#this should have been in this post why am i leaving it in the tags?????

[purple-obsidian]

Would you write for AK Jason? I like him mean. Like him and you are arguing and he gets all pissed off and makes you cry but it ends in angry sex.

say it back (18+, ak jason todd x fem reader) wc 5.5k

⭓ this post contains sexually explicit content and dark themes. it is not suitable for minors. please consider the tags and consume at your own discretion. not an example of a healthy relationship. jason might be kinda ooc here, but hey. it's fanfiction.

"You need to drop your fucking attitude." Jason hisses at you.

"Me? My attitude? I'm just trying to have a conversation, Jason, you're the one acting like-"

"Like what? Hm?" He stalks closer to you, and you take a step back reflexively.

"You're angry." You state simply, staring up at him with sadness in your eyes. "You're angry with me. Still. Aren't you?"

Jason's eyes pierce into your own, searching them for something as he takes a deep breath to calm himself. It takes several tense moments before he finally mutters, "Maybe I am."

"What more do you want from me, Jason? I'm sorry, I'm so sorry that I didn't come looking for you. I didn't know. Bruce told me you were-" Jason growls, and corners you against the wall until your back is pressed up against it.

"Don't fucking talk about him! Don't say his name, I'm sick of thinking about him!"

"Then what do you want me to do? I mourned you, Jason, I grieved for you. I didn't just forget about you. I could never." Tears begin to well up in your eyes. The guilt you feel for what your boyfriend went through is crushing. It haunts you every day. Every time you look at him and see that 'J' carved into his cheek, your self-hatred grows even deeper.

"There's nothing you can do now. What's done is done." His warm breath fans over your face. His eyes are narrowed, staring you down like you're the one who locked him up and tortured him.

"Why am I here, huh? Why do you keep me around if you refuse to forgive me?" You ask him, your voice quivering from grief and exasperation.

"Would you shut the fuck up?" He groans and slams his fist against the brick wall, just inches from your head. Your eyes widen when he does, a jolt of fear running through you, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. Jason's never hit you, but ever since he came back, you don't know what to expect from his behavior. He's erratic. Hurting. But at the same time, even more focused and calculating than ever. Its a terrifying combination, honestly.

He looks so much different now. Even though you're both still young, his features are harsher, his face hardened and scarred. You still see traces of the boy you fell in love with. It isn't always obvious, but you catch brief glimpses of the old him here and there. Its enough to keep you around, to remind yourself of how much you love him. Seeing him hurt like this and isolating himself is devastating.

"I don't know if I'm capable of forgiving you." He says between labored breaths. His eyes are dark, filled with a pain he refuses to share. "You left me in there to rot. The things he did to me, the things he made me do-"

"Jay." Your voice breaks, warm tears trailing down your cheeks. "Please, baby, I'm sorry. I failed you. I know I did." You reach out tentatively to caress his cheek, avoiding the scar. "I want to be here for you. I want to help you. But I feel like me being here is making things worse.”

Maybe you’re imagining it, but you catch a flicker of something in his expression. A crack in the hard mask he’s been wearing. “What are you saying?”

“If you hate me so much, maybe I should leave.” You struggle to get the words out. You hate yourself for even suggesting it. But the past few weeks with Jason have been tumultuous at best, and you’re not sure that your presence is actually helping him. If anything, you feel like you trigger him just by existing.

“Leave?” He asks, his face contorting in pain and anger. “You’re going to leave me? Really?”

“Only if that’s- I mean, I don’t know, Jason! I don’t know!” Unable to hold it in anymore, a heavy sob shakes your body, and you look away in shame. He’s still got you pinned against the wall, his arms caging you in and keeping you from turning away. “I just want you to be happy. I don’t think I’m capable of giving you happiness anymore. You won’t talk to me. All you do is yell. I want to be here for you, more than anything. But you won’t let me in. Maybe you’ll be better off without me.” Your voice is hushed and thick with emotion. You don’t want to leave him, now that he’s finally back. You were over the moon when you realized who was behind the Arkham knights mask.

Your best friend. Your lover, back from the dead.

But he hasn’t been the same. And you can’t blame him. He doesn’t go into detail about what happened, but you can see the evidence of his torture on his body. Not that he’s let you get too close.

He referred to you as ‘his girl’ in front of his militia. And now, after Gotham has recovered from the events surrounding his return, his hired men know that you’re to be protected at all costs. But other than a brief kiss upon your initial reunion, Jason hasn’t touched you. Yet he’s kept you close, physically, insisting you stay with him in his hideout. You quit your job, moved out of your apartment, left behind your old life as a law-abiding citizen to devote yourself to him and his cause. But your loyalty has been rewarded with him being emotionally closed-off and bitter towards you. It has you questioning where the two of you stand, and if he even wants you here.

“You’re wrong.” His voice is still harsh as he lowers his head to try and meet your eyes. He's close enough that you're able to smell his scent, a mix between his body wash and his natural musk. It draws you in, but you don't dare lean into him, in fear of fueling his annoyance towards you.

"Then why are you so mean to me?" You hate how weak you sound. You wish you were stronger, but being Jason's emotional punching bag has taken it's toll on you.

"I..." Some of his anger seems to fade, but his eyes are still swimming with turmoil. "I can be nicer."

"That isn't an answer."

Jason swallows hard, and removes his forearms from the wall so he's no longer caging you in. His jaw is clenched as he keeps staring at you and thinking about how to respond.

"I don't know." He finally says. "All I know is that I don't want you to go."

You slip to the side so you're no longer sandwiched between him and the wall, and take a step backwards to distance yourself. "I can't handle much more of this, Jason. It's too much. I can't stand fighting like this. It hurts me."

The look on your face has Jason's pulse quickening. "I'll be nicer." He says again.

"Jas-"

"I mean it." He reaches for your hand, and you need to consciously keep yourself from flinching away. "Just please, don't go."

Your heart aches at his plea. You don't want to leave, of course you'd rather be here. But you're not quite naïve enough to believe him when he say's he'll be nicer. You look down at where your hands are entwined, eyeing the thin silvery scars that litter his hand and wrist. Your mind briefly wanders, wondering what nightmare gave him those. Too thin to be from rope burn. Maybe zip ties. A few more tears pool in your eyes and blur your vision at the mental image of him being restrained in such an inhuman way.

"If you really want me, I'll stay." You whisper,

His eyes light up, but the relief doesn't touch the frown that's seemingly permanently etched onto his strong features. "Come here."

You don't fight the gentle tug on your hand. You let Jason hug you close to him, his heart still beating fast in his chest. You feel the steady rhythm against your cheek when he pulls you close and holds you against him. He's still angry, you can sense it radiating off of him in waves. But he's making a pointed effort to stay calm, which is an improvement.

"I don’t hate you. I love you. You know that, right?" He asks. You get a odd, fluttery feeling in your stomach. Not the same as the feeling you got the first time he told you he loved you. It’s a weird, perverted ghost of the feeling, one that makes the ache in your chest even worse.

You don't want to answer him. What would you even say? That you love him too? He already knows that, surely. And he laughed at you last time you told him. In front of several of his men. It was humiliating, and you've avoided saying it ever since.

"Hm? You know that, right?" He tightens his hold on you, his strong arms encouraging you to answer.

"Yeah. I know." You mumble back.

Jason looks down at you, and pulls away far enough to look you in the eyes again. What you would give to know what's going on in his head. It’s like a whirlwind of emotions are playing across his face.

You don't expect him to lean in and capture your lips in a sudden kiss. You freeze for a beat before you kiss him back, not quite relaxing against him, but letting yourself move with him. Still, it feels off. Almost like you're kissing a stranger. He isn't familiar anymore, which only encourages the tears to keep falling hot and slow down your cheeks.

As your tongues dance together, Jason begins to explore your body, warm hands running up and down your back. You wouldn't describe his touch as gentle, but he moves slowly and deliberately, finally resting on your ass and kneading your fat with his strong hands.

Is this his idea of 'being nicer'? You wonder to yourself. But you don't stop him. He's the only man you've ever loved, and when you thought he was dead, you missed his touch more than anything. Craved it. And you still do, even though you're more wary of him now. If you were thinking clearly, you'd probably stop his hand from sneaking down the front of your pants, and tell him that you should both take a breather and calm down. But he's left you so desperate for any speck of affection that you can't bring yourself to turn him away.

His hands are warm against your skin, but goosebumps still prickle your skin from the contact. He slips his hand in your underwear, not bothering to take his time. The sudden feeling of his rough fingers against your labia has you whimpering into his mouth. Jason rubs firm circles over your neglected clit as he breaks the kiss. "Yeah, you know?" He says back in a mocking tone. "Your body knows. She missed me, didn't she?"

The way he calls your cunt 'she' leaves a weird taste in your mouth. You pretend not to notice. "Of course I missed you." You say back to him. You grip his forearm gently and caress his skin with your thumb, feeling his muscles move and flex as he pleasures you, while your other arm grips his shoulder to steady your body. It's hard to relax with all the pent up tension you have inside. But you focus on his fingers, and how good it feels to be touched by your boyfriend again after so long.

"How quick did you move on. Hm?" His deep voice almost sounds like it's rumbling as asks. "How many people have you fucked since I disappeared?"

His question feels like a daggar to your heart. Maybe he really doesn't know, doesn't understand how hard his 'death' hit you. You haven't spoken about it much to him, since he obviously suffered much worse than you did while you were apart. It would feel insensitive to open up about the deep depression you fell into, one that your friends and even Dick tried and failed to help you out of. It was all you could do to even finish high school and get a job. You didn't see anyone else. You barely hung out with anyone. All you did was work and sleep. It was like the joy was sucked from your life the day you lost him.

But Jason doesn't know this. He mistakes your silence for shame, and he uses his other hand to cup your chin and force you to look at him as his fingers slowly warm you up. "What's wrong? Lost count?" The bitterness and mistrust are second nature to him now, after enduring Jokers sick mind games.

"No one... I promise." You lip trembles as the pleasurable sensations build between your legs. You grow wetter under his touch, even though your heart is heavy with grief.

"S'that right?" Jason lets out a dark chuckle and removes his hands from you abruptly. "Take your clothes off."

You can feel your heartbeat in your ears. You hesitate, looking from him to his bed along the opposite wall. Jason brings his fingers to his mouth, and to your horror, he sucks them clean, tasting your arousal without breaking eye contact.

"Do you want this?" He asks, growing annoyed at how you're freezing up.

"Do I want, what?" You say back a little too quickly.

Jason's nostrils flare as he lets out an irritated sigh. "Me. Do you want me to fuck you?"

Your mouth hangs open for a beat before you stammer out a hurried "Yes."

“You sure about that? Doll?” He cocks his head at you and studies your face carefully. The old nickname brings back memories, memories you’re sure are far too sweet in comparison to what’s about to happen.

But it doesn’t stop you from nodding at him all the same. You want him, there’s no denying that. Even if he isn’t the same boy you fell in love with, he’s still Jason. Your Jason.

Breathing heavily, Jason leans down to you so you're face to face once again. "Then take. Your fucking. Clothes. Off. Before I rip them off of you."

You glare at him through teary eyes, not appreciating the threat. But you’re not going to pass up the opportunity for intimacy. Hardening your gaze to match his, you hurridly remove your clothing piece by piece, folding the garments and setting them down neatly on the table beside you.

Jason surprisingly keeps his eyes on yours. Even as you reveal more of your body to him, his focus is on your face, not faltering.

When you step out of your underwear and set them on top of the pile, you finally say “You next.”

A dark chuckle departs Jason’s scarred lips before he replies, “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

Confused, you give him a quizzical look as he stomps over to his bed and kicks off his boots. They land beside him with a thud, making you jump a little.

“Get the fuck over here.”

Jason’s voice echoes across the studio apartment ominously. It’s pissing you off, how he’s still being so brash after just promising to be nicer to you. You shiver and run your hand up and down your arm while you walk over to join him, the cool air against your bare skin making you feel even more vulnerable. It’s clear to you that he’s enjoying this. Sitting on the edge of his bed, still almost fully clothed, finally letting himself drink in the sight of your naked body as you approach him.

“You’ve changed.” He comments after a few moments of tense silence. And he isn’t wrong. You’ve matured in the time he was gone, you’re a bit taller, your hair is longer, looking less like a teenager and more like a woman. But the changes in your body are subtle compared to his. Jason is at least 6 inches taller than what you remember. He’s put on a lot of muscle, and his features are sharper. Harsher, even. His face is different. Even ignoring the scars, there’s a new depth to him that’s hard to pinpoint.

You wonder how much of his transformation is due to just growing up, like you, and how much of it is from the trauma he experienced. Surely, being malnourished and tortured as a teenager would stunt a persons growth. But the man in front of you is anything but stunted. He’s massive. Again, your mind wonders about the details of his absence, about how long he took to recover from his torture before returning as the Arkham Knight.

“You just gunna stand there and gawk at me, or are you going to help me out?”

“Sorry.” You mutter hastily, embarrassed to be caught zoning out. You focus on him again, and realize he has his pants unzipped and his cock in his hand, stroking it with lust-clouded eyes. It takes a good deal of effort to hide the shock on your face from the sight as heat rushes between your legs. Your cheeks turn red, and you place your hand on his knee to steady yourself before you kneel in front of him. “You’ve changed too.”

Jasons pupils dilate when you place your hand over his own, taking over for him and stroking him lightly. He is already hard as a rock, his veins bulging under your touch.

“Way to state the obvious.” He leans back casually and uses his hands to prop himself up against the bed. Using both of your hands now, you jerk him off carefully, hoping he doesn’t notice the trembling in your fingers. “That’s it… shiiit, spit on it, baby, can you do that for me?”

With nervous excitement you obey his request, gathering some saliva with your tongue and letting it drip from your mouth down onto his shaft. His cock is feverish to the touch. The groan that rumbles in his chest as you spread your spit over him triggers emotions you haven't felt in a long time.

“Fuck yes, nice and sloppy for me, shit.”

You want to tug his pants down his legs to give yourself better access, but your instincts are telling you it’s a bad idea. Even as you became more aroused from his reactions, you still maintain a strong sense of unease, like he could snap at you without a moments notice.

When you peer up at his face, his eyes are closed, and some of the anger and tension he was holding onto is less apparent now. It gives you a spark of excitement, pride, even, that you’re finally able to provide him some peace.

His expression gives you enough confidence to lean your head down and take him in your mouth. You start with a soft kiss against his tip, then you swirl your tongue around it slowly, trying to gauge his reaction.

“M’not in the mood for teasing, doll.” Jason groans. “Better take a deep breath.”

That is all the warning he gives you before his hand grips the back of your head and pushes your mouth down onto him. You gag a little at the sudden intrusion before you remember to relax your throat to allow him fully in.

Another deep moan fills your ears when Jason feels you gag around him. Your eyes water as your nose brushes against the dark hair at the base of his cock. He’s definitely bigger than the last time you two did this. Or perhaps you’re just out of practice. Whatever the reason, you struggle to suck him off properly. After a few seconds of deep-throating him, pull your mouth away to cough and catch your breath.

“I didn’t tell you to stop.” He growls. "That felt good."

“You’re being a jerk.” You sputter out between coughs. “You said you’d be nicer to me.”

“This is me being nice.” He argues, bringing his hand to his cock to stroke himself again now that you've abandoned your effort. “You don’t want to suck me off? Fine. Get on the bed.”

“It’s not that I-“

“Get on the fucking bed.”

He stands up, and you’re momentarily scared he’s going to drag you. But his grip on your arm isn’t harsh, just a firm guide as he helps you onto the cheap mattress. You lay on your back and settle against the bedding, but Jason promptly flips you over, helping you onto your hands and knees.

You the mattress creek as he positions himself behind you. A quick look over your shoulder results in him gripping your hair and pushing your face into his pillows. "Stay just like that." He warns.

"Seriously? What, y-you're not going to let me look at you? Or kiss you?"

"Do you want me to fuck you or not?" The irritation returning to his gravely voice.

You close your eyes and try to stop your tears. You exhale a deep, steadying breath before you reply, "Yes, Jay, of course I do."

"Then quit complaining." The mattress shifts again as Jason moves behind you, his still clothed legs pressed against your rear. His left hand rests firmly on your waist, and a second later you feel him rub the tip of his cock against your clit. He drags himself up to the entrance of your cunt slowly, them back down again. He languidly repeats this back and fourth several times while he mutters under his breath "Shit... look at you, doll, touched your pussy for 5 seconds and you're already soaked for me." Jason smacks his shaft against your cunt a few times, your body visibly tensing when you feel the tip press against your asshole. "Relax," Jason scoffs, "I know you don't like that shit. You couldn't handle me in there before, there's no way you could take me there now."

Jason's weight shifts forward, pressing his hips into you. It only takes a moment for him to find the give and sheath the tip of his engorged length inside of your cunt. Green eyes stare in awe as he watches himself slowly disappear inside of you, pausing halfway, savoring how warm and wet you feel. He curses when your inner muscles clench and relax in little spasms as you try and accommodate him. "So fucking tight, goddammit, doll, shit, shiiit... feels so good when you do that."

Your eyes roll back at how badly you've missed the feeling him inside of you. This part, this feels familiar. This doesn't feel like a stranger. Your heart fills with relief, a sense of comfort washing over you and helping you to relax.

Jason pushes even further inside when your inner walls lax around his girth. A soft hiss escapes your teeth when his crown kisses your cervix. It's too bad that you miss the grin on his face as he takes in your reaction.

"You really haven't been with anyone else, have you? Tssk." Jason slaps your ass and watches the slight recoil in awe. "I can tell. You held out. You know what that tells me?" His large hands plant themselves on either side of you against the bed. Jason leans down, shifting his weight onto you and forcing you down into the mattress, prone-bone, fully bottoming out inside your tight cunt.

A whimper falls from your throat at the sting of how he stretches you. It creates an ache deep inside of you, deep enough that only he could reach.

"Tells me you knew I was still around. You're a liar."

"W-what?" That sense of ease and comfort is gone just as quick as it came.

Jason says your name in disapproval, "We both know you're loyal to a fault. That's why you're here. That's why you put up with my shit." His clothed chest presses against the soft skin of your back as his hips begin a slow rolling motion, thrusting into you while he brings his lips to your ear, brushing against your earring. "Me dying is the only way you could ever move on from me. But I did die. And you didn't move on. Which means you knew. You knew I was alive. Which is why you didn't betray me, even when Dick was practically throwing himself at you."

His pace increases as he speaks. His words are tainted with an bitter smugness, which makes your stomach churn.

"Jason, Jay, baby, that doesn't make any sense. I really t-thought you were gone-hmmpht!" Jason gives a sharper thrust which interrupts your explanation.

"Then why didn't you move on?" He's asks in a tense whisper.

"I couldn't!" You cry out in exasperation.

"Exactly".

His hips are rolling faster against you now, only pulling out an inch or so before thrusting back in, too greedy to pull out any further. He stays deep and buries himself as far as possible inside your neglected cunt. The friction feels divine, even if the rough cotton of his t-shirt is rubbing against your back instead of his bare chest. You long for skin to skin. The closeness is something you crave, but Jason, for whatever reason, decides to deprive you of it, even though he's balls deep in your guts.

"Fuck off!" You spit out between your shallow pants and moans. "You're being a jerk!"

"Yeah?" His voice strains as his pace picks up even more. The mattress is squeaking softly and bumping up against the wall with each rut of his hips. "I'm a jerk? You think I'm a jerk?"

You moan in frustration and pound your fist against the mattress. It's difficult for you to find the right words to say when his cock is hitting all the right spots inside you. You've dreamt of this, being forced to live with the longing inside of you for a partner you thought you'd never see again. It's everything you've been craving, to be one with him again. But he's souring the intimacy with his smartass mouth.

"I don't wanna fight, Jay." You mutter in response to him. Jason's hand cradles the back of your head and pushes it further into the pillows. You're almost ashamed at how it turns you on, being crushed and handled roughly by him like this.

"Ha, don't believe that for a second." A warm hand snakes down the side of your body and slips around your hips so he has access to your clit. He's still pistoning deep into you, now nipping and biting at your neck as his fingers work your sensitive nub, sandwiched between your body and the mattress. The added stimulation makes you squeeze your thighs together. "C'mon, too late to be shy, doll. Open up f’me." His voice is a gruff rumble in you ear. It sends a chill down you spine and makes your toes curl, clenching around him to alleviate the pool of tension building in your core.

You should have better self control. You should rise above, be better than his antics. But your mind is reeling and trying to reconcile how good he’s making you feel with how irritated you are. So without much thought, you quip back, “Says the man who won't even take his shirt off when he fucks."

“The fuck did you just say?” Jason pinches your clit between his fingers, earning a sharp yelp from you that’s muffled against his pillows. His pace doesn’t falter, but his body tenses as the anger finds him again.

The sting lingers, and you push your thighs together even more, effectively squeezing him out of you somewhat unintentionally.

“No, none of that now, you’re going to let me in.”

A deep inhale blesses your lungs when Jason pushes himself up off of you, leaning back and grabbing your hips to force you on your hands and knees once more. You grip the sheets and steady yourself, unprepared for the harsh smack that stings your ass cheek.

“Ouch!” You whimper, taking a chance to look back at him again. Your lips part to voice your protest, but Jason chooses this moment to impale your body back onto him and fill up your dripping cunt in a single jolt. You swallow the cry that threatens to leave your lips. You feel so full, your eyes flutter when he starts his pace up again, the sound of wet skin smacking against wet skin filling the apartment. He’s going faster now, his fingers almost painful on your hips as the uses your body for release.

“Look at how wet you are, doll, shit.” Jason’s eyes are heavy with desire as the line between lust and anger starts to dissolve. “You know what I think?” He asks through gritted teeth.

You’re hardly in a state to answer him. The friction of his arousal pounding in and out of you, the weight of his heavy balls slapping against your clit, the sound of him straining and losing control, its making it difficult to focus on much else. As your arousal builds, your brain slows down, unable to comprehend anything other than your boyfriends cock filling you to the brim.

“I think you like when I’m mean. Look at how soaked you are right now, dripping onto my bed like a greedy slut.”

A low, depraved moan vibrates in your throat, only further proving his point.

“Ha, that’s right. Fucking… fucking knew it, god- fuck, taking me so good, so fucking good.” Jason moans your name, repeating it as he senses his release getting closer. His fingers dig deeper into the flesh of your hips, hard enough that you’re sure you’ll have bruises tomorrow.

“Fucking love this, I… I… dammit, I love you, doll. I love you so much.” Jason's filter is gone. He’s lost in the feeling of your soft pussy squeezing him, the wet sounds of your sex bringing him to the brink.

Each hard thrust of his hips has your body recoiling. Your chest falls down to the bed, hands gripping the pillow for dear life as the vigilante relentlessly pounds into you.

“I said... I love you, bitch.” His voice actually wavers slightly at the repeated admission, his emotions peaking and threatening to spill out.

You try to respond to him, you really do. But Jason fucks the air right out of your lungs, moving at a bruising pace, ramming himself so deep in your body that your vision is blurry and nothing even close to a real word has a chance at leaving your lips. You're breathless and cock drunk as he abuses that soft spot inside of you, building up your pleasure to an unbearable level. You're close. And so is he. You tremble and pant as your orgasm hits you hard, a warm fuzzy sensation radiating between your legs where your bodies meet, more of your slick splattering Jason's thighs in droplets from how hard he's fucking you. The sensation of your pussy convulsing around his hard length is the final push he needs.

You attempt to muffle the fragmented scream that falls from your mouth at his last few brutal thrusts. Jason curses, his breath catching as his balls tighten and release his load into you, mixing with your own fluids to create a sticky mess that oozes out around his cock. His hips finally slow, giving a few more gentle pumps as he rides his high. His labored breathing is accompanied by more curses and soft groans. You stay still, reeling from your own release, your mind still fuzzy and not thinking clearly.

Jason leans forward, putting his weight one hand while the other reaches for your flushed face, reaching around to grip your chin firmly. Following his lead, you let him turn your head to finally look back at him. The anger is still there. You're not sure if it will ever go away. But there is a vulnerability in his eyes that wasn't there before. He's still inside of you, hunched over your body, flushed face only inches from yours.

"Say it back."

Your eyes widen at how broken he sounds. It takes a few seconds before you can get your mouth to move, but as soon as you've gathered yourself you respond, you say "I love you, Jason" with as much tenderness as you can muster.

He nods, eyes narrowing, before finally sitting up and removing himself from you. "Good." He mumbles, moving until he's sitting on the edge of the bed and sighing. "Remember that next time you threaten to leave."

"It... it wasn't a threat." You explain, but you're so breathless and fucked-out that you're not sure if he hears you. Relaxing onto the bed, you lay on your side to look at him with worry. The emotions inside of you are tumultuous, confusing you even further as you try and decide if this was progress or not.

"I keep you around because you belong here. With me." Jason stands up, avoiding your anxious gaze and keeping his back to you. "Don't fucking forget it." His feat thud against the floor as he walks over to the bathroom, disappearing and closing the door behind him with a slam.

⭓ masterlist ⭓

please don’t steal my work. don't upload it to another site, use it to train ai, or claim it as your own.

[beebee18]

Ramen & Confessions

Lee Know x Reader

Genre; fluff, frenemies to lovers, feel good.

Characters; Minho, Y/n, Felix Brief mention- Changbin, Han, Chan & Hyunjin

Word count; 7k

Summary; You and Minho never were the best of friends however his worry when you finally attend movie night after being mia for a week seems to give way for his seemingly cool confession.

Warnings; Extremely cliche, slight insecurities, tall reader (like 5'7 and more), like one bad word.

Main masterlist skz masterlist

(I made a post long time ago about a Minho ff and you guys asked to be tagged. I would like to apologize for it not being a complete ff but I hope you enjoy this oneshot of cheesiness.) @antisocial-socialbutterfly @lixxpix @kaiyaba

Your thoughts lingered on Minho when you remembered him staring at you in the doorway, and after your talk with Felix. Even if you didn't like each other, not that you didn't, he was handsome and caring & sweet. It would be impossible to not crush on the guy, you owed him an apology.

So you moved to sit closer to him. He was surprised, to say the least, when you tapped his thigh to get his attention.

Turning to face you was not a good idea, you were so close, a mere jerk of his head and your lips would meet his, with the tv lights flashing at you, your brown eyes framed by those cute little glasses, slightly dishevelled curly hair framing your face oh so beautifully, and that smile with your barely there dimples (you insisted you had), you were a sight.

This was the closest and calmest you had been with each other in a while and it seemed to stop time for a second. He looked so pretty, his bedhead, sweats and no makeup on, shiny brown eyes looking into yours, the mole on his nose so cute you want to just boop it and that look of surprise mixed with concern on his face could melt you into a puddle if physically possible.

"I'm sorry I disappeared without saying anything." You started in a hushed voice, so as to not disturb the others. "I should have told you guys why earlier."

A snarky remark or comment would've been better cause what he did next made your heart skip a beat.

"It's okay y/n, I'm not gonna lie I was concerned, especially with Felix reminding everyone every minute that you could've 'died'. I am glad you're back." He nudged your arm with his and went back to the tv screen.

You stared at Minho side, small smile on your face, for a few seconds before Han coughed from behind the man, smirking at you, making you blush, you quickly turned to the screen to distract yourself.

Nearing the end of the movie people were asleep, mainly Felix, Han, Changbin and Hyunjin and somehow in a pile... Chan took off a few minutes ago to the studio leaving you and Minho the only ones awake.

After the movie ended you both looked around the find the human pile of idols making you giggle and Minho shake his head to stifle a laugh.

"Are you gonna put them to bed? How would that even work?" You ask standing up to help clean the remnants of the night.

"Eh just let them be, they'll separate when they want to. Are you leaving?" He asks as you start collecting your stuff, his expression slightly glum.

"I'll just move my stuff aside so I can help you clean, don't want you to do all this alone." You smiled at him putting your bag away and offering him a hand.

Minho swore he could scream in that moment.

He did take your hand and stood up facing you. You both just stood there for a few seconds, hands in each others before he cleared his throat.

You looked down and started gathering wrappers, bowls and edible food that just fell to take to the kitchen, so did Minho. And that's how he ended up making you both ramen.

He'd asked if you were hungry and you replied yes, after that no words were spoken. You went out to check on the boys, switch off electronics and when you came back there were two packs of cup noodles in front of Minho on the counter as he waited for the water to boil.

"Minho what... " You trailed off a questioning look on your face.

"You said you were hungry so..." He shrugs, smiling sheepishly, making the butterflies in your stomach go crazy.

You went and stood next to him, shoulders brushing the others, as he poured water in the cups and looked at you for a second, you grin at him in return which makes him chuckle, effectively hiding the cute that slipped his lips.

"Why are you laughing?" You ask him, giggling a little yourself, leaning on the counter adjacent to him. He was so cute and pure like this, you wanted to crush him in a hug so bad.

Once he was done with his fit of laughter he turns to you, coming closer, closer than ever. The proximity burned you, you guys weren't even on speaking terms 2 weeks ago and now...

"Wha-what are you doing?" You ask not wanting to embarrass yourself but you were flustered beyond belief and he was being nice?? To you??

"How come you don't hate me?" He asked staring into your eyes, he wanted a genuine answer, there was no point in lying to him, he seemed impatient.

"Well, you being mean isn't a reason for me to hate you. I knew not every one of Felix's friends would like me, it was okay. I was coping just well by being mean back. There was never any hate from my side. Unfortunately for me, the one I like, doesn't like me back...." The look of shock on your face as you slapped your hand over your mouth made Minho throw his head back in laughter.

People often said you rambled or spoke a lot. You agree now.

The embarrassment slowly creeping up on you. You made a move to slip away but Minho put his hands down by your hips on the counter and laugh slowly dissipating into a small smile, looking at your blushed face now.

"I'm sorry for being mean to you, truth is, I like you a lot. I've liked you since you visited us at dance practice for the first time and brought everyone homemade cookies. I was shy, I still am but your flustered state gives me confidence." He says, wanting to kiss the small pout from your face.

"Why didn't you say anything?" You asked, finally processing his words.

He liked you?? He still likes you?!

"I couldn't at the time, you were bestfriends with Felix, I didn't want the dynamic to shift plus there was a high possibility you liked any of the other 7 dudes in the group." He finishes scratching the back of his neck, looking down ears going red.

"And you?"

"Oh, I-I just, I didn't think someone like you would fancy someone like me." You hesitated gesturing to yourself, the insecurities finally creeping up.

Great way to ruin the moment brain.

"Someone like me?" He questioned, raising one of his eyebrows, tonguing his cheek as if he knew what was coming.

"Come on Min, look at you, your life, the people around you. I don't fit in, like a friend great but not as anything more. I know I sound dumb after we've both basically confessed but still..." You finish hesitantly.

"Y/n you'd fit right in. You fit amazing right now, that would just be a few more steps, it would work if we wanted it to." He says comforting you, his heart pacing at the nickname.

"Also I'm not your type, remember Han Sora, the girl you dated when I first met you guys, she was so pretty and petite, her clothes and shit. I admired her so much. She's your type, not me." You finish, eyes dropping to his chest to avoid his piercing gaze, that's all the argument you had.

"First of all, she was a publicity stunt and an obsessed trainee who was fired after I complained." He says, placing his right hand on your jaw, making you look him in the eyes. "Secondly, you're beautiful, kind, funny, smart, mature and well dressed. Being taller than the national average of a country you don't belong to is nothing to be insecure of, and let's be honest..." He lips tug up into a smile, hand falling to your hip from your jaw "...those thighs, are to die for." He says slowly with a wink, making you widen your eyes with shock and blushing like crazy.

"You wanna know who my type is?" He asks, searching for uncertainty in your eyes.

"Who?"

"You."

His lips came close to yours, an inch of a distance between them. He wanted you to make the final move, being careful so you'd have nothing to regret.

Your lips met, his hands on your hips, yours around his shoulders. Months of silently crushing on each other, finally being able to express it.

When he angled his face to deepen the kiss and your noses bumped, you separated, a giggle leaving you. He smiled softly, complete adoration in his eyes.

"Now what?" You asked, a warm feeling spreading through you.

"You wanna have ramen with me?" He asks, smirking, gesturing to the cups that have been sitting out for the past 15 minutes.

You scrunched your nose at the implication, your stomach saying other things "But like, I'm actually hungry." A small pout appearing on your face.

He quickly kissed it away taking your hand in his, walking into the living room to collect his things and yours, and now towards the door.

"Where are we going?"

"Our first date, the convenience store across the street. Great ramen!" He winks at you before pulling you closer into his chest, smiling wide at you, you couldn't help but reciprocate.

....

Texting; ( Y/n, Felix )

Felix: Did you leave already?

Felix: Where's Minho? Is he dropping you off?

Felix: He is, isn't he? 😏

Felix: Told you he had a thing for you.

Felix: Oh yeah ignore Lix when he's right, sure sure, I get it.

....

Texting; ( Minho, Felix )

Felix: Don't fbck this up.

Minho: Never Lix, never.

.

[miutonium]

Its 4 am, I should be sleeping but why is it that I just have the urge to draw and ship her with a pathetic nerd gf??

[dwellsinthebog]

he better not be throwing that old man around

[deadqueernoldor]

Thinking thoughts about those from Cuivienen and how they later treated the Valar, especially after Cuivienen was destroyed.

I imagine a foundation of sorrow and a layer of betrayal and pettiness. They had promised safety. And how did it turn out? Kin of Tata and Tatie their first leaders, slain in Valinor by the Dark Hunter from which the Valar promised protection in Valinor.

And then, the War of Wrath comes and with it the destruction of Cuivienen.

If any of those were re-embodied in Aman, I wonder if they make it a point to always turn their back to Valar and Maiar. I wonder if they only speak in the tongue they had first devised all those millennia ago and spoke in Cuivienen before time and different kindreds changed the tongue, not Sindarin or Quenya from the Great Journey's time or later. I wonder if they sing songs in their ancient tongue, songs about the beauty and unsullied health of Cuivienen every time any of the Ainur are near.

I wonder if the Valar feel any shame when those who they once looked upon in wonder and love gaze back at them with indifference or disgust.

[thecherrygod]

/

[wickymicky]

gyuri leaving fromis 9 is sad, but of all the ways for a member to leave a group, this is really the best possible one. she's leaving to follow other passions, after being with fromis for a long time through a lot of hardships. this is better than a scandal in every possible way. like, she's not leaving because she did anything wrong, or because the company did... she's leaving because she feels it's the right thing for her to do.

and the company is supporting that! imagine if you were an idol but you really wanted to quit, for whatever reason, and your company DIDNT let you? that would be awful! so really, this is a very good thing. it's sad, but it's good. you know?

so seriously, i wish her the best. she’s been with fromis from the beginning, to when they had a year-and-a-half long hiatus, to when they finally were successful and now regularly achieve at least a few music show wins during every promotion. the only time she was absent from fromis before now was when she was competing on produce 48, and like i’m not totally sure exactly why she did that, but the reason she stated on the show was that she felt like she needed to improve faster in order to keep up with her members (im sure part of the reason was her company wanting to promote fromis via her appearance on the show, too. which is kinda iffy, but gyuri suffered through that like a champ. she did so much for fromis). i think she’s earned this departure. she didnt leave when things got tough, she’s leaving when things finally seem stable, and she feels like it’s the right time to pursue this other passion of hers (i’m assuming she’s gonna be focusing on acting). 

and so... yeah. i guess my point is just that like... as far as departures go... this is like the ideal way to do it. a few groups i really like have lost members recently, and each situation is very very very different from the others, but this one is the only one where i’m like “dang... but good for her though <3″

[joelsgreys]

fall into temptation | three

Post Outbreak Joel Miller x Preacher’s Daughter! Reader

series masterlist l previous chapter

summary: Of all the women to catch Joel Miller’s attention—it just had to be one of the goddamned preacher’s daughters.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. JACKSON ERA. SLIGHT PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION OF READER, mentions of her hair which she can put up into braids as well as her style of clothing. despite the nickname Joel gives her, it does not speak to her body type or size. AGE GAP (reader is in her 20’s and Joel is 56). several mentions of religion and religious symbols, reader has a father and two sisters, all who come with names, reader gets put into a a very uncomfortable situation, insecurity, anxiety, Seth is an asshole, protective Joel, he threatens to break someone’s jaw which is a warning in and of itself. SMUT. loss of virginity, reader is inexperienced but not totally clueless, oral (both m and f receiving), risky unprotected p in v sex (please wrap it up), lots of praise and pet names (baby, babygirl, honey, you know, the works), Joel gets a teensy bit rough, creampie, hint of aftercare, ends with a cliffhanger, but also not really if you think about it?

MOODBOARD FOR AESTHETIC PURPOSES ONLY, NO MENTION OF RACE OR BODY TYPE.

word count: 10k

a/n: it was not my intention to post this on jesus day, but here we are. this took forever and a day considering the second part was posted back in september, but i am so so proud of myself for finally completing a wip i could cry. i did a bulk of the editing while i’ve been sick and in all honesty i probably should have asked someone to beta for me because i think i coughed out like 90% of my brain cells this week, but i think it turned out okay. ish.

Somehow, even over the volume of the live music, you could still hear their hushed, astonished whispers.

“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

“Is that Joel Miller with Pastor John’s daughter?”

“What’s she doing holding his hand?”

“He’s got to be at least twice her fucking age—”

Throat bobbing anxiously, you glanced up at Joel.

His shoulders were squared back, his head held high. 

Solid. Steady.

Joel couldn’t seem to care less about the bewildered stares, the judgment that was being flung his way. Not once did he seem to waver. But you?

Oh, you were already starting to crumble underneath it all, on the verge of falling apart right before everyone’s prying eyes. Shame sat heavily inside of your chest, the weight of the feeling suffocating you, making it harder and harder to breathe as it prevented air from reaching your lungs.

It had nothing to do with Joel. Of course it didn’t. It had all to do with you and with who you were. Their beloved preacher’s sweet, innocent young daughter. 

His youngest daughter. 

Suddenly, the whispers were no longer whispers.

“Oh God, she’s not going home with him, is she?”

“That’s not right! Someone should say something!”

“Pastor John would never allow something like this.”

“Poor thing’s naive—she doesn’t know any better.”

Hot, stubborn tears of frustration glazed over your eyes and threatened to spill. It was as if you were a child who didn’t know any better, a gullible, clueless little girl with nothing in her brain who needed to be rescued—saved from the bad, bad man before he did bad, bad things to her.

Had it been anyone else, no one would have batted an eye. No one would have noticed, let alone cared. But it was you that Joel Miller was leaving the bar with in the middle of the night and it was you whose hand he had clasped in his own. That is what made it wrong. That is why it was a problem.

Everyone’s concerns had nothing to do with him at all, they had everything to do with you. You, you, you. You were the sole reason why it was a problem, the reason why he was being perceived as the Devil himself, horns out as he dragged the poor little unsuspecting angel down to the fires of Hell.

“Joel?” Overwhelmed, you instinctively reached for his arm with your free hand. Cold and trembling, your little fingers curled tightly around his bicep, digging into the firm, bulging muscle through the thick corduroy fabric of his sleeve. You whispered his name again. “Joel—”

“S’alright, babygirl,” he reassured you quietly over his shoulder. He gave your hand a comforting squeeze. “S’alright. Just keep your eyes on me, sweetheart. I’ve got you. You just keep on lookin’ right at me, okay?”

Nodding, you inhaled deeply and focused on him. Only him. The broadness of his back and his shoulders. Tufts of hair that curled over the collar of his shirt. Only him. He’s what mattered. He’s all that mattered.

“Almost there,” Joel murmured, squeezing your hand again as the door came into view. “Breathe, baby. We’re almost there. I’ve got you. You’re alright. Ain’t gonna let anythin’ bad happen to you. Promise I’ve got you.”

It wasn’t until his fingers wrapped around the old, brass handle that you finally exhaled the breath you had been holding out in utter relief, though it was very, very short lived. Just as Joel pulled the door open, you felt a hand wrap around your arm. Dry, slender fingers dug into the soft flesh above your elbow as an attempt, and a feeble one at that, was made to tear you out of Joel’s grasp.

The music stopped and the bar fell silent. Everything and everyone came to a sudden standstill, freezing mid dance, mid drink, mid bite, mid gossip.

Shocked, you glanced over your shoulder. “Seth?” you squeaked his name. “What—what are you doing?”

Seth didn’t acknowledge you. His focus was on Joel.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Miller?”

Joel’s anger couldn’t be seen, but it could be felt. So palpable you could have wrapped your fingers around it. It radiated off of him and loomed over the entire bar like an incoming storm cloud. Threatening. Dangerous.

“Where are you taking her?” Seth demanded, his other hand curling around your wrist as he tried, but failed, to snatch you from Joel’s side once more. “Let the girl go! You let her go right now, you hear?”

Caught in between the two men, you nervously turned to look at Joel. Nostrils flared, jaw clenched, seething eyes that did the talking for him. His message was loud and oh so abundantly clear.

If Seth didn't take his hands off you, he wasn’t going to have any hands.

Not after Joel Miller was through with him.

Blazing heat flooded your face. As if it couldn’t possibly get any worse, everyone had now gathered around you to watch the tense encounter, eyes wide, brows raised and jaws practically on the weathered, hardwood floor.

Tommy Miller stood among the crowd, subtly shaking his head, his lips pressed together in a tight, thin line of disapproval as he glowered at his older brother. Would he be looking at Joel like that had it been Esther in your place? If she was the one he was taking home? Would any of this be happening if it was her instead of you?

“Seth.” Uttering his name, you shifted your attention back to him. You sounded calm and collected, despite feeling anything but. Joel’s hand in yours was the only thing keeping you steady and grounded. His touch was the only reason you hadn’t yet spiraled into a state of panic. Clearing your throat lightly, you spoke again and tried your hardest not to waver. “Please let go of me.”

Still fixed on Joel, he spat, “I’ll be damned if I let him take you anywhere.”

“He’s not taking me anywhere, Seth.” Without thinking, the words came tumbling out of your mouth—loud and clear for everyone in that room to hear. “He isn’t forcing me to go with him. I’m making the choice to leave with him. Out of my own volition. Please let go of me.”

Finally, Seth looked at you. His old, worn features were twisted in disbelief. “What?”

You swallowed dryly. Part of you wanted you to shrink away, curl into yourself. Instead, you straightened your posture, forced yourself to stand a little bit taller. Willed yourself to have a backbone for once in your life.

“You heard me,” you said, lifting your chin in defiance. Several onlookers gasped in surprise at your rebellion. Where had this insolence come from? “I’m choosing to leave with Joel. Now, please let go of my arm.”

Behind you, Joel stood silent and still. 

Watching. Observing. Waiting.

He wanted nothing more than to intervene. Rip you out of Seth’s hands and shatter each and every last bone in all ten of his fingers for putting them on you. Had Joel not realized that this was probably the first time in your whole, entire life you’d mustered up the courage to use your voice, he would have easily given into the urge. He wanted to protect you. He needed so badly to protect you. Yet, he knew you weren’t helpless or incapable of standing on your own two feet. He knew you deserved the chance to stand up and speak for yourself after a lifetime of being silenced, a lifetime of being forced to stay in your place, seen but never heard.

“Seth, let go of my arm,” you repeated. It was no longer a polite request. It was a demand.

He scoffed. “Do you honestly think I’m going to let you leave with somebody like him? You think I’m just going to stand back and let him take advantage of you?”

Oh, you hadn’t liked that insinuation, not one bit. 

It caused something inside of you to finally give way.

Snap.

The blood in your veins boiled, ran hot enough to make you feel like you were about to burn from the inside out. “Joel isn’t taking advantage of me! It isn’t like that,” you seethed, furiously. The quiet, well mannered, obedient good girl everyone in Jackson knew was gone. And she could stay gone. In your periphery, you could see Leah elbowing her way through the sea of people to the front of the crowd with an incredulous look plastered on her face. She stood there beside Tommy, who appeared to be just as incredibly bewildered by your outburst. “Don’t treat me like I’m some child who doesn’t know any better! I’m an adult and I’m old enough to make my own choices, okay?”

For a moment, you had forgotten it was Seth standing there in front of you.

“I’m capable of making my own decisions! I don’t need you to dictate my life. I don’t need you to tell me what is and isn’t good for me—controlling what I should and shouldn’t believe in.” Your voice trembled as emotions you’d been suppressing for years bubbled their way up to the surface. Amidst the chaos, you could feel Joel squeeze your hand again, as if silently encouraging you not to lose your nerve. He was your anchor, the only person who could keep your world from capsizing. You knew he wouldn’t let you drown. Not even God, who you had always been forced to believe was your pillar of strength, had ever made you feel this protected. Safe. “I don’t need you to tell me how to live and much less when it’s the end of the world.”

It wasn’t Seth you were addressing.

It was your father.

Your father, who controlled every last thing, from what you would eat to the way that you dressed and how you wore your hair.

Your father, who refused to let you have a mind of your own, who simply could not bear the mere thought of you thinking for yourself.

Your father, whose love felt like shackles, heavy, rusted metal restraints that had been digging into the flesh of your wrists for far, far too long.

“You need to let me go now,” you said, swallowing back the lump in your throat. Once more, you caught Leah from the corner of your eye, your heart lurching in your chest when you noticed her desperately trying to wipe at her eyes with the back of her hand. She was the only person in the room who understood how you felt. Her rebelliousness only ever masked the pain of knowing her father’s love came with terms and conditions—and the fear of knowing what would happen if those terms and conditions weren’t met. For several weeks, you’d gotten a taste of what she went through everyday, how her fear of putting her foot down led her to run around in secret and live a double life. “Just let me go.”

Seth firmly shook his head. “No! I’m not letting you go anywhere with him. I don’t know what the hell he did to you, but he’s clearly got you all fucking brainwashed.”

That was fucking enough. Joel stepped in, lowering his voice as he said, “Y’know, I’ve just ‘bout lost count of how many fuckin’ times she’s asked you to let her go now and it’s really startin’ to piss me off.” Raising an eyebrow, he laid his offer out on the table. “Here’s the deal. You let go of her right now and I won’t shatter your fuckin’ jaw into pieces. That seem fair enough to you?”

“No.” Seth gripped your arm even harder, prompting you to let out a little yelp as his nails dug painfully into your skin. Though it’d been accidental and he hadn’t meant to hurt you, it didn’t matter. He’d just set off the ticking time bomb that was Joel Miller.

Furious, Joel snatched a fistful of his shirt with his free hand—the other still held yours. Gentle, despite being mere moments away from beating someone to within an inch of their life.

“Joel! Stop!” Tommy’s voice broke through the tension as he approached. His footsteps were slow—careful and cautious, as if he was afraid to make any kind of sudden movement. “Joel. Hey. C’mon now, let’s not do this, alright? Ain’t gotta handle things this way. We can talk it through. No need for anyone to wind up bleedin’ in the fuckin’ infirmary tonight, so just take a breath and let him go.”

Blatantly ignoring Tommy’s attempt to keep the peace, Joel tugged Seth forward, yanking him closer. “Listen to me and listen to me good ‘cause I ain’t gonna fuckin’ say it again. You’d best take your fuckin’ hands off her right now unless you wanna spend the rest of the night sweepin’ up your teeth off the floor of your own fuckin’ bar,” he threatened, his tone enough to send a chill up anyone’s spine, even your own.

“You wouldn’t dare, Miller.” Somehow, Seth managed to keep a straight face, but you could see it so clearly in his eyes and in the tremble of his lower lip—oh, he was terrified of Joel and rightly so. “Not in front of all these people. Not in front of your brother. That wouldn’t be a smart move considering you’re already on thin fucking ice for what you did to that boy’s face, now would it?”

Joel tugged him closer. “Test me,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Go on. Fuckin’ test me.”

His challenge was immediately met with a pathetic look of defeat. Seth dropped your arm and he was released.

“S’what I fuckin’ thought.” Without another word to the man, Joel whirled around and roughly pulled the door open, leading the way outside. As you both descended the building’s old, creaking wooden steps, you began to shiver and he suddenly remembered he’d left his jacket behind inside the bar. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders. “C’mere, my little dove,” he murmured as he tucked you against his side for warmth. “I’ve got you.”

The first thing he did was light the fireplace.

“Should start warmin’ you up, sweet girl,” he’d said to you over his shoulder. He tossed a log into the blaze as you sat perched on his couch rubbing your bare arms with your hands. “M’gonna go upstairs and find you a blanket, alright? You stay put.”

“Okay,” you’d mumbled, knowing there was no point in telling him not to fuss over you.

Even with the soft, fleece throw blanket he had draped around your shoulders and the warmth of the flames in front of you, you continued trembling. Subtle, but he’d noticed it, felt it when he had sat down beside you and pulled you close against his side. “Oh baby, you’re still shakin’?” That was when he realized you weren’t cold. Frowning, Joel rose to his feet and disappeared down the hallway. He came back to the living room a minute later with a glass of water in his hand. With a small, labored grunt, he dropped to one knee in front of you and held it out. “Here.”

“No, thank you.” You shook your head. “I’m not thirsty.”

“Maybe not, but I’m kinda worried you could be in a bit of shock, right now,” he stated, the creases in between his brows deepening as he observed you for any other physical signs of distress. Carefully, Joel lifted the glass to your lips, gently coaxing you to take a drink. “C’mon, darlin’. Think you can be a real good girl for me and at least take a couple sips? Hm?”

Sighing softly, you nodded and did as he asked of you, taking a small sip of water. It soothed your dry mouth and throat and you took another one. Maybe you were thirsty after all.

“Little more, now. Little more. That’s it. That’s my good girl.” Once he was satisfied with how much you’d had to drink, Joel set the half empty glass down on the oak coffee table behind him. He turned back to you, placing his large hands on either side of your thighs below the hem of your dress. He started tracing soft, soothing circles into your skin with his thumbs. “M’real proud of you for standin’ up for yourself back there, sweetheart. Took a whole lot of fuckin’ courage to do that, y’know.”

You glanced down at your hands in your lap. “Mhm.”

“Baby. Hey. Look at me.” One of his hands abandoned your leg and he reached up, delicately taking your chin between his thumb and index finger. He tilted your face upwards, his worried gaze meeting your own. “Talk to me. M’right here.”

“That—that was a lot,” you admitted meekly, shoulders sagging as the adrenaline started wearing off and your body slowly came down from the peak hormone rush. “It was a lot.”

Sighing, Joel’s hand fell away from your face. “Yeah, I know it was a lot, babygirl. I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“No.” You were quick to cut him off. “Don’t be sorry.”

His chest heaved with another sigh, this one deeper, heavier, bearing the weight of his guilt. “Well I am,” he said. He planted his hands on either side of you on the couch and lightly shook his head. “Didn’t even fuckin’ think twice when I pulled you outta that fuckin’ supply closet and took your hand in front of all those people. I was so fuckin’ hellbent on showin’ everybody you were mine that I didn’t even stop and think ‘bout what all it would mean for you. It was selfish of me. Real fuckin’ selfish. And I’m sorry, little dove.”

“Do you regret it?” you asked, quietly.

Joel chuckled in spite of himself. “M’pretty sure I’m the one who should be askin’ you that question, darlin’,” he remarked. “Tell me. Do you regret it? Do you regret me pullin’ you outta that closet?” He momentarily paused. There was a stutter in his heartbeat when you dropped your gaze away from his, silence your only reply. “Do you regret me takin’ your hand in front of everyone?”

Of course not.

You wanted to be his and you wanted everyone to know it. There was no regret, none. 

Still. 

The consequences that you would undoubtedly have to face in the morning were overwhelming. Daunting.

Surely, by then, your father would know about you and Joel. When he came downstairs right after sunrise and he discovered you weren’t in the kitchen helping Lydia prepare breakfast, he would question where you were and make some kind of remark about how you should not be sleeping in this late. He would tell her just how irresponsible it was for you to ignore your duties and obligations to him and the family. Sloth was one of the seven deadly sins, after all. He would make her trek upstairs and wake you, and when she did, your sister would find your bed empty.

Meanwhile, there would be a knock at the front door.

No stranger to having members of the congregation show up on his doorstep when they were in need, be it of prayer or comfort, your father would answer it only to find someone, not in need of solace, but who felt that it was their responsibility and moral obligation to inform him that they had seen his youngest daughter leaving The Tipsy Bison with Joel Miller in the middle of the night, hand in hand.

He wouldn’t believe them.

“Now, that is simply not true,” he would say, offended that anybody would have the nerve to show up at his door and accuse you of something so vile. “That’s not possible. I know my daughter and she would never do such a thing. It must have been someone else that you saw with him. Someone who looked like her, perhaps.”

Then, Lydia would descend the staircase and tell him you weren’t in your bedroom. “She must have gone up to the main street as soon as she woke up,” she would suggest with a shrug, not yet privy to the events that had taken place the night before at the party you and Leah had snuck off to. She never had to worry about you, the good one. “I did notice we were running pretty low on eggs. Sugar, too. She probably wanted to be the first in line at the pantry to—Papa? What’s the matter?”

The color would drain from your father’s face when the realization slowly sank in. No, you weren’t out on the main street picking up eggs for breakfast and sugar for his tea. You were lying up in Joel Miller’s bed—defiled, impure, and with the curse of Eve on your flesh. Even after dedicating his entire life to making sure you did not stray from the path of righteousness, he had failed. You had fallen into temptation. 

There was a chance he would have mercy on you. All you had to do was beg and plead for his forgiveness—and more importantly, for the forgiveness of God. “Vow to atone for your sins,” your father would say, his gaze fixed on the Holy Bible in his lap. He probably wouldn’t be able to look at you, not after what you had done. “Repent. And swear to me, child, that you will never so much as glance in that man’s direction ever again.”

No. That’s not what you wanted.

You wanted Joel and the freedom to be with him. 

But that freedom came with a high, high price.

You were willing to pay it, but you’d be lying if you said you were prepared to navigate the consequences. Then again, was there really any way for someone to prepare themselves to be shunned by their own father?

“I can take you home,” Joel offered quietly, the sound of his voice taking you out of the future and bringing you back into the present.

“What?”

“I can take you home,” he repeated himself. “I can take you home right now if that’s what you want, sweet girl. Won’t give you any kinda grief ‘bout it.”

Confused, all you could do was stare at him.

“Listen to me, baby. You mean a lot to me. More than I can even begin to explain,” Joel reassured you before any kind of doubt could find its way into your mind. “I want you to stay with me. There’s nothin’ on what’s left of this fuckin’ earth I want more than for you to stay here with me. But what you want matters to me a hell of a lot more than what I want.” He reached up, lightly stroking your cheek with his thumb. “If you decide you wanna go home and go back to your family—back to your old man—then that’s where I’ll take you. Okay?”

Your father would give you an ultimatum. But Joel? He was giving you a choice. And he’d respect that choice.

“I wanna free you from your cage, my little dove. But I think we both know you’ve gotta make the choice to fly outta there on your own.” He lightly swept his thumb over your quivering bottom lip, his eyes meeting yours as he whispered, “Door’s wide open for you. What you do next is all up to you.”

“I’m afraid, Joel,” you confessed. A tear slipped from the corner of your eye and rolled its way down the side of your face. He was quick to wipe it away, along with the others that followed. “I do want out of my cage. I really, really do. But I’m terrified. All I have ever known is my family and my faith. I have never been apart from my father and my sisters.”

His expression softened. “I know you’re scared. Can’t promise you things will be easy, but there is one thing I can promise you.”

“What’s that?” you questioned, then waited with baited breath.

He gingerly cupped your cheek in his large palm. “I’ve got you,” he swore to you, just like he had done so back at the bar. “If you decide to stay, I promise I’ll take real, real good care of you, alright? For the rest of my life, I’ll take care of you. You won’t ever have to worry ‘bout a thing with me by your side. Swear it on my life.”

Warmth blossomed in your heartspace and finally, you stopped trembling. Lifting a hand, you curled your fingers around his wrist as your gaze fell to his mouth. “Joel?”

“What is it, darlin’ girl?”

“Kiss me. Please.”

With a gentle nod, Joel’s other hand found your hip, the warmth of it seeping through the cotton fabric of your dress. Leaning in, he brushed his lips against yours. It was a chaste thing, soft and innocent until you grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him closer to you. “Babygirl,” he mumbled against your lips. He deepened the kiss, sweeping his tongue through your parted lips and into your mouth. He tasted like bold bourbon and citrus beer. There was a faint hint of tobacco too—you recalled him admitting to you one night in the church house that while he wasn’t all that much of a smoker, at least not like he used to be when living in the zones, he would occasionally partake in the habit if he happened to come across a pack of cigarettes while out on patrol, pairing the nicotine with a drink. He tasted delicious. He tasted delicious because he tasted like yours.

You sank back into the worn, supple brown leather of his couch, tugging him forward so he sank in with you. Over you. Releasing your near death grip on his collar, you managed to wedge your hands in between your bodies and began to claw furiously at the buttons of his shirt, your fingers shaking out of pure desperation to feel him. It wasn’t until you were halfway down that he finally noticed what you were doing and leaned back, catching both of your wrists.

“Baby, wait,” he panted, shaking his head. “Don’t think now’s a good time for that—”

“Joel, please,” you pleaded, the intense ache between your thighs almost too much for you to bear. “Please. I want it. I want you.”

“S’been a rough night for you.” Joel’s voice was hoarse—strained, like he was aching just as much, if not more. “You’re real emotional right now. Vulnerable. Last thing I want is to take advantage of you at a time like this.”

You frowned. Had Seth’s words gotten into his head?

“You’re not taking advantage of me.”

“Darlin’ I just don’t think we should—”

“Joel, please,” you begged him again. “I was so good for you, was I not? Wasn’t I patient, just like you asked me to be?”

His lips thinned into a tight line. He wouldn’t be able to resist much longer. You, his beautiful little temptress of Eden.

“I waited for so long,” you reminded him. “I’ve been so, so good for you. Please, just make me yours already. I don’t want to think about anything else right now. I just want to be with you. Please, Joel. I need you so badly it hurts.”

Christ.

No man could stand it. No man could possibly have the strength to deny you.

With a look of utter defeat, he folded. Before he could say another word or make another move, your greedy mouth was on his, and you kissed him with fervor, with urgency, as you finished the task of unbuttoning his shirt. Pushing it off of his shoulders, the corduroy fabric fell into a crumpled heap behind him, nearly knocking the glass of water off the coffee table. You broke away from him and shamelessly marveled at his mouth watering form—you admired the way miles of smooth, tanned skin stretched over his wide shoulders, broad chest and soft, soft belly. Arousal pooled between your legs and you reached out and raked your fingers down his chest, and over his stomach, going lower and lower, following the trail of coarse, dark hair that led you to his brown leather belt. You clumsily started fumbling with the brass buckle until he caught your hands once more.

“Slow down, my little dove,” he murmured. “No need to rush this. We’ve got all night.” He stood up and held his hand out to you. Time blurred a bit—maybe it was your nervousness mingled with the eager anticipation of what was to come, but there seemed to be a small gap in your memory, a blank space that spanned from the moment you rose off the couch until the moment you found yourself standing in his bedroom where you were about to answer to the call of the flesh.

Dropping your hand, Joel switched on the lamp on his bedside table and kicked off his boots before taking you into his arms. “C’mere, honey.” He nuzzled your cheek with the tip of his nose as he spoke, the scruff of his beard tickling your cheek. “Couple’a rules, sweet girl. I do somethin’ that you don’t like, you tell me. You want me to stop, you tell me to sto—”

Without waiting for him to finish his sentence, you slowly lowered yourself down onto the floor and knelt at his feet with purpose, as if kneeling before an altar, a sacred, holy space. Though you felt anxious, you were eager to worship. “I haven’t forgotten about what I said earlier tonight,” you cooed, noticing the mild look of surprise on his face. “I said I’d make it up to you and I intend on keeping my word.”

All the blood in his body rushed south to his cock and it strained painfully against the crotch of his jeans. “Baby, I—” Again, he was cut off, only this time by the sound of his own groan when your hand brushed up the front of his thigh and over his growing bulge. He glanced down, his heart thrumming painfully hard against his sternum as he watched you reach for his belt buckle.

With all your might, you willed your hands so as not to tremble. It was self-explanatory, what you were about to do, but your total lack of experience sowed seeds of doubt into your mind—you wanted to make him feel good, just like he had made you feel good outside of the church house during services. Just how you knew he would make you feel tonight.

Hand still over his buckle, you pressed the tenderest of kisses to his bulge through his jeans. Then, turning your head, you rested your cheek on one of his thick, blue denim clad thighs and peered up at him through your eyelashes with a small, nervous smile as you confessed what he already knew. “I’ve never done this before.”

Oh, how sweet and endearing you were. Joel reached down and smoothed your hair back and away from your face, tucking it behind your ear. “S’alright, honey,” he crooned, grazing the silkiness of your cheek with his index finger. “I’ll walk you through it. Teach you how to be a real good girl and suck my cock just the way I like it. That what you want, my little dove?”

His filth made your cunt clench hard around nothing.

Slowly lifting your head off of his thigh, you pulled your bottom lip between your teeth and managed a clear, consenting nod as your hands fumbled with his buckle, the clinking sound of metal ringing loudly in your ears. You undid the button on his jeans and pulled down his zipper, your throat drying when you saw the outline of him, his size intimidating even behind the cotton fabric of his faded, black boxer briefs.

With a harsh swallow, you glanced up at him, silently asking him for his permission to continue.

Such a polite little thing, Joel thought to himself. “Go on, sweetheart,” he encouraged.

You tugged his jeans down to the middle of his thighs and hooked your index fingers underneath the elastic waistband of his boxer briefs, pulling them down and freeing his cock. There was a deep, swooping sensation in your belly as you watched it slap up against the lower part of his abdomen. After many nights of sitting in his lap, feeling him through his clothes, grinding your cunt down onto him, you thought you’d at the very least had an idea of what you would be in for, but oh, how wrong you had been. He was so much bigger than you could have imagined, and your stomach swooped again when you realized he was not going to fit. Anywhere.

Licking away the dryness of your lips, you take him in one of your hands, feeling the heaviness of his length in your palm. He was so long and so, so thick.

“Oh fuck,” Joel hissed the curse through gritted teeth, his hips jerking forward involuntarily as your touch sent a charged jolt of electricity shooting up the length of his spine. He looked down at you, his pupils blown wide with arousal. Christ. You hadn’t even done anything to him yet, but seeing you sitting so prettily at his feet was almost enough to make him come on the spot.

Delicately wrapping your hand around him, you found yourself almost in awe at the way your fingertips barely, just barely, touched. The sheer size of his cock dwarfed your hand, and made it seem so much smaller than it really was.

“You’re so big,” you murmured, echoing your thoughts. You licked at your lips again, suddenly feeling ravenous, an appetite that had seemingly come out of nowhere making you salivate. The tip of him was flushed red, slit already glistening—how badly you wanted, needed a taste. Never, ever, did you think you would be down on your knees for anything but prayer, but there you were, starved and desperate to bite into the forbidden fruit.

“What’re you waitin’ for, darlin’ girl?” he croaked.

“Permission,” you replied, sweetly.

“Go right ahead, baby. S’all yours—I’m all yours.”

Yours.

Yours, yours, yours.

Finding your first push of courage, you leaned forward and so carefully swept your tongue along the tip of his length, collecting the slight saltiness leaking from the slit and getting your first delectable taste. With your hand still wrapped firmly around his base, you looked up, your eyes locked on Joel’s face as you flicked your tongue up against the rigid underside of his cock.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” Joel groaned, all of the muscles in his stomach already pulling taut when he felt you dragging your tongue in a slow, purposeful lick along the length of him. “Babygirl.”

“Is that good?” you asked him, sounding hopeful. “Am I doing good?”

“Doin’ so, so fuckin’ good for me, sweetheart. Look so fuckin’ pretty down on your knees for me.”

Pleased, you wrapped your mouth around the head of his length, pressing forward and taking him in as far as you possibly could—which, in all fairness, wasn’t very far. At least not as far as you would have liked. Another groan tore itself from the depths of his chest as your plush, plump lips sealed around him, your tongue warm and wet on the underside of his cock. Moving both of your hands to rest on the sides of his thighs, you began to move your head back and forth, following what felt most natural to you. The nerves you initially felt slowly but surely dissipated, vanishing one by one with every curse, every tremble, every sharp breath.

Joel resisted the urge to buck his hips forward, fought the desire to feel himself at the back of your throat. He needed to be gentle, so careful with such an innocent, pliant thing who had much, much to learn. “Sweet little fuckin’ mouth feels so good around my cock, baby, just like I fuckin’ knew it would. Y’think it can take more of me, little dove? Hm?”

You hummed, the vibration intensifying his pleasure.

“Yeah? Y’trust me?”

Your reply came in the form of a muffled, “Mhm.”

Joel reached down and cradled the back of your head in the palm of his hand. He carefully guided you further onto his throbbing length, slowly feeding you one inch at a time. Your fingers dug into the denim of his jeans. He was much more than a mouthful for you, and you could only take about half of him before he hit the back of your throat, prompting you to gag around him. Drool dribbled out from the corners of your mouth and down the sides your chin, dripping onto your lap.

“Oh fuck, sweetheart. Yeah, that’s it. Little more now, honey,” Joel encouraged. He bucked his hips forward, his head slipping further down your throat. Just when you felt like you were about to choke, he pulled out and you tried your hardest not to cough and sputter as you took in a much needed, precious breath of air. He gave you a few seconds or so to finish catching your breath as he shoved his jeans and boxer briefs further down his legs. He stepped out of the articles of clothing and kicked them somewhere off to the aside, standing before you completely bare. “Open up.”

Your absolute devotion to him bred sweet submission, so as worried as you were that you wouldn’t be able to handle it, you nodded obediently and very willingly did as you were told. 

He guided himself right back into your waiting mouth, pressing deeply. You tried to relax your jaw, reminding yourself to breathe in and out through your nose. Tears streamed down the sides of your face as you did your best to forestall another gag. “Little bit more,” he said, thrusting his hips in a slow, steady controlled rhythm. He advanced even further into your mouth—trusting he wouldn’t suffocate you, nor push you too far past your limits, you opened up wider. He moaned, “Yeah, baby. That’s my good girl. That’s my good fuckin’ girl.”

With a bit of newfound confidence, you hollowed your cheeks and sucked him. You swiped your tongue along the thick, prominent vein on the underside of his cock, earning yourself more of his sweet, sweet praise.

“Fuck, yeah, suck me off, sweetheart. This pretty little mouth was fuckin’ made for sin,” he breathed, guiding your head back and forth with a firm, but gentle hand.

You moaned, the noise muffled around his length. Slick soaked through your panties and coated the insides of your thighs. With another moan, you tightly squeezed your legs together, inwardly reminding yourself that patience was a virtue.

Noticing the way you had shifted, Joel moved his hand from the back of your head, lightly curling his fingers around your jaw. He pulled you off of his cock, a loud, lewd popping sound bouncing off the sage green walls of his bedroom. “C’mere, baby.” He grabbed your arms, effortlessly hoisting you up to your feet.

“What’s wrong?” you questioned him worriedly. “Did I do something wrong?”

Chuckling softly, he brushed a finger along the strap of your dress. You could do no wrong, his perfect, perfect girl. “Of course not, sweet girl. You did so fuckin’ good for me,” Joel reassured you, lightly tracing along your collarbone with his finger and making your flesh erupt in goosebumps. He leaned forward and feathered a kiss onto your lips, murmuring against them, “Are you wet, little dove?”

Before you could even process the query and generate some kind of coherent response, he dove his opposite hand between your thighs, cupping your warm heat in his palm. At this, your weak knees buckled, prompting you to reach out and grab onto his arms to hold steady and keep yourself from falling into a helpless heap on the floor.

“Oh, honey. You’re soaked. That what sucking my cock does to you?” he cooed. He peppered another kiss, this one onto the corner of your mouth. His voice lowered another octave. “Poor little thing. She needs me, don’t she? Needs me to take care of her?”

You whimpered. “Yes.”

“Manners, babygirl,” he reminded you, skimming your cheek with his nose. “Yes, what?”

“Yes, please.”

Humming in approval, Joel withdrew his hand from in between your legs and guided you backwards towards his bed. “Sit,” he commanded gently, bidding you to let go of him. “Arms up.”

Reaching for the hem of your dress, he took great care in pulling it over your head, then discarded the vibrant yellow material over his shoulder, leaving you in nothing but your cowboy boots and thin, cotton white panties. Without a word, he knelt before you and pulled off one boot, and then the other, setting them both aside. He hooked two fingers underneath the elastic waistband of your underwear, coaxing you to lift your bottom off of the bed, just long enough for him to pull them down and slide them down your legs. He was so tender in the manner in which he undressed you.

“Fuckin’ beautiful, beautiful girl,” Joel praised. His dark gaze dragged down the length of your body as you sat before him wearing nothing but the delicate, gold chain around your neck. The holy cross nestled between your supple breasts gleamed in the light of the lamp on the nightstand. He would leave it on until your decision was made, set in stone. “My pretty little dove.”

“Joel.” You whimpered his name, hands curling around fistfuls of his dark blue sheets. You were drenched now, in dire need of some relief. If he didn’t touch you where you needed him most, you would surely lose your mind.

Desperate, you leaned back slightly onto his bed and parted your knees, your folds glistening as you showed him just how badly you needed him.

Joel groaned, almost visibly salivating at the sight. The blazing heat in his eyes sent ripples of desire coursing through your body, straight to your throbbing core.

You opened wider. “Please.”

“Christ, babygirl. Already soakin’ the sheets.” Sliding a finger up along the seam of your pussy, he grazed your clit, the touch light, but somehow still enough to make your hips arch off the mattress as white-hot pinpricks of pleasure danced their way up your spine. He lowered his head and leaned in, your sweet scent drawing him in like a moth to a flame. Just when you were about to start pleading him for more, he dipped his face into the apex of your thighs, his mouth finally, finally, meeting your wet heat.

“Oh!” you gasped, your head falling back. “Fuck!”

Against you, his lips curled upwards into a wicked grin. He’d never heard you curse before, not until now.

Joel took his time devouring you, savoring the essence of your cunt with each broad stroke of his tongue. Sealing his lips around your clit, he flicked the swollen, sensitive bundle of nerves over and over again, eliciting from you some of the sweetest noises that he had ever heard in his entire life. In preparation for what you both knew was to come, he pushed one finger inside of you, the invasion causing you to fist his sheets even harder. He then slipped in a second finger, groaning in sheer, carnal bliss at how your walls squeezed them, at the mere thought of them squeezing his cock in the same manner. How was it that you felt so much tighter this time around?

“Oh God.”

You shouldn’t be saying His name. Not like this.

Not when something this sinful was being done to you.

Hungrily, Joel lapped at you, curling both of his fingers in an upwards motion to hit the perfect spot. He knew you were close, felt it in the way that you squirmed and writhed. Draping his arm across your hips, he pinned them down onto the bed, holding you still as he chased your high as if it were his own.

“Joel,” you chanted his name over and over again in a fevered prayer. Releasing the sheets, your hands found his hair, tangling themselves in his curls. Your head fell back, and you cursed at the ceiling of his bedroom. “Fuck, fuck, fuck Joel—”

Pushing onto his mouth, you came, moaning his name so loudly you were certain the whole neighborhood was getting an earful.

Joel pulled back, his beard and mustache slicked with your spend. “S’right, honey,” he crooned, his digits still buried to the knuckle as he helped you to ride out your wave of ecstasy. Eventually, when he pulled them out, you tried closing your shaking legs. He tsked and shook his head, wrenching them open further. “No, no, baby. Keep those pretty thighs open for me. Wanna see her.” He admired his work, his cock twitching at the sight of your pussy, swollen and shining, and ready to take him.

Like earlier, there was another brief skip in time.

Mind still in a haze, you hadn’t even realized that he’d risen to his feet and guided you further up onto his bed, not until you were lying on your back with your head on his pillow and he was hovering over you, his hard length brushing against one of your messy, inner thighs when he settled himself between your legs. 

Your heart began to pound in a mingle of both fear and excitement.

Joel’s eyes met yours. His pupils were blown so wide, there was not one, single trace of brown anywhere to be seen. “Y’absolutely sure about this, little dove?”

Your response came without hesitation. “Yes. I’m sure.”

He pressed a kiss to the underside of your jaw. Your submission was a gift, and he would cherish every last second of your surrender to him, savor it for as long as he possibly could. His lips, soft and warm, skimmed along the column of your throat, leaving a trail of fresh goosebumps in their wake.

If, by some chance, you decided that you wanted to go back to your father and to your faith, Joel didn’t know how he would find it in himself to let you go, not after this. Of course, he would have to let go, though.

The last thing he wanted was to help free you from one cage just to stick you right back into another. While he was no stranger to loss, he had to admit to himself that to lose you would be a knife to whatever was left of his heart.

Shoving the thought out of his mind, he reached down and gripped the base of his cock, pumping it in his fist before running the leaking head along your puffy lips, coating himself in your wetness with the hope it would ease some of the pain you were bound to feel. “Ready, babygirl?” he asked you, lightly teasing your entrance. “Might hurt a bit. M’gonna go slow. Just need you to relax for me, alright?”

“Okay.”

“I’ve got you,” he promised.

You nodded, saying softly, “I know.”

Though he knew he had all of your trust, Joel could still sense your anxiousness. He reached out for your hand, lacing your fingers together with his own as he gingerly pressed forward and eased himself into you, taking the very innocence you had been taught your entire life to preserve, one slow, careful inch at a time.

“Oh—Joel!” You cried loudly at the initial stretch, your pretty face scrunching in discomfort. Tightly slamming your eyes shut, sparks flew behind your eyelids when he finally bottomed out. The burning sting in between your thighs was too overwhelming, almost impossible to cope with. He felt so enormous within you, you could have sworn he was in your belly. Another broken cry fell from your lips and he swallowed it with a comforting kiss.

“Jesus Christ,” he hissed against your lips, a thin sheen of sweat coating his brow, neck, and chest. He wasn’t sure where he found the strength, but he suppressed his urge to thrust. Instead, he dropped his face into the hollow of your neck and waited, giving you the chance to adjust to him. He mumbled against your skin. “Doin’ so good for me, sweet girl. Y’know that? You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good for me.”

Even in discomfort, you preened at his praise.

He squeezed your hand, and after a minute, he gave an experimental thrust of his hips—and then another and another before he ceased his movement once again. He was so big and you were so deliciously full of him.

Eventually, the pain subsided, and you found yourself asking, no, begging for more. “Move.” Your other hand found itself cupping the side of his face, coaxing him to lift his head and allowing your gazes to meet. Your soft, plush thighs parted further to help accommodate the breadth of his hips. “Please, Joel. I need you to move—I need you to fuck me.”

Surely, you would be the death of him.

He drew his hips back with cautious, tender care, then advanced in the same manner to fill your precious cunt all over again. He did it over and over, your pleasured moans encouraging him to begin picking up the pace. He drove his cock in and out of your weeping pussy, the slapping of flesh against flesh, the lewd, wet squelch of you around him inspiring him to fuck you harder, faster. And the noises you were making?

There was something oh so beautiful about your cries, sweet raptures of submission as you laid there beneath him, all too graciously taking everything he had to give you like the good, good, good girl you were for him.

“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart,” Joel rasped. “Look at you—look at the way you take my fuckin’ cock, honey.”

And you did.

Glancing down, your gaze fell between your bodies and you watched in awe, openly marveled at the way Joel slid in and out of your cunt, how he knocked hard so deeply inside of you, driving himself as far as he could possibly go.

“Fuck Joel, I’m gonna—” You tried warning him as the pressure in your belly neared its peak, but you tumbled over the edge before you even had the chance to finish your sentence. Arching up off off the bed, you pressed your chest against his, your fingers squeezing his own so hard you feared you might break them.

“That’s it babygirl, let go,” he grunted, speeding up his thrusts. “Squeeze my fuckin’ cock—just like that. Good girl. My perfect, perfect girl.”

You didn’t quite get the chance to let the praise sink in.

Joel pulled himself out of you, and with ease, he flipped you over onto your belly. His hands gripped your hips and pulled them up off the mattress, his fingers moving to firmly knead the fleshiest part of your ass. He leaned over you, the head of his cock nudging at your hole. “Y’think you can handle a little bit more, sweetheart?” he whispered the question into a tumble of messy hair, the delicate scent of the lavender shampoo you used to wash it filling his senses. “Answer me, little dove.”

“Yes,” you replied breathlessly with a nod. “I can.”

With a satisfied hum, Joel sank into you, this second stretch not quite as overwhelming at the first, but still intense. “Relax,” he murmured, hunching further over your quivering back. He pressed a kiss onto the top of your head and then leaned down to brace his hands on either side of you. “Need you to be sweet for me just a bit longer, okay, baby?”

“God,” you whimpered when the heaviness of his balls came to rest on your sensitive clit.

It was the second time you’d uttered His name.

Joel almost grinned at the irony. He found his rhythm, groaning in gut-deep satisfaction with each snap of his hips—each smooth stroke in and each smooth stroke out.

“Oh fuck, sweet girl.” Heaven was indeed a real place, and Joel Miller was buried in it to the hilt, right at this very moment.

He was getting closer and closer.

Maybe it was your eagerness to help him reach his own release mingled with the pride you knew you would feel once you did that gave you a second wind, a fresh, new burst of energy. You planted your hands firmly on his pillow. Rolling your bottom lip between your teeth, you curved your spine and pushed back onto Joel with purpose, meeting his thrusts halfway as you rode his aching length to the satiation that waited for him at the end.

“There’s my girl,” he rasped. “Oh fuckin’ Christ—”

No way he could live his life without you now.

He needed you.

He needed you so much more than you needed him.

Joel slipped an arm around your shoulders, across your chest.

“Oh!” you gasped as he then yanked you back, pulling you flush against him. The rough crash of your back against his chest, combined with the angle in which he was fucking you knocked the wind out of your lungs.

His lips were at the shell of your ear. “Stay,” he panted, his breath hot against your cheekbone. He wrapped his other hand lightly around your throat. Relentless, were his hips now—his movements had become frantic. Desperate. “Stay with me, baby.”

Even as you fought to catch your breath in the position he had you in, you picked up on the fact that he wasn’t asking you of it, nor was he demanding you of it.

He was begging you.

Him, the most feared man in this town. Begging you?

“Joel,” you choked.

“Please, my little dove,” he pleaded, turning your head towards him. His mouth was then on the corner of your own, his beard roughly scratching the soft and delicate flesh of your cheek. “I need you, babygirl. Stay with me. Please, just fuckin’ stay with me.”

Your hands curled around his wrists. “Yes, I’ll stay,” you moaned. “I’m yours, Joel. I’m all yours. I—I’m not going anywhere. I promise. I’ll stay with you.”

A low, guttural sound rumbled through his chest. Joel firmly took hold of your cross, and without so much as a warning, he ripped the chain from around your neck and tossed it somewhere over his shoulder. He heard it land on the hardwood floor with the tiniest, faint clink the moment he spilled into you, ropes of warm release coating your fluttering walls. Curses and groans spilled from his lips and into your neck. Your cunt clutched at his pulsing cock, greedy for every last drop of his spend she could get.  

Once you were filled, you both collapsed beside each other on the bed, heaving to catch a steady breath.

“Y’okay, sweetheart?” Joel managed to ask, his chest still rising and falling rapidly.

Exhausted, all you could do was nod and utter, “Mhm.”

He exhaled an amused huff through his nose. “C’mere.” He reached for you and pulled you against his side. He draped an arm around your shoulders, holding you as close to him as was possible. “Y’did so good, honey.”

Your mouth curled into a small, contented smile.

Several minutes had passed by, and despite telling him that you were too tired to even think about moving, Joel made you get up and use the bathroom, and while you did so, he ran a clean washcloth under warm water. “Here, darlin’. Let me clean you up,” he’d said, his lips meeting your forehead in a loving token of affection before he sank down onto one knee and ran the damp cloth along the insides of your thighs. He took extreme care when he wiped at your swollen folds, knowing you were still sensitive to the touch. “There we go. All done, now.”

Not long after, you were both back in his bed, wrapped up in his sheets.

Yawning, you nuzzled into bare his chest, your eyelids feeling heavier and heavier with each and every second that ticked by. You’d started drifting off when you heard his voice.

“Baby?”

“Hmm?” you answered sleepily, eyes still closed.

“Did you mean what you said?”

“Mean what, Joel?”

There was a brief pause. “Y’know, when you said you’d stay with me.”

Snuggling closer to him, you mumbled, “Mhm. Of course I did.”

“S’not gonna be easy,” Joel murmured into your hair.

“I know.” You yawned. “But I have you.”

“You do. You’ve got me—and I’ve got you, babygirl.”

“Mm. I know that too, Joel.”

You felt him kiss the top of your head and then fell fast asleep in his arms.

The sun bloomed over the Grand Tetons.

Your father would wake soon, that’s to say if he wasn’t up already.

The nerves began to set in.

Joel must have sensed it. “Breathe, baby. S’gonna be okay,” he soothed, squeezing your hand.

With one of his warmer, heavier jackets that normally didn’t see the light of day until winter season draped around your shoulders, the two of you made your way down the road and towards your house. Or better said, towards your father’s house. Because after what you were about to do, that yellow and white cottage would no longer be a place you could call home.

He led you up to the porch. “Y’sure you don’t want me to go in there with you?” he asked, quietly.

You could have laughed. You almost did.

“Do you believe that to be a wise choice?”

“No, I reckon it ain’t the best idea,” Joel admitted with a sigh, raking his free hand through his unkempt, salt and pepper hair. He looked up at the house, then back at you. “Look, little dove. No matter what happens in there, just know that everythin’ will be alright. M’gonna take care of you. For the rest of my life, I’ll take care of you. I’ll try my hardest to be everythin’ you need.”

“You already are, Joel,” you said, your gaze earnest.

His chest swelled with warmth.

Truth be told, Joel didn’t know how he had managed to defy the odds—how he, of all people, had managed to make his way into that sweet, innocent, beautiful little heart of yours, but somehow he did, and he would not take this responsibility lightly.

He brushed your lips with his and promised, “Gonna be waitin’ right here, okay?”

“Okay.” Inhaling deeply, you willed yourself to let go of his hand and took a step back. You then started up the porch steps on wobbling legs. When you made it to the top, you glanced over your shoulder at Joel, who gave you a subtle nod of encouragement. Exhaling slowly, you reached for the knob with trembling fingers and turned it, opening the door. You stepped inside, your heart dropping into your stomach when you saw your father sitting there at the foot of the staircase, as if he’d been waiting for you. He had been waiting for you. Fully dressed, he sat on the second to last step with both hands folded on his bible in his lap, a rosary clutched between them. “Papa?”

He said nothing. Instead, he silently observed you—his eyes glazed over the men’s jacket and the short dress you were underneath it, the disheveled, loose hair and kiss swollen lips. Your holy cross nowhere to be seen.

“Papa.” You swallowed harshly and shifted your weight anxiously from the heel of one boot to the other. “We, um—we really need to have a talk.”

He peered around you, catching a brief glimpse of the man standing outside, waiting for you at the foot of the porch.

He cleared his throat, lightly. “Yes, child. I suppose that we do.”

Nodding tightly, you turned around and slowly closed the door. Joel’s words rang in your mind over and over, giving you the push of strength you knew you would need.

I’ve got you.

divider credit goes to @saradika 🤍

[virgincels]

r/AmItheAsshole

u/bwckennedy77 ・ 15h

AITA for having sexual relations with a girl that looks like my daughter?

Asshole

(tags - daddy daughter incest, facial, oral sex, some coercion, bad writing bc i’m tired and can’t execute the idea properly, be nice and don’t look at any mistakes!! leon small dick ik but he’s big for my sake here.)

Hi Reddit! New to this thing, first post got taken down, I can’t imagine why. Now, to cut to the chase, my wife left me this year a little after our daughter (20) moved out. Our marriage (M47, F46) had been strained for a couple years prior so I understand why she ended things. I’m stretched thin with an intensive job that requires me to be away for days and weeks at a time. I thought she would get it considering it is related to the military/government, but I guess all those missed birthdays really got to her! I have no qualms with this and totally understand her reasoning haha.

I don’t get the time to go on dates because of work like I said before and I really don’t have the energy to go on them anyway. I have a bit of a drinking problem if I’m completely honest which is where my actual story starts I guess.

I was at a bar and I don’t usually attempt to pick up girls but sometimes they come onto me I don’t think I have the worst face in the world, some call it easy on the eyes. Long story short this girl comes up to me she’s pretty young, I don’t usually go for younger girls. I mean I don’t go for any girls at all because I was married up until recently obviously haha, but I’m not one to say no so I took her back to my place.

Chick got super freaked out and started getting her things when I bent her over in the bedroom. Thought it was just reality hitting her or some shit. She was calling me a creep and she left as my daughter let herself in, she’s back in town and only just arrived at that moment.

They looked at each other and it hit me. They looked the same. That chick saw the photo I have of my daughter on the cabinet and flipped. The chick leaves and my daughter gets super mad at me starts calling me names and she went up to her room and she won’t speak to me now. Didn’t think that it was that big of a deal you know? Don’t really know what I did wrong since it wasn’t intentional or anything but with the way she’s acting I just feel like a dick so AITA?

⇧ 52478 | ⇩ 💬 27821

Killer_RedQueen79 ・ 14h・ Supreme Court Just-Ass [124]

I hope to fucking god this is not you Leon.

bwckennedy77 OP・ 11h

I don’t know any Leon’s sorry

DuckieUnderWater ・ 13h ・ Partassipant [2]

Dude why the whole fucking life story. Title alone was enough for me to know that YTA and a fucking creep.

bwckennedy77 OP ・ 2h

I think you’re all taking this out of context! I didn’t want her because she looks like my daughter, I’m just easy!

NeonGenesis738 ・ 12h ・Asshole Enthusiast [6]

first post got taken down, I can’t imagine why

I could name a few fucking reasons why you sick fuck. YTA. She should call the cops and go non contact.

bwckennedy77 OP ・ 5h

I am a super cop buddy! Very high rank!!!

NeonGenesis738 ・ 2h ・Asshole Enthusiast [6]

Of course you fucking are

YTA, YTA, YTA, YTA, YTA.

Leon scoffs, reading glasses slipping down the slant of his nose as he squints at his screen. He is not the fucking asshole here. No one is. You’re just a bit of a drama queen. Just like your ma, but you haven’t quite reached the levels of hysteria that Leon has managed in his day to day life.

Man, there’s never a clean slate. Just more and more shit piled on top of shit and more shit—Enough to break the ozone layer or whatever it is that’s going on in this little world. The other problems that he can’t save it from.

It has been two meandering days since you’ve talked to him, you move like a ghoul in the night to avoid a one on one Family Meeting that Leon has been itching to suggest. Reddit, as Claire suggested - not for this occasion, but for when he generally needs a variety of opinions - is unhelpful. Reddit is a crowd that wields its pitchforks at anything that passes by.

Like, seriously, it’s not like Leon picked her out of the crowd, he didn’t sit there waiting for her to show up—Well, he did let down the shortstack that approached him first, and the blonde with the hollow face, and the dude who bought him a drink. They just didn’t tickle his fancy and that’s alright. Can’t help having a type, and to clarify that type is not his daughter.

Divorce is tough, alright? Leon’s always looking for a friendly face, hers probably came with all those memories of you attached and he subconsciously picked her out. Fuckin’ made him release endorphins or some shit. And she was cute. Because you’re cute. Not in a weird way, just subjectively, you’re a cute girl with a nice body you can owe to him. Christ, it all sounds so wrong when he puts it into perspective, but that was never his intention.

He fucked his wife whenever he could get it up, he fucked her for a long fucking time for a number of years. Leon wouldn’t fuck a woman he finds ugly, he found her pretty hot, actually, and it just so happens that you look like your ma. So, you’re a good-looking kid—Not in a weird way. Never in a weird way.

That’s how it works, isn’t it? Kids look like their parents and parents can admire that and it doesn’t mean they want to fuck them.

But that girl was—She was hot, god damn it. He had her tits in his hands, squeezing them so tight she squealed, pushing them up and down, slapping them left and right, fat spilling past the gaps in his fingers. And so what if Leon thought that they looked like yours.

Maybe he thought about that time at the beach, when your string bikini did exactly what good string bikinis do - come undone.

(He had lowered his sunglasses and looked right at you.)

Maybe about that time you needed a towel and Leon took a peek at your body through the steamed glass when he tossed one over the shower door.

(“My eyes are closed, sweetheart!” He had promised while staring at you very open-eyed.)

Or when he sent you off to bed with a smack on the ass ‘cause he just wasn’t thinking too hard, Leon hardly ever thinks at all. He played it off as sportsmanship or whatever. Game got him amped up.

(You look like your mom from behind, he couldn’t help himself, it was an impulse—It was only natural.)

Leon has the bright idea to pass the time by watching porn, because honestly he’s been pent up since it happened. First time his dick kicked in weeks and she walked out on him all ‘cause she looked a little like his daughter. Weak. Freud never mentioned anything about this—Not that Leon knows much about that guy, nothing at all actually, but from what he’s heard, no dads crushing on daughters have ever been mentioned. Or maybe he's got reading to do.

Porn is usually a quick and easy fix. It is for everybody. Not Leon though, he’s gotta search hard for shit he likes, it’s not on the front page and it takes him forever to find one that’s suitable. Some of ‘em have too much dick, some of the positions just look painful, some of these clits aren’t being touched, and some of these girls are just plain ugly.

Then he finds one, she’s real cute, that’s all. Nothing is familiar about her eyes and nose and lips and body and hair. Not the way she smiles over her shoulder at him. Nothing at all.

He falls asleep with the tab open and a hand down his pants.

To avoid detection, you creep around the house when it’s lights out. Dad wakes up easily, military training and whatnot. So you’ve gotten used to this, sneaking leftovers from the fridge past midnight, watching the TV on silent, squinting to read the subtitles.

He didn’t mean it. You think. You hope. Leon is so… So harmless. Your dad is sweet and a little stupid, he’s kind and clueless and all of the things most dads are. He buys you an abundance of apples when you tell him you like apples, he throws out the oranges when you tell him you don’t like them ‘cause they make your hands smell funny. He stands on the porch watching the clouds, he sleeps alone in his king sized bed and hugs his pillow tight. He keeps his wedding ring on his bedside cabinet next to a picture of you

But that was weird. Seriously, you thought he put a mirror in the hall for a minute. Or that you were in some strange dreamscape. Or in a coma. Or all of the above.

You tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, but he just brushed you off like it meant nothing. Like that girl wasn’t your long lost twin, a sister he and your mom put up for adoption twenty years ago. So, yeah, you got a little pissy at him. ‘Cause it’s nothing to act nonchalant about.

Okay, and what if this is a little bit of a projection.

You got mad at him, real mad, ‘cause maybe you were a little jealous and maybe you like knowing that your dad is single and not fucking—Maybe you think about that time you went to the sauna together, all that sweat, beading along the firm lines of his abdomen, dripping down and down and down and melting into the fabric of his white towel. Maybe you wanted to see what was under there. Maybe you mix up the laundry on purpose, make it so he can’t find a nice shirt to wear and he gives up and does without one all together.

Maybe you do all those things. Maybe you don’t want to be a bad person, and the guilt outweighs your desires.

Or maybe you are just a very regular girl behaving in very regular ways to the sight of your dad fucking your lookalike. Maybe it’s that. God, please be that.

You wander into his room with a very dire problem. There’s a spider in the shower, and maybe you're ready for that Family Meeting now.

He’s sleeping, the blue light of his laptop casts a glow on his face, head tipped back, lips parted as he snores loudly. You almost don’t catch it. Then, when you go to shake him awake gently, you take a good look at his screen and find the weight of the world is not enough to support the wave of anger that rips through you, a tsunami tearing a nation in half.

No fucking way. No fucking way. No fucking way!

He’s watching porn, whatever, he can do that. Your dad is a grown man, and while you don’t exactly want to know about his tastes, you sorta had him figured out. The kind of man who watches corny studio porn with unwet pussy and dicks so big they shouldn’t be allowed within 10 feet of a vagina.

The girl on the screen—She looks like you. Albeit a little plastic in the way most professional pornstars are. Too-firm tits, filler migrating into the space above her lips, it hurts for her to smile and—Well, none of this fucking matters because she looks like you and your dad is watching her take two dicks in one hole.

And wow. She’s taking them well. Really… Really well. This isn’t so bad, you salute his taste a little more—Oh, wow, that guy is kind of… You recognise him, something about his face is familiar.

You press rewind.

It starts cheesy and devolves into something cheesier. It starts dirty and it ends with a dick in her pussy and one in her mouth, they might end up meeting in the middle, kiss tips in her guts.

It’s the loud one—The one that says all the dirty shit and spits in her mouth and slaps her tits and knocks her around—He looks like dad.

Mainly from the side, the straight edge of his nose, the way his eyes crease when he smiles down at her all mean.

(You skip anytime he faces the camera head on.)

“You’re really enjoying that, huh?”

“Jesus Christ—“ You jolt and knock your head against the headboard. “Dad!”

“Baby!”

“You scared me,” you say, elbowing him in the gut as he sits up, “I wasn’t—Why’re you watching this?”

“What? I can’t watch porn in my room now?” Leon pauses the video, he’s not upset, amused but not upset.

“No—I mean you can, do whatever you want, but why is it… She looks like…” You wave your hand at the screen like it’s a hologram and it’ll go if you wave it away. It’ll flicker if you stare at it long and hard enough.

“Like what, sweetheart?” He drapes his arm over your shoulders, pulls you into his chest as you stammer like a fucking idiot. “Go on, you’re a big girl.”

“Let go of me,” you tell him weakly, a shoddy attempt at sounding horrified. Like you should when you’re caught watching porn—Your dad’s porn nonetheless.

“No, that’s not what it is, baby, answer my question.” He holds you in place, hand running up and down your side, rubbing circles into the fat of your hip. “Who does she look like?”

“Like… Like no one.”

“No, I don’t think that’s right, c’mon, I’ll give you one more chance, baby.” Leon’s fingers are cool on your skin, slipping under the hem of your shirt and settling on your waist. “Who does she look like?”

You turn your head, but he catches your chin and forces you to stare at the screen, right into her face—Your face. “Like me…”

“See, baby?” He kisses your forehead like he has a million times before. “Knew you could do it, my good girl,” he says like he does after you ace your tests, when you learnt how to ride a bike, and now he’ll say it while you learn to work his dick. “And who does he look like?”

“…Like you, dad.”

“Well done, baby,” he coos, kissing your jaw, “you’re so smart, aren’t you, baby?”

“Stop it—“ Your body catches alight when his hands slide upwards, taking your tits into his hands and squeezing so tight they might pop. “Stop it, dad—I don’t…”

What if, and this is a big what if, what if you get pregnant and the punnett square is one-by-one—It’s a punnet rectangle at that point.

What if your mom finds out?

What if you like it?

That’s the worst part of it all - you will like it.

You’ve wanted this—You can’t even keep up the lie anymore. You’ve wanted him for so long you couldn’t hold back a smile at court, when they signed those papers and when mom moved out you kept smiling. Fuck. What is wrong with you?

“You liked that didn’t you?” Dad says in your ear, his breath is hot and he smells like soap and sweat. His stubble tickles your skin when he presses a wet kiss to your neck. “Bet it got your little pussy all wet.”

“No it didn’t.” You try to level yourself, taking a shuddering breath when his hand dips past your navel to toy with the bow that lines the middle of your waistband.

“Okay, prove it.”

“How am I meant to prove that, dad?” You click your tongue, lay the annoyance act on thick, but make no attempt to leave.

“You gotta show me, baby.” He flicks your forehead with his free hand, the other cups your mound. “Can feel you already.”

“Then I guess I don’t need to show you,” you breathe out, placing your trembling hand on the arm that’s wrapped around you while his fingers run up and down your clothed slit.

“Nah, think I need to know for sure.” Leon’s teeth nip at your ear lobe, tugging lightly as he pulls your panties taut to your cunt, a makeshift g-string, caught between your pussy lips. “So fat, baby, whatcha been feeding her?” Your dick. Your dick. God, please, feed it your dick. He pinches your cunt, pushing your lips together and your clit throbs so hard you think it might burst.

“Dad,” you gasp, back going ramrod straight as the fabric rubs up against your swollen clit. “Don’t say that—So weird, you’re so weird, actual fucking weirdo.”

“Look at you.” His shirt slips from your shoulder as you rut your hips up, his grip on the waistband tightens, bunches up even further, pushing against your clit so hard it might split in half. “Dirty little girl, why you doin’ that?” You feel dad’s smile on your neck.

“‘Cause…” You grab at his arm, pushing your face into his bicep to muffle an embarrassing whine and it’s so fucking big. Muscle cushioned by a layer of fat, when you dig your fingers into it, his skin dimples.

“‘Cause..?” Leon taps your clit, lets go of your panties to let your pussy breathe. “I’m waiting, baby.”

“Feels good, dad,” you whimper, hanging your head in shame, pressing your nose into the crease of his elbow as he slides your panties to the side.

“I know, baby, you can’t help yourself, can you?” Dad drags a finger along your slippery slit, pussy clicking wetly when he dips a finger inside your tight hole. “Think daddy spoiled you too much.”

“Not… Not true…” You stifle another noise into his bicep, suckling on his skin to taste it.

After this is all said and done, you might have to leave and never look back. You might have to emancipate yourself so you can marry him, take back your last name and pretend it was never yours to begin with.

Slowly, Leon rubs figure eights into your twitching clit, you grind into him, ears burning at the squelch of your drippy cunt—He isn’t even in your hole, he’s just playing with your clit and you’re making a mess, pussy all sloppy and noisy.

When you cum, it’s a gradual burn that washes over you like waves lapping at your ankles. Your toes curl and there’s a strangled noise in your throat as your pussy drips slick into the cupped palm of his hand.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Leon coos, “that’s what you needed, hm?”

You rock your hips into his hand as your high melts away, leaving half-guilt and half-regret and a wet pussy that’s perfect for fucking.

Dad lays you down, he still keeps mom’s perfume, he still sprays it on the bed sheets. It's the first thing you smell when your head hits the pillow with a soft thump. This is the bed you were made in, it’s the bed you slept in on sick days and nights when thunder was particularly loud. It’s the bed you slept in when dad was away and you and mom only had each for warmth.

What are you doing?

Well, you’re lifting your hips in the air so dad can take your panties off. Then you’re spreading your legs as far as they go so he gets a clear view of your pussy, glistening under the dimmed bulb, slick coating your puffy lips and drying on your inner thighs.

His sweats are lowered, cock springing up and smacking his abdomen, the tip drips and drizzles him in honey. Oh, god—It’s like big? You didn’t expect that, actually. You’d like to say you haven’t thought of it all, but you have and you do often.

“Think you can take it, baby?” Leon asks, tapping the fat head on your bud. Heart to heart, tip to clit. “Or does daddy need to eat your pussy?”

“I can take it, dad…” You nod, giving an earnest nod of your head and sizing up his cock, doing some mental mathematics as you try to calculate how many inches deep your pussy is and how big that fucking dick is. Although… You want his mouth on you—But that cock is more important right now.

“Atta girl.” He never pushes it in. You ache and shiver with each drag of his cock along your pussy, it bumps your clit and your whole body jolts.

For a moment, your mind and body disconnect, you’re watching a terribly taboo porn video and taking gross amounts of pleasure in it—Living out your fantasy through the bodies of others because it’s the closest you’ll ever get. But this is very much real and it is very much wrong.

When dad slides in, the fat head of his dick breaching your walls, the second he bottoms out, your pussy forces him back out as you cum for a second time, fucking gushing from the weight of his dick bumping into your cervix.

“Oh, baby, is it too much for you?” Sweetly, Leon presses a kiss between your tits as your chest heaves. “Is your pussy too little, daddy can try again another day, sweetheart.” He’s winding you up.

“Noo—Dad, please, ‘m want it so bad, please,” you beg incoherently, cunt dripping with your release.

“Okay, baby,” he abides, pressing the tip to your hole and pushing into you inch by inch. Being torn in half has never felt so good. “Only ‘cause I love you, my spoiled girl, huh?”

“Oh, fuck,” you sob, fat tears catching on your lower lashes as he stretches you out, “dad—daddy!”

“I know, baby, daddy’s right here,” Leon hums, he lowers his face to press into your tits, taking a peaked nipple into his mouth and popping off to suck on the other. Then he fucking motorboats you. Because of course he does.

You cry out, pushing at his head. “That’s so embarrassing, dad!” You manage to tell him through each of his mean thrusts, poking at your cervix like he’s trying to fuck your guts.

“‘S not, baby, dad just thinks your tits are real cute.” He pinches your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pulls until you squeal, smacking a fist against his chest.

Each drag of his dick inside of you is like—Gosh, you don’t know, it’s like heaven on earth or whatever the best feeling in this godforsaken place is. The smell of dew in the morning, a can of soda with a burger, the scent of cinnamon apple candles during Christmas time. It’s his dick rabbiting into your pussy with enough force to fuel a fucking rocket ship.

The schlick of your pussy goes unheard as his balls slap against your ass, and you dig your nails into his to push him deeper, it’s so fucking soft—Why is his ass so soft? 

“So little, baby.” Dad pouts down at you, one big hand on your tit and the other cups your cheek. “Daddy can’t even fit inside.”

You squeeze down on him, and your greedy cunt sucks his dick in to the best of your abilities, but there’s still an inch or two that you can’t possibly fit. The base of his cock is coated in a milky white ring, it drips down his balls and—God, you’re about to cum again. His thumb finds your clit, and thank god it does. You cum so hard you see stars and all of Saturn’s moons.

“Aw, baby, you needed that.” Dad continues to hump into your cunt, his furrowed brow and the puff of his breath on your face is almost too much for you to handle. “My baby, always mouthin’ off at me, you just needed some dick, didn’t you? Jus’ needed dad to play with this spoiled little cunt, hm?”

“Mhm…” You nod because what else are you meant to do? Say no? The man is right.

He pulls out and you whine, pussy gripping him so tight Leon groans as hm the head pops out with a lewd, wet sound. “C’mere, baby, come on.” He urges you to sit up, so you do, using your elbows to push up as you’re met face to face with his fat cock.

Leon smears the tip on your lips, and you swear to god you’d finish off a cute lip combo with his pre. You take the head into your mouth and suck on it, it’s velvety under your tongue, you wrap a hand around his shaft to make up for what you can’t suck. It’s uncut on the fat, skin folding and creasing each time you pump him, peeking out from underneath the hood so you can tongue his slit. He tastes like your pussy and something muskier.

He groans all deep and nice and smooth, low in his throat, makes your pussy tingle. You jerk his wet cock off, mouthing along the base of his cock until you suck on his sac, slurping and smacking like you oughta do for a dick like this. His balls plap, plap, plap against your hand and they tighten before he cums, thick sticky seed spilling from the tip like the slow trickle of honey. It paints your face white, dribbling down your cheeks and chin to stain your tits.

“Put those cute glasses on next time, baby.” Leon kisses your mouth, licking into it and tasting his salty cum. “The ones you wear to class.”

Dazed, guilty and giddy all at once, you look up at him with a frown. “Why?”

“‘Cause I wanna cum on them, stupid.” He flicks your forehead again, sends you out of his room with a hard smack on the ass.

“Wait, dad!” You hold onto him before Leon makes you leave.

“Hm?” He strokes your head as you pout up at him, softening so easily. “What’s up, sweetheart?”

“There’s a spider in the shower, can you get rid of it?”

“No,” he scoffs, “get outta here, ‘s all you use me for.”

“Dad!” You whine, latching onto him, “daddy, please, it’s so big! Please, we can… We can do it together, um, shower together not—not kill the spider together.”

Leon grumbles the entire time, he squashes it with a tissue and flushes it down the toilet, but any qualms are washed away by the hot water and your plush tits pressing to his chest as you stand facing him.

You could get used to this. You shouldn’t, but you will.

r/AmItheAsshole

u/bwckennedy77 ・ 1m

AITA for fucking my daughter?

[eupheme]

— clean slate [into the fire, part v]

part i | part ii | part iii | part iv | masterlist

cooper howard / the ghoul x f!reader

rated e - 4k

tags: dubcon, power dynamics, vault dweller!reader, bounty hunting, sex for favors, sub/dom elements, canon-typical descriptive violence and death, references to blood/gore, anti-ghoul sentiments, physical violence against reader, hurt/comfort, kissing

a/n: please mind the tags! this chapter got twice as long as the others (maybe I didn't want it to end, haha!) and there was a good break, so to keep things consistent, I am splitting it in half! both are being posted today though, so you don't have to wait 💖

Always said he did this shit for the love of the game. But this time - he thinks - it might just be personal.

(or - they took something from the Ghoul, and he’s here to collect)

The afternoon edges into night, and he tells himself each hour is the last one he'll think about you.

The Ghoul had waited for you to look back. Stock-still in the swirling dust that bit at his skin. A white-knuckled grip around the thick coil of rope. 

You hadn’t. 

His hand still reaches to scrubs at his neck, his jaw. To wipe you away or rub you in, he’s not sure. 

It doesn't fucking matter. 

He's stuck around a long time. Enough to see generations of families grow old and then die. The last few weeks are no more than a blip, in his far too-long life.

Hell - he's spent more time underground, than with you. 

But something prickles at him. Lingering like a bad trip, leaving his teeth clenching and jaw aching as he finishes out the bounty.

It's messy. 

It shouldn't have been. Should have been easy - but he's aching for a fight, something to take his mind off things. He's antagonistic. 

Could've finished everything up from afar, but he ends up in close range. Another scar marring his chest, new splatters streaked across his dark coat. 

It aches, a deep bruise as it heals. 

Still only slightly dulling the itch of irritation.

I haven't lied about anything.  

Didn’t last night mean anything to you?

It's sometime the next morning, after a night of a starless sky closing in around him, that he gives in. 

Heading the way you went without thought, and when he does notice, he tells himself it's only because he needs more chems. That it’d be a shame to lose a supplier as good as you. 

That it's easier, for both of you to stick together. 

Maybe that's why he was careless. Knowing deep down, it would be easier to find a corpse later than to haul around a bounty, kicking and screaming.

The small sliver left of another man, from  another life, knows he was cruel. That anger had turned him into a viper. Had always been good at striking first. Self-preservation beaten into him after two-hundred years - an old, festering wound. 

He doesn’t know how to apologize anymore, but he can already think of a few ways to distract you. 

Maybe you’ll forget completely, if he's thorough. 

The Ghoul is faster than you are. Needs less rest, less food. Has already plotted just how far you can get in a day. Your footprints faded as packed earth leads to woods, but you’re not the type to wander, and there's only a few settlements in the miles ahead. 

Halfway to his destination, when his eyes snag on a patch of rocks. A broken bits of branches on the trees just before it. There's something smeared across the stone - tasting like iron, when the tip of a finger brings it to his tongue.

Something ancient twists in his stomach, awakening from a slumber. 

Backing up, he's able to piece together the struggle. Seeing the flattened grass, the heavy boot prints, melding with the smaller ones. 

Finding a body, fallen off to the side - angling off the rock with the stain. Something familiar about the look of him.

A boot sinks into their side, rolling them over. A curl of a lip - he recognizes them. One of the two bounty hunters they’d fun into. 

He had hated their eyes on you when they blew through that town.

Something had prickled at him then, but he had ignored it. A grit of his jaw - should’ve dealt with both of them. 

There’s a hole in their head - red spilling down their neck, still tacky to the touch. A clean, close shot. His finger sinks in the wound, the same size as your 10mm. 

"Good girl." The Ghoul murmurs. 

The slightest ease of the knot in his chest.

A crunch of glass beneath his feet, the glint of the sun catching the needle. Another shape he knows well - a syringe. Probably a tranquilizer.

Three meeting one, with three leaving. The dead weight of you weighing down their steps, the footprints pressing heavily into the earth.

Easy enough for him to follow, as he slings his gun free. 

Always said he did this shit for the love of the game.

But this time - he thinks - it might just be personal.

Despite being back among faces you knew, fear had been your only companion since the meeting in the forest. 

Hazy memories flicker through your mind. Being dragged, snippets of light and the heat of a fire. The bright sear of dawn, and the dry embrace of the desert again. 

Waking to the feeling of your arms being wrenched above your head. Coming to, hissing and spitting. Nails catching the face of one of them - Baine, you think - his fist cracking down hard against your cheek in retaliation.

Leaving you dazed, as your wrists were caught again - bound in place. A cruel curl of a lip, as they examined you like a brahmin.

“You look like a Wastelander”. It’s spit out, a wet mark against the floor, “We’ll get you back where you belong soon enough.”

You’re not sure how much time has passed. A day, maybe. Hunger gnaws at you - only a small sliver of comfort in the dried meat and fruit tossed your way. 

Axton, the head of the Reclaimers - those who were tasked with bringing people back - had grown up with you. At one time, was perhaps even more than that. A distant relation of the current Overseers, his blood too thinned out to be of use - but even he won’t look you in the eye. 

You both know how this will go, when you get back home. 

Hope drains from you, with each hour. Eating away at the little flicker of hope in your chest, wrapped tightly around your heart. 

Maybe he’d show. 

But despair clouded your thoughts, soon after. 

“You get hurt doing some stupid shit, and I’m leavin’ you behind.”

“You're a goddamn fool if you think I hadn’t been planning on turnin' you in the first chance I get."

Maybe he’d been truthful all along, and you hadn’t listened. Read into all those small moments, weaving them together until they had made something tangible.

The looks, stolen breaths and almost-careful touches. All fleeting, but you had caught them. Holding them close to your heart. 

But life isn’t like the holotapes you grew up, back when everything felt safe.

There aren’t cowboys anymore. No heroes on horses - with their silver spurs and a shining, golden badge. 

No one was coming for you. 

The footprints die out, as the bleached trees grow thin. 

Tall grass to packed dirt, dried by the sun. Rolling hills and then mountains, scraping against the horizon. The dipping sun casts him in a red light that bleeds to black at his ankles, his shadow stretching back long and lean behind him.

But these roads aren't wholly unknown to him. 

Spent time blowing through Junktown and The Hub, a couple dozen miles away. The memory hazy, but there weren't too many places folk could stay, once the sun went down and everything wild and unruly came crawling out.

A feeling in his gut has him stopping two miles down the road. A half-dug quarry, long abandoned even before the world went to hell. Threadbare railings and platforms held together with spit and a prayer, framing the rusted building that cuts into the stone walls. 

The tip of his boot taps a loose rock, sending it off the edge. Head cocked as he thinks, until he hears the faintest clatter a hundred feet below. 

Two-hundred years ago, he had stood on a ledge much like this. Valley of the Gun. The final shootout had his guns lost in the dust. Fist-fighting with the leader of the gang, until they both near tumbled off the edge together.

Honorable, in the way he had caught the man's hand. Tried to haul him up, but had to let go when a knife was pulled - keeping him the hero. A satisfying death that wasn't his fault, a way to keep his conscience. 

All movie tricks. Angles and the implication of falling, as the camera focused on his face that swam with regret. 

Comin' after a girl then, too. 

Thinks that's why the old memory has loosened in his mind. 

Funny how things can change, but the bones remain. How he's still drawn back to life he's left far behind. Even if his conscience was buried, a long time ago. 

Some things linger. He could go down. Take one of those ladders, work his way through the tunnels that are sure to wind through the limestone, and up through the back. 

But he's never much liked being underground. 

Another second of considering, before he's heading for the front door.

He used to like a script, but that was back in the day when the worst thing that could happen was a box-office bomb, not the hell he's been dragged through. 

A half-cocked plan already forming. Twisting that connection between them, his own abandoned contract. Get him through the front door and to the man in charge at least, and that might be all he needs. Let years of instinct take over, after that. 

Had already gotten a good look at a couple of them, when he first picked up the bounty. It had made him curious - why there was so much fuss, over so small a thing. Easy caps, he decided, when he had gotten a look at you. 

Picking up that their brutality had been learned from sharpening their teeth against a silver spoon. Hardy - compared to some Wastelanders - with their filling meals and their pristine weapons. 

But they sure as hell don't have the same grit as one.

Not much of anything, really, when compared to him.

The door opens with the push of his shoulder. Hand beneath the swirl of his coat, finger already fixed on the trigger. Not far in until he’s running into one of them - another Vaultie.

The man startles, wide-eyed when he sees him. Green, in his shades of blue and yellow. 

“Here ‘bout a job.” The Ghoul keeps his voice light, in spite of everything.

Knows they’re keeping you alive for someone else, as much as that makes his jaw clench. No need to go rushing in just yet. 

A flicker of recognition, as the man frowns, “How’d you find us?”

His head tilts, that smooth drawl slipping in, “Wouldn’t be much of a Bounty Hunter if I couldn’t, now, would I?”

The Vault Dweller’s eyes are fixed on his face, that familiar look of fear and disgust - dipping down to the pocket of his nose, the curling smile of yellowed teeth. 

It’s strange how foreign it feels, after the hours spent with you looking at him so differently. 

Maybe he’d been a fool, after all. 

Maybe it’s more than your tight cunt that he wants to bury himself in, to claim. Something soft, bitten back behind his teeth. Something he doesn’t even know if he has a name for, anymore.

Something he didn’t know he needed , until he had chased both it and you away. 

“We’ve already got her.” The man manages, after thinking it over, “Don’t think we need your services anymore.”

There’s another flash of teeth at the confirmation. 

“Agreement was to find her. And who do you think rustled her up?” His brow lifts, “Would’ve been half-way to New Reno by now, if I hadn’t herded her your way.”

That sharp edge creeping in, “Think my time’s worth a little somethin ’. Don’t you?”

It’s easy for the guard to leave that decision to someone else. Standing aside, to let him pass.

“Thank you kindly.” The Ghoul tips his hat, a swirl of his coat as he passes. 

Taking just enough steps past them, waiting until the man’s back turns. Spinning on his heel, after. 

The knife glints between his fingers as he twirls it. A hand pressing over the Vault Dweller’s mouth, before the blade sinks into their neck. 

Muffling the dying gurgle. A grunt as the Ghoul yanks the blade free - leaving the body crumpled in the shadows, as he winds deeper.

One down. 

Hold on, he thinks.

I’m coming.  

His whistle echoes in the chamber. 

Half old-world - a long-forgotten leitmotif that fuses with new notes of his own. A part to play until he doesn't, letting the Ghoul guide him. 

Down the half-lit hallway, the lights flickering overhead from the ancient generator. Everything picked clean like he figured it would be - every last piece of scrap ferreted away, leaving only dusty crates behind.

Still playing the part, as the low murmur of voices grows louder. Ears pricking up, listening for hers. Picking out at least three or four others from the layered hum.

A sneer, at the number. He’s faced worse odds. It’s in his favor really - take out as many fuckers as he can. Send bits and pieces of them back.

His intentions masked, an old habit, by the time he enters the warehouse. A wide steel grate floor, opening up to a second level below, scattered with old machinery. 

There’s a table. Cards littering the top - a luxury brought from the Vault, as they bet using caps. Couple Vault Dwellers and that Wasteland son of a bitch from the town. Four total, one lounging on a sleeping pack as if it’s just another night, and they weren’t bringing you to your death. 

It rankles him, teeth set on edge. 

A scrape of chair legs on the floor, at the drawling condescension of his voice. 

“Ain’t y’all a little old for a sleepover?”

Hands rest on holsters, but they don’t draw. The Ghoul focuses on one - a face he recognizes, the one who had sought him out.

The man’s legs spread, as if he’s got something worthwhile between them. The leader of this whole operation. Axton , or some shit like that - it hadn’t been worth his time to remember. 

“Believe you fellas got somethin’ of mine.” The Ghoul drawls, “I’m here to collect.”

There’s a pause at that. 

One of them, a right-hand man by the look of their padded leather armor - not a scratch on it - scowls. A face that tells another story. Pink marks start at their cheek, jagged lines that end at a thick neck. 

His eyes narrow at that, lip curling. A flicker of unease in his belly - fingers clenching where they rest against his hips, close enough to draw.

“You’re too late for payment, ghoul. Heard you were dragging your feet.” His head tilts, towards the Wastelander who had gone still, “We went and got her ourselves.”

The Ghoul grins - a fierce thing, with a flash of teeth. A lilt, in his voice. 

“Now, what makes you think I’m here for caps?”

It gives them pause. His question - the prospect of a ghoul showing up, unannounced.

“What else you here for?” Another grunts - eyes already back on his cards, a comfort in their numbers. 

“Think you know.”

“The girl?” Atmos laughs, and the sound is cruel, “Heard she split from you. Caught her after.”

A tilt of his head towards the armored man and the Wastelander. Taunting then, “Must not be that good, if you let her slip away. What, she get tired of looking at your ugly mug?”

If they only knew the kind of things he’d done to you. What you had done to him, right back. 

The Ghoul is only half-paying attention. Sticks and stones, all their insults falling on deaf ears. Too busy with eyes that flick over the top floor. Then down to the ground below.

Something flipping inside his guts, when he sees it. Cast in shadow near the base of the stairs, but his eyesight is keener than it’s ever been. 

Arms bound, the knot looped around the hook of an overturned crane. A raw, split mark - swollen and bruised flesh - on the curve of a smooth cheek. Just above where your teeth cut into a piece of cloth, tied tightly around to gag you. 

A tilt of your head, and then your eyes are meeting his. Round and blank with fear. Widening, when you see him. 

His girl.

Muscles string tight, eyes narrowed as his teeth clench. You’d paid for what you did, and he’d be there to return the favor. 

His gaze snaps back, and focuses. Whatever plan he had been working up burns, turning to ash. 

“Always heard that beauty was in the eye of the beholder.” The Ghoul’s tone is conversational - although his blood boils, scalding hot, “But if you wanna see an ugly fucker , well… you best look right there.”

There’s a nod of his head, towards the man in charge. As if on cue, their heads twist to look - just as he draws, and then fires. 

The Vault Dweller’s head caves in. Gore splattering against the blue of his suit. Barely a breath before his finger is tugging again, a bullet going through the chest of a second. 

Always too goddamn slow.  

Hesitant to take a life, even with their bravado. 

Something that molted from his skin with the rest of him, over a century ago. He’s already reaching for the gun holstered at his shoulder before return shots are fired. 

He can feel the flicker of something miss him, before he’s charging. Ducking under the swing of a knife, the muzzle pressed against ribs.

A hoarse shout that is drawn out by the ringing blast. The knife caught and sent spinning into the back of the Wastelander, heading towards the door. 

Flinching, as something slams into his shoulder, just shy of his collarbone, and out the other side. The turn of a head - an eye fixed on the last man standing.

Padded armor won’t do much to stop him. 

“That your handiwork?” The Ghoul growls, as his head tips towards you.

The man's finger twitches but he’s faster - a shot going into the meat of their thigh. Downing them as they scream, as the Ghoul saunters over to tug the hilt from where he’s buried it in the Wastlander’s back. 

It glints a gleaming red in the light, as he adjusts his grip. Eyeing the scripted tattoos that cross over the man’s knuckles - as they grip at their thigh, near-tenderized from the blast. 

Ones that had struck you. Could send them back, spelling out something obscene. A rough laugh at the thought. 

He’s got someone waiting for him. But, he knows from experience…

That this won’t take too long. 

In the hours since you parted, it’s only now that you can breathe.

For a long moment, you hadn’t dared believe. Eyes drawn to the noise above - the loud pitch of voices. 

One of them - rough and low - draws your attention. Everything dark from your angle, an ache as you had tried to see.

Knowing that shadow. The brim of his hat. 

The burn of his eyes, when they fixed on you. You could feel the fury in them, even from here. A muted sound of desperation from behind your gag, as you watched. 

The Ghoul shoots first - the second his eyes pull away, and it’s all over in a matter of moments. 

Your eyes closing at the sound of gunfire, of screaming - until it finally cuts short. Leaving the warehouse eerily silent, except for the clicking of spurs against metal. 

He crouches in front of you, now - and you can’t help the whine. So much trapped behind the thick binding of cloth. All you could do is tug at your bound wrists - neck craning as you tried to watch from below.

A force of nature. Bared teeth a quick draw. Again you’re forced to admit to yourself how lucky you were to still be standing, after your first meeting. 

He had blown through them like it was nothing. 

“Hold on a minute, honey.” That low tone is familiar, calming you as his fingers hook around the cloth. Leaving a smear of red against your jaw as he tugs the gag free - shucking his gloves after.

“Are you hurt?” It comes out ragged. Tongue heavy in your mouth, throat dry. Eyes scanning the dark leather of his coat - all that red , smeared across it, “Thought you got hit.”

He barks out a laugh, your chin trapped between thumb and forefinger, “That’s what you’re worried about?”

Something dark swirling across his features, as he tilts your head towards the light. His thumb pressing at the edge of your bruise, denting skin.

“They got you good, didn’t they?” He murmurs, and you smile through a wince, at the dull ache of pain.

“You got them.”

“Sure did,” It’s distracted, as he cuts at the binds, next. The rope fraying and then splitting, an ache in your shoulders when your arms finally lower. 

“Fuckin’ amateurs.” He mutters again, watching as you wince at the rubbed-raw skin at your wrists. The corners of his lips tipped down, lost in thought.

“Thought you would’ve liked seeing me all tied up.” It’s a weak thing. An attempt at humor, the ache in your heart at seeing him cut by the acidity of your last meeting.

He blinks. Comes back to himself, a hoarse hum of amusement. 

“Only when I’m doing it, sweetheart.” The Ghoul’s eyes meet yours then, a hint of a smirk with the tilt of his head. 

“Can think of a much better way of gagging you, too.”

There’s almost a softness to his tone. Just barely there, tinting the rough edges. Something like hope flutters - delicate, behind your ribs. 

“You… you came, for me.” You need the clarification. To hear him say it. That this isn’t some ruse, a way to take you directly to the source, “You’re not-”

There’s a sigh, as he fixes you with a long look. His head tipping towards the platform above, a lazy flick of his finger towards an arm that dangles from the ledge.

“Well that there man’s the one I got your contract from,” The Ghoul drawls, “Said I was to return what belonged to somebody else.”

Those eyes fixing on you again, “Seein’ as you’re not , and seein’ as that man is now indisposed…”

His words trail off - and you can’t help the small smile, as he finishes.

“I’m thinkin we’re square.”

The look you give him is soft. Admiring. You don’t know how he tracked you down, but he did. 

“You saved me.” It’s hushed, and at your tone his eyes pull from you. 

Fixing somewhere low, off to the side, as he crouches. Uncomfortable with the way you look at him. How you see him. Not used to it, not after so many years. 

You’re not able to resist. 

Muscles stringing stiff when you lean forward. Lips pressed against the leather of his cheek, fingers ghosting against his jaw. 

A huff then, teeth biting into his tongue with the shake of a head. His eyes dark, as you pull back, hovering. 

“Darlin’ if you’re going to be stealin’ a kiss, you best be doin’ it properly.” The Ghoul rasps, eyes flicking down to your mouth.

His head tips towards yours, but it’s your that meets his first. A little sound in your throat as your lips slot against his. Warm and insistent as his knees drop to press into the cement floor.

Tugging at you, as your fingers grasp at his collar. A hungry lick of his tongue against the seam of your lips as you whine, crushing your chest to his.

His fingers at your neck, your jaw. Angling your head, a rough groan as you part for him. Turning ravenous - wandering hands as your tongue slips against his. Panting breaths and a grinding of hips when he yanks you closer. 

“How many were there?” He hums, as you try to sneak a ragged breath.

The curve of a smile when you try to ignore him, a click of his tongue.

“I dunno,” Your mind is too foggy. Too focused on the hands that trace against your waist, “Four? No… maybe five?”

“You don’t seem too sure, sweetheart.” He does smile then, at the little mark between your eyebrows. Untangling himself - a hand reaching down to adjust himself, as he stands. 

“As much as I’d like to take you right here,” He husks, eyes dragging over you, “The last thing I need is a bullet in the ass.”

A tilt of his head, towards the open floor.

“Come on, cowpoke. Let’s do a sweep.”

the last (final, for real this time) part will be up in just a little bit! 💖 thank you so much for reading - this series has become so much to me, and every ask or comment or tag or reblog has absolutely meant the world 💕

[sebscore]

Please write something with drivers praising female f1 driver during March because it’s womens history month. Anytime something bad happens to her on the grid she’s like someone hitting her car “how could they during womens history month 😞😧”

INTERNATIONAL WOMEN’S DAY

pairings: daniel ricciardo x driver!reader / lewis hamilton x driver!reader / sebastian vettel x driver!reader / small lando cameo

warnings: none?

author’s note: I know it’s not the entire month, but I saw lewis’ post for Stephanie and I couldn’t shake the thought of him making a special post for our gen z driver 🥺 I hope you like it, my darling!

masterlist

• • • • • • •

“Have you seen Daniel’s new post on Insta?” Her performance coach asked her, scrolling through his own phone while they took a break.

Y/N shook her head, not having been on the social media app that day. “No, why?”

“He talks about you.” He grinned, handing his phone over to her with the post ready on the screen.

Daniel had updated his Instagram with a clip of an interview he had done, where he’s asked about which women in his life inspire him.

He starts off by speaking about his grandmothers and their move from Italy to Australia. Daniel also mentions his mother and the support she has given him.

“From an athletic point of view, there’s 2 people that come to mind. My, uh, former colleague and friend, Y/N Y/L,” he laughed, “her entire story on how she came into Formula 1 is very inspiring and she has brought a lot of positive change into the sport,”

“But she’s also a great person and she always has something incredible to say,” Daniel teased his younger friend, “so, yeah, Y/N is definitely an inspiration to me.”

The woman had a soft smile on her face throughout watching the entire video, touched by Daniel’s words.

She gave her coach’s phone back and grabbed her own from her bag, deciding to leave a comment under Daniel’s post.

YourUsername I didn’t even have to force you to say this 😭 thank you, Dan! 💙

A mere hours later, she had seen multiple notifications of people tagging her in a post Lewis had made. She opened the app again and saw an entire post dedicated to her made by the World Champion himself.

lewishamilton Beside Stephanie, I also want to highlight the journey of @/yourusername. I’ve been privileged to watch her make history as the first female driver to stand on a F1 podium, to grab pole position and to win a Grand Prix. Y/N, thank you for all the work you do and continue to do. You use your platform well and I can’t thank you enough for standing by me in the causes that I feel passionate about. I’m excited to continue to follow your journey. Happy #InternationalWomensDay to you, thank you Y/N.

Y/N felt emotional reading Lewis’s message. She had idolized the driver ever since she was a little girl and to have him appreciate and acknowledge her hard work means the world to her.

YourUsername thank you so much, Lewis! 🖤 not you making me cry on international women’s day 😭 this should be illegal

— lewishamilton ❤️

The official F1 Instagram account had also made a post dedicated to the female driver which had been reposted by several drivers on their Instagram stories like George, Carlos, Valtteri, Esteban and even Lando.

The McLaren driver had called her “my goat 🐐” in his caption, something that had made her chuckle.

The best message she had gotten for the special day, came from none other than Sebastian Vettel.

It was a shock to her when the German send her a text message as she hadn’t heard from him in a while, she figured he wanted the time for himself and his loved ones.

SEB VETTEL

Happy International Women’s Day, Y/N! Congratulations on P2 in Bahrain, a great start to the season. I hope you’re doing well and that you had a good winter break!

Today I was reminded of the amazing journey you’ve had since your karting days. I am honored that I have been able to watch you grow as a woman from so close. I’m very proud of you and I’ll keep supporting you, even if I’m not there as much anymore.

I hope you have a great day and I wish you the very best!

Big kiss! X

She send him a message back, thanking him for his beautiful words and asking him how he’s been doing. They send a few texts back and forth, updating each other on their lives.

Y/N also decided to pay a tribute on social media, posting several pictures of herself with the caption:

YourUsername happy international women’s day to myself, cause I’m the best woman I know ❤️‍🔥

[sugrhigh]

BOY NEXT DOOR 5 - ( c.s )

part four

summary- you and your roommates live beside a bunch of senior hockey players, one of them being the infamous team captain chris sturniolo. he’s effortlessly flirty and undeniably attractive, but he’s also a pain in your ass. you find that you have to fight between lust and hatred as you finally get to know the boy next door, whether you want to or not.

warnings- cursing, kinda fluffy in the beginning, smutty smut at the end (YEP U READ THAT RIGHT FOLKS)

neighbor/hockey!chris x fem!reader

a/n: HIIII i apologize for the wait!!! part five is here and boy is she something, she’s long asf and i hope you love <3 if i forgot to tag you i am so so sorry, leave me a comment and i’ll absolutely fix it! my inbox is open for u guys always

@fawnchives @teapartyprincess4two @l9vesick @55sturn @mattinside @sturnioloco @mattybsbitch @mattsmunch @breeloveschris @sturnifyed @julessspoetry @beijhe @gnxosblog @braindead4l @hearts4matty @orangeypepsi @luckistar-posts @angelworldspost @ponyosturniolo @cupidsword @rainydayenthusiast @sturnvvz @wurlibydominicfike @poopydroopt @bernardsleftbootycheek @trilliwarner @hearts4chris @rubyjaneaxx @reallykaz @sturnlvrs @neatcarrot767 @stonermattsgf @kirby0strombolli @bunnysturns @reallykaz @junnniiieee07 @hrt-attack @sturnssmuts

trying to push chris away, especially after the party, might possibly be the hardest task you’ve ever faced. he’s relentless in trying to get your attention, and the bruise he left on your neck is a fading reminder of your prior weakness.

he’s been teasing you endlessly for the past four days; working out in front of his window with the music blaring, making sure he’s always shirtless, texting you at least once a day just to flirt.

and it’s slowly chipping away at your self-defense, as pathetic as it makes you feel. you don’t want to give in to your stupid fucking temptations, but it’s so hard not to.

not to mention cassidy and ramona have been prying about him every few hours, trying to see how this is all going to play out. you wish you knew, but you don't.

you’re straddling the fence of hatred and lust now, still unsure where you stand.

your internal struggle to forget about him has haunted you, and it weighs on your shoulders now as you sit criss-cross in bed, trying to focus on starting your essay.

your phone vibrates, facedown beside you, and you presume that it’s the very person you’re trying to ignore.

you’re correct, of course.

chris

let me take you out

you haven’t been responding to him, but this text catches you by surprise, just enough to type out an actual answer.

y/n

no

you go to set the device back down when it pings again in your hand. you flip it in your palm, letting the screen light up.

chris

ok then let me eat you out

your stomach flips, and you instinctively glance out your window to your left. chris is grinning at you from ear to ear, freshly showered and (of course) shirtless after practice. he’s also sitting in bed, legs hanging off the side as his gray sweats bunch up around his waist.

y/n

no.

you’re a creep

chris

you love it when i talk to you like that

you look back up from your messages to flip him off. he tilts his head back, and you imagine hearing his loud laughter as if you were right there with him.

y/n

you think walking around without a shirt on is winning me over?

chris

maybe a little?

y/n

think again pretty boy

he pouts just a bit before standing up, waving a hand to indicate you should meet him at the window. you listen, wedging the pane upwards so the chilly january air hits you right in the face.

the sun has set now, so chris is backlit by the light of his room as he stares at you, placing his palms on the windowsill so he can casually lean out into the night.

“what do you want?” you spit, wrapping your arms around yourself to fight the cold.

“i can’t talk to my favorite girl?” he smirks, breath fogging up slightly in front of him.

you don’t know why he won’t put on a fucking shirt, even in the freezing atmosphere. his body certainly isn’t bad to look at, but you’re too stubborn to ever say it, especially when he’s so smug.

“no, you can’t. what do you want?” you twirl your finger, as if to tell him to get on with it.

“i want to hang out.” chris reiterates in a serious tone.

you roll your eyes before you can think twice about it, because it still sounds so stupid coming out of his mouth. “yeah, right.”

“i mean it. no funny business. unless you want that, of course.” he says, still toying with you even when he’s supposedly being genuine.

you shake your head, blowing out a long breath of exasperation. but the curiosity takes over, and you have to admit you’re a little intrigued.

“what could you possibly have in mind?”

thirty minutes later you’re back inside the hockey arena, a pair of skates dangling in one hand as you follow chris down the walkway toward the player bench.

it’s quiet, since it’s the beginning of the week and nobody is allowed on the college team’s ice aside from players. he had even chatted up one of the employees, which just helped secure you your time to goof off alone.

you had no idea that this was where he was taking you, because he insisted on it being a surprise and made you keep your eyes closed for the entire drive, but the revelation ended up being far more pleasant than you expected.

you actually used to love going ice skating as a kid, probably because you adored watching hockey and figuring skating so much. it’s been a while, and you know you’ll look terrible next to chris, but you don’t really mind.

he leads the way and sits down, jamming his feet into his hockey skates. then he uses his newly freed hand to wave you over, which makes you realize that you’ve been standing around like an NPC.

“come on, don’t be shy. i’ll lace you up.”

it’s not really an offer, because the second you plop down beside him he’s on one knee, taking the skates out of your hands gently. he doesn’t even give you time to yell at him for the dumb nickname.

“i can do it myself, you know.” you protest as he slides one of your sneakers off, replacing it and guiding your foot into one of the skates.

“that wouldn’t be very gentlemanly now would it?” he looks up at you through his fluffy brown hair, a silly grin playing on his lips.

“oh, i wasn’t aware i was in the presence of a gentleman.” you tease, looking around like you’re searching for whoever he’s talking about.

chris just repeats his actions with your other foot, careful to move you softly as he slips the other skate on. “i wouldn’t talk shit before we get on the ice, you know.”

“please, i’ll skate circles around you.”

it’s an empty threat and he knows it, because he chuckles as he ties his own laces fluidly before using your knees to push himself off the ground.

“then how about you get out there and show me?” chris challenges, extending his hand to you.

“let’s do it.” you take it without thinking, and you hate that it was just a natural reaction.

you hate wanting to hold it, and the fact that you don’t feel disgusted.

chris pulls you up and waits until you’re fully steady before he starts tugging you along in excitement.

he lets go once he opens the small door to the ice, skating out to the middle and doing a little spin around the BU emblem just to show off. but it’s actually endearing to see him so in his element, so passionate about something.

“care to join?” he invites, and you suck in a breath before stepping out onto the ice.

you’re a little wobbly at first, awkwardly skating along and trying to make sure your knees don’t buckle before you even get to him. you’re also approaching with a bit too much momentum, and you fumble against his hard chest.

but chris just wraps his arms around you without comment, ensuring that you don’t fall flat on your ass.

he likes having you this close to him, even in a non-sexual way. sure, he’s insanely attracted to you, but he’s also found that he just likes your company, as sappy and scary as that is to him.

“oops.” you mumble into his sweatshirt, which has the familiar smell of his cologne on it, before you unravel yourself from his arms.

“you look like a baby deer trying to walk.” chris jokes with a wide smile, letting his fingers slip from your body so you can actually move around.

“shut up.” you sock his chest lightly with your fist.

he chuckles, holding a hand to the spot you hit as if you really hurt him. “hey, i’m just calling it like is it.”

“and i’m just warming up.” you argue, using one foot to propel yourself toward one end of the rink.

the more you skate around, the more confidence you gain in your ability, and the more comfortable you feel on your feet. chris follows you closely, moving with such rhythm that it almost looks like he’s floating.

“sure you are.” he drags out the ‘e’ for emphasis, doing a few little laps around you as you continue getting used to it.

“well you’re certainly not helping, you ass.” you grumble, staring down at your feet in focus.

and then you feel yourself trip up slightly, and your arms immediately fly out as you attempt to steady yourself. but you’re flailing, and chris can see the panic cross your face.

but before you tumble, he skates up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist so you can lean your weight back. his body stops you from toppling, and your heart slams hard and fast in your chest from the fright.

“careful, baby.” he says into your hair.

it sends little chills running up and down your spine, and you’re too nervous to tilt your head to look at him. you know how close his face would be if you did.

chris isn’t even sure himself why he said that, how he let the entirely new pet name slip, because he doesn’t use it with anyone. not with his brief past “girlfriends” or flings, not even with you. but now he is, and it rolled off of his tongue so easily that he feels sick.

“that’s a new one.” you practically pant, short of breath from both the near-fall and his words.

a volcano of butterflies is erupting in your stomach, and you know that’s not from the previous scare. it’s fully because of him.

fuck.

“wanna try a spin?” he deflects masterfully, and this spurs you out of your slight stupor enough to straighten up and glide away from him.

“fine, but you’re not allowed to make fun of me.”

“no promises.”

for the rest of the time spent at the rink, chris tries to keep his usual unserious demeanor going, but something has shifted, despite how minuscule the comment was. you’re both unknowingly still thinking about it on the car ride home, each wondering how the other feels.

even the goodbye is strange. he pulls you in for a quick side hug before darting back to his house, leaving you standing all alone in his driveway wondering what changed.

you sigh and turn to head back up your own front steps, slipping inside as quietly as possible even though you know cass and mona are busy in their rooms studying for upcoming exams.

it’s just you and your thoughts as you climb the stairs to your room, gnawing on your bottom lip.

you wouldn’t have been so freaked out by the pet name if he hadn’t frozen up himself, but his reaction makes you wonder if he ever meant to use it in the first place.

and even if he didn’t, why did it seem like such a big deal? its not like he hasn’t used stupid nicknames with you before.

questions fill your brain as you shuffle into your bathroom, throwing the shower on and stripping before stepping into the warm water. the pressure feels good on your shoulders, and you try and rub out some of the tension in them.

chris has just been surprise after surprise recently. you’re seeing a different side to him, one that’s seemingly emotionally invested in you, and you don’t want to let yourself believe it.

believing in someone means you can actually get hurt.

you try and relax into the steam as you rinse your hair out and shave, though it only helps a little bit. by the time you turn the faucet off and step out, you’re still just as confused.

you wrap yourself in your plush towel, tucking it so it stays as up you pad back into your room.

a song that’s been stuck in your head all day falls softly from your lips as you pick through your dresser, grabbing a pair of underwear and sliding them on, letting the towel fall the the floor.

your back is to the window as you continue scanning the drawers for one particular shirt, which is apparently elusive tonight. you’re still unsuccessful even after rummaging through every drawer, and you’re just bending down to check your hamper when your phone buzzes against the wooden cabinet.

it makes you flinch, one hand flying to your bare chest as the other reaches for the device.

chris

give me permission to come over.

now.

your eyes dart to the window as you lunge to grab your towel off of the floor. you could have sworn you closed the curtains before getting into the shower, but when you look up you’re staring right at chris.

his eyes are dark as he watches you run over to the glass, towel barely covering you as you yank them closed. your heart is hammering in your chest, and you can feel yourself breaking out into a nervous sweat.

y/n

you were NOT supposed to see that

chris

well i did

let me come over

i’m fucking serious.

y/n

no

my roommates are home

and that was an accident

you scramble around and throw on the first sweatshirt you can find. you don’t care what you have on anymore, as long as it’s something.

chris

then come here

y/n

no it’s already late

chris

you have no idea what you just fucking did to me

if you don’t come over i’m coming there

it’s your choice.

the string of curses that escapes your mouth are anything but kind. you have no idea what to do or how to get him off this rampage, and you despise the way your stomach is flipping from his texts.

y/n

chris.

chris

pick or i will

y/n

fucking hell

i’m coming over

you quickly pull on a pair of joggers and jam your feet into your slippers, wringing your hair out one more time. you know if you don’t hurry, chris will take it upon himself to come over here, and that’s the last thing you want right now.

your insides twist as you make your way down to the main level, out the front door and across the lawn. the inside of your cheek is irritated from the way you’re biting down on it every other second.

it’s ominously quiet tonight, and even though it’s the middle of winter, your body is on fire as if it’s a hundred degrees.

at this point, you’re not throwing caution to the wind anymore; you’re burying it in a grave.

your knuckles rap against his front door moments later. it only takes seconds for it to open, and chris tugs you inside instantly, slamming it closed behind you afterwards.

it’s not long before he has you backed against the foyer wall, his hands on either of your hips like he’s holding you there. his mouth captures yours roughly without warning, tongue gliding against your bottom lip.

there’s nothing slow or sweet about it; he’s desperate to feel every single inch of you.

chris had been mulling over his slip up in his room since you guys got home from the arena, nearly pulling his hair out just wondering what the hell his problem is.

and then he just happened to look over at your window, like he always does when he’s thinking about you, only to find you moving around in nothing but that tiny black thong.

seeing all of you exposed was like every wet dream he’s every had, and it nearly sent him over the edge right there. he needs you, in every single possible way, and there’s no use denying it anymore.

he’s practically devouring you, and you’re letting him because his lips are just so damn soft. you’re tired too, so tired of fighting your instincts, tired of fighting him.

he moves to your jawline, then to the base of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin lightly as he goes. it’s impossible to contain the light moan that escapes your mouth. chris wants to hear it over and over and over.

“nobody’s home tonight.” he mutters against your throat.

his voice is deep, muffled slightly against your body, and the vibrations combined with the feeling of the scruff of his beard makes you throb. he’s pressed against your thigh, also very clearly straining for more.

“upstairs?”

chris pulls away, a smirk playing on his lips. even in the dim lighting, you can see he’s extremely satisfied by your response.

his hand slips into yours for the second time today, pulling you toward his room impatiently. you know which door it is before he leads you through it, but its still the first time you’re seeing it from a view that’s not your window.

you recognize all of the posters, ranging from hockey stars to movies to rappers, his plush dark comforter, the gym equipment he has pushed in the corner. it’s weird, because you told yourself you’d never end up here.

before you can think more, chris pulls you to him by the waist once again, walking you backwards until your legs hit the bedframe. your knees buckle and a small gasp escapes as you fall back against the mattress.

he leans down to kiss you again swiftly, taking your bottom lip between his teeth and biting just hard enough. your fingers tangle in his soft hair so you can tug his roots.

he groans at the force, disconnecting from your lips slightly, and you see it as your opportunity.

“if we’re going to do this, we’re doing it my way.” you whisper against his mouth, trailing your hand down his body and wrapping it in his shirt so you can pull him into bed next to you.

before he can protest, you roll over to straddle him, thighs on either side of his hips. his eyes are wide in anticipation, clearly surprised by you taking charge.

“whatever you want, princess.” chris gives in, licking his lips as his hands grip the flesh of your legs like his life depends on.

“god, you’ve never sounded sexier.” you tease before you crash your mouth against his once more.

a few seconds later you switch your focus to his neck, deciding that you selfishly want to leave some hickies of your own. you suck on his skin, and a groan escapes his lips.

it spurs you on, so you rock your hips against his, grinding against his obvious hard on. his hands slide to grip your ass, giving one side a light slap as you shift against each other.

you grin against his lips, knowing that he’s becoming more and more desperate, trying to force you to move faster. but you still your hips, grinding at a tantalizingly slow pace.

chris moves one hand so his fingers can nimbly trace the bottom of your sweatshirt, pushing it up your body so he can tear it over your head. he releases a long breath as he stares at your full tits, happy that you didn’t end up finding a bra before coming over.

“fuck, i can’t do this anymore.”

he shifts, bucking his hips slightly so he can toss you off of him and crawl on top of you, trapping you between his arms.

“so impatient.” you joke, staring up at him with those gorgeous eyes he loves so much.

“been waiting way too long for you.” he breathes, hooking his thumbs underneath your pants.

you lift your hips up so he can tug them off your waist, sliding them down your legs and tossing them to his floor. his eyes wander across your body, finally able to completely take you in now that you’re right beneath him.

it makes you feel powerful, seeing the very obvious lust in his eyes as he stares at you.

“you’re fucking perfect, you know that?” chris asks, his fingers dancing across your neck so he can brush your damp hair aside.

the caress is gentle, and yet the weight of his words still makes you involuntarily clench your legs together. but he’s quick to push them back apart with his knee, forcing you to open up for him.

“don’t you dare hide now, i need to see all of you.”

he bows down between your legs so he can leave soft pecks along your collarbone, one hand groping your bare chest. you feel him creeping lower, mouth tracing down the valley of your breasts before pulling one of your nipples into his mouth.

you gasp in pleasure, and your hands tangle in his hair once more as your back arches off of the bed in need.

“oh my god, chris.” you whine, and he loves you gripping his curls.

he twitches against the inside of your thigh as his tongue flicks back and forth, so turned on by all the little noises you’re making. then he drags his wet lips over to your other hardened bud, ensuring he doesn’t neglect any part of you.

you squirm against his sheets, and the pressure of desire is quickly building in the pit of your stomach.

“feel good, baby?” he asks, confidently throwing the pet name out now.

chris doesn’t give a shit. as far as he’s concerned, you’re in his bed, and right now you’re his girl, so he’s going to call you whatever feels best in the moment. your head is so fuzzy with pleasure you don’t even pick up on it.

“so fucking good.” you encourage him desperately as he presses open-mouthed kisses along your stomach.

the further he goes, the more your gut twists itself into knots. it’s been a while since anyone has touched you like this, kissed you like this, and it’s got you needy as all hell.

finally, his mouth meets your hip bone, and another breathy moan passes your lips like a reflex.

he’s on his knees now, using both of his hands to pry your shaky legs apart, making sure he has full access to the place you need him most. his hot breath hits the wetness of your panties, and goosebumps rise on your skin.

“so desperate for me already, huh?” chris goads, applying two fingers to your clothed heat.

the pressure from his little circular motions makes you buck your hips, and he uses his free hand to try and still your movements. he’s spent far too many hours fantasizing about this moment to rush it. hes going to take his time with you.

“no, use your words, angel. tell me what you need or i’ll stop.”

it’s a demand, though he slides the black material to the side before you can even reply, just so there’s no longe a barrier between your heat and his touch. you’re dripping, and he swirls his fingers a bit harder, trying to get you to speak.

“more, chris, please.” you finally manage to beg, even though it drives you nuts being at his disposal.

“good girl, was that so hard?” chris hums, fully entranced by the pleasure that’s so apparent on your face.

one of his fingers teases your core for a few seconds before he fully slips it inside, pumping it in and out slowly. then he adds another and you’re practically writhing, unable to control your reactions any longer.

“shit.” you hiss, hands leaving his hair to grip his comforter, searching for any kind of relief.

chris curls his fingers every time he plunges them back inside of you, enjoying the way you tense every time. that being said, you’re both becoming more and more urgent, too desperate to continue the torment.

“need to feel you wrapped around me.” he grumbles, slowing his movements to a stop so he can yank his shirt over his head by the collar.

you’re pulsing from the loss of contact, already breathing heavy as you watch him slip out of his pants, taking his boxers with them. his dick springs free, and your mouth goes dry at the revelation.

he’s big, thick enough that you know you’re going to have to adjust. chris pumps himself in his hand a few times before running his shaft up and down your core, using your wetness as lube.

the feeling of his length sliding across your clit is almost unbearable, and by the way he’s panting you can tell he likes it just as much.

“no more teasing, i can’t.” you plead.

that’s enough to convince chris that he’s had his fun, so he fumbles with the drawer of his nightstand, pulling out a condom and tearing open the packet with his teeth.

he rolls the silicone over his dick before standing to line himself up at your entrance, taking a second to look down at you. your eyes are wide and your lips are puffy, and you’ve never looked more beautiful to him.

then he pushes himself inside, extra careful to take it slow at first. you both mumble curses under your breath, because the way he’s stretching you out is amazing and the feeling of your tight pussy gripping his sensitive cock is euphoric.

chris lets you adjust to his size for a minute before he begins to rock his hips back and forth, driving himself into you as he builds momentum. you clench around him with every stroke, and it’s driving him fucking insane.

“taking me so well, baby, so fucking well.” he praises gruffly.

you reach up, tugging his chain lightly to indicate that you want him closer. chris leans down so his body is flush against yours as he shifts in and out, your fingers raking his back.

he presses a hard kiss to your mouth, one hand squeezing around your throat lightly. he prays to god he’s scratched up by the end of this, because he needs a physical reminder that this is real, that he’s not dreaming.

“harder, chris.” you whimper against him, wrapping your legs around his waist so you can force him to plunge deeper inside of you.

the switch in angle also means he’s hitting a brand new spot, and you feel your stomach tighten at the sensation. your eyes screw shut as you let out a lewd moan, digging your nails into his shoulder.

chris is using all of his strength to slam into you now, growing closer and closer to his high. he won’t be able to hang on much longer, especially when you’re beneath him with your eyes rolled back into your head, lips parted like you’re begging for more.

“i love the way you look when i'm inside you, holy shit.” he’s practically breathless as he says it, his skin slapping against yours.

his name falls repeatedly from your lips like a prayer, because it’s the only word you can even think of at this point. your foreheads are pressed together, and he slides his hand down so he can brush his fingers against your clit.

it’s so much stimulation that tears begin to prick your eyes, something that’s never happened to you before. nobody’s ever made you feel this good.

“fuck!—m’so close, don’t stop.” you cry out, and your whole body is convulsing now.

you feel chris twitch inside of you, an indication that he’s on the exact same path. he moves his fingers against you faster, though his strokes grow sloppier and more desperate by the second.

“come on, princess. let it all go.”

and for once in your life you listen to him without any push back, releasing all over his dick as he simultaneously finishes into the condom.

chris slows his movements to a stop, overstimulated and fucked out as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. he presses a few wet kisses to your skin as you regain your breath, enjoying the last few seconds of closeness before he pulls out.

he flops down beside you, both of you lying on your backs and staring up at the ceiling, chests heaving as you calm down. everything has changed in just the last four hours, and neither of you are quite sure what to say.

so you don’t say anything at all. he just discards the rubber and wraps you up in his sheets with a loopy smile, pulling you so your back is against his chest.

you can feel him breathing, feel the heat radiating from his body, and you decide that logical thinking will have to wait until tomorrow. tonight, you’ll stay in his arms.

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

Clownfall: Endgame - Hello December

I am late writing and posting this, because it's nearly the end of term and I am mega busy (I have leave in two days and I am counting the hours...) BUT some stuff happened last week so let's dig in!

Also quick note before we do: I would like to politely request that you stop tagging this with "England" or "English politics". This is about British politics, not just England, and I am not English. Please do not erase me it takes SO LONG to write these thank you all and goodnight anyway ON WITH THE SHOW

Saturday, 25 November

12.01am

We begin our tale with Oliver Wright of the Times, who reports that … no hang on, wait, I've fucked it, okay. To understand this story, you first need to understand Simon Case.

Simon Case is a civil servant, and current Cabinet Secretary and head of UK Civil Service

He was the highest ranking public official implicated in the Partygate scandal, though he didn’t resign nor was he fined

In the Telegraph’s published WhatsApp messages from Partygate in which Tories all chatted to each other (seriously HOW do those keep getting leaked), Case made fun of holidaymakers stuck in hotel rooms by Covid regulations

In the same messages he also described some opposition to Covid restrictions as “pure Conservative ideology”, which is. An Own Goal

He also described BlowJo as a “nationally distrusted figure” whose isolation rules the public were unlikely to follow, which is true but also the Quiet Part

This information is from Wikipedia, which I’m openly admitting here, so my esteemed colleague hbomberguy can stand down.

Why am I mentioning him! Well. Case was supposed to give evidence to the Covid inquiry in October this year, but didn’t because of medical leave (ironically). In November, he still wasn’t back (should have isolated better, eh, Si), and the inquiry was given private medical information relating to Case (presumably evidence that he’s not just faking it so he doesn't have to be shouted at by angry judges and MPs and that).

So! On Saturday the 25th, eighteen and a half hours before Beep the Meep’s spectacular TV debut, Oliver Wright of the Times reports that Simon Case – uh, before his medical leave - advised Prime Minister Rishi Sunak that he should authorise pre-election talks between the civil service and Labour. Sunak - I suspect obviously - ignored this suggestion, in case it signalled that an election is now imminent.

According to Wright, it’s now questionable whether Case will ever return to his role.

Shame.

Monday, 27 November

2.44pm

House of Commons time! Let's see what our elected representatives are up to.

Tory MP Jill Mortimer says international treaties written 70 years ago "are not fit for purpose" to tackle illegal immigration, so we need to return to the "Deport the browns to Rwanda" plan. Ugh.

2.50pm

The following was reported by Matt Dathan of the Times, so CALL OFF YOUR DOGS hbomberguy.

James Cleverly – the newest Home Secretary, chappie who described another MPs constituency as a shithole in the House of Commons in his second week on the job – says the Rwanda policy isn’t the “be all and end all”.

Robert Jenrick – the Minister of State for Immigration – says the policy is an "extremely important component" of the government's small boats policy.

So! James Cleverly and Robert Jenrick disagree on this matter! Exciting! Hey, Tumblrs, just for fun...

Let’s remember those two names.

2.58pm

Robert Jenrick says boat crossings have been reduced by more than a third in the last year, but that numbers are still unacceptably high.

FUN SELF-STUDY ACTIVITY: Take a moment to form an opinion of Robert Jenrick! It’ll be worth it.

Here is some information to get you started: Jenrick this year ordered some lovely murals of cartoon characters (Mickey Mouse, Tom and Jerry, etc) to be painted over at a children’s asylum centre in Kent. His explicit reason is because he thought they were "too welcoming" for lone refugee children arriving in the UK, and such children should not feel welcome here.

Have you formed your opinion yet? Then I'll continue.

8.13pm

Rishi Sunak cancels a meeting with the Greek Prime Minister in a row over the Elgin Marbles.

Uh, there's a lot going on here - this is about the stolen marble frescoes that should be in the Parthenon in Athens, that gross British thief Lord Elgin stole decades ago and plonked into the British Museum. Greece has been asking for them back ever since, but a small handful of old white men who are in charge of the British Museum don't want to give them back and keep stating that Greece wouldn't look after them properly, which is a hell of a claim given that Elgin literally broke one when he nicked them, and also, he fucking stole them. Anyway, it turns out to the surprise of no one that Sunak also doesn't think we should give them back, and so when the matter was raised in an Anglo-Greek meeting recently Sunak literally walked out of it, even though the meeting was actually about something else.

So HERE HE IS refusing to do any diplomacy with Greece now i.e. his actual fucking job.

This is a big deal for the immigration-obsessed though! According to a Labour source, Greece is an essential ally for any agreement on illegal migration.

And even the Prime Minister’s supporters think he’s got this one wrong.

Wednesday, 29 November

Prime Minister’s Questions!

This is the (televised) point in the week where the PM has to appear in the Commons and be grilled by anyone who wants to put the boot in about anything at all. Keir Starmer decides today is the day to do some actual opposition, pushes Sunak on several fronts, and pretty much everyone reckons this is Starmer’s best ever performance at PMQs. People especially enjoy Starmer calling Rishi the “man with the reverse Midas touch”.

This is not, strictly speaking, actually funny. But it's political humour, which is like office humour. It doesn't actually have to be.

12.22pm

A former cabinet member tells the press that the Greek government are furious at Sunak’s snub. Uh oh!

Thursday, 30 November

Disgraced former Secretary of State for Health and all round human 1950s meat blancmange Matt Hancock talks to the Covid inquiry today. Specifically, to explain why he, the then-Secretary of State for Health, led the government so badly in the pandemic that we developed the second highest death rate in the world. To hear him tell it, he was an underdog hero doing his best to fight a toxic culture at Whitehall to get the pandemic handled responsibly.

The only problem with this is that it is contradicted by everyone else’s accounts.

He is called a “proven liar” who was “unfit for the job” by proven liar and unfit for his job Dominic Cummings. Former civil servant Helen MacNamara says Hancock displayed “nuclear levels” of overconfidence and said lots of things that later turned out to be untrue. Sadly for HandCock, he said these things to cameras that were recording him onto the telly, and so we do actually know.

Monday, 4 December

Keir Starmer talked about the economy today. He won’t rule out cutting public services, and it looks like he’s trying to tell disenfranchised Tory voters to jump ship to Labour.

Hope it’s a bluff! Very depressing if he’s serious. This is nowhere near as much fun as Tories being humiliated.

21.47pm

GOOD NEWS EVERYONE!

(This is from the Mirror, you can’t destory me on your YouTube.)

Labour MP Diana Johnson proposes an amendment to the Victims and Prisoners Bill to compensate thousands of patients infected with HIV and hepatitis C through contaminated blood products in the 70s and 80s, to the tune of billions of pounds.

And it WON!  Narrowly – 246 votes to 242.  A huge deal, because that includes 23 Tory backbenchers.  That is very bad for Rishi Sunak. He he he.

Tory MP Edward Argar had tried to sort this in adance, by saying the government would provide their own similar amendment to the bill.  Basically, he realised this was a controversial bill for the party, and wanted to present a version that could be a Tory victory rather than a Labour victory and Tory humiliation.

Didn’t work.

And neither did a THREE LINE WHIP for Tory MPs to vote against the Labour plan?!?? YES KIDS YOU READ THAT RIGHT Sunak didn't want people infected with HIV and hepatitis C through contaminated blood products in the 70s and 80s to receive compensation in case it made him look bad, so he imposed a three line whip to force Tories to vote against it.

And 23 of them rebelled.

And now he looks even worse.

Lol.

Tuesday, 5 December

Have you done your homework, Tumblrs? Have you remembered those names? Have you formed an opinion?

7.38am

Home Office minister and children's cartoon hater Robert Jenrick is interviewed on Sky News.  It’s ugly stuff.  He refers to small boats “[breaking] in” to the UK.  He insists asylum seekers WILL start being deported to Rwanda before the next General Election.  And generally does big talk about cutting immigration.

What a hero.

1.27pm

James Cleverly is in Rwandan capital Kigali, as the UK signs a new treaty designed to help score the Supreme Court’s approval for the Rwanda plan.

1.40pm

So!

Cleverly’s doing pretty much what he said he’d do.  He’s trying to legislate to make the Rwanda plan safer, rather than try to disapply human rights treaties. This, of course, is the Sensible Plan, if your plan is still to get people killed, but you want it to actually succeed.

But former Home Secretary Cruella Braverman is driving a load of Tories to push to disapply human rights obligations – and she’s joined in this by Robert Jenrick!!!!

That’s RIGHT!  Hope you remembered his name, because now he’s a VILLAIN!  Or, well, more of one, and in a more immediate way. After disagreeing with Cleverly in the commons on 27 November, he’s joined Team Suella.  Tonight he’ll be part of a meeting between three different right-wing groupings...

1.46pm

The new treaty guarantees that, if these plans go ahead, asylum seekers won’t be returned to countries where their lives or freedom are threatened, and creates a requirement for an independent monitoring committee.

This treaty would be great if we lived in a world where the Supreme Court trusted the Rwandan government to honour treaty obligations.  But we live in the world where NOT having this trust was part of the reason the Supreme Court ruled the plans unlawful.

Even if this wasn’t the case, we still need new legislation, and that’ll be way more controversial than this new treaty.  The legislation was said to be ready by Thursday, which is a very short turnaround that only a lunatic would believe, but in a SHOCK DISAPPOINTING U-TURN the government now refuses to commit to this.

In any case...

This is causing cracks in the Tory party.

10.33pm

The Parliament's Christmas tree lights are turned on! 

It goes as well as anything else in Parliament:

A visual representation of the Tory Party schism.

Wednesday, 6 December

8.21am

Boris Johnson arrives at the covid inquiry.  He will be questioned for two days.

He he he

10.26am

Johnson is asked why around 5,000 WhatsApp messages were lost on his phone from January to June 2020.

Steffan made this brilliant meme. Please do not grass me up to hbomberman.

11.33am

It’s clear by now that Johnson wasn’t alert to the danger of covid by February 2020.  Johnson says it wasn’t declared a pandemic by WTO yet, and he wasn’t asked about it in PMQs. Gosh! What a good point, maybe!

Until the KC points out a troubling fact: “You were the Prime Minister.”

Ah. Yes. PMQs are irrelevant, you see – the Prime Minister is allowed information that the opposition aren’t. 

And, indeed, he probably would have had, if he'd actually attended the five Cobra meetings about it that would have briefed him on it just as the virus was being discovered.

12.49pm

2.24pm

I’m skipping most of this stuff, since it’s normal lies and non-specific apologies from BJ.

But this one’s interesting.  Matt HandCock claimed he told Johnson on 13 March to call a lockdown.  There’s no written evidence of this happening.  Johnson outright contradicts it.

Lol

5.43pm

Cruella Braverman rejects Sunak’s Rwanda bill.  It fails the five tests she claimed his bill would need to pass.

These are tests she made up and published in a newspaper, I should stress, like they don't exist and she is not an authority. This is a bit like if I marched into your house, dear reader, and went "You are not allowed to celebrate the holidays this year because I personally said you have to pass my tests first and you haven't", and I'm pretty sure if I tried that you would drop me in a bin and laugh at me.

But, she has many supporters on the Tory right...

5.48pm

The Sun’s political correspondent says that if the Lords try to block emergency legislation, some Tory MPs reckon Sunak should call an election, fighting on Rwanda.

I desperately want this.  I DESPERATELY want this. They’ll lose that election so badly. SO badly. God, likes charge reblogs cast.

6.53pm

The villain Robert Jenrick … RESIGNS!

Oh no!  This is not good news if you’re the Prime Minister.

Fucking fantastic for the rest of us, though

7.26pm

Jenrick publishes his resignation letter on Twitter.  It’s two pages long, claiming the PM’s Rwanda plan basically won’t work.

Jenrick’s not wrong about that, but I speak as someone who doesn’t want any version of the Rwanda plan – not the monstrous Sunak one, and certainly not the hypermonstrous Braverman one. Good. Thanks for confirming, Darth Bell-end.

8.31pm

I enjoyed this tweet.

8.52pm

Sunak writes back to Jenrick, claiming the new plan WILL work.

Which is not normally what happens?!? Normally they yell about their current madness in a letter, publish it on Twitter because no one else cares or will agree, and get roundly ignored. But, desperate times! Here, Sunak’s challenge is to try to win over the Tories who don’t believe in his ability to deliver the plan.  It’s a big ask.

So what are we left with?

10.37pm

A senior figure on the Tory right is asked whether their side will kill Sunak’s bill. 

And they’re not sure! If it’s the only offer on the table, it seems sensible to vote for it. 

BUT the right wing of the Tories aren’t famously very sensible.  They’ll probably try and add amendments at the very least, but it’s genuinely possible they’ll reject it out of spite, because they are LUNATICS.  Or as a political move to weaken Sunak.

And that's what you missed in the Tory Civil War!

(Up to last week)

[stars444hearts]

big reputation || 2

caitlin clark x actress! reader masterlist - prev - next warnings: none

caitlin_clark22

Liked by kate_martin03, yn_ln, and 820,508 others

caitlin_clark22 by the grace of whatever’s up there 🙏🙏🙏 Tagged: kate_martin03

View Comments

kate_martin03 caption’s tuff →caitlin_clark22 enough. 

user1 WAIT IS IT A NOD TO Y/N’S TWEET →user2 its def not they don’t even know each other →user3 NO Y/N LIKED THE POST

—

Y/n smiled as she read through Caitlin’s comments. After the eye-opening conversation she had with Kate last night, Y/n had become more open to the idea. 

She also thought the caption was cute. 

Y/n groaned as her stomach grumbled. She placed her phone on her bed, stood up, cracked her spine, and walked into her kitchen. 

Y/n decided to make something easy, then sit on her couch and binge-watch crappy reality tv. This was her first week off in months and she would spend it rotting in her living room like every normal 21-year-old. 

Y/n couldn’t tell you the number of below-deck episodes she had binge-watched, but by the time she finished, the sun was down and the crickets were chirping. She begrudgingly stalked back to her bedroom, changing into her pajamas and throwing herself down on her bed. 

She picked up her phone, only to drop it a second later in shock. 

[yn_ln]  Caitlin Clark                            4h ago sent you a message

—

Caitlin, on the other hand, was freaking out. She had never even spoken to Y/n before, but Kate had convinced her to DM her. 

Caitlin probably typed and retyped her DM 50 times before settling on a ‘hey !’

Caitlin groaned and shoved her phone down after finally hitting send. She couldn’t help but picking up her phone every ten seconds to see if Y/n had opened or responded to her DM. 

After 10 minutes, Caitlin had eventually given up hope of a response and sighed, turning off her phone and putting her head in her hands. 

Caitlin buisied herself by ordering doordash and sitting on her couch, rewatching film her coaches gave her to look over. She lost track of time and found herself mindlessly picking at her fingers, only coming to when she realized it was past midnight. ]

She groaned as she stood up from the couch, attempting to rub the sleep from her eyes. Caitlin walked into her bedroom as she sat on her bed. She picked up her phone and almost threw it when she saw her most recent notification. 

[caitlin_clark22] Yn Ln                            20m ago sent you a message

— 

Caitlin  hey !

Y/n hey yourself sorry for leaving you on delivered i was binge-watching below deck

Caitlin which one?

Y/n mediterranean, duh

Caitlin good. That's the best one Yn liked this message

Y/n so, i’m assuming kate told  you to dm me?

Caitlin well, to be honest, i had kinda been wanting to ever since i met you on facetime with kate. 

Y/n brother that was 6 months ago 💀

Caitlin LEAVE ME ALONE, OK i'm just a girl

Y/n SO REAL whenever people tell me im doing  something wrong i get so annoyed  like im just a girl that curb shouldn’t have been there 😠

Caitlin LMFAOO Anyways, yeah, kate finally bullied me into texting my celebrity crush who she just  happens to be best friends with

Y/n 🤨🤨 is that all i am to you?? a pretty face?

Caitlin NO NO I DIDN’T MEAN IT LIKE THAT I SWEAR

Y/n LMFAOO im just fucking with you anyways, going back to that… celebrity crush, you say? 🤨😏

Caitlin 😶 moving on…

Y/n no, no i wanna know

Caitlin umm… basically i’ve just been really obsessed with your show lately and kate told me i should shoot my shot but im now realizing maybe i should save that for the court

Y/n LMFAOO nah, kate was right she showed you my tweet, right?

Caitlin yeah, why?

Y/n because i wasn’t kidding. 

[ramshacklerumble]

can I see an ashi and gigi interaction <//3 look she even has an emote 🌺

KIDDING!!!!!! BUT HI I WANT MORE GIGI CONTENT 🫶 really curious about 🦐🦑🍄 octotrio? this is my attempt at more unagi crumbs BUT!!! I AM GEN CURIOUS ABOUT OCTO INTERACTIONS 🫣 don’t think I’ve seen gigi interact w the other two ssssso 👁️👁️

in a nutshell?

if these three carked it right in front of them, gia would at long last repent and hole up in a nunnery like the good lord intended.

jk. (kinda)

on paper, gia is the octotrio’s personal henchboy as payment for a “favor” floyd does them a little prior/early into the events of book 5. (currently working on a one-shot that goes into this) originally gia’s tenure under the mostro lounge was only meant to be for a few weeks, but it’s made readily apparent once the octotrio finds use in something they are not about to let it slip through their fingers.

so begins the trio's pattern of finding even the smallest infractions on gia’s part as cause to extend their servitude under them. this is, understandably, why there's little love lost between them. i’d say gia prays for the trio’s downfall, but gia isn’t religious and far too proactive to wait around for that to happen.

they’ve made it their personal mission not to leave nrc until octavinelle is burning at their feet.

…

in reality, gia’s relationship with the octotrio is quite complicated.

they’ve been an absolute pain in the neck in every single encounter, but it doesn’t take gia long to realize the octotrio is their speedrun towards getting some REAL power in their hands. proud and hard-working they may be, gia is ultimately a pragmatist at heart.

though a bit of a showman, azul IS an undeniably powerful mage with many a tentacle in many a pie. the twins are nothing to sneeze at either.

as much as gia hates their guts, these three are their chance to make it not only to graduation but to actually make something of themself when staying at night raven is no longer an option.

and that’s not even getting into the growing familiarity between gia and the trio steadily murking the waters…

—

🦑 AZUL ASHENGROTTO: (tagging @thehollowwriter since you also sent an ask for azul)

perhaps the most subtle dynamic of the three (making it the hardest to explain) gia's view of azul can be largely inferred by their joke-title for him: boss.

if azul wants something done, then gia gets it done. gia proves themself an incredibly adept asset to azul and it's why azul pulls whatever strings he can to keep them under his thumb.

that said, while gia puts up with much of azul's overworking and respects they are indebted to the trio by not putting up much of a fuss-- azul is aware he occasionally has to sweeten the pot if he wants to keep it that way.

he'd be a fool to forget this was the same person who got all his original contracts turned to dust. and besides: what good, gracious employer doesn't reward his employees for their hard work?

so azul doesn't mind giving gia access to a few of his private merchandise channels, maybe even some of his more advanced grimoires and alchemy notes, etc.

this dynamic remains largely unchanged for a while, though if one were to squint they might catch a degree of casualness peppering their interactions over time. they indulge in subtle sniping-- even minor trolling-- namely from gia who finds azul an easy target.

they are not fully aware of how things have changed until @cyanide-latte's chrysanthos shroud makes quite a bitter impression on them both. in a low moment surprising even azul, he admits to gia that shroud makes him feel inadequate as a housewarden-- made worse by the fact azul knows it isn't shroud's intention. shroud, in his own way, truly embodies the spirit of benevolence an octavinelle housewarden should be and it's something azul wonders he'll ever be able to do himself. (you can read more on this in cy's post: here!)

gia, in an attempt to give azul the peace of mind that they won't try to use this moment of weakness against him (and bolstered by the knowledge this could come in as blackmail should he think to use what they're about to tell him), shares a bit of their own worries shroud managed to jar loose.

working for the trio is hard, however, it's also been the path that's given gia the most opportunities. but, with the trio being a year ahead of them, gia is well aware their time with them is limited. they can’t help but mull over what is to become of them when the trio leave for their senior internships. gia will likely never see them again and likely be nothing more than a footnote from the trio’s school lives. a strange, magicless weirdo from another dimension, wasn’t that a fun little story?

gia’s probably going to have a lot of free time as a junior and who knows how they plan to go about senior year, frankly, they’re a bit at a loss with themself…

anyway. if it weren't for azul """kindly""" giving them the chance to gain what they DO have by working for him (or whatever), they'd probably be even more lost than they are now. he's a pain and a half, but he's probably not the worst housewarden in octavinelle history.

at this, azul reminds gia he's made his plans to branch out the mostro lounge to the public quite clear. gia wouldn’t be bound to them anymore, but it'd be a shame to let their experience at the school's location go to waste, wouldn't it?

—

🍄 - JADE LEECH

gia's relationship with jade is probably the strangest because despite jade being the one that wigs gia out the most, he is also the one gia openly gets along with the best.

fun fact: gia opened up their own club. the biking club. they are the only person in said club because, for some reason or another, they reject anyone who tries to get in. it might have to do with the fact the reason the club exists is because they needed an excuse to have a bike on school grounds they are allowed to ride anywhere unquestioned-- such as for personal errands or scavenging for potion ingredients. this includes up in the mountains.

y'know who else is often in the mountains..?

because of this little coinkidink, jade found a very weak and fevered gia struggling to get off the ground because they'd stupidly decided to go out foraging while sick. and of course, what good, gracious vice-housewarden of octavinelle wouldn't lend a hand to a poor, unfortunate underclassman in need despite their fervent protests? they're obviously, deliriously ill and are unaware of what's best for them…

indebted to jade on top of the octotrio as a whole, gia lost what little personal time they had as president of their own one-man club. now the biking club is (semi-officially) affiliated with his mountain lovers' club-- meaning gia accompanies him whenever he goes and bikes him around trails whenever he feels like it.

in theory, being alone up a mountain with jade leech should be terrifying, but gia sincerely enjoys these outings. jade is not only incredibly well-versed in mountain flora but a skilled potionologist in his own right.

honestly, it’s not bad.

—

BONUS:

BONUS BONUS:

they're friends :)

@inmateofthemind @simons-twsted-children @tixdixl @jovieinramshackle @blithesharem @theleechyskrunkly @skriblee-ksk (lemme know if anyone wants to be included in tags)

[orbitariums]

warmth | patrick zweig, art donaldson + black fem reader (pt. 1)

you guys really liked the snippet i posted so it's finally here! this will probably have a second part <3 (let me know if you'd like to be tagged for that!)

content: smut (oral f. receiving, fingering, handjob), childhood best friends trope, patrick and art are acting like high schoolers again, reader is rich bougie conniving hippie writer hybrid ...

reader, patrick and art are childhood best friends who conveniently were all in love with each other, or at least had enough sexual tension to make it feel that way. fast forward almost a decade later, and reader has made it onto the red carpet with her fantastic pen, and patrick and art have gone pro. when she invites them to her house for a star-studded friendsgiving, tensions rise and old doors open, springing forth new possibilities. this is only the beginning.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

warmth

“We should just turn around now, save ourselves the embarrassment.”

Patrick paid Art no mind, rolling down the window and leaning out of it, pressing the buzzer as you had dutifully instructed them in your email invite. 

“Too late now. Already threw away about a gallon of gas just coming up the hill to this place,” he replied, the sense of ease in his voice only egging Art on even more. 

“Exactly why we should leave. I mean, fuck. Does she have to live on a hill?”

“Residence of [last name], to whom am I speaking?” a male voice rings on the other end. 

“Uh…” Patrick starts, Art reaching up over him, 

“Patrick Zweig and Art Donaldson?”

A silence filled the air. Patrick swatted at Art, forcing him back in his seat. 

“Why’d you say it like a question, dumbass?”

Art stammered,  already starting to get red in the face,

“I was --”

The gate swung open and both the boys let out a sigh of relief.

“Thank you!” Patrick chimed, smirking over at Art, who seemed to be sinking in his seat. 

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

Meanwhile, you were inside the mansion that you call home, flowing around the kitchen like there weren’t about fifty people milling about and mingling amongst one another. It smelled like something out of Hansel and Gretel -- from the fragrant brown roasted turkey sitting in the oven, to the gourmand scent of perfectly caramelized candied yams, to the vanilla musk perfume you dotted on your wrists. A black mini Schnauzer nipped excitedly at your feet as you added half a cherry tomato to the giant bowl of salad you’ve been prepping for the last twenty minutes. You look like a pro, like a party of this magnitude is no big deal to you.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

“Do we ring the doorbell? Or maybe… should we knock?” Art questioned, hands tied behind his back as he glanced up at Patrick for answers. 

“It’s open,” Patrick retorted, but he too stood stupefied at the door like a weary traveler wavering in horrific awe before the mouth of some epic beast. 

“On three?” Art suggested, and when he didn’t hear a response, he started to count, “one… two…”

Patrick stepped in before Art could get to three. Art scoffed, but followed behind him anyway. 

The both of them stood there silently, taking the grandiosity of it all in — the sky high dome ceiling, two grand wooden staircases directly opposite one another, the shiny verdant porcelain flooring, the Basquiat painting hanging above the wide bookcase directly in front of them. Mouths open, they looked like they were ready to catch flies. 

“Fuuuck me,” Patrick breathed out heavily. Art’s head was stuck staring up at the ceiling, so high he thought it’d never end. 

“You made it.”

Both Art and Patrick seemed to stand straight at the sound of your voice, like soldiers at attention. You almost laughed, but instead, you stood there coolly, smiling at them both with your lips and your eyes— in them, a look that was almost knowing, wise beyond your years. It seemed like a lifetime before either of them would speak. They spent half of that lifetime practically gawking at you, drinking you in. And how could they not, when you were practically draped in that baby blue silk dress, the flowy bottom dancing above your ankles. You looked more beautiful than they remembered you, calmer, secure — of course, they hadn’t seen you since they were teenagers. Now there was this air of timelessness about you that was only just poking at the surface when you were in high school, now it surrounded you. Something mystic encompassed your entire spirit, dripping from your head to your feet. They’d spent years seeing you from behind a screen, being interviewed on live TV, attending red carpets for award shows, blending in with the Hollywood mecca — another beautiful twentysomething industry talent. But the glow of the television that seemed to give everyone a perfectly filtered sheen was nothing compared to your beauty here. 

“It’s so good to see you,” Patrick broke the silence first, practically lurching forward with open arms to embrace you. His beard scratched against your cheek. You could smell the cologne that was beginning to wear off, mixed with a hint of cigarette smoke. His arms nearly sucked you in. 

When he pulled away, you couldn’t help but chuckle at the way he smiled at you so fervently. 

“Good to see you too, Patrick…” you glanced over at the mousy boy who didn’t seem to have changed much since high school. “C’mere, Artie.”

Art chuckled: a nervous huff of relief, inching forward into your open arms and nuzzling his chin into your shoulder, closing his arms around your midwaist. You could smell the aftershave that clung to his jaw, and the detergent still fresh on his clothes. 

You pulled away, but took one of each of their hands, squeezing. 

“My two boys. Man, how long has it been?”

“Oh, just a while—”

“Seven years,” Art interjected. 

“Who’s counting, right?” Patrick grinned, making all of you laugh. 

You looked at them almost expectantly, eyes wide like a doe, the slightest smile playing at your lips. They looked back with bated breaths. Always, you were in charge, always. It had been like this since the scabby-kneed days of childhood. If you wanted to play on the swings, they were there on either side of you. You were the queen of the sandbox. In middle school, they snuck extra cookies for you from the lunchroom, and they fought over who got to surprise you with the treat every day. Senior year of high school, in the hotel room in London, when you had them perched on either side of you like baby birds waiting for mother’s return— when you had both your hands on each of their thighs inching further and further up, their lips ghosting against your soft skin, had them panting like puppy dogs, only to leave the minute you heard “lights out.” 

It had been seven years since then and still, it was the same. Only this time, you were stupidly rich, thanks to the soaring success of your two psychological thriller books turned TV series. It wasn’t that you’d forgotten about them, or didn’t care about them now that you were rich and famous. You’d gotten accepted to study creative writing at Brown, Art went to play at Stanford, and Patrick went on his path to go pro. It was just the process of growing up. You were delighted to see that they were only a click away thanks to the internet, just one click away from reintegrating into your life. Your childhood best friends. 

“C’mon, lunch is almost ready.”

Friendsgiving. Who didn’t love the concept? It was a readily welcomed, wholesome idea — friends of all ages and backgrounds coming together to rehash their Thanksgiving with leftovers, stories from the year, and maybe a game of cards. Except your friendsgiving was attended by A-list actresses, Cannes festival attending screenwriters, and the odd Grammy nominated artist. And your friendsgiving was not at all an intimate affair — it may as well have been a club party. Most people were outside, dancing, shrieking with laughter, drinking, and skipping their way to their seats. Your backyard was vast and verdant green, with a pool in the center, the perimeter lined with lemon and peach trees, and miles to explore. 

“This is fucking insane, is that Dakota Johnson?” Patrick scoffed. He and Patrick had been left to their own devices yet again, while you flitted around being the hostess with the mostest, easing and gliding about. A laugh here, a clink of glasses there, and a coolness to you that stood in striking comparison with the warmth that stirred deep down inside you. A warmth that could be served with a ladle into goblets, like some elixir with magical properties only you possessed. 

“No, you idiot, that’s— oh shit. That might be Dakota Johnson.” 

Clink clink clink. 

“Everybody, hi, hi! Thank you for coming, please, sit down,” you called out, clinking your glass to get the attention of your guests. Patrick and Art scrambled to find seats, ending up at a table with people who might have been minor celebrities or art critiques or designers -- at least one of those options. 

“I wanna thank you all so much for coming, this really means a lot to me. I know these sorts of things can be really hectic, but you guys make this house feel like a home. I’m glad that some of you will be staying with me for the next few days, there’s always room for more,” you glanced over at Art and Patrick. “Some of you are new friends, some of you I’ve known for far too long. But I think it’s incredibly fucking cool that we’re all here together now in this moment, just enjoying each other’s presence. I do this every year, and every year I meet even more amazing, talented, fascinating people and you all are so dear to my heart. And now, what we’re all waiting for… lunch is served!”

A cacophony of cheers rang out as staff rushed about to place plates in front of everyone. You stood giggling, basking in all of it. 

The rest of the afternoon Patrick and Art spent attempting to blend in as best they could. They were pro tennis players, but this was another level of stardom that they couldn’t quite fathom yet. They watched you ruthlessly the entire night, unable to squash those rising feelings of attraction and yearning for you that had never quite simmered to begin with. You’d always been cooler than them, but watching you now there was a certain air to you that belonged to a grown woman, someone comfortable and confident and in their element. You were positively swimming in the sunlight the entire afternoon. It was like you had this sort of magnetic pull to all things good, rich, and warm. People wanted to be around you. And god, did this prove that. 

By night time, people were finally starting to leave. The sun hung low in the darkening sky, making the fairy lights glow stronger now. The few people that were staying with you for the rest of Thanksgiving weekend had disappeared to their rooms. Besides the waitstaff still milling about, it was just you, Patrick, and Art. The two of them hadn’t meant to stay so long, really. It wasn’t like they were forcing themselves to stick around and be acknowledged by you in a way that felt meaningful. Sure, you’d had your small talk and cracked a few inside jokes, but as much as neither of them wanted to admit it, they needed more. If it was hard to get your attention before, it was nearly impossible now. They were surrounded by so many people who all wanted to network and talk and introduce themselves, they found themselves mingling with your friends, some of them people who they’d seen on screen in the past year,  more than you. They’d been dragged onto the dance floor multiple times by multiple acquaintances, only to gawk at you swaying your hips rather than actually dance themselves. It became overwhelmingly clear, in the midst of their increasingly present desperation, that they should’ve accepted your offer to stay in this castle of a house for the weekend. Neither of them had packed a bag. 

“This is awkward, we’re the only ones left,” Art sighed, still sitting at their table. 

“Let’s just… wait, okay? She might come back out."

"And give us a little speech?"

"Yeah, asshole, maybe she will."

At that very moment, you appeared again, this time clad in a two piece linen pajama set. You didn’t miss the way both their eyes trailed up your legs as you stood in front of them, arms crossed, smiling expectantly. 

“I was hoping you two would still be here,” you said. You glanced between the two of them, that awkward silence filling the air once again. “C’mon. Let’s talk.”

You turned and walked back inside, the two of them trailing behind you.   

"Your house is fucking sick by the way. I mean holy shit," Art blurted once you got to the main entrance hall.

"Feel like I just walked into a page of Architectural Digest," Patrick added on.

You led them up the stairs. Both their eyes dropped to your ass, which poked out just a bit from under the pair of shorts you wore. Silently watching the way your body curved as you walked.

"Ha, thanks. I think I did pretty okay for myself," you replied. 

You led them to the den on the second floor and sat criss cross apple sauce on the lush green couch. Art sat on your left, Patrick on your right. Patrick spread his legs and Art had one foot up on the couch, bouncing against his knee. 

“Sorry we didn���t get to talk much. I was so busy being the host of the year that I didn’t pay enough attention to you two. My favorites.”

Art chuckled,

“Favorites? You’re just saying that.”

“No, I’m serious! D’you know how much I missed you guys?”

Patrick scoffed playfully,

“All those TV interviews I watched of you? I wouldn’t even be thinking about us.”

You couldn’t help but grin, that warmth coming through once again. It nearly made the two men melt. 

“Well I was. I always think about you guys.”

Now came Patrick’s voice again, a heaviness to it that almost made you jump,

“Do you think about anything specific?”

Although it had been nearly a decade since you’d last seen each other, you didn’t miss a single thing about either of them. Patrick didn’t mince words, and he never shied away from not just hinting at, but blaring his salacious intentions every time he spoke. You tilted your head towards him, a cool smile tugging at your lips. 

“Just what good times we had.”

A silence, accented with a flood of nostalgia and a pointed reference to those “good times” permeated the air. You took a moment to gaze at the two of them ever so softly — enough for them to feel it, but not enough to make them squirm (though, they were easy to make squirm)— before you decimated the silence by slapping your hands down on either of their thighs and squeezing endearingly. 

“So tell me, where’ve you two been? I’m not the only one on TV these days.”

“Ahh, you don’t wanna hear about boring tennis,” Art waved a hand of dismissal. 

You chortled, a trademark of yours that Art and Patrick had always poked fun at in school,

“You’re right, I don’t.”

“You still laugh the same,” Patrick said, grinning like he was trying not to but was unable.

You chuckled, this time low in your throat, and turned your head to face him again. You and Patrick were similar in the sense that you were always pushing the boundaries, tiptoeing closer and closer to the line — but the three of you had never quite established where that was. At some point, you were all just too close to even think about “the line” or “boundaries” — all of you appeared clueless to societal expectations of friendship, spurting a sort of cultlike relationship where everyone else was an outsider. 

“Do I?” smiling at him like you were warning him not to tease. 

“Yeah, that little snort you do,” Patrick replied, unshaken. 

“You do do a little snort,” Art chimed in, always chirping like he spoke from a less nefarious place. 

“And if I get started on you guys’ little tennis grunts?” you grinned fully now, showing teeth, looking between the two of them and leaning back a bit.

They followed, leaning back against the couch and keeping their heads in line with yours so you were never too far away from them, each of them turning their heads to look at you. 

“No way you actually watch us,” Art replied.

“I do!” you insisted. “Seriously, if you’d asked anybody here you would know.”

“Sure, let me just strike up conversation with George Clooney,” Art shot back.

“Ha-ha,” you bleated sarcastically. “I don’t even know him… but I have walked past him once on the carpet.”

“Look at you,” Patrick smirked. “Little Miss Superstar.”

He punctuated his sentence with a hand on your knee. Your eyes flickered over to him and you caught the way his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat when he swallowed, felt the way he gazed up at you. You didn’t miss the desire twinkling in his eyes. 

Then Art, always second but not necessarily last, 

“She’s our little superstar, you know that, right?” 

His hand just gently grazing your shoulder.

You let them revel in the moment for as long as you felt appropriate, then huffed.

“You know you guys can stay for the weekend, right? I mean, you should.”

“Oh… no, we wouldn’t wanna impose,” Patrick said, his hand slinking away from your knee.

Another chortle from you,

“You wouldn’t be. This is a five-bedroom house. It’s fine. Besides, don’t you guys wanna actually catch up? I’ll let you torture me with tennis talk.”

Art started to stammer,

“I-I mean… we didn’t bring anything.”

“Just our idiot selves,” Patrick added.

“Don’t worry. I’ll get Charles to get you guys all set up.”

“Charles?”

“Oh, he’s my assistant,” you said nonchalantly as if it were nothing. “You’re not fighting me on this. I want to spend some quality time with my boys. Don’t make me have to beg for it.”

“We could never make you beg for anything,” Art replied, just a little too quickly. 

“I know, Art, that’s why I love you,” you grinned over at him. “So, are we all in agreement? Stay with me. Just this weekend.”

“Yes,” they both replied a little too quickly this time. 

You bit your lip, suppressing a smile. 

“You know… I really, really missed you guys. And those good times we had.”

You let the memory of that night of almosts in London resurge, let their minds run amuck with whatever teenage fantasy was still left over from that night. A moment so brief it could almost be forgotten, could even be flagged as incidental, accidental. Still, the three of you knew, even as grown adults (especially as grown adults), that it would always stick and remain unresolved, unless someone ran to the rescue with some sort of solution. Once again they held their breaths. You stood up, glanced between the two of them like you were sizing them up, and then smiled as if nothing had happened at all — you let them breath. 

“Your bedroom’s the second on the right when you leave here. Charles will help you get set up— I’ll see you guys in the morning for breakfast.”

And just like that, you were gone. The air in the room seemed to clear. Your presence was like a thousand tons of pressure weighing on their bodies and their minds. Finally, they could breathe.

They glanced at each other with the same longing, almost nervous expression — they were just two pubescent boys all over again.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

“I think we should just go for it.”

Patrick lay on his back, looking up at the ceiling with his hand on his stomach, speaking aloud as if into the clouds. Art, who had been gazing into the distance, sitting up against the wall on his side of the room, shook his head at Patrick’s words.

“What are you talking about Patrick?”

The two of them sat in the room that you had put together. They had showered and dressed in the pajamas that were waiting for them, just as you said they would be. The house was practically silent, it was the dead of night. Though you’d left hours ago, that same heaviness in the air seemed to remain in their chests. 

“You know… I mean, she invited us here for a reason, don’t you think?”

Art glared over at Patrick, his brows furrowed and his mouth twisted in a frown,

“Don’t be a creep. We’re her friends.”

“Who want to fuck her, and she knows it. Pretty sure she wants to, too.”

“That was high school, Pat. Get over yourself.”

“Like you weren’t getting your dick wet just from looking at her. C’mon.”

Art throws a pillow at Patrick. It lands square at his feet.

“Don’t be disgusting.”

“I’m just saying, she’s not innocent. She knows what she’s doing. She’s just as perverted as the both of us.”

“Yeah? So what are you gonna do about it?”

“Fucking — I don’t know, something. We should just both go over there and knock on her door.”

Art couldn’t help but sigh heavily — Patrick was always creating some elaborate plot or scheme, but rarely did he ever actually go through with something unless Art was onboard. 

“Patrick, she’s not trying to have a threesome with us. I’m not interested in your porn addict fantasies. Plus it’s the middle of the night, she’s probably asleep. Think she’s gonna wanna sleep with two idiots who fucked up her nighttime routine?”

“So then why are you still here?” Patrick retorted. 

“What? What do you mean?” Art tried to sound normal, but his defenses were up, and they both knew exactly why. 

Patrick turned so he was on his side, facing Art, making sure his words hit just right. 

“You know what I mean. You could’ve just gone home. Could’ve told her that we’ll catch her some other time. But look at you, sitting here, feigning innocence. She’ll think we’re cowards, you know. Seven years later and we still can’t come out and say what is that we want.”

Art swallowed, staring blankly into the distance like Patrick’s words didn’t sting his side. He was right. He almost always was, even if his wording wasn’t the most politically correct or precise. It was just how they were — one too careful, the other one so not. Most of the time, they came together to balance each other out: like fire and ice. But sometimes, like this time, they just threw each other out of whack – an oil spill in a pristine lake. 

“I want a friendship. If you want a fuck, go and tell her that. Goodnight, Patrick,” Art spat, rolling onto his side and turning his light off. 

Patrick sighed heavily like a petulant little boy who’d just been denied a cookie. Maybe in college or high school, Art would have been all ears, and they would have risen from their beds like triumphant kings, and gone on the hunt for their king. But maybe he was right — that was high school. They were too old now, and it was embarrassing. At least if Art had agreed, even if he didn’t fully believe in Patrick, they would’ve gone in together. And so, swallowing his disappointment, Patrick stared up at the ceiling, ruminated for just a bit, and then turned off his light, forcing his eyes shut so he’d fall asleep faster. 

1:10 AM. 

That was the time on the clock when Art opened his eyes next. He woke with a start, like there was something he was meaning to do. Then immediately, he was a bit disoriented. This room was far too big. It wasn’t his. He remembered where he was, and just what he had to do. He rose like an automaton and found his feet swinging to the floor. He threw on the Calvin Klein shorts and shirt your assistant had given him (his pair was white, Patrick’s was black), and slid easily into his slippers. 

Only once he stood did he really catch his breath, and seemingly also his determination. It was like he knew what he was doing, and he was completely okay with it. He even peered over just slightly, to see if Patrick was still asleep. And by the slow rise and fall of his body on his side, he could tell that he was. He was stuck in this dream state between idiocy and confidence, making for mindless determination as he sauntered out of the room and down the hall. He had intent, his head was screwed on straight. He knew where your room was, and he practically marched down the end of the hall. 

As soon as he reached your door, he realized what he was doing, truly realized. He stood there stock still, like a rabbit that had just gotten caught eating a carrot from someone’s garden. He was suddenly confronted by the fact that he was completely alone; your room was at the very end of the hall and completely cut off from the other rooms. Now the heartbeat in his chest was loud and clear, and the slight shifting sound of the fabric of his shorts rubbing against his inner thigh sounded like nails on a chalkboard. Nervous tics settled in, and he felt a rattle go down his spine at the recognition of what he was doing— the sheer arrogance, the assumption he was making. He thought of Patrick, and the betrayal this would be, considering he had just shut him down so profusely earlier. He thought of the fact that it was so easy for him to be so double-sided, to just get up and attempt it on his own, even making sure that Patrick couldn’t possibly be involved. How easy it was for him to be so unfair. He thought of himself, standing there with suddenly sweaty palms and a dry throat. Like a high school boy with blue balls. 

What are you doing?

He thought to himself. He almost turned around, but he heard humming from the other side of the door. No doubt your voice, and no doubt you were very much awake. He could hear music, albeit muffled. He swallowed, closing his eyes like he was bracing for impact, and sighed. If he could remember the words to recite Hail Mary, he would have. Eyes still closed, he knocked. He heard the slight pause on the other side and imagined you perking up slightly and looking around the room to make sure you weren’t just hearing things. Despite his embarrassment, the knock was firm. It was clear it was someone else on the other side of the door. And so, a few seconds later, you swung the door open. 

“Art,” you said, a hint of both surprise and relief in your voice.

“YN,” he replied, saying your name like it was a period to a sentence. 

You were clad in a cream-colored silk slip with a lace trim. A dainty gold necklace adorned your neck, flush against your collarbone. You’d changed again since the last time he saw you, and this outfit did not make it any easier for him to tear his eyes off of you, starting from the necklace, to your breasts, to your legs. The slip was short and nearly see through, revealing your thighs which looked so soft and plush. The pucker of your nipples sheened underneath the thin fabric. The way it clung to your body was almost maddening. You looked fresh as a daisy — like you’d spent hours in the bath, rubbing countless creams and gels against your skin. Art felt suddenly embarrassed like he had interrupted your girl time with his boyish, base desires. You pulled him out of it though, with a slight smile and kind eyes looking up at him.

“You doing okay?” you asked almost playfully, still grinning slightly.

“Yeah, I just uh… wanted to… talk to you,” Art said, not even making eye contact with you and instead very obviously peering inside of your room. You looked over your shoulder like you were trying to see what Art was looking at, then looked back at him. Finally, he was making eye contact with you. He felt like you were scrutinizing him, searching for something to validate this interaction, to validate him. Your warm smile didn’t look all that different from a smirk anymore. 

“Well. I am the host. Who’d I be if I didn’t indulge a late night chat?”

You stepped aside, pushing the door wide open with your back. You nodded at him like a coach, beckoning him,

“Come in.”

And so he stepped inside, and you closed the door behind you. Your room was how he’d expected it to be — reflective of your personality as long as he’d known you, but a hint more sophisticated. Everything rested on a plush chenille carpet. Your mattress, adorned with plush, deep red and green linens, sat on a large wooden bedframe, above which posters of your favorite bands and writers hung — Audre Lorde, Led Zeppelin, James Baldwin, Khruangbin. Across from your bed, there was an almost bulky yet fitting antique dresser. On top of it sat a 1935 Remington typewriter. In the corner, a leather armchair sitting beneath a scallop shade floor lamp, accented by a magnificent bookshelf behind it that was positively full. A desk, scattered with papers and pens and a pair of glasses, yet still tidy. And a vanity, where Art imagined you’d been just a moment before he came in.  And dim, yet comforting lighting. 

“Wow,” Art couldn’t help himself — he truly was an admirer of the details, the little things. And clearly, so were you. It had gotten you this far. He sauntered over to the typewriter on your desk, fiddling with the keys just a bit and tapping the top. You giggled at his nerdy lopsided smile. “This is sick.”

You smiled, placing two hands on your hips, beaming like a proud parent,

“She doesn’t work, but she’s beautiful. That’s honestly my most prized possession.”

Art grinned, truly touched. He turned to face you straight on, feet away from where you stood at the bed. 

“I’m so proud of you, you know.”

The veritas in his voice rendered you bashful for just a moment, looking down and huffing an almost dismissive laugh,

“C’mon, Art, don’t go all soft on me now.” 

Art rose to his own defense,

“I’m serious, YN! Look what you’ve done for yourself… I mean, I couldn’t expect any less, though.”

You waved your hand with a cheeky eye roll, and he started walking towards you, his footsteps causing the floor beneath to creak slightly. It was almost suspenseful, but you weren’t intimidated or in danger, just deeply intrigued and honestly, excited. You watched him, positively ensnared, as he closed the distance between the two of you.  

He took two of your hands in his own like he was putting his life into your hands. That charming smile of his reared its head, accompanied by his blue-brown eyes, sparkling and wet and smiling too,

“We both are, you know. Proud of you.”

You smiled, genuinely at first. Then, it flickered. By the way he faltered momentarily, losing grip of the power trip that he dove into headfirst, you could tell he noticed. Your genuine smile turned slightly smug. 

“Both of you? Why is Patrick not here, then, telling me how proud he is?”

Art did his best to keep smiling smoothly, cocking his head to the side slightly as if to say what can you do? 

“He’s asleep.”

“Right… it is like, one AM. I’m surprised you’re even up, or that you assumed I would be," you kept on prodding.

“Hmm,” he smirked. He shrugged all too casually, so much so that it was cocky. “Guess I’m not that tired.”

“Mmm,” you hummed, nodding sympathetically. 

The both of you relished in this little game you were playing, a game of so few words but oh so much meaning. You held his gaze for just a moment longer, watching as his flickered from your eyes to your lips and back up. Then you sat down wordlessly onto your bed, never tearing your eyes away from his. You patted the spot next to you, and he followed, taking a deep breath that never seemed to exhale. You were sealing his fate in this one moment. 

“I spend a lot of my time holed up in here. That’s why I make it as peaceful as I possibly can. Beautiful too, but not too beautiful. Otherwise, I’d just be distracted and a bit disgusted,” you chuckled at the end.

“Beautiful. Right,” Art replied, his gaze burning a hole into you.

A beat. 

“So what’d you wanna talk about, Art?” 

He knew he couldn’t be imagining the dulcet innocence in your voice that suggested anything but innocence all the same, nor the flicker of desire in your inquiring, wide eyes. All of it, combined with the slight pout on your lips, seemed to come together to create a face that was almost begging. His entire body softened. His eyes went heavy with the confession that was his utter, depraved need to have you. He slowly pulled his bottom lip into his mouth with his tongue and blinked slowly, seemingly unaware of the fact that he was leaning in more and more with every passing millisecond. You stayed put where you were, wanting him to chase you through and through. You kept that poker face, like you didn’t feel your heart racing too. As his face inched closer to yours, his hands started to roam as well, and you stifled a whimpery breath at the touch of those hands against your bare skin. For some reason, you’d always thought he’d have such baby-soft hands, but they were rough and calloused from the weight of the tennis racket that was forever stationed between them. It only made the touch that much better, made you realize how long you’d been waiting for this, his rough hands seeping into your skin like a scar of age. 

“I don’t wanna talk,” he finally said, his voice lilted with need, and his lips nearly flush against yours. 

Finally, he closed the gap between your lips. The kiss was slow and languid, but not for lack of passion. Years of distance would do that, would amplify the mutual pining. You thought, in this interaction that you knew would happen with one or the two of them, that you might be more calm and collected, still wearing that disguise of cool nonchalance, but you were on fire. Your hands were quick to wander as well, up to his face, gripping his jaw, one traveling up to his hair and finding itself tucked beneath the tufts of slight curls. And then his hands were traveling up from your knees to your thighs, to your waist, practically glued to the expensive fabric. The room was silent bar for the sound of the two of you panting like crazed virgins, and the wet sounds of your kissing. 

You needed to gain control back, and quickly. So you pulled away, putting on your best smirk. Deep down, you felt like Art knew it was an act, like he was looking right through you. But at the same time, you knew he was far too ecstatic and anticipatory to call it out or really even notice it in full. And besides, you didn’t care. It was you who held all the glory, both back then and especially now. 

“You two place a bet or something? That was quick.”

Art was still breathing heavily, gazing at you like you were the solution to all his problems. His hands were still roaming widely, like your body was an expanse of wild land, his hands gripping your shoulders and caressing your arms up and down. The confidence boost in him was visible and almost amusing. 

“No bets… but Patrick was saying…”

“What was he saying, hmm?” you placed a hand on his chest and caressed the warmth there. “Why’d you come here, Art? Thought you should close the gap, huh? Answer the age-old question? Wanting to prove yourself?”

You slipped your hand between his legs, grasping the meat of his inner thigh and glaring into his eyes. You felt how he stilled, how his confidence stuttered. Both because he’d been called out, and because if he wasn’t hard before, he was raging now. 

“No…” you squeezed his thigh, your hand ghosting over the erection that sat directly above it, forcing the truth out of him with your touch. He shuddered. “Maybe. Yeah, fuck. Yes. I-I wanted to prove myself.”

“Yeah?” you murmured, slinking towards him like a black cat. You placed one leg over his lap, straddling him. Positioning yourself so your clothed cunt was directly over his erection, which dared to rip through both his boxers and his shorts. You rolled your hips over his cock gently, just once. “This helping you prove yourself?”

You pushed him back, back, back, until his head rested firm on the pillow and you were directly above him, the shape of your entire body clear to him as you straddled him on your bed. He couldn’t speak, only stare up at you in awe, his heavy breaths loud and desperate. You only stayed like this on top of him for a minute before you shimmied down until you were at face level with his crotch. You let your hands explore the expanse of his chest and stomach over his white t-shirt, and then took the bottom of it in your mouth, pulling it up with your teeth in a motion so effortless and tigress-like that Art nearly came on the spot.

“Hmm?” you probed him to answer the question with a demanding hum, the soft fabric of his t-shirt still in between your teeth, gazing up at him from beneath wispy lashes. You let go once he was decently exposed, his tight stomach rising and falling frantically. 

“Fuck, yes,” he rattled, his hips bucking up involuntarily. 

You pushed his hips back down immediately and like a reflex, he started to apologize,

“Sorry, I’m sorry.” 

You ignored him and instead, you practically ripped the shorts off of him and started to palm him through his boxers, admiring the way his cock twitched and jumped beneath the small of your hand. You were attentive, watching as precum started to leak from his tip onto his boxers. You tsked.

“We’ll have to get someone to wash those.”

He squirmed and swallowed a wild grunt in his throat. His head was fully thrown back like he was in the most immense pleasure of his life, and you hadn’t even really started yet. You ground the part of your hand just above your wrist over his erection before peeling his boxers off. You watched as his cock sprung up in the air, thick and red and leaking. A tuft of strawberry blonde hair sat at his mound, but he was still put together. You sat up just a bit so you could place your hand on his cheek lovingly. 

“Look at me, Artie.”

Your voice was so enchanting and soft that he almost forgot you were fucking his entire mind up, and he opened his eyes and looked down at you with the shaft of his cock enclosed in your hand. 

“Fuck,” he huffed, resisting the urge to throw his head back again. 

You maintained eye contact with him as you circled your finger over his wet, pleading tip, spreading the leaking precum around the head of his dick. He glanced away from you and looked at what you were doing, causing his eyes to roll back in his head. It was taking everything in him not to give in completely, and not to cum. 

“No- no - I… I wanna make you feel good first. Please.”

Something in Art’s voice nearly made your heart drop — the wholehearted desperation and earnestness in it. It also made your pussy throb around nothing. The whole night Patrick and Art had been desperate, but now it was like you were finally seeing the extent of it. It was somehow endearing, a reminder of the love between all three of you. Art had always been a giver, and he sought out praise any place he could get it. It came as no surprise to you that he was the same now, but still, it made you indescribably horny. 

You hardly realized you hadn’t responded. That wasn’t supposed to be part of your act, but Art was still pleading all the same,

“Can I? Can I just… taste you or — f-feel you, I-”

You kept your wrist moving in slow and controlled motions up and down his shaft, studying his face as you did: the way his eyes fluttered open and closed with a pleasured squeeze, his mouth perpetually open in gratification.

“It’s so fun watching you fall apart, though,” you replied, but you found yourself working your way up anyway, sneaking your legs up his body like a snake, one on either side of him. 

He grasped onto your hips immediately, groaning at just the sight of you. The moonlight shone through the windows and brightened up the darkness of your room, illuminating your features and painting you under something like a spotlight. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, looking at you with hooded eyes. You steadied yourself, your hand reaching out to grab the bedframe and one of his hands gripped the fleshy underside of your thigh to help you. The more you inched up, the more he could see up the slip, catching a glimpse of your cotton panties, cream-colored with a tiny black bow in the middle. The print of your cunt through them was like an outline, a map to promised land. He sucked in a breath, almost like he was in pain. Your necklace dangled just inches away from your neck, like it was teasing him too.

 “Wanna taste me?” you asked teasingly, lifting your hips above his face and hovering there, forcing him to tilt his head back and look up directly at your cunt, still hidden beneath your panties. You rolled your hips, letting your clit brush against the tip of his nose. He was enamored by the scent, had to physically stop himself from taking a deep sniff. “Hmm?”

“Yes, please, fuck,” he groaned, slightly arching his back up off the mattress just to get closer to you. “Please.”

He pressed a closed-mouth kiss to your clothed cunt, his eyes closed. It was such a gentle, delicate touch that you almost wouldn’t have believed how desperate he was if it weren’t for the longwinded moan that involuntarily escaped his lips when he made contact with your core. You bit down on your lip, breathing out from your nose, and started to grind your hips against his face. He kept kissing at your cunt over and over until it was almost indiscernible what was fabric and what was flesh— your panties had gotten so wet from his mouth and your slick. The wet trace made the friction unbearable, and your pussy throbbed through the fabric onto his face. 

Through a mouthful, Art mewled,

“You taste so good. Please let me eat this pussy.”

This time, his lips peppered kisses around your inner thighs, soft but quick touches, taking in your musk. You decided to stop torturing him, that enough was enough. You lifted yourself up just a bit, and pushed up your slip. You were about to reach your hand down when you stopped and cocked your head with a smirk. 

“Go on, then,” you said. Softly, like it was a suggestion more than it was a command. And Art took it in perfect stride. 

He practically ripped your underwear off, pushing them to the side with a brute swipe of his hand that contrasted wildly with the gentle kisses he had given you before. Literally pushing your panties to the side. He looked for a second, eyes glazed over at the sight in front of him, taking in the sight of your dripping pussy. It looked so warm and wet and inviting, if he weren’t a better man he would’ve had to force himself not to bury his dick inside of you. When he felt he’d gotten a good look of it, savored the moment just enough, he wrapped his arms around your waist, smashing your cunt against his face. His mouth connected with your folds and you felt him sucking vehemently, before slipping his tongue in between your slit, pressing the tip of it against you. You cried out as he collected all the slick from your weeping center, keeping a hand on your stomach to stabilize himself, the other against your asscheek, squeezing every now and then. 

“Oh,” you moaned, immediately starting to grind your pussy against his tongue, your clit once again nudging his nose each time you moved up. Art kept up, positioning the tip of his tongue just right so you rode it each time you wound up, applying just the right amount of pressure. “Yes, Art, just like that.”

“Mm-hm,” he hummed, the vibrations causing you to clench over his face and around the tip of his tongue. Then he flattened his tongue so he could capture the entire surface of your cunt. This time the grip on your ass grew stronger, and soon enough both his hands were squeezing your ass, supplementing your movements. You kept the time you wanted, Art just assisted you in rolling up. You honestly needed it, the way your thighs were starting to shake. 

Art hummed satisfactorily again, enclosing his lips around your clit and suctioning, keeping his tongue out just enough so you could feel both sensations. You nearly squealed, your hand flinging down to push your panties out the way even more. Your back arched in pleasure, creating a whole new angle for Art to lick at and please. His fingers pressed deep into the flesh of your ass, like he was leaving some imprint. Now it was you writhing and moaning, but Art never forgot who was in control. That is, until he took firm grasp of your hips and used that to flip you over so that you were on your back. It was like he never lost contact with your pussy, diving right back down before you could even register what had happened. He yanked your panties all the way down and threw them over his shoulder. 

“Take your shirt off, baby,” you panted. 

He obliged, throwing his shirt off too, and then leaning back in so he could get to work. His arms wrapped around the inside part of your thighs, spreading you apart for him. Before you even felt his mouth, you moaned at the sight of his back and shoulder muscles flexing as he worked. He placed sloppy kisses against your inner thighs and kissed closer and closer to your mound until finally, he was wrapping his lips around your clit once again, using what he could of his tongue to lap up your juices at the same time. You were nearly trembling in pleasure, your hand flying to the back of his head to keep him secure where he belonged. He moaned in response, and you squeezed tufts of his strawberry-blond hair. 

“That’s it, I want you to feel good. Make yourself feel good for me,” he murmured, his nose buried in your cunt, eyes closed in satisfaction and concentration. You glanced down to see that he was grinding his hips ever so subtly into the bed — getting off by getting you off, and you threw your head back. 

“Mhmm. So good, Art, you’re so good.”

This seemed to set him off into a frenzy as he placed open-mouth kisses against your pussy, kissing it like it was a mouth. His tongue lapped you up and sucked you in, making precise, timed movements with the close of his lips around your clitoris. He used his hands to gently push your legs back so they were angled slightly in the air, the new angle causing you to whine. He angled his neck ever so slightly so he was licking the lips, a slender finger prodding at your wet, tight entrance.

“This okay?” he asked, just dipping the pad of his finger in and opening his eyes to look up at you, as if you weren’t lost in your own world of pleasure, eyes shut tight. You opened them momentarily, looking down at what he was doing, the sight of his face engulfed in your pussy and his finger slipping up and down your slit now. You could only manage a moan along with a strangled nod, and he obliged, sliding a slender finger inside of you. Your pussy stretched and then collapsed around his finger, suctioning in like a glove, and now he used his tongue and lips to go from your lips to your clit, all spit and drool and your arousal as he worked his finger inside of you. 

“Fuck,” a strangled grunt left your throat, your pussy tightening around his finger, which made him moan in response. “Art, fuck. I’m getting close.”

“Yeah?” he replied, muffled as it was. He slipped another finger inside of you with ease, wishing he could watch as he felt your pussy sucking him in greedily. Now the slow thrusts of his fingers became more forceful, pushing deep inside of your walls. You nearly screamed at the addition of his finger and the way he curled them inside each time they came to a stop inside of you. 

“Y-yes, fuck, just like that, Art, don’t stop.”

He moaned something incomprehensible, or maybe it was a groan mixed with a sigh, as he continued the expert deft movement of his fingers inside of you and mouth against you, bringing you to rock your hips against his face. You were muttering to yourself now: “so close”, “gonna come” until his fingers finally hit that sacred spot, his lips closed just right around your clit, spit drooling from his mouth, and you fell apart. That devastating feeling peaked in your stomach as Art brought you to your high and you gushed around his fingers and into his mouth. Your moans were girlish and deliciously sweet, momentarily wiping away that facade you’d been playing so good at all night. 

“Fuck, I’m coming!” it was like you were announcing it to yourself, squeezing your legs around his head and practically clamping down on his hair with your hand as you released. He helped you ride out that high, not stopping, but slowing his fingers and easing his lips against your pussy to keep you grounded. 

When you’d finally caught your breath, Art pulled back, his chin and cheeks absolutely soaked.  

“You taste so fucking good, YN,” he said it like it was a fact of life, as simple as “the sky is blue,” trying to ignore the fact that his load was prone to explode any second now. 

“C’mere, I wanna taste,” you implored. Shakily, he pulled himself up and above you, letting you cradle him in your arms, one around his back and the other cupping the nape of his neck, as you captured him in an open-mouthed, sloppy, slow kiss. You could feel his cock sticking out of his boxers and poking your leg and in one swift movement you slipped your hand between the two of you and pulled him out, your hand wrapping around him. He couldn’t help but take notice of how your hand fit him perfectly, like a glove. 

His hips started to stutter, quite literally, he nearly fell on top of you, gasping desperately.

“Fuck,” he drawled slowly, lips still brushed against yours, pinching his eyes closed. “T-this is s-so—”

He spoke between full-body twitches and spasms of his cock. You pouted slightly, running your fingers through his hair,

“Use your words, Artie. Whatsa matter?”

He chuckled, hanging his head low and shaking it slowly,

“It’s just I’m so — fuck,” his words morphed into a whine when you used your finger to circle around his tip, which was positively leaking with precum. “I… I’m so sensitive right now. I’ve been trying not to come for like thirty minutes.”

You both laughed, genuinely amused. 

“You wanna come?” you entreated, gazing at him with a look that almost resembled concern. 

His smile dropped as his face morphed into that of desperation, that of need, and he nodded earnestly,

“Yes, please. Please make me come, YN. Make me come h-however you want me to.”

“Yeah?” you implored, the palm of your hand closing over his tip to gather slick and then spreading it all down his shaft. “Want you to look at me while you come. Can you do that for me?”

Art felt pressure building in his chest as his breaths grew more and more erratic and he forced himself to look you in the eyes, responding with an affirmative albeit strangled whimper that was supposed to resemble the word “yes.” You rewarded him by stroking him faster now, your hand a tight grip around his shaft, the sound of his wet skin and your open hand slapping against his balls overwhelmingly lewd. His eyes fluttered closed for just a minute, and his head cocked to the right, his mouth opening while no sound came out. His eyes rolled back in his head, and his hips started to buck up into your hand, supplementing your strokes. 

“F-fuck, YN, that’s– fucking incredible, Jesus Christ. Please, I’m gonna–” he stammered, looking up at you like he was pleading with you. You simply returned his gaze and smiled, that warm, all-knowing smile of yours, and he fell apart. His entire body, hot to the touch, seemed to shake uncontrollably as he burst, thick ropes of cum spilling out of him and splashing onto your hands and your thighs. 

“Fuck!” he whined almost pathetically, his hips faltering to an unsteady stop as he released.

You kept your hand there, slowing to languid, gentle strokes as he rode out his high until you were sure he’d emptied the last of his cum in the crease between your thigh and hip. He tried his best not to collapse on top of you, but you knew he was weak. 

“It’s okay,” you reassured him, and he fell on top of you with a limp thud, groaning as he buried his face in your chest. 

The two of you lay there catching your breaths, sweaty and hot to the touch. When Art finally got up, he laid next to you on his side. His face was red, and not just because of the exertion. 

“Fuck. I’m so sorry, I-I don’t know what came over me, probably crushed you,” he laughed apologetically.

You replied by using two fingers to gather what you could of his cum, smiling writhely as you licked them clean. He watched intently, absolutely enraptured. You did it again, reaching down to your thigh and gathering up his cum. This time, your fingers prodded at his lips. He nearly rattled with arousal. Easily, he obliged, opening ever so slightly, and wrapping his lips around your fingers, sucking the taste of himself clean off. You smiled at him admiringly. He couldn't help but laugh around your fingers,

"Fuck, that's so hot. I'm so sorry."

“Don’t apologize. You did so well.”

Suddenly, Art sat up. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?”

You giggled, your eyes twinkling as you looked up at him, amused by this sudden display of responsibility. 

“Do I seem that fragile?” you teased.

“Oh, on the contrary. I just, I don’t know. Aftercare is important.”

So you spend the next half hour being doted on by Art as he soaped down your body in the tub. It’s the most intimate you had been the entire night, and he realized now that this was the most detailed he’d seen your body. He wanted you like this forever, being carefully pampered under his adoration, gazed upon by his eyes only. For a moment, you worried that this was somehow crossing a line, but you swallowed those thoughts just as quickly as they surfaced. The line had already been crossed when you reached out to them. Sure, you wanted to see how your two favorite white boys were doing, and you were excited to rekindle the friendship that had molded your life for so long. 

But like Art walking to your door, you knew what it was that you wanted, and you knew that you were opening up a can of worms. Besides, you really did love Art, and you loved Patrick too. It was the sort of platonic love that could only be understood by people who had been friends as long as the three of you had. The kind of love that was still there for the taking years later. It didn’t need constant stoking to keep the flame. So, neither of you made this routine— this gentle touch in the water, loofah running across your back and Art’s fingers digging into your shoulders to loosen you up — a big deal. 

By the time the water drained, you were absolutely zonked. You didn’t realize how late it was and just how much energy the whole ordeal had taken out of you. Your orgasm was so strong you were surpised you didn’t fall asleep then and there. Art used a towel to dry you off and had to practically carry you to your bed. He was lucky you didn’t see the shit eating, self-satisfied grin on his face — he liked being a caregiver, and throughout all the years that you had been friends, it was rare that you ever let him take care of you like this. 

You threw the sheets over yourself, lashes batting as you looked over at Art, who was kneeling on the floor next to you, at face level with you. He was smiling so wholesomely that you couldn’t help but reach your hand out and stroke his face, your thumb resting on his sharp jaw.

“You’re good to me, Art. You both are. I really did miss you two. I keep saying it but I want you to know it’s true. Didn’t just invite you guys here to live out some old fantasy.”

“I missed you so much,” Art could melt from the touch of your hand on his cheek. He tilted his head slightly to kiss your fingers gently, cupping your hand over his. “I know you, YN. You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

You yawned,

“I’ve been a rotten friend, though. Don’t know what took me so long to invite you guys to one of these. I thought about it every year, but decided against it every ime.”

Art waved his hand, shaking his head in dismissal of your comments,

“You’re a perfect friend. We’re the rotten ones.”

“See? You’re just the sweetest,” you grinned, your eyes sparkling. “I’d let you sleep with me, but—”

“Patrick,” he concluded.

“Don’t want him to be mad you didn’t tuck him in,” you giggled. 

In the back of Art’s mind, he wondered if it would’ve gone the same way if Patrick had been the one to knock on your door. He knew it would, but it was nice to pretend that it was something he had to think about. He wondered what you would’ve done if they’d both shown up. Almost laughed to himself at how little self-control he had, while you were like a rock. 

“He’s asleep anyway, but I should be there in the morning so things aren’t weird… things won’t be weird, will they?”

You shook your head, though some part of you knew that Patrick would even out the scorecard soon enough. He always did, competitor that he was. He was so hard to resist, and it’s not like you were resisting him very much in the first place — you’d invited the both of them, it was just a quirk that Art had been the one to do it first. You’d half expected Patrick to show up by himself, if it wasn’t the two of them. But one thing about Art was that he wasn’t some stick in the mud — he could be a wild card, and if he was anything like that ball of energy he was back in high school, you knew he could get shit done. 

“It could never be weird. It’s us,” you replied with certainty. 

Art leaned in, pressing his lips against yours in a soft kiss. 

“Go back to bed, Artie. I’ll see you at breakfast,” you grinned. 

“Goodnight,” he crooned. 

“Goodnight,” you replied. 

He stood up and walked out the room, though part of him was longing to stay there for just a bit longer, if not the whole night. But he knew this was just a one-time thing, just a way to let out that pent-up tension. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t already thinking about showing up to your door tonight, and the next night, spending each warm summer night here buried inside of you, pulling his name from your mouth in pleasured sobs, making you come undone with his fingers once again. But, dutiful as he was, he walked back to their room, careful not to make a sound as he pulled off his shirt and stepped back into bed— staring up at the ceiling while he replayed moments over again in his mind. Like high school all over again.