#I should try to draw him again but I just really really want to focus on my ocs tbh | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

k-hotchoisan · 5 months

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mmmmmm been thinkin abt photographer!san right nd he is know for his boudoir photography but his latest client’s got him in a chokehold like god how is she so fuckin sexy nd he can’t focus at all bc fuck all he wants to do is fuck her senseless— HELP

Your wish is my command Angel! Thank you for being patient 😘

As always, enjoy 🩷

snap.

Synopsis: encouraged by your friend, you give boudoir photography a try after recovering from a break up, you find yourself doing more than just be a model.

Genres/warnings: smut, boudoir photographer!San x model!reader, sexual tension, unprotected sex, cream pies, mention of oral

Taglist: @bro-atz @diamond-3 @mcarebearsstuff @choisansplushie @voicesinmyhead-rc @pre1ttyies

“Boudoir photography?” You reiterate. Your friend nods.

“A friend of a friend of a friend tried it recently and apparently she’s been full of confidence. Her boyfriend adores it too!” Your friend squeals.

You scrunch your eyebrows, wondering how semi-nude photos taken by a professional photographer in this niche would boost one’s confidence.

Your friend’s eyes dart to you again, and then your phone pings. You look at the link your friend sent you. It’s a referral code for a promotion. You turn to her, gaze still dripping with skepticism.

“Come on, just try it. You’re a lovely person and you deserve to see it for yourself! Boudoir photography might really help at not being constantly self critical.”

You weren’t an entirely insecure person, and you were sure of that. It’s just that, after the rough break up with your ex, and seeing them move on instantly (like two fuckin weeks) with a new partner, undoubtedly was a gut punch to your self esteem, while you were still stuck grieving over the lost relationship and wasted time.

You’ve heard of boudoir photography, but you’ve never actually understood the concept of it, considering that it was niche, and that you don’t really know the point of it. You glance down at the referral link before deciding to just fuck it and sign up.

San is working overtime again, meticulously editing and touching up the photos. It’s become a natural part of him to almost be a perfectionist, whether when on the ground taking photos of the model or the post editing process. But he never loses the sight of letting the women shine naturally through their photos. After all, in such a niche market, they picked him. Definitely, he has his mix of male boudoir models, but the women evidently take up a higher ratio. He understands that one of the most important aspects of boudoir photography is trust and comfort with his models, which has them coming back for more sessions, sometimes even with their partners.

Setting up his own business in such a niche market was difficult of course, and he’s grateful that he’s managed to make a name for himself. But sometimes he’s grateful that his good looks are an added bonus to drawing in his clients.

His email pings and it makes him pause his work. Maybe he should finish it tomorrow. San glances at the fresh email that sits in his inbox.

An appointment via referral.

He opens it, and looks through the client’s information. At the bottom box for comments, sits a short question.

[Just wondering, what should I expect for my appointment? Is there anything I should prepare?]

He takes a moment before he drafts a reply.

[Hey there! Nice to meet you. I’m Choi San, boudoir photographer of Woodie’s Studios. First of all, thank you for choosing our studio for your boudoir experience!

Regarding your question, come in with an open mind. For what to wear, you may bring a set of clothes/lingerie of whatever you feel confident in.

I don’t bite, I promise!]

He reads the reply a second time before he hits send. It’s not as if it’s the first time he’s gotten questions like these anyway. His train of concentration is broken, so he decides to call it a night.

You reach the opaque door of a clean-looking studio apartment. The sign has San’s studio name and logo imprinted on it, so you’re sure that you are at the right location.

You press the door bell and it chimes a lovely tune. There is a quiet pause, before the door handle clicks and the door itself pulls back. Before you stood a really, no, an insanely good looking, tall male. His glasses rest loosely on the bridge of his nose as his small eyes meet yours. His brunette hair is slightly messy. He wears an expression of confusion at first, but it turns into something unreadable. You think for a spilt second that he may have gotten the wrong client, but your rationale reminds you that you did send him photos of yourself so he’s able to recognise you. You blink once, then twice because you were starting to get lost at how handsome your photographer was.

“Choi San..?” you say, with a small tilt of your head.

Then it’s his turn to blink, and he snaps out of that small trance he seemed to be caught in for a few seconds. Then a smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he greets you.

“Hey! Y/n right? Sorry, was tryna recognise you. I promise I don’t usually take that long to process”, he chuckles, pulling the door wider as he ushers you in, reminding you to switch out your shoes for the apartment slippers.

The hallway San brings you down is brightly lit and spilt into a couple of sections which you assumed one of them would be the photo studio itself. A couple of posters of pin up girls hang on the walls, all of them beautiful and stunning.

He then stops at a glass door and pushes it, to what you assumed to be his office.

“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll get you a cup of tea. Any preferences?”, he gestures. You shake your head as you let yourself sink into the velvet couch, gingerly leaving your bag of clothing beside you. San gives a polite nod and excuses himself to the pantry.

And the moment the door shuts behind him, he tears his glasses off the bridge of his nose and hooks the branch onto his collar.

His hand is placed over his heart.

San has photographed many different women over the course of his career, some breathtakingly beautiful. But none has ever made his heart skip a beat and caused his words to be stuck at the back of his throat, not like you did. He doesn’t know what has gotten into him. It wasn’t like he didn’t know how you looked like—the pictures you sent served that purpose. Maybe it was the fact that he never expected you to look like that in real life, and for once, he almost doesn’t know how to react. His thoughts are all over the place as he paces into the pantry to prepare your tea. As he’s dipping the tea bag into the piping hot water, he begins feeling self conscious—was his hair too shrivelled? Did he smell bad? Was there something on his face? He tightens his grip on the mug and hastily makes his way back to his office.

San returns, with a smile on his face as he settles the cup onto the coffee table before you, and he joins you, seated on a velvet armchair across you.

“Take your time”, he reassures. “We can start after this, if you’re feeling comfortable, or we can just talk a little to ease your nerves.” It doesn’t take you much to think—you opt for the latter of course.

San laughs and nods. “I get that a lot, especially from first time female clients. It’s valid of course, having a male being your photographer for boudoir can sound off-putting. Perhaps looking at my portfolio might put you slightly at ease?” He reaches out for a large and thick leather-bound photo album. You let it rest on your lap as you receive it with a soft “thank you”, and flip the album open, and you’re instantly awestruck—San’s work spoke for himself. The models were diverse, both in nationalities and body shapes, all equally stunning and sensual in their own expressive ways. The only common denominator was the glint of genuine emotion and confidence reflected in their eyes.

You wonder to yourself—could you look and feel as confident as them? As you skim through the pictures, you feel yourself falling in love with the models as well—their genuine smiles when they do and the gazes they give.

When San catches himself staring at you being absorbed in admiring his portfolios, he feels his cheeks flush and he looks down, wondering what you think of it all.

“I see why you have so many clients. The pictures are gorgeous”, you say, shutting the photo album and handing it back to him. San flashes a sheepish smile and mutters a “thank you” loud enough for you to hear. The silence in the room remains a for awhile as you sip the tea, letting it calm your nerves. You don’t even know it but the person with actual jittery nerves was San himself, a feeling that he never expected to feel since the last time he did was when he started out this business three years ago.

“So… what’s the goal of being a boudoir model, if you don’t mind me asking? Like was it a long time thing you wanted to try or was it something spontaneous?” He asks to break the silence.

“I broke up with my ex recently”, you respond curtly, before taking another sip of the tea. Damn, this is some good ass tea. San blinks at your reply, unsure of what to make out of the bluntness. Before he attempts to reply, you continue, “and my friend sent me a referral to your studio, and I thought to myself, why not? I want to feel confident in my own skin. Also, I think it’s an interesting way of self exploration.” Your gaze meets his, and it’s his turn to look awestruck. You try to ignore the flutter in your chest when he laughs softly, when his smile reaches his eyes. It’s the way that he’s confident of his craft, and it’s making you warm up to him even more.

Your fingertips tap on the mug softly. Your gaze lands on the photobook once more.

“Does taking such risqué pictures affect you when you first started out?” You ask before taking another sip. San ponders about the question for awhile. He has people asking him that before, but for some reason, he wants to be slightly more transparent with you.

“I don’t see about my clients in a sexual way, even if they physically look appealing to me. In the end, self confidence and comfort always comes first, and I think that’s what I enjoy seeing in my clients when they become more comfortable in their own skin. People don’t understand how difficult it is to fully love yourself”, he replies.

That’s when you understand why San’s photography studio had so many recurring clients.

“Why boudoir? I think sensuality and intimacy is a form of art. It’s beautiful—watching people discover parts of themselves they never knew existed and falling in love. You don’t have to be conventionally attractive to be a boudoir model.

The money’s good, of course, but the satisfaction of watching my clients giving me feedback of them realising they deserve to love themselves more, or discovering other sides of themselves is nothing short of rewarding.”

By the time he’s done explaining, you feel a rush of confidence in yourself. It’s only been about ten minutes since the both of you just sat and talked, but you see that he definitely prioritises your comfort before he even begins the sessions. You ball your fingers into a fist, meeting San’s gaze with determination, telling him, “I think I’m ready.”

San’s eyes brighten up. “Great! You can use the bathroom to the left, and I’ll meet you at the photo studio just opposite the office.” He stands up, opening the door for you, and you bow slightly in courtesy as you head to the washroom to change. San’s heart beats faster, wondering what you’re gonna wear for the shoot.

San is fixing the sheets of the bed, then the studio lights at the perfect angle he wants it to be. His heart is still racing as he walks over to the tripod, glancing over at the door from time to time, awaiting for your arrival.

He perks up when he sees you walk in with a bathrobe on and he greets you cheerfully again, trying to hide his excitement.

You wave back with a smile, letting the environment of the photo studio sink in. The basic package for first timers consisted of a bed shoot, so it’s no surprise you see a bed in the middle of the room, covered in white. The bed looks comfy and you giggle to yourself, wondering if you’d end up falling asleep mid-shoot from how nice the bed looks.

“Anytime you’re ready”, San reminds you, carrying the tripod in one hand, his biceps flexing as he does, and it makes you blush slightly, which was ridiculous. Why are you swooning over your handsome photographer carrying the tripod with one arm? Suddenly you’re self conscious again, your fingers clutching against the black bathrobe. It was frustrating that you couldn’t pinpoint exactly what was making you nervous, but you weren’t about to back out.

San continues to adjust his camera on the tripod, and his gaze absentmindedly shifts towards you, and his breath gets stuck in his throat, watching you undress from the bathrobe, revealing a white button up over black lace lingerie. It’s not anything new, but for some reason he can’t seem to tear his eyes off you—the way the panties hugs your hips and the bra cups your breasts, the garter belt hugging your waist and the straps hanging past your panties. He watches you climb onto the bed, eyes shutting briefly as you sink into the mattress with a soft smile.

He’s not confident that he’s able to last through the shoot, not when you’re looking like that.

“Is it too cold here?” San asks, trying to divert his attention from his perverse thoughts. You pop up from the sheets, the collars of the shirt slipping past your shoulders, obviously too big for you. That does nothing to help him with his thoughts.

“No, I think the temperature’s okay. Shall we get started?” You ask, buttoning up your shirt, the white material pathetically sheer that San is able to see the black bra peeking through.

The sight of you in an oversized shirt on, with no pants, just your underwear on is like a meal for San’s eyes. He hides behind the camera to hide his flushing cheeks, only to face your body through the viewfinder, watching you preparing to pose as you position yourself at the end of the bed, turning your body slightly to the side with one leg up, your thighs in full view, with the sleeves of the shirt covering most of your fingers, and your gaze right into the camera lens.

San takes a deep breath. Forty five minutes. He can do this.

“Sure. Ready whenever you are, y/n.”

It turns out to be a very agonising forty five minutes. While the both of you were cracking jokes during the shoot, San finds himself getting more distracted when you gradually remove your shirt, and when your poses grow ever more risqué—at one point you remove your bra and fit your shirt over again, which definitely made San grow very restless when he’s unable to tear his eyes away from your bare chest.

Midway through the shoot, all that swarms his mind is wondering how your body would feel against his, how your bare skin would feel under his hands, what kind of faces you would make when you’re under him.

What kind of noises you would make for him when he fits his cock right into you. He wants to fuck you so hard that your mind goes blank—so good that you’ll never remember your ex.

San blinks, his finger still on the shutter button. He doesn’t know what washed over him, but what he does know is the taut feeling in his pants, and he internally heaves a sigh of relief that he decided to wear cargo pants. Nonetheless, he hopes that it isn’t obvious. Well, it shouldn’t be, as long as you don’t ask for close up shots.

“San! Could you come closer for my close ups?” You call out, letting the collar of your shirt fall off your shoulder once more, revealing your bare shoulders, and reminding him that you were still braless underneath the loose clothing article.

Fuck.

San forces a smile, unlatching his camera and trying to walk normally without letting his erection steal your attention.

He reaches to where you are, reminding himself to stay professional, but when he meets your playful gaze, all he wants to do is pin you down. Your eyes twinkle with allure as you prepare your next pose. You get it now—the confidence that slowly trickles into you after every photo taken. You’ve never realised that you had this side of yourself, not until now, and you love it.

The close up shots only spell another layer of doom for San—he adores the budding confidence that you exude, but it makes it even harder for him to hold back, watching you make sultry expressions and poses close up. Through the viewfinder, his eyes try to focus on taking the photo but he finds himself being entranced by your stare. He counts down, then taking a few shots, not missing the growing smile you had.

San puts his camera away, reaching forward to your face to remove a stray hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear, and his touch is warm on your face. It’s then you realise how physically close San is to you—you smell his cologne and it leaves your mind blank for a spilt second. He’s absorbed in fixing your hair, combing the strays off your face, the sound of his quiet breathing the only thing you hear. You look away, wondering if your heartbeat is loud enough for him to hear, and you hope it isn’t. San gives you a soft smile when his eyes finally meet yours.

He pulls back, preparing to take his camera for the next shot, but his leg gets tangled in the sheets.

Everything happens in a spilt second—his knee that shifts forward at first, pressing against the sheet that has unknowingly tangled around his other leg, then San trying to get up quickly with the tangled leg, realising a little too late by the time he falls right onto the bed.

Right onto you.

He almost squishes you. Almost. But he lands above you, supported by his elbows just in time before his body is in contact with yours.

Your heart races, way too quick for you to even process what just occurred. All knew you was:

One; San is right above you,

Two; his lips are hovering over yours,

Three; you feel something pressing against your pelvis.

And San stares down at you, his heart beating in his ears. He takes in the sight of you below him—eyes looking up at him through fluttered lashes, your heat radiating against his skin, your lips slightly parted in surprise.

As well as the strain in his pants when his eyes instinctively lower to your bare chest, your nipples peeking through your shirt, and that his little problem is just resting right on you.

“I’m sorry”, San whispers, breaking the silence that had hung between the both of you. “This usually doesn’t happen…”

You crack an amused smile. “Usually?”you reiterate teasingly. A tint of red flushes San’s cheeks and his clothed erection presses harder against your bare skin, and it makes you bite your lip.

“Fuck. I mean, this never happens. It’s just.. I’ve never felt this way about my boudoir models…”, he trails off. “I think you’re fucking stunning since you entered the studio, and I think you’re even more stunning now.”

Your heart flutters at his confession and this time, you feel yourself blush. A soft laugh escapes from the male above you when he sees you avoid eye contact from the shyness. His strings of rationale—yelling at him to stay professional—is snapping. He’s not lying. He’s never felt so attracted to any of his models before, until you, and now that he has you trapped under him, he doesn’t want to lose that chance.

“Should we end the session here?” San asks, with a quick glance at your pretty red lips.

Your fingers are playing with the dangling silver chain that he wears. He lets you, waiting for your response before he catches your gaze dances back to meet his again. Your hands shift to caress San’s jaw, and he takes it as a sign to make his move. You inhale softly as you feel his lips press onto yours, and it makes your head spin with glee. He tastes so heavenly, and your legs clench at the feeling that flutters between your thighs.

San slightly presses his body weight onto you, his erection only growing harder against your thigh. But it looks like he’s taking his time.

His fingertips warm your skin, and he lets them slip up your body, until he’s at your chest, barely covered by the sheer cotton material. His thumbs grazes against your nipples, and you gasp in between open mouthed kisses. You feel him smile, and he applies pressure, and the sensation goes right to your pussy.

He pulls back, watching your lip stick smudged, and your eyes dilate. You can’t help but feel entranced by San, and now you’re wondering how his face would look like when he falls apart.

And it makes you excited.

San lulls you back from your thoughts when you feel his lips suck softly against your neck, and now your fingers are playing with his soft locks of hair.

He’s slightly embarrassed at the way he’s growing even harder when he gingerly peels the white shirt away. His hands cup your bare tits, and he lowers himself to your left tit, giving it a couple of hungry licks and sucks, leaving your back arching and your mouth agape from how ticklish his tongue feels as he flicks your nipple. He doesn’t neglect the other nipple, giving it the same attention as he relishes in the way you fall apart for him. When he has his fun of sucking and making sure your nipples swell while you moan and tug his hair, he pulls away.

He sits up, pulls his shirt over his head and you’re left drooling at how chiseled his body looks. San unbuttons his pants and yanks it off, alongside his boxers, and you watch with awe as his cock springs out—hard and heavy against his abdomen. Your panties are tugged off you in no time, and you don’t miss the way his cock twitches when his eyes land on your slick covered cunt.

“You’re gonna be the death of me”, you hear him mutter before he collides his lips against yours once more. You squeal when you feel his fingers press onto your clit, giving it small rubs, watching and soaking your reactions—your whines and whimpers. There is a dull buzz in your mind every time your bundle of nerves get stimulated, and it builds up in your tummy.

“Oh god, you’re getting even wetter”, he sighs, his fingers completely soaked.

“It feels good. So good. Keep doing that”, you whisper, your fingers pressing against his arm. Your moans only grow louder as San picks up the speed on rubbing your clit, and it’s sending you over the edge way quicker than you wanted to.

San lowers himself to your head, and his husky voice vibrates in your ears.

“That’s it, keep coming undone. Let your mind shut off. You look so fucking beautiful like that.”

“San, San, fuck. I’m gonna cum. Oh fuck-“

Your eyes roll back as your orgasm washes over you, your body tensing as pleasure becomes the only thing you know. You barely catch onto the dirty things San is telling you, but you know he’s encouraging you to cum on his fingers like a good girl.

He makes sure he has your orgasm drawn out as long as possible, your mind completely blown out at that point. San sucks off your arousal on his fingers, before giving his cock a few pumps.

“You taste like heaven, babe. I’ll get a taste of that cunt soon, but right now, I really can’t wait”, San huffs, trying to keep himself composed as he slowly fucks his hand.

“San, hurry up, please. I need you, so fucking bad”, you whine, your fingers pulling your wet folds open for him.

His breathing goes heavy at your words. “Damn, the shoot really got you heated,” San teases.

“I can’t help it if my photographer makes me wet”, you reply with a playful smile.

Something seems to snap in San when he hears that—all he’s thinking about is wanting to drive his cock so deep into you that your mind completely blanks out.

So that’s what he does.

San lines up his cock to your entrance and pushes and inch in. His eyes dart to your face, licking the bottom of his lip when he watches your face contort into pleasure. His hands stroke your thighs as he pushes in a couple more inches, soaking in your broken moans as he stretches you out. He forces himself to stay composed despite the fact that you’re squeezing him with your warm and soft walls.

He manages to bury himself right to the hilt and he gasps at how perfectly fitted his cock is in you, an uncontrollable moan escaping his lips when he feels you convulse around his cock.

“San, you’re so big. I’m so filled”, you whimper through glazed eyes, his cock completely cutting off other senses as your thighs tremble. A smile tugs at his lips.

“I’m gonna fuck you now, pretty”, San tells you. Despite that, he waits for your green signal before he pulls out and drives his cock right into you.

Your mind switches off the moment his cock is fucking your pussy, because that’s all that matters. It’s so good. So fucking good.

His hands slither to your wrists, and has them pinned over your head as his cock pistons into you. You swear he’s driving you to be cock dumb by the end of this, but not like you fucking minded anyway.

“Look at you. Growing stupid over my cock already. So fucking adorable.”

You only nod in reply, biting your lip as his cock continues to render you speechless. Now San has completely flooded into the smallest crooks of your mind. San has his mind blank, his eyes darting from your fucked out expression to your bouncing tits.

Your cunt flutters once again and tears are pooling at the corner of eyes. The sounds of wet skin slapping echo around the studio.

“…wanna touch you”, you mutter. Despite the face that you loved that he was holding you down, you are feeling desperate to feel his skin as you dance on the fence of your orgasm. San releases your wrists, and he props himself better as he continues to pound into you, hitting the soft, spongy spot over and over again when he has your legs folded. When his pulls out, his cock is covered in a creamy mess. His head spins and his ego inflates at the thought him being the one who drove you to this point of mind blanking pleasure.

“No, no, I’m gonna cum again. So good. San!” His name leaving your lips as a whine. Your hands are gripping onto the loose unbuttoned sleeves of your shirt. His hands take yours and places them on his on his sides, and he groans at the way you’re clawing him.

“Shit. Fuck!” San curses when you cream on his cock even more on top of your walls hugging him tightly. You let go on his cock with a pleasured sob, legs twitching.

It’s not long before a long drawn out moan San releases as his warm cum completely floods your tight hole. He swears he wants to keep his cock tucked in your pussy because it feels that fucking good.

His face—oh, his fucking face when he orgasms. You barely recover from your second orgasm to watch San fall apart while he empties in your pussy, and it almost drives you to your third orgasm. Almost.

The both of you remain still for a moment, only breathing filling in the silence. Then, San slowly pulls out, watching the way his cum leaks out of your abused hole.

San pulls back, and he realises that he’s never seen a more beautiful sight—you, splayed out in nude, only covered by a measly white shirt that inevitably drives him crazy, with cum leaking out of your pretty hole while your body twitches against the white sheets.

He thinks that it’s a pity that his camera is out of reach, because it’s such a beautiful shot.

You glance at San with a shy smile as he hands you your panties. He hooks the your legs into the panties and pulls it up to your hips. You feel another load stain your panties while your thighs twitch.

San dresses himself quickly and extends his arm for you to take as he leads you off the bed. He knows he’s got extra work to wash the sheets but that’s the least of his worries.

What throws you off is when he pulls you into his arms and kisses your temple.

“I promise I’ve never done to any of my clients”, he reiterates.

“Unprofessional”, you tease, your hands sneaking up his shirt.

“Can’t fucking help it. I never knew fucking an Angel in my studio would be this exhilarating. It makes the thought of washing the bedsheets bearable”, he teases back, letting his fingers tangle in your hair.

Your mind goes completely blank when he tells you to wash out the loads in you, so he’ll fill you up once more when he brings you home, which earns him a slap on the chest. He gestures you to go change up, watching the way you remove your shirt to reveal your bare back, and he makes a mental note to start fucking you from behind.

And back at his place, he does. His eyes are hyper focused on the way your ass bounces on his cock. A loud slap reverberates in his room followed by a whimper.

He stills in you, spilling his load once more into your abused cunt as you cream all over him once again.

Then he has you wrapped up in his arms, peppering you with kisses as you’re teetering off your high.

“Stay over, won’t you?”, San requests, tucking a lock of hair behind your ears. You’re beginning to feel completely enamoured by the male. You nod as you melt into his arms.

San thinks it’s ridiculous how hard and fast he fell for you, but he’s confident that you’re his favourite model, ever.

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talaok · 5 months

Text

A gentleman

This is my gift to @lucyeyelesbarrow for the Pedrostories Secret Santa event💖

Pairing: bfd!Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: Your boyfriend is a good guy, but he's not so good at sex, but thankfully, his dad makes up for it

Warnings: smut| Cheating, kinda exhibitionism, oral sex (f receiving), a bit of fingering, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, no use of y/n just overuse of pet names, no use of Joel either, just Mr. Miller and sir (so naturally we've got a bit of a sir kink).

a/n: babe you said slut by Taylor and i ran with it. also, this didn't turn out as good as I wanted, but nevertheless, I hope you'll like it. And huge thanks to @decembermidnight cause this idea is basically (completely) hers so give her some love or smth.

Jason was a good guy,

he was such a good guy, always so kind, always gentle and respectful... everything any girl could ever dream of, right?

wrong

He should have been, he really should have been the perfect man, but he wasn't.

He wasn't a man, he was just a boy

A really nice, sweet, cute boy that had just one, little, big problem... he fucked like one.

He fucked like he was scared of breaking you, actually, no he didn't fuck at all... he made love, which would have been fine... if it wasn't for the fact that he wasn't any good at it.

Every time you had sex he lasted no more than a few minutes (on his good days) and it was always just the same, always missionary, always slow and breathy and just not... right.

And it's not like you hadn't tried, god knows how many times you had, you tried changing positions, switching up his thrusting method, or even asking him to go down on you, but the outcome was always the same... you were left unsatisfied, every. single time.

You had even gone as far as starting to wonder if perhaps the problem was you, but then again every time you were alone everything worked just fine.

And as perfect as he was, there's only as much a girl can take.

You needed sex, the real kind, you needed to get fucked good, by a man who didn't need instructions, by someone who wasn't afraid to take what he wanted, by a man, you needed a real man.

And perhaps you'd always had one in mind.

You were in the kitchen, the fridge open, the cool air hardening your nipples, just a tiny white tank top on you, no bra, only a pair of panties.

You came down here to get a drink, but your focus had shifted to your fingers beneath your panties, drawing fast circles on your clit.

And yes it was pathetic, masturbating in a kitchen that wasn't even yours, but your body was desperate for that orgasm your boyfriend had deprived you of not even 10 minutes ago.

You were caging your bottom lip between your teeth, trying not to make a sound, but as all your emphasis went there, you must have stopped listening for anyone coming and missed the footsteps stomping down the stairs.

"I thought you'd be aslee-"

his eyes widened as he finally took you in

"shit I'm sorry darlin'-" he apologized, his eyes diverting a moment too late, only after they had taken you in completely, only after they had taken a good glimpse of your tits, and of the hand in your underwear.

To say you were red was an understatement.

He was there, the man you were just thinking of (although you had tried to refrain) was there, right in front of you, in all his broadness and glory, looking every bit of hot as ever,

him, your boyfriend's dad,

Mr. Miller had just caught you masturbating while standing in his kitchen.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't-I was just-I needed water and I-"

You finally rushed your trembling fingers out of your panties, your chest heaving and your voice breaking.

"No need to apologize sweetheart" he shook his head, his gaze finding yours "'s alright"

And although you were half naked, his eyes remained on yours.

Because that's how he was, that's how Mr. Miller was,

He was a gentleman,

In a world of boys, he was a gentleman.

Just like that time he caught you just out of the shower, just as every time he wouldn't let you open your own door, not on his watch, just as every dinner, every expense, every single thing, was his treat, and he didn't need a thank you, he did it because that's simply how he did things, how he'd been taught to treat women.

You watched each other for a moment, you panicking, him as calm as ever, and only after a good minute, did you finally feel brave enough to say something,

"I-I think I'll go-"

He frowned, "didn't you come here to get a drink?"

You swallowed, realizing your hands were empty "I-I did, you're right"

You opened the fridge again, and to the demise of your heart, he stepped closer, watching you like a hawk from above, and stealing all the air out of your lungs.

"What were you doing sweetheart?"

You swore you could have started crying right there and then.

Did he really just ask that?

Why the fuck would he ever ask that?

"I-I wasn't- I wasn't doing anything, Mr. Miller"

He tried to hide the smirk crawling on his lips, but a shadow of it still appeared

"now we both know that ain't true, darlin'" he smiled, as you took a bottle of water and closed the fridge to try and keep your brain occupied by something else other than this fucking man.

You took a deep breath, looking up at him.

Your bottom lip was between your front teeth, and with his thumb, he freed it, his hand lingering on your chin.

"there's no need to be shy" he murmured, his voice as sweet as honey "I just wanna help"

And as always, as always his touch melted you completely, like ice in the August sun.

"M-Mr. Miller-"

"yes, doll?"

only hearing him call you that made your breathing hitch.

"I..."

"just tell me," his voice was as low and hot as it could be "I won't judge"

And then, for some reason, you did, You told him the truth.

maybe he had put a spell on you, or maybe, just maybe, you would have done anything this man asked for.

"I was- I was touching myself"

But of course he knew, you could see it all over his face as he nodded, his eyes now a shade darker.

"and why's that?" he asked, stepping an inch closer,

you took a step back to get out of his penetrating aura, just to realize he had confined you between the table and his body with nowhere else to go.

"my son's just upstairs" he continued, his eyes scrutinizing every inch of your face "Couldn't he have helped with that?"

You gulped as his fingers gently moved some hair out of your face, making you shiver altogether

"I know if I were him, I would want nothing more than to do just that" he murmured "I would want to pleasure you in any way I could" and then, as if he'd gotten back to himself, to the respectful gentleman you'd always known, he dropped his hand, "so why were you touching yourself, sweetheart?"

What were you supposed to say?

That his son couldn't do it?

That in 3 months of dating, he'd made you come a total of 0 times?

Now that's not really a conversation you wanted to have with his father, was it?

"I was just- I- I don't know Mr. Miller" you lied

But he saw right through you, his head shaking in disapproval

"but you do know, doll" he urged "There's gotta be a reason"

And then it clicked.

He knew. Somehow he fucking knew.

"I-I-" you stuttered "It's just that Jason... he- he can't-"

but you couldn't end that sentence, how could you ever?

So of course, he did it for you.

"He can't make you come"

And the darkness was back again, the gentleman long gone.

"ain't that right?"

You could only offer a shy nod

"a pretty thing like you..." he murmured, his breath tickling your skin as he leaned closer, "and he's not taking care of you..." he tsked "Now that's a shame"

his hands were on your waist, holding you in place.

"I thought I'd taught him how to treat a woman... guess I was wrong" he shook his head "I mean look at you," he murmured "he should be making you come until you can't take it anymore"

"Mr. Miller-" you whimpered

"yes sugar"

"please" you begged, not exactly knowing for what

"Please what?" he asked, his right hand stroking your sides "you want somethin' from me?"

"I-I" you stumbled over your own words, not knowing how to get them out "Could you- could you please do it?"

He smirked properly at that, his left hand lowering down your belly

"do what?"

"you know" you breathed "You know what"

He inhaled your scent, his eyes still focused on yours "Say it" he ordered "Say it and I'll do it"

And what could you have done, if not exactly what he'd just said

"Please Mr. Miller" you pleaded "please make me come"

His fingers were beneath your panties before you could get another word out.

"Ah-" you gasped

"shhh" he shushed you, "Don't worry darlin'" he murmured "I'm here, I'll take care of you" he said, his big hand cupping your whole pussy

"look at that" he grinned, his mouth ghosting yours "she's already wet f'me”

A gasp fled your throat again as his finger seeped between your folds, gathering your slick and teasing your hole just to travel up to your clit

“Mmm” he hummed “so wet doll” he shook his head, smiling devilishly “are you always like this for me?” he asked, “For your boyfriend’s father?“

And although the fact that you could feel his hard cock against your thighs made that taunt more than a little hypocritical, you still couldn’t help but feel a little ashamed.

“Answer me” he urged, his lips now grazing yours

“Yes” you confessed, your voice nothing more than a whisper “I-I am Mr. Miller”

He groaned at that

He knew it was wrong, that everything about this was wrong, but he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about this, if he said hearing you call him Mr. Miller with that sweet voice of yours every day didn't make his cock half hard, if he said that from the moment he met you, he hadn't been jealous of his own son.

"here's how this is gonna work sweetheart" he breathed, his fingers gripping the edge of your panties "I'm gonna taste you now... because fuck me, but I need to-" he explained, slowly lowering your underwear "And you..." he smiled, your panties suddenly on the ground "you're gonna be a good girl and stay quiet"

His lips lowered from right next to your ear, onto your pulse point

"Can you do that f'me?"

A little squeak left your mouth, and a deep chuckle rumbled from his chest

"Can you be a good girl f'me, doll?"

You didn't trust yourself with words, so all you did was nod

"good" he hummed, his lips on your clavicle "Now get on the table"

And so you did, you hopped on the table, and he kneeled before you, his hands on your thighs.

"Spread your legs sugar" he said, having you obliging immediately

A soft appreciative sound erupted from his throat.

"prettiest pussy I've ever seen" he purred, leaning closer to it "on the prettiest girl I've ever seen"

Your belly was moving up and down in sync with your erratic breathing, but he didn't seem to care, his only focus was between your legs.

he looked as if he did this every day, as if fucking his son's girlfriend was an everyday thing.

He started off slow, his lips meeting the inside of your thighs, then your mound, then your lips, and then, just when you felt a moment away from bursting, his tongue came to play, as he licked between your folds without care, groaning in pleasure at the taste of you.

"Delicious" he hummed "You're fucking delicious doll" he looked at you, continuing to do so even when his hands gripped your thighs, and his talented muscle teased your hole, making you gasp and forcing your right hand to his hair.

"Does he do this?" he couldn't stop himself from asking "Does he eat this pretty pussy sweetheart?"

"n-no" you managed to whisper as he continued his work, now savoring you entirely while deliberately avoiding your clit.

"Now that's just wrong," he said, his eyes unfocusing from yours and lowering to your heat for a moment "look at that" he murmured, watching mesmerized as your juices drenched his mouth "I could eat this pussy for every meal"

And that was it, he was done with teasing all of a sudden, his lips were on your clit, sucking it deliciously as fingers you didn't even notice having gone from your leg thrust into you with ease.

"O-Oh s-shit" you moaned, although trying not to do so.

"quiet sweetheart" he shushed you, going back to his work in a moment

His fingers were now curling upwards, finding that spot that made you see stars like he knew your body better than yourself, or certainly, better than his son.

His tongue was alternating between lapping at your clit and sucking on it, and he expected you to not make a sound? now that was just impossible.

"oh my god" you gripped his hair, his fingers speeding up "o-oh my god-Mr. Miller- i-it feels so good"

"I know it does" he answered "I can feel it, sweetheart"

And then he was back at work, and as you watched enchanted how perfect he looked between your thighs, his hair a mess, his eyes so dark they didn't even seem brown anymore... you felt it, you felt the orgasm approach faster than it ever had, embarrassingly fast one could say, but then again, it certainly wasn't your fault, Mr. Miller knew what he was doing.

"I-I think-" you cried

"I know" he didn't need you to finish "Let go f'me, doll"

And so you did, you bit your lip and threw your head back as an orgasm powerful enough to kill you took over your body, leaving you a whimpering, wobbly mess.

"fucking delicious" he groaned, selfishly licking your core once again before he was back up to you, watching as you breathed heavily into the air.

"felt good?"

"yeah," you smiled mindlessly "felt amazing Mr. Miller"

"good enough to want another one?"

You didn't need to think twice

"yes" you breathed, one of your arms going between his neck as you begged him, while the other found the bulge in his boxers "please" you swallowed "Please fuck me"

"you want my cock?" he asked, already freeing it from his briefs "is that it?"

"yes," you whimpered,

"how much?"

"a lot" you promised "I want it so much Mr. Miller, please"

"yeah?" he taunted, positioning it at your entrance

"yeah-" you managed before he had pushed into you, making such a feeling erupt in you that you forgot all about your boyfriend upstairs and cried loudly because fuck it, but he was so fucking big.

His hand covered your mouth before you had even realized what had happened.

"I thought you said you were gonna be good"

Your eyes widened as your pussy still tried to accommodate the importance of him

A muffled "I'm sorry" made it to his ears

"I wouldn't wanna have to stop"

"no" you begged immediately "no please don't stop" You shook your head, so desperate you would have felt pathetic if it wasn't that you weren't thinking about anything anymore besides your pleasure, besides him, besides this, whatever it was.

"if I take this off you you'll be quiet?" he asked, nodding to his hand

"yes," you nodded "yes, sir, please"

Sir?

Fuck

If his cock could have gotten harder it would have.

"alright then" he conceded, taking his hand away "Can I move sweetheart?"

"mh-mh" you hummed, nodding eagerly

a soft grin spread over his face at that, but before you could fully take in the beauty of it, of him, of his patchy salt and pepper beard and pink lips, he had done as you asked, and started moving

"fuck" you whimpered "y-you're so big"

The implication behind your words hit you only after having pronounced them, but he was kind enough not to comment on it.

"and yet you're taking me all like a good girl" he groaned "taking all of my cock inside this tight little pussy of yours"

His right hand got rid of your tank top, pulling it down until your boobs spilled from it so he could grab and grope at them freely while his thrusts got faster, and somehow, somehow even fucking deeper, and you were just- god you were in another universe, and right when you shut your eyes, your forehead falling to his in bliss, another moan escaped you, and his hand found your lips again

"What did I tell you sweetheart?" he grunted, his pace not slowing down "I need you to stay quiet" he explained again "I need you to be good and not make a sound so I can fuck you like you nee-"

"Babe?"

Your heart skipped a beat.

It was his voice, your boyfriend's voice, coming from upstairs

"babe, is everything alright?"

Your eyes widened and his movements stopped as you stared into each other's eyes for a moment

What do I do? What do I do? what the fuck do I do?

"answer him," Joel said, freeing your mouth without any further explanation.

"I-" you mumbled

"do it sweetheart, or he's gonna come down here, and I don't think either of us want that"

And so of course, you did

"I-I'm fine!" you yelled

"are you sure?"

And just when you were about to answer, his fingers materialized on your clit, circling it.

You gasped, widening your eyes at him

"answer" he commanded, not stopping, the opposite actually, starting his thrusts again "Answer him doll"

"b-but"

"just do it" he murmured "Tell him you're sure"

You gulped, breathing heavily,

"I'm sure!"

"Ok"

And just like that, as if it were a miracle, Jason stopped his questioning, and you hid your face into the crook of Joel's neck, biting his skin as his pace fastened again, making that fucking feeling his son couldn't create take over your whole belly again.

"Mr Miller- oh my god" you cried, actual tears threatening to spill your eyes at the feeling

"shh" he cooed "I know sweetheart I know" he felt your walls tighten around him as the fingers in your hair gripped his locks harder "there we go," he grunted, his cock so deep inside of you you could feel it in your belly "that's all you needed wasn't it?" he asked " for someone to abuse this little pussy" he groaned, "for me, for me to fuck you like you deserve"

his lips were just before yours, not even an inch distancing you from a kiss, and yet, you weren't gonna cross that line, not today.

"yes" you moaned lowly "yes sir, yes"

"fuck" he groaned "you feel so good sweetheart, squeezing me so good... such a good girl"

"oh" you moaned, back into his neck "s-shit"

"'s ok" he purred, his fingers and hips working relentlessly to destroy you completely "'s ok sweetheart just-"

"Babe, can you bring me some water too?"

And if before Joel had stopped, it wasn't even remotely in his plans now. There you were, on the verge of an orgasm, and he was supposed to stop? no fucking way

He did the opposite, he started going harder, the table shifting on the floor.

You gasped and moaned before you finally freed your mouth from your neck, clinging to him as you answered

"Yes!" you screamed, hoping the pure pleasure behind your words wouldn't be hearable "Yes! I-I'm c-coming!"

"Yeah" he groaned into your ear "Yeah you are sweetheart" he purred, completely drowning out whatever response Jason gave you "Now give it to me, come all over my cock like a good girl"

And just like that, white pure bliss washed over you, and for a moment you were somewhere else, heaven, or hell more probably, but another universe for sure.

And you only came back when Joel's grunts sounded in your ears, when his thrusts got more sloppy, when you answered the words "Where do you want it?" with a simple "inside", and then finally, you fully came back to earth when he did, when he filled you up to the brim, remaining still deep inside you so none of it went to waste.

"fuck" he groaned after a while, finally pulling out of you to meet your eyes.

"Mr. Miller-"

You were waiting for the guilt to take over you, but somehow, for whatever reason, it still hadn't, and he felt exactly the same

"Babe?"

"shit" you gasped, getting off the table to put your panties back on.

"you need to go doll" Joel murmured, helping you put your tank top back into place

"Mr. Miller..." you murmured, your voice as shaky as your legs "I've got your come running down my thighs"

A soft smirk pulled at his lips

"should have thought of that before you said you wanted it inside" he taunted, his hands on your waist "or before you decided to touch yourself in my kitchen, sweetheart"

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bitchimasnake-sss · 1 month

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Sleep nonnie again. Is it okay if I go by 🦊🌲 its easier.

Anyways I think it would be a funny scenario if you suggest to the op boys to keep their hands warm by putting them between your thighs. I know some boys would just get a heart attack if you suggest that and get a cute blush

say whAT NOW?? NONNIE HELLO AND WELCOME BACK!! (dm me so that we can be friends ur fic ideas are so out of pocket i love it); also, gonna add ace cause i see many ace thirsties out there ;)

let me warm you up ft. the monster trio//ace!

luffy:

💗when he agreed to this, he didn't know just what kind of uncharted territory he was entering. he was simply not prepared. you had given him such a soft smile, taking his hands into yours as gingerly, "luff, are you cold?" he had nodded a mindless yes because you were crossing a terribly cold patch of the sea and his hands were freezing. but then held his hand a bit tighter and whispered, "i can warm them up for you. if you like?" he was too drunk on the idea to see the mischievous glint in your eyes and the way you spurred him on with your honey-like voice.

💗so now, he sat in front of you, eyes blown wide and lips trembling as his hands rested between your plush thighs. you had squeezed your thighs shut around his restless hands, claiming that it'll get him warm in little to no time. but god, this was hard (much like something else) and he was trying his best to keep his fingers still and not do anything hasty, like digging it into your soft flesh and relishing in the way your body molded to his touches. or by trailing his hand a bit upwards and seeing the way you react. 💗"luffy??" you called out and captain shook his head as he crawled out of that daze like state, "y-yeah?" "you okay?" you mumbled, voice far too gentle. you fucking minx. "you seem like you're losing your mind." good catch! because he was. luffy abruptly pulled his hands backwards lest he do something that truly made him lose his sanity. he scrambled off of your bed, heading out the door into the chilly deck in long, skitterish steps. "where ya going?" you called after him but he rushed out, yelling after himself, "JUST GONNA WARM UP WITH USSOP INSTEAD BYE" did ussop have better thighs than you? you may never know.

zoro:

💚zoro was very stupid, very. he was not the smartest tool in the shed when it came to love or crushes or dating or cooking food or social cues or emotional intelligence or— i should stop before this turns into zoro slander [i promise i love him]. but now, the bounty hunter sat with his face flushed and hands tucked between your soft, malleable thighs. he was smarter than this, truly. he knew that when you suggested that he looked cold and you can warm him up, he was supposed to say "fuck no, get out." because having a crush on you was embarrassing enough on it's own. but you had given him such a gut-wrenching, pleading look. your eyes saddened and your lips fell into a pout and oh god, what was he, if not the man who would let you ruin him? 💚ever since he was a child, zoro had always known that he would die a noble swordman's death. he would die fighting, brave, courageous, unafraid. now, he was sure he'd die from the way you squirmed and pressed your thighs shut. "quit movin'" he grunted, looking away from you as your stared at him. but you tucked your arms against your chest and the soft swell of your tits fell forward towards him so deliciously. he must have lost focus and let his gaze travel against your body cause you coughed, drawing his attention back to your face, "quit starin'." he pulled his hands back, ears going red and heart faltering. he should really stop before he gave into the temptations and pinned you to the mattress to— his voice pitched up, "i-i'm going back to my room, bye." "zoro?!" you called after the swordsman as he ran out, "BUT THIS IS YOUR ROOM, WHERE ARE YOU GOING??" [spoiler: he went to chopper and crushed herbs to make medicine. he wanted to get rid of some of that tension but he failed. because he put the pressure too hard and the china dish in which he was crushing the leafy herbs broke, and now chopper was hitting him square in his head, talking about how important it was to be precise in medicine and how zoro will never make a good doctor. "stop hitting me— OW" "what KIND OF A DOCTOR ARE YOU?" "IM A SWORDSMAN!" "YEAH CAUSE YOU CANNOT BE A DOCTOR!"]

sanji:

💙breath in, breathe out. breathe in, breathe out. breath in, breath out— "sanji?" you asked, a tinge of worry at his almost fainting figure, "are you okay?!" "my love, darling, sugar pie—" the man caught his tongue between his teeth, trying to stop his head from spinning. the floor seem to sway under him, the lights seemed too bright. was he flying or was it the blood rush?? "what did you just ask me?" you look down at the kitchen floor, mumbling with a bashful smile, "if your hands are cold...i can warm them up." his heart quickened as did his fingers. he chopped the bell pepper so hastily that you were sure you saw sparks flying. "and how would you do that?" "you can keep them between my thighs, if you like?" you looked up, "OH MY GOD SANJI YOUR NOSE—" 💙i hate to cut the story short but sanji 100% fainted and you had to catch him before he fell face-forward into the pot with boiling water on the stove. sorry, he gets no bitches :( but you did look after him on the bedside and let him eventually touch your thighs so... idk, a win is a win!!! ["so, is he like dead?" zoro had asked, uninterested, as you hauled the cook's figure outside the kitchen. you were dragging him to his room as the rest of the crew trailed you. they had heard your shriek and came spilling into the kitchen to see what the fuss was about. "did you give him a hug?" nami asked, amused. "hug's too much." ussop snickered, "she probably smiled at him." sanji whipped his head dangerously to glare at them, "i can hear you. and i will be poisoning your food." he looked back at you, "oh don't you worry, im still fainted." he closed his eyes, letting his forehead fall on your shoulder. you smiled to yourself, making a note to warm him up later]

ace:

🧡truthfully, how do you ask a man made of literal fire if you can "warm him up"??? you must have not thought you plan through because you had stood in his room a bit tipsy, locked the door behind you and asked a boy [who was always shirtless cause he was so warm] that question. "huh?" ace's eyes widened in pleasant surprise. he stood up to walk towards you, "what is that about? you wanna warm me up?" "NO!" you bit your cheek when you realized the implications of your words, "i was joking, obviously." "awh, i do love when you humor me." he quipped, "it's kinda cute." "shut up." you glared at him but he gave you an earnest smile back, "if you're cold, you could have just told me." he set his finger ablaze, acting suave, "see, i can warm you up." "you wanna set me on fire?" you seethed. "no?!" "why did you light your fingers on fire?!" "YOU ASKED A MAN MADE OF FIRE IF YOU CAN WARM HIM UP? DONT ASK ME QUESTIONS?!" "i'm drunk" you mumbled. after a beat you looked down at the floor, "and... i'm kinda cold." portagas d. ace just smiled, shrugging in mock nonchalance, "we can cuddle, if you like. i've been told i'm a pretty great heater." you laughed, "hah, hotshot." ace gave you a wicked grin, "how drunk are you?" "not nearly enough." just saying, portagas d ace was better than just a "pretty great heater." he was a pretty great fu-

a/n: i love writing stupid things so much. it makes me so happy because i'm a stupid little girl giggling and typing on her laptop when she should be doing work. tagging the ever lovelies: @bokutosbiceps (resident luffy enjoyer) and @help-i-lost-my-sock (resident ace enjoyer). if you wanna be added to the tag list, please let me know (//tell me your preferences and i'd tag you in those fics)!

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luveline · 11 months

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𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲 𝐯𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐬? | 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐨’𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚

you have a bad habit and miguel finds a solution —a begrudgingly in love miguel deals with his gf’s oral fixation. 1k. requested here

cw mildly mature themes/love bites. mdni

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Miguel knew when he passed you his hand that you'd start some weird shit like this. You withhold for a while, but eventually his fingertips end up by your mouth. You brush them against your lips absent-mindedly. He knows you like the feeling, knows you draw an unconscious comfort from being able to chew on something, and he's not interested in demonising you for something you can't help.

What he can't abide is your using him like a dollar store chew toy. The second he feels your breath against his fingers, he pulls your joined hands down into the gap between your thighs on the workbench and warns, "Don't."

"Sorry, Miguel," you say, blinking back to attention.

"Can't you chew on a pencil like a normal person?"

"Sorry," you say again, not really sorry. Miguel's not really mad. "I forget that it's you."

He likes the sound of that, even if he's still disapproving. It's hard to be mad when the level of trust you have for him extends so far, the comfort he gets from your mere presence reflected in you and your lack of shame surrounding a bad habit. Miguel sighs and goes back to his sketching. You squeeze his hand twice and do the same.

If you can't bite him, you'll bite yourself. It starts with your nails and stretches to your cuticles. You've hurt yourself doing it before, and Miguel doesn't want to see you do it again. He winces at way you nibble your skin.

"Could you cut it out?" he asks.

"I'm not doing anything."

"You're trying to start the next apocalypse."

"It's not hurting anyone," you insist.

"It's hurting you."

You let go of his hand to take the computer mouse, dragging and dropping a file from the first monitor onto his. He doesn't bother opening it. It's some flirtatious drivel or tech he doesn't want to deal with, undoubtedly.

"It's okay," you sing-song quietly. "You're such a worrier."

He thinks, Fine. Leaves you to your work, gets on with his own, and tries not to worry about your poor fingertips. Ten minutes become an hour, and he forgets what you'd been squabbling about, distracted by work. You drop file after file onto his screen until he gives in and opens one, finds a note drawing done with a jagged cursor of him, he assumes, frowny-faced with a bright red heart drawn around himself. The majority are the same, though the first one you sent him is Miguel with a smile, his cartoon version captioned, "secret softie :3". He puts a couple in his files and the rest in the recycling basket.

He's retrieving the ones he deleted guiltily when you hiss. He checks on you from the corner of his eye, and notices the little red line of blood building in your cuticle.

"There's actually something wrong with you."

"Ouch," you murmur, waving your finger around. "Stings."

"I told you."

"D'you have a bandaid?"

Miguel doesn't have a bandaid in the workshop. His first aid kit is half nano tech, half traditional wrap around bandages, all overkill for your surface wound. He takes pit on you and your crinkled face and pulls your hand toward eye level to inspect the damage. You've pulled the cuticle skin up toward the bed and torn skin that should be left alone, blood quick to congeal in the air. He should've just let you bite him.

"Idiot," he says, and kisses the side of your hand. "Don't do it again."

You grumble at his name calling but seem otherwise appeased. It's not long before your hand is going back to your mouth, but you must remember his demand, choosing to tuck your hands between your thighs. You squirm in your seat and can't focus on your work.

Miguel thinks, Fuck it.

"Alright, come here."

You wheel your chair closer.

"What, I have to do all the work?" he asks, holding out his arms. "Come here."

You stand and slide between the desk and his legs. His thighs are big, and your own press to the top of the desk from the lack of space. You put a hand on his arm curiously.

"Kiss me," he says.

You lean in quickly and kiss him. A tentative thing where you're usually confident laying one on him.

"What was that?" he asks.

"A kiss?"

"Kiss me properly," he says. He bracelets your elbow in a big hand, a soft touch to reassure you. "You've wanted to all day."

You have the decency to pretend (albeit weakly) that he's wrong. "Whaaaat? Who told you that?"

Miguel sighs and takes your face into his hands instead. He takes in your expression slowly, your eyes, your pupils like black dimes, lashes kissing in the outer corners as you look down to his mouth. You bite the inside of your lip and he loses it —Miguel tugs you against his chest and kisses you firmly, hand at the small of your back and pulling urgently upward in an attempt to bring you closer.

He can feel the little line from your own biting on your lips as he presses against the seam of them, and he doesn't know what he's going to do with you besides kiss you: he won't let you chew on him, no matter how nice your mouth is. He'll just have to kiss you until you can cope.

Or you could always bite him in other places.

"Wait, wait, I can't breathe," you say, pulling away.

Miguel works his fingertips under the back of your shirt, feeling the slope of bare skin there absentmindedly. "My bad. How's your compulsion?"

"Wanna play vampires?" you ask.

He laughs and leans away from you, a feigned disapproval. "Wanna play get a grip?"

"Grip on your neck?" you ask.

"How about I bite you? See how you like it."

You pull your knee up, socked foot digging into his thigh as you lay your cheek on his collar, straining up every time you want to kiss his neck. You press sweet, chaste kisses into his skin, seemingly unbothered by the pretzel-like position you've twisted yourself into.

"You act like I'm a chair."

"You told me," —kiss, kiss— "to sit here, Miguel, I don't know what you want from me." Third kiss, then a fourth.

He tamps down goosebumps and gives up. "Can you chill out while I work?"

"... I can keep kissing you?"

"Do what you like. I need to finish this net."

You lounge. Miguel struggles to keep it together, but at least you aren't biting your nails anymore.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed!! if you did and you have the time, please think about reblogging <3

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authorhjk1 · 4 months

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The Roman Goddess (part II)

Sana X Male Reader

The taxi ride to her hotel feels like it's taking hours. Her white top still shows hints of your last moment alone. Since then, the two of you met not a lot of people. Only a couple of oblivious visitors and the taxi driver.

The later was staring at her for a couple of moments as the two of you got in. It wasn't your place to say something, she is married after all. But you can't really blame him.

Even after you just had her kneeling half naked in front of you, you still glance at her every two seconds.

You still feel like you are dreaming. How you managed to pull it off still remains a mystery to you. Or maybe she was looking for someone anyway? And you were just the first guy to hit on her?

Maybe. And even if that's the case, you don't really care. As long as she is taking you to her hotel room, you don't care why she is doing this.

"What's your name by the way?"

The taxi driver's radio is too loud for him to understand what the two of you are saying. Italian words echo through the car.

The young woman raises an eyebrow.

"Now you are curious? After you came on me?"

You feel your cheeks heating up, but you see how the left corner of her mouth moves upwards a little.

"Y-You asked me to."

She tilts her head as if she is trying to recall the scene in the museum.

"You sound like I forced you to do that."

Somehow she did. Or at least her body. Who wouldn't want to cum on her chest? Especially if she says she wants it?

"So?"

You brake the silence after a couple of moments. Although it's anything but quiet in the car. As far as you can tell, the driver is listening to a soccer game.

"I'm not sure if I should tell you."

"I just came on your chest. Shouldn't you trust me by now?"

You see her smirking, intrigued by the way you used her words against her.

"I won't tell you my name. Just in case."

She finally turns her head towards you, a mischievous sparkle in her eyes.

"Just call me Venus."

"Venus?"

You can't help but chuckle.

"Didn't we already establish that you are like Aphrodite?"

'Venus' shrugs her shoulders. An elegant gesture coming from her.

"You said that Venus was more important."

You nod quietly.

You feel out of place. You've never been to such a hotel before. Everything looks expensive. The white marble floor, the cedar wooden reception desk, the golden elevator doors with pretty engravings.

The lobby just looks insane to you. But Venus just walks through the big hall, her head raised high, her confident stride makes her heels klick on the floor.

Trailing behind her, you see how well dressed everyone is. It's not like your outfit sucks, a simple white shirt and jeans, but the other guests are wearing suits and dresses.

"Mrs. Minatozaki."

The receptionist greets her, handing her the key for her room. Her name sounds Japanese.

"And this is a package that just arrived. It's for you."

"Thank you."

Venus, or Mrs. Minatozaki, takes the small box and walks towards the elevator. You follow her, trying not to draw too much attention to yourself.

As soon as she throws the package on the bed, she turns around. You tried to see what her room looked like, or rather suite, but her intense gaze makes you focus on her.

"Come here."

She whispers, slinging her arms around your neck. You lean down, meeting her halfway as the two of you start to indulge into each other's lips.

You realize that your hands once again are exploring her body. As if you can't get enough. Her curves feel so good underneath the fabric.

"Fuck, your lips taste so good,-"

You catch her pause.

"I need a name for you too."

Her lips leave yours, before they kiss your cheek, moving towards your neck.

"Any suggestions? It should fit mine."

It's hard to concentrate, when you have a woman like Venus kissing your neck. Impossible even. But you luckily know your way around Roman mythology.

"Mars."

You feel one of her hands slide down your back.

"Mars fits the theme."

"And who is that?"

You don't know if she is pretending or not, but you feel her hand reaching your crotch. Yours are on her waist. Still amazed by how small it is, you try your best to explain.

"The Roman god of war. And agriculture."

You feel her chuckle into your neck.

"That's an interesting combination."

"Well,.. "

You can't stop it. Your history nerd side comes back to life. Despite the fact that Venus is slowly letting her fingers glide over your jeans.

"That combination is a characteristic of early Rome. Military and farming both have their peak during the summer. It makes sense to me."

You feel her bite you skin slightly.

"Are you gonna keep talking? Or do you want to fuck?"

"T-The second one."

"Me too. Mars."

She whispers, before backing away.

It feels weird to be called by a name of a god.

"Give me just a minute."

Venus takes the package and disappears into the bathroom.

Standing alone, you are not quite sure what to do. Take your clothes off? Stand in place? Get on the bed?

Your eyes roam the big room as you realize how much this must cost. Hundreds. Maybe even a thousand a night or something.

Even the bed looks like the best you've ever seen. It's almost three times as big as yours. Golden ornaments are decorating its wooden bed frame.

You decide to get rid off your clothes. A moment later you are lying on the soft mattress, only in your underwear. Then, the door opens. You feel your jaw dropping in amazement.

Venus leans against the white doorframe.

Her black lace bra shows her porcelain like skin underneath. Her tits look a little bigger than before. Her panties match her bra. Black lace. It shows of how small her waist is. Her toned stomach really makes her look like a goddess. The black straps that connect her stockings with her panties each have a golden ring in the middle. The heels she is wearing complete her all black outfit

"I see you like it?"

You look down at your crotch. That's a very clear yes.

Watching her walk over to you almost makes you drool. Her hips sway from left to right, her hair, now lose, follows the same rhythm.

"I don't even remember the last time my pussy was filled."

She crashes down on you, not giving you time to react, when she reaches the bed. Landing on top of you, you feel her center rub against yours. Her hands in your hair. Her lips on yours once again.

The two of you exchange a passionate kiss, her hands slowly going through your hair. Yours are traveling down her back, until they reach their destination. You squeeze her cheeks, making Venus moan into your mouth.

"Naughty boy."

She coos, before she slides down your body. Her tits graze your covered crotch in the process. Once her face is on the right hight, she pulls your boxers off.

"I've already missed this so much."

She sighs, before diving in. Without a word of warning, you feel how Venus swallows your cock. Her warm mouth makes you groan as you sink into the cushions.

Reaching down, you hold her hair back as her head bobs up and down. Her blowjob is messy. Her saliva is starting to get everywhere. Your cock, your balls, your thighs, the mattress.

The only thing you can do is watch. Her eyes lock onto yours, trying to stare into your soul.

"Fuck."

You groan, unable to withstand her attack.

"So delicious."

She murmurs as she let's her tongue dance along your shaft, before taking you back into her mouth.

You can feel how impatient she is. Her blowjob is gaining in pace, her hands moving along your thighs. She starts to fuck her face onto your cock.

With a load groan, you almost cum right there. She pulls away early enough. Your disappointment is quickly replaced by heart pounding excitement.

"Eat me, please."

She gets on her knees, pulling her panties to the side. The mouth watering view almost gives you goosebumps. Her folds are wet, her pussy cleanly shaven.

You pull her hips towards you, making Venus sit on your face. Her pussy tastes even better than it looks. You can't get enough after only one lick. Her hands are in your hair again, forcing you to bury yourself even deeper into her core.

"Yes, baby."

She sighs, her head rolling back. Your pace quickens as you insert a finger into her wet core, while you lick her clit. Her velvet walls clench around you, dying for any friction at all.

"More. More!"

Her moans become louder, her whines needier.

At one point, she starts to ride your face. Your finger is still inside of her, egging her on.

"So close. The museum made me so wet."

You can feel her orgasm slowly approaching. Her pussy clenches around your finger even harder.

"Fuck!"

She almost shouts as she cums on your face.

Her sweet nectar tastes like peaches as you are forced to drink it, her hands keeping you in place.

"That was so good."

She sighs, her body visibly relaxing on top of you.

"I don't even remember the last time..."

She trails off, glancing down at you.

"I need you inside of me, Mars. Fuck me hard."

You tighten the grip on her waist, suddenly sitting up. It makes her fall off you and she lands on her back. You are now kneeling in front of her wet core, your cock grazing her folds.

"Give it to me."

She watches with a satisfied look on her face as you start to penetrate her pussy. Her tightness makes it hard to fit all of your cock inside of her in one go. You have to slowly ease in and out a couple of times, until you finally bottom out.

"Fuck, you are big."

She sighs as she feels how you fill her. Her pussy hugs your cock as tight as it can.

Her hands grab the sheets as you start to fuck Venus. Her body rocks back and forth on the mattress. Your hands are placed on her hips as you enjoy her pussy. It almost feels like she is made for you.

"More!"

Her head sinks into the sheets as you start to fuck her harder. Her legs wrap around you, trapping you, not allowing you to go anywhere but deeper. Not that you mind. If you could only stay inside of her forever...

Your body moves on its own, driven by your carnal desires. Every thrust makes her breasts jiggle slightly, despite the fact that they are still secure inside her bra. Her eyes are staring up at you, tracing the drops of sweat that form on your forehead, before they fall onto your chest or her tummy.

"Gosh, your cock..."

You see how her eyes become smaller, until they finally close. Her mouth is slightly open, moan after moan escaping her pretty lips.

"How are you so tight?"

You can't help but wonder. How is she this perfect? That face of hers would already be enough for every man to fall for her. But her body turns you into a slave to your animalistic instincts. And her pussy.. You can't describe it with words.

It feels like you are in paradise. And at the same time, you feel something like guilt. You shouldn't be doing this. You shouldn't be fucking her. She is a married woman. And yet, that fact somehow turns you on even more.

Venus should be off limits to you. Because she is way out of your league. And because she is married. But here you are. Fucking her, while she whines and mewls, asking you to go faster.

For a moment, you wonder if she is alone in Rome. Or is her husband with her? You haven't thought about this possibility yet. That he and her might have spent the night right here. In this bed. In the bed you are fucking his wife on.

"Fuck!"

Her loud moan brings you back to reality.

"I need it rougher! More!"

It's starting to feel like she just can't get enough.

You start to slow down, wanting to try another position. Maybe you can fuck her even deeper that way.

"Get up and turn around."

Venus seems to like the idea. She gets on all fours her ass facing you.

"Put it back in."

She smiles as she looks over her shoulder.

You let your hands run along her beautifully shaped cheeks. You knead them a couple of times, before you aling yourself with her wet cavern once again.

"Fuck me hard."

It's a mixture of plea and command.

Venus moans when you thrust forward, impaling her with your cock.

"Oh god!"

You lean over her, grabbing both of her arms. Pulling them back, you make her kneel. Only your hands on her arms keep her upright.

Fucking her from behind feels better than missionary. You are able to penetrate her deeper. You are able to rock her body back and forth properly. And you can really pull her onto your cock.

But as you keep pounding into her, her hair starts to fall, swinging from left to right. It hits her face, whenever you pull at her arms and thrust into her. She has to close her mouth, letting out needy whimpers. But she can't hold it in for very long. And soon, she has some of her own hair in her mouth as she moans for more.

The only downside is, you can't see her face. Her gorgeous features must be twisted in pleasure, but you are missing out on seeing them. Her hair starts to have a life on its own as the pace and force of your thursts increase. It starts to cover parts of her face, while most of it is still resting against her back.

You focus on the rhythm of your thrusts as you feel how deep you are inside of her. It feels like her pussy is getting better and better by the second. Your own pleasure increases, the harder you fuck her.

"Fuck!"

Venus suddenly cums around your cock. You missed the fact that she has been dead silent for the last couple of moments. Now, she is letting it all out again. Lewd words spill from her lips, just like her juices spill out of her pussy. She starts to stain the sheets underneath, almost slipping because of her own liquids.

Her orgasm overwhelms you, bringing you closer towards your own edge. You have been holding on for now, but the sight of Venus cuming right in front of you eventually proves too much.

You feel how you are growing tired, her pussy contracting around you with every thrust into it.

"I think I'm gonna cum!"

You groan, trying to warn Venus.

"Paint me! Stain me with your cum!"

She mewls as she feels you picking up the pace one last time. Her hair is still in her face, but she is unable to put it back. Her arms still behind her.

"Fuck."

You sigh as you finally pull out. You let go of her arms, letting Venus fall face first into the mattress. You hold your cock in your hand as you start to climax. Your cum hits her back. Rope after rope starts to stain her skin. Just like she wanted. Some of it gets onto the bra wire, the white globes visible on the black fabric.

"Fuck, I needed that."

You hear her mumble into the sheets, her voice muffled by the white cotton.

You still can't fully grasp what you just did. As soon as she came out of the bathroom it felt like someone else was controlling your body. It felt incredible nonetheless.

As you see Venus lying on her stomach in front of you, your cum on her back, you wonder what else there is to do. There is so much. There is so much the two of you could do. You whish you could explore even more of her body. To feel every inch of her skin.

When Venus finally turns her head to look up at you, you see her smile. Her eyes tell you that she is thinking the same thing.

"How do you want to fuck me next?"

#kpop #kpop smut #kpop girls #kpop gg #male reader #twice smut #twice #sana twice #sana minatozaki #sana smut #sana

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undreaming-fanfiction · 1 year

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Eddie hated this and he'd just started.

See, he was so proud when he made it, when he got his first office job. He saw what decades of physical labor did to Wayne's back, his hands, and he wanted to make his uncle proud. So he kept applying and applying and getting ignored and rejected and finally, finally he got a job in a pretty large corporate. Not exactly something prestigious, but hey, it had potential. The experience counted and all that.

He thought maybe workplaces would be different, that the good ol' high school dynamic would fuck off, but no. He was sitting at his desk, trying to fill in paperwork after a taxing phone call, but all he could focus on was whispering from the neighboring cubicle that was ostentatiously loud. He didn't know who sat there yet, the guy had been on vacation for the two weeks Eddie was in the company. From the stuff he was hearing, he was getting introduced anyway and not exactly the way he'd have liked to be.

"Can you believe they actually let him work here?" It was Carol, of course it was, the office gossip and mean girl knockoff. "I mean, he doesn't even look decent! Did you see that hair?" Okay, that hurt. He actually pulled his hair into a neat bun every morning, but you can't please some people. "And he has tattoos, what would our customers think if they actually met him, plus you should have heard the rumors about his past-!"

But just as he was about to slam down the pile of paperwork and either take an extended smoke break or gently ask Carol to go fuck a polar bear, he heard another voice. Bored and wonderfully bitchy.

"That's absolutely fascinating, Carol. Please tell me more, what could this guy possibly have done? It must be something juicy. Did he perhaps fuck his boss during the Christmas party and then lie about it to his boyfriend of five years? Oh wait no. That was you. Silly me."

Eddie had to bite his pencil to stay quiet, but his whole chest hurt by trying to keep the snickering in. And then the offended gasp. "I- you promised you wouldn't-!"

"I didn't promise shit, Carol. You just came to me, cried your eyes out - bad move by the way, invest in some waterproof mascara for god's sake, mascara in wrinkles doesn't good on anyone, and yes, you do have wrinkles - and tried to play the victim. Except I heard your small proposition to the guy before so it didn't really work out. But it's fine, you know," and oooh, the tone was smug, so bored, Eddie loved this guy already, "Tommy saw you as well and had a good time with Nicole to get even. So there's nothing to worry about. Now tell me, what did this horrible Eddie Munson do to summon wrath of such a righteous woman such as yourself?"

Eddie heard a sharp sound as Carol got up from the desk. "Fuck you, Steve Harrington," she spat out and sped past Eddie's seat. He just gave her a small salute.

When the sound of high heels faded, Eddie leaned over the cubicle wall and knocked to draw the guy's attention. And yeah, maybe he was a little bit biased because he'd just obliterated a textbook definition of a shrew, but this Steve was fucking gorgeous, light brown eyes looking at him, a smug smirk tugging at his lips.

"Oh hi," said Steve and offered his hand, shaking Eddie's. "Sorry for that. I'm Steve Harrington and whatever deepest, darkest secrets you're hiding, I don't care, I'm pretty sure I've heard them all. What did you do? Shave your head in school? Join a cult? Cut dolls apart and chant hail Satan?"

That had Eddie laughing again, but he still had an introduction to make. A proper one. "Nice to meet you, Steve. Eddie Munson, and I'm worse than your darkest nightmares. I sometimes wear socks in sandals."

Steve's eyebrow twitched. "Oh, Carol was right, you are a monster!" he muttered. "Speaking of monsters..." His head leaned to the side, towards Carol who was angrily carrying her coffee mug, her mascara running again.

Before he could catch himself, Eddie leaned over the wall and whispered as loudly as he could muster. "Can you believe some people wear dotted dresses with stripes on their stockings? We can't all be born with taste, I guess...tragic."

And again, maybe Eddie was just biased, but Steve's laughter was so pretty that it actually made dealing with Carol's bullshit worth it.

#steddie #steddie au #steddie drabble #corporate au #coworkers au #stranger things #stranger things au #stranger things drabble #yeah so I'm crazy busy and kind of not doing too well #so this is not proofread #but I wanted to put something small together so here you go

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humiliatingsluts · 3 months

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You've always been the quiet sort. Never the popular girl, and certainly never the centre of attention. You did get attention, of course. Boys liked you, you liked them, but it never really worked. You're even seeing a guy now – fucking him once a week – but it's casual, no feelings.

You arrive at his place, Friday night as usual. You're wearing casual clothes, long past the point of trying to impress him: yoga pants and a tank top. Buzzed into the apartment you walk up the stairs to his door and it's open as usual. But as you enter you hear the murmur of conversation, and you step into the living room to see he has four friends, all men, sitting on the sofas with beers in hand. You look over at him with a nervous questioning look, but he just smiles and beckons you over. As you walk through the room the men look up at you and you feel them sizing up your body.

You nervously perch on the sofa beside your fuckbuddy, he hands you a beer and places his hand firmly on your thigh, pulling you closer. He introduces you to the group as "the friend I was telling you about", and the guys say hello then go back to chatting and laughing. You feel uncomfortably out of place. And only more so when you feel your fuckbuddy slide his hand further up your thigh until it is resting on your pussy. You were horny already and you feel yourself get wetter at his touch.

He looks over you and grins, "Show us your tits." You stare at him in confusion, you must have misheard. He rubs against your cunt and says it again, slower and louder. His friends are all staring now too and you feel yourself blush. But somehow, you realise you want to do as he says, and you lift your top, showing your bra. He pulls your bra down and your tits are out. He squeezes them and his friends start commenting, the consensus is that your tits are on the smaller side, but hot. After a few minutes of conversation about your tits, they start talking about football again, you seem forgotten.

Your fuckbuddy takes one of your hands and places it on his crotch, and you feel his cock through his shorts. You start slowly stroking it and he rubs your cunt faster. As far as you can tell, his friends haven't noticed. Feeling brave and horny, you slip your hand into the waistband of his shorts and start jerking off his cock. He copies you and soon his fingers are in your cunt.

Being fingered in front of all these strangers is driving you wild and you feel yourself close to cumming. He realises and speaks again, drawing everyone's attention, "She's about to cum already, should I let her?" All his friends focus on you again and being exposed like that is the last straw, you moan and hump your fuckbuddy's hand as you cum. The shame of looking so horny in front of them makes it more intense, and you know your yoga pants are probably visibly soaked through. You pant and realise what you've just done. All his friend's are staring at you hungrily, and you feel shame and fear. Your fuckbuddy breaks your state of shock,

"You're not done, slut, get on your knees." You know you shouldn't, but when you hear him call you a slut you almost moan, and you slip off the sofa and onto the floor between his legs. You are so horny you don't even think twice before pulling down his shorts and licking his cock, from base to head and back again. His friends are all watching, and you smirk and spit some drool onto his cock. He cracks open another beer and sits back as you start bobbing your head up and down.

You are good at sucking cock. You take pride in how well you deep throat, how you make cute gagging noises, how you use your tongue to tease the head. You know your fuckbuddy won't last long, and you try even harder to look sexy for all his watching friends. He is moaning softly and you realise your hand is between your legs, pushing you closer to another orgasm. Each time you swirl your tongue you feel his cock throb, and you moan too, letting the vibrations add to the sensation.

He suddenly starts to grunt and his leg twitches. You obediently suck faster still, pushing him to cum. He thrusts his hips and feel his cum hit the back of your throat. You moan louder and swallow, your lips sealed to his cock as he squirts cum over and over into your mouth. You slowly release his cock and give it a kiss for effect. He tries to get his breath back, and you suddenly feel self conscious, looking around the room and seeing his friend's all starting at you lustfully. All of them have either taken their cock out, or have their hand down their trousers. Your fuckbuddy smiles, "Who's next?"

---

Follow HumiliatingSluts for new writing every Friday.

#my writing #Show Off

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k2ntoss · 3 months

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i feel like I've been MIA for too long lmao but hooo boyyy i have so many thoughts now because of that prompt list omg 🫠 i NEED -Fucking someone so good that they struggle to kiss you back.- and “Spread your legs baby, that’s it…Wider.” with Jason immediately please Mara, the brain rot demands it 😭

-🦊

JUST LOOK AT THIS, MY FAVORITE ANON !!! (as if it wasn't clear before) have i told you already how i love the way your mind brings the brain rot to work??? well, i do. let's get at it, babe

fucking someone so good they struggle to kiss you back + "spread your legs baby, that's it... wider"

movie nights are for two things, actually watching your movie selection while cuddling with your partner or to completely ignore whatever was playing on the screen while your partner fucked the life out of you. you go guess what was jason's plan for tonight's movie plan.

you're actually trying to focus on the movie, your eyes fixed on the screen as you lay on jason's chest and he holds you softly, his chin resting on your shoulder as he leans in to leave a soft peck on your skin. it's innocent and sweet at first but then one of his hands slides under your shirt, caressing your skin and drawing abstract lines on your stomach that made your attention drift away when he pressed a kiss on your jaw.

"jay... are you even watching the mo–" you were speaking, trying to scold him but your words caught on your throat when his hand moved further up and cupped one of your breasts at the same time he licked your neck.

"i'm not watching the movie, baby" he whispers against your skin, his lips gracing your neck right before he kisses that spot behind your ear "i want to get touchy with my pretty girl."

"oh, so you want to get touchy?" you ask, there's now a hint of amusement and mischief on your voice as you turn your face to look at him and jason can't help but chuckle and nod, like a kid that's been caught red handed doing something he wasn't supposed to "and who said i wanted to let you, jaybird?" you ask but deep down you knew you would let jason get his way with you anytime he wanted to.

"you... you're not doing a thing to stop me from touching you like this" he says, his voice is low and his hands are now both on your chest, he squeezes your tits firmly before lifting your bra "it is because you know you're all mine to enjoy or because you want me to actually feel you up completely?"

the way he speaks and touches you manage to drag a soft moan out of your lips and it makes him feel powerful because he knows how to make you melt. that's what he wants, jason wants to be the one to always make you feel good, he wants the reason you smile and moan, the only one to know every corner of your body so he could give back all the good things you gave him.

jason really enjoys the way it's so easy for him to shut your mind off with the smallest touch when mixed with the right words, he loves whispering into your ear and kissing your neck just to see how needy you can get from it but it was just the effect jason's touch had on you and he couldn't deny you could do the same to him. so now when he gets your shirt lifted and squeezes your breast while kissing your neck he has to hold back a moan when you move and push him to be able and sit on his lap.

"sometimes you should try to pay attention to a movie, you know?" you ask teasingly, leaning in to kiss him again and jason misses no time to let his hands snake under your shirt again just to feel those goosebumps on your skin. it's unthinkable to try and stop to resume your initial plans because your boyfriend is now sucking a subtle trail of small marks on your neck while he starts pulling your shirt off and when he is done your bra stands no chance against him.

"the movie can wait, we can watch it after i make you scream and beg for more..." jason whispers into your ear and he smirks when you tug at the neck of his hoodie, he knows he won and he takes it off and that's when the last strand of control you had vanishes at the sight of his toned body, the faint scars scattered over his skin around that one on his chest that ran all the way down to his stomach it only made him way more appealing.

he really loves the effect he has on you, it makes him feel like he really deserves the way you look at him and how you touch him as if he was your most valuable treasure and he was, his touch equals yours; needy but still lingering enough to make sure you know how he values the fact that you are with him, his grip firm but loving as he holds your hips to make you grind against him once he takes off those comfy sweatpants you wore to bed and that he loved because of how the hugged your figure.

clothes do not last on your bodies and it isn't so much until your body is completely pressed against his while he makes you put your hips up, jason lets his hand wander between your thighs until he has two fingers sneaking over your folds, flicking your clit as he smiles smugly at you.

"do you still want to watch the movie, ma?" he asks, voice now deeper while his finger traces a trail between your folds, teasing your aching pussy before he slips his digits into your entrance. jason looks at you, the hunger in his eyes only adds to your arousal as you grind your hips against his palm, the calloused skin brushing against your swollen clit.

you grunt something that sounds like a shut up and a please mixed up in a hushed moan, as your boyfriend keeps pumping his fingers in and out of you while he kisses and bites your neck, the smirk on his lips doesn't leaves when you struggle to beg him from how much he teases because his free arm is around your back and his hand is now groping your breast.

"already so desperate? i just started, sweetie" he coos you mockingly as he slowly lays you down under him, lips trailing down your neck until he is now kissing and biting on your nipple "just look at the pretty mess you are, all wet around my fingers and you could just cum like this... should i let you get off like this?"

"god, jason– don't do that, i need you" you moan breathlessly and for some reason his words only get you more needy, making jason feel a huge ego boost as he gives you that pretty shit eating grin before he switches to your other breast, sucking and teasing you more as his fingers leave your pussy, entrance now clenching around nothing.

there's a feeling of relief once you can see jason moving to be between your legs as he trails his kisses to your tummy, lovingly and devoted and his hands squeeze your legs softly to try and help your body to calm a little to no overstimulate you just yet.

"spread your legs baby," he says softly, his lips brushing against your skin and the sweetness on his touch and words makes you comply without thinking twice, your legs spreading almost on its own for him "that's it... wider" he says now smugly, seeing the way you open up just at his presence makes him feel so powerful.

he holds onto the back of your knees, pushing your legs until he makes them rest over his shoulder. his hand guides his hard dick until his tip is lined up with your pussy and he pushes in, slowly as a low growl escapes his throat, holding onto your hips to give a first stroke.

"so fucking thight and i had already stretched your pretty cunt before" he says, his body still until you nod for him to start moving and he doesn't hesitates to start with a quick pace "that's such a pretty toy i got myself, didn't i? i just have to touch you and you'll let me have my way with you..."

he makes it sound so good you can't help but moan, one of your hands reaching for his neck to pull him from his nape; fingers tangling on his hair as you bring his face close to yours and jason only makes his thrusts faster, hiting all the right spots as he holds you bent like this.

"jay– jay please" you whine as you try to really bring his lips to yours, it amuses him and you hear it on his rumbling chuckle, his hands gripping your hips in a way you knew your skin would be painted in finger-print-bruises by tomorrow but you just loved that, silky skin painted with his hickeys and bite marks, a sing of that ownership he had over you.

"use your words, princess," he whispers into your ear, the sound of the dominance on his voice making you moan loudly when his hands also squeeze your ass playfully "you're a big girl, you can use that pretty mouth of yours can't you?"

"please, kiss me jay" you beg, voice shaky as he pounds into you and the way jason is closer now on top of your body, his shoulders still holding your legs up just making the angle perfect for his tip to kiss your cervix.

jason does as you ask, leaning in a pressing a bruissing kiss on your lips and he seems pretty resolved to devour your mouth like that but instead he's met with you really struggling to kiss him back and he is lost in this discovering. it encourages him to move your body as if you were a pretty doll for him to use, placing your legs against your chest but this time only over one of his shoulders.

"feels like too much, pretty doll?" he asks, whispering into your ear almost in a growl and he changes his pace, slowing down to give you deep and slow strokes but still slamming his hips against yours.

"too good, jay... feels just so good" your voice slurred as you cry for him to move a bit faster but jason has just found out how to play with you a little more.

"yeah? you sound way too pretty for me to change the pace, crying like a desperate slut" the use of names sends a shiver down your spine, jason knows what buttons to push in order to get your pleasure to skyrocket and he is really proud of it as he keeps pumping into you, hissing in pleasure when he feels your walls clenching around him "god this feels so fucking good, i could cum into you so deep baby, you'll feel me right here"

one of his hands wanders from your hips to your belly and the thought of him reaching so deep inside of your body is enough to make your body tense, there's something new to all of this because you've felt way more sensitive than before and jason is feeling way too eager to find out how much he can do with that.

"jason please, fill me up like this" you say in between shaky moans, legs trembling already and the way you look at him through those teary cute doe eyes makes him throb into you.

"want me to breed you, baby? i want to see you dripping full of me" he says, his pace fastening again but it grows sloppier as his hand moves from your belly to one of your tits, squeezing it and toying with your nipple "you look so pretty like this, angel, so ready for me to use your body over and over again"

it's amazing the way jason manages to shut your brain off, making your words catch on your throat and turning you into a whimpering mess. rocking your hips to meet his movements until your orgasm hits you, pussy squeezing him like a vice, almost making it impossible for jason to keep thrusting inside of you.

the pleasure of your body washes over him, bringing his own climax to his as he releases into your throbbing pussy as he slows down, letting out a low stream of curses before he comes to a halt still holding your legs against his chest.

"i don't think we'll be watching that movie now, ma..."

436 notes · View notes

alwritey-aphrodite · 1 year

Text

Cruel Summer

no rules in breakable heaven

Pairing: Jaime Tartt x fem!reader

Warnings: 18+ - smut(f receiving oral, other implied nonsense, cursing

Word Count: 5.5k

Author’s Note: clearly I’ve gotten caught up in the babygirl wave, my lovely wife @andr0medafallen helped me immensely and I love her. Also I’m just a slutty little virgin so I can’t be held accountable for any inaccuracies

Conversations are swirling around you, music is blasting from a building down the street, you’re keenly aware of the blood pumping in your veins, and you need a goddamn break.

You loved spending time with Keeley, you really did, but it’s hot and muggy outside, and this is the fifth party you’d been to in the past week. Tonight, at least, is with the Richmond boys, and not some friend of a friend of Keeley’s where all you do is stand in the corner and drink by yourself. Keeley, ever the social butterfly, is off chatting with Rebecca and Leslie, giving you the opportunity to focus on not losing your mind.

It’s strange, to feel so simultaneously alive and asleep, and you could swear you can feel the air buzzing in your ears. You simultaneously want to go to bed and to stay awake for the rest of the night, it’s like your mind can’t figure out what it needs.

And then Jamie’s walking over to you and the world comes back into focus.

The two of you aren’t very close, connected mostly through your separate friendships with Keeley, but from what you’ve heard from her and from the internet, he seems to be turning over a new leaf. Though, there was a part of you that enjoyed his bad boy attitude, even when he was a bit of a dick.

Maybe you just had a thing for men who were emotionally unavailable.

“Want me to walk you home?” Jamie says after a few seconds of standing next to each other in silence, shocking you out of your silent appraisal of your surroundings.

“Huh?” Clearly, your brain-mouth connection is taking a while to get up to speed.

“You seem kinda out of it, I know you came with Keeley, figured I should ask if you wanted to leave.”

The kindness of his offer is a little shocking in the way it’s so purely sweet, and again, your brain seems a little slow on the draw.

“I’m alright, I can call a car in a bit,” you tell him, not wanting to drag him away from a fun night just because he saw you acting all mopey and uncomfortable.

“Are you sure? I wouldn’t mind getting outta here,” and then it’s clear to you that his offer is simply an excuse for him to leave the party, and while your heart drops a little you can’t say you blame him.

“What the hell,” you respond anyway, finishing your drink before you turn to follow Jamie out of the party, stopping by Keeley to let her know you’re headed home.

The walk back to your place is mostly silent, the air hanging heavy and thick as you try to figure Jamie out. It’s clear that he’s changed from the first time you’d met him, back when he was only Keeley’s douchebag of a boyfriend, shortly before his stint on reality TV. Now, though, he seems different in some way that you can’t quite puzzle out.

“Wanna come up?” You offer, your heart and your brain in a heated argument over how awful and irresponsible of a decision that is.

“Nah, I’m alright,” he sticks his hands in his pockets and you try not to let your heart sink onto the ground with this cool-guy routine of his.

Still, you thank him for taking you home and head up to your apartment, flicking off your shoes and berating yourself for acting the way you did. Even though you’re an adult, and wanting to sleep with someone doesn’t make you a bad person, there’s a layer of guilt that hangs over your simple question, over your desires.

Maybe it’s because he’s Keeley’s ex, and even though she’s moved on and found her perfect match, girl code says you shouldn’t even look at him. Maybe it’s because as far as you know, he’s an awful person who would treat you like nothing. Or maybe it’s because he’s actually worked on himself and you’re going to self-sabotage anything good that could even possibly happen.

The guilt you taste at the back of your mouth doesn’t change the fact that you want him, though, so you throw a longing glance out your window and are surprised to see Jamie still standing on the street below. As quick as you can in your old building, you unlatch the window and push it open, sticking your head out.

“Change your mind?” You ask, a grin spreading on your face when Jamie jumps at the sound of your voice.

“That ok?” He throws back, looking a little bashful and so unfairly adorable that he makes you a little dizzy. You just nod in response, and he seems to get the message because he disappears from view and a few seconds later, there’s a knock at your door.

Briefly, you wonder if he ran up the stairs.

There’s a part of your brain that keeps screaming about how this is a bad idea, that come morning you’re going to regret this, but you do your best to ignore it as you close the door behind Jamie and press your lips to his. His hands find your waist, settling there with a firm grasp, and you hope you never need oxygen again.

It’s addicting, the way he touches you, the way he kisses you, and you do your best to ignore the alarm bells ringing in your mind that you’re never going to be able to move on from this and instead just enjoy yourself. Moving on autopilot, you find yourself at your bedroom door, and feeling lightheaded you pull away from Jamie and rest your forehead on his.

“Can I?” He breathes against your mouth, fingers grasping the bottom hem of your shirt. You nod enthusiastically, your nose brushing against his. Once your shirt is flung somewhere into the depths of your room, Jamie’s hands settle on your bare ribs.

Pushing every worry you have to the back of your brain, you follow Jamie’s lead and, with his help, pull his shirt over his head as he walks you back towards your bed. Obviously, you’d known he was fit, but seeing him so close, so open to your touch is a whole other feeling. You want to trace his entire body, his scars and bruises and tattoos, first with your hands and then with your mouth.

“This is just a one time thing, yeah?” Jamie asks as your hands settle onto his jaw, trying to bring him in for another kiss.

“Yeah, of course,” you respond, being the cool girl you know you’re meant to be even as you fantasize about hearing the stories behind his tattoos and spending mornings together.

It’s practically impossible for you to keep your hands off of him, every layer removed giving you more of his skin to explore. Jamie, though, seems just as greedy as you are, kissing and touching his way across your body. You feel alive, electric in ways you’ve never felt before. It’s as if every moment you spend with Jamie, he takes up more and more space in your brain, until he’s all you can think about.

Jamie, as he bites that sensitive spot underneath your jaw bone with a grin.

Jamie, as he trails kisses down the center of your body, from your sternum to your belly button.

Jamie, as he moves lower and lower, his hands resting on your inner thighs.

Jamie, he’s all you think about until you can’t think of anything, your mind shut off and your body rewired as you feel like you’re exploding from the inside out.

And then everything comes rushing back in, all the sounds and scents and feelings of your apartment, all the thoughts you’d tried to keep away. You still haven’t said anything, focusing on breathing and not floating away.

“You need water or something?” Jamie asks from his spot on the pillow next to you, watching as your breath continues to heave in and out of your chest.

“This is my place, shouldn’t I be asking you that?” You retort once it feels as if your heart won’t escape your chest.

“There aren’t any rules about who gets water.” You watch as a smirk grows across his face, “Besides, you look like you need it more than me.”

Trying not to give in to his teasing, you hide your face in your hands and groan, “Maybe that means you should have been trying harder.” He shrugs, conceding before he slips off your bed and begins the hunt around for his clothes. You wish you could ask him to stay, even just for a few minutes longer, but instead you shrug on a large t-shirt and walk him to the door.

“See you around,” you offer as you lean in the doorway, Jamie making his way to the stairs.

“Yeah, sure, see ya.” And then you're left all alone again, your brain running wild within your skull, so you make your way back to your bed in the hopes that you can fall asleep and pretend you aren’t regretting all of your life decisions.

The next few times you see Jamie, the two of you talk sparingly, sticking mainly to waves across the room or slightly uncomfortable smiles. And it’s a shame, because you’ve found that you actually enjoy talking to Jamie, but now you’re not so certain you can handle yourself around him.

Even though you know Jamie’s not looking for a relationship, it’s hard not to think about what you’d be like together, if you’d even work out, because in your mind, what’s the point of trying if you know you’re going to fail? Why would you enter into a relationship with someone if you know it couldn’t possibly last?

“Hey,” a voice says from behind, shocking you out of your introspection. You jump, ready to scold whoever snuck up on you when you hear Jamie’s laughter, happy and loose.

“Jesus, Jamie, you scared me to death,” you tell him as his laughter dies down, eyes scanning for anyone watching your interactions. You know that no one cares, that people have casual relationships all the time, but you can’t help but feel like you’d be judged for doing the same.

“You wanna get out of here?” He asks, and you can tell from his voice, from his eyes, from the way he’s holding himself, what he’s really asking you.

“I thought that was a one time thing?” You hide your smile by taking a sip of your drink and delighting in the way Jamie’s cheeks redden.

“What I meant was, it’s just a no-strings-attached thing.”

“I’m flattered,” you tell him, already turning to leave and planning your text to Keeley that you hadn’t felt well and called an Uber to leave early.

Instead of an Uber, though, you find yourself pressed up against Jamie’s car, his hands holding your waist and his tongue down your throat. As much as you loved the attention, you pulled away, placing a gentle hand on his cheek when he tried to follow.

“Someone could see,” you whisper against him, trying to keep an ear out for anyone else leaving the small party at Colin’s house. This seems to bring Jamie back to his senses, though, because he unlocks his car and slips inside, but only after he kisses you one last time.

The drive to his place is short, leaving the two of you sitting in his driveway, no sounds but the noises filtering in through the cracked windows. There’s something about this, about him, that just feels like summer, like late sleepless nights and days spent in bed.

Even though neither of you have spoken about it, you can tell that whatever relationship you have with Jamie ends with the summer. You know this is for the best, knowing that once training and games pick up again he’ll barely have time for friends, let alone any other kind of relationship, but you hate the feeling of waiting for the other shoe to drop. It feels like there’s an expiration date, some dark cloud looming over your sunny day, and it’s making it hard to enjoy the time you do have with Jamie.

You’d never say any of this to him, though, because you’re not even sure if you’re really friends, if this relationship you have is anything beyond physical. It’s not as though you sit around pining after Jamie Tartt all day, but you can’t help but feel left out whenever you see him with his actual friends, as if you’re missing something important about him. The two of you have a surface level connection, and you’re fine with that, you really are, it’s just hard not to get caught up in your own head.

Jamie, though, is doing his best to get rid of seemingly every thought you have, leaning over the center console to kiss you again. It’s cramped and a little awkward and you don’t have any room to move around, but you can’t stop. Eventually, the two of you break apart for long enough to stumble into Jamie’s house and then you’re being pushed backwards to his bedroom.

The realization hits you that this is the first time you’ve ever been to Jamie’s house, and you can’t help but look around his bedroom, taking in all of his choices in decorations and knick-knacks.

“That’s a pretty color,” you say absentmindedly, starting off into his room.

“I’m sorry, am I boring you?” Jamie asks, pulling back from where he’d been sucking a mark onto your chest.

You can’t help but laugh, loud and unrestrained, as you run your fingers through the strands of hair hanging in Jamie’s eyes, giving them a gentle tug. Looking down after you catch your breath, you notice Jamie smiling at you and suddenly you feel too exposed, too open and you want to turn and run and never see him again but instead you use your light grip on his hair to pull him up for a kiss.

There’s a strange feeling deep in your stomach, one that you plan to ignore for as long as you can because it’s distracting you from Jamie. At first, you’d just thought it was the want filling your body, the urge to pull him impossibly close and feel him impossibly deep, but the feeling’s still there hours later as you lie boneless and sleepy.

Jamie’s off getting you some water, even though you never asked for any, and when he returns you’re dozing on his pillow, resisting the urge to snuggle under his sheets.

“You can just stay here tonight, if you want,” Jamie offers, sitting on the other side of the bed and staring off into space before quietly adding, “I wouldn’t mind.”

“Your bed is pretty comfortable,” you reply, thankful that you don’t have to get up and go searching for your clothes.

Instead, Jamie hands you the glass of water and a t-shirt, one that you gratefully slip on before getting under the covers. You fall asleep almost immediately, exhaustion spread throughout your entire body and mind, so you never know that Jamie lies awake almost the whole night, staring at the ceiling and trying not to wake you up or think about how perfect you look while asleep next to him.

When you do wake up, it’s with the sun streaming through the windows and Jamie’s arm slung over your waist. The two of you are impossibly close, both sharing the same pillow despite the size of his bed. It pains you to notice that he’s incredibly adorable when he’s sleeping. Part of you wants to kiss him all over and wake him, but the other just wants to let him sleep forever, watching as he breathes.

Luckily, you don’t need to make that choice, as Jamie’s eyes flutter open and you can see when he realizes just how close the two of you are and he tries to play it smooth but he scoots back to the side he fell asleep on.

“Did you sleep alright?” He asks, and you’re more focused on the scratchy way his voice sounds than the actual question. You just nod, hoping that was the right answer and delighting when he smiles, all soft and sweet and just for you.

You need to leave, get out while you still can before you end up spending the whole day with Jamie, because you know if you stay for a second longer you’re never going to want to leave him. Most of your time together was spent sleeping, but it's already almost impossibly hard to leave him. While you still have your resolve, you slip out of his insanely comfortable bed and go hunting for your clothes. It kills you a little inside when Jamie doesn’t stop you.

“Want me to drive you?” He asks, sitting up and moving to get out of bed and you need to stop yourself from staring at his toned chest, at the shorts low on his hips.

“No, I can just walk, it’s a nice day,” you lie, having no idea what the weather was like but hoping that summer wouldn’t let you down. Jamie nods, settles back into bed, and you could swear your heart physically aches because none of this should be happening.

You shouldn’t even be here in the first place, but here you are not wanting to leave. You shouldn’t be staring at him, with his mussed hair and his tattoos on full display. You shouldn’t have any feelings for him besides physical attraction and the basic feelings of friendship, but you’re starting to worry about that feeling in your belly that just grows and grows every second you spend with Jamie.

“See you around,” you tell him, leaving as quickly as you can before you convince yourself to stay any longer. You wander around London, all turned around and trying to find your flat without thinking of Jamie, while Jamie sits at home and tries not to think of you.

The rest of your day is spent doing meaningless activities, chores and work you’d been putting off for weeks. You wash your sheets and clean your fridge and respond to emails, trying your hardest to keep your mind off Jamie. It’s impossible, and the second you find yourself distracted, your mind wanders right back to him. What you really need is to leave your house, find someplace with blasting music and bodies pressed impossibly close, somewhere that you’ll have no space to think of anything, let alone Jamie.

Lucky for you, Keeley stays busy, always having one event or another she needs to go to and she always lets you tag along. Tonight your mission is to stop thinking of Jamie, even if that doesn’t mean going home with someone else. Just for a few hours, you don’t need him consuming your every thought.

Unfortunately for you, Jamie is always welcome with Keeley and has the same exact plan as you.

The air inside the bar is stifling, as if there’s no air conditioning and no windows, just the thick summer heat. You notice Jamie almost immediately, though it would be impossible not to with his highlights and his beaming smile, like your own personal sun. As much as you try to fight it, you can’t help but wonder if he noticed you at all, if he thinks of you at all when you’re not together.

You’re two drinks deep and you can’t help but think about Jamie, about what he thinks of you. Are you really just someone to fuck, someone who’s attractive enough for him to sleep with you whenever he feels the urge?

You’re three drinks deep and you can’t help but wonder if you could ever be anything more to him, if he’d ever want that. It’s common knowledge that Jamie’s still a little hooked on Keeley, and who could blame him, but are you really just a distraction?

You’re four drinks deep and you can’t stop crying, the tears flowing like rivers as Keeley and Rebecca try their best to comfort you, to calm you down. Eventually, Rebecca calls you a car and Keeley waits with you, ready to leave and make sure you get home safely.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, I promise,” you say through your sobs as you sit in the backseat on your way to your apartment, Keeley rubbing up and down your arms in a soothing manner.

“This isn’t about Jamie, is it?” She asks in that kind, understanding voice of hers and it only makes you cry harder.

“I think I love him and it fucking sucks.” Keeley’s hand moves to smooth over your hair as you lean against her, all the fight draining out of your body.

“Babe, just tell him.” You can’t help but shoot her a glare, one that she brushes off with a laugh, “What’s the worst that could happen? He won’t sleep with you anymore?”

Your mouth drops open, shocked to your core that Keeley knew about what the two of you had been doing and your heart breaks a little more because you feel like you’ve just betrayed one of your best friends. Keeley, though, gives you a supportive little squeeze, one that tells you that she isn’t mad at all.

That was one of your favorite things about Keeley, how supportive she is of all of the people she loves, no matter the situation. She’s wise beyond her years and is the kind of person who will go out and get whatever she wants through her own hard work and determination. Keeley is absolutely someone you need on your side, and it hits you just how thankful you are for her and all she does for you.

Here you are, sobbing over a boy, and Keeley does nothing but support you and try to help you calm down. She doesn’t look at you like you’re over-dramatic or crazy and instead is doing her best to fix whatever was making you feel this way.

“Clearly, this whole situation-ship is hurting you, and if he doesn’t want the same things as you, maybe it’s time to let it end,” she finishes with another loving squeeze, just as the car pulls up outside of your building.

The two of you slide out of the car, Keeley offering you her hand as she helps you up to your apartment and you’re left reeling by what she’s said. You didn’t even know you wanted something more until it hit you like a ton of bricks tonight, Jamie consuming your thoughts in all the wrong ways. You know Keeley’s right, that whatever you have going on is only going to hurt you in the long run, so you resolve to tell him everything the next time you see him.

Keeley’s wise words from the car and the glass of water she gave you before she left after confirming no less than ten times that you were okay have you sobering up rather quickly. You’re left feeling embarrassed and exhausted to the bone, wanting nothing more than to lay down in your bed and stay there for the next hundred years, but suddenly there’s a knock at your door and Jamie’s standing outside.

“Keeley let me in, hope that’s ok,” he tells you, seeming slightly uncomfortable and you briefly wonder if it’s because of your puffy eyes and slightly disheveled appearance, embarrassment coursing hot through your blood. “Just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

Jamie always keeps you on your toes, and though you know this isn’t a big deal, it warms your heart all the same. Jamie Tartt, drama queen footballer and prick reality star, is at your front door to see if you’re ok because you left a bar crying. You’d promised yourself that the next time you saw Jamie, you’d sit him down and talk about your feelings, vowing that you wouldn’t hide them anymore.

But here Jamie is, being all sweet and concerned, and that plan goes out the window. There’s just something about him that makes all the sense leave your body, so instead of having a conversation about your feelings you pull him down by his shoulders and kiss him.

It’s messy and desperate, and even though you’ve sobered up since leaving the bar, your head is spinning and your thoughts are starting to become consumed with Jamie. There’s a weight behind it this time, one that you’re sure the both of you are aware of, because Jamie’s hands are gripping your waist with a bruising force and you barely even pull away from him to breathe.

Both of you know something is going to change.

As you make your way to your bedroom, clothing is thrown down the hallway, a sock here and a shoe there, until you almost trip trying to remove your pants. Luckily for you, though, after what seemed like a miles long walk, you finally reached your bedroom door.

Jamie pushes you gently inside, breaking the kiss but staying close enough to breathe the same air, and he keeps pushing you back until the back of your knees hit the bed and you fall onto it with a sound of surprise. Jamie just smiles, but it’s soft in a way that makes your insides melt and not the cocky smile he has whenever he scores a goal.

You scramble to sit up, to take your shirt off, but your brain shuts off when you see Jamie get on his knees in front of you. More gently than you ever could have imagined, he tugs on the hem of your pants, bringing them down your hips until you need to push off of the bed to get them down the rest of the way. He continues to pull until they slip free of your feet, and by the time he’s standing again you’re throwing yourself upward to kiss him.

There’s just something about him that makes you want to be near him all the time, like a moth to the flame. It doesn’t feel self destructive though, and that’s what scares you. It scares you that you might be hurting yourself without knowing but it scares you more that this might not hurt you at all.

It’s always a little shocking to you just how gentle Jamie is, the soft way he cradles your jaw when he kisses you and the way he runs his hands up and down your back when he can tell everything is starting to get overwhelming. Of course, he can be plenty rough and you have the bite marks on your thighs and the hickeys on your chest to prove it, but it seems like it’s in his nature to be soft with you.

“You sure you wanna do this?” He asks, fingers playing gentling with the hem of your shirt.

“100%,” you reply, and give him a quick kiss to reaffirm your statement. Now, he wastes no time in pulling off your shirt and starting to remove his own clothes. It makes you pause, standing there by the foot of your bed in the process of removing your bra, because suddenly he’s shirtless and it never gets any less surprising despite the many times you’ve been in this situation.

It’s not like your being subtle in your ogling, and Jamie just smirks when he sees you staring. He pushes you back onto the bed, softer this time, and you scoot yourself backwards until your head is resting on the pillows. Jamie joins you, pushing your legs open wider so there's room for him to lay in between them.

Then, you’re almost certain you’ve died and gone to heaven because he’s slipping his fingers into the waistband of your panties and tugging them over your hips and down your thighs. You’re absolutely no help, lying there pliant for him to maneuver however he sees fit because you’re fully convinced your brain has stopped working.

It’s a little startling, how well Jamie knows your body. He always knows the right pressure and movement and location to make you see stars, make your eyes squeeze shut and your mouth drop open. You’d think that he’d be all bark and no bite, but it’s so clear to you now that he has the skills to back up his attitude.

You have the bite marks to prove it.

Your fingers are itching for something to grab onto, something more substantial than grasping at your bedsheets, so you gently twist Jamie’s hair around your fingers, just enough to ground you, to keep you anchored to your body when you feel like you’re seconds from floating away.

It feels too good, too overwhelming, you’re unable to control any of the sounds that come out of your mouth. Jamie’s hands are gripping, digging into the flesh of your thighs and it stings where his fingernails dig in but it’s so perfect you can’t help the way you whine.

The connection between your brain and your mouth must be severed because you keep babbling away about how good, how perfect everything feels. You’re not thinking at all, only able to focus on the feelings building deep in your belly until Jamie licks at your clit with the perfect amount of pressure and you just fucking lose it. Your mouth drops open and you’re completely unaware of the sounds that come pouring out of your mouth until, “I fucking love you.”

It’s like you’ve been doused in a bucket of ice water and Jamie’s pulling away and you’re fucking terrified and the pleasure that’s been building inside your body is completely replaced with dread. After you feel Jamie pulling back, you turn your gaze from the ceiling down to between your legs where Jamie still lies.

He just grins, looking like sin himself with your slick making his mouth all shiny and glossy. And then he gets right back to work, nipping at your inner thigh before doubling down his attention, working twice as hard and you don’t even remember what you’ve said because you’re thrown headfirst back into the intensity of Jamie’s full skill and attention.

It’s only seconds later when you’re almost certain that you’ve died, feeling like an exploding star as your back arches off the bed and you dig your fingers harder into Jamie’s hair and your mouth falls open again. When you regain your sense of existence, your body feels tingly all over as if the remnants of your orgasm are still coursing through your veins.

Breathing hard, you look down to see Jamie resting his head on one of your thighs, just waiting for you to come down from your high. He places a kiss over one of the marks he made on your inner thigh before he crawls up the bed to plant a soft kiss on your lips.

He disappears after that, and you’re a little worried that he’s left you like this before he comes back a few minutes later, with a glass of water and a plate of snacks. The thought of him trifling through your cupboard makes your heart stutter a little and you’re so overwhelmed with feelings that you can only manage to give him a small smile in thanks.

The two of you sit quietly side by side on your bed, eating the snacks Jamie had brought. He checks in on you again and again, making sure you’re totally comfortable. And then, he clears his throat and shifts around, looking uncomfortable and you can feel your heart rising into your throat, dread gripping at your stomach.

“Are we gonna talk about what you said?” He asks, tracing shapes on the bare skin of your knee as he talks and looks anywhere but your face.

“I think I meant it,” you tell him, feeling as if your whole world is crashing down around you. There are other important things in your life, work and friends and family, but there’s something about Jamie that even after the limited time you’ve had together, the thought of losing him makes you sick to your stomach.

“Good, that’s good to know.” He goes quiet for a moment but his fingers never still in their drawing, “I think so too.”

“Good,” you tell him with a smile, one that he returns and it makes you want to cry because he’s so gorgeous and wonderful and you won’t be losing him after all, there’s a hope for you, a future, and that’s all you need.

You know nothing is certain and there are plenty of things that could go wrong, but you try to bask in the afterglow of what’s been confessed the same way you’d lay in the sunshine. You feel warm and happy and you’re determined to hang onto those feelings, to enjoy the time you spend with Jamie instead of worrying that everything will come crashing down.

There’s just something about him, something that makes your worrying come to a pause whenever you’re with him. He brings you an unexpected sort of peace, one that you vow to enjoy now that you’re not worrying when it will disappear, when he’ll disappear. For once, that feeling in your chest isn’t one of anxiety but one that you’re convinced is love.

You love Jamie Tartt, and that thought isn’t as scary as it once was.

Tags: @andr0medafallen @pazvizslasprincess @scaramou @parcelofbread @lightninginab0ttle @curlypeter @maggiecc @percysaidnever

#jamie tartt #jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt x you #jamie tartt fanfiction #jamie tartt fluff #jamie tartt smut #ted lasso #ted lasso fanfiction

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navybrat817 · 5 months

Note

“Behave, I wouldn’t want to have to punish you now.” with Nick Fowler please 🥰

Love this! Thank you for submitting a prompt. Went a little dark with this. ❤️

Snow Globe

Pairing: Dark!Nick Fowler x Female Reader

Summary: Nick thinks snow globes are beautiful, just like you.

Word Count: Over 600

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, NONCON/DUBCON, cockwarming, possessive behavior, Nick Fowler (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Set in the same AU as See Through You and Home Video. And a small submission to @thebasementspouses 's Christmas Challenge with Nick and Snow Globe. ❤️ Written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

“Beautiful, isn't it?”

You peeked up at Nick where he sat on the couch and studied his handsome face. He was in a good mood today. Maybe because he got to sleep in a bit and cuddle with you. He didn't even bother getting fully dressed once he got up. Just put on a pair of boxer briefs and insisted on the two of you staying in.

As if you had a say in the matter.

He chuckled when you let out a hum of confusion. “The snow globe, sweetheart,” he smiled, picking it up from the end table beside him. He gave it a small shake to draw your attention to it more. “See? Beautiful.”

You stared into the snow globe, not at all enraptured like when you saw them in stores or homes. A souvenir like that should have enchanted you with the lightly sparkling snowflakes and glitter. The ethereal vision only served to remind you that looks could be deceiving.

Evil can be beautiful.

Nick Fowler was living proof.

“I thought maybe we could start our own collection,” he continued as he set it down and brushed his fingers along the side of your throat with a soft smile. “Doesn't that sound nice?”

You blinked once. Again, you had no say. You could argue with him, sure. But who knew where that would lead? Nowhere good.

And you didn't want to go down the hard path tonight.

“Fuck, your mouth really does look beautiful stretched around my cock,” he breathed, his fingers drifting along your neck again as he rolled his hips up. “Breaks my heart when you try to fight it, but you aren't fighting now, are you?”

You exhaled through your nose, the urge to gag rising. It was only a few minutes ago when you felt the weight of him slide across your tongue, but it felt more like hours with the slight ache in your jaw. The tip of his cock kept hitting the back of your throat and you willed yourself to stay still and focus on breathing.

At least he was kind enough to give you a pillow for your knees.

“Of course, you aren't. Because as much as you fight it, you love it when I fill you up,” he smirked as you shivered, a darkness settling over your heart. He made you feel good physically every time he took you, but you couldn't let pleasure wear you down. Could you? “And I really do love filling your holes.”

You almost wished he'd stop talking. If he did, you could allow yourself to drift away. You wouldn't disappear into a daze completely, but you could retreat into yourself for a short time and deny that you belonged to him. Which was precisely why he kept speaking.

Nick wouldn't allow you to leave him, even if it was just in your mind.

And with his cock in your mouth, he wouldn't allow you to talk back.

“It’s okay to like being mine, sweetheart,” he whispered.

But why should you like it?

He let out a sharp hiss when your teeth grazed him harder than he liked and gripped the back of your head in a warning. “Behave,” he said in a low voice. “I wouldn't want to have to punish you now.”

He kept you on his cock when you tried to let up, not allowing you any reprieve. Tears formed in the corners of your eyes as you met the burning azure of his gaze, his eyes so dark they were almost black in the dim light. It was like looking into your own twisted snow globe.

You were trapped.

Forever.

I love him. I can't help myself. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Nick Fowler Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

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buckys-wintersoldier · 5 months

Text

Mother Nature-Week | Chris Evans

Pairing -> Actor!Boyfriend!Chris Evans x Girlfriend!Reader

Summary -> You have your period while Chris is at work but when he finds out he makes sure to come home to bring you foot and comfort you.

Warnings -> (T) period cramps, one time talking about throwing up, a lot of fluff

Wordcount -> 1.5k

Request -> HAPPY NEW YEAR!! 🥳 Loved the new Andy image! 🥰 I’m in love with your writing, do you by chance have any fic with Chris or his character about where the reader starts her period and has bad cramps or something 👉🏼👈🏼 Mother Nature sent me a gift last night for new years and I’m dying need some Chris or Andy comfort or anyone lol !! Not even sure if you take requests but just wondering 💭 Have a good day 🌈✨😂

A/N -> Thank you and happy new year for you too. First of all thank you so much for those kind words, they really mean a lot to me. And I’m glad you love my work. I hope you’re oke and I hope the oneshot helps you a bit. Second, I take requests, yes so here we are. Sorry for mistakes, misunderstanding phrases, it’s so late but I wanted to finish this one before I sleep. So enjoy it ans thanks for your request.💕

Masterlist | Chris Evans Masterlist

You’re lying in bed, your hands around your stomach, trying to comfort yourself while worse cramps make your day shitty. It’s the second January of the new year, and Mother Nature thought you really needed your period again; otherwise, the start of the new year wouldn't be as great as yet, right?

Your arms wrapped around your body don't really help; they don't warm you, and they don’t stop those cramps. Sometimes you’re not sure if your body hates you or if you just need Chris with you, and your body shows you because when he isn’t there, your cramps are worse. Or his talented hands are just good when they hold your belly warm and his fingers draw small circles on your skin.

Chris is at work filming his new movie, and you’re at home with bad cramps. That’s definitely not the way you wanted to spend the day. You have nothing against being in bed for half of the day and cuddling with your boyfriend, but being in bed with cramps and your period but without your boyfriend? You can definitely imagine better plans for the day.

Something like a cold shiver along your spine while your whole body feels like you’re sweating lets you groan. You don’t care about sweating anymore; taking a shower isn’t included in the plan for today when Chris isn’t at home. Everything feels like it’s spinning, and if you try to stand for a while, you will probably fall down because your legs feel like jelly.

You don’t really have time to think about it all because your cramps are way too hurtful to focus on something else. The worst about the cramps and your period? You got them today, which means you will have them for another four to six days. So you can already plan the next few days in bed with a lot of cramps in your stomach and even more food you want to eat.

You have your blanket wrapped around you. Just your nose and your eyes looking out of it, and you feel like a burrito. Something you wouldn’t say no to yet when someone offered you a burrito. Before you can think about more food, you feel your phone buzzing. Somewhere underneath you. But you’re not really sure where it is, and you actually don’t really want to move right now.

With your one hand, you try to find your phone; maybe it's Chris who calls you, and you don’t want to ignore him. He could bring you some food, so you should definitely not ignore him. It doesn’t take long - maybe four or five times, rolling from one side to the other, touching every inch you can reach - before you roll back and try to find your phone on the other side.

You don’t know how it came to that place, but you found it under your left thigh. The blanket was between them, and you needed a moment to figure out how to reach it without unwrapping yourself. But you managed it, and you can finally pick up the call. It’s Chris, like you thought, and with a small smile, you roll to the side to place your phone so you don’t have to hold it in your hand the whole time.

“Hey, princess,” he says, smiling into the camera. “Still in bed, huh?” Chris jokes, and you nod.

When you just nodded, he immediately knew something was wrong, and his expression changed from a happy one to a worried one. You want to tell him that nothing is wrong, but it wouldn’t be true, and you also don’t want him to worry about you. Your period is something you have every month, but he is always worried when you have it because you don't feel well. And Chris hates to see you when you’re not as euphoric and happy as usual, especially when he isn’t there to comfort you and bring you as much food as you want.

“What’s wrong, babe?” he asks, and you mumble something, but he doesn’t really understand it.

“Cramps,” you repeat.

“Mother nature?” Chris asks, and you nod.

He always calls it that because when he said it the first time, you felt way more comfortable. And especially when he is at work and everyone can listen, it feels more like a secret sentence the two of you use, and not everyone immediately knows what’s wrong. You’re not ashamed of having it, but you feel way more comfortable, and Chris does everything to make sure you feel good and loved.

“I will be back in thirty minutes; what do you need?” he asks, and you chuckle but shake your head.

“You need to work; I’ll be fine,” you tell him, but you know he is too stubborn, so he will be home in thirty minutes, and he doesn’t care if you say yes or no.

Of course you want to have him at home and cuddle with you, but you also know he has to do his job. He always told you he was just a call away, and right now you don’t want to discuss it with him; you want him with you, holding you close against him.

And when the next cramp in your stomach is worse than the others and you hiss softly, he is sure he won’t let you be alone at home. He will be there in thirty minutes with your food, and then he will comfort you until you feel better.

“Chocolate, burrito, sandwich with cheese and one with chicken, and a cucumber, please." You tell him the things you would like to eat, and he laughs softly, but before he hangs up, he stops.

“Ice cream and cookies, right?”

“Yes, those things too, please,” you say, and then he hangs up to finally come home.

It doesn’t take thirty minutes until Chris is home. He immediately comes into your shared bedroom and finds you still wrapped in your blanket.

“I’m home,” he says, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

He lets his fingers slide through your hair before he leans down and kisses the top of your head softly. You’re watching a movie where he plays the main character, and when he hears his own voice, he looks at the television and laughs.

“It’s still weird to hear my own voice on the television. I bought you something, princess,” Chris says, sitting up to reach for a little bag, which he places between your legs.

You sit up and lean your back against the headboard. Then you try to reach the bag, but your boyfriend is faster and pulls it closer to him.

“Wait, you get what I have, but let me give it to you,” he says, laughing, and you groan.

Chris looks into the bag before he gives you the chocolate, the sandwiches, and the cucumber. You take it all and place it in your lap. While he was giving you the things, you opened the chocolate, and half of it was already in your belly when he looked at you in amusement.

“Oke, you didn't tell me what kind of burrito you like, so I have two,” he tells you, and his smile gets bigger.

When he lifts something else out of the bag, you chuckle. Chris holds a little stuffie, which looks like a burrito, in his hand. He hands it to you before he looks for the other burritos to give them to you as well.

“Thank you so much,” you say, cuddling with the stuffie while Chris places the bag on the side and walks around the bed to let himself fall down next to you.

“Always for you, my love,” he says, kissing your cheek softly while grabbing a burrito for himself.

The two of you eat and talk a bit about his day on set. Your cramps aren’t really better, and Chris notices it because he slides his hand under the blanket and grips your waist to help you lay down. Then his one hand glides over your stomach, and he draws small circles on it.

“When I need to throw up, it’s your fault. I just ate a few minutes ago,” you mumble, but he shrugs and moves a bit closer.

He places his arm around your shoulders while the other scratches and warms your stomach. You feel your body relaxing, and within ten minutes the cramps are getting better, and you feel yourself slowly falling asleep in the arms of the man you love the most.

Chris looks at you, making sure to see every changing expression on your face. But when you almost fall asleep in his arms, he smiles at you, knowing he found the best way to get rid of your cramps and make your period less bad. He kisses your hair softly, then your cheek, and then he looks for his blanket to wrap around the two of you.

Your boyfriend will make it clear to his colleagues that he can’t come to work when you’re not feeling well. He wants to make sure to be there and cuddle in bed with you all day until your periods are better and you’re feeling much better.

“I love you, princess,” he mumbles and chuckles when you mumble a sleepy ‘I love you too' while you hold the burrito with one of your hands and his thigh with your other while you smile softly.

#chris evans fluff #chris evans x reader #chris evans one shot #chris evans fic #chris evans fanfic #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans x f!reader #chris evans x fem reader #chris evans x fem!reader #chris evans x yn #chris evans x female reader #chris evans x y/n #chris evans x you #chris evans x girlfriend!reader

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decaying-church · 9 months

Text

Slasher Nsfw Headcanons

(a/n: pretend I've been posting constantly this year :))

Pairing : Herbert West x male!reader, Vincent Sinclair x male!reader

Requested by @unspeakableoftheoscarwildesorr : Will you do a nsfw headcannons with vincent sinclaire and herbert west? It’s alright if you don’t want to. Please have a good day :))

Warning: bottom!slashers, top!reader, hair pulling, public play, Vincent's conservative upbringing, Vincent writes smut for you, bondage, mentions of chemical burns, getting caught multiple times (slight exhibitionist Herbert) sorry dan, breeding, aftercare

Characters: Herbert West, Vincent Sinclair

Vincent Sinclair

He likes it when you watch him work, hovering over his shoulder, sometimes leaning on the table next to him. It makes him nervous, his hands fumbling a bit. If you tell him he was doing good and his brain would shut off.

He loves it when you praise him.

He also likes it when you run your hand over his back, whether you're giving him a massage or just feeling clingy he won't be able to focus on anything but you touching him.

Definitely a virgin when you met, but he knows about the general action of sex. Like the thing goes in the thing and then a baby comes out.

An utterly submissive bottom.

Before you met he figured that if he ever did end up having sex then he’d be the one doing all the work, as men do. (mmmh, conservative, yee-haw upbringing)

But then he met you, and he loved you, and you were both men, so his picture of what sex should be was completely shattered.

If you're generally smaller than him, he’ll try and be dominant. It won't work, the second you flirt with him or make a suggestive comment he goes weak in the knees.

He will make a single attempt at being on top before metaphorically throwing his hands up and going “well I tried”.

If your bigger, there is no attempt, there isn't even a thought of dominance, you were bigger- stronger, therefore you could do whatever you wanted to him and he would not complain (he will never tell you this because he knows you’d tell him otherwise but it honestly added an extra layer of excitement to everything)

The town is pretty empty so the two of you could essentially fuck anywhere.

You once joked about fucking in the middle of the road- and even though you were just joking, the thought of you holding him down on the old road, in front of all those houses, fucking him without a hint of modesty or secrecy genuinely plagued his dreams for several nights.

In reality, you’ve fucked in the gas station, in the movie theater, in the church, and in (or in more risky cases, against) the various houses around town.

Personally, I believe Vincent can talk, he’s just severely traumatized and doesn’t do it often, most days he communicates though groans, gestures, and forms of writing or drawing.

So, sometimes, when he wants you to try someone very specific with him, something too specific for him to say out loud, partially because of humiliation, but also because speaking was difficult for him, he will write it.

And not simple sentences either, he will go on and on about what he wants you to do to him, he’ll draw pictures, he’ll rant on for pages and pages.

The first time he did this you nearly read it out loud, you got about half a sentence in before realizing that no one else (especially Lester, who was just in the next room) needed to hear what he’d written for you.

Of course, with a set of quite specific instructions, you were able to make his every fantasy come true.

Vincent can genuinely go forever, round after round after round.

After years of being a recluse, he has a limit for how long he can go without some kind of stimulation.

Really, finally having someone who wants him and loves him above everybody else makes it a bit harder to continue the streak of celibacy he had before.

He can go about two weeks before he starts outright begging you to fuck him. Again, in great detail.

He doesn't have any prior experience so you'll have to teach him quite a few things.

The first time he asked you to tie him up he brought you some old ratty rope that would have torn his skin the moment things got too intense.

You have to ride out of tow a couple of times for supplies.

He is heartbroken every single time you leave, he always half expects you to just keep driving and never come back.

You always come back, much to Bo’s, who has to put up with Vincent being agiant baby whenever you leave, relief.

(if you ever actually leave Vincent, Bo will hunt you down. Despite everything he does love his brother)

He has a pretty average set of kinks, he likes being praised, tied up, and fucked within an inch of consciousness. He like it when you pull his hair and call him pretty, he likes getting fucked in places he shouldn’t, and he likes it when you leave marks on him.

Aftercare fiend, he’s not a pillow princess but you’d think he was with the way that he’d just lay there, fully fucked out, waiting for you to take care of him.

If you’re someplace where you can’t fully take care of him, (I.e. any other place you’ve fucked outside of your bedroom) he will become extremely flustered. Because that means he has to travel however far away you are from your bedroom in this state. And you could be several houses away or just a couple rooms away but he doesn’t consider either to be more or less embarrassing.

The state he’s in could varies depending on what you did, he could just have ruffled hair and messy clothes, or he could be walking around with a limp with every inch of visible skin covered in bruises.

Herbert West

A very busy man that doesn't like being interrupted while working.

That being said, he will sit on your cock while he's working.

He’ll tease you, act like he’s ready to get his back blown out against his desk, only for him to keep you inside while he works, shifting every so often, fully ignoring how hard he was in favor of chemicals and mildly unethical plans.

You might be able to fully pull him away from work if you give him an explicit rundown of all of the things you were going to do to him.

It'll distract him to the point that he just gives up, grabbing you by the shirt and pulling you in for a kiss.

Most of your “interactions” in his lab were just the two of you humping like animals on the nearest flat surface, which could be anything, a desk, the floor, the wall.

The two of you had so many chemical burns that could have been avoided simply by moving to his bedroom, you think the two off you would learn your lesson after the first time- you didn’t.

Herbert did not care what Dan heard or saw.

This was his house too after all. He could fuck wherever he wanted.

You’ve be caught by Dan an embarrassing amount of times.

Herbert from time to time will treat you like an experiment.

Don’t be surprised if he strips you down and asks to run some “test”

Herbert really, really likes oral.

He loves it when you guide him, one hand in his hair, slowly pulling him back and forth on your cock.

He is not immune to pet names.

Honey, baby, sweetheart, darling. The list goes on.

While he certainly likes those names, nothing captures his attention quite like you calling him “doctor”

This would be extremely inconvenience if you also worked at the hospital (the number of quickies had in closets/labs/bathrooms is downright disposable)

If you don't, you do it purely to tease him.

Leaning in close, telling him all the disgusting things you want to do to him, then just, “come on, Doctor West, don't you think you deserve a break?”

Herbert is definitely a switch with a preference for power bottoming.

He's in control while also getting fucked sideways, it's perfect for him.

When he is feeling fully submissive he will beg you to breed him.

He knows he can't necessarily be bred, but he likes the feeling of you cumming in him over and over.

Every position he likes, he likes for a very specific reason.

He likes missionary because he can leave marks all over your back, he likes being bent over the table so he has something to rest against when his legs inevitably gave out, he liked getting fucked on the wall because he liked how frantic and desperate it felt.

He will not flirt or try and sugarcoat what he wants, he doesn't care who hears, if he wants you to fuck him, he's going to tell you.

Herbert says he doesn’t like slow sex, but there’s been a couple of times when he hits a road block with his research and he’s frustrated and overwhelmed by everything and everyone and he just wants you to make it better.

You can’t necessarily help with the research but you could help him relax.

The way he reacts to aftercare changes drastically throughout your relationship.

When you first got together, he didn’t want you near him, don’t touch him, don’t talk to him, don’t look at him. Even though his legs were shaking violently and his body felt like it was on fire he insisted that he could handle everything himself.

There was somehow always water and food for him though, he figured it was a coincidence (leave him alone, his brain isn’t working at full capacity at the moment)

Further into you’re relationship he will definitely still be a brat about it, but less so. He’ll let you clean him, feed him, praise him. And on some of the more intense days, you’re gonna be carrying him around like a princess.

He “hates it”, but the moment you try and leave him to fend for himself, he gets even more irritated.

If it’s one of those days where you’re both bone tired afterwards then he’ll let you cuddle with him, he won’t initiate it, but he’ll enjoy it .

Kinktober 2023

#vincent sinclair x male!reader #vincent sinclair x male reader #vincent sinclair x reader #herbert west x male!reader #herbert west x male reader #herbert west x reader #male reader #x male reader #male!reader #x male!reader #dom male reader #dom!male!reader #top male reader #top!male!reader #top!reader #dom!reader

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deepouterspacecandy · 3 months

Text

Whispering Pines

I plan for this to be a two-part piece, at least, as there are many mushy and maybe even spicy things planned for it—but today is my birthday and I’ll be away from my computer for a few days to celebrate. I really hope you enjoy reading it in the meantime. Big fluff, 18+ only.

In a world where infected roam the earth and surviving has become a daily battle, life is as good as it can be. Perfectly fine, by your standards, until Abigail Anderson entered the picture.

From the moment you saw her shredding all competition in the gun range, she stirred something inside of you that now clouds your mind and distracts you from almost everything else.

The term “crush” makes sense to you now, with the overwhelming burden of longing and unseen affection absolutely crushing you into miniscule particles of dust, drifting hopelessly at her feet.

Your infatuation has pushed you into a range of activities you wouldn’t have pursued otherwise. While it has undoubtedly made you a more capable soldier, it is unfortunate that the attention your accolades have received is not something you can reciprocate, even if you wanted to.

It’s not just her striking smile, or her perfect blend of rugged and soft features—not the sheer strength she exudes when she ambles through the chow hall in her tank top, cargo pants so snug across her muscular thighs it makes your knees weak.

It’s just her. A beautiful amalgamation of countless quirks and habits that, for some wicked reason, forces your senses to impossible heights when you desperately need them to subside.

“Are you hearing me right now?”

“Shit, sorry,” you say. “Go again.”

You lower your head apologetically, Manny’s face expressing absolute scandal when he notices the broad-shouldered goddess that diverted your focus from him. His very best friend and comrade, naturally.

When he waggles his brows at you and calls Abby over, your stomach swoops so low that the rapid beating of your heart contradicts the notion of standing still.

“Manny, don’t—Manny! Oh, Jesus Christ.”

With a brief, calculating glance at your fidgeting form, he meets Abby halfway, abandoning you in line.

As you lose focus on your surroundings, panic draws emphasis to the position of your hands. You become acutely aware, contemplating whether they should rest in your pocket or if that would come across as too deliberately cool.

You avoid watching them talk amongst themselves, the air thick with secrecy, because obviously if you don’t see her, she can’t see you and then you can vanish without a trace, escaping to a haven that grants respite anywhere but here in the damn burrito queue.

When you reach the front of the line, you snatch up your lunch with such speed that the person serving you may have mistaken your haste for a bad mood as you swiftly exit through the nearest doors and into the hallway.

“I can’t believe you,” Manny pants, trying to catch his breath as you fumble with your overcrowded keyring. “The first woman who’s ever tried to escape my charm.”

“I find that hard to believe,” you snicker. Metal jingles aggressively as you struggle to enter your apartment. “God, what’s wrong with this damn thing?”

In a display of cunning, Manny unveils a spare key, undoubtedly gained through some act of thievery, and shoves you aside. With a kick, he swings the door open and stretches his arm above your head to hold it for you.

“Do I even want to know?” you ask, gesturing at the stolen key.

“Probably not,” he chuckles.

He rests against your kitchen counter and, realizing you won’t ask him to go, hops onto the hard surface. He devours his meal, one enormous chomp at a time, legs casually swinging as you wander through your suite, trying to regain your appetite.

“So,” Manny says, balling up the wrapper before tossing it at your head. “You’ve got it bad for my girl, huh?”

“You’re actually the worst, do you know that?” you say. “I hope you never get laid again.”

Laughing uncontrollably, Manny tries to catch the messy wrapper you toss back at him, causing him to nearly tumble off the counter.

“That’s what you get, sucker!” you exclaim. “Looks like you won’t be making the softball team, after all.”

With a snort, Manny jumps down from the counter and starts rummaging through your mini fridge, in search of something to wash down his lunch.

“We’ll see after this weekend who is the real sucker.”

“What does that mean?”

With a voracious gulp, he drains the last drops of your juice rations, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He’s finally seeking retribution for all the snacks of his that you’ve been helping yourself to.

“Manny, what did you do?” you groan.

An abrupt knock at your door startles you, as Manny’s knowing look turns your mouth bone-dry.

“I’ll go wash up. You better get that,” he says.

With a leisurely pace, he saunters down the hall, his footsteps creating a gentle rhythm as he heads towards your bathroom and out of sight.

Thunderous knocks continue to echo through the room, causing your thoughts to scramble. You smooth out your shirt and fuss with your hair, taking a few calming breaths before flinging open the door.

A pair of bright, curious blue eyes greet you on the other side, setting your cheeks on fire. Swallowing hard, you stand there speechless, desperately grasping for something significant to say. Knowing what Manny told her would provide some helpful context, but that shithead has left you in the lurch twice today.

Abby sizes you up, her attractive face adorned with a growing smirk that spotlights her confidence.

“Hi,” she says with a warm smile, extending her hand for a friendly handshake. “I’m Abby.”

“Hey, yeah—I’ve noticed. I know,” you blurt, feeling yourself internally recoil at the gibberish spilling from you like a waterfall.

As you both stand there, the handshake lingering for an unusually long time, Abby’s amusement at your expense only seems to intensify. As she patiently waits for you to decide when it ends, her eyes crinkle cheerfully at the edges. By the time you pull away, your whole body feels sweat dappled and flushed.

Manny shouts from somewhere inside the apartment, sending your shoulders straight to your ears. “Are you going to invite her in already—where are your manners?”

His outburst earns a gratuitous eye roll from Abby, who then tilts her head with empathy towards you.

“Would—you like to come in?” you stammer.

“Yeah,” she says. “That’d be great.”

----------------------------------------

A few times each year, Abby takes charge of organizing events for the younger generations on the FOB. She leads a series of survival challenges—scavenger hunts, fishing and hunting, target practice, crafting competitions, herb, and plant identification—to help keep morale up and to preserve strength in the community.

Although you haven’t taken part, you’ve heard positive feedback from soldiers and their families on base. It’s a good thing too, since Manny has kindly stepped in and volunteered you to help Abby with the next one.

“I know it sounds corny, but it really helps build teamwork and keep everyone active,” Abby explains, referring to a relay race she wants to set up outside the walls.

“No, not at all—it sounds awesome,” you say.

“I was going to go solo, but if you want to come along, I’d appreciate the extra hands,” she says. I usually camp for a few days and build everything myself. It’ll be nice to have some company out there.”

Abby’s fingers find a loose thread that is spindling out from a tear on her jeans, and she starts to fiddle with it. Manny clears his throat, prompting you to join the conversation rather than staring at her like she’s an enchanting extraterrestrial.

“I love camping!” you squeak, putting Manny on the verge of collapsing with laughter as he hears the sheer excitement in your voice.

It wouldn’t be completely terrible if the couch swallowed you whole, but despite your nerves, Abby does a decent job of making you feel relaxed in her presence.

“Yeah? Do you have a tent and everything?”

It’s clear that the universe is conspiring to make you look like a fool, so of course you don’t have camping gear of your own. To be honest, you’ve always been thankful for the opportunity to choose your work while off base because every time you observe your unit setting up camp, it reminds you of how complex it all seems.

Your inclination is to prioritize keeping everyone fed and using your expertise in weaponry and stealth. If you attempted to pitch a tent with only tarps and some rope, someone would inevitably wake up in a puddle.

“I’m not so great with the tent erecting stuff,” you say, mentally cuffing yourself the minute you hear yourself speak.

You’ve never uttered the word erecting in your life before now.

You avoid glancing at Manny’s face, aware that he’s eagerly anticipating the chance to mercilessly ridicule you. With a sugary, lopsided smile, Abby boldly extends her middle finger towards her best friend. You can bet that he is making all sorts of faces behind your back.

“We can share mine,” Abby offers. “If that’s cool with you.”

“Sure, that works for me,” you say with a nod, trying like hell to stay composed against the heat climbing your neck.

Abby bites her cheek to suppress a smile.

“Good, it’s all settled,” Manny says, slapping your back. “Just you and Abby, all alone in the great outdoors.”

----------------------------------------

“I’m going to kill him,” you grumble.

Upon hearing the news of Manny finally pairing you and Abby together, Nora is giddier than you’ve ever seen her. While assembling a medical kit for your camp out, she gives you a cheeky look.

“That girl needs her shit rocked,” she says, bouncing her flawlessly manicured brows. “If you want my vote, I say you send her home to us limping.”

“Oh, my god! I’m never going to get my face to calm down.”

You press your palms to your forehead, desperate for a cold cloth.

Nora’s bright, warm giggles fill the room, matching the kind-heartedness she emits.

“There’s no way Abby isn’t dreading this,” you say, passing a roll of gauze to Nora’s outstretched hands. “You should’ve been there—it was like I forgot how to talk or something. I’m so embarrassed.”

“Well, if I know her as well as I think I do,” Nora says with a grin. “She probably found your mess pretty damn cute.”

“You think so?”

“Totally. She digs the dorky ones,” she shrugs, handing you the fully stocked medical kit. “Just be real with her, okay? Everything with Owen did a number on her. I’d hate to have to kick your ass when you get back.”

“I don’t think this is that kind of trip,” you say. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

Leaning against the desk, Nora twirls a pen in her hands, lost in thought. The Salt Lake Crew, as you understand it, formed an unbreakable bond, strengthened by the shared experiences and obstacles they encountered while growing up together side by side. Though some challenges they faced have become distant tales, her face still carries the etching of the profoundness of their connection.

“I’m going to tell you something because I trust you, but please don’t make me regret it.”

The sound of the pen tapping against Nora’s thigh is quick and incessant as she gathers her thoughts. A small puff of air escapes her as she studies you intently from a distance.

“Fuck it,” she says, her lean hands gripping the tabletop. “Abby gets these—bad dreams, okay? Not all the time, but when she does, it can be rough. It’s why she goes out there alone.”

“Oh,” you breathe.

“Yeah. So, it’s a pretty big deal that she’s bringing you along this time,” Nora explains. “Please be good to her.”

----------------------------------------

The two of you venture outside the gates in the early morning, the scorching heat prickling your neck. The drought-stricken summer is the hottest you can remember in ages, dry grass crunching beneath your boots as you trek on.

You bring your shirt up to swipe at your sweaty face, drawing Abby’s gaze as it travels down your body.

This time, it’s her face that flushes with a rosy hue as she realizes you caught her stealing glances.

“It’s cool of you to help me out,” Abby says, redirecting attention. “Even though it’s boiling out here.”

“I thought about bailing, I’m not gonna lie,” you chuckle.

The heat and Abby’s quick pace are leaving you out of breath, but you’re determined to keep up.

“Why didn’t you?” she asks.

You reflect on Nora’s words and how she pleaded with you to treat Abby honourably. Her advice was to be authentic, and even though vulnerability can be frightening, you’re going to bite the bullet.

“I’ve wanted to get to know you for a while,” you admit. With the sun piercing through the trees, blinding your vision, you tightly clutch the straps of your backpack and hang your head. “I hope that’s not weird.”

Abby stops in front of you, and it momentarily obscures the bright rays of sunlight, offering you instant relief. The freckles sprinkled along her sun-kissed skin become more prominent, enhancing her natural beauty. She’s so pretty it makes your chest ache, and your thoughts run wild.

Kneeling, she hunts through her bag and pulls out a crumpled ball cap. When she stands up and carefully places it over your head, making all the necessary adjustments, flutters stir between your ribs.

“This hat is weird,” Abby says, her soft smile contrasting with her words.

Before continuing the journey, she pauses to fix a few messy tendrils of your hair, her touch lingering behind your ear for a split second. It’s enough to overlook the blazing temperature outside, mistakenly convincing you it’s only a sensation within your body.

“What about you—where’s yours?” you ask.

Despite her attempt to hide it, her smile is unmistakable as she tilts her head away.

“It looks better on you.”

“I highly doubt the accuracy of that statement,” you quip.

If you had known she was such a sweetheart behind closed doors, you might’ve summoned the courage to approach her differently. Life is brief, and it dawns on you how much time you’ve squandered in fear.

Amused, Abby shakes her head and then gestures for you to follow her. You would willingly accompany her to the deepest depths of the earth if she wanted. Fortunately, you’re already experiencing a preview of that, with the summer heat threatening to sear you like a salmon steak.

Abby jogs ahead of you, her eyes hooked on something beyond the treeline. You match her speed, eager to discover what has caught her interest.

She leads you to a lake, with its surface as clear as crystal, mirroring the vibrant emerald hues of the surrounding trees. Wildflowers bloom at the water’s edge, cradled between pebbles, their petals a delicate splatter of yellow and purple. A family of ducks glide gracefully across the surface, leaving ripples in their wake.

You wish you had something to offer them.

“Please tell me we’re going swimming,” you say, spellbound by the lush oasis and the promise of a refreshing dip. “I haven’t been to the lake for years.”

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Abby says, beaming at you. “Have you ever gone skinny dipping?”

Her teeth graze anxiously over her bottom lip, examining you—her watchful eyes appearing filled with hope that she didn’t unintentionally cross a boundary.

“Only in my bathtub,” you say with a nervous giggle. “But I guess that doesn’t really count.”

“You’re a total dork,” Abby teases. “It’s kind of growing on me.”

“I’ll take it,” you say, delighting in the way she impishly scrunches her nose at you. “So, are we doing this or what?”

“You first,” she says, her eyes gleaming mischievously as she flicks at the brim of your hat.

When you toss it aside, Abby lifts her shirt up and over her head, balling it up to pitch on top of her bag. Her smooth, honey-blonde braid sways between her exposed shoulder blades as she widens her stance, unfastening her leather belt. Her back is a landscape of tight, defined muscles that leave you feeling dizzy.

Abby’s gaze meets yours as she looks back, a trace of wonder dancing in her eyes.

“Like what you see?” she asks.

#abby the last of us #abby tlou #abby x fem!reader #abby x reader #abby x you #tlou abby

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musings-of-a-college-dork · 3 months

Text

An Odd Request

Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

Word count: roughly 1K

Steve’s wife goes to the gym and makes an odd request when she arrives home.

Warnings: sorta NSFW (mdni), use of Y/N, terms of endearment (baby).

Author’s note: This is just fluffy Steve and was written directly after I got home from the gym needing this man and a very specific kind of cuddling so…here it is! Short and sweet and very silly. Hope y’all enjoy!

It was a quiet Saturday morning in the Harrington household. Steve was the only one home, having a few hours on his own as Y/N went to meet her personal trainer. She had been seeing a trainer for a while as she, quote on quote, wanted “to be able to carry all the groceries in a single trip all by myself.” A noble and worthy cause in Steve’s eyes and yet as long as he was around, she’d never have to lift a finger. He was more than content to show off his own strength for her enjoyment…and yet wished to support her in any and all of her goals so off to the gym she had gone. As such, he had the home to himself for a few hours, a chance to get some work done.

He had spent most of the morning thus far drinking his coffee and sketching up new basketball drills and formations for the middle school team he coached. He finally understood exactly what Hopper had meant all those years ago about “coffee and contemplation” finding more and more that the man’s wisdom was never ending the older he got. We’ve gotta tighten up their current formations, he thought as the TV played some mindless sitcom in the background while he chewed on the end of his pencil. His mind looked over the squiggles on the paper in front of him trying to decide how to fix this. It had been weeks since they had won a game and morale was dropping fast. Jamie has to pass more but Donovan can’t really shoot…maybe if we move Paul to center and then swap Jordan and Cole we could-

The man wasn’t given another moment to think as he heard the front door open and close with a loud slam, the sound of feet padding their way down the entry hallway.

“Hey, baby!” Steve called as he continued to focus on the squiggles, drawing a few more lines before erasing them with equally as much vigor, “How was the gym?” A loud groan was all he received in reply as his wife dropped her bag to the ground and kicked off her tennis shoes, not even bothering to put them in the basket where she knew they belonged. The same basket she insisted his shoes lived in but rules didn’t apply to her, at least not right now. I’ll tease her about it later. “That good huh?” He called with a low chuckle as he ran a hand through his hair, “Well your protein shake is in the fridge. Should be cold enough since I put it in when you left.” Oddly enough, the man received no response. He waited a moment before he called again, looking up from his work.

“Bab-” And just like that she was in front of him. He jumped and let out a quiet swear as he clutched a hand to his chest. He hadn’t seen her before she had left and found himself taking a sharp inhale as he looked her up and down. She looked so fucking gorgeous in those tight black leggings that fit her just right, a simple white workout top, hugging her every curve, and the expensive black workout jacket he had saved up to get her for Christmas that she never left for the gym without. Not to mention the way her hair looked post-workout and the glow of sweat that radiated off of her. He was about to open his mouth to make some lewd remark he hoped she’d find charming but-

“Hold my tits.” The man blinked once, then again, his mouth open and gaping like a fish.

“W-what?”

“I want your hands on my tits,” Y/N repeated, holding his gaze with complete and utter seriousness, “Please.”

“Like…you want my…”

“Your hands. On my tits. Now.” When the man continued not to move his wife let out a deep sigh and took the pencil from his hand, laying it down next to his sketch as she replaced it with something much better. She led his large palm gently to her breast, letting out a sigh of relief as she encouraged him to give a little squeeze. Again, Steve didn’t even know what to do, never having seen her like this. Sure, she was usually a little more cuddly and blissed out after the gym as the endorphins ran through her body but this was…new. A good kind of new.

“So I take it you had a good time at the gym?” The man teased breathlessly as he ushered her around the coffee table to sit beside him on the couch. The woman let out a hum in confirmation as she laid down so they were pressed together, her back to his front, and wrapped his arms around her so his hands could live right where she needed them to. Another chuckle came from Steve as he buried his face into her hair finding-

“Did you put on perfume?”

“After working out,” she whispered as her eyes closed shut in complete and utter satisfaction, being held just the way she needed to be right now, “Didn’t want to come home smelling only like sweat.”

“I don’t mind,” Steve used his nose to brush the hair from the side of her neck, making her giggle as he pressed mindless kisses there, “I smell like sweat all the time and you still love me.”

“I do,” Y/N titled her head so he could press a kiss to her lips, one she returned eagerly before laying her head back down on the couch, “Fuck, I’m never doing the Stairmaster ever again.”

“Y/N, baby, if this,” Steve gave her tits a little squeeze to punctuate his thought, “is what happens after you’re on the Stairmaster, by all means, keep doing it. Any excuse to cuddle with my pretty little wife and hold her boobies is more than fine by me.”

“Don’t call them that,” Y/N scrunched her nose with a chuckle as she pressed her ass more into him to fit them closer together.

“What?” The man teased giving another squeeze, “Boobies?”

“STEVE!” The couple dissolved into a communal fit of giggles as they lay there together, all stress and strain completely forgotten as calm domesticity filled their hearts and home.

#stranger things x reader #stranger things 4 #stranger things smut #stranger things #steve harrington #steve harrington x reader fluff #steve harrington smut #steve harrington fluff #steve x reader #steve harrington x reader #stranger things fluff

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thelastofhyde · 6 months

Text

you cut your hair, and take some space. (1)

pairing. narcos!javier peña x fem!reader

synopsis. an anthology of events that precede and procede the termination of you and your father's best friend's sexual relationship. this is part 1 of 3 ! (part 2)

warnings. no use of y/n! all spanish text is followed by immediate translation (please note that i am fluent in castilian spanish, therefore some words/phrases may differ from that of other hispanic countries), age gap , student!reader, dbf!javi, post-s3!javi, officer!javi bc i said so, break up au, mutual pining, forbidden lovers kind of vibes, reader has a healthy relationship with her parents, so much crying ( reader spends half her time crying over javi p which is honestly a mood ), violence, nondescript depictions of sa ( not javi ), smut ( creampie, breeding kink through the roof, domesticity kink?? javi just wants to love and be loved and start a family, dacryphilia, indecent use of a credit card, spanking, dirty talk, prostitution kink?? i feel like i'm making these up at this point, + a hell of a lot more ) this fic is based on bsc by maisie peters except this has a happy ending bc im a sucker for mr. peña :( not all warnings listed here appear in this part, these are warnings for the fic as a whole !

word count. 15k

hyde’s input. this was written over the course of four months and could easily be used in court to prove i am, in fact, unequivocally in love with one mr. javier peña. if you take the time to read it, just know i appreciate it so much. i really poured my heart and soul into this and, as someone who's been writing for years, it's been so long since i've written something so self-indulgent that's brought me nothing but joy to write. as the fic has surpassed 40k words, meaning it would likely crash the tumblr site for anyone trying to read it, i've decided to post it in three parts. the fic will be posted in full on ao3 once all three parts are available on tumblr!

“i told you, corazón mia (my heart),” he can't meet your eyes. “made it clear from the start i wasn't looking for anything serious.” “i know,” you heave in a breath, hold back a sob. “but if it wasn't serious, why'd you treat me like it was?”

I cut my nose to save some face You cut your hair and take some space.

The mirror is not clean enough to see yourself.

Where there are usually your eyes, there’s a discoloured splotch of brown. A crack runs down the left of what should be your face. Someone’s taken it upon themselves to draw a cartoon penis just where your mouth is. But in your drunken haze and laser focus, you don’t care enough to notice. All you see is the spot where your nose is, a tiny ball of silver nestled just above your right nostril.

It’s something new to fidget with.

On the flip side, it stings like a bitch. Or, more appropriately, like the tequila shots that led you to this run-down tattoo parlour.

You wonder if, come the morning and mental clarity, you’ll regret it.

If you do, you’ll blame him.

Your night was going fine. Good, even. And, with a lack of good nights in the recent week, that was an accomplishment.

You’d dressed up, let loose, had fun. A friend on either arm and a drink close at hand, you’d giggled and gossiped your way through this impromptu girls’ night.

They’d ambushed you, in a way, forced their way through the barricade of tissues and take-out boxes into your apartment. A skimpy dress tossed at your head and four hands dragging you, limb by limb, into the shower.

Get some dinner, hit the town, get fucked up. That was the plan they set out for you.

You skipped dinner, dove head-first into the town.

You were careful all night to never speak of him.

One part fearful it would summon him, another part embarrassed to admit just who you’d gotten tangled up in. A third part, tucked away in a locked closet, ready to do it all over again.

And then it happened.

You didn’t say his name, no.

Not aloud.

You thought it, for just a second, hearing the person beside you at the bar order the same drink you’d watched him nurse time after time. It wasn’t him but, instead, a man far too short and a clean-cut kind of handsome to even begin to compare to the ex-agent.

But it was enough to make you want to leave.

Giving up your space, you’d made your way back to your girls and made up some little white lie, surprised neither of them called you out on it- what kind of bar doesn’t have white wine?

They left to find someplace with wine, you left to find some peace of mind.

The bar they dragged you into was familiar, the setting of many of your father’s stories. It only took you walking through the door, tugging down the dress-too-short, to hear your name called across the floor.

“Hey kiddo!” Your dad’s a tell-tale kind of drunk, his eyes giving away even the smallest sip of alcohol he has. He was just tipsy, scooting his way out of a tattered booth to wrap you up in his arms. It felt as nice as it did guilt-inducing, knowing you’d been avoiding his calls all week since The Incident. A punishment to yourself more than one aimed at him. “You here yourself? Could join us for the night, if you like. Ain’t that right, boys?”

It was only then that you’d realised two men were sat within the booth, collars undone and ties loosened after a week’s work.

There were usually three of them.

"We’re just waiting on Peña." Oh god, it made you feel sick. Heart in your throat, stomach at your feet. His name no longer feels real, not when spoken by anyone but you.

“And raising bets on his tardiness,” one of your father’s friends said. You recognised him from a few of the barbecues and Christmas parties your dad's thrown. He's nice, responsible. Married, to a woman his own age. “I’m saying he’s chasing some tail. God knows he could use some stress relief. Boy’s been wound up all week, nearly bit my head off for asking him about some files."

It’s a wonder none of the three men- one a retired lawyer, the other two members of the force- noticed the blood drain from your face.

“My guess is he’s pulled some muscle in his back and can’t get himself out of bed,” a nudge from your father’s elbow, delivered straight to your ribs. “Whatcha think, kiddo?”

You didn’t have an answer.

You didn’t get to give an answer.

“You need to quit speaking ‘bout me like you’re not a whole decade my senior, viejo (old man),” it came from behind you and threatened you to look. Like the foolish final-girl in a slasher, you ignored your basic instincts and glanced over your shoulder.

You’re not sure what you were expecting, but you know what you were hoping for.

Tired eyes, chewed lips, unkept facial hair. A twitch of sadness drawn between his brows and the stains of cigarette ash on a worn-out suit.

Javier Peña was none of that.

The suit, grey. One that fit him all too well and had you wishing you could stain it with your drink.

The signature moustache, perfectly groomed, sitting perched above the bow of his pouty lips, rosy-red and fresh for picking.

His eyes have always given him away but, staring down at you in that moment, they read only as passive, unaffected.

It was like, nothing.

And, yes, that’s what you’d asked for- from now on, whenever you see me, can you at least pretend that none of this happened?

But he's smart enough to know you didn't mean it, right?

“Hey officers, sorry to interrupt but,” a hand curled around your arm. It tugged and you let yourself be inched away from heavy brown eyes and your father’s smile. “She’s ours for the night. We’re going clubbing!”

That was never part of the plan.

Neither was skipping dinner, though.

You caught the back of him as you were dragged away, some pleading from your father to take it easy and call me in the morning, and noticed it only then.

His hair, freshly cut.

“‘S getting too long,” a mumbled sort of thing, hidden in your neck, spoken against your pulse. A kiss placed upon it, and then another for extra measure. Fingers dragging through his hair, ridding him of the knots your very same hands had worked into them an hour of passionate touching ago. “Lo sé (I know).”

A pause of silence. The blissful moan birthed from nails on his scalp. And, then, “no. It’s nice, I like it.”

That puppy-dog stare, so particular to the cool-down moments between you, meets your own, chin propped upon your sternum. He’s sweet like this, honeyed skin and pleasant smiles.

“Yeah?” He asks, like he even needs to. “You like it, corazón (sweetheart)?” You opt for a hummed confirmation, finger tracing over the arch of his nose. “Guess I better keep it this way, then.”

Now he’s gone and chopped the overgrown curls off.

In a way, it feels like he’s cut you off with them.

We don’t speak cause it’s too tricky But if I’m tricky, why’d you kiss me?

The next time you see him, a wedding is taking place.

He sits on the groom’s side, you sit on the bride’s.

It feels unreasonable to be surprised by his presence. Why wouldn’t he be here, sitting four rows from the back, at his cousin’s brother-in-law’s wedding?

The bride is gorgeous, the groom is in tears. The priest drones on a little too long.

Somewhere between the exchanging of vows, and the ceremonial kissing, and the cheering of guests, your instincts get the better of you and you glance back at him.

He’s already staring right back, eyes ignited with something that weakens your knees and shakes your confidence. The newlyweds walk down the aisle, cut through your line of sight. He’s still staring at you when they’ve passed.

The reception takes place in the events room of some glammed-up hotel, the kind you can barely afford the one night you’re booked in for.

An open bar, a local band. The catering is tasteful, handpicked by the couple, and the table you feast at is so far away from his that you don’t get that chance to see if he chose the chicken or the beef.

You find a friend behind the bar, in the shape of a bottle and toothpick-impaled olives.

You dance till your feet hurt, slip away to your table, take off your heels. You’re back on the dance floor in time to catch the bouquet, too busy basking in the envy of the other women to notice his eyes burning a hole in the back of your head.

If it weren’t for the dent in your bank account made by the room you booked, you’d gladly dance away the whole night. But if a bed with a view costs double your rent, you’ll be damned if you don’t get to sleep in it.

So you stumble to the elevator.

Clutch your heels and flowers to your chest, struggle to remember your floor number. The fifth floor seems to ring a bell, but it might’ve been the eighth floor. Your room key! Maybe, you hope, that’ll have your floor number on it. You struggle with your purse’s zipper, trying your best to pry it open.

You succeed, but at what cost? Heels and bouquet tumble to the floor, thumping and clunking as they knock against it, flower petals falling loose.

You try to bend down, stretch your fingers out to grasp the clasps, seize the stems. A wave of exhaustion mixed with too much alcohol washes over you and you stand up straight again. Take a calming breath, do a little song and dance before reaching down again.

“Déjame. (Let me.)”

Scuffed shoes come into view as you’re halfway down, bent at the waist and holding your balance with one arm against a wall. You stand up straight, too fast, lose your balance and stumble forward.

He catches you.

For a moment, it feels like you’ve never left his arms.

“C’mon, let’s get you to your room.” You hate the way he ends his sentence, no term of endearment and no impure intentions.

He asks for your floor, you give him your key. He punches the number into the elevator and it shakes to life.

Neither one of you makes an attempt to part. There’s a chance he pulls you closer to him. You let yourself melt, regardless, muscles relaxing and sinking into his arms.

He’s still warm. He’s still steady. but his cologne’s different and it makes your eyes sting.

You’d warned him he was about to run out of his signature bottle, made a note to buy him another one for his birthday or Christmas, whichever came first.

“You look like you had fun,” he rasps out, eventually, as the elevator slips past the fifth floor.

“I did,” you tell a partial truth. You would have had more fun, if he’d stood at your side, ate at your table, danced in your arms. But you can’t say that, because he doesn’t want that.

“I’m glad.”

It turns out your floor is the ninth. He’s careful to guide you out the mobile-box, hand on your hip, pressing you to his side. Your heels dangling from one of his fingers and the bouquet gripped in his palm, smacking against his thigh every other step. A little down the hall and there you find it, your precious and expensive home for the night.

It’s easier to let him open the door, he tells you.

It’s easier to let him guide you to bed, you tell yourself.

Dropping the heels on the floor, he disappears out of your line of sight and you stare motionless at the ceiling above, buzzing in your brain and pain in your heart.

You’ve never shared a space like this with him, one that’s hollow and decayed. The shell of a creature that’s long abandoned it, grown too big for its home.

Your eyes sting all over again, this time enough to brim with unfallen tears.

A thud against the nightstand.

You roll onto your side and find he’s still here, a glass of water and some painkillers lay to rest at your bedside. The first tear gives way, running down your cheek and dropping to the crisp white sheets below. Even more fall as he raises a damp cloth to your face, wiping away smudged mascara and bringing your lips back to their natural colour.

The undressing is gentle and so unlike his usual impatience.

Fingertips drag down each inch of skin released as he unzips the back of your dress, tugging it down and folding it by your heels. The weight off your chest helps you breathe as he unhooks your bra. Left only in your underwear, the sheets ruffle as he drags them up your tired limbs and tucks them under your chin.

“Get in bed, please,” you plead like you have any right to ask that of him. “Javi.”

It’s the first time you’ve said his name since that night in May. His shoulders tense and release, his fingers smooth down his moustache. He looks like he’s going to fulfil your request, slip in behind you and wrap you up in his soft but steady embrace.

He looks like he wants to.

His back cracks as he bends down and presses a kiss.

Against your forehead, lips that linger.

Then, he stands up straight and walks out the door.

On the forehead, way up north Pressed the scar and found the source

Vermont, ‘98.

That’s where it all began.

Your dad, turning fifty.

Javi just hit forty.

It was someone in the station who had the wild idea they celebrate it together. The sheriff and the station’s rookie- really, a hardened, inching-out-of-a-fresh-retirement former DEA agent your father manipulated back into the force, some promise of a light workload and a hefty pension. With no need for money, you wonder why he ever accepted the offer.

Plans were set, money was put in a pot, and a wheel of fortune was spun. It landed on the northern state, a downpayment to rent a ski lodge placed within a matter of twenty-four hours.

Somewhere along the way, you’d been roped into joining this boys-only trip. Your dad argued you needed a break from studying. Your mother argued there needed to be a responsible adult to supervise your dad. and, well, a free holiday never hurt nobody, right?

Wrong.

The final evening, with a constant pounding of a hangover never-quite-nursed, a litter of bruises down your back from falling and a firmly closed chapter on any possible career as a ski prodigy you may have had, you trailed your way down to the only bar in the tiny ski town.

Textbooks on the table, glasses on your face.

A half-drank glass of cabernet, an empty plate.

Peaceful and quaint, until it wasn’t.

The cheer of a frat-boy out in the wild warrants the same response as hearing a lion’s roar in the dark of the Saharan night.

The kind you hear them before you see them, spilling through the door in their obnoxious jerseys and their face-painted cheeks. one wore the badge of honour, a giant Soon To Be shackled Married printed poorly onto the back of his jersey.

You put your head down, breathed more subtly.

The pride stormed their way over to the bar, pounding their fists onto the surface and gnashing their teeth, spit spilling down their mouth as they brutally tore into the bartender, demanding pints of beer and rounds of shots.

The key was to avoid eye contact, keep low and out of sight.

They dispersed through the area, sniffing out free booths and the occasional local to irritate out of their seats.

One of them found the jukebox and wasted his coin on blasting Pour Some Sugar On Me. The group of older women playing bingo scowled and made their way out of the joint, calling it for the night.

You got up to follow suit, hands slowly packing up your belongings and slinging your bag over your back.

Inching towards the exit, footsteps light as a feather.

“Woo! Look at you,” just as you were close to slipping out the door, a single member of the pack spotted you, prowling his way over. He already had his chest puffed out by the time you turned around. “Ain’t seen an ass like that since we left the city!”

Hardly charming. Tame, compared to other things frat boys have said to you.

“Why don’cha come join me and my buddies over there?” He nodded back at them, like they weren’t the obnoxious centres of everyone’s attention.

You were not scared of him, exactly. But you’ve seen where things can go. Heard about it, countless times, from your own father.

So you spoke with caution, gripping your bag a little tighter, “thanks, but I’ve got an early flight. Have a nice night-” He told you his name, like you cared. “Yeah, thanks, bye.”

And then you were stepping out into the quiet of the night.

Fresh air, cold enough to sting your lungs. You breathed it in like it was going out of fashion.

You barely got a moment to compose yourself before that grating voice was back in your ears.

“Oh don’t be a buzzkill!” He whined, you cringed. Took a step back, watched him move an inch. “It’s early, stay. Have a drink.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

“To have fun?! C’mon, it’s too cold to be out here by yourself.”

“I have an early flight.”

“It’s just one drink, sweetheart. I ain’t asking you to sign your life away.”

A couple bumped past you both, weaved their way between you. His eyes trailed after them, your feet twisted around, carrying you away from him slowly, carefully. Best not to make yourself look like prey, not to this predator.

“Hey!” He called after you. Your steps sped up. “Where you going, sweetheart?”

It didn’t even matter that you were walking in the opposite direction of the ski lodge. You told yourself you would find your way back, once this lion was off your back.

“I ain’t done talkin’ to you!”

The lion pounced, sank his claws into your back and ripped through you.

Your hand flew out to break your fall, the contents of your bag spilling out onto the sidewalk.

Pain, the kind that stings. It nipped at your knees, and your hands, and your eyes. Pushed it down, pulled yourself up.

He froze, maybe surprised at his own actions, maybe waiting on the chance to pounce once more, this time with his fangs instead of his claws.

You wouldn’t give him the chance. Filled your bag, collected your senses and ran.

It was tricky on frozen ground, trying so hard to not look back.

He followed and you knew it, heard it. Roaring and growling, chasing you down streets you’d never walked.

You slipped, momentarily, slammed into a wall. A crossroads, go right or go left.

You don’t remember which direction you turned.

“Quit running, you bitch!”

He was still following, how was he still following?

Caving in, you glanced over your shoulder and saw the blurry figure of him running after you.

He was getting faster. Maybe you were getting slower.

You came to a screeching halt, body smacking into something solid. Eyes shut, mind alive. You feared the worst, hoped for the best, expected to open your eyes and find yourself trapped in a dead-end, nowhere to run from this predator.

Instead, you heard your name. Called softly, at first. Gentle, coaxing you to pay attention. The second time it was more urgent, worried and aggressive. You sank deeper into the wall, felt your feet shuffle on the gravel below.

“...Gotta let me know, nena,” the wall pulled you back from it, a firm grasp on your forearms. Your eyes opened and met his. “Fucking Christ, look at the state of you.”

You’d not known much about Javier Peña at the start of the trip.

Your dad had mentioned something about a family ranch. Your mom let it slip that he’d enjoyed the pumpkin pie she’d brought to the station’s Thanksgiving feast.

There’d been one time you’d caught the end of a conversation between him and your dad. Nothing concrete, just some shameful mutterings about Colombia and Los Pepes. You’d left once you heard your dad start to comfort the man, deciding your intruding on the moment had already gone too far.

You now knew he liked his whiskey, no ice. His coffee, no milk. His bread, no butter.

He didn’t like the mess of mixing things, and you had to wonder if it had always been this way. Or had he learned his lesson, the hard way? Mixed the wrong things, burnt his own blessings?

“You’re bleeding,” he announced it, fresh news for you.

A pleasant warmth thrummed through your veins as he took hold of your hand, inspecting it under his scrutiny.

His thumb swiped over your palm.

Your mouth winced, your arm pulled back.

He held you in place.

Something visceral shifted in him, enough to coax you to glance at him.

He was looking past you, eyes a deadly killer stalking their prey. You followed their line of sight and found the lion at the end of the street. Standing still, arms at his side, eyes a little wider than you remembered them. You’d not really been looking, in the first place.

The former agent twisted you behind him, an effortless shield. Took an urgent step toward the frat boy, and then another three.

You grasped at his sleeve and tugged him back, didn’t let him stray too far.

“I’m fine,” you lied. He didn’t believe you, furrowing his brow. “I’m just cold.”

He seemed to hesitate, softened by a tremble in your voice.

He glanced back to see the lion was retreating, staggering his way back to the pride of frat boys. A perfect opportunity for him to attack, from behind and unexpectedly.

“Leave it, he’s not-” The sting in your eye got the best of you and a tear tracked itself down your cheek. You wiped it away with your scraped hand, leaving behind a smear of gravel and blood. “It’s not worth it.”

You said it not for the agent’s sake, but the boy’s.

The agent puffed out a breath of frustration, then followed your plea. Turned back to you, licked his thumb and swiped off the dirt on your cheek. Pulled you in, against him once more, and pressed a deliberate kiss against your forehead.

It was instinctual, no thought placed behind his action.

He did it because that seemed to be in his nature: to nurture.

“C’mon, the lodge is this way,” he pointed in some direction.

You didn’t bother paying attention, more than willing to follow wherever he led.

“Put this on.” It was not posed as an option, not when the agent tugged off his coat and draped it over your shoulders.

Somewhere along the path, you realised you’d lost your key to your cabin. Your dad carried the other.

Officer Peña offered to take you to him, drinking down in the ski lodge’s bar with the rest of the men.

You shook your head, told him your dad couldn’t see you in that state.

He took you back to his own cabin instead.

Cleaned up your hands, put on the fire, poured you a drink.

Then fucked you into his bed, till you clawed and sobbed around him.

If you don’t love me, Why’d you act it?

Late june brings nothing but gloom.

You get bored quick, no college to fill your days. Pick up extra shifts, hope to combat the empty feeling in your chest with the rush hour traffic that torpedoes it’s way through the cafe.

Friends invite you out, you rarely go. They tease you’re becoming a recluse, and that just makes you want to shut yourself in even more.

Tonight, you’re appeasing them.

Some line dance event, downtown in a bar that’s only gimmick seems to be a worn-down mechanical bull. It’s missing a horn and no one seems to know why.

Truth be told, you don’t want to go.

You want to stuff your face with take-out while you melt into your couch, watching reruns of the first season of Friends and drooling over Joey till you forget about another smooth-talking, raven haired man.

Here you are instead, fighting against the cheesy cowgirl hat till it sits on your head correctly.

In the mirror, it’s still lopsided.

The clock sits at eight forty-seven.

They’re 2 minutes late.

You give up, decide to pretend you want the hat this way. Slip on your jacket, do a sweep around your apartment: windows locked, flat iron off, fridge closed. Grabbing your purse, you unzip it and wrestle around in it’s contents, searching for your keys.

You pull on something and- it’s a pack a gum.

Dive back in, search again.

An empty tube of lipbalm.

Third time’s a charm, you think, and try once more. Something scratches your fingers, coaxes you to tug it out and inspect it.

A broken earring.

A familiar car honk’s outside, you stay frozen in place, staring at the broken hoop and counting one, two, three.

Bile burns the back of your throat.

He opens on the fifth knock.

Any other night, he practically rips the door off it’s hinges and tugs you in, before you can so much as raise your fist for a second knock.

Maybe he was busy, on the toilet or on the phone. You don’t think too much into it.

He steps aside, lets you in. Stands so far away, it’s hard to read his eyes.

The air’s uncomfortably quiet.

You think’s it’s all in your head, self-doubt at an all time high after a bad day.

“My earring snapped today,” there’s a growing pit in your stomach, just from staring at him. He looks so distant, not present. Mind a galaxy away. "Your favourite ones, too. You know, the little hoops with-”

“The hearts dangling from them.” He finishes, on your behalf, and it’s the first green flag you see. Green enough to lull yourself into a faux calm.

The silence returns.

You rock backwards on your heels, glance around the apartment. Try to find what has changed, because this no longer feels like the place you’ve grown so familiar with. And neither does the man observing you from a distance, hands glued to his sides.

He should be touching you by now, in any way he could: his foot bumping against yours under his dining table, his hand trailing patterns over your shoulders as you settle into his side on the couch, his tongue delving between your folds as you lay splayed out on his sheets.

You notice his bedroom door is shut.

It’s never been shut before.

“Is- Am I-” You don’t have to find the words, but the courage to speak them. “Do you have someone over?”

He blinks, slowly.

It’s hard to tell if it’s from guilt.

“Because if you do, that’s fine!” It’s not. “I understand,” You don’t.

He doesn’t answer.

You keep talking.

“Totally chill, I’ll comeback some other night. Or, you can just come by mine! Yeah, actually, that sounds better. Won’t risk interrupting again-”

“This needs to stop.”

You don’t have to question it.

You do, anyway.

“What?”

“Us. This-” He’s pointing between you both, a little haphazardly. It’s like he’s rushing to get the words out, get it over with. Get you out his apartment. “Thing we’re doing. It’s done.”

“I don’t underst-”

He cuts you off with your name. “Why’d you come here tonight?”

He’s stern.

Not in the way that makes you want to bend to his will and indulge in all his sins. But in a way that makes you feel dirty, wrong. A child scorned for touching fire and getting themselves burnt.

“I,” you’re beginning to wish there was someone else in his bed, so she could stroll out of his room in one of his stupidly soft shirts and interrupt this conversation. “Uh, I had a bad day.”

“Okay,” he nods. Smooths a hands over his chin, pops out his hip. “What’s that got anything to do with me?”

Everything, you want to tell him.

For every single thing that went wrong throughout your day, seeing Javi gave you something to look forward to.

“I just thought-”

“You thought, what?” His face twists up, just like your insides. He’s angry and you’re the one to blame. “This isn’t a- I’m not your boyfriend.”

I know, you mouth.

Because you do know. Repeat it to yourself all the time.

When he calls to make sure you got home safe.

When you sneak off to pee in the middle of the night and are welcomed back to bed with a forceful tug into his chest, a sleepy, gruffed out ‘where’d you go?’ whispered into your neck.

When he picks up on the things you say, remembers silly things like your favourite toilet paper brand and the exact milk to cereal ratio you enjoy.

Javier Peña is not your boyfriend.

So why does he act like it?

“Look, kid, you’re young, and I know-”

Kid.

That makes you angry.

He wasn’t calling you kid when he bent you over your parents’ bathroom counter.

“Don’t call me kid.”

“And I know,” he pushes through your protest, keeps up the distance. “This can be a lot at your age. Don’t blame you for getting caught up. But whatever you think you’re feeling for me, it’s not-”

“Is this about the p-” The word won’t come out of you, so your change the verbiage. “The hospital? Because I told you, Javi. We’ve been safe. Safer than a pair of purity-ring wearing teenagers-”

“No, this is about me needing to do the right-”

At this point, you’re just interrupting one another.

Fighting to get in the next word, frowning at what you do hear.

He tilts his head back and pinches the bridge of his nose, a groan leaving his cracked lips. You’d imagined him doing that tonight, but not like this.

Eventually, the back-and-forth stops.

Silence.

You take the lead.

“So, what? That’s it just... over?”

“I told you, corazón mía (my heart),” he can’t meet your eyes. “Made it clear from the start I wasn’t looking for anything serious.”

“I know,” you heave in a breath, hold back a sob. “But if it wasn’t serious, why’d you treat me like it was?”

It takes him a few minutes to answer. There’s a twitch, in his hand, reaching up only to drop back down at his side.

Usually, he wipes your tears before they get chance to fall.

The rug at your feet turns darker with each wet spot that drops.

“I got caught up,” his eyes seem so sad, so lost. Staring across the ocean of his living room, searching for a lighthouse to pull him safe to shore. But he won’t let you be that. “In the way you deserve to be treated, instead of some sleazy secret.”

He breathes out your name, the most painful melody you’ve ever heard.

“This has to end,” you’re unsure if it’s only you he’s attempting to convince. “Before someone gets hurt.”

Too late, you want to say.

You’re already being torn apart by his hands, and he’s standing ten feet away.

“Corazón, I’m so sor-”

The car honks, again.

You breathe in, and find it’s hard, snot piling up in your nose and tears splashing down your cheers.

Another honk.

You never make it to the line dance.

You curl in on yourself, instead, and fall asleep to the sound of Joey and Chandler’s bickering.

Love’s a verb And not a bandage

In retrospect, it’s hard to tell where the lines begin to blur.

A promise of casual, turned into something fragile.

Whenever you think about it, for too long, your mind carries you back to the same night. A few months after Vermont, you don’t recall the exact date.

All you remember is a pounding at your front door.

1 am. Too late to be causing ruckus.

You nearly trip over discarded shoes, curse earlier-you for assuming you would remember their existence. Undo the bolt, grab the key and then-

Pause.

This could be anyone, anything.

You check the peephole, find exactly who you were hoping for.

He’s on you like a moth to a flame, pressing you flush against him the instant he can fit through the crack in your doorway. Mouth on mouth, hands on waist. The door thuds as he closes it behind you both, you’re too distracted to notice.

You let him invade your senses.

Smell his aged leather and nicotine thrill. Feel his strong arms and bulging crotch. Hear his laboured breaths and muttered pleasantries. Taste his whiskey tongue and metallic lips-

You pull back. He follows.

It’s flattering, his inability to get enough of you, but you halt him nonetheless.

Cup his cheeks, pull down his face, and stare.

“My dad finally figure out who those panties in your glove-box belong to, Peña?” It’s meant to be a joke.

There’s nothing funny about his bleeding lip and split eyebrow.

He graces no response, dives back into you and submerses himself in your touch. Kisses you slow, with deliverance, his final mission to arrest all your sense of self till you turn yourself in to his embrace.

Only as you pass by those discarded shoes do you realise he’s inching you both deeper into the dark of your apartment.

This time, you do trip over them.

It’s okay though, Javi’s there to catch you.

He finds refuge in your neck, burrowing in deep, mouthing at the skin like a dog does a wound. Your arm shoots out to find a light-switch. A warm glow fills the apartment, bathing you both in an orange hue.

The gold of his skin shines brighter.

The red on his skin appears darker.

“What happened to you?” You don’t need to worry about him. And, yet, doing so comes naturally.

“S’not important,” it’s spoken against your skin, as if he intends to seep his gravelled tone into your pores and have it grow a new life for itself within you. A gentle scraping of his teeth sends a shiver down your spine. “I’ll tell you later.”

Later with Javi never seems to come.

‘If you’re not busy, I’ll make you dinner later.’

‘Keep it up and I’ll be fucking that attitude out of you later.’

‘I’ll get these back to you later.’

He’d never made you that dinner.

He’d dragged you into the station’s bathrooms and fucked the attitude out of you only seconds after.

You’d never gotten those panties back.

You decide to grant him no time for later. Shove him down into a seat at your dining table-for-two. Roll your eyes as he asks if you’re “gonna put on a show for me, corazón?”

The makeshift first-aid kit put together by your mother resides at the back of a cupboard, hidden by mugs and cups. It takes several minutes and a smashed glass to manoeuvre it out. You step over the pieces of glass and head straight back to the table, dumping out the contents.

You click your tongue, point your finger. He scoots the chair back from the table and you slip between the space. Press back against the surface, stand between his parted knees and do your best to not look down at the jeans that grant him no modesty.

Distractions are not welcomed, your patient needs tending to.

He’s insisting he’s okay, yet he’s hissing when you dab at the tears in his flesh with betadine. His hands find a place upon your hips and give a tight squeeze as you press butterfly stitches to his no-longer bleeding brow.

“I,” he starts up, an indefinite time of silence passing between you both. He shakes his head.“It’s stupid.”

“Javi,” you stroke your finger over his jaw, tilt his head back to meet your eyes. “The less you tell me, the more I’ll worry.”

It does the trick, unlocks his tongue.

“I was just wanting one drink, was gonna head home... Or to you, after. I had a shitty day at work and... You probably don’t care about that,” he has no idea you’ll hang onto those words for the weeks to come, wondering how to lighten his workload, ease his tension. “Heard some loud-mouth kid beside me at the bar, he was talking to this girl. She gets up to leave, he follows. I was just gonna go back to nursing my drink but-”

He hisses.

You’re pressing too hard on his fragile lip.

There’s no malice in his eyes as you pull your hand back, only soft and tender. He must sense your remorse for hurting him, chasing after your fingers and grazing a gentle kiss upon them.

A splotch of red stains your skin.

“Corazón,” he croons, shifts himself closer to you. His hands grip the backs of your exposed thighs, his chin presses into your lower stomach. A few movie-strand hairs cover the molten brown eyes that stare up at you. “You’re exhausted. Vamos, basta de preocuparte (C'mon, stop worrying), I’m fine. I just wanna crawl into your tiny bed so I can wake up to your bedhead and more back pains.”

It’s a tempting offer, and one you’ve given into far too many times acceptable for the casual agreement you both share.

A deep breath. Your hand lands on his cheek, his eyes flutter shut.

There’s bags under them. Heavy, dark. Bearing the exhaustion he hides behind charming winks and dashing smiles. Your thumb grazes over one and you ache to give him the rest he deserves, the rest his body craves.

“But, what?” You persist, pleading for him to continue his story.

Javi sighs, gives in.

He always gives in, to you, eventually.

“I just- I don’t know, it’s crazy, but I kept thinking of you,” his eyes reopen, sorrow buried deep in his soul and a worry-line etched into his brow. “In that bar. Alone, in Vermont, when you...”

He doesn’t finish his sentence.

He doesn’t need to.

“So what did you do?” It’s best to keep him talking, drag his mind away from whatever dark thoughts those memories bring up.

“I followed them outside,” he admits with a tinge of shame. “Tried to be subtle about it. Lit a cigarette, took a few drags, scoped out the street. Neither of them were around,” you’ve long abandoned the first aid kit, transfixed by the tight grip he holds you in, his hands smoothing up and down the backs of your thighs in an attempt to soothe himself. “I thought I’d maybe read into it wrong. Maybe she was into him, and they’d got a cab back to her place. Or his.”

He’s rambling.

Stumbling through words he deems unimportant, rushing to push out the thoughts that clog up his brain pipes.

You listen closely, swallow up every morsel he offers.

“It was just as I turned to go back inside that I heard something,” his hands no longer dance over your skin. They sit stagnant, halfway up your thigh, fingers flexed and nails digging into flesh. He’s burying himself into any part of you he can, rooting himself in your solid figure. “Rustling, or something. Coming from the alley. And I just... I felt my stomach drop. Followed after it. Found them, him-”

He chokes.

On his words, on his breath, on his failure.

You run a hand through his curls, soothe the lines off his face.

Bend down, drag him up, press your lips to the arc of his nose.

“Didn’t think, I just dragged him off. Punched him, a few times. Felt his nose crack under my fist.” He’s still pushing through, his earlier unwillingness to talk now a streaming fountain you can’t switch off. “I must’ve tripped on some glass, lost my balance. Gave him the space to get a few hits in, and-”

“Did you arrest him?” You cut him off.

He nods.

“Did you help her?”

Another nod.

“Did you get her someplace safe?”

This time, a reply.

“An officer checked her in at the hospital, stayed till her friend arrived.”

“Then Javi,” you make a point of saying his name, remind him of who he is when he’s not on duty. Not parading around with a badge and a gun, and answering to Officer Peña. The shift in his stare tells you it helps. “You did enough.”

A weight slips off his shoulders and he slumps further into you, eyes squeezing shut.

“I didn’t,” frustration steals the show, coursing through his voice.

“What more could you have done?”

“I don’t know... I could’ve-” He groans, like something pains him, and purses his lips. “I should’ve helped her sooner. Followed them, the minute they left. Shouldn’t have let...” A whiff of whiskey reaches your nostrils. Javi pulls you in tighter, breathes in the mixture of sleep-sweat and lingering cologne on the shirt you wear- Pink, the top buttons undone, left behind by him. “Shouldn’t have let you go out alone.”

You whine out his name.

The air is miserable, dragging through your lungs and staining them.

The chair creeks at the loss of his weight, knees straightening him up to his full height. Instinctually, you lean back into the table, head tilting to meet his broken eyes.

He’s searching for comfort, in the only way he knows how.

Slap a bandage over a bullet-hole, place a kiss upon his gaping-heart.

“Not everything about that night was so bad,” you play into his game, splay a hand upon his shirt. Trace a finger over a stained blood spot. “If I hadn’t gone out, then maybe we wouldn’t be...”

The words catch in your throat.

Partially because you don’t know what you are anymore. Boundaries crossed, lines blurring. Hands that hold and eyes that linger. Too close to be nothing, too reckless to be something.

But mostly because he kisses you.

Desperate, hungry. Groaning into your willing mouth.

He’s a man on a mission, to consume your soul right out your willing body. Unravelling you where you stand, he takes pleasure in peeling his shirt off you.

Hot mouth to hot skin, the tip of his tongue meeting the peak of your breasts. Your hands pull at his hair and he grips at your waist.

The descent into madness is quick, bodies melting together in a dance that’s unique, improvised, and yet always in sync.

He tugs at your panties and you undo his belt. He hooks your thigh over his hip and you anchor yourself to his chest. He teases you with a pinch to your clit and you torture him as you cup his heavy balls.

When Javi fucks you, he fucks with purpose.

The table thuds and scrapes along the floor with each punctuated thrust he gives, driving his cock deeper and deeper into your welcoming cunt, the coarse hairs at its base gifting you the occasional thrill of friction on your aching clit.

He’s slurring out curses and pet-names, lavishing you with delightful proclaims of what a pretty girl you are when you 'shut up and take my cock'.

When he does manage a full sentence of logical wording, his forehead’s pressed to your shoulder, his cum coats your thighs and the sweat between your frantic bodies holds you both together.

“There’s not a universe where this doesn’t happen, corazón,” you feel him softening against your thigh, yet you still delight as he drags a finger coated in his own spend up your folds. “Want you too damn much to miss out on you.”

Curling up into your bed that feels too big these days, you grip at the pink shirt and wonder when that changed.

When did Javier Peña stop wanting you?

And I’m spiritual cleansing (but the truth) Is I’m good at pretending (oh and you)

By July, things change.

The stud in your nose is traded out for a silver ring.

The lonely nights in your apartment turn into stumbling back home from some nameless club in the early hours.

Boredom leads to hobbies.

At first, you try pottery.

Four plates broken and a crumbled mug later, you put on your dance shoes.

Slip. Almost break your arm. Wrestle with the doom placed on your budding dance career. Throw out the dancing shoes, bring home running shoes.

You hate it, running.

You sweat, you ache, you exhaust.

But when you’re gasping for a breath and your feet pound into concrete ground, you don’t think about it.

The heartache.

The headache.

The agent.

You drop a few pounds, tone up your muscles. Watch your body’s shape outgrow your wardrobe, investing in a new one while clinging onto the items you love too much to lose.

Like the dress that now rests just below your ass, instead of it’s usual place mid-thigh. Or the sweater that once hung loose, that now hugs new curves and creases. The jeans that were tight now sliding off your hips.

The pink shirt still lives on one of your hangers.

But you’re not thinking about it, or it’s previous owner.

Not right now.

Now, you’re balling your fists and counting your breaths. Music blasting through your headphones, sweat dancing on your forehead.

The sun is warm on your back, even as it makes way for night to begin. This is the best time to run, dusk, you’ve discovered.

No kids loitering on park grounds, no threat brought on by the dark, no slow-walking pedestrians crossing your path.

You run your self-made circuit with freedom, switching off all your senses and emptying your mind.

Today, however, it’s more challenging.

The thought of him creeps through, no matter the effort you put in to fight it. Your father’s the one to blame.

You have to come, kiddo.

The phone-call still echos through your thoughts.

Because it wouldn’t be the same without you there.

You’d wanted a better explanation than that.

Then, you tried some lame excuse of already having plans.

You had no plans.

Bring your friends then! The more the merrier!

You nearly groaned out loud at his enthusiasm, but held back. Your father’s light didn’t deserve to be dampened by your shadow.

C’mon, kiddo! I’ve not hosted the annual barbecue since you were still wearing your braces!

You bit your tongue. Fought against telling him that, back then, there were no pretty-eyed, heart-breaking agents for you to worry about.

The whole station’s gonna be there, you have to come!

He said it, like that would persuade you.

Keep asking about ya, the whole lot of them.

The more he spoke, the less you wanted to go.

Just last night Javi was asking how you’re doing!

You’d hung up.

Immediately.

Called back, 3 minutes later. Mumbled an apology and an excuse- I lost signal!- and ultimately agreed to going to the damn barbecue.

Now, you run from the phone call, from the impending doom it brings.

All this heartache and pain, it’s not good for the soul.

Of course, being dumped is a lot easier when the person isn’t your dad’s closest confidant.

It gets hard to breath. Each pound against concrete shakes the cassette player glued to your hip. There��s a sting of tears in your eyes.

Until you come to a screeching halt.

Double over.

Place your hands on your knees.

Dry heave.

You pay no mind to the figure sitting a few feet away on a bench.

Nor to the dog that’s chasing it’s ball back forth between it’s owner’s throws.

You let the sadness flood your soul, deflate you like some discarded party-balloon.

You’ll have to see him.

Spend time near him.

Watch him laugh, and smile, and share beers with your father.

It’s unfair, and you hate him for putting you through this.

For not quitting the force.

For being your dad’s friend.

For not wanting you the same you wanted him.

Want him.

You wipe your face with the back of your hand. Try to stand up straight, get lost in the knots you’d tied into your laces. Sloppy and uneven.

You’re usually more careful.

You catch, in your peripheral, the figure on the bench move. Take it as your sign to compose yourself, get over yourself.

You pick your pace back up.

Manage only a handful-or-two steps.

Your feet fly out in front of you.

Land ass-first on the gravel below.

Beneath the sounds of Olivia Newton-John demanding you get physical, you hear a muffled sorry! yelled out. Spot as the dog rushes to grab it’s ball, halfway down the path thanks to your kick.

You groan and prepare to get back on your feet.

You’re met with a hand in your face, palm open and waiting for you to accept the open offer. You take it, no hesitation.

Big mistake.

The hand tugs you.

You glance up.

And meet the eyes of Javier Peña.

“Easy, tiger,” he coughs up a laugh, like you don’t wind him as you slam into him, full-body force, nerves on fire and all systems shutting down. “You trying to break my ribs?”

It’s no less than you deserves, you think.

And instantly regret it, heart turning blue at the thought of him hurt at your hand.

You take a few steps back, create a safe distance where you can’t smell the remnants of his last cigarette or count the eyelashes that line his eyes.

He asks you how you’ve been, and tries his best to smile.

It comes off as awkward. A crooked line across his lips.

You try to remember the last time he smiled at you and meant it.

You come up empty handed.

Maybe it was back in April. A hospital hallway, one hand clasping yours, the other peeling through the leafs of some medical pamphlet.

Or, was it after, on the drive home, back to his apartment, hand still holding yours while the other spun the wheel?

There’s a vague memory that toils in the depth of your mind.

Sharing an elevator, your heels in his hand, his lips on your forehead.

Wedding attire, a post-party glow.

It’s toyed with you since you woke up in that hotel room, driven half-mad by an image you can’t quite form of him tucking you into bed.

Had he smiled, then?

Had he even been there?

Or was he merely a product of martinis and negronnis-

His fingers grasp your chin, no warning, and tilt your face.

His eyes don’t greet your own. Instead, they’re focused on the centre of your face, inspecting you like a piece of evidence.

“Hmm,” he’s so close, you smell the mint of freshly bitten gum on his breath. Dart your eyes down, catch the glint of his badge poking out his pocket.

He’s still on duty, a tailored uniform contrasting the hair roused by stress. Maybe at his desk, in the office next to your father’s, hands running through his tresses to express frustrations, tensions.

Were they his own hands, or someone with longer, brightly painted nails? Your stomach turns at the thought, your loins warm at the memory of writhing in his desk chair, legs thrown over his shoulders whilst his own dug into the ground below, eager to please mouth and a happy to taste tongue working you to a orgasm muffled by your own hand.

He’d slapped your ass, kissed your cheek and sent you out his office door, wiping your own wetness off your cheek just in time to greet your father.

“You suit the ring,” his voice and a gentle breeze bring you back to the present. To the park. To the heavy feeling that hangs between you both. “I prefer it to that stud.”

“I- What?” Confussion.

You furrow your brow, wipe your sweaty palms over your thighs.

He just smiles, still crookedly, and brings his hand up to your nose.

Adjusts your piercing, swipes his thumb over your cheek.

It’s hard to breath, but you do it anyway.

Thank him, in a struggle to find your voice, with a whisper.

His eyes bore into your own, chase them as you look off to the side, watch the dog still chasing it’s ball and failing to catch it.

You wonder if it’s a cruel metaphor sent by the universe, a symbol of you and Javi.

And then you wonder if you’re the dog or the ball.

Or both.

“You never answered me,” his voice, honey, sweet on your ears. It melts away your other senses, turns you blind to anything other than him. “I want to hear how you’ve be-”

“Peña, if you don’t report your skinny ass to my office in 5 minutes and share a celebratory drink with me, I’m putting you on cleaning duties at our next poker night.”

A static-filled voice blares out his walkie-talkie.

Your father’s voice.

It’s enough to set things right, force your body to retreat from his.

He’s not your Javi anymore, desperate to hear about your day and kiss any aches away.

He’s Peña, your dad’s best friend, meant for nothing more than to be a passing figure in your life.

His eyes are heavy with emotion as he fishes out the device.

Maybe it’s sadness you see.

There’s definitely remorse.

Guilt, too.

“We... Your dad caught the guy that’s been breaking into college girls’ apartments.” He tells you, shares information that should help you sleep better at night. You’ve not done that since the last time he lay next to you. You watch him press down on the call button, hold the speaker up to his mouth. “Do that and I’ll shit in your shower, pendejo (asshole).”

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d commit an indecency within your parent’s bathroom.

But none of that matter, anymore.

You’re already walking away.

Wringing your hands and hoping the tension in your limbs falls out.

He calls out your name, loudly.

Attracts the nosy eyes of people around.

People who know fine well who your father is, who Javier is.

You turn in time to see him half-jog, half-pace his way over to you.

He reaches out for your hand.

And quickly gives up on the thought of holding it.

“I’ll, um,” his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, grinds his teeth in an attempt to say something. “I’ll see you at the barbecue, right?”

He knows the answer.

You still give him it, “yes.”

Smile, uncomfortably brightly, before you turn and walk away once more.

You feel his eyes on you.

And pray he takes no notice of the sob that shakes your shoulders.

Broke me big time It’s funny and I’m laughing baby You think I’m alright

You’re laughing but it’s mostly fake.

A courtesy, a polite gesture. A signal that you’re still listening, despite tuning out her voice five minutes ago.

She’s a nice lady, someone who works alongside your father. Specialised in forensics, she balances the darkness of her job with the brightness of her wardrobe.

Today, she’s paired a lemon-yellow skirt with a vibrantly orange camisole. She looks like a walking cheese cube.

You’ve known her since you were a kid, even if you can’t remember. She claims you used to stand on her desk, make a big spectacle out of nearly matching your dad’s height.

You’d got to talking to her after she helped you wipe ketchup off your chin.

That was half an hour ago, and the discomfort of wanting to be anywhere but here is finally settling in.

It’s not her fault. You know.

She’s not the one who roped you into going to this barbecue.

Your dad is.

And right now he’s stood on the other side of his backyard, half-drunken beer bottle in one hand and Javier Peña’s shoulder clapped under the other.

Even from here, you can hear him bragging.

So then Peña’s on his ass.

Chases this guy, whilst he’s driving down the street!

Catches him at an intersection, physically rips him out the car.

All while the man in question shrugs, sheepish. Dismisses your father’s praising.

He’s exaggerating.

The guy was barely going 5 miles an hour!

He stepped out the vehicle at his own will.

Sweat lines his forehead, shirt-sleeves hug his biceps, joy wrinkles his eyes.

He’s happy, at ease. Enjoying himself, in a way he was always meant to.

Something about him fits so perfectly in this picture: laughing with your father, complimenting your mother, playing fetch with your dog.

If you step inside the frame, it cracks.

Shatters.

And maybe he knows that.

Knew it all along.

Broke things off before you could try find a frame large enough to fit you all in.

And, though it hurts, you see why things had to end between you and feel relieved it happened before it was too late.

The feeling lasts all but four seconds.

“Kiddo!”

Your father’s voice is obnoxiously loud. Several of the party-goers turn their heads, follow his line of sight. Spot you, frozen in place, glass full of watered down lemonade and a belly full of dread.

It takes a moment, but you wave.

“Come over ‘ere!”

Not the response you were hoping for.

Still, you do as he asks. Smile at your mother, shuffle your feet, make your way across the yard. Do everything in your power to not look at Javi.

Even if the weight of his stare threatens to crumble you.

“You having a good time?” Your dad’s got this smile, big and dopy and oh so caring, that you can’t bring yourself to ruin with the truth.

“I’m having a great time,” you barely manage out before he’s squeezing you into his side.

The condensation on his bottle of beer seeps through the shoulder of your top, his arm secured safely around you.

He must be tipsy already, a buzz in his veins making him more affectionate than normal.

“I can’t believe it,” he laments, speaking to no one in particular.

In your peripheral, you fail to ignore tight jeans and a loose-fitting shirt.

It’s hardly buttoned, the top three undone and leaving a golden plain on display.

Perhaps you’re going crazy but he seems thinner, skin drawn a little tighter against his ribcage.

It’s not a sight you want to see.

It fills you with dread.

Pulling you out of your own head, you father continues to drone on.

“My little girl’s spreading her wings soon, going on her first adult holiday to-”

“London.”

Javi’s voice, interrupting your father, finishing his sentence.

All eyes snap to him.

Your own, wide and panicked. Scared. Trying so hard to dismiss how intensely he’s staring back you.

Your mother’s, amused and curious. Flicking back and forth between his face and her husband’s.

Your father, confused and perplexed, “I- Yeah...” He speaks slow and the arm on your shoulder slips down. “How’d you know?”

“I’ve been, you know?” Two hands dance in front of you, somewhere in the dark, intwining and unwinding. It’s a nervous habit, of Javi’s. You welcome the contact of soothing touches. “To London.”

That peaks your interest.

Enough to shift positions. Rip your hand out his own, roll onto your side and rest a hand under your propped up head. Your other, inevitably, finds its way upon his warm chest, rests over his no-longer-racing heartbeat.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’ve been a few times, actually. I’ve got some friends out there.”

With Javi, friends could mean anything.

A fellow agent, a government official, a moonlight lover.

For all you know, this friend could be the Queen of England.

So it’s best you don’t inquire on it.

“Where do you recommend I visit then, Mr. Bond?”

“Mr... Bond?”

The room is dark, but you still notice the furrow in his brow.

You can practically hear it, in his voice.

“You know, like James Bond.” That’s the thing about jokes, explaining them makes you realise how dumb they are. “‘Cause you were an agent and you like London, and he’s an agent in Lon-”

He cuts you off in the way you like best: his mouth against yours.

The kiss is brief, and leads no place further than the simple act of wanting to silence you.

And, though it goes unaddressed, because it’s been too long since he’d last done it.

Even if he’d done so less than an hour ago, naked bodies intertwined on ruffled bedsheets.

“That was the worst pun I’ve ever heard, corazón,” somehow, the words don’t bruise your ego.

Instead, they make you giggle and burrow your heated face into the crook of his neck.

His lips press against your hairline before speaking again.

“I’d need to write you a list of places to go, too many for me to pick one.”

“Maybe I need a tour guide,” a hand of his greets your back, strokes soothing motions back and forth. It’s lulling you to sleep, at last. “Y’know, show me all the places a real Londoner goes.”

“I could,” he pauses. Clears his throat. Pulls you a little tighter against him, till your limbs are tangled and it’s hard to tell where he stops and you start. “I could check my calendar. See how many holiday days I’ve got left. Could come with you, to London, if you want me there.”

It’s too late though.

You’re already snoring against his skin.

“How does he know?” Your mother shatters the silence, tone incredulous. “I mean, seriously, are you blind!?”

For a minute, it feels like she knows.

She knows why Javi knows.

You should be panicking.

Both of you should.

Should look away from one another, should wipe the guilt off your faces, should already be working on some excuse for when your mother exposes what once was between you.

But you aren’t. Neither of you are.

You’re just staring at each other, as if you’re working to commit each other’s face to memory.

“He knows because you won’t shut up about it!”

Your dad gives an unceremonious oh.

Your mom rolls her eyes.

Javi takes a sip of beer and looks off to the side, eyes breaking contact from your own at last.

“Ok but,” your father’s back to talking before you can fully work up the courage to leave. At least that’s the excuse you try give yourself, anything to distract from Javi. “I bet I’ve not told you what she’s decided to do on her travels!”

“You have,” your mother’s tone is pointed.

Javi laughs, sputters up a little beer back into the bottle. Tilts his head back, accepts his own backwash.

There’s a worn-out cigarette box squeezed tight inside the front pocket of his jeans.

You try ignore the fact he’d promised you he was working on quitting.

“Shh,” your father waves a hand in your mother’s face, dismisses her teasing with a playful wink.

Pulls her close, kisses her shoulder.

Gives both you and Javi a display of what a relationship is.

Open, celebrated, acknowledged.

Not secretive, dirty, scandalous.

Javi cuts the tension with a chuckle and a gentle shove to your father’s arm.

As his hand retreats back to his side, his knuckles brush your skin.

“She’s gonna get herself a christmas-tree decoration every holiday,” your father reveals. You’re frozen at the fact he even remembers you mentioning it. “What was it you said again, kiddo? So in the future, when you’re decorating the tree with your kids, you’ll think of the places you’ve been and tell them all about it?”

Your heart drops.

Javi’s seems to do the same.

For a moment, you worry he’s stopped breathing.

Till his chest rises and falls, no thanks to your father’s stupid rambling about you, and the future, and kids.

“Uh, yeah,” the ground can’t swallow you sooner. You’re already planning your exit, from this conversation and, hopefully, this party as a whole. Your dad’ll understand. You just need to tell him something came up. Or came out. Tell him you’ve got food poison. Blame it on some dodgy take-out the night before. “Something like that.”

But I’m actually bloody Motherfucking batshit crazy

There are moments in one’s life where they must question their own sanity.

You’ve lived plenty of such moments.

But none quite like right now, half-crouched in the middle of a grocery store aisle, peeping into the next one through a gap between two cereal boxes on the shelf.

And all because you heard his voice.

“This is what you’re craving?” Through the crack, you see him wave about something in his hand. It’s hard to see what exactly he’s holding, though.

He’s facing a woman.

She’s pretty.

With dirty blonde hair, piercing blue eyes that not even the shelves and produce between you both can block the shine of.

And a well-rounded belly.

“No, Javi, this,” she doesn’t say his name the same way you do- did. There’s a jovial tone, but there’s no awe, no seduction. Maybe that’s just what your bias hears. “Is what the baby is craving.”

You’ve never seen her before.

Not on the mantel of photos that line Javier’s television. Not at any of the station thrown parties. Not in his wallet, tucked behind the picture of his mom.

She’s a total stranger, to you.

But that doesn’t mean she’s a stranger to him.

A very pregnant, non-stranger.

“We gotta get this kid some better taste.”

His hand rests on her bump.

She welcomes it, placing her own against it to hold him in place.

The image of the American dream, a beautiful woman and a handsome man. The promise of a child, soon, half her and half him.

The blood drains from your face. There’s a lump in your throat and a sting in your eyes.

You won’t let it fester.

Take deep breaths, pretend there’s no shake in your exhales.

It’s not enough to stop the vicious thoughts that sink their jagged ends into the soft tissues of your brain.

Was she the reason things between you and him ended?

Had he got her pregnant, decided to stand by her, and found love along the way?

Was he with her, all along, while he was with...

Surely, he couldn’t have.

But, then, why couldn’t he have?

You were never exclusive.

You were never anything.

“Did-” Somewhere, between the aisles, Javi speaks in amazement. The smile is practically dripping off his words. “Did it just kick?”

Your heart’s palpitating.

Your hands are sweating so badly, they threaten to drop the box of Cap'n Crunch in their grasp.

Jealousy turns to misplaced anger, irrational in every form but impossible to conform.

Because, how could he do this to you?

Make a mockery of you, turn you into the other woman?

Love you so deeply and leave you so easily?

Settle down with this woman and her baby, yet run from you at the first scare of a-

“He’s a real kicker, ain’t he?”

At first, you think it’s spoken to you.

But, no, it’s too distant. Too far.

A third person enters your view through the window in the shelf.

He’s handsome, in the typical sense.

Blonde haired, a nice smile.

There’s a little girl in his arms, resting on his hip, half asleep and clinging to a worn-out giraffe doll.

“He?” It’s Javi who echoes.

“Don’t get him started,” the woman seems to beg, rolling her eyes.

The man nods, pride on his face, “I’m telling ya, Peña, it’s gonna be a boy. It needs to be a boy, ‘else I’m gonna be overrun by little girls.”

The woman must give him a pointed look, or a gentle nudge, for not two seconds later he’s following his words up with a tickle to the sleepy girl’s side and “little girls who I love very much.” Pause. He leans closer to Javier, hand covering one side of his mouth as if to block the woman and the child from hearing him. “I still want a son, though.”

“Olivia,” the pregnant woman strokes a hand over the little girl's head, coxing her to keep her eyes open. It’s hard to tell if there’s a drool mark on the man’s shoulder. “Why don’t you show uncle Javi your favourite toy?”

The bile in your throat burns more than ever before.

The misplaced anger bleeds into sadness, shame, embarrassment.

Here you are, going stir-crazy over a man who never wanted much of you in the first place, raising your heart-rate at the thought of him moving on from something that never even existed.

And there he is, fine as can be- in every sense of the word-, sharing laughs and exchanging smiles with old friends in the grocery store.

Friends his own age.

Worlds apart, yet nothing but a shelf between you.

Through the gap, you watch him lean down to the little girl’s eye-level. A twinkle in his eye, he happily tugs at the stuffed giraffe’s tail.

“Glad you liked it, Olive,” curse him, and his soft voice, and his gentle touch and his everything, for still forcing you to swoon over him, knees weak and ovaries treacherously screaming. “I had to go all the way to Africa to find him.”

The little girl perks right up at that.

Eyes widened, head off her father’s shoulder.

“Really?!” She’s amazed, and how could she not be? Javier Peña is beaming at her, ear to ear.

“Mhmm,” he nods, feeds into his own lie, ignoring the disapproving looks from the other man. “If you’re lucky, maybe I’ll go back next year and get you a zebra.”

“Quit lying to my kid, Peña.”

Javi, undeterred from keeping the little girl’s smile, rolls his eyes and pokes his tongue out at her father, huffing under his breath “Your dad’s a right grump, Olive.”

You begin to wonder how long Javi’s known this couple, how he knows this couple.

“Just wait till you’ve got your own kid and I’m feeding it lies.” The man punctuates his empty threat with a dull punch to Javi’s forearm. Javi barely flinches, unfazed. “Speaking of, when are you making me uncle Steve?”

In sync and apart, you and him both physically freeze.

Your breathing stops.

Javier stands up straight. Rolls his shoulders, scratches at the back of his neck, clears his throat and, “not any time soon.”

“Really? What about that girl you’ve been seeing, the-”

“That- We- It didn’t work out, we wanted,” you begin to see cracks in his facade. Fake laugh, solemn eyes. “Different things... I want, wanted to settle down but, yeah, no it was for her best that we-”

“Sorry, can I just,” your heart jumps in your chest, flying back so quickly from your peep-hole that you nearly knock over the person behind you. “Grab one of those?”

You nod, gain composure, watch the stranger pick up a box of cereal off the shelf.

They walk away and you’re left alone, again.

Your eyes flicker up to the shelf and-

He’s no longer standing on the other side.

You turn on your heel, ignoring your half-filled cart and book it out of the store before you fall apart.

Try as you might, you can’t shake off the weight of his stare as you pass by the check-out.

I kept it in, but it wrecked my organs So pour the gin and call Graham Norton

You wake up early.

You tell yourself it’s because you’re seizing the day.

Making the most out of your time upon foreign land.

The early bird gets the worm, and all that proverbial bullshit.

The truth lies in that you can not sleep.

Jetlag. Your body clock is at odds with the timezone.

Which lands you here: strolling upon the cobbled streets of Notting Hill.

A quarter past six.

Its barely light out, the sun still fighting to rise over the horizon and the streetlights still shadow your every step.

Colourful houses, cosy shops, a melodic thud each time your feet meet the ground.

It’s picturesque, straight out of a romantic comedy.

Yet, somehow, you’ve never felt more gloom.

In the silent bustle of a city awakening to a new day, you’re startled.

Trip over a cobble, nearly meet the floor, and just about save yourself from rolling your ankle.

Your ringtone is the culprit.

Loud, imposing. It scares a flock of birds off a wire and gains you a stare from a man stepping out his home.

Scrambling to get the clunky cellphone out your bag, you spare the screen a fleeting glance.

You question if it’s one of your friends, awakened back in your shared hotel room to find you’re not there, and press the green button.

“Corazón.”

It’s funny how one word can drain the blood from your face.

You swallow the lump in your throat, made of equal parts anger and sadness.

Anger that this is the first time you’ve heard Javier Peña’s voice in nearly two months.

Sadness that it sounds so broken down the line.

“I- Shit, I can’t tell if I’ve even dialled the right number...” He’s muttering in your ear, confused and at odds with himself, mouth a fountain his thoughts pour out of. “... Probably changed it or- Can she even receive calls all the way in-”

“I’m here,” it’s only a whisper.

It’s enough to shut him up.

Silence rings down the line, a static buzz that reminds you of the distance between you.

“You’re in London,” he states.

“I am,” you affirm.

He hums, sips something.

Ice clinks against glass, and you feel a little sick.

“How have-” His voice sounds strange. Muffled. Different. Maybe it’s the poor connection. “Was your flight okay?”

“Yeah,” you spare him the details.

The truth.

The boredom, the turbulence. The fact you’re dreading the flight home.

“I’m glad,” he sighs the words out, worry going with them. “Know you’re not the biggest fan of planes, kept thinking of you alone and afraid on it.”

“I wasn’t alone,” it’s defensive, and ironic.

You sure felt alone.

“That’s right, corazón, you weren’t,” something slips, rolls, smashes. Glass shatters and is met with cursing anger, an oh, shit! followed up by hollow laughter. “You’re never alone.”

“Are you...” The street’s a little brighter, a few cars have begun to back out of driveways and you’re still there, frozen in the middle of the street, phone pressed to your ear. “Drunk?”

“No, I’m javi.” If his laughter is anything to go by, he thinks himself the comic of the century. “Had a few drinks with your dad, sweetheart, that’s all.”

For a moment, it feels like you shouldn’t be here, in London.

You should be home, in Laredo, dragging a drunken Javi to bed.

Stripping him of his clothes, kissing his rosied cheeks, urging him to go to sleep. Leaving him a pair of painkillers and a glass of water for his breakfast before curling yourself into his soft arms.

You blink, and feel the familiar weight of a tear on your lashes.

“Why’d you call me, Javi?” It’s a desperate plea.

For answers, for clarity, for closure

“I wanted to hear your voice,” that’s too vague of an answer, too unfair of an answer. Your heart swells nonetheless. “Wanted to go to London, with you. I should be there.”

“It’s your fault,” that’s as cruel as you can bring yourself to be towards him.

Even then, it kills you to do so.

“’S half my fault. Joder (fuck),” you can picture him, leaned back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. You wonder how much he’s drank, and if he spoke to any women. Maybe he took one home, fucked her nice and good before dialling your number. “Wanted to give you my answer, too.”

Someone bumps your shoulder on the street, walking past you.

You pay them no mind, vision blurred to the world around you.

“What answer?”

“Where you should visit, Mrs. Bond,” he says it, like it doesn’t send you into cardiac arrest.

You miss the nights like that one, tangled in your bed, smelling him on your sheets and feeling him against your skin.

He’d woken up first the next day, coaxed you out of bed with the promise of homemade pancakes and his head between your legs.

“There’s this little bar in Inslington, called the Distillery Club. The owner, he makes his own gin. You like gin, don’t you, corazón?” You nod, and it’s almost like he feels it. “It doesn’t look like much from the outside. Or the inside, either. But it’s some of the best gin I’ve ever had, in the greatest company.”

You try to picture him, sat amongst friends you’ve never met. Friends who don’t know your dad.

You try to picture yourself, next to him, scooting your bar stool closer to his.

The image doesn’t quite form.

“Want you to go there, get yourself a drink. Tell him Javier Peña sent you, and that you’ve not to pay.”

It’s like he’s given you a piece of his soul. A piece of his history, someplace he’s sought out refuge in his lowest moments.

Refuge he’s willing to share with you.

That tear finally gives way, dropping off your lash and rolling down your cheek.

You wipe it off with the sleeve of your sweater, before anyone can see.

“Promise me you’ll go, corazón.”

Your reply is instant, “I promise.”

“Ok, I’ll let you go,” it’s solemn, regretful, devoid of truth. You almost beg him not to, but that didn’t work last time. “Enjoy yourself, okay? Come home, safe.”

“Javi, I-” the line cuts off, disconnecting before you even finish. “Miss you.”

I’m gonna throw you down the river Your mum can watch it over dinner

“How you feeling, kiddo?”

You startle awake at your father’s voice, eyes heavy with exhaustion.

Before you can give him an answer, you erupt into a fit of coughs.

“Not good,” he grimaces and slowly steps into your room. “Got it.”

Stepping off the plane, you’d managed only one night back in your own bed before the fever had taken over.

All it took was hearing your nasally voice over the phone for your mother to demand you come stay with them.

Just till you’re back on your feet, she’d said, like she ever needed an excuse to have you over.

She’s not quite adjusted to being an empty-nester.

Neither of them have, really.

“Actually,” your tone is matter-of-factly. “I almost smelt something earlier.”

“That’s great, kid!” And he means it, you know he does. Even if his shoulders slump at any sign of you feeling better and returning to your apartment. “Now we just gotta figure out if it’s your sinuses unclogging or your stench just growing more rancid.”

Try as you might to aim the pillow right at his head, he still manages to catch it inches from his face.

“Hey, I’m just saying! You’ve got the flu, you ain’t dying! Could be a little courteous to those who’ve gotta be around you and take a shower.”

“You’re literally in my room!”

“Which is literally in my house!”

Downstairs, your mother yells something unintelligible.

Likely, she’s telling you both to shut up and to quit behaving like children.

Making eye contact, you both can’t help the roll of laughter that comes out.

He steps a little closer, and that’s when you spot it.

Tupperware, clasped in his hand.

The contents are hard to decipher.

Luckily, your father spots you eyeing it.

“Your mom said ya wouldn’t be up for eating much but, if you’re hungry,” he pauses, at the foot of your bed. Tugs a little on the homemade-blanket you’ve had since you were in grade school. You wonder if he remembers making it with you. “One of the guys down at the station made you some stew.”

Your stomach growls, hungry and unfed.

The prospect of a hot, boiling bowl of brothy stew suddenly peaks your interest.

In fact, you can’t think of anything better.

“It’s a family recipe, he said it would cure ya right up.”

He’s popping the lid open, presenting the delicacy before your eyes.

Immediately, you spot chicken.

Some corn cob, a couple lumps of potato, flakes of chilli.

You wish you could smell it, ingest it through your nasal canal and get a taste of it before you even put it in your mouth.

Your father continues, practically talking to himself.

“What’d he say it was called again, ga-sue-lay day ah-vay?”

“Cazuela de ave.”

A change into warmer, drier clothes.

Your hair still sits wet upon your head, but it no longer drips puddles onto his floor.

Thirty minutes it took him to drive from where he’d spotted you, walking soaked upon the sidewalk.

It would’ve only taken him seventeen minutes if he’d dropped you at your apartment.

And that fact is partly what warms your insides.

You watch him, tie discarded and the top buttons of his shirt undone, strutting around his kitchen.

Objectively, you think, he’s gorgeous.

Yet the word somehow doesn’t seem like it’s enough to summarise him, when he’s making his way round to you, two ceramic bowls in his hands and a look of pride in his eyes.

He put his own bowl down first. Sloppy, uncaring, spilling a little of it’s contents over it’s edge.

And then yours. More careful, slowly, both hands guiding it down.

The scent alone is enough to have you salivating.

Warmth and care, all encased in a bowl of brothy goodness.

“It smells delicious,” you inhale deeply, for dramatic effect.

And to get more of that meaty, comfort-food goodness.

Javi sits on the opposite side of the dining table, and you try hard to stop your mind from wandering off to visions of you both sat like this, out in public, in a restaurant.

A real date.

Only, this isn’t even a fake date.

You guys don’t do that.

“It’s- It was my mom’s recipe.”

Frozen in place, you wonder if the shock spills over your face.

He’s never mentioned his mother.

Or much about his family, really.

There’s the occasional comment about projects he takes on at his dad’s ranch, and tid-bits of information you hear across a dinner table that's set by your mother and seated by your father.

But you’re no fool blind enough to not realise the obvious.

A worn-out polaroid in his wallet, his mother smiles brightly in permanent ink each time he opens it. It contrasts her impermanence in the real world, dead and gone long before you became so much as a ripple in the lake of Javier’s existence.

Across the table, he’s relaxed. At ease.

Open.

His eyes, his mind, his heart.

And so you try venturing inwards, test his waters with a dip of your toe.

“Was she a good cook?”

Lukewarm, they appear, when he favours you with a tiny smile, his eyes staring somewhere off in the distance.

“No,” and he laughs at his own admission.

Not just a scoffed out chuckle, or a gesture meant to feign joy.

A full, hearty laugh, that shakes his shoulders and splits his cheeks.

It’s disturbingly beautiful.

You wonder if there’s a life where it could be like this, always.

Javier laughing at his own jokes, you smiling at his visceral joy, plates of homemade food filling the space between you.

“No, she, uh,” he restarts, relaxing a little bit. He wipes under one of his eyes with the back of his palm, a rogue tear breaching his waterline. “She was awful. She burnt every slice of toast she made, and even served an unbaked cake at one of my birthday parties. This dish is actually one of the few she knew how to nail.”

You can picture it, a young Javi, party hat on his head and a cheesy grin topped by rosy cheeks, eating away at gooey batter mix sprinkled in icing.

It’s hard to imagine him complaining, or getting angry at her.

In spite of his reputation, and the career he’s undertaken, Javier Peña is a gentle soul, who nurtures and protects anyone he can.

A modern-day hero, a knight who’s exchanged his shinny armour for form fitting jeans and unbuttened shirts.

“Tell me more about her,” the words are out before you can reel them back in.

Because you like this feeling, and you like this Javi, reminiscing on his late-mother.

“She not only was awful at cooking, but she had the worst coordination too.” It’s like he’s been waiting to tell you this, with how easy he slips into doing so. “She was forever falling and tripping over herself. And her driving, god! Pops used to dig out his rosary each time she’d be out on the field, driving the tractor.”

There’s something intimate about him recalling details so many would see as flaws, whilst he sports the most earnest, heart-wrenching smile.

Like nothing about her was wrong, all of her perfect and angelic.

“She was brave, too. I’d like to think I’m just like her in that respect. She didn’t let anything stop her from doing things she set her heart on, and she never let her inabilities hinder her,” he’s getting a little emotional now, you can hear it in his voice, see it in the lump he swallows back. You stretch a hand across the table and watch as he leans on you for support, fingers interlocking with your own. “There was this one time when I was a kid, I was swimming in a river and got stuck in a current. She dived right in to save me... She didn’t even know how to swim!”

You don’t know what to say.

You opt for saying nothing, silence speaking more than a thousand words.

Give his hand a reassuring squeeze, feel him squeeze back harder.

Your stomach rumbles, but it doesn’t ruin the moment in the way you feared it would.

“Listen to me being a sap and starving my poor lady to death,” still, he tugs your hand closer and plants a kiss on your knuckles. You’re still trying to process the possessive adjective he’d used to address you. My. His. “Eat up.”

Both of you settle back in your seats.

You pick up your spoon, scoop up a piece of chicken out the steaming bowl and-

“Asi no, corazón (not like that, sweetheart),” he spews out, panicking to pry the cutlery out your hand. He ignores the questioning looks you give him. “You drink the soup first, eat the filling after. Like this.”

Leaning over the table, he scoops your bowl up in his careful hands and guides it up to your lips.

When your lips part and rest against the bowl’s edge, he tilts it and you feel it’s warmth invade your mouth.

And then your chest, branching out over your heart, your lungs, your stomach.

Horned-up bias you so often show towards Javier aside, it’s one of the best things you’ve ever tasted.

Like a hug on a gloomy, wet day, all wrapped up inside a ceramic bowl.

You hum, hands taking over his own to allow him back into his own seat, focusing his attention on drinking his own soup.

“Javi, this is...” You trail off, eyeing the small ring of liquid pooling at the bottom of the bowl. One more mouthful and you’ll get your taste of the stew’s fillings. “Amazing. Your mum would be proud.”

Instead of modesty, instead of 'thank yous', instead of bashfulness, Javier smiles, takes another sip from his bowl.

“She would have liked you.”

You stare across at him and find no jest in his eyes.

They’re as open as before.

“Really?”

“Mhmm. She always liked pretty girls smart enough to put me in my place.”

“Kiddo?”

You’re ripped out your own head by your father’s voice and his hand, waved repeatedly in front of your face.

“Hmm?”

“You okay there? I was talkin’ to you but you seemed lost in thought.” There’s a little excitement in you father’s voice as he presses his cold hand to your sweated forehead, the prospect of you still being ill, still needing taking care of, filling him with the relief of keeping you in your parents' home a little longer.

“I’m- Yeah, just tired, s’all.”

“Ok, let me know when you’ve finished your food,” he presses a kiss atop the crown of your head, and you hold back the pointless comment of not risking getting himself or your mother sick. “Need to get the tupperware clean ‘fore I give it back to Javi.”

Your stomach twists and longs for the meal before you, while your heart shatters into pieces you doubt will ever be repaired.

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