze as you looked over your shoulder again, anxious. He found your reaction cute, using the straw in his cup to poke your cheek. You huffed at him. "I don't want them to pry. I doubt they've seen it since they go to a different uni, and I'd like to keep it that way. Okay?"

He easily shrugged. “You’re the boss.”

You exhaled, relieved. “Thank you.” You turned to head back inside, knowing your friends were just itching to bombard Maki, however you were stopped when he grabbed your arm.

“But.”

“…But?”

“I’ll let the dick-related questions slide and keep my side hustle under wraps, but you have to do something for me in exchange for my good behavior.”

You tilted your head, nervous. “Like what?”

His grinned mischievously, eyes half-mast as he used his free hand to hold your jaw, making you gasp softly when he tilted your head back. “Instead of being behind the camera in my next video…my number one supporter has to be the star.”

You rapidly blinked, heat traveling throughout your body once you registered his words. Fumbling over your own, you didn’t have time to protest when the door behind you opens wide, revealing your impatient friends. Maki let go of your jaw and settled for wrapping his arm around your shoulder, pulling you close as he waved at them with the hand that still had the large cup in it.

“‘sup.” He flashed them a sly grin. Maki took in their shocked faces, hoping they were a good sign as he introduced himself. “[_____]’s told me a lot about you guys. Hope you didn’t mind me crashing your get together.”

They absolutely did not mind.

You weren’t lying—Those pictures you showed did him dirty. Nothing could’ve prepared them for the uno reverse that was Takehiro Hanamaki. From his lax posture and cozy demeanor, sleepers build and cute smile, it’s no wonder you were drawn to him. Plus he’s funny with a big dick (allegedly)?????

After you composed yourself, still reeling from your conversation earlier, you eventually mustered up a triumphant smile at your friends as they gaped up at Maki, speechless. “So? You guys still think I fumbled?”

#🍁wasabi #SEIJOH 4 FOR 4 #WITH A LARGE FRY AND DRINK PLS #hq #hq!#hq smut #hq scenarios #hq x reader #haikyuu #haikyuu smut #haikyuu scenarios #oikawa tooru #iwaizumi hajime #matsukawa issei #hanamaki takahiro #the fuck-it list

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gay-dorito-dust · 3 months

Note

Hello! Can I request smt with Luocha, Dan Heng, Argenti and Boothill? (Separate, and dw if u don’t write for boothill ^^)

You’re dating them and randomly call them husband just to see their reaction. You just say it so casually too during a convo with maybe a friend or a family member

Argenti: ‘Argenti might as well be my husband at this point.’ You said to your friend after retelling a story regarding yourself and Argenti.

‘Awww! I wish Royland was more like Argenti.’ Your friend groaned, glaring daggers at the back of their boyfriend’s head.

Argenti visibly perked up at this, his eyes and smile were practically glowing. Did he hear you right, you consider him as a potential Husband? The gods have answered his prayers and quelled any worries that he might’ve had beforehand. For Argenti fully intends to be your husband one day and until then will commit himself to proving to you why he would make an excellent husband.

The moment he met you, to the moment you begun dating, all Argenti could think of was what it would be like being your devoted husband, your soul partner for the rest of your lives. No one else will do for Argenti but you, and he’s so loyal and extremely devoted to being your partner that the thought of looking at anyone else was so blasphemous; so much so that he’d rather hand you his eyes on a gold platter then ever be tempted by any other.

Argenti has had many dreams about your domestic life as a happily married couple, a happily married couple who were very much still in their honeymoon phase, but when he’s your husband that honeymoon phase would never fade away and die. He would make every day feel just as unique and special as the last few.

He might as well have ‘y/n’s husband’ as his name instead of Argenti because of how much he would use it when introducing himself to anyone new.

Needless to say by the end of the month to the day you and Argenti were officially married and more happy than ever.

Luocha: ‘Luocha would make an amazing husband, don’t you agree?’ You asked your friend, eyeing your boyfriend across the room for his reaction.

‘I thought Luocha was already your husband.’ Your friend asked, genuinely confused.

the moment Luocha hears his name being spoken he doesn’t think much of it, but when it was in the same sentence of as the word husband, that well and truly caught his attention. However it doesn’t take him long to realise what you were doing, but once he realised what was going on it was already too late, as the reaction you pulled out of him was very much a genuine one.

Neither of you had talked about it but according to your friend, you must’ve came across as to others a married couple anyways. So much so that even if you were to ever make it a reality nothing much would change at all for anyone other then himself and you; Yet that didn’t change the fact that the seed was planted and has taken ahold inside of Luocha’s mind as he walked towards you and your friend, placing a hand to the small of your back as he politely greeted your friend, acting none the wiser.

Well your friend might not pick up the hidden cues that told you that he knew, but you did, you could pick up his cues as easily as breathing which makes attempts at teasing one another all the more fun and interesting; Luocha could read you like the back of his hand and you were only starting to get the hang of reading him.

So the look he gives you may not seem like much to other people but to you, it was him telling you that he knew what you were doing, and you couldn’t help but smile back at him in victory because he took the bait you had put in place for him. You didn’t need to hear him to know that the first thing he’d ask once you took your leave would be:

‘I don’t think it’s wise of you to tease your husband. Do you?’

Boothill: ‘you and Boothill? Now that I didn’t see coming.’ Your friend joked as if you hadn’t openly said the most outrageous, thirsty shit about your now boyfriend.

‘Watch it because sooner or later he’ll become my husband.’ You joked back as you and your fiend shared a laugh.

Boothill flashes his sharp teeth in a wicked smirk upon hearing you call him your husband.

Oh now you’ve done it. He’s not going to let you live down the fact that you had called him your husband. He refuses to because he wants to see how you’d react to it. So he’ll make his presence know by confidently striding up to you and resting his hand on your waist, squeezing it, before smashing his sharp teeth once more but this time in a Cheshire grin.

‘Husband?’ He’d ask. ‘Have I secretly been promoted from being your boyfriend without my knowledge? I’m honoured sweetheart, but warn a fella next time before you go and pull this sort of stunt off. Oh wait,’ he pauses before continuing. ‘There’s not going to be a next time because you ain’t gonna be getting rid of me anytime soon. You’re stuck with me forever sugar.’ He cackles as he shamelessly swats you on the ass -hard- for good measure.

Yeah your plan kind of back fired on you because now your the one with the extremely flustered face, and now an sore ass that’ll become a bruise on top of that.

Boothill loved the idea of you belonging to him and only him and vice versa. He’s a possessive prick who’ll gladly put a bullet of two between the eyes of any bastard stupid enough to look at you for longer than a second.

He’s not one to share his treasure and never will be. You’re his now unto forever. Also he’d probably jokingly call himself your husband whenever you meet new people along your journey, and or scaring suitors off by screaming that you/him were married. (You very much weren’t but it works in keeping creeps away, so that’s a bonus.)

He plays on it so much that it’s an inside joke between the two of you and the two of you alone.

Dan Heng: ‘my husband Dan Heng, is just outside getting fresh air, he’s not fond of overcrowded social gatherings.’ You explained to your parents who shared a look of understanding.

Dan Heng, who had finally came back into the house, overheard this conversation and immediately his face burst into flames as his palms became sweaty all of a sudden and his breath hitched in his throat.

Husband?

Him?

Is that why he’s been invited for your family vacations with your parents, grandparents and relatives with their spouses of their own? All because they thought he was your husband? Dan Heng thought he was going to faint then and there from how many times he’s mentioned himself as your husband.

You’ve been together for a while now, but the fact that you were calling him your husband had him feeling some type of way that went beyond comprehension. He likes the idea of being your husband and has had a couple of shameless dreams where you very much were married and had a small family of your own, living a peaceful and loving life together and growing old together, still very much in love. However he always seemed to be at a loss for words when wondering whether in an alternate reality his dreams were your lived reality.

Dan Heng has so many thoughts on being your husband, one of them being that he’d be grateful in being chosen to be your life partner, while the other had still yet to find the words to voice his desire in being your husband aloud without being overcome by his own emotions. So until then he’ll have to suffer you freely calling him your husband in the presence of your parents, not that he’s complaining but he’d rather not be asked why his face still went so red when being called your husband, especially after so long of being assumedly married by your parents.

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thegnomelord · 4 months

Text

Good Dog

CW: NSFW, DARK-FIC, murder, gore, power imbalance, size difference(reader's bigger), description of torture and brainwashing, oral, anal, blood as lube, plot and exposition with porn, pet play(collars and leashes), toxic relationship, dub-con, very very self indulgent.

Моя гончая- my hound, Хороший солдат - good soldier, Расслабьтесь, братья мои - relax, my brothers, приносить - fetch, есть - eat

The thick door and walls of the private room do nothing to damped the bass of the club pounding in his ears, the annoying music made bearable by the high of a recent victory. Puffs of cigarette smoke lazily curl in the air as Makarov leans further back into the couch, the buzzing sting of a fresh tattoo helping him relax. The scent of expensive liquor only adds to the heady atmosphere, crystal clear vodka swirling in his glass before Makarov takes a sip. His dark eyes peer over the rim of his glass, like doorways to a dark abyss, his gaze dancing across the faces of his most trusted men before settling on the lieutenant's as the man tries to prove his worth with pointless words.

Above all else, Makarov values loyalty.

It doesn't matter how strong a man is if he can't follow orders. The number of soldiers he can lead is pointless when he can't keep his men alive. How well he can shoot is meaningless when he can't devote himself to a cause. A man who is disloyal is a man of single use.

Makarov doesn't even try to listen to whatever drivel the lieutenant's spouting, he doesn't see a reason to sour his mood when he already knows everything: the embezzling, the lying, the adorable double agent act. He has you to thank for that, you'd sniffed the lieutenant out the second you met him, diligently uncovering every speck of dirt the lieutenant had attempted to hide from Makarov.

And you? You are very loyal. His loyal hound.

His fingers curl around the leash, the smooth black leather sliding against his calloused palms. A barely there tug is all it takes for you to lean down over the back of the couch, bracing one large hand near his head for support as the other remains over the grip of your sidearm. You loom over him, and while Makarov may be a fearsome man, he can't deny the type of foreboding fear a goliath like you inspires — a towering figure always a step behind him, broad body big enough to easily cover him fully if you need to take a bullet for him, arms strong and palms wide to easily crack a man's skull.

Settling the glass down he takes another drag of his cigarette, "Hound," Another tug — sharper, harsher; such a small correction yet the fact you needed it at all has acrid disappointment burning on your tongue — makes you bend down more, your face now next to his. He doesn't draw attention to the reprimand, breathing out a puff of smoke near your face. "Were you listening, моя гончая?"

It's a pointless question, he knows you were listening, he trained you to. But he asks because he loves to see the way your eyes darken, jaw tight. The cigarette smoke dances in the air, making the club's low lights reflect off the sharp spikes adorning the thick collar snuggly wrapped around your throat. Your day collar suits you well, no different than the spiked collars put on hunting hounds.

"Yes sir." You answer, your attention now solely on the lieutenant.

Makarov hums, eyes flickering from the lieutenant to you. "And?" He chuckles and lets the leash go, his word keeping you in place as he casually pats your neck. "What did you hear?"

"Lies. . ." The slow slide of his fingers across the uncovered parts of your throat makes your breath stutter, static crackling beneath your skin. "I heard lies, sir." Your answer causes the lieutenant to try and sputter excuses and denials, all cut short by the harsh look you give him.

Makarov chuckles, hooking a finger over the silver loop at the front of your collar, pulling on it and tilting his head so his lips can ghost across your jaw. "Хороший солдат." Makarov murmurs. His stubble scratches your skin as his lips brush a path to your ear, so very close to a lover's kiss.

But a brush of skin is all it is. Nothing more. Your body earns for more, to turn your head and experience the bruising possessiveness of his kiss once again, to feel his teeth bite down on your lip until blood floods both of your mouths. But you don't move; A spoiled dog isn't loyal and Makarov won't lavish you with attention for nothing. no — you must earn it.

"Stay." The soft 'click' of the leash unclipping sounds the same as a sentencing gavel, the strip of leather falling away until only his word keeps you from tearing the lieutenant's throat out with your teeth. Makarov smirks against your skin, his words honey sweet to your ears as he whispers: "Sick him."

That seals the ex-lieutenant's fate.

You're on the lieutenant in an instant, crashing into him like a truck. Makarov leans back and lights up another cigarette as you stomp down on the man's leg, all the weight you carry around bearing down on his bones until they break, erasing any foolish thoughts of escape when you snap the bones of his other ankle; Makarov has truly taught you well.

The screams of a traitor are much better than the atrocious club music, letting him enjoy the smooth burn of the vodka as another stomp breaks a couple of ribs. Some of his men are still nervous around you, trying not to shuffle in their seats lest they grab your attention and become the new outlet of your violence.

"Расслабьтесь, братья мои." Makarov gives a charming smile, resting his ankle on his knee as he takes another drag. "Hound is well trained, you have nothing to fear." He chuckles, lazily watching you as he holds conversation with his lieutenants. Honestly, you're like a dog with a new toy, tossing the man around and pinning him down under your heavy body, each swing of your fists steadily turning the ex-lieutenant's face into pulp.

It's as entertaining for him as it is therapeutic for you.

And to think Price had tried to suppress all that beautiful savageness you possessed.

Makarov remembers how you'd been nothing but a snarling and cursing ball of anger when his men had captured you after a botched mission. He had been both annoyed and amused by how loyal you were to Price, weathering every beating and starving and humiliation with the same 'fuck you' response, baring your teeth like the cornered dog you were. With days turning to months and your resolve refusing to waver under their 'care' Makarov had considered just putting you down, sending a nice video of blowing your skull open to Price but oh — is he glad he decided to indulge in the game your stubbornness presented.

He set out to train you like he would any mongrel mutt, clear expectations making it easy to tell whether your actions would get you a reward or an even worse punishment, giving small rewards for the behavior he wanted; not snarling at him might earn you a better meal. Biting your lip and taking your beating without back talk could get you a couple of minutes outside the claustrophobic walls of your cell. Letting him touch and inspect your body without complaint might reward you with a book or some other little creature comfort he could, and did, easily take away the moment you stepped out of line.

Of course you were weary, perceptive enough to know when he was scheming. But every man has his limits, yours were simply reached when he handed you official C.I.A documents proclaiming you as K.I.A, the mission itself creatively rewritten to sound like you had gone and deserted to the enemy — no one was looking for you, no one was coming to save you, your captain, Price, wasn't coming to save you.

He had taken great enjoyment in running his fingers across your scalp as you clutched the documents in a white knuckled grip, your mind far too worn down to question or guard against the soft touches. His lips had brushed against your ear, soothingly raspy voice comforting you — you're a good soldier, strong, reliable, everything a commander could dream of. It wasn't your fault you trusted the wrong man, truly, what a shame to have your loyalty repaid with betrayed like that.

After that, it became laughably easy to train you. He stuck with simple commands, spoken only in Russian so he could amuse himself with the way your head would tilt before you'd perk up, recognition making your dull eyes brighten before you did what he wanted in exchange for a small scrap of his affection, learning to seek his praise and appreciate his touch even when your body still prickled with disgust. So when he handed you the knife, standing so close you could have easily slit his throat, and ordered you to kill another member of your previous taskforce, you hadn't hesitated for a second. "Good boy." He had purred, caressing your jaw as he used his thumb to wipe away the blood staining your cheek.

"Hound." His voice is as effective as any physical tug on your leash, making you stop mid punch with your fist inches away from the ex-lieutenant's caved in face. You're covered in blood, the rich crimson bringing out the violence swirling in your eyes.

Yet you look at him with utter adoration he wants to shove his cock deep down your throat just so he can see your tears smudge the blood on your cheeks. "Приносить." He taps his thigh.

You nod your head, grabbing the knife strapped to your thigh. There's no hesitation in your movements as you shove the knife into the ex-lieutenant's throat. An arc of blood spurts across your front when you yank it out just to stab another spot, the man coughing and choking as you cut through cartilage and muscle until with a good yank and a sickening 'crack!' you separate the head from the body.

Makarov had never seen the appeal of large hulking brutes until you — your body had filled back out with muscle and fat nicely after you became his, towering body demanding attention simply by existing as you stand up. The loud stomp of your feet and the blood staining your body making you look like a barbarian, casting a shadow over him before you kneel at his feet, offering the decapitated head as a knight does to his king.

Oh yes, he definitely sees the appeal now.

"Good dog." He purrs, reaching out to stroke your jaw, smearing some of the blood with his thumb. Fingers sliding down to hook on the silver ring on your collar he pulls your head closer. "Do you think you earned a reward?"

It's a test. One you're intimately familiar with. The judgmental stares of Makarov's trusted men are the last thing in your mind when the closeness of his body and the sharp crisp scent of his cologne threatens to shatter your resolve. "Only if you permit it, sir." Your throat feels dry, trying not to show how eager you are for his attention as you place the head on the floor so you don't get a drop of blood on him.

Makarov smirks, "Smart dog," His hands move to the back of your neck, unbuckling the collar. You're no longer ashamed to admit you feel naked as the thick piece of leather is pulled away; the time when you didn't have a collar wrapped around your neck feel like a distant memory and now the sensation of breathing without it pressing against your skin is disturbing. You have to bite your lip to keep the low whine from escaping your chest.

His hand wraps securely around your throat, bringing your breath back to you. Your Adam's apple bobs beneath his fingers as he traces the 'V.M' shallowly carved across your throat. "It's already starting to fade." He tuts, squeezing his fingers to restrict your breathing just the slightest bit more. "We'll need to have it tattooed. That would be nice, yes?"

You suck in a sharp breath, "Yes sir."

"Хороший солдат." He purrs. He pulls out another collar from his pocket and you feel yourself chub up in your pants just at the sight of it. It's the chained pronged one he uses exclusively when he wants you to pleasure him, particularly because it leaves such pretty bruises along your skin when he tugs on the leash.

You eagerly tilt your head back to bare your throat, a shudder rushing down your spine as soon as you feel the cold metal against your skin. You stay perfectly still as he secures around your neck, the sharp pull of the leash making the prongs dig into your skin, prickles of pain making you even harder. "Go on," Makarov hums, spreading his legs wider so your attention falls to the hard bulge in his slacks, his belt undone but the rest left to you. "есть."

You don't think you could enjoy servicing him as much as you did if he didn't let you work for it, the reward made sweeter because you earned it. Truly, he's so good to you, you'd thank him profusely but he hasn't given you permission to speak freely. So you lean in, careful not to get blood on his pants as you take the metal zipper between your teeth and pull it down. You've done this enough not to have any problems undoing the button, your hands obediently planted on your thighs and your gaze firmly on him so you can see the pleased smirk that spreads across his features when you bite the band of his boxers and pull them down until his cock springs out, already hard.

A pleased sigh escapes him when your warm lips wrap around the head of his cock, the leash wrapped firmly around his hand and the slightest tug on it has pain prickling down your spine. "Моя гончая, don't waste my time." You can't help but whine lowly at the admonishment, quickly trying to make up to him by sucking on the tip and licking the slit in just the way he likes it.

His leg shifts, hard boot coming up to grind the sole against your clothed cock. "That's better." The praise makes you moan deep from your chest and try to take more of his cock into your mouth, your boxers wet and sticky against your own cock as you give an experimental hump of your hips against his boot. You scrape your teeth along the vein on the underside of his cock and it earns you a rough grind of his boot. His hand tangles in your bloodied hair and pulls you down until his cock bumps the back of your throat.

You nearly choke from the sudden pressure, trying to fight off the reflex to pull back and gag. "Look at me." His order rings clear in your head, your eyes meeting his as he grinds your nose into his pubic hair, tears prickling the corners of your eyes as your lungs start to burn. You fight through it, the fluttering of your throat making him five a small, rough, moan and fuck — you're hard as a rock.

Just as you feel like you'll pass out on his cock he lets you off, yanking your head back. You're only given a few seconds to take a sharp breath of fresh air before he pushes your head back down. You're prepared this time, hollowing your cheeks and relaxing your throat, swallowing around his hard cock. The way you suck Makarov off is wet and sloppy, stealing ragged breaths when you can as you trace the veins of his cock with your tongue and gently nibble on the base when his cock's fully sheathed in your throat, knowing exactly how to please him. Your efforts are rewarded with the salty taste of precum on your tongue, hearing him occasionally mutter his praises in Russian, none of his words snagging on your mind like sharp orders so you let yourself drift in the pleasure of servicing him, subconsciously grinding your cock into his foot.

But you're not mentally gone enough not to notice the squeaking of chairs, your body tensing as you pull up enough so only his head remains in your mouth, your head turned just enough to throw a sharp glare at the other men in the room. Makarov having his guard down like this makes you tense, violence buzzing beneath your skin from the ingrained need to protect him.

"Hound." Makarov's growl is followed by another sharp tug of the leash, the dull ache of the metal prongs digging into your skin dissipating some of your aggression. "Did I tell you to stop?"

You shake your head as best you can, a pathetic whine escaping your chest from the way the pain makes your cock even harder. Satisfied, he eases the leash, letting you return to your work. His head lolls back, lazily looking at his men. He couldn't care less who sees you like this, but now he wants your full attention on him. "Leave." He gives the simple command.

You track the sound of shuffling feet as you take him fully into your mouth, making him hiss a curse under his breath. Nuzzling your nose into his curly pubic hair you breathe in his musk, his heel grinding firmly and consistently against your hard cock, pleasure pulsing through your veins with such intensity you're worried you'll cum without permission, low whines escaping your throat.

He pulls you off him suddenly, your lungs burning as you gasp for air. You expect him to paint your face with his cum, stake an obvious ownership over you. But he doesn't, pulling you by the leash and leaning down to mash your lips together, teeth biting down on your lip until it bleeds.

Makarov's kisses are rough and demanding, the sweet drug your body's been craving, teeth clicking together and tongues swirling in each other's mouths. The firm grind of his boot against your crotch makes you moan lowly, a sound he happily swallows down and nearly shoves his tongue down your throat. You part far too soon, your body craving much much more, but he doesn't let you stew in the disappointment of a short kiss — it's an owner's responsibility to spoil his pet — mumbling against your lips. "Prepare me."

A full shudder runs down your spine and you surge to follow his order. Makarov loves the determined look you get in your eye just as much as he loves the rough way you grip his hips and hike them up so you can pull his pants and boxers down his legs. Your bloodied fingers grip his hips and pull them down until his ass hangs off the edge of the couch, throwing his legs over your shoulders and he can feel the muscles deep in his back strain as you nearly bend him in half, his hard cock and hole bared for you.

It's a vulnerable position, trapped between your bulky frame and the couch he has no way to escape. And if anyone else were to attempt this he would feed every inch of their flesh to themselves. But Makarov relishes the knowledge that he's in control, a single word from him would make you stop regardless of how hard and wanting you were, your loyalty to him as real as the dead man's blood you dip your fingers in to lube them.

Your fingers circle his hole before you press the pad of your finger against it. Without the heat of battle the cold viscousness of the blood feels disgusting, making him shiver and his rim flutter against your digit. But the discomfort is easily forgotten when you apply pressure, the steady and persistent way you push your finger in forcing his muscles to yield. "Shit-" Makarov clenches his teeth; your fingers are so large just one feels like two of his own, the gnawing pain of your finger pushing deeper just amplifying the pleasure of being stretched open and your other hand loosely stroking his wet cock.

You don't go slower than you need to, perfectly trained to know how to move your fingers to keep him teetering on the edge between pleasure and pain, each shift and slow drag of your finger pulling deep grunt and soft breaths from between his clenched teeth. "Yes, there you go." His praise makes your heart melt and cock throb in your pants, the pull of the leash bringing your lips together in another harsh kiss. You swallow his moans greedily, pushing a second finger in and curling them in search of his prostate, your thumb incessantly rubbing the space between his balls and ass to trap the spongy flesh between your fingers.

He nearly chokes you with how hard he yanks on the leash, hips pushing back into your hand and walls clenching down on your fingers. The stinging ache of being stretched open mixes with the building pleasure, leaving his skin feeling like a live wire. His teeth dig into your lip until it bleeds again, heels digging into your back. He grinds his hips down on your fingers, muttering praises against your lips as you push a third finger in and force him to take it.

He can't wait any more, gripping your hair and roughly yanking your head back. "Fuck me already." He growls, licking the blood staining your cheek.

You scramble to do as you're told, continuing to stretch him open as you undo your belt and pants with one hand, your hard cock bobbing against your abdomen. Pulling your fingers out you scoop up more blood, the cold helping reign in your lust as you lube up.

Before you can do anything he reaches out to grip the base of your cock, his hold firm and just at the cusp of pain. "You'll be good, yes?" He growls against your lips. "Fuck me good and hard?" His hand moves, stroking you slowly, evenly coating the blood along your cock. "I don't need to show you how to use this thing again, do I?" There's a dangerous edge in his voice.

Fear shoots down your spine, mouth going dry. You'd been too eager for human touch when he first let you mount him, and when you came seconds after getting inside him he'd been less than pleased by your abilities. You couldn't feel your cock for a full week after he'd tied you down and used your cock until you couldn't cum, using a cock ring to keep you hard and using you until he was satisfied.

You quickly shake your head. "No sir," You choke out and bare your throat. "I can do it, I'll be good." You promise.

His hold loosens, tugging you by the hair so he can peck your lips, his tongue licking over the small wound he'd made. "Don't fail me now."

You steel yourself like you're going to war, pressing your cockhead to his hole. Your nails dig into his hip, your grip ironclad to keep him still as you pull him down more and simultaneously push in. There's a second of resistance before your head pops in, the pleasure of entering his velvet soft insides being met with sharp pain as his teeth chomp down on your shoulder through your shirt. It all mixes in your brain into pure bliss, your hips bucking up into him automatically until you're bottomed out. You hold him close to you and leisurely grind your hips, letting him get used to the mind numbing stretch.

Fuck— Makarov may see the appeal of brutes but impaled on your cock he feels like he's being split in two, lungs burning and he can almost swear your tip's poking his diaphragm. He chases the pain more than the pleasure, heels digging into your back to give him some leverage so he can push his hips into yours. "Yes," His head lolls back when you slowly withdraw, only to suddenly snap your hips and hilt yourself inside him again. "-fuck, yes!"

The blood keeps you from tearing him apart but there's too little of it to keep him from feeling the painful stretch, the slow movement of your hips making his thighs shake. "Harder," He demands, yanking on your leash and biting your shoulder again. "Make me feel it." His voice is rough with a demand, because men like him never beg.

"Yes sir," You manage, bracing your feet and setting a rough pace, rutting into him like an animal. He muffles his sounds into your shoulder as your cock saws into him, his walls fluttering and clenching around you so tightly it feels like he'll snap your cock off. You do your best to focus on him and his pleasure, but the tight heat of his hole is rapidly melting any control you have, your cock throbbing and leaking precum inside him.

"Sir, please-" You whine, your muscles tight and your balls feeling so full you feel like you'll burst, your voice full of need. "I'm so close."

“Not yet.” He growls, pushing his hips down to meet your thrusts, your hand stroking his cock. “Make me cum first.” He growls.

You hold back a pathetic whine and redouble your efforts, your rough thrusts bruising his ass as you fuck into him, aiming to nail his prostate every time you bottom out. He wails, whole body shaking, his cock throbbing in your hand and leaking a puddle of precum on his stomach.

Makarov cums without any warning, going rigid and biting your shoulder even harder as pearly cum shoots from his tip, his walls clamping down on your cock. "C- cum!" He snarls, voice muffled, and it's all you need. Bottoming out fully you moan as you shoot his insides full of your cum, rocking your hips and grinding your cock against his prostate to prolong both of our highs.

You hold him close as you come down to reality but the way his walls clench around your cock makes you feel like heaven. His hands grip your jaw, bringing you down into a disorganized sloppy kiss. He's boneless in your arms, his walls continuing to flutter around you. "That was good." He slurs, chest rising and falling as he tries to catch his breath. "Good dog."

The tug of the leash is expected and Makarov kisses the corner of your lips, tongue swiping across your skin to lick up more of the blood staining your lips. "Clean me up." He orders, "Lick up your mess." He growls, and there's not a single part of you that would refuse him.

Tag list: @lieutnt, @pastelclovds @thee-great-enigma @vladimirking24

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