#ask box fic

[preromantics]

(had to google common kinks because my brain is dead lol sorry)

But

Starker + voyeurism?

Or

Starker + anonymous sex

Oooh let’s try anonymous (errr kinda I took it to a glory hole place)!

-

It started as a joke. It was definitely a joke.

Someone — Peter can’t even remember, because Thor and Bruce had reverse engineered some long lost Asgardian hard liquor and gotten every person in the compound, enhanced metabolism to Actual God to regular human totally shitfaced — someone had complained about the lack of sexual partner options available to bonafide superheroes.

Peter is 97% sure he did not make the original complaint, but less sure if he privately or verbally agreed with the overall sentiment.

Anyway, someone had complained.

Tony, who fell on the human spectrum of easily-shitfaced-from-Asgardian-jet-fuel but also on the unfortunately superhuman liver side, had indulged his one social drink and promptly disappeared to the lab.

A few hours later, the assorted and still standing heroes of Earth had been led on a little drunken excursion by Tony to the compound sublevels. The group arranged a wobbly and cheerful single-file line ordered by height and wove through the gym and past the boxing rings to the locker room style communal showers.

Peter, who did not have the advantage of height compared to the collection of his coworkers (friends?) who were still standing, had been one of the last to see what all the parading had been about.

The last shower stall had been partitioned into two, with shiny new floor to ceiling doors.

The new middle partition — proudly gestured to by Tony in his best Vanna White impression — sported a single hole in the wall.

“This dial here can adjust the size to your… needs,” Tony was saying, giving a practical demonstration of the lever that opened and closed the hole like the aperture function of a camera lens.

Peter would’ve taken notes, but the rush of the alcohol and the implications and the Tony of it all caught up and deafened him with white noise.

—

So, it was a joke. 30 or so assorted superheroes, Avengers and otherwise, knew that a gloryhole existed in the communal showers on level B8 of the compound.

Theoretically, any of them could use it.

Peter wondered obsessively if anyone had tried it, joke or not.

He found himself lingering after a hard workout or training session, eyes closed under the spray of one of the normal shower stalls, and senses on high alert for the echoey pad of footsteps to the end of the room.

Eventually his curiosity graduated and he found himself walking down to the partitioned and private stalls, too. Ostensively just to look. Just to see if one door was closed and not the other. Just to see if anyone might be paying attention and follow him down.

Not that Peter would use the hole with anyone. Probably.

He wasn’t even sure what side he’d pick, or what he’d do — again, not that he was thinking about it.

He absolutely, definitely did not let his exploration take him into the farthest side, the door shutting with a final-sounding soft close clink, the lighting going dim in the stall.

A small green light, unobtrusive but obvious once you knew where to look, had startled him. Occupied.

(He definitely did not enter the little stall five more days in a row until on the fifth he gathered the courage to drop to his knees to asses the height of the hole relative to his mouth and fiddle with the adjustment knob.

Tony was, if nothing else, always the perfect engineer.)

-

Peter was hyper-aware when he was sharing a workout with anyone else. Waited to see if they’d follow him into the locker room.

Sometimes they did and he showered knowing someone else was a stall away. But no footsteps ever wandered to the end of the line of shower stalls.

He wasn’t disappointed, exactly. It was just. Whoever had complained that superheroes couldn’t get laid easily was speaking the truth.

Occasionally he would be working with Tony in the labs, on the rare occasion they were at the compound at the same time, and find himself wondering if Tony remembered the superhero glory hole he’d created several floors below him.

He’d wonder if Tony ever tried it.

He’d wonder if Tony ever thought about Peter trying it. If he’d seen Peter stumble away from the drunken group field trip presentation with blotchy red on his cheeks.

He’d wonder if Tony knew the height was perfect for the distance from Peter’s knees to his mouth.

He’d wonder if he was going a little crazy about the whole Glory Hole Joke.

-

“If I sit in this chair for another minute my back is going to spontaneously throw itself out,” Tony announces from his lab bench.

Peter smirks at him, sparing a glance up from his pipette and beaker. A quip is on his tongue, the perfect time for an old man joke, but the words die in his throat.

Tony is stretching slowly from a sit to a stand, arms over his head, faded t-shirt scrunching up under his armpits to reveal a few inches of soft belly skin dusted with hair.

“Gonna go get a workout in before lunch. Dinner? Midnight snack? Honesty no idea where we’re falling in the meal spectrum right now.”

Peter swallows around his dry throat. “Dinner,” he says, though he also has no clue what time it is. “Probably.”

Tony jerks his thumb toward the elevator across the room. “Maybe I’ll see you down there,” he says.

It sounds so casual. Maybe he will. Peter wants to die a little with how much he wants to see Tony on Floor B8. A little further past the gym than Tony has in mind.

“Maybe,” Peter agrees, turning back to his pipette, which he’s pretty sure has been steadily dropping too much of the base into his reactive acid this entire time.

-

Peter spends 10 minutes cleaning up his lab bench and another 5 staring blankly at the elevator doors.

The cheerful and non-descript elevator AI asks him what floor he wants three separate times. Peter is glad it isn’t FRI or KAREN. They’d have called him out by now.

“B8,” he says.

He walks out of the elevator with purpose, resolved to head to the rowing machine and get a pre-dinner workout in with Mr. Stark, shake off his nervous and pent-up energy until it’s sweat out of his system.

There’s a small snag in his plan. Tony is running on the omni-directional treadmill, back to Peter. He has Starkphones in, completely sound proof.

Peter licks his lips at the sight of the sweat on Tony’s back, the way it causes his shirt to cling to his spine.

He makes a split second decision, borne maybe of too many late night fantasy scenarios to count. It’s easy to walk past the treadmill and cross to the other end of the facility, past the boxing rings.

It’s easy to walk down the line of shower stalls, the overhead lights pinging on instantly as he walks further and further, steps getting quicker.

It’s — it’s not perfectly easy, he has to stop and take a breath before he walks into the farthest partitioned side of the glory hole. But then it is done: the door softly closes, the little green LED flicking on, and all Peter has to do is sink down to his knees.

All Peter did was walk across a room but his heart is beating wildly like he just went stealth mode on a dangerous stake out.

The reality is Tony didn’t notice Peter even enter the gym. He might finish his workout and go up to his own expansive compound rooms to shower. He might shower here, the echo of water driving Peter insane with mental images, and never even glance down to see the subtle green light.

He might see the green light, know that Peter is there, and leave anyway.

Peter bangs his head softly against the wall, nose catching the human-sized opening awkwardly, and resigns himself to letting his legs go numb from the knees down while he waits with all his hope in his throat, anyway.

-

A soft noise, the woosh of the main locker room door, makes every hair on Peter’s arms stand up.

He swallows, pitching forward in his enclosed stall as if that will bring him closer to the source of the noise.

It could be someone else, though Peter has no idea who could be on the weekend roster.

There’s a rustle of clothing he barely needs to strain to hear. The soft thump of something hitting the ground. The hiss of the pipes, not on a human frequency, before the spray of the water gushes out of a distant shower head.

The shower is over quickly, Peter notes, though time has gone soft and slippy. He closes his eyes.

Footsteps. Toward him. The slight air sound of a door opening. The well-known click of the private stall door shutting.

Oh, god. There is someone across from him. Peter forgets to breathe for a second entirely and has to fight from making a sound as he chokes between two inhales.

He can no longer distinguish the small noises from the rushing in his own ears.

The first movement in the hole nearly startles him; just a play of shadows as someone gets ready on the other side.

Then: a cock. It slides through, half-hard, resting thick and plump along the bottom edge of the hole as it passes through. The owner of the cock feeds it all the way, the fat head bending downward and then bobbing up. Toward Peter.

Peter inhales; the scent is clean and his lungs struggle to fill all the way. He rocks forward, drawn to the half-comical, half-arousing reality of the anonymous cock through the hole.

Is it really anonymous? Statistically, Peter thinks it should be Tony. He was in the gym. Would he know it was Peter on the other side? Tony invited Peter down to workout, so the odds were decent the other way around.

Tentatively, Peter darts his tongue out to lick across the head of the cock. It’s flushed darker than the root, and the salty sweet of it blooms on Peter’s tongue.

He may have just licked Tony Stark’s fat cock head for the first time. The idea of it thrills Peter to his bones, his own cock throbbing against the zip of his jeans.

There’s a chance it isn’t Tony.

Peter licks a bolder stripe across the head, swirling around the ridge. His saliva glands are over active, he’s practically drooling already at the idea of this.

There’s a chance it’s someone else. Peter may never even find out.

His cock twitches at that, too. Fuck. He wraps his lips around the entire head, drenching it with his own slick excitement as he opens his mouth up further and slides down several inches in his eagerness.

He gags, pulls back, and returns immediately.

The man on the other side of the wall is silent, but a slight bang against the wall — the slap of someone’s hand to the partition, as if Peter’s already doing such a good job they can’t help it — makes Peter shove more of the warm cock between his lips to muffle any of his own noises.

If he moaned, he’s sure someone could pick out the octave of his voice and just know. They’d know Peter is twenty seconds into this and already drooling for it.

Tony would know for sure. The thought makes Peter palm his own cock, wishing he’d thought to unzip his jeans while he waited, but not wanting to stop to focus enough to do so now.

He would’ve felt so pathetic, waiting alone, pants undone and cock half-hard with anticipation. Now, he’s stuck curling his fingers against the denim of his fly and worrying he might leak precome through his briefs and jeans by the end of this.

He tongues along the bottom vein of the cock in front of him, marveling at the weight of it and at the stretch of his lips around it as they drag slickly up and down. The angle is decent, but still strange, his neck stiff as he tries to bob back and forth to take the entire thing.

The cock in his mouth is definitely fully hard now, pulsing and flexing against Peter’s tongue, the tip bursting an addictive drop of precome every few passes. The taste is such a contrast to the soap-clean skin of the length that every taste forces Peter to swallow back a moan.

His nose mashes slightly against the wall when he focuses enough to take as much as he can down his throat. It feels deliriously good, a sense of terribly slutty pride coursing through him every time his nose hits the partition over the hole.

He’s slid all the way down when the owner of the cock abruptly slides back out.

Peter’s mouth opens around an unvoiced protest, barely catching a whine from spilling out before the cock slides back in, fucking back between Peter’s parted swollen lips and down his open throat.

He does moan at that, deep and hopefully muffled by his mouth full of cock.

Peter catches on quickly: he can keep his mouth open, his forehead and nose pressed hard against the wall, and the stranger on the other end can simply fuck his mouth.

It’s so simple to stay still, dragging his tongue back and forth and dragging his hand over his own trapped cock while he gets efficiently face fucked. It’s almost dream-like, two pinpoints of focus — the stranger’s pleasure and Peter’s pleasure — taking up all the space in his brain.

A hand slaps the wall on the other side again, harder this time, the cock in Peter’s mouth tensing and pulsing before his throat is coated with come.

Peter comes in his own pants, hips frantically bucking as he swallows down several continuous seconds of anonymous come. He bangs his head on the wall, hard, trying to balance and keep his position at the same time.

When the cock slides out from between hips lips, dragging and lingering on Peter’s bottom lip for a moment before disappearing, Peter falls back against the tile and inhales sharply.

He waits for the click of the door on the other side of the wall and for the padding of the feet to disappear. He doesn’t even have the mental energy to try and figure out if he recognizes the sound and weight of the softly echoing feet.

He forgets about dinner, peeling himself off the floor eventually and floating all the way to his room.

-

In the morning, Peter is slow to rise, feeling heavy-limbed and not awake enough to revisit the previous night.

When he finally manages to roll out of bed and head to the communal kitchens, the line of Tony’s back at the breakfast bar greets him first.

Peter flashes to the sweat-soaked gym shirt from the night before and swallows around a suddenly dry mouth once again.

“Hey shortstack,” Rhodes calls from the other side of the counter.

Peter gives him a tired salute, covering for his slight startle, and heads for the fridge behind Tony.

“You two see any ghosts while you were rattling around this place all by your lonesomes last night?” Rhody asks.

Peter just catches himself from overpouring his orange juice onto the counter as the dots connect in his head. He never did look at the weekend security roster.

Surely Rhody can’t mean he and Tony were the only—

“Ghosts? No, just me and Pete, who ghosted me for dinner.”

Tony turns and grabs the freshly poured orange juice glass from Peter’s hands, catching his finger tips as he pulls it free and sparking heat up Peter’s fingers in return.

“For me? You didn’t have to,” Tony says, catching Peter’s startled glance with a too-wide smile.

He takes a wide gulp, only breaking eye contact to turn around and set the glass down.

Tony slaps the counter with a small, satisfied groan. “Delicious,” he says brightly.

Rhody rolls his eyes and turns back to his phone and eggs.

Peter stands still. The slap echos over and over again in Peter’s head as he flushes. Oh.

——-

WELL I said I was going to answer these on my phone and I did. Oops. Will edit and whatever on my computer tomorrow hahaha.

#starker #ask box fic #whoops this is like 2700 words lol #will clean up and probably thrown on AO3 tmmrw #prompts open :)

[silverskull]

Chenford + UC school + Noah

&Chenford + noah is just a friend

&Chenford + Tim gets jealous of Noah

&Chenford + Chris finds out Lucy is with Tim 💕

This fic is for the most wonderful anon/anons on Tumblr who persistently pepper my ask box with fic suggestions. Whether you are one person or many, you make me so happy. To think that there's someone out there who is actively enticing me to write is the strangest sort of good feeling, and I love you, nonnie.

I actually wasn't very enthusiastic about the whole Noah and Chris and Tim thing, but when I started to combine the suggestions with one another, it came out as something I wasn't expecting. I hope you don't feel cheated, and more importantly, I hope you enjoy. 💖 (5000 word fic in full below, but a kudos or comment on AO3 is always much appreciated, as are rebloggios!)

“Wuh-oh.”

Lucy spun quickly on her heel, the handcuffs on her duty belt clanking in protest as she turned and smashed directly into the solid wall of Sergeant Grey’s chest. 

Grey sighed, pushing her back gently and dusting himself off with a wearily raised eyebrow.

“Forget something, Officer Chen?”

“Uh, no, Sir,” Lucy stammered, looking for the quickest route around the Watch Commander, “I, uh, just need to, uh… check if-”

The station’s automatic doors breezed open behind her, wafting the smell of exhaust into the air of the lobby around them.

“Lucy?”

Too late.

***

“Tim is just…” Lucy twirled her shot glass on the slick surface of the bar table, absently glad she’d worn short sleeves, because she’d already left her elbow in the puddle of spilled liquor at least three times since they’d sat down. The flame of a small centrepiece candle wavered and blurred before her as her thoughts drifted and her eyes unfocused.

“Just… ‘a friend’?” Noah finished for her, grinning and bumping her with his elbow as he downed his own shot. He winced at the burn, then waggled his eyebrows at her.

Lucy rolled her eyes and threw back her tequila. “I don’t even think you could call us that any more.” She’d succumbed to gloominess, only agreeing to go out with the UC gang because being alone in her hotel room would mean no-one was keeping track of her drinking. They’d had a long day of lectures and written tests, and when she finally got to check her phone, there wasn’t even a meme from Aaron. It was as if she’d been completely forgotten by everyone she cared about.

“Psshh.” Noah blew a messy raspberry, slapping the puddle of liquor and sending a small tsunami of droplets across both of their laps. “It took you nearly two weeks to tell me you had a different boyfriend. I thought for sure you and Bradford were married.”

“Wh- Noah!” Lucy slapped his shoulder, half amused, half embarrassed. He leaned away from her, smirking, but only long enough to pull them two new bottles of beer from the shared ice bucket. “Chris Sanford. Tim Bradford. It’s not that hard.”

“Don’t they have any other varieties of surname down in Mid-Wilshire? How am I supposed to tell them apart?”

“You’d know them if you saw them,” she murmured, uncapping her beer and taking a deep swig.

“Oh really?” Noah asked, intrigued. His eyes glimmered with quick humour and he sat up straighter. “I can picture it now: Chris Sandyford, ace attorney. Tall, blonde, preppy. Probably played lacrosse in high-school.” 

Despite herself, Lucy burst into a fit of laughter. Noah continued, painting the air with his fingers.

“Timothée Bradburn. Dark, skinny, moody. Hair a little too long for a cop, but suits his ‘aesthetic’. Loves to read, but only paperbacks. Trademarks the word ‘asshole’.”

Lucy had bent double, gasping for breath, balancing herself with one now-soaked arm on the wet table.

“I don’t care if he was your TO,” Noah continued, “I’m rooting for Bradburn. Team Tim, all the way.” He raised his bottle in salute to Tim, commencing a ripple of cheers from the rest of their group.

“Oh my god.” It took her a solid minute of wheezing and coughing to recover, and Noah smiled innocently at her the whole time, calmly sipping from his beer and clapping her enthusiastically on the back.

“You are never invited to Mid-Wilshire. Just so you know.” She poked him in the shoulder when she could breathe again, to emphasise her point.

“Oh yeah?” He smirked, bending low to the table and hiding his face behind his beer bottle and a small stack of coasters. “Well, I’ll just have to be discreet. You’ll never see me coming.”

She swiped a splash of the spill at him and he dodged, toppling his bottle into the coasters. He lurched forward to save it at the same moment as Lucy, and between them the candle went spinning around the table, tipping onto Lucy’s lap and splashing wax all over her jeans.

“Ow! Ow ow ow! Hot!”

She leapt off her stool, desperately trying to knock the melted wax away, but it had soaked through the material and was already stinging painfully against her skin.

At a loss, Noah looked helplessly at their friends, all shouting and pointing at once, unintelligible and useless. Reflexively, he grabbed his beer bottle and sloshed it at Lucy.

Foam. 

Bubbles and foam.

Bubbles and foam and a merciful - if slightly sour - coolness spread across her legs.

There was silence for a moment.

Lucy ran her hands across her soaked jeans, shaking off the residue and shoving her hair out of her eyes.

Someone snorted. Another coughed. Then a giggle. Soon the entire table was convulsing in laughter, passing napkins and coasters across to Lucy, helping her dab off her jeans and her stool and her arms. Noah grimaced apologetically, cleaning the table in front of her and handing the quenched candle to an exasperated waitress.

“If it helps, this has given me a great idea…” he said, arranging their stools back beside the table and gesturing for two more beers from the bucket.

“I don’t think I want to know any more of your ideas tonight,” Lucy said, sitting gingerly on the slightly sticky seat and eyeing him suspiciously.

“No no, you’ll like this one, I swear!” He uncapped their drinks, clinking the bottles together carefully. “I’ve finally thought of your UC nickname… ‘Hotpants’.”

Lucy choked, spraying beer back onto the table and saturating the sleeve of Noah’s sweater.

The gang erupted in laughter again, pelting Noah with napkins and coasters.

Lucy was glad she’d gone out with them.

Who needed memes from Aaron anyway?

***

“Detective Foster. Good to see you again.” Grey reached beyond Lucy to shake hands with Noah. “Lopez has a desk ready for your report.”

“Thank you, Sir.” Noah grinned cheekily at Lucy as Grey took a step back. “How you doin’, Hotpants?” He pulled her into a quick hug, pecking her on the cheek before she had time to react.

Lucy swallowed a slightly hysterical giggle, shoving him back with a tight grip on his arms.

“Good, all good. I didn’t expect to see you here today,” she answered, frowning. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, of course!” He slipped his arm around her back, leaning in close to whisper conspiratorially, “Lopez wanted someone actually good at UC to draft the Army of Freedom report for the DA.”

She jabbed him lightly with her elbow, knowing full well that her amusement was showing on her face. Grey shook his head at her, rolling his eyes and folding his arms.

She’d almost forgotten her urgent need to get out of there.

The doors swished open again.

“Lucy?”

Shit.

***

“Tim is just…” Lucy rolled her sushi over once more in the bowl of soy sauce. It was far too saturated to eat now, but she’d lost her train of thought, and with it, apparently, her appetite.

“Just… jealous?” Chris finished with a snort, tossing back another California roll.

“What? No!” Lucy tamped down on the wave of protective indignation that surged within her, sighing and dropping her chopsticks onto her plate. Wine it was, then. She settled back into the couch. “No. He’s just… just…”

“A walking billboard for ‘defund the police’?”

“Chris!” She dropped her wine glass onto the table so fast, it nearly sloshed over the edges.

“No, no, babe. You know I don’t mean you when I say that.” Chris patted her on the arm, still fully focused on the platter of sushi in front of him. “But the movement has a point. And moody hardasses like Bradford are exactly the kind of cop people are scared of running into. I’ll never understand why you’re so patient with him.”

Lucy scoffed, the burn of wine and soy sauce tasting bitter in her throat.

“Our job isn’t to be everybody’s friend.”

“Hold on, hold on…” Chris chewed and swallowed another roll, raising his hand for her to wait. “You want me to give teenage thieves a second or third chance; but Bradford can just roll up on someone, slap on some cuffs, throw them in the system, and that’s all part and parcel of the job? Lucy! Come on!”

“You don’t see the same city we do.” She reached for her wine again, closing her eyes. This type of conversation was never worth the energy. “We see people on their worst days. For some of them, they’ve embraced it and decided to make it everybody else’s worst day too. For others, it’s just a hole they’ve fallen into. Throw them a ladder and they’ll find their own way out.” She sipped her wine thoughtfully. “We’re responsible for making that judgement. Every day takes a toll on you. Tim is just…”

Her mouth wouldn’t form the words.

Upset? Lonely? Broken-hearted?

How would someone feel after being broken up with by 2022’s answer to Pamela Anderson?

“Tired,” she finished, lamely, taking a larger gulp of wine than she’d intended.

“Sure, but can you imagine having him over for dinner?” Chris had moved onto the sashimi, delicately considering both the tuna and the salmon. “You, me, and Tired Tim?” He decided on the salmon, dropping even more wasabi into his soy sauce. “I mean, our first date was awkward enough, what with him and Ashley. What would we do with him here?”

“Well I thought we were going out for Mediterranean,” Lucy began, her tongue nearly wrinkling in horror at the amount of wasabi now coating Chris’ salmon, “But, hey - what do you mean ‘awkward’?”

She waited while Chris chewed thoughtfully, her mind’s eye providing her with a technicolour highlight reel of enoki pancakes, cyborg bodies and Tim’s cynical smile; salty sea air and tiny grains of sand peppering through the recollection of his fingertips brushing her arm, his cologne wafting across the breeze, his eyes deep and dark beside her in the subtle light of the beach torches.

“Well, they were obviously entirely mismatched,” Chris said, throwing her a look of forbearance. “Ashley is sweet and kind and outgoing - I mean, she’s not that different from you.”

It was Lucy’s turn to snort, feeling her forehead crease sceptically. 

“No, no - let me finish!” Chris laughed, finally looking away from his food and reaching for her hand. “She’s all those nice bits of you, sure. But she’s not tough. And she’s obviously got no tolerance for asshole behaviour. He spent that whole night talking to you. Turned to you. Looking at you.”

Suddenly, the images in her head were taking on a different tone.

The warm orange glow of the flickering flames on their skin. 

The soft velvet brush of Tim’s dinner jacket against her arm. 

His knees bumping hers below the table time and again, and again.

She shook her head vigorously, trying to dispel the sudden rush of heat along her neck, the goosebumps tingling over her arms.

“He must be exhausted trying to keep up his ‘nice guy’ image for her. Maybe one of these days she’ll realise he’s just not-”

“Tim-” Lucy closed her eyes, changing her mind and reaching out a stalling hand towards her boyfriend. “Chris, let’s just drop the Tim stuff for now. Please?”

Chris smiled agreeably, chuckling and topping up her wine glass.

Cheap wine, good sushi and the companionship of a charming man.

What more could she want?

***

“Mr Sanford. Detective Harper is all set up for you in the conference room.” Grey turned slightly, gesturing to the corridor behind him.

Noah laughed, the sound at odds with the seriousness of Chris Sanford’s face.

“They make Sergeants work as greeters in Mid-Wilshire too? Sheesh, this place is tough!”

The only thing saving Noah from a severe Sergeant-Grey-Disapproving-Frown was his cheeky grin, and Lucy averted her eyes as he murmured a goodbye in her ear, squeezing her arm and wisely removing himself from the situation, promising to meet up with her later for lunch.

Grey, usually so composed and unruffled, seemed to Lucy to have a glint of mischief in his eyes as he looked between her, the departing detective and the arriving attorney.

“You’re up to date on the entire Elijah escapade, I take it?” Grey asked Chris, his arms still folded and his posture relaxed and at ease. There was no way he wasn’t enjoying her obvious agitation at the sudden influx of attentive men.

“Of course,” Chris replied, loosely shaking his briefcase. “Can’t wait to put him away for a couple of centuries, at the very least.”

Grey smirked, nodding approvingly. “You and me both.”

He didn’t leave, but Grey moved away, looking out through the glass doors as if waiting for someone. Lucy half wished he’d stayed beside her.

An awkward silence descended in his absence.

“So…” Chris was addressing her, scuffing one foot anxiously on the floor, his eyes darting between hers and anywhere else in the lobby. “It’s been a while.”

She coughed out a laugh. Given their jobs, it was unlikely they’d never run into one another again. If he’d just stayed for five more minutes at her apartment that night, this would have been dealt with already. 

Well. She might as well get it over with.

“Yeah.” She knew she was picking at her own nails, and she made a conscious effort to stop, grabbing her duty belt tightly instead. “Um, how are you?”

Chris paused, staring at her incredulously.

She bit her lip, feeling the mild sting of guilt roll up along her shoulders.

“I’m… I’m shit, Lucy.” He glared at her, his mouth falling open on his last words. “I feel like shit. I thought we were tight. I thought things were good, thought we were ready for the next step. And then you dump me? Ask me for my ‘playbook’? What the hell sort of bitchy, high school, mean girl move was that?”

Lucy was feeling at least three different shades of guilty - the mildest one being that of dumping a guy she wasn’t fully invested in. Another was certainly more of the high school variety - her? Lucy Chen? A bitch?! Never! Everybody adored her!

The third was one she’d grown accustomed to: the guilt of being in a relationship with one person, whilst clearly head-over-heels for another. This was a feeling so familiar to Lucy, she’d only noticed its absence once she and Tim had finally made their status openly official. Every time she grabbed his arm in the station now felt natural and right; every time she held his hand in front of their friends felt like she’d landed safely where she belonged; every time she cuddled in to him, kissed the edge of his jaw while they watched old movies on the couch with Tamara and Kojo, she felt like she was home. Home and safe and loved. Exactly where she was supposed to be.

Not that it was any surprise, but Chris obviously didn’t share the same internal ideation as Lucy.

“And now - what? You’re hooking up with the first out-of-town, greasy-ass detective that shows an interest in you? I thought you had higher standards than that.”

Suddenly, Lucy found she didn’t care how ‘high-school’ Chris found her moves to be.

“Excuse me?!” The disbelief in her voice raised the end of the question to a higher pitch than she’d have liked.

“Oh come on.” Chris waved his hand towards the corridor where Noah had disappeared just moments ago. “As if I couldn’t see that guy fawning all over you. What? Just because he wears a hoodie with a leather jacket, it makes him catnip?”

Lucy was caught somewhere between confusion and hilarity.

“Are you seriously gatekeeping who I talk to right now?”

“Well maybe if I had paid better attention when we were together this wouldn’t be happening!”

“Ugh, Chris…”

“No. Lucy, seriously.” Chris stepped closer to her. “What is this? What’s happening right now?”

“Chris-” She took a step back, raising her hands to keep the distance between them. “It’s not whatever you think it is.”

“Then what?” The pleading look on his face was genuine; puppy-dog eyes, beseeching eyebrows and all. “What? You needed danger? A serial killer tried to murder me! You need a do-gooder hero? I’m all ears! Tell me who to save, when to let them off the hook - I’ll listen. You want to put the bad guys away for life? That’s literally my job!”

“Chris, come on. Stop being ridiculous.” He was unnerving her now, too close and too needy, and nothing like the genuinely nice man she used to date. Her mouth took control of the situation before she had a chance to process the thought. “I never felt the way about you that you wanted me to. I wasn’t in love with you.”

The silence fell heavily between them, Chris’ face drooping in disappointment. Lucy was suddenly very aware that her boss was still standing well within earshot, Grey shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other as the doors slid smoothly open in front of him for a third time. 

“Lucy?”

There was no fucking way this day was happening to her.

***

“Tim is just…what?”

Sleep was still clinging to the edge of his words, a yawn overtaking the end of the question as he rolled away from her and stretched his arms over his head.

“Tim is just about to wake up, obviously,” she answered, shuffling onto her side and sliding her hand across his chest as he uncurled from the foetal position. 

There were many revelations that came with having Tim Bradford in one’s bed, but one of the most surprising to her was how small he made himself in sleep; feet tucked up under her legs, head snuggled into her shoulder, one or both hands wrapped tightly around her chest or arms. He didn’t seem to notice, and she had no intention of bringing it up, but it still made her heart flutter fiercely when she woke before him and found him knit tightly and securely into her side.

“Who are you talking to?” he asked, still yawning widely, his hand finding hers and lacing their fingers together on his stomach.

“Only the best boy in the whole world.”

From his bed on the floor beside her, Kojo snuffed out a low ‘woof’, clearly recognising the words that applied to him, and him only.

Tim snorted, nuzzling his nose into her forehead.

It was one of their rare weekends off together, and with no alarms or deadlines, they’d (eventually) fallen into deep sleep, waking only once the sun rose high and bright above the buildings opposite, flooding their bedroom with warm, golden light.

As much as she loved their vibrant city, Lucy couldn’t think of any more perfect way to start the day.

“Are you happy?”

At first she thought he’d fallen asleep again, murmuring nonsense into her temple. She pulled back to look up at him properly only to see his eyes, still languid, but very much awake and focused on her.

She blinked and shook her head, almost laughing.

“Why are you asking me that?”

It had the sound of a Tim Test, but not the feeling, and she wanted to decipher him a bit more before she inadvertently agreed to a weekend of jogging, or something equally as unappetising.

With his answer, he took her by surprise again.

“Because I’m happy.”

She and Tim had been thrust together in Mid-Wilshire, and she’d never been fully sure of Grey’s reasoning. Pairing Tim with Jackson would, on paper, have made far more sense, and probably would have been exactly what Percy West would have wanted. Grey wasn’t a rule breaker; never went out of his way to upset anyone’s applecart; so he must have had his reasons.

Whatever they were, it had either worked out - or backfired - spectacularly, and they remained the only Rookie/TO pairing that had ever completed their entire probation together since she’d arrived at Mid-Wilshire. Grey (probably) hadn’t expected their partnership to develop in quite the way that it had, but beyond a raised eyebrow or a knowing smirk, he never commented.

As far as she was concerned, she’d never seen Tim as a ‘project’. He’d started as a necessary pain-in-the-ass, developing, slowly, into someone she could rely on, could learn from; someone she could repay with the same opportunities he provided for her. Eventually, he became part of the furniture of her day; safe and comfortable and inviting, in his own way. Jackson and Nolan had never quite understood her, but she hadn’t needed to explain herself to them. Tim was just Tim. 

She never admitted to anyone that she’d been half-terrified going out into the world without him on her first proper day as P2. She’d bumped his number up on her speed-dial list, ensuring the phone’s voice-command would recognise her words and call him if she had to yell. It had all worked out fine, and, in retrospect, she was glad she’d had that extra time with Jackson. But it hadn’t stopped her secretly missing Tim’s gruff commands, the snarky roll of his eyes, or the days he’d quietly buy her lunch and walk away and leave her if she insulted him with payment.

In all that time he’d been rude, or tolerant; biting, or thoughtful; angry and miserable, or accepting and good-humoured. It had taken him time to show her all the facets of his personality, and she was still one of the rare few who ever got to see that much.

But to see him happy?

To see him happy, and to know he was happy?

To have him admit that he was happy?

Voluntarily?

This man was still full of surprises.

She surged up into him, kissing him hard and firm and fierce. She’d let go of his hand and her fingers combed through his hair, trying to pull his head as close to her as she could, stroking through the short hairs and along the warm skin of his neck.

He didn’t seem to mind her sudden attack, looping his arms tightly around her waist and drawing her in to him, one leg wrapping around the back of her knees, his fingers slipping cool and certain under her t-shirt and along her ribs.

She’d have been happy to keep going, but his stomach rumbled and he eventually pulled back, eyes closed and lips smiling, his nose and forehead pressed softly against her own.

“I’m very happy.” The words were nearly more a feeling, flowing from her mouth into his across the short space between them. “Very.”

He opened his eyes then, his pupils blurring before her, until he moved back and, still smiling, dropped a kiss onto her nose.

“Good.”

Kojo grumbled again, assuming he was still being spoken to, and Tim snorted, rolling away from her and throwing back the covers. Lucy groaned.

“Where are you going?” She couldn’t help that it sounded petulant, and she buried herself further under the blankets to add weight to her protest.

Tim’s voice was muffled as he pulled yesterday’s white t-shirt over his head.

“I’m hungry.”

“Ugh.” Lucy kicked her legs indignantly under the covers. “Kojo? Do you want to come up into this warm, cosy, comfortable bed with me instead?”

She heard the dog hop upright, his nails ticking along the floor as he scrambled out of his bed and around the room to the foot of hers.

“Kojo. Sit.” Tim’s voice was no-nonsense, and Kojo immediately complied, his tail thumping happily against the bedpost as he obligingly switched allegiances. “Only good boys who stay off the furniture get bacon and eggs.”

“You are literally - No. Fun.” Lucy complained, shuffling herself up against the headboard.

Tim threw her look as he opened the door, eyebrows raised, sly and suggestive. “I’m going to feed the dog. And the teenager.”

“The teenager is already fed!” Tamara’s voice sailed through the open door, tinged with long-suffering tolerance. Kojo abandoned Lucy’s bed, happily scampering out through the door to Tamara, closely followed by Tim.

Lucy pounded her fists into the comforter, watching the three of them gather outside around the kitchen island.

“Is everybody just gonna leave me this morning?”

“YES!” Tim and Tamara yelled together, Kojo adding a sharp bark to the cacophony.

Lucy grinned, throwing back the covers and clambering out of the bed.

There was nothing else she needed.

There was nowhere and no-one she’d rather be with.

She was exactly where she was supposed to be.

***

“Sergeant Bradford, I’ve been waiting over thirty minutes for you.” Grey admonished, pointedly checking his watch.

Tim threw his hands up, gesturing behind him to the departing armoured SWAT van. 

“Do you know how hard it is to manoeuvre a tank through rush-hour traffic?” He checked his own watch, making a face when he saw the time. “The last guy would never have made it to you this fast.”

“There was no ‘last guy’,” Grey replied, his eyes darting almost imperceptibly to Lucy. “Lieutenant Pine seems to have invented this post just for you.”

Tim cocked his head, refusing to take the bait, his eyes narrowing as he realised that Lucy had company. “You okay?”

“Bradford!”

Lucy didn’t have time to reply, interrupted by Noah’s enthusiastic greeting as he saluted Tim, followed closely by Lopez, her eyes sharp and curious. Tim nodded politely at Noah, taking a step closer to Lucy.

“Foster. What brings you down from Victorville?”

“That would be me,” Angela said, crossing her arms and looking at Lucy. “Noah can’t remember the licence plate of your truck.”

“I don’t have a truck,” Lucy answered, shaking her head, utterly disconcerted by the change of conversation.

“That’s what I told him.”

Noah rolled his eyes at Angela, holding out his palms to Lucy.

“The truck you came in to the club the other night.”

The pieces clicked into place, but Tim spoke before she could say anything.

“That was my truck.”

“Ah,” Noah grinned mischievously at her. “I should have realised that.”

“Wait, wait…” Chris’ voice startled Lucy, having almost forgotten that he was still standing beside her. He was blinking furiously, shaking his head in confusion. “What is going on here?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.” Nyla arrived on the scene, her words laced with irritation. “I’ve been waiting fifteen minutes in the conference room for you, attorney.” She fixed Chris with a glare that would have withered mould, coming to a stop beside Angela and unconsciously mirroring the same disgruntled stance.

“That’s my cue to leave,” Noah made a wry face at Lucy, tapping her elbow once. “Hey, Bradford! You joining us for lunch?”

Tim raised his eyebrows, which Noah seemed to take for answer, tossing another grin over his shoulder as Angela shunted him back down the corridor before her. 

“I thought we were taking Tamara for lunch at that college welcome afternoon thing?” Tim sidled up to Lucy, slipping his hand into the crook of her elbow. She frowned at him, shaking her head.

“That’s next week, you know that!”

“Oh,” he said, shrugging lightly. “Must have got my days confused.”

“Bradford! My office. Ten minutes!” Grey shot them an exasperated look, throwing his hands in the air and stalking off through the lobby.

“You, with me. Now!” Nyla was just as frustrated, shoving Chris on the shoulder and giving Tim a knowing glare. Chris stumbled once, his eyes flicking between Lucy, Tim, and Tim’s hand, now moving from Lucy’s elbow to the small of her back, turning her gently away from the others and towards himself. She heard Nyla repeat her order, and the shuffle of shoes on vinyl as she herded her charge off to the conference room.

“You ass.” Lucy pulled her hands out of Tim’s grip, slapping him gently in the chest. “You did that on purpose.”

His smile turned into a grin, and he bent down to her, dropping a quick kiss on the side of her lips.

“Did what?” His face radiated innocence, but the bright twinkle in his eye gave him away.

She glared at him, but there was no heat in it.

“Okay fine,” he admitted. “It’s been a long morning, I couldn’t help it.”

She squared her shoulders primly. “Thank you for your honesty.”

He chuckled once, stepping closer to her and wrapping his fingers into her hands. His face became serious.

“Since I’m being honest, I might as well tell you… I also lied to you.”

She felt her heart drop, the blood draining rapidly from her face.

“You…” She paused to swallow, tightening her grip on his fingers. “Okay. About what?”

Tim smiled sheepishly, tilting his head to one side.

“I am jealous. A little. Of Foster.”

Her heart thumped once, painfully, and she felt relief flood through her with a rush, coming out in a breathless laugh.

“Tim…”

“He got to spend all that time with you in Sacramento, and I didn’t. All that time without seeing you, without talking to you? Do you realise that’s the longest I’ve ever gone without hearing your voice since the day I first met you?” The question was gruff, but she knew him well enough to read the emotion behind it.

“I thought you’d have enjoyed the peace and quiet,” she quipped, giving him an out.

Tim shook his head, his eyes focused on her. He wasn’t taking it.

“It’s my own fault that I missed out.” There was an unfamiliar, wistful smile on his face, and she tugged on his hands, pulling him down to her level.

“There’s nothing to be jealous of. You and I - we were inevitable. We’re exactly where we’re supposed to be.”

And without thinking, workplace be damned, she kissed him.

“Bradford!”

Grey’s voice ricocheted around the glass walls of the lobby, and Tim pulled back from her with a grin.

“See you at lunchtime?”

She nodded happily, her forehead still pressed against his.

“BRADFORD!”

“Wuh-oh.”

#chenford #chenford fic #my fic #ask box fic #maybe sort of a cheaty ask box fic #coz i combined the asks

[captshipper]

For your word prompt- Blanket

thank you! this is basically post-coital cuddling tbh

Tony thinks he's lovely, all tired and sweet, curled under the blankets with him. They probably should take a shower, he thinks, sweaty and stinking of sex. But it's so soft and warm down here, there's safety in this cacoon where only Peter and Tony are allowed to be. It's almost a funny contrast, the way Peter holds onto his arm as if he wasn't trying to make Tony feel him for the next week. It's a beuatiful thing, he can't get enough of it. So Tony snuggles closer, letting Peter's presence make him feel loved, cherished. Safe and sound.

#tinywolf309 #starker #starker blog #starker fanfiction #fluff #starker fluff #ooc is my standard don't mind me #starker drabble #ask box fic

[myckicade]

Thank you thank you! I don't have anything specific just something in Jackson? Female reader and a slow burn if you can!

Good morning!

I mulled this over for a good deal of the night. Then, I set to writing. It will be a day or so before I can post the first installment (Tumblr only), but it's... Well. It's already a pretty healthy 4,500+ words. I would like to thank you, in a very sincere fashion, for sparking inspiration that saw me through a night of insomnia.

That said, if anyone would like to be added to the taglist, please comment here. I will be happy to add you when it is posted.

----------

Title: Barter

Summary: It's been a number of years since you first made your home in Jackson. Your house is a cozy little two-story, with beautiful flowers, an herb garden, and a small flock of ducks roaming the yard. The old barn-turned-garage beside the house serves as your veterinary clinic. You do your part around the settlement, helping, providing, and carving out a little bit of peace in a world determined to provide none.

When Ellie stops by your place, visibly distressed that her horse has gone off her food, you don't hesitate to get out to the stables. There, you encounter Joel, who offers to help with maintenance to your clinic, in exchange for your help with his daughter's horse. You aren't terribly concerned with the repayment, not when there is an ailing creature to tend to, but you strike the deal to ease Joel's mind.

As a woman who has been repaid in a variety of forms - vegetables, eggs, clothing - a trade of services really isn't all that bad. Joel is a nice enough guy, helpful and respectful, and he does good work. Over time, one trade leads to another, and another, leaving you in each other's company more often than you'd originally bargained for. There's nothing between you, beyond a growing friendship. He's a handsome man, and a fine catch, but more hasn't really crossed your mind. But small towns talk, even the good ones, and talk could easily change everything.

Coming Soon.

#I haven't written anything like this in two years #Let's see if I still have That Touch #Anon Ask #Anon Fiction #Ask Box Fic #The Last of Us #TLoU #Fanfiction #Joel Miller x Reader #Joel Miller x You #Joel x Reader #Joel x You #Joel Miller #Ellie Williams #Reader Based Fic #TLoU Barter Fic #TLoUBarterFic

[maisonbelligavi]

Them being domestic and cute

Okay, how about them taking a hot bath together? It feels nice and relaxing after their respective grueling schedules. Gavi is leaning back against Jude's chest as the older boy occasionally kisses his neck, his ear, and one side of his face.

There's nowhere else Gavi would rather be than in the arms that were holding him so close. There's a feeling of safety and comfort and it's completely new. Gavi welcomes it all the same.

After their bath, Jude rummages in his closet, looking for clothes that Gavi could wear.

"You know, I brought my own clothes right?" Gavi says this with a smile, backing Jude up against the open closet and wrapping his arms around his boyfriend's waist.

"You always look better in mine," Jude says, kissing the tip of his nose, "don't bother trying to deny it."

"Just give me a hoodie already." Gavi rolls his eyes, brat that he is.

Once Gavi has put on the hoodie and a pair of sweatpants, he clings to Jude as they vacate the bedroom. He continues to be clingy even when they make it to the couch. He throws one leg over Jude's lap and rests his head on the older boy's shoulder.

"You're aware we can't play FIFA with you clinging to me like this?" Jude poses the question, but then he goes ahead and pulls Gavi even closer to his body.

Something sweet unfolds within Gavi and he doesn't bother with a verbal response. He simply climbs into Jude's lap and starts kissing him. For several minutes, they trade lazy kisses just like that, an unhurried make-out session that isn't a prelude to anything else.

Gavi pulls back after a while, grinning at him. "Isn't this better than FIFI, hmm?"

"Hundred percent, yes, I'd have to agree," Jude replies, nodding, a beautiful smile adorning his face.

When their take-out arrives, Gavi is forced to get off Jude's lap. He isn't particularly happy about it. But Jude makes sure he doesn't sulk too much by keeping him close to his body.

There's a movie playing on Netflix but they barely pay the TV any mind. They dig into their food, groaning at how delicious it is, and occasionally feeding each other.

Once they are done eating, they settle back on the couch, this time with Jude's head resting on Gavi's lap. Gavi's fingers kept running through the short hair, scratching at his scalp; his actions elicited these soft sighs from Jude.

"So no FIFI then, I take it?" Gavi prods, tone teasing, knowing his boyfriend would be hard-pressed to move from his current position.

"Let's just watch the bloody rom-com, Gavira," Jude said.

"Deal," Gavi says with an airy laugh, right before he drops a kiss on Jude's forehead.

#jude bellingham #pablo gavi #belligavi #jude x gavi #football fics #fluff #ask box fic #tumblr drabbles

[quietlyimplode]

clintasha! (also love your stuff sm! 💜)

“You're sleeping in my bed

But you always have to go home

Can't keep up this cycle

Felt this way since high school

If I don't say goodnight

I won't have to say goodbye when I wake up” -psycho by the wldlfe

💜💜💜 thank you my friend. These ones all waited until my brain came back to writing. I fair enjoyed the imagery of this one. I hope that it hits.

Keys

Like a stray cat she comes.

Before missions, after missions, she appears in his apartment. He doesn’t know how she gets in, she doesn’t make it known when she leaves.

He thinks she finds it safe in grey walls and worn out couch, because more than once he’s found her asleep after a long mission in his bed.

She’d woken straight away as he’d walked in the door, and initially he’d only suspected - but the red hair on his pillow and the light rose smell in his sheets had given her away.

He didn’t say anything.

She never stays anyway.

Natasha calls herself Liho with derision and his heart sinks that she thinks that of herself, he doesn’t disagree but starts to call himself the baba yaga, and tells her they’re both mythical bogeymen.

She smiles at that and closes her eyes in tiredness.

She uses his shower, initially it’s only if she’s over. If she’s come after a mission.

Then it becomes before missions.

Sometimes it’s to get ready.

It’s a slow move.

Clint feels that she’s moving herself in.

So he gives her a key.

It’s left on the bench and he tries not to take it as a rejection.

Even though it’s stupid because it’s not like they’re even dating.

The whole of Shield thinks they are.

Natasha doesn’t come over for days.

It’s likely he’s disrupted their delicate dance.

It’s raining when she does come back, a box in hand, and a solemn look.

“Do you like cats?” she asks.

He shrugs.

He likes all animals.

“Take care of her?”

She hands over the box, and he feels the weight, it’s not heavy but it’s heavy with importance.

There’s a small black cat inside.

“It’s a cat,” he says dumbly.

“Liho,” she gestures and backs out the door.

Clint learns it’s not about him.

She’s on a long haul mission, but didn’t say anything to him. Didn’t say goodbye, and in hindsight, he realises she never does.

But she’s done something more, she’s left a part of her here, in promise that she’ll come back.

That’s the way he chooses to look at it anyway.

He likes the cat, feeds her, sits with her, plays with her when his power goes out. He calls her Natasha and Liho interchangeably and laughs when she comes to Natasha’s name.

It’s not long before she’s back.

He sees the tell tale signs before he sees her.

The shower is used.

There’s a lump in his bed, and Liho sits on it.

“Nat?” he calls, not wanting to scare her.

Liho moves as the lump does.

She sits up and looks to him, looking a little worse for wear.

His heart soars at seeing her.

His home, she’s home.

Clint waves her back to sleep, and to his surprise she goes.

He opts go sleep on the couch, and when he wakes she’s gone.

But then again, so is the key.

.

#lyrics ask game #clintasha #clintasha fic #Natasha Romanoff fic #Clint barton fic #natasha romanoff #clint barton #black widow #my fic #ask box games #ask box fic

[standbyyourmantis]

can I get some dorym cuddles?

Hell yes you can get some Dorym cuddles! How do you feel about pre-C3/post-Zephrah sleepy Orym and pining Dorian who is convinced that his feelings are unrequited?

I had to look through my list of favorite tropes and picked a few out, so prepare for "bridal carry," and "putting a blanket on a sleeping person," with just a dose of angst to heighten the sweet.

x

It had been a hard day. They'd left Zephrah a few days ago en route to Stilben to pick up an airship to Marquet and while Dorian was used to long days of travel in general, today they'd been waylaid by some woefully unprepared bandits. The good news was that the bandits had been prepared for a merchant party and not three experienced adventurer's. The bad news was that there had been five bandits to the three of them (plus Mister).

Orym, as always, had been out front trying to keep attention on himself and off of Dorian and Fearne while both casters kept slinging spells and tried to stay out of trouble. They had downed two of the bandits when one of the melee fighters got a good blow in on Orym and knocked him out cold. Dorian had frozen and nearly taken an arrow to the shoulder for his distraction as he tried to get a healing word off to bring Orym back. Fearne, blessedly, had just muttered okay well that's rude and then morphed into a dire wolf, chasing off the remaining three bandits. This left Dorian free to rush to Orym's side and dump whatever healing he had left into the halfling.

Fearne had returned about half an hour later and hadn't offered any explanation about where she'd been or what happened to the other bandits, and Dorian wasn't sure he wanted to know particularly. But with a quick Cure Wounds off of her, they'd all been in good enough shape to make it to the nearest town before sunset and had located a tavern they could afford and that would allow Dorian to play for tips while Fearne socialized (and picked some pockets) while Orym rested.

The halfling was still exhausted from being wounded (healing magic was an odd thing in Dorian's experience, it healed the body but did nothing to combat the rush of hormones and subsequent crash that came with your insides becoming your outsides however briefly), but he'd still curled up in a booth with a tankard of ale to 'keep an eye' on Fearne. His self-imposed watch didn't last long, though. As Dorian played throughout the night he had noticed Orym's attention split more and more between Fearne and himself, and Orym's eyes dropping heavier and heavier. It probably wasn't even ten yet when he finally looked over to see Orym lying down in the booth with his head buried in his arms.

It was sweet to see, Orym so rarely let anyone see him vulnerable that he must have been exhausted. Even though Dorian was still making decent tips, he also couldn't bear the thought of leaving Orym to nap in a taproom after everything that had happened that day, and they didn't technically need anymore money tonight. They had supplies enough for Stillben and money for the airship provided, so he let the playing peter off slowly, signalling he was finishing up for the evening until he was able to pack his flute up and return to the booth to rouse Orym.

"Orym?" Dorian whispered just louder than the ambient noise of the bar, placing his hand on Orym's shoulder gently. He didn't want to startle his friend, and Orym'd had a hard enough day.

Orym's only response was a tired sounding grumble before burying his head further into his arms. It was so painfully endearing that Dorian quickly gave up all thought of waking him. He already knew he had a particular weakness for Orym, he really shouldn't even bother trying to fight it.

There was only one solution Dorian could think of that would allow him to move Orym while also letting Orym sleep off whatever exhaustion he still felt from the rest of the day. It took some maneuvering of the table, but he was able to scoop Orym up in his arms bridal style easily enough. Even as strong as he was, Orym was quite literally half Dorian's size and if he weighed much more than 50 pounds Dorian would be surprised. He quickly caught Fearne's eye where she sat at the bar fussing over a tiefling woman's horn adornments and nodded down to the man in his arms and then towards the stairs and she nodded in acknowledgement before returning to her conversation.

Dorian was relieved that Orym had taken his armor off before joining them in the taproom. For one thing, it was filthy and soaked in Orym's blood and not at all appropriate for mixed company. But also, it made the process of getting Orym into bed so much easier if all he had to do is get the halfling on the bed and remove his boots. It took Dorian a few seconds to decide how to arrange Orym on the bed so that he wouldn't have to move him again to tuck him in. Eventually he just ended up using the last of his spells to cast Mage Hand to move the coverlet for him.

"You know, you're lucky you're so small," he muttered to the sleeping halfling as he got him settled. "I never could have done this for Dariax. He'd have just had to sleep it off downstairs."

Orym, predictably, did not respond.

After getting Orym positioned in the center of the bed and getting his boots off, Dorian pulled the blanket back over his sleeping friend.

It was so easy sometimes to forget how small Orym was, especially when he was forcing himself between Dorian and whatever enemy had threatened him.

"My little hero," Dorian said to himself because nobody else could hear him right now and he was free to indulge openly in his affection for Orym just for a little while – just a few more moments, there were no complications right now when Orym didn't know Dorian was even talking to him.

Dorian smoothed some of Orym's hair back even though it didn't really need it, enjoying the feel of soft hair under his fingers. He could tell himself he was cleaning out some of the road dust, it would be okay.

At length, Dorian stood up and dusted himself off. He had played the doting lover for long enough, and it wasn't something he should allow himself to get accustomed to. Orym had a duty and a purpose, and Dorian knew he couldn't be the one to get in the way of that. He turned towards the door, fully intending to go back downstairs and keep Fearne out of trouble or get a drink himself, but a sound from the bed stopped him in his tracks.

"C'm back t'bed." It was Orym, and he did not sound even slightly awake. Dorian turned to see the halfling where he'd rolled over towards the spot where Dorian had been and had his arm stretched over the warm spot where Dorian had been sitting.

The image of it broke Dorian's heart just a little. He – he didn't know everything. But he knew enough. He'd been to Zephrah, he'd seen Orym's home which was sized too large for a lone halfling, he'd sat in furniture that was far more comfortable for him than it was for either Fearne or Orym, he'd seen the pitying looks people gave Orym when they went out and heard the way they asked questions like how are you holding up? Dorian knew. Orym had lost someone, and there had been a few nights when he thought his friend had been on the verge of telling him and Fearne the whole story, but right now it was an open secret between the three of them with none acknowledging that the others knew.

And that was okay! They were friends – they were just friends – and Dorian's little crush meant nothing in the grander scheme of what Orym had to do. It was fine, really. But.

But what was Dorian to do when his friend in his sleeping state mistook the genasi for a different man and invited him into bed?

Of course, Dorian wasn't going to read too much into that part – they'd slept together in the very literal sense before. Either in a pile with the other Crown Keepers or snuggled around Fearne for warmth or even just waking up next to each other after a night that had turned colder than either had anticipated. Needs must, and even Dorian couldn't read too much into cuddling for survival. This was different, though. This was him and Orym in a bed by themselves. This was him making the conscious choice to climb into bed with a sleeping friend who probably just mistook Dorian for a dead man.

"Orym," Dorian whispered. "It's just me. It's Dorian."

"C'm t'bed," Orym repeated and Dorian's heart skipped a beat. He couldn't deny him this. He probably should, but if Orym had forgotten his own pain for the night…

Dorian was weak, that's all there was to it. He couldn't say no to Orym, he never had been able to. He quickly stripped off his coat and shirt, folding them loosely and tossing them onto his pack. They'd wrinkle, but he'd deal with that tomorrow. He didn't want to lose his nerve or overthink, but he also didn't want to push his boundaries with his friend. He pressed himself all the way to the edge of the bed, hoping to himself that would be enough to keep Orym happy without causing any other issues.

Orym, unfortunately, had other ideas. The halfling sought out heat like it was his job, immediately snuggling into Dorian's side and burying his face in Dorian's shoulder. Dorian was going to die, that's all there was to it. He would evaporate under a snuggly halfling and nobody would ever see him again. Not only was this emotionally awkward, it was also physically just not a comfortable position to have Orym wrapped around his right arm and honestly it couldn't be super comfortable for the halfling either (although you'd never have known from the way he was continuing to attempt to burrow into Dorian's space).

Tentatively so as not to wake his friend (just friends Dorian reminded himself), Dorian pried his arm free from Orym and wrapped it around his slight frame. Orym immediately settled once Dorian had his arm around him, his head resting on Dorian's chest now and hopefully not in any danger of being woken up by the frantic beating of Dorian's poor heart.

When he'd thought he would indulge himself in some friendly hair touching, he absolutely hadn't been prepared for it to escalate to this point. He certainly wasn't prepared to be a nighttime avatar of a dead lover. If he was extremely lucky he'd be devoured by the bed tonight and not have to face any of this in the morning.

"D'rian," Orym's sleepy voice interrupted his frantic thoughts, his name muffled by Orym's face being pressed half into Dorian's chest. "Y'r thinking too loud…go t' sleep."

Oh.

Oh.

#dorym #dorym fic #dorian storm #orym #dorian storm/orym #ask box fic #mantis writes #dorymfalcoons #i probably could have given it a couple hours to percolate #or done more than one re-read #but we live dangerously around here

[ladderofyears]

Hello!! I have a prompt for a sentence!

"Game"

(No pressure!)

“This better not be another Slytherin game,” Harry said, daring Draco to back down.

Thank you lovely @phoebe-delia

#drarry fic #one sentence story #ask box fic #harry x draco

[3pirouette]

A 398 word Ask-Box fix I wrote for @thesokovianaccords during @steggyfanevents’s Secret Santa.

Posted with some minor typo edits

#@thesokovianaccords #ask box fic #And another one that’s just a little late

[spicywhumper]

Whumpees forced to fight to the death for the entertainment of the whumpers

War Dog

tw: blood, violence, it/its pronouns for a person, implied child abuse, death.

I'm doubling it as a bingo fill | whump bingo: muzzled

Joan smiles as she watches the fight below.

She had her trained dog in the fighting ring. The girl - sometimes she forget it is a girl, just a little younger than her own daughter - is taller and stronger than her oponent. It's always quite satisfying to see how it could tower over a grown ass man. It had two good inches on his height, body that was all hard muscles and precision motions. It was a perfect weapon, a well-trained dog that had its leash firmly in Joan's hand.

If she was a pervert, Joan knows she'd use the dog for other forms of entertainment.

But she'd rather see it beating the shit out of men that dared to comment on her obedient puppy.

This one is a little different. The man had tried to summon a sex demon, which is forbidden unless you plan to try and have a hybrid. These, when they survive long enough, can become some of the strongest wizards of the coven. However, this man isn't the kind that can be bred, so all of them knew it was a summoning for fun.

You can't summon a demon just to have your fun with them.

So she decided to have her own sadistic fun with him. Ring fights aren't that uncommon, people have agressiveness and violence running in their veins, they needed a safe place to unleash that so they don't hurt other people. The dog is her champion, if she wants to teach you a lesson, she unleashes it upon you.

The pervert man is put in the middle of the ring, he's wearing only tight boxers, half-humiliation and half so it's obvious if he's the kind that gets aroused by violence like this. He shivers and trembles, bruises covers his body, Joan didn't stop them from hurting the man. All she ordered was for him to still be in shape to put on a fight.

He trembles even more when the Dog enters the ring. Unlike him, its body is fully covered. Heavy combat boots, tac-pants, modified straitjacket and a muzzle. All black, shaved head and empty eyes. Ready to do whatever Joan tells it to do.

The man lunged first, she made sure he'd been told that he had to kill the Dog to have a chance of being freed.

It's a beautiful fight if you ask Joan. The man does have some hand-to-hand combat training, basica and brute, terrible form and all he has is his strength. Her dog, on the other side, has the training and the strength and the grace. It has fluid motions as it ducks punches, blocks kicks, and even let some hits land.

Joan can't help a large smile when the man tries to reach a little too low, too below the waist, and all he gets is a forearm broken in two spot. His nose is squashed by a punch and his left knee explodes under a kick. It's such a good show to watch.

He was told to kill the dog, the Dog was told to kill him. Honestly? This is almost like a predator playing with the prey.

It's almost funny to see the pervert laying on his back, breathing hard and bleeding from his nose and mouth after a few teeth has been knocked out. The Dog looks up at her, Joan simply nods. She can feel the excitement from the man beside her, the guy that found the soon-to-be-dead man trying to fuck a demon.

All of them, in the end of the day, are excitable sadists.

As it was trained, the Dog makes sure it steps onto his crotch, he howls like a pathetic little animal. It falls heavily in one knee, the howls of pain is squeezed out of him as the Dog's weight takes away his breath. She knows her puppy is heavier than it seems, even when you know that all you can see is muscles and power. It stays just like that for a few seconds, watching as the man struggles to breath and make pain sounds at the same time.

Then it shifts so its straddling his waist. The man tried to push it off of him, but the Dog is better than this and grabs his wrists, pinning above his head with one hand. Not everyone knows who's behind the muzzle, who's the human persona of her War Dog, but when they look this close, they can see that there's a human buried somewhere there.

It makes everything worse and Joan loves it.

The man begs, pleads. Please and don't and other gasped words that mean nothing to the killed on top of him. Each punch is calculated, hard and precise. The Dog doesn't break eye contact, just like it was trained to do. Not stopping when his face turns into something beyond recognition, not stopping until the man isn't moving nor breathing.

It gets up, left hand dripping blood. Joan thinks some of this blood belongs to the Dog, she doesn't care. All she care is how her puppy is obedient and didn't even hesitate at killing the man it was told to kill.

The Dog looks up at her again. There's a bruise on its left temple, the punch that landed was hard enough that her left eyes was bloodshot and there was a little cut on her temple. Other than that, and the blood-covered hand, there's no hint of violence on her. Just the compliant empty-eyed soldier Joan has been training for years. Joan nods, the Dog turns and leaves the ring throught the same entrance it entered in the first place.

Joan can't help being proud of what she has accomplished with this project.

#ask box fic #whump #whump community #whump blog #lady whump #sort of the Dog is a whumpee after all #it/its pronouns tw #blood tw #violence tw #whumper's POV

[silverskull]

Chenford + Lucy is jealous of Ashley

(this took me a looong time, nonnie. i stuggle to see Lucy as the jealous type, so it may be a little different to your expectations. AND if you're the same anon who just dropped a compliment/ask for this same prompt in my box - I hope this gives you some satisfaction too!)

“I’m jealous of Ashley.”

Tim pulled back, a double-take, Lucy’s hair still catching on the stubble of his cheeks.

“I’m sorry… what?”

She snorted into his chest, slapping her hand against the comforter where it lay over his ribs. 

It was a quiet morning in, Tamara away doing a two-night sitter stint and, for once, no appointments or plans or reservations for them to hurry to after breakfast. 

Breakfast, so far, had been “breakfast” in bed - and he was sated and snug enough to not yet care about the nutritional component of the venture. Lucy’s warm weight across his torso, the scent of her hair and her skin just below his nose, her fingers trailing idly around his ear and down along his jaw; this was all he needed right now.

Which is why the mention of his callous ex threw such a sudden damper on the sunlit serenity of his mellow morning.

“I… I don’t have any further questions, so I repeat: what?”

Lucy giggled - he knew she had him right where she wanted him when she giggled like that - and shuffled up out of the tangle of blankets, using his chest to steady herself against the pull of the comforter. All she wore was a light kimono, and it stirred open as she moved, drawing his attention (and his fingers) to the soft skin of her abdomen, her ribs, her breast…

“Hey! I’m talking to you!”

She acted frustrated, pulling his hand away from her skin, but she linked it with hers instead, smiling and dropping a quick kiss on the back of his knuckles before tucking it securely into her lap.

“I was distracted.” No point in arguing about it.

“I could see that,” she smirked, squeezing his fingers. “Are you ready to listen now?”

“Yes, yes,” he sighed, shifting himself upright against the headboard, “Jealous of Ashley. For some reason.”

“A very valid reason!” Lucy countered, shuffling her knees closer to him. “I don’t necessarily want to dwell on it, but all the time you two were together, you spent a lot of time at your house. Where your stuff is. You know, your clothes and your bed…”

He raised an amused eyebrow as she trailed off, glancing quickly at the overstuffed dresser against one wall of her room. There were two entire drawers in it already full of his belongings, not to mention the smallest shelf in the bathroom, which Tamara had grudgingly relinquished to him (after he agreed to let her use his truck to help a friend move house. Twice.)

“We can go to my house,” he offered, “But you know you’re closer to the station. And to better take outs. And you’ve got access to all those streaming platforms - how did you acquire all those passwords again?”

He was grinning at her, a small blush creeping up her cheeks as she swatted his searching hands away from tickling her ribs.

“That’s not the point!” she argued, grabbing both of his hands this time, linking them around her back, and distracting him by running her own fingers slowly down his chest. He knew she was trying to distract him, and he was happy to let her do so, a little buzz of electricity sparking in the wake of each stroke. 

“The point is she spent enough time at your house, to decide to call me, to figure out how to cope with our dog.”

“‘Our’ dog?!” he repeated, incredulous.

“Yes, our dog.” Her fingers ceased mapping his chest and she rested her hands lightly on his stomach. She was smiling, but her eyes were big and serious. “I mean… I’m not trying to claim him back or anything. You took him in, fair and square, and if you hadn’t-”

“Our dog,” Tim said with finality, leaning over to kiss her, “Of course he’s our dog. He’s never been anything else.”

He could feel her lips wobble underneath his for a second, and he held a hand against her jaw, pulling back to look at her properly. Her eyes were clear, but bright in that way that told him she was working something over, going through his affirmation, feeling every ounce of emotion behind his words.

“‘Our dog’…” she breathed, a smile wavering on the corners of her lips for a second, before bursting out bright and beaming, and she tossed herself into his arms and across his lap, knocking the air out of his lungs, and sending little fireworks of happiness along his skin.

They sat in relaxed silence for a few minutes longer, Lucy’s head tucked under his chin, lightly tracing abstract patterns in the fair hair on his chest, while Tim considered taking another nap, his eyelids heavy, and the warmth and weight of her in his lap making him comfortable and cosy in their bed.

“Well, anyway,” Lucy murmured after a while, and he blinked his eyes awake, tipping his head sideways on the headboard so he could see her. “That’s why I’m jealous.” “Because of Kojo?”

“Yeah. I miss him.” She turned to look up at him, and although she knew exactly what she was doing, he found he had no defences left against her puppy-dog eyes. “I’m jealous of Ashley, and I’m jealous of Genny, and I’m jealous of your nephews - basically I’m jealous of everyone who gets to spend more time with Kojo than I do.”

“You want me to move out and give him my drawers here?” Tim asked with a smirk - just to annoy her.

“No!” she retaliated, grinning and slapping him on the shoulder, “Dummy! I want you both. Together. My two best boys.”

And when she tucked her head back into his neck, snuffling a soft breath into his skin and slipping her fingers back into his hair, he knew he was gone. 

He’d known it for a long time now, but it was at the point where she could ask anything of him, and he’d do it.

He was a goner for Lucy Chen.

***

He’d told her to call over that evening

To his house.

To see their dog.

He’d gone out of his way early to collect Kojo from Genny, and gotten sucked into some form of bartering that delayed him for the rest of the day. She’d entertained herself as well as she could: changed their sheets, had brunch with an exhausted Tamara, gone shopping to pick up some much needed supplies for Tim’s empty kitchen.

The sun was setting by the time she eventually pulled into his driveway. The house was still dark, and as she put her car in park and rustled inside the console for her set of his keys, she hoped he wouldn’t be too much longer. Sure, she missed his house, but without him and Kojo in it, it was just an empty space. It always smelled nice - a little spicy, a little leathery; a very Tim sort of scent - but without the source of the smell to bury her nose in, it just wasn’t the same.

Huh.

She was more like Kojo than she had realised.

She grabbed her bags of supplies (fresh fruit and veg, fresh bread, some drinks, some soups, and one big-ass bone from the pet aisle) and walked up to the door to let herself in. The bottles of beer in one bag clanked noisily as she wrestled against the latch and the weight of the shopping on her arms, but soon the door clicked open, and she stepped inside, closing it with her hip and hurrying to the kitchen to drop the bags.

As she passed through the archway, the backyard lit up in a blaze, outdoor lamps accentuated with strings of fairy lights, small garden lanterns, and a whole array of coloured sparklers, fizzing and crackling in the hands of more people than she could count.

Startled, Lucy dropped the shopping bags, sinking quickly into a fighting stance and raising her fists protectively.

A ripple of laughter ran through the crowd, and a bark - barks? - before someone reached inside the open doors and flicked on the living room lights.

Tim. Curved around the edge of the door and grinning at her.

A clatter of nails, and Kojo appeared between his legs, scampering through the doorway and across the hardwood floor to jump up on her thighs and bark enthusiastically in her face.

“What…” She’d lost all sensible thought, fighting against the rush of adrenaline that was only now beginning to unclench her muscles. “Kojo, down! Good boy. Down.” The dog obliged, happily seating himself on her foot and thumping his tail against her ankles. “What’s going on here?”

“Do you like it? We all helped set it up!” Tyler and his brother appeared next, the latter sucking on a violently purple drink, complete with cocktail umbrella and orange slice. With her eyes now adjusting to the lights, Lucy could pick out more faces in the yard - Genny and Tamara, Nyla, Lyla and Leah, Wesley, baby Jack, Bailey and Nolan. Even Grey was there, casually lighting another sparkler for Tyler’s friend Blake.

“Well- set up what?” she asked, laughing as Tim passed her a fancy glass, the sharp spice of tequila wafting up and tickling her nose.

“Kojo’s birthday party!” Tyler said, tossing his hands up testily, as if she ought to have that well figured out by now. “We have a doggy cake and everything. And Blake’s mom let him bring his dog too! He’s tiny, but Kojo likes him. I think he thinks he’s a pet. Hey, where’d he go?...”

And with that, the boys were gone again, hurrying into the garden to locate the missing pup.

Lucy turned her eyes to Tim, her lips twisting in a failed attempt to hide her smirk.

“Kojo’s birthday?” she asked incredulously, and Kojo gave a pleased ‘ruff’ from his place at her feet.

Tim, looking innocent, held it together for all of about three seconds, then chuckled, ducking his head and sliding over to wrap his arms around her waist.

“Seemed as good a time as any to celebrate,” he offered, bumping her nose with his own.

“You know, I’d have been happy with just the three of us here. You didn’t have to do all this.” She gestured to the party in the yard, where she could now make out some festive bunting, colourful balloons, and even a handmade sign proclaiming “Happy Birthday Kojo!” in bright orange lettering.

“To be honest, I didn’t quite mean for it to end up like this,” he explained, turning around so he could see the garden too, and resting his chin against her temple. “I had to say something to get Genny to think she was doing me a favour by giving him back, and then… it kind of spiralled out of my control.”

“I’ll say,” Lucy laughed, turning back to face him again. “And when do you think all these party-goers will be heading back home so it’s just the two - three - of us alone?” Her voice was low, sultry, and she could feel his arms tighten around her in response.

“Well, you may have noticed, I only invited people with children, or other early morning commitments,” he said, nodding at the young people gathered around the snacks table. “Whereas you and I? We have another day off tomorrow. And nowhere else to be...”

She grinned up at him, rising on her tiptoes to kiss him, pressing her body against the full, strong, length of him.

“Well thank you. I love it,” she quipped, punctuating each phrase with another kiss. “And as for tomorrow, I can think of plenty of places for us to be…” She trailed off, running a finger under the edge of his jaw, before springing back suddenly and clapping excitedly at Kojo.

The dog jumped up, spinning in a circle once, then chasing her out into the garden and the colour and merriment of the party.

Back in the living room, she watched as Tim shook out his arms, blinking himself back to reality, before grabbing a bowl of dip and striding back outside. And Lucy knew that she had absolutely nothing to be jealous of. 

Everything she needed - everything she wanted - was right here, with her.

And every day he showed her, in everything he did, that ‘with her’ was where he was going to stay.

you can also find this over on AO3, where it has the massive honour of being the 3000th fic in the chenford tag! 🥳 And where I still adore kudos and comments!

#chenford #chenford fic #my fic #ask box fic

[ohwowimlonley]

james potter likes leaving your panties soiled with his cum. he loves cumplay so much. he wants you keeping his warm while you talk to his friends. sirius and remus probably find it hot seeing the discomfort in your face while you try to walk properly 😵‍💫

Anon ur so real for this. I have things to say.

-

He’ll do it multiple times a day, pulling you from lessons with his prefect privellages and whisking you away to a forgotten broom closet and asking you oh so nicely to wank him off into the lace of your panties.

Every time he fucks you, he does it raw, and he has so much fun playing with your puffy little pussy afterwards. He’ll lay down between your legs on his bed, digging his fingers into your tight channel, scooping out his cum and smearing it across your sensitive lips, watching in fascination as you jerk from oversensitivity.

His favourite thing to do, though, is fuck you in front of his friends. He just loves showing you off, having you face his friends as he fucks up into you and inviting them to cum all over you cunt. God, it makes him so fucking horny when he feels his friends’ cum drip down your pussy lips and onto his cock.

#•megs ask box• #•megs smutty daydreams• #james potter x y/n #james potter fluff #james potter x reader #james potter smut #james potter fic #james potter fanfiction #marauders fic #marauders x y/n #marauders x you #marauders x reader #marauders smut #harry potter x y/n #harry potter x you

[myckicade]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Falcon and the Winter Soldier (TV) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson/Helmut Zemo Additional Tags: Fluff, Humor, Holiday Ficlet, Desk Ditty Series: Part 1 of The Spirit's Up Summary:

Sam sighed as he straightened a few branches on the half-decorated tree. "It ain't what it looks like, Buck."

#The Spirit's Up Series #Fanfiction #The Falcon and the Winter Soldier #TFatWS #SamBuckyZemo #BaronWinterFalcon #Marvel #MCU #Fanfic #Request Fic #Ask Box Fic #Sam Wilson #Captain America #Bucky Barnes #The Winter Soldier #Helmut Zemo #Baron Zemo #Alpine #Alpine the Cat #AO3 #Writings #Christmas #Holidays #Tree Trimming

[maisonbelligavi]

Thank you for responding to my fic request.It is perfect😍Had an exausting day and this just made up for it,you are an angel

I am super glad you enjoyed it🤗🤗... And I know a thing or two about exhausting days so yeah, I sympathize and I'm happy the fic brought you some comfort.

Feel free to drop by whenever. I'm always open to brainstorming fic scenarios or headcanons.

#ask #jude x gavi #football fics #hi there nice anon #thanks for dropping by 💜 #ask box fic

[quietlyimplode]

Though I know I'll never lose affection

For people and things that went before

I know I'll often stop and think about them

In my life I love you more

For Clint please ❤️

Sorry it’s short my friend, I hope it fits your song.

Clint admires her.

The way she does things so effortlessly, with ease.

He’s known many women in the field of espionage, but Natasha makes it look easy.

Bobbi was a force of nature, and he was the calm in the storm.

With Natasha, they’re both the storm, she’s tsunami where he’s a cyclone and they’re both each others calm.

He feels it’s different, maybe not better but it’s more compatible; he can be himself, he can be mess he needs to be, leave the wake of destruction, because he knows that she can handle it.

In other relationships, ones he thinks of fondly, he masked, made sure he was never too much, too loud, too quiet, too angry or sad. He was a sanitized version of himself.

It’s not like that with her.

He’s thankful for the lessons those people gave, maybe more for the therapy afterwards, and the perspective that it gave, because it’s led him here.

It’s led him to her.

And as he ponders more, as his life entwines with hers, he knows she’s the one. It’s not just admiration.

He loves her.

.

#clintasha #natasha romanoff #clint barton #my fic #lyrics ask game #ask box fic #ask away! #black widow #natasha romanoff fic #clintasha fanfiction

[toxicanonymity]

Joel/Reader, Just the tip

Maybe reader is a virgin/kind of innocent, and Joel is in some position of power over her.

Joel keeps begging to fuck her and finally convinces her to let him out just the tip in, but of course, once that’s in, he wants more :)

Just the Tip

1.4k | Joel x innocent!F!Reader | master list

WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, high-pressure, power imbalance dubcon, unsafe PIV, no outbreak, AU where he gets very successful at contracting. Sequel HERE.

The first time Joel Miller touched you, it was after you finished cleaning his house.  You'd walked in on him in a towel the week before, and when you apologized and tried to leave that room, he insisted it was fine.  You’d seen him swim naked in his pool too, when he knew full well you were cleaning the kitchen with an excellent view through his huge windows.  When he asked you to stay for a drink one night, you resisted, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer, so you joined him in his living room.  He was in a high-back leather chair.  You sat on the chaise at his urging, crossing your ankles modestly, shyly looking away while his devious eyes ate you alive.

He beckoned you with his hand on his lap and said, "C'mere, sugar," before finishing off his drink and putting it down.  You lowered your head shyly and laughed it off as a joke, but you knew it wasn't. He never tried to hide how hungrily he looked at you. Knowing Mr. Miller thought of you that way secretly made you wet.  You thought about him in your most private moments. He was a very attractive man.  

"C'mere just a minute," he said, softer.  You shyly obliged.  He buried his face in your neck and inhaled deeply.  

"God, you're beautiful," he whispered into your hair. He kissed the nape of your neck then wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you all the way into him. You let out a little gasp as the hardness in his pants pressed into your hip. His large hand slowly crept up your thigh, under your dress, and you stopped him.  He looked at you almost bemused. 

"Okay," he smiled. 

"It's just that, no one's ever." 

He smiled kindly. He asked if you wanted him to.  You said "Not today." You weren’t sure why you chose those words.

"Not today," he agreed, and smoothed your dress back down.

-

As time went on, he worked his way into your panties. First, you let him rub you over your stockings, then you let him take your stockings off and slip a finger in your panties. One day he put your hand on his package and the way you blushed made him swell even harder.  He took it out and helped you jerk him off, and his face when he came made your knees weak.  

Another day, he had you straddle him with your naked loins together, his hard cock gliding against your hot, dripping seam.  He watched your mouth fall open, then covered it with his, kissing you for the first time as he gently rocked you into him. Your cheeks burned and you were more aroused than ever before.  He gave you an orgasm – your first from another person– rubbing you against his cock then finishing you off with his fingers.  

He always wanted more.  The next time, he laid you down on the chaise, hovered over you, grinded himself into you, occasionally dipping his head for a kiss.  Then he gave you head and your moan echoed off his high ceilings as you came.  Then, he coaxed you into putting your lips around his cock and you let him fuck your face. 

Soon, he told you how good it would feel having him inside you.  Your body was already sure of this fact, but you resisted.  He didn't exactly get aggressive, but he asked you every day.  He was determined to convince you.  He started denying you orgasms, nearly making you cry. He'd say, "just an inch, see how it feels, if you don't like it I swear I'll never ask you again."  

The tip of his cock was not insignificant. About the size of a persian lime.  Plus, it wasn't a matter of whether you'd like it.  You wanted your first time to be with someone who loved you. 

But Joel persisted. 

-

Eventually, on a dark day with sheets of rain flowing down his floor-to-ceiling windows, after he edged you to death with his mouth, you finally agreed – just the tip.  

"Just this, okay?" He thumbed the weeping head of his cock.  

He laid you back on the chaise, knelt over you, then rested his forearm under your arm.  He lined himself up, dragged the swollen head up and down your folds and clit, then nestled it at your dripping entrance.  

"How's that feel? Feel okay?" he asked 

You nodded. 

"Ready?" 

It was such a big moment, you were on the verge of tears.  You really weren’t sure, but you nodded, almost imperceptibly. 

He bit his lip and inhaled deeply through his nose as he pushed just barely inside, about half the tip, and you winced with a soft moan.    

"Still good?"

You nodded.  

He clenched his jaw and swallowed, then came the rest of his tip, and you groaned as his girth stretched you like you’d never felt before.  

"Oh, fuck," he exhaled.  "God you're fuckin' tight."  He breathed deeply. "That feel good?"

"Yeah," you said. 

"Good. good girl. you're doing great, baby." He thumbed your clit, rewarding your compliance.  

You arched your back.  

"You want a little more?"

"Not today," you said.  You had already made yourself a promise. 

"You sure? Not just a little?" He rocked forward ever so slightly pushing a centimeter further, then retreating back to just the tip with a ragged exhale.  His face looked physically pained.  

"Jesus, fuck," he sighed.  He stopped  working your clit.  "Tip's the biggest part, baby.  You can take that, You can take it all."

"I dunno," you hesitated.  

"Just a little more, baby, you’re doin’ so good" he begged, the vein on his neck bulging.  If his face was any indication, it was a herculean feat not to shove all of himself inside you. His hair began to stick wetly to his forehead. 

He very slowly started thumbing your clit again and you moaned.  Something blossomed open inside you and you yearned to be filled more. 

He turned on his side a little and his large hand lifted your top leg over his, turning you toward him.  You faced each other, his tip still inside you. There was more contiguity between your bodies this way.  He kissed you passionately, kneaded your breast, and the tip of his cock twitched inside you, creeping just a tad bit further.  

He broke the kiss to look deep in your eyes and whisper, "Come on, baby, it'll feel so good. We'll do it slow, real slow." 

You thought about it over a long silence, and he was so convincing, you couldn’t come up with a reason enough not to.  It didn’t occur to you that you didn’t need a reason.  You eventually asked, "really slow?" 

His face lit up.  "As slow as you want."

"Okay." 

He kissed you so hard when you said that.  

"Gotta tell me when you want more, sugar"

You nodded "a little more." 

He groaned and proceeded just a little further, squeezing a moan out of you.  

"Ok, baby, how's it feel, you ok?" 

The loud wash of the heavy rain comforted you.  

"Yeah," you nodded.  

"More," you said.  He was shaking, biting his lip, squeezing his brows together as he tried to restrain himself, pushing just a little more.  

“Fuck,” he whispered.  “You’re so tight.” 

Then, you said, "all of it." 

"You sure baby?"

You nodded "I want it all." 

You didn't have to ask him again.  He retreated slightly, then plunged his whole length into you,  parting your insides with a shudder and a groan, filling you to the brim with his thick, hard cock, a look on his face you'd never seen anywhere before. He stayed inside perfectly still for a few seconds and moaned softly.  He kissed your throat, then put his forehead on yours.  

"You good baby?"

"Yeah," you nodded. 

He pulled back, then filled you up again, and said, "fuck, baby you feel so good." 

He buried himself in you a few more times, each thrust feeling so much bettr than the last. It wasn't long before he said "oh, fuck, I'm gonna come.”  He pulled out, spilling his hot seed all over your pussy and mound.   

He finished you off orally, licking his own spend from your folds, and then held you close and caressed you tenderly, telling you how good you did.  

-

You were a little sore that week, but you felt more empty than sore.  After just that one time, you began to feel incomplete without him inside you.  

If you like this one, here are my other similar stories:

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JUST THE TIP 2

Night Talks (best friend's dad, getting high) - night talks

Left in Lincoln (series) - lincoln master list

Silence can never be bought isn't loss of virginity but it takes them forever to have sex.

Anyone want some lore?

I have a dbf!Joel story. Part 2 of it introduces: The same house -- incl. floor to ceiling windows with a view of the pool. Same cock lmao (prominent tip). And Joel implies he's fucked at least one of his maids in the past. So this just-the-tip Joel could be that dbf!Joel like 5-10 years prior.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller #pedro pascal #toxicanonymity ☠️ #joel miller fic #pedro pascal fic #ask box