#does that make any of this any better? no it doesn’t

[capslocked]

PRAXIS

male reader x irene

23k words

"A girl could walk in and mistake this for an affair," you remark, and Irene smiles up at that.

The sound of city traffic underneath your open window makes for an uncertain backdrop - though the browns of her eyes glimmer caramel in the dying light. Something sweet, the beginnings of an addiction if you’ll let her.

"A girl could walk in," Irene says, "but, she never does."

It was not a good idea, of course, to keep doing this where the whole world could see, where your shadows and silhouettes make lurid shapes against the blinds, but your office is small and the lighting is soft and Irene keeps pushing up onto her tiptoes, pressing you flat against your desk, trying to kiss you, and you won't be able to stop her - or want to, not when she's already leaning into you with her arms loose around your hips, her eyelashes heavy, her mouth a pink line of want against her smile.

It’s inevitable, maybe.

Here's what they might catch in the exact moment, in a not-so-distant memory:

Your heartbeat, quiet and slow and distant, like there's too much blood for it in your veins, your skin electric-pulsing underneath Irene's, the feel of her leg hitched up your waist, your hand wound tightly in her ponytail. The tiny sigh of a smile at the corner of Irene's lips, like you're tickling her somehow - you'll stop if she really wants you to, but - she doesn't. She never does.

Why wouldn't we want to be mistaken for something? is what you’re supposed to hear; she's too haughty, too proud. Someone could catch you. She’ll never come out and admit, just what would anyone do, if they did?

So yeah. It’s complicated.

You give a little, Irene pulls back. You do your damndest not to push. You hate how goddamn easy it is to convince yourself of anything, everything - whatever the lie. Irene isn’t ignoring you. She doesn't ignore the texts you send her. You don’t need to make plans more than two hours in advance. Mixed signals are such a misunderstood phenomenon: she can just be shy, sometimes. Maybe she doesn’t want to intrude. She was nervous, but she felt really fucking good on top of you - maybe next time, the guilt will be a bit less for both of you.

It’s just sex, she says once to you after; there’s no strings attached. How could it get ever more perfect than that?

-

(And she’s right. You know she’s right, or you at least you very well should.

See, you’ve been talking for hours about how you shouldn’t be talking for hours on end. Kissing her after a conversation you’d had around the fact you’d both be better off as friends.

So how's that gonna sound, anyway? Here, go on, try saying it:

Bae Irene? Yeah, met her on the subway - that's the story, the reason you know her; you got on a train one day and she was the prettiest person there. You were both headed to the same place. You’re just not sure when that's gonna change.

And well, the way you see it: you’d feel so much lighter, like a feather, with her off your mind.)

-

To be candid, you can't really pin down how any of this started. The logistical details, sure. However the suggestion, the sex, the seclusion - these things, not so much.

Somedays, if you squint, it plays out rather predictably. You’ll be going about your business, a particularly average day everything considered, or - well, mostly. Today, there are just the two minor caveats:

First off, your key grinds in the lock when you jam it in. That part is pretty normal, but to your surprise, the door is already very much open.

So, that's odd, you think. That's very odd. You slide inside, cautious, and as you call out an even more cautious "hello?" you realize all the lights are on - so either you've been robbed or are currently in the state of being robbed by someone with suboptimal visual acuity. A disability-washed-burglar. Not to minimize crime, of course, but that'd be interesting, you think, or representative perhaps? Maybe.

Alternatively,

Irene's let herself into your apartment again. It’s quite plausible.

She's not great at the whole 'asking permission' thing, though she swears every time it'll never happen again. You peek around your foyer: there’s her coat, her heels, her shirt, a handbag - all strewn about the hall like she’d been raptured and left a delicate trail of destruction, which does sound a lot like the Bae Irene you've known forever.

(Okay, six, seven months isn’t forever - but you get the gist; the general principle still applies.)

Now another, horrifying option is that both theories are true, simultaneously. A home invader has in fact gotten to Irene. In the middle of robbing the place. How terrible, how awful, how genuinely macabre, what a genuinely-

"Yeah, hey," you hear, followed by a heavy, sloshing thunk. "Welcome home or something."

Sure enough, as you enter the kitchen you spy your truly awful vision being confirmed. One of them, anyway. There is your incredibly hot (this is in reference to Irene), extremely fashionable (same boat as before, honestly), dangerously intelligent (yes) and notorious rulebreaker of an (it really bears emphasis on how hot and fashionable and stylish said rulebreaking often is) acquaintance as per her standard. Irene. A roguish and impossibly captivating conglomerate of trouble with a mild attitude and perfect posture; as a collection, she's a collection you want, a package you intend to keep, an accessory you'd die for. That, and a kettle on the stove apparently, so she can make you tea while you languish on the floor, and you could live like that forever, or so the dream goes.

Also right, the second caveat: there's the robbery. She's stolen a button-up out of your closet.

And look - she's actually so much prettier than she has any business being. Hair up in a messy bun, lips painted light. Nail polish starting to fade. She's still in her nylons and a tight little pencil skirt and you can't really complain. You'd need to be legally dead.

"Hi," Irene says, and the burner sputters to life. "Where'd you go?"

"The bank. And then I had to return books," you say, shucking off your jacket. "You know, I wasn't aware anyone else was living here."

"Excuse you," Irene replies. She turns, leans her forearms on the counter; the shirt buttons are misaligned, but she makes it look like a stylistic consideration - how the sleeves are pushed past her elbows and the neckline has already slipped down one of her dainty shoulders.

She has your clothes. She has an irritatingly winsome half-smirk. The clock above the stove says it’s barely even 9 PM.

"Do you get your mail forwarded here, too?" You shuck off your jacket. "To further clarify, why not call first? Maybe text? Hell, smoke signals could do."

"Because it's a hell of a lot easier to ask you for forgiveness," Irene tells you, knowing, "asking for permission gets me nowhere," and then grabs a mug from the cupboards. She seems to know where everything is already. "I don't know why you get so bothered about it, honestly, what should I do? Call you and say, wow, babe, I am planning on letting myself into your apartment, sorry, yeah, I was thinking we could - ah fuck - you know what, I am irreparably, incomprehensibly horny."

"Nice vocab."

"Thanks," Irene says, beaming, and even tips up her chin to show it.

You notice that you actually match right now, since it is, technically, your shirt. Sure, your collar’s a little stiff - and she’s barely able to keep the fabric from folding and spilling over her lithe frame, but that hardly matters. It's so ungodly hot. She could wear anything - or, probably, nothing, if you're being honest.

And you are, mostly.

So you pad into the space right behind her to tell her some truths, the things you think - but she spins on her heel before you get the chance to grab her, which is a pity; you'd love to do that, maybe just push her flat to the wall. You know, if she'd let you. She would. Probably. You'd ask, definitely, but you’re thinking you wouldn't even have to.

Irene crosses her arms. The collar keeps slipping. You see her collarbone, smooth. She is flawless, no fucking wonder. You are almost terrified of her at times.

"How do you know I’d have said no?" you ask, and it sounds a little sweet - then there’s you noticing an old bruise along her throat, where her shoulder dips down; that was probably your doing, probably from this week, last Saturday maybe? Her skin seems softer somehow, looks like her makeup was fresh at the beginning of the day and the end of the night, that kind of evening smudging. She's smiling with her nose crinkling up. 

She doesn’t react when you press in closer. 

"Really." You’re waiting for her. Probably waiting for her to kiss you, to reach up on her toes and latch her wrists behind your neck, to reach her mouth to yours - though, she doesn't. Her breathing picks up, so it's almost like she doesn't have to, she's smiling at you so sharply. It’s a rare win for restraint as far as your apartment is concerned.

"So then where lies the issue?" she asks, and then she simply waits on this smoldering sort of glance.

You can’t help the laugh that follows. "I mean it's the principle of the thing."

Irene hums at that. She glances to the side. Toward the windows, back to you, and then all over your face.

"Then, allow me a principle," she finally says, staring straight at your mouth, real subtle-like. "Yes, I'm going to keep coming here. Probably a lot. I mean, unless you have an actual issue you'd be hardly one to talk: Mr. Keeps Do Not Disturb Active At All Fucking Times. I bet you're the last person to go through their voicemails, too."

"Guilty, but look - I hit critical mass, like, a thousand unheard messages ago. It’s untenable and unreasonable. You should be offering me pity."

"You are ungovernable." Irene sinks back a bit against the countertop, slow, smooth and sinuous. "You're basically a hermit." She smiles at her own assessment, the grin growing with its truth. Her eyes sparkle in the low-light and her teeth bite at the bottom of her lip. The tea kettle starts to rattle.

"I think we’re supposed to be discussing the breaking and entering here," you correct, dryly, and step a bit closer, "also just for the record, hermits are implied loners. And yet."

"And yet," Irene echoes, letting her voice trail away.

There's an uptick in the corner of her mouth, and she glances at you, quick, momentarily mirthless. You wait for the punchline, the verbal parry, the expertly timed jab-

"What?" asks Irene, and her face instead is all soft edges, light pink lips, and clear, uncomplicated eyes. She grabs for the end of her sleeve and folds it one more time down the slender length of her forearm. The watch on her wrist catches the light. "It's a decent theory."

This almost feels normal, you think, like a routine, something domestic - Irene leaving her things all over your apartment, Irene occupying your bathroom cabinets and the space on your shower rack that used to belong to a singular bar of soap. This is a tale of a typical hookup arrangement gone absolutely off the rails: sex for a night here, a dinner together there, a break from the monotony. You shouldn’t even know Irene that well, you think, or nowhere near as well as you do - and somehow that didn't stop you from giving her a spare key to your apartment - or it didn't stop her from wanting the damn thing.

You try not to read too far into that last one, since you're probably the only idiot that hasn't noticed how smitten Irene has been from day fucking one. It’s your fault, it’s hers; there’s a case to be made for either.

"You can see how a girl might walk in and jump to the wrong conclusions," you remark.

Irene laughs at that, "Oh yeah?" and her eyebrows raise, her lips pursing in an immediate half-smile - this hot little line that’ll get kissed right off her mouth if she’s not careful. She doesn’t even pretend to react otherwise: that same brand of pleased, almost flirtatious - a bit unyielding. Pragmatic, maybe. Not fully on board, still keeping a distance, just an inch outside of what it could be. She never stops fucking with you. She's never anything but beautiful.

It's very unfair, if anyone’s keeping track.

"You mean like an affair?" She laughs out loud. The mark at her temple dots the expression like an exclamation point. "Like me, as your mistress. That’s fucking crazy." 

"Satisfy my ego. Pretend that wasn't, in any conceivable world, the worst possible phrasing, but yeah. More or less," you say, "one which would, mind you, seem very poorly planned on both our parts, all things considered."

There's a pause where she scrutinizes your face; you stare evenly back. It's kind of a bluff. You are sort of a self-centered prick, on occasion, but you are not lying to this woman; you have no reason to. Maybe it's a gamble: to hope she understands you better than she ought to, or to wish she'd accept you in spite of that. To want her, in your home, at your leisure, a friend or something more. 

Trying to materialize words for the immaterial is largely the dilemma.

"An affair, huh" Irene repeats slowly, tasting the word carefully, like she's trying it on for size - and she cants her hips towards yours. Her fingers had wrapped around the bottom of your tie at some point. "My goodness, that’s like, so, so romantic of us."

"Also jesus, please, ‘mistress’ is horribly gauche," you say, and Irene tugs a little too hard and you step forward. The smug look on her face suggests, not entirely unpretentiously: how else, then, shall we call it?

"But look at me. I am in your kitchen, I’m wearing your clothes," she reminds you, with another tiny pull, which draws you so much nearer. You can feel your neck prickle. "That makes us quite close, wouldn't you agree, darling?"

"Dial it back," you tell her, because Irene's the only person in the world that can put so much stress on a single fucking word and get away with it. 

But she's watching you, watching you still, intently. She looks good, smells somehow even better, You inhale her. There's this cloud of shampoo, fragrance, whatever she's decided to wear - citrus today, light. God, she's so fucking gorgeous.

"I'm still trying to scold you," you end up adding, because it won’t go without saying.

"And I'm waiting for you to." 

It's not the right answer, though your annoyance dissipates almost as quickly as it rises: Irene could probably charm her way out of anything if she really tried, maybe, and still make the entire world like her even better - so instead of responding, you just sigh, and sink further into her. She wraps your tie once around her knuckles, and tugs again, harder and pointedly, but it's not so hard that it hurts; you know she could manage that if she wanted. Irene just grins up at you, rosy in the face and pretty: no pain, just fun.

"Are you mad?" She tilts her head in and places her exhale right over yours. You could count her lashes if they’d stop fluttering. "Are you going to tell me you'll send me packing now? Just order me right the hell out of here and change the locks, do you mean it?"

"I would, definitely," you say, without so much as a beat missed. "If I weren't so busy being inconvenienced by the fact you're so goddamn pretty."

"Mhmm." Irene fits her lips to yours, murmuring, "exactly."

Her body presses and pushes up against you, and you're thinking again about Door A, Door B. Thinking about your future, her future: it doesn't mean anything. Who needs to dream, when Bae Irene's already such a walking daydream? Hypothetically - a wicked little fantasy if nothing else. She still can't fucking resist pulling away after just a second, just a touch too soon, and laughing right against your lips - even though, when you open your eyes again, her eyes are softly closed and she’s leaning in for more.

The reality is: the two of you, inextricably, are bound in each other's pull. A binary star of (1) extremely talented, (2) equally charming colleagues that only accidentally get lost inside the same room: (3) office, (4) storage closet, (5) bedroom, (6) living room, (7) kitchen, (8) the little-used laundry nook. Your list keeps growing. It is exhausting, but maybe not the worst: not, actually, so bad-

Your hands flatten against the cool material of her skirt.

"I could," you mutter, trying so hard, "you know, stop this. Maybe."

"I actually happen to believe you," Irene's saying. Her teeth graze your chin. "But maybe you can try," she offers, not so helpfully, "just this once?"

The hem of her shirt slips up the long stretch of her leg. It doesn’t move far before the bend of her knee has her pinned, skirt pressed flat to her thighs. You aren’t exactly a gentleman, so you pull it to her waist as you press even closer. The nylon feels wonderful against her legs.

So you let it boil down to the instinctual, the obvious. To physicality: her hip against your own, her soft sigh as the kiss grows in strength. You wrap an arm around her middle; her hands cradle the sides of your jaw - the tip of her tongue brushing yours - then her fingers find their home on the nape of your neck. When you touch the inside of her thigh, across the smooth fabric, ghosting over the center - where the tension is tightest - her lips part a little. She shivers. You try not to smile about it.

"Slow?" you ask her, and the amusement feels unfair to her, even if it is your best attempt to appear thoughtful. She sinks her nails into your skin and her eyelids open slightly. They gleam. "Told me to try," you point out.

You touch her, feel the heat as she says, a little strained, "I did." She swallows. "I'm allowed to change my mind later, though."

"Fine," you relent, "then so am I."

She considers this briefly. Her lashes lower and raise. She nods.

And the teasing has to go somewhere. "Well," you murmur, and kiss the hinge of her jaw. "Mistress it is. Guess there isn't much left to work with, huh." And in any other context, these are the things that earn you another patented-glare, a toss of a pillow over the bedspread, a hard swat on the chest, an indignant 'well fuck you, I can't believe we're having sex!', an abject departure, a million things all at once - at its most dramatic and emotional: a maelstrom of verbal riposte.

Here, though-

She hikes her leg even higher around your hip. Her fingernails clench even sharper. Your tie falls down a button, to the crook between her neck and shoulder, and her hair comes free of its messy ponytail. The line of it skims over her breast, just so.

Irene sighs louder, and does that thing, a deepening in the middle of the noise that lets you know exactly how badly she wants you - this, you're getting familiar with, or the start of it at least, that fine-tuned way Irene wants someone when she doesn't even hesitate to show it. It was odd, and at first almost embarrassing to see. That might've even been part of the charm, you think: Irene could want to devour you. You were you - slightly interesting, and in her eyes, probably the most intriguing fuck - but whatever her reasons, it all clicked for Irene. She had a system to evaluate and adjust and execute. There wasn't room for wasted effort.

"Hey," she hums, low in her throat.

"Yeah," you say, lifting her right up onto the counter. 

And see - there are these gestures, reminders, not always in good faith, where you make her feel small: Irene's wrists are suddenly so narrow, one right at the surface of the counter, fingertips cool at your collar, and her nail polish chipping a little at the edges. Your palm is larger, enveloping the high, broad arch of her hip, the sharp line of bone to muscle to sinew. She feels fragile, is what it is, a fine-boned little bird, a thin silhouette under her loose, borrowed shirt - it's almost poetic, a regular old fuckbuddy - a physical habit, and you know her, know how many inches, and you can find your favorite parts of her in the dark, but-

"Want your mouth," Irene's saying now. Her lips glistening, eyes liquid; you want to tell her that that's an indisputable victory, just objectively, even before the clothes fall.

"Tell me where to put it," you offer back, and watch the corner of her lips twitch up.

She runs her hand through the back of your hair, mussing it, the lazy drag of her nails, her heel right to your lower back. The light from the stove is doing her wonders, gold catching off the paleness of her skin. "Make yourself useful, I think, like on your knees."

You raise an eyebrow at her.

"Don't give me that look" - and Irene shrugs her shoulders back - the shirt falling more, the flat plane of her stomach - this jut of bone, the pretty contour of her ribcage, the stark outline of her body just under a few too many buttons.

"It just comes off a bit greedy," you say, letting the words twist, playing with the hem of her skirt between your fingers.

"Maybe because you reward that kind of behavior," Irene retorts immediately.

"You’re spoiled," you laugh. "That’s all. Just spoiled. Life must be great for you, do nothing and let someone else do everything."

It's another one of those, 'you fucking like it', and Irene smirks like the shape of her mouth here is foreplay enough alone. She might be onto something. Like the easy back-and-forth - how she's sharp as razor wire underneath you - a double-edged sword if the weapon knew the sheath.

You lean in. She places her palm flush to your heart, like she can measure exactly how long you’re drawing this out with its steady thud. You know she’ll repay it in turn: she thinks it's hot to jerk around with your emotions before she fucks you, like playing roulette with her orgasm, yours - a slow crawl, a nice burn. Her fingers curl.

"And here you said I was ungovernable."

Irene huffs, slightly. "You are still fucking talking."

"If I shut up, will you scream for me, sweetheart?"

You run a hand up her waist. There's this whiny intake of air. Then Irene says, soft and slow: "earn it."

(Maybe you shouldn’t keep enabling her. Therein lies the problem. Okay, so maybe you like this particular problem.)

But she's tugging your tie out of the way before the words leave her lips. The distance you have between is scant, which seems to be fine, with the way she leans in as the last syllable drops off her tongue, kissing the corner of your mouth, impatient.

It takes approximately zero convincing to drop to your knees; that much has not changed. You glance up at her. Your hands curve to her waist, sliding up. It's funny - how your fingertips just brush under the billowy fabric, how the taut skin over her ribcage fills the length of your palms, and then a touch further. Perfect proportions, as Irene usually is; you're on your knees and that's by design.

Your thumb rolls over the outline of her nipple and it peaks, draws into a quick, rosy point beneath the flimsy cotton, like an open invitation.

Irene smiles lazily, gorgeous - and sinks back again against the countertop. Her feet land on your shoulders. The nylon in the bend of her ankle slides soft at your throat, gentle. "Waiting." She sighs a little. "Still, waiting."

You press a kiss over the nylon, the fabric underneath, teeth barred and tongue pushing. "You said slow," and the rest of you might as well catch on fire, just for borrowing a moment’s composure. You can see yourself bringing her down to the floor, the kitchen tiles, spreading her legs and fucking her into the linoleum, scratching them up, making her cum as many times as she asked. But there's this heavy drag down your back, the nerves blooming. "So let me. I won't get distracted," you murmur - or don't, really - into the softness between her hip and waist, along her navel, the tight planes of her tummy. "I promise, I'll get there, baby."

She hesitates. The breath she holds back is a telltale pause.

And the first thing that really sinks into Irene's skin, besides yourself, is this: every last shred of hesitation she was waiting on, the self-control? Now gone. You've done nothing but serve its loss. She seems to sense her power; and in one blink, the act is apex. In a beat her nerves are recovered, and the nerves are fuel. A natural killer, an organic toxin, that same smile curving her lips, a pointed glint to her eyes.

"Baby, your mouth," Irene insists, her knees falling to the sides, "open. And yes," and a pause, or maybe an addendum, a double meaning in the downtime, "to be perfectly frank: free for me to use. To come and go as I please."

"Haven't left my fucking mind for a minute, sweetheart," you offer up right back, not bothering with restraint.

Irene clicks her tongue. "But yet, you don't ever do exactly as you're told-"

She hiccups, or something close to it - because you grab her ass, bring her hips closer, until you can sink your nails into the firm give of flesh.

Irene looks down at you, eyes just wide, and - ah.

She sighs. Sighs because she knows - you can find god in everything; that’s the goal, that’s the creed - and maybe Irene wasn’t your original way, maybe you were always meant for a different sort of holy figure, but the words you choose are doctrine in the end; that first prayer you got down on your knees and said to her was no less truthful for its betrayal. There are rules to it: this is faith, the religion. This is her. You belong to Irene, and she belongs to you.

"Um. Did you just tear my stockings?" she asks, like a sudden realization, her mouth still dropping.

You nod, because, well, yeah, and pull her panties to the side. "Permission, forgiveness, et cetera."

In lieu of a reprimand or a rebuke, she lets a shockingly pretty little moan when her pussy gets stretched by a finger, two - and they're wet, slippery, easier than the lace had ever expected, and she's already so plush, red and rosy. Irene has always gotten wet quickly, with your fingers, your cock, your mouth on her - and her head falls back in one languorous stretch. The tightness around your finger is dizzying. You'll never grow tired of watching her: a sudden shift, the spine so pretty when arched, the pulse of blood under her thighs, the fluttering of her cunt as it comes to the very precipice of letting you in.

"Do you understand me, baby?" she's asking you, and her breath seems to pick up and the muscle flutters again.

You waggle your eyebrows and lean in, and whisper against her skin, "better than anything."

Your mouth attaches to her clit and never lets go. You fuck her, all sweet, on two fingers. Down to the last knuckle. You curl your fingertips, and she's gasping. The scent of her drives you fucking crazy; this is what paradise has always tasted like, and heaven's the press of her thighs - your name spilling from Irene's mouth. She gets wetter, and wetter - you lap as it floods out of her, down her thighs. You lick it, taste the salt and her bitterness and her arousal, how her pussy grows slick in an instant, swollen under your touch, wanting, aching. Her heels press over your shoulders and dig in, tight.

When you look up over the tight spasms in her diaphragm, you realize she's got the shirt unbuttoned, finally. Fabric spilling down to the granite, skin and bra and sheen; you wrap your arms around the perfect curves of her thighs, the nylon shifting soft on your hands and bringing her closer, hitching up to your shoulders. This is only part one of what you owe Irene - the easy part, actually: you can see her clench in the same breath that she's straining - the need and want to fill her up a sin, the wet smack as her folds are pried apart by the flick of your tongue, the sounds of your hands, the desperation. She'll want, and you'll get, until she can barely handle it. Until the tremors overwhelm her, until it is too much and it never will be, ever enough - until she's left so gorgeous like that, shivering.

The kettle's got the pitch to its scream now, and the volume. The sound makes you grind your teeth. Lick harder, suck longer, kiss a bit deeper - her clit, the pink tip of your tongue pushing in past the folds, between the ring, deep and heavy. Fingers moving slow, almost absent-minded, flitting across her breasts, pinching a nipple - Irene groans. The metal rattles louder, louder.

The shirt's rumpled, tangled, bunched up between Irene's elbows. You lean your teeth to the crease of her hips. You lick, the smell filling your nostrils, her fingers threaded in your hair - holding you where she wants you to be:

"And fuck, ah, do you, oh god- fucking do you- have an," she sighs, trembling as the movement of your jaw sends her shuddering, as your mouth runs and your hands open her legs. She pants. "Oh, darling. Have an honest-" she laughs and the sound pitches too, "-idea, I mean-"

Irene has started grinding against you. Your heart is thundering.

"-of what I'm-"

A moan finally breaks from her lips, so disarmingly beautiful. Irene grabs for the edge of the granite counter; she can hardly seem to make out what she wants. Her orgasm is cresting higher, each flick of your tongue and soft sound of you bringing her there, near. You like that she needs you, like that the word 'insatiable' becomes an insufficient assessment. You push, you move - her hands tug you. You taste her: a warmth, the depth, the pulsing.

"-what you're" - a gulp, a gulping swallow - the fridge keeps beeping, the front door sticks, and it'd be so perfectly quiet if not for the fucking tea kettle. It keeps boiling and boiling and you are drinking your fill, drowning. Her skin smells fucking delicious. You can feel her heat pooling. "Fucking, o-oh, fuck- fucking doing-"

You smile into it. Against her messy, quivering cunt. You are: unashamedly smug.

And fuck. She's gone, swept away, carried off, the pressure of your lips sending her crashing back down with a moan - the kitchen still buzzing and the steam a bit of a haze, and you haven't even finished bringing her through the dying breaths of her orgasm before she's gasping, pulling you back up on your feet:

"I need you, I- right now. Up here-"

Irene tries to grab for your neck again. She doesn't seem to mind her own lack of strength, though. In any other circumstance you'd think she'd look a bit pathetic: her shoulders curved, chin resting in a hand, a absent, pleasantly confused grin, legs and hair a complete unmitigated mess - and here: her lipstick wiped, mostly smudged, her wet, glistening thighs-

"Tell me," you say, and a thousand possibilities are imagined. To get inside of her, feel her nails dragging across your chest, her teeth at your throat, her moan as you slide into the very heat of her - fuck, you cannot stop. She's got you spinning and you’ll gladly lose this particular battle; a typical Bae Irene ending. "Please, tell me."

The water boiling over has begun to crack; and the first tendrils of steam begin curling into the air.

"God," says Irene, shaking with her body so desperate, her hand still grasping you back. The look in her eyes seems so beautifully wrecked, but in no hurry to show it. She smiles, because she wants that over anything. "Don't you fucking listen?"

She grins.

"Ah." Irene shakes her head, pulls your head back, staring, but does not rise to a sit, just slides herself out. One leg kicks, one, then two, from the corner of your eyes: her nylons shredding down their long seams. You're on your feet; you're not really standing, but then you have no real bearings to start with. Your cock is throbbing.

She just scoots on out, and shuts off the stove, and sets the kettle a step back.

"Maybe," you say, pressing your thumb to the seam of your pants. You could probably die of lust right now and have no regrets. "Maybe not. I think I need more convincing."

It would probably also help if your thoughts could stop racing.

"Huh."

She turns - though not with the skirt. The hem has fallen to the floor. A puddle at her ankles. She's only slightly out of breath; the wet between her legs gleams. The slick, smooth fabric of her lingerie sticks to the swollen outline of her pussy. Her fingers dip down, playfully, so she's leaning over the counter. She tugs, and it presses and plays and sticks at her center. You're obsessed, half-crazy from it. Her expression twists; it's fucking bliss. She smiles, one breath, then two - the house settles. You cannot stop staring; you can't. Your mouth feels hot and dry and sticky, wet from her cum, and your pants, you can't quite breathe and the view's only getting better: Irene naked, against the counter, the jostle of her breasts as she strums herself, as her breathing catches and rises, and those nails digging deep into her clit as her eyes drift shut-

She's biting her lower lip - but she looks at you and - stops, her toes pressed to the linoleum.

The moment is suspended, and suddenly the words do not fit anywhere in your throat.

"Want it?"

"Fuck," you exhale, and maybe she isn't just asking that out loud, she's the embodiment of the fucking question: the need between her legs so vivid. She laughs again, licks the taste of herself off her fingertip, sucks at the curve of her nails - she touches the tip of her tongue to the very edge of her upper lip. Her smile, in its sharpness and precision, remains unswayed.

"Bend me over?"

And then, very quietly, and without so much as a scoff in disappointment-

"Fucking christ," you mutter, and nearly fall in a heap towards her.

-

It's borderline unhealthy, that this happens as often as it does: sex that leaves you breathless, sex that shivers across every inch of your fucking skin, sex that aches afterward, that drives your lungs to strain, a moan trapped forever just behind her teeth. Her hips were either made for your rough palms, or you’ve worn them down to your grip. Softened all the edges. Her thighs open to you like you own her. The ridge down the center of her back, your mouth trailing down every vertebrae - her pussy. The inside, the depth - and everything she doesn't mean to let out: all these little notes she's learning with each thrust of your cock into her, and you think you should just say yes, give in.

Let it go, and just trust.

Sex as routine? A repetition of desire. What is routine is that, with Irene:

There's always a new discovery. She has you when she's bent over and you're pounding her knees into the cabinets. She has you on the floor with her. She has you when she's bent over and you're eating her out again, then on top, and on your couch, and with her legs kicked high on the shower wall, and - you fuck her, you find room for her on the bathroom sink. You cum all over her stomach and she just smiles dreamily. You fuck her until she’s almost sobbing, and then you're saying her name like she has your life and your attention, for everything and nothing at all. And after an hour of letting her have your patience, and your dick, your face pressed against her throat, and her nails deep in your back - you tell her she needs to stay. 

It’s a hell of an admission, apropos of nothing.

"Oh? Say that one more time for me," and she's half-covered, the comforter pulled up over her the gentle slope of her breasts, the bedsheet tucked around her waist. "Again," and you have no real use left, you're certain. The most recent orgasms have nearly shattered you both in half: Irene can barely focus on your mouth, where your hips had slammed hers into the bed and - you are pretty certain - definitely did crack her skull right off the headboard.

"Yeah," you mutter face down into the duvet, "you should stay."

"Then it's decided," Irene says out loud, rather victorious, and drops a hand down the span of your back. She's there still, fingering her own cum from inside her pussy. The look in her eyes, sly. The message in them could not be any clearer: what an excellent suggestion, since you both know she'll have no shortage of reasons to keep coming back, anyway.

-

It all feels rather satisfying, pretending not to like the girl. It feels good not caring where she is at night.

As she had said, like an affirmation, a real statement: "this thing, between us, is so uncomplicated. It's so easy."

And she’s right: 

She fucks, and you cum. She looks pretty. That's what she wants to show off, she does and does it well, and as long as you don't pay attention and pretend like it doesn't matter to you, it's an absolute fucking win-win. That's it: that's exactly why, when she calls, when she comes around and asks about dinner, you ask how far you're expected to go for her. What'll earn you her gratitude? Her pleasure's a quick hit, and it's free - if she asks nicely, if you're up for it, if it isn't the same bullshit, same scene - and the night's never a big deal to waste. That's her script; there's your line:

"What's your endgame here," is a thing you're always asking.

She tips her head, her hair falling off her shoulder, that old cliché, those large brown eyes, batting and fluttering. Just curious, but also to draw attention; what a killer pair she has, they're gorgeous. Your eyebrows raise, and your mouth falls open as her fingers dance over your chest, playing with the collar of the button-up that you aren't entirely convinced doesn't belong to her.

"Who says I have to have my mind made up right this second?" is Irene's usual comeback - a favorite - followed by another favor, then an expectation. Then, as your hands fall to the small of her back: "for you, the point is probably the chase," she reminds you, a low little murmur.

Your heart thrums with the little spike of anger. Then again, your cock's feeling the yearn ahead of everything else already; it’s a bad habit, and not getting anything you need. Or, there's a tumble, a mutual surrender in this somewhere. 

"Sure, says you." 

You kiss her so easily. Run your fingers through her hair and drink down her sighs, pull away and pretend. Pretend to dislike how pretty she looks when you do things like this. Pretend like you haven't missed her, that there is no desire, not to run your touches down the back of her knees, or sink your hands into her perfect little ass.

"Didn't need me to," she points out, the lick into your mouth. And her finger curls right under your chin, nails a pretty, perfect oval shape, manicured and soft at your throat, that way she loves - the angle intimate. "And yet. Not stopping me, are you?"

Which you're not. Neither of you is fool enough. You don't hate yourself, she doesn't hate the truth. So, whatever, sometimes you give in to it - if you could call this a 'means to an end', you suppose that might just about cover the ground, because her plans, her reasons don't matter to you, and vice-fucking versa: just to find an answer, or to find a few dozen, and that's enough.

You're no good at love; she says she's not looking for it either, no heartfelt romantic shit to get a tear out of you, she'd tell you at the start:

"Let's just play it by ear, how about that? I could surprise you. You could surprise yourself."

-

(But fuck: Irene's surprisingly full of surprises.

Take when she texts a few days later.

Hey, a blip on the screen, an innocuous string of numbers you refuse to mark a contact. There's too much power, and leverage. She isn't asking. 

It's been too long.

A winky emoji.

I think you’re able to do me a big favor.

A period. It is imperative. She would tell you, with an authority she certainly isn't trying to front or to prove: she likes her punctuation.

I could really, really do with that same favor that you gave me back when we went to that housewarming party, you remember. It'd really be the best thing you've done with your evening if you could help me out. Call it the nice thing to do.

Is your vibrator out of batteries? you text back.

You are a genius.

Thanks.

Let’s go somewhere.

Just this once. But dinner's on you.

A selfie. Slippery fingers, glued to her pussy, running through the glisten-

Oh. Actually, it'll probably be twice.)

-

So. ‘Surprise yourself’ was, naturally, the key. 

It's difficult to have a notion as to how exactly you might surprise yourself - but here you are a little later; she's dressed and in heels, and that's a relief, or rather a delight: this woman looks devastating with her hair down. But still, like this: the hem to her slacks that draws her thighs down to an elegant peak, the nice blouse she's got her buttons done to the top, and one less: this cleavage isn't wholly visible but the shadow is still a tease, her thin jacket only pinning in how her waist is cut into such a deep arc. Irene had asked if this looked too formal, and the second response in your brain was to ask why: her normal wardrobe's worse - less clothing, more fucking exposed. Then again, you might not mind watching Irene work so hard if it meant your hands get full quicker-

"That is absolutely no way to put it," she admonishes.

"Come again, Mistress?"

"Ass," she mutters. It's not even a reprimand so much as an agreement, you can see where the smile is trying not to crack open. "No," she corrects, and smiles anyway. She pushes a lock of her hair behind her ear, "I just mean- fuck you and your terrible metaphors. Anyway, we should go. You drive, my car is a total mess."

-

You take her out. There's dinner. There's drinks. It's something like a date, because that's what she wants. The hostess smiles politely. The waiter raises a suggestive eyebrow at your fingertips grazing Irene's leg underneath the table, and you both ignore the interest. You pass him her credit card without comment when you go to settle up. When you stroll about, the sun is going down and the dying light paints her skin orange, yellow, and red. She tells a story about work. You manage to get a few of your own. Your fingers loop through hers and the action makes her do this lovely smile.

So the gist of it is: you have a fling, her name is Irene, there’s some vague cohabitation occurring, and - oh, she's an absolutely fantastic lay.

It's the sort of thing that on the surface level sounds like a total and complete win, even for all its contradictions, flaws, and pitfalls. She fucks, and you're willing. She looks pretty. You keep her content. That's enough, as a friend-with-benefits; more of the benefits than anything else, she always reminds you. And every now and then, when Irene starts making demands of your time, of your availability - making plans, making reservations, making the expectation known that the two of you have a standing obligation, ‘benefits’ penciled into your schedules every Tuesday and every weekend (and Thursday, too, if neither of you is booked) - she suddenly becomes more complicated than she should have any rights or reason being. There's a kind of security you take away from it.

Irene's holding her clutch in the parking lot, posture perfect. The sky's on fire and the setting sun is burning down the horizon all around her.

"Can we do it in your car?" she's asking, totally nonchalant. 

"What?" "Sex," Irene repeats, like you didn’t understand the question. Her expression is bright, seamless. She holds her wrist behind her back, and twists a little on one heel. "I want to get you off."

This is a case study; you’re walking, breathing empirical data. You’ve gone from wondering to knowing about what they say in regards to women of a certain age. The appetite. The inexplicable desperation. It used to be a joke. Maybe it's because men in their 30s are unusually relaxed with their dating life, or all of their friends are talking about wedding rings, kids, a white picket fence - with life a non-event to handle with finesse and a delicate grip. Or: maybe Irene simply isn't complicated in the ways people seem to expect her to be. She’s needier for sex than usual, for starters. "Are you expecting some urgent business meeting, or an important call - any sort of personal news, maybe - like, in the next half hour?"

"Are you serious," you manage. Fuck her, actually.

"I don't know why, I just feel like you might appreciate the cramped quarters. We can make out while you cum and stuff."

You almost snort, but - her hips have that sway. The door’s unlocked. You stare. The purse settles on the passenger's seat. This girl is so stupidly pretty.

"You, uh, wanna get on top?" you ask, voice already slightly drying at the sound.

Irene reaches over and traces your jaw. Her thumb feels lovely pressed to the seam of your lips, rubbing over them slowly. Her mouth is this gorgeous color and you just can’t stop staring. "So cute. What’s your best guess, sherlock?" She pats the roof of the car, gently. "Get the fuck in."

-

Irene is, at her most shameless, a list of demands: give me your fingers, touch my clit, do it now; take my wrists, fuck me faster; don't you dare fucking cum - there's no rush here, so put in the effort. You have a basic idea of where you're both headed, and the situation demands you to, um, obey. The sound of her wet cunt fills the tight confines of the car.

"Fuck, Irene."

At her most elegant, she's pretty much the same, but she fucks like a total dream: 

"Slow, yes," she'll coo into your ear, in the early stages, before her head starts falling back and her chest rises, and all the sweet notes from the back of her tongue get driven to the fore, and there are moans instead of directions, groans and cries. "Feel me. Deeper. Fuck, babe, just like that."

Her nails drag deep, and that's not usually the plan - the start is fast and easy; her pussy drips like she's soaking a cloth, a fresh layer every second, and a clench that swallows every thrust; and somehow the friction's good enough that if you stick around and keep your focus, you get Irene begging for mercy by the end of it, just to savor and relish the sensation, the motion of your body into hers.

"There," and her eyes flutter, "yes. You are so fucking hard for me." She leans in, kisses the shell of your ear: "you’re fucking stretching out this little pussy, baby, you know that?"

"Jesus. Fuck, please-"

"Should we? Should I let you?" She clenches down, "fill me up, babe? You think you're worth the privilege?"

"If you'd let me - Irene, the things I could do," you don't breathe, "jesus fucking christ."

And she looks at you with wide, honey-smudged eyes. Pretty even when fucked; especially so. Her fingers get wrapped in your collar and she’s nodding her head in rhythm with her quick little bounce. The snapping  of her hips. Up and down, and up and down like she’d be insulted if you didn’t drain your balls into her perfect little womb right then and there. She says don’t do this, don’t do that - and then she fucks you like you’re supposed to.

"Yeah, that’s right, be a good boy for me," her mouth whispers, even though there is no one else in her car, you're pretty sure. Her voice is like a vice, just you, with her hips, her hot little hands pushing you down so she's riding the top of your head. You can hear her dripping down into the space, a new leak.

"How're you gonna deal with it when I'm filling your tight cunt?" You thumb at her ass, squeeze. "This pretty, round ass? Want me to cum inside you every which way, huh? Marking up my territory?"

You hear her stutter on a reply, as her pussy gives a particularly strong flex, another contraction.

"All those wet loads, dripping out your cunt, down your thighs... on your lips... you gonna taste every last one, princess?"

She has a face like she wants to hurt you for that one, the moniker - you have a sneaking suspicion there's nobility in her blood, laid deep somewhere in her veins, another lifetime lived far from this one: she'll have a predilection for thrones, diamonds, queendoms to rule. And if that were true - well, you'd be downright lucky if she consented to an audience, even less entitled to her hand. She's out of your league regardless. Or maybe, she's the furthest thing from royalty and she just knows the script better than anybody. Kneel, she'll say, and you find yourself obliging; give me your mouth, your fingers, she'll ask, and you're compelled. It's all ingrained.

"What was that?" she asks, incredulous, riding your cock so hard the seat shakes instead.

"I said: this cunt, christ-"

You bring her closer to your face, have to feel that clasp of heat with every stroke - and when it is so fucking deep, her hips lock up, clamped, thighs quivering - you just hold her in place, give her a few breaths, let the satisfaction really sink in, even if she's already moaning.

"Well, I guess you got me there, huh." Her mouth gives her away, the lopsided-grin. "Yeah. So cum, give it." And then it twists. Her face looks so beautiful in distress, and you're certain you've had that thought many times since: if the situation demands it - maybe it would be just fine to push a little bit more? It's a neediness that doesn't go understated, even when Irene's more whining for it: like, the fuck are you waiting for, her tits out, panting, sweating, cursing and moaning at the slow drag through her slippery muscle, a grip like satin, like velvet.

You’re a total mess: 

"Breathtaking, the faces you make for me" - "you look so good, like that, so handsome" - "has anyone ever fucked you this good?"

It’s official. She'll have to scrape you off the leather.

And as if to add insult to injury, Irene’s hands come up to her hair, holding it up into a messy bundle above her head. There’s a tilt of her chin, a bite into her lip. She’s bouncing fast, taking your cock deeper on each twist, and it’s all very performative. Fucking Irene is as visual an experience as it is visceral, because chiseled into her figure, the lithe frame, are these model-esque proportions - like she’s not actually five foot nothing in her socks. 

(A beautiful little paradox. She’s showing off here. She’s showing off, simply because she can.)

"And you’re the one always calling me greedy," she breathes, like the punchline, as she takes the next inch, the wet slapping of skin. There's heat. So much fucking heat - she's got a pulse that pulls you forward and won't let go, your balls hitting her ass and thighs soaked, so red and plush and beautiful, a softness that takes a second and an elbow's reach and, fuck. Her thighs on the dashboard. "You've been-"

Your palms fit into the curve of her ass. How a small, fragile, dainty thing like her can have so much to grab onto remains a mystery and a fucking miracle.

"-a bit of a prick, honestly, for a minute-"

But she's so responsive - and you want to wring it out of her, really, a desire to destroy and savor, even when that sounds a little wrong and too close to sacrilege - you really ought to just call her the ultimate fantasy: she has the cutest tits, soft creamy thighs, tightly wound curves and a sexy-as-sin attitude; and when she sits heavy on your cock, wiggling her hips in a circle, you lose the plot and a little bit of your mind.

"-have to say, it's been getting to me."

"Here's hoping it doesn't give," you grumble as your arms tense and your back aches, your shoulders strain. Irene seems unconvinced, and she usually is, but the drive is relentless.

"Then you'll have to hurry up," the rake of her fingernails across your neck, "won't you?" and she is too slick and so eager, "because you’re gonna cum for me, sweetheart, just let it all out, baby." Her cunt and her heels in the upholstery and the stinging welts draw you deeper- 

Your hand braces around the center console. 

She has her lips on your temple, your hairline: "I’m imagining how my pussy will look, all creamy and used and pretty - all because you fucked it nice and hard and raw - no matter how many times I fuck myself with my fingers, I'll keep feeling the ghost of this fucking perfect cock."

The noise that leaves your lips is a full, throaty, ragged groan, your muscles shaking and skin burning. "Irene, god," you sputter out; it's not super attractive, you think.

Irene kisses the juncture of your shoulder and neck like it’s music to her ears, her jaw against your jaw:

"You've got to stop edging me, love, my little pussy was made to get stretched by your cock, show me-"

You thrust in deep. 

"Fuck."

"Oh," she whispers, eyes hooded and lashes sweeping low, an awe so thick to her voice. "Such a good boy for me - now. Make me cum, yes - make me cum all over you - mhm-"

You jerk your hips again - your pants hanging around your thighs, her blouse pushed up around her waist. You've twisted and knotted the fabric over and over into something you can pull or hold onto - it's not clear to you yet which idea's more pressing.

Because there's no breathing room. You need to twist your hips just to fuck into her - her lips are parted with this insatiable moaning, and it's sweet and pretty and filthy. She wraps one knee higher. There's the lock to your ankle, but she's grabbing the lever and trying to pull your seat down, the rest of it; you absolutely let her. All this in heels that would be impressive without a tight wet pussy pressing down on the length of your cock, begging for what seems like an endless number of thrusts into that delicious heat, the perfect clutch. She rides you rough: the leather beneath your knees shifting with the constant scuffle. Her elbows bent, a thumb grazing her tits, pushing up the silk and the lace.

Her soft, pale skin is spilling all over you, her limbs finding purchase as her mouth slides against yours on a new rhythm of need and want: "that's the thing, right? You're such a delight when you put your mind to it." She's pressing a kiss against your temple - her tone, this intimacy, a hotness between her thighs that leaves you breathless, dumb - it's the only sort of inescapable validation that might suit.

You had the perfect view as she shrugged the jacket, unbuttoned the blouse, sat the bra over it, just undid her slacks: this perfection, laid bare, exposed in your passenger seat with her tits squeezed in both palms. Then it was her hand tugging at the zipper to your pants.

So - you're fucking her harder than you have any business doing. Her nails are digging trenches in the skin of your forearms and you have the slightest sense of everything she has, wants, demands; you've had her under you, bent her in half, folded at the corner of your bed. You’ve fucked her with your cock so far into the slick-dripping hole of her cunt until she can't stop cumming - or begging - or the Irene-equivalent.

"There you go," she says into your throat, like it's nothing, and sags a little further into your chest. "There we go," she repeats. Her brow is glistening with sweat, and you kiss it: hot, and a little bitter. You can't help it. 

You're fucking her harder than she can handle. You're filling her. She's stuffed to the fucking brim with your cock, bulging at the folds of her insides.

And, christ, her fucking waist. She is so small, so fragile-looking. You wrap both hands around her middle, and as her hips grind forward, meeting the roll, she grabs your wrists, holds your hands up her ribs and gets, and gets - oh, just where you fucking left her. Your knuckles are left digging to the silky skin, bruises dotting purple across her back, her neck, her tummy and her thighs, every surface - you're grasping and claiming what she has to give you, just a hint. There's a million and one ways to love, to give back, to please a partner - but you have one goal: you're not an artist, you're not a philosopher, or a poet - so you’ll leave physical marks, reminders, of everything you've done and will do. You’ll make her cum. Just hold her still and make her cum again and again and again. The weight, the lift. If she asked, you would. Fuck. You would. She rides your cock and rocks you into the upholstery of the passenger-side chair. She sinks down and presses her mouth to the edge of yours, just shy, her own teeth pulling at her bottom lip-

"Your cock feels," and here Irene takes the moment for a heavy, contented sigh. "-ah, fucking unbelievable. Your fucking cock, jesus."

Her voice is… it's really so dreamy. The praise does strange things: you reach down and pull her thighs so they tighten at your waist. There are no illusions here, she's found something worth chasing. The bare-boned desperation drives her insides wild, you can feel it. The clench, the pulse, the absolute slutty-slick dripping, a real, honest, aching cunt, warm and clamped at the hilt of your cock - it's obscene, and your patience is stretching paper-thin. You aren't asking any questions; she's not taking them.

It’s just you and this petite, absolutely stunning, heartbreakingly gorgeous girl sitting in your lap and working herself on you like a doll, and- oh. She really does look great. It's impossible to look away.

The windows are fogged, and her cunt feels divine as she runs you further into your car seat. Her hips snap up, back down - the soft drag and then the cinching flutter. The inside of her, a total fucking delicacy. One of your hands slides across her back, counting the rise-and-falls of her spine. One, two, three, and so on. Her lips are flush at your throat. You feel her whimper.

It’s the most perfect noise you've ever heard.

"Baby," she mouths at your collarbone, her movements becoming more spastic, more erratic. "I can feel you throbbing."

The encroaching dark keeps threatening the corner of your vision, so much tighter each time.

"You're going to make me," you're gritting through your teeth - this feels a little insane, a little irrational. "Irene you- you’re going to make me fucking cum."

"Oh?" Irene’s reply is immediate. She slams herself down on your cock, hard. "Then cum."

Your patience is truly nothing at this point. There is not a single breath left inside her either: the heavy swell of her chest is proof enough, those eyes fluttering shut, the angle shifting as her ass meets your thighs. "Seriously, I'm going to fucking fill you, and it is gonna slip all down the back of your legs - Irene - sweetheart, I’m going-"

Her fingers curl behind your head. "Cum," and she groans, "I know- I'm here. Take it. Use this perfect little pussy, I want to feel you cum." and you pull the pace up into a frantic tempo. The metal beneath your back creaks with the strain; the bounce of her ass against your groin. The moan, it pitches: a need, a lust, and she is rolling, rutting her body in circles on top of you, a wild gasp and then a beautiful cry, almost in pure unbridled ecstasy.

The angle shifts and - fuck. You’re able to fuck up into her so easily. Her cunt is hot and soft in all the right places, wrapped around your cock, tight and snug like she was made for you. Every drag of slicked skin and clenched muscle sends you both reeling.

"Irene," you barely say, and you're cumming, you’re fucking filling her up with cum - the only possible endgame. You can’t stop fucking into her even though she's just been fucked senseless, stuffed with your cock: little helpless noises, squeals and yelps like they're being tugged out of her. She goes limp on you, and then she collapses, shivering and whimpering with every deep-bore pulse: you're going to mark every inch of her body, claim every part of her soul.

"Oh my god." A groan. Another. It's coming off her like a wave - like a river, really, you're drowning. "It is so, so fucking hot. Your cum, in my pussy..." She trails off.

Her tight cunt twitches: pulsing with every motion. She squeezes down - hard. It takes a great effort for you not to let out a loud, embarrassing whimper. Your fingers dig into her ass, her hips, steadying her grind.

But you're looking right into her eyes when she falls apart, too, that long, tensing shudder, the gasping groan - fuck - because she feels exactly like everything that you've done, you know: Irene's tight cunt has kept your cock perfectly in place. She was just waiting for the spill of it before the final, hardest crest. The smell's in the air and the haze is all through her expression and, god, you want her, you could just sink a million words into that, every possible adoration and every bit of yourself and you still wouldn't be getting the entire story; just fuck - you can never not be fucking her, never not want to have her riding your lap, moaning out and falling and dragging every part of your body deeper-

"Mmmmm," Irene lets out, soft and satisfied, a tiny whimper in the way that she goes all soft around your cock and comes down and presses a wet, tired kiss at the base of your throat.

"Mmmm-m?"

"Thanks, I think." Her blouse is falling off one shoulder, the material crumpled. There are creases all across it. She's biting on her lip, flushed. "Thanks for that."

-

It has to be said, here - because you know, because the sun is setting on your open window and your arm is snug at Irene’s waist and neither of you even have to mutter a word to acknowledge the fact that it will inevitably rise across your living room carpet again. 

Irene is everything you might have been running from, everything you’ve ever chased - and you’d never ever stand a chance.

-

Greedy, however, just isn't the right word for it. Not really. 

It's the way she leans in when you kiss. The way she fidgets. The way her tongue brushes across her bottom lip. So no - greedy isn't quite the right way to say it. It's more: instinctual.

She's this not-so-subtle tincture of want and desire, in its most basic form - and that makes this all so dangerous, isn't that right, miss? Because want isn't something to toy with; want is, by design, something measured in its inability to be indulged.

(And for the record, your car hasn’t even moved from the lot. You were supposed to get frozen yogurt but that's looking less likely, judging by the way Irene's fingers are tapping lightly across your shoulder, your own clamping down on her chin.)

It’s just so indulgent. Irene hasn’t left your lap, blithely warming your cock for you. Stealing kisses while the day’s last light bleeds low over the buildings. Soft sighs. Whimpers, mewls, muffled little keens of, "oh, oh, please." You trace the edges of her, where your body becomes hers, and her movements are fluid - supple and knowing and just this side of eager.

The car feels now even more cramped and narrow than advertised, the sweat in your skin starting to bloom. The musk of sex, a creeping heat: "go ahead," you rasp out. 

She nods, a helpless dip, and that comes with a sigh, "yes, fuck, right there," her cunt squeezing, a hot, slick little velvety clench; there's something about being buried inside her and seeing her fall apart. This slow rock and build-up. All the hard edges worn to a perfect point. Her dark eyes are glowing, her clever little tongue darting to her lip.

You hold her, slumping together in the front seat. The leather squeaks with the gentle shifts, the slides. The color rising in her cheeks. She likes when your breath catches; her smile goes sharp, a hint of teeth: it's very obvious that she is very very drunk - on control, on cock, it doesn't seem to matter.

A beat passes before the architecture returns to her muscles. She's sitting up, and with your hand firmly cupping her ass, and your teeth pressed to the flat of her breasts. "You," she gasps, the most unironic and unexpected reply. The corner of her eyes is still glistening, still dazed, still blissful. "Don't play dumb. Fuck - no, don't stop."

"Sorry, say that one more time for me, miss."

"You- ah." She grins, and her hip shoves your cock out with a filthy wet sound in accompaniment.

The air of the car is sticky, and her slick is still covering your waist, so the discomfort makes the little groan extra appreciative, anyway.

"Fucking god-" she grumbles, and the whine that escapes is an order for attention.

You take her jaw with both hands. Pull her, and look her right in her eyes and kiss her. Not slow. Not gentle. Thoroughly, so the tip of her tongue reaches the very roof of her mouth. She ends up with her back shoved roughly into the dash, and your fingers tangled through her hair and tugging. And her laugh turns to a whimper, her eyes a half-closed - you fingerfuck her cunt open. Thumb pressed tight to the clit. Two, and the palm of your hand smacks between her thighs, resonating all throughout the car. It's your own hot cum coating your knuckles and drip-dropping off your wrist, so she's melting and needy. The evening's passing, her hands go to her bra, so she's twisting and slipping, the orgasms strung together like the pearls on her bracelet.

Her fingers squeeze yours, then let go.

She licks into your mouth. "Jesus, you're way too good at that," is what Irene murmurs, when you're both just left breathless, half-shivering, merely recycling the same torrid air.

"Let’s get you home, princess," you kiss into her skin, joking. "Before curfew."

She sits up. "Shut the fuck up."

"Sorry," you lie, smug - not sorry at all. "Can't help it. You're too pretty when you get like that."

"What, when I'm cumming for you? When your cock is inside me? When you're fucking my brain to mush?"

Her heels clack to the ground.

"You’re gross," she adds, and shoves your arm.

"You like it," you say to her, "don't lie."

"Because I’m just this sweet innocent thing, right? I can't be held accountable for anything. Look at you, fucking me like this - corrupting me." A flutter of eyelash, and she leans forward to meet your eyes. She's adjusting the straps of her bra. She's a picture-perfect pinup girl. "Is that really what gets you off?"

"It's not bad." You let yourself soak in it, for a second, just staring at her. "The whole naive, helpless schoolgirl act. It's a classic for a reason."

Irene snickers. It's sweet-bitter, and that's fitting. You like how her blush is red and stubborn.

"Goodness," she says, like you can't see the dust of a smile, of a smirk, take shape on her swollen mouth. "Okay sure, let’s get into that; say my dad is sitting up with worry." Her head cocks, playful. "My family probably sent a search party out for me," and her laugh's lighter than air, warm, a few shades shy of ridiculous - if you thought that the sound could make you as much of a fool as she does - then yeah, that’s pretty accurate.

"What - like in a rocking chair, with his shotgun and everything?"

"Yeah, you’re so fucking dead. He's so going to shoot you on sight when he sees the absolute state you're returning me in. His precious little girl, " Irene picks at her bra, tucks herself back in, adjusts her hair. The last of her hairpins drops, falls to the dash. It rolls back, between your legs. "Pull the trigger and turn you into swiss cheese. Last rites, eulogy, the full nine yards." Her makeup's smudged - red lipstick, the tip of her nose - and you just don't feel like pointing it out yet.

"Cremation, most likely?"

"Eh, who knows," she smiles, and now, more than ever, there's not a sign of hesitation in her face, her voice, the light and effortless way she drapes across the interior, stretches. "You’re so cute though. Maybe he'll give you a chance and let you run."

-

It hadn't really occurred to you until you arrived onto the front steps of Irene’s apartment and watched her sink back against the door, exhaling softly in the fluorescent light, her eyes heavy, but you have a sneaking suspicion that you're doing everything completely out of order. 

You aren't in some trope-addled tv drama, and Irene isn't your childhood-friend or your slowburn-material, someone with a sentimental backstory.

Maybe in a parallel universe, some twisted alternate ending, where she's in this long, silky wedding gown, both sides of the aisle are watching you commit sins the way people can't resist doing in those fuck-it stories, all heat and sex and dopamine without remorse - but not now, not yet.

(Probably - probably not ever, and if that's a cop-out you can't help it. Because isn’t it silly, the things the people will do. Pretending to not be in love, all for the sake of the chase - getting themselves hung up in this world of digital advances and missed connections.)

You'll regret it later, you think. That's an unforeseen variable you should've predicted, though, isn't it?

Because you've both loved before, both been hurt, the excuses are all in the chamber: all the mixed signals and stereotypes. How she looks at you - or doesn't, some days. Your past, hers, the differences. You've never known exactly how this should go, if there even is a best version of this love to pursue, the idyllic happily-ever-after, that perfect white dress. Fuck, that is not the daydream you're supposed to be having.

The story instead, is like this: you drive her home. She sings along to the music on the radio. She kisses you over the console at a red light. Someone honks. You walk her to the door, because you're old-fashioned when you think it’s useful. You're a charmer, she's yours. You grab her by the chin and probably end up making out for far too long.

Just imagine if it had all been by the book:

A first date, then text messages. A second, where you're supposed to invite her to dinner, drinks. You’re supposed to call her, on the phone, with your voice and everything - low, a little assertive - not bossy or controlling, no: that's what the third date's for. There's a checklist for what to do, what to say; how you're supposed to kiss her, and why she's supposed to act all shy, the picture of demure - like she's innocent, though she'll be anything but. At the end of it, you're supposed to pay. She won’t let you. You're supposed to walk her home. She's supposed to linger, put the keys in the door and ask you what you're doing next - she's supposed to look over her shoulder as she walks inside and say goodnight, be coy, let it dangle on the edge. And that's supposed to be that. All of it: quintessential.

Nowhere in that manual does it say anything about pinning her up against the door and slipping your hand into her slacks either - underneath the soft, dark lace of her panties and placing your other palm over her mouth so the neighbors don't hear what a little slut she can be when she wants to.

Just this side of coquettish. A total delight.

Irene practically sobs into the side of your hand. Her mouth drops open, and you haven't even really touched her; she's wet already, soaked - well. She's always wet for you.

"I'll catch you later," you breathe into her neck, letting your fingertips skirt the puffy lips of her cunt on the drag back up because you’re actually not old-fashioned, like at all.

She tosses her hair, lets a sigh run through her smile, the blush, the creased eyes - and disappears through the door. It's the simplest way you two will ever say good night.

-

Ignoring all the rules of engagement, you and Irene never actually tiptoe around each other.

There's never even been a third date because the lines between hanging out and fucking and hanging-out-fucking blur with astounding ease. It's no real shocker: it's the little details in the way you find her sitting next to you at work, hips shifting minutely from side to side on the stool as she sifts through sheet music, sipping her latte, just barely making a sound.

It's the little details in the way she shows up, dresses to all the events, hands brushing yours to call attention to the ends of her fingertips; it's how every camera in the room seems to favor her.

If any of the 14th-century courtship philosophers could ever weigh in, now would probably be ideal. You’d be grateful, sure - because Irene is the epitome of entanglement. And that's your excuse. If anything's going to kill you, let it be her.

-

The texts do dry up for whatever reason. 

Three hours between replies just to conceal a bit of earnest emotion or whatever. You wonder what that's called, wonder when it gets so boring - why all these steps had to be so dull, and why you can't do without them. The modern era has, after all, rendered the ancient rituals pretty fucking pointless - you could both use a time machine to the medieval ages, then you could get the fireworks. The gallant. Some declaration or betrothal - maybe a show of sword, a fistful of your bride's maidenhead. Or whatever the fuck they were calling it in those days, it all sounds a bit crude-

When it really comes down to it, this is less about the charm, the proposal, or the lack thereof. Less about the dear Irene, will you be mine, and more about the want. Want that's palpable, messy: about shedding decorum together and feeling filthy and rough, taking, receiving, biting into the sweet skin of her inner thighs and spanking her so hard she can't walk the next day.

That's all it is, you're pretty sure.

And look - she still attends a majority of your work functions even though, strictly speaking, she has no reason to. Everything is relatively normal, or maybe you don't know how normal is supposed to look, and that's alright because you're trying - and all you really care about is Irene smiling at you with that one knowing tilt of her mouth - and - and she does. 

Hey, you're not entirely hopeless

-

(The toxicity, the slammed doors, ignored voicemails and belted taillights zooming off into the night - look, not everyone is built for all the drama, not everyone feels the thrill at the tip of their fingers when they cut their losses and move on to the next. Floating through the memories thinking, wow, what a waste of time.

That's not you, you're aware. And Irene’s seen it before, probably, had a story just like it in her own life, maybe been there, maybe not, but isn't it fascinating how all of it always sounds the same no matter how the story gets told.

So, keep it simple stupid. It's easy that way. Don't confuse her, or yourself, don’t fuck it up by demanding more. 

Afterall, it feels good, pretending not to care where she is at night.)

-

So - take some credit, you do something right for once. You call her.

It’s a Saturday and she’s working late because she’s a singer. She's between hair, makeup and costume. Bored. Or, pretending she is, and if you were a lesser person, the type to lie to yourself, you'd let the pretension sit as-is. It's not even difficult: no effort required to sit back, close your eyes, and listen.

"The way he was just staring at me was so embarrassing," Irene is going on about this production assistant, and her voice is always light, playful - it doesn't matter who, it doesn't even matter what, it's the cadence to her speech that lulls. "Like I could read his mind."

"Can't you?" you ask, indulgently.

"Okay, don't try being cheeky, mister," Irene scolds into the phone, but it's hardly stern; her tone's the softest kind of sultry, like caramel, dripping. "He wanted to bend me over the table. Get some nice little marks in."

Hey, who could blame him? She exhales, almost sounds annoyed - the pout on her face is practically audible.

You are not a good person by the longest stretch of the imagination. "Then what stopped him, princess?" you question, not a hint of chivalry left in you. "Fooled me - isn't that your kink? Fucking men you've barely just met."

She laughs - once, breathless and abruptly; something sharp. You're not actually joking and she can't pretend otherwise. "Fuck." The word is a sigh, the suggestion is all over the air. You aren't blind. "You would, wouldn't you? Probably love to see me bent over, too - and split in half on some stranger's cock. Worshiping it like you've taught me, or whatever the fuck."

You hum in amusement, putting the pieces together from what she hasn't said. "Aw," you coo. "Missing me already I see."

"Don’t flatter yourself," she shoots back, all quippy, fast: quick reflexes, the stuff of her brand. "What am I meant to be doing while I'm waiting for the crew, huh?"

And well, that’s the thing - you end up on the phone for far too long, far too late: she leaves you to wait a minute when someone knocks on the door, and you'll have her later, probably, but what's wrong with dreaming of fucking her in one of those dressing rooms, pulling that corset down her curves and kissing her silent in case someone walks by - leaving teeth and nail marks across the tops of her breasts. You expect her to bring the conversation to something a little more in the moment, but her voice carries back into the room and she's asking you, casually, what's for dinner, how was your day. You laugh, tell her a funny story that happens, talk about everything that's mundane, everything she should know and would know about you if you actually spoke all the words in your head.

"Hey," she says, at some point, quiet and suddenly gentle, and you're already wrapped around her finger and you've yet to tell her. "I like talking to you. Keep calling."

This isn’t like you, really. Or it hasn’t been - not in a while.

"As if that's up to you," you shoot back, your voice so dry you know she can see straight through it, but maybe you're doing alright, making leeway - because at least, it's a placeholder. Irene seems to understand what you can't explain.

"Ha." Another laugh, airy this time: easy-breezy. A vocal shrug. "My hair is way too cute right now to deal with your smart mouth, anyways - they're waiting for me." She hesitates, but the gap isn't uncomfortable, a space to breathe. "Let's just say you'll get tired of me before I get sick of you."

"Do you want me to see?"

"Later," says Irene, almost hurriedly, like an excuse, but in a pretty way, and the click on her end of the line is still warm.

(You hang up, stare at the wall and take deep, shaking breaths: in, out, hold - when you don't, you can taste her. But still, you wait for the feeling to subside.)

-

At first, she had seemed entirely untouchable. It’s funny. At first, you were convinced she'd look right past you.

-

She sends you a video, no commentary: the pretty, delicate sweep of her mouth brushing her shoulder. Her arm casts a shadow down the rise of her hips and your eyes trail that shadow south, across the soft planes of her stomach.

There are no questions after it, no words or emojis. Just her. In lingerie and no fucking context. The sound of her inhales.

(She says things with her face like that - or rather she says nothing at all. There isn't a hand-written translation key, though she leaves clues. She's playing it up, knows how you like her when she gets mouthy, lips glossy, knows how you like her panting. It wouldn't take much if she put her hand between her legs for you: you'd suck on her fingers, clean them off. You'd do anything.

The sound she does make eventually is low, frustrated. It's filthy - just thinking about her, all alone and barely touching herself: waiting for your reply.)

-

And yeah, it'd feel good not having to think about the bullshit anymore - you’d do your best to convince everyone that it's casual: the looks, the touches, all of it - the two of you together. It'd be a total lie, and you'd know it: everyone would know it, but that doesn't really matter. Because keeping things careless works. Never had it been about the feelings, and it's a cop-out, sure, that old cliché, but look - there's a really good chance you'll muck this up if you're given the power to put a name to the way her pupils dilate a half second before she grabs at you. Or the way you always fall a little more for her.

You think about that, about the worst of it: that she could ask you the most invasive question on her mind and instead, you'd answer, honestly and willingly, just like that: "hey, do you want to stay the night?" 

-

But here’s the thing: she's a singer and she's got all these friends. Colleagues and acquaintances from work who are, in her words, also 'friends' (code for: people I am required to tolerate by contract.)

Hey, you're no marriage counselor - you won't try to figure out the etiquette. And her labelmates aren't a total disaster.

It's only fair to make an appearance, meet all these alleged Bae Joohyuns. And - she likes it, in that way Irene likes a lot of things you do to her. She’s texting you a new address every few minutes, texting nonstop by the time you've matched a tie to a shirt and are actually considering heading out. It's this afterparty, or wait, sorry, we're actually at a bar now - no, scratch that, it's a friend of a friend's place, you'll love it, I think? - and you can't really picture her stumbling through the city at midnight like she is, but there's a blurry photo of her and Seulgi and Wendy crowded around a mess of champagne flutes on a counter. An outdoor patio, a rooftop garden somewhere downtown. Her dress is breathtakingly gorgeous. There's an arm snaked around her waist and that's - hmm.

Wendy wants u here lol, the next text reads, and okay, you can't actually be bothered to give her shit for that right now. She can't be helped.

Someone's having fun, you type out instead.

Maybe I'm bored, comes the reply, just as fast, and then a few seconds later: i don't think anyone knows me here.

You roll your eyes. You'd love her despite, or maybe because of, a personality like that. "Never took you for anything like a celebrity."

Fine. I'll have to think of something to do, then, Irene responds, almost lazily, the following text-delete cycle appearing under your thumb like some new and innovative high-speed braille. Maybe.

But you could also come over and get me off, you think she should add. That could be fun, too.

No dice.

Meet me soon, she texts, and maybe a drunk mind speaks a sober heart, but she doesn’t even know what it does to your stomach when she follows it with, I miss you.

You wonder, a little, how you got here. You wonder if things like that ever just become normal.

-

Kang Seulgi is standing out front when you spill out of an uber and onto the sidewalk, all stooped over under the yellow haze of the streetlight on the corner, smoke coming up off a cigarette hanging out of her mouth.

The chill night wind picks up and the edge of a leather jacket flaps behind her. It's almost eerie in how mundane the sight should be - and you think it's funny: Seulgi can make herself at home, anywhere.

"Hey," the brunette calls, stepping up. She's tall in her heels, the crescents under her eyes deep. The stars in the sky are shining against all the bright signs and street lamps, and it's hard to spot them. "Haven’t I seen you before?"

"Around the office, probably-"

Seulgi's eyes light up - she's not as drunk as the photo suggested, you think - and she gives a bright smile. Her eyebrows jump in recognition: a blur, the glimmering pulse of neon over glossed eyes and a lip caught by a canine. "You're Irene's-"

"-work friend," you answer quickly, before she has the chance to finish. It makes her laugh, which you weren't really counting on, and pocket her hands. You have enough bad ideas; you don't need hers as well.

"Oh. So you’ve got an arrangement," she suggests.

"It's an occupation," is as much as you'll tell her. "We all have one."

"Mhmm," she agrees, the wince on her face passing as a thoughtful hum. She shrugs.

"Did you-?" You clear your throat, don't know why it's hard to get out. "Is, uh, Irene in there?"

She takes a slow pull, long eyelashes sweeping over her cheekbones. Smoke spills out over her top lip. "Of course," says the girl, with all the attitude. "Just, not so alone."

"So," you start, cautious. "Do I even want to..."

Seulgi waves her hand, drops ash off the cigarette. "Nothing to worry your little heart over, friend," she mumbles, shrugging. Her fingers are delicate as she blows smoke between parted lips, eyes angling up at the city lights. "She said she was meeting someone cute. And I’m left wondering, if that someone could be you."

"Um," you respond. "Could be."

"Hm." The word is loaded, considering, and when she takes another step forward there's a smirk painted to her mouth, the deep red cut in the center of her lips almost reflective. She tosses her cigarette aside: a clean arc into a storm drain. "Interesting."

Seulgi's fingertips brush your collar as she ducks into the door in front of you.

"Later, pal," she tosses over her shoulder, and doesn't look back to see what happens next.

-

(You’d feel so much lighter, like a feather, with her off your mind.)

-

A crowd's scattered around the rooftop, now spread a bit thin - most of the people you recognize from tv screens and billboard ads, and everyone else seems a mix of other media. They're talking to each other in hushed tones about some shoot-down, this piece of gossip. They're comparing agent fees, checking the pockets of their jackets, flicking gold-plated pens in their designer hands. The whine of a power drill going a mile a second comes from over the railing: a few shots left to take. A skeleton crew works behind a camera, behind the glass, but no one seems to mind the business of film in the midst of celebration. They really are a different breed, aren't they?

You pick her out of the crowd instantly - in a white silk cocktail dress that costs more than a college tuition and no sense to act the part, Irene is seated among all of them like she fits. It's never a surprise, her at the center of things.

The seam at her hip rides up when she turns to reach for her drink, her leg extended long: overstretched, one toe pointed elegantly as if she could place her full weight onto a thin little stiletto heel and not snap both ankles. Her bottom lip is coated with bright gloss, pink smearing as it pulls at the straw.

There's a pause where everything slows down: she licks the crease of her mouth, sucks something golden and sparkling down, swallows, blinks - slow, pretty, perfect. Her hair is dark, cute, spilling onto her shoulders, and it brushes a collarbone, slips a little into the slit between her breasts. She's looking for someone, gaze traveling across the patio, swimming through the party - searching - and then, suddenly, those deep-water brown eyes catch yours.

They shine just a little bit brighter.

And then, the only logical thing: Irene smiles, before her feet carry you right in your direction.

-

Inside, things aren’t so loud. The night had gotten its worst out of the way early, the only source of music low and reverberating through the walls, the ceilings - all dark and liminal spaces; you and Irene find one to spare and fall into each other there, slow and searching and full of everything. It would be enough to get lost in her completely, this sweetness. You, and the kiss, and nothing else.

It's almost private enough to call it quiet; you're both out of sight and hidden, but there's voices, drowned noise all around. The bass can be felt through the floorboards, underfoot, but you can only focus on the rhythm that thrums from inside of her chest.

There's a disarm, here, too:

"I kissed someone tonight," Irene confesses, and then there's this break, a fragment where neither of you knows who you are to the other, what any of this means - if she'll bite down, be that sore reminder of a few unspoken words.

"Did you."

"Yeah," she says, exhale tickling your jaw. Her lips drag on skin, trace bone - and maybe it should bother you, but either way you can't help it: a thought finds purchase. Irene in someone else's grip, just enough a squeeze. Someone she'd like, or someone she could put herself back in a relationship with, or whatever they're calling this - and all at once, she's trembling.

The revelation is a bit like getting shot through the heart. A simple, awful: fuck. You think you might be bleeding.

Irene pulls the strap of her dress back up her shoulder and explains how it happened, out in that patio garden: a closed-mouth thing, some fleeting nothing, really, a bold dare on his behalf and her lack of inhibition. No, she assures you - he tasted like vodka and it was boring. She kept his hands off her ass, just in case you wanted to know. But still, the blood pumps harder in your veins knowing what she has and hasn't done - and what's wrong is how you only hear her confession in the middle of feeling something envious, a sudden, strong, profound desire to mark your claim: you'd leave this bruise, something ugly at the hollow of her throat. It makes you a possessive, possessive kind of person, and the sentiment, you figure, can only end in trouble.

"Sorry," she sighs, tipping her face forward to brush her forehead against yours, her eyes scrunching as she apologizes. "I don't think you wanted to know, but-"

You're trying to distract yourself; she's pressed between you and the wall, arms circling your neck as her spine bows under a bit of pressure.

"Yeah?" you question though. You can't not. There's this telltale roughness, the need to breathe: you'll hold on too long, take her mouth the way she deserves, keep her quiet, and let your tongue flick across hers until her lips are numb. "What then - should I care? Am I meant to?"

She swallows. It's all reflex.

"He kissed me," is all she says, and then her palm is stroking against the shell of your ear, soft, quiet. "Then he kissed me again." 

She shivers, eyes wide, wet and round and wanting: you could say you understand how he could only dream of being the one to turn her head and bring out her charm, the easy way she smiles, but-

"All I could think of was you."

There was never a chance to compete; this star whose shine eclipses. Your binary system was never quite fair, was it?

Your hands are on her wrists then, trapping them at her sides; her eyes smoky and dark and looking straight up at you. She can't breathe like that, mouth agape as your nose brushes hers, your words blowing straight against the heat of her lips:

"Are you still thinking of me now?"

It's only that - though you can hear a sound building up from her lungs. You kiss the line of her jaw and whisper things into her skin: you have me, you can have me, you've always had me. The truth.

And her eyes are slipping shut: mouth curling into the kind of smile that drives you crazy; half the reason why you're all over her in the first place. You don't care where she's been so long as this is where she ends up, your face brushing hers, the kiss held just out of reach - you press into her forehead, her nose, her cheeks; she tilts her chin towards you, begging you to just - but your mouth is on her, feather-light, not near enough: she chases the pressure, gasps your name as your lips find hers, tongue sliding right past, and oh-

It's fast. It's heavy: you take, you push; her whole body shifts and shudders when she finds a grip, one hand braced on your shoulder as the other swung upwards, pulling you closer by the jaw. Your hand runs up her thigh and you hear her inhale, deep.

Irene kisses you like she was made to. She makes sounds with her tongue against yours, ones that twist in you, wind, undo. Like this, it'd be so easy to just let it go - take, take, take. There's not an inch to hide as your hand climbs her bare skin, feeling a shiver rise as her breath rushes hot against your cheek, over and over and-

"Breathe, baby," you mutter, and Irene huffs like it's a game, one of her soft shuddering hiccups, like there's something you should've known - the gasp when you kiss her mouth open, how it was getting easier to drown. She's not drunk, but she's getting there - and she doesn't ask to take it back when you both tip and crash into the wall beside. The reverberation of her back hitting the surface is nothing like the rest.

You take her arm, press her further against the space.

"Bedroom," she barely manages to request. Breathes, the sound shaking and short, almost - almost a plea, or a prayer. A beg. "Somewhere quiet, please. Anywhere. Please."

There's nothing Irene doesn't do without grace - but how she needs you: her limbs give, and she sags, falls against the line of your torso. There's this full, bordering helpless sound as you find her waist, holding her up, pulling her closer. You're kissing in this empty corridor, knocking on doors, jiggling locked door knobs and wasting time, barely, maybe, forever until you can step back into some stranger's guest room: some hallway hideaway; the unoccupied kind of paradise.

"I want you," she mutters when your hand traces the slope of her neck, and then her face is burying against the space below your ear, her open mouth skirting across the sensitive skin there. "So bad, so much. Out of these clothes."

Her neck tilts and you lick. You find a place beneath her ear, kiss - hard. Irene says please. You leave a mark. You know you’ll leave more. 

An unlocked door, and she shoves you into a bathroom instead, fucks you in there with her underwear tugged to the side and her skirt rucked up her thighs: the mirror reflecting back every whine, the squeal you draw out of her when your teeth dig too deeply, the shock, the undiluted want in her eyes when she leans up against it. You have her half on the sink, your arms a cage around her lithe waist, your grip white-knuckled in the silk outline of her dress; she cums around your fingers, cunt slick and slippery, gasping your name so loudly that you have to shush her; and even after that, when her gaze locks into yours, the pretty round of her cheeks all red and her lashes stuck with her tears: when she tugs your zipper down, fits you between her legs and pleads for you to fill her with your cock until the tightness around it is unbearable, fucking her just as you're pulling apart her clothes, the clasp of her bra snapped so hard she curses - even that doesn't stop. She doesn't ask you to stop - she's incorrigible, needy, practically begging.

"Please." Again. Again, as she touches her cheek, fingertips on the skin that's already turning a deep crimson, all shades and blooms; and then she touches the lipstick-smudged prints at the top of her breast, and all the ones on her jaw. Your teeth, where it was light, and your tongue where it was hard. You took, and you marked, and the way she is, her thighs quivering like an aftershock; her body pliable, barely-breathing: that was almost all of what she asked for.

Your hips snap, and the impact jolts through her: ripples sent into the curves of her body from the pleasure, the pain. You try not to listen, not to look - not the obscenities leaving her mouth in a steady stream as you press her down against the counter: every hiss and moan, your name, jesus fuck-

Irene cums a second time with a wail, like someone's hurt her, like she's been set free, like she'll never again breathe so well as she does when your lips catch the scream and hold down the sobs, fingerprints at the faint, fragile curve of her nape.

"God," she whimpers into your mouth; and the sound, that voice, as she moans it to you: "your cock - is gonna kill me, baby."

Her cunt is tighter around your cock than it's ever been, this total vice grip, her hips lean and arched upwards where she lies, slick-dripping onto the bathroom counter; the edge of her heel catches on the marble-topped basin, and her ankle knocks over the handsoap - the whole of it hitting the floor and shattering. 

She doesn't care. She can’t. She's a fucked-out mess: her black hair in knots, sticking to her hairline, her face flushed with need.

"Darling," the sweetest, her soft voice cracking with a laugh, the tipsy tilt of a joke; she's begging with it, some lazy, pretty curl of a request, some pretty plea that turns around into a bite, the heat, the feral - you kiss her harder. Take her harder. Leave a few more marks: just so you know she'll still feel it later, bruised and sore and sorry, and it might be too much, but oh, the way Irene grabs and pulls and fights and tries to cling when it crosses the line; she'll be feeling this tomorrow, a sharp tugging at the inside of her chest as she rubs circles into the scrapes and imprints on her hip bones. This reminder; of what's right there, if only-

Mine, you bite against her skin, and the voice in her head might scream with it.

You can see the fantasy in her eyes: her standing here in the mirror after you've filled her pussy, fucked your cum back into her cunt and had your fingers inside her for so, so long that she'd been soaking, dripping with it - your palm pressing firmly on her swollen, desperate clit, two fingers hooking deep, right on the spot that makes her twitch, tremble. Her jaw goes slack, eyes fluttering and back arching as you watch her drip with the mess you've made of her.

"It was always, I think-" and she hiccups, a small pained sound, "it was always gonna be you." She says it like an apology, voice quieter, more uncertain, a little shaky. "I just can't get you out of my head."

Your hips are reckless, a little mean - but your mouth moves slowly across hers. It's tender. It’s everything. 

"Baby," you plead back: and it's something soft and small when you sigh it into her mouth. Your fingers tracing her ribs and feeling how she breathes with your every motion; how you're filling her so deep she almost can't. Choking, with a whimper, like it's hard - and then her jaw goes slack, eyes snapping shut - her knees bend - like she'll give up on the control. Her body slackens and gives under you; her legs widen to fit your hips, all her weight sinking backwards on the marble-top-

She keens when you bottom out, a high, delicate noise. Whimpers at how full she is of you; she must've felt your rhythm slipping and letting it run too rough-

And even then. She asks, totally breathless, panting: "Right there," and fuck, god, please. "I love this," she whispers, the sweetest, the most gorgeous, lips moving as slow as a prayer - "and you fuck so good. And-"

Irene swallows; her chest expanding and then halting, shallow and deliberate. Her chin turns; her mouth opening in some expression of yearning before the word comes; a gasp, and she can't - she can't quite-

"Keep- baby, please." Her throat makes a noise and all the words taper. "Please, right fucking there."

She makes another sound, strung out and desperate - and she keeps gasping the faster you thrust your hips. Each drag through her hot, wet cunt has you both clambering closer.

"This," Irene's panting, this terrible, wonderful realization in her mouth. "This feels like-"

A stutter. A strangled sound: you don't even catch a full breath before she's trying again.

"-like us."

Oh, Irene, her heart murmuring. Like something soft, like something hard - this burn, this hurt; Irene, in her prettiest, highest pitch - the way she speaks, the way she breathes, her voice dropping a decibel like some clandestine secret. Like sin, a honey-coated whisper in the space between you two.

"Irene," you say, and she melts like you’re inscribing it into her skin. DNA-deep, carved into her bones. She takes it like a baptism, something in it an invitation, a promise to hold her dear - and all at once, that smile grows, blooms. 

It's intimate. It's affectionate. Fuck, it's true.

You break open her world with her own name, spoken like a sigh and sounding like sin.

There's this hollow, raspy sound she makes. Beneath the shallow of her clavicle. When your fingers push down, her nipples pressing back into your palm - there, as her breath hitches, as she quivers - right there; her cunt trembles around you, eyes wide-open, and you're just watching each other lose yourselves until Irene has to beg for another kiss, and the next, her fingers grasping at the collar of your shirt as she slips her tongue into the corner of your mouth. You wonder why she bothers with perfume; when all she is is vanilla and cinnamon, a saccharine so sweet with a touch of spice; she murmurs the words into your ear: I want your cum. Fill me up. Use me.

You think:

God, her body; god, the feeling. The sound.

Think, still:

Look, your hand. At her waist. At her pussy. Right here. The place where you're connected. Flesh, bone, a stretch of skin - the raw, obscene mess you make; when all it takes is a rock of your hips, a thrust upwards and in to dismantle everything that is her, everything that is Irene, until her entire world is centered around you-

It could be a chorus, a refrain:

Let go. Let me see. Drown me out. Kill the lights. You’ll take three hours over three weeks where you pretend she doesn’t exist. It's simple. It’s, it’s-

It’s this: the press of her to your skin. The nails to your scalp, down your neck. The splay of her legs across your thighs. The sweat - hers, yours - all of it together; your mouths meeting and meeting and meeting. Again and again.

God. It’s the entirety of you which you were hoping to avoid. You love this woman. You fucking worship her, all of her, every piece and the whole - that she's making that noise in the back of her throat, soft; that her breathing is rising, ragged; that you do this to her, just this.

It happens in a blink. You tell her to turn. Tell her to bend. 

She ends up over the counter, gripping the sink, and you lift the fabric up to bare her ass and keep fucking her, deep, deeper. This sound is all you need, this whine that Irene makes, like you're reaching even her furthest, hottest spots - and then the push through her sopping cunt, how she spills around you and the slickness smears at the insides of her thighs; she clings and squeezes and fucks back against you so wildly, she doesn't even recognize her own name. It's the moment when she loses all sight: that's when you bury inside her, pull back her hair, wrap your hand around her throat, and she's under you, on you, body angling upwards like a flower to the sun. She cums so easily, shuddering into the pull of the climax; her pussy tight around the throbbing swell of your cock - the deep and penetrating pain of that desperate pleasure, like a flash-flood, an earthquake, oh, the grip, the warmth-

The moment stretches, just like that. 

Her heels kicked off and toes arching to scuff at the cool, tiled floors; she's sensitive; she wants to play dirty. Your grip loosens, that same tender thing when her throat bobs, a little movement, swallowing for you. She knows exactly what she's asking for, exactly what this all means - Irene begs so prettily: "put it inside me."

There's a few seconds in which you feel nothing but the heat and the way she flinches, like a reaction that's programmed straight into all her nerve endings; the raw instinct; the shudder from deep within her core when your hot cum finally starts to spill thick and heavy inside her - it's been too long since your last proper fuck, and her moaning in the mirror is, how do you say: an incredible inspiration.

"Your pussy," you can hear yourself say, throat gravel-dry. "Is so fucking tight, baby, shit-"

And she's nodding, voice ripped to ribbons. All the words liturgical, a prayer. She's begging with them; yes, please, fuck, god yes, give me-

Her thighs press together, but her eyelids have begun to fall.

"Use me," she mutters. Her breathing begins to even out - the very real sign she's spent, near unconscious. "Want this, want you - so fucking bad."

And the evidence is there. Irene is falling apart beneath you, hands fisting and legs spreading even further as she's braced against the sink, bent, and presented. All of it makes a beautiful sight: the spread of her toned, ivory thighs; her ass pale and her folds so pink; how she's bent, waiting. Everything about her is an artistic consideration, designed, purposeful.

"Christ," is all you manage. The strain is evident in how your tone rasps.

Because your hips are still pumping Irene’s cunt with cum. Fingers wrapped around her tiny waist and pulling her ass flush against your hips for good measure. Again and again and again; no room for doubt: you've missed the warmth, the fullness. Soaked to the hilt as your length curves within her; she coos, and she loves it. She says it’s ruinous. She says it feels incredible. She says it around the shape of your name and with no hint that you should ever stop fucking her apart.

"Feels so fucking amazing." She's panting and she can't say another word for a while; it's a fact and the other is simple. "It's - so good."

She can't stop moaning. 

You’re both breathless, watching her reflection in the glass, a study in motion: the soft bounce of her breasts in the mirror, the cords of muscle tensing in her abdomen, the small, pinkish mark blooming below her left ear. There's her lower lip, pinched between her teeth, her eyes flickering shut as her hair drapes across her naked shoulder and her skirt rolls higher on her waist. She doesn't try and muffle herself: you could hold her down, or even give her your fingers to bite down on - let her go a little wild as she wrestles against the instinct to stay silent, keep quiet. You plant an open-mouthed kiss against the side of her neck and look up, see her watching the movements, her dark eyes lidded, dazed, fucked-out-of-her-mind content as she smiles - lidded and lovely and impossibly knowing and rocking her hips into the moment.

"You are unbelievable, you know that?" you're murmuring, your palm on her shoulder. Pushing her flat. "Absolutely breathtaking."

You rub a thumb against her cunt, pull at the outer, exposed, sensitive parts as Irene's smile falters. You just keep pushing.

"Oh, baby," she whines, pleading for more. For one more press, another, anything: she begs you. "Your cum feels" - she swallows hard - "so fucking warm inside of me."

A shush, the palm soothingly pressing between her legs, and she bites her lips hard. Still trying.

So - you push it all deep into her cunt. 

There’s this beat, this moment, this quiet - where her eyes pinch tight, voiceless, speechless.

And right after, Irene is whimpering: her body seizing and shaking and arching away from the viscous slickness that just keeps building with each and every drag; the cum left on your cock when you pull it out, leaving Irene on the verge of sobbing, collapsing on her stomach, trembling. Your fingers are covered in her cum. And this is how she likes it, stretched and sloppy. The shudder through her body is proof: all over her nerves, electrified. Irene’s shoulders go limp when she feels the push - then your knuckles, curling. The gentle touch, the pressure, the fingers spreading her slit.

She asks what else, anything, please, and hints at wanting more; so much more.

“Irene,” you say, smiling into the ends of her hair. Maybe, you consider. Maybe later, maybe when you're fucking her flat on your bed; your cock up her tight ass or your palm coming down heavy on the supple roundness. You let her fantasize a minute, imagining it's the roughness she wants to receive; maybe the hot, slow grind of you still inside her or the whisper at her neck and her toes digging into the sheets. The offer has her breath stuttering in the mirror.

Irene tells you it's unfair.

"Sorry," you say, and don't mean a word.

Another breath in, the lungs expanding against your palm, ribs slipping. In and out, a reminder.

"Don't be," Irene manages, exhaling a laugh.

She offers you her lips, you know she doesn't mind - and she kisses you. You sink down to the bathroom floor and she sits so easily in your lap, your mouths meeting over and over again. She strokes your spent cock. Your hands squeeze her thighs and you take her chest in your mouth. Wiping your own smear of wetness off her tummy, bringing them to her face, letting her nose knock into your palm and lick at the tips. 

"Can you taste how sweet your cunt is? Baby," and your mouth is on hers, kissing all traces off her tongue-

There's so many things you could do, it's enough to keep you sated for ages. Her back is pressed against your chest, and you gently draw another spill of cum leaking out from her pussy; she shoves your digits into her mouth, sucks until her jaw clenches, your thumb rolling around the roof, tongue pressed right between.

"If someone sees us," she whispers, licks her lips, your fingers, moans, tilts her hips and grinds down a bit. "We'd be so screwed."

"Don't worry, I'd say," and you can't help the tease in it; your voice low and all grit, the heat and your heart rushing through every vein. "It'd all be my fault."

It's filthy: her sitting in the puddle of your cum, making it soak the thin material of her dress; your heavy spill leaking from her cunt and soaking your slacks as the mess seeps further and further down your pants and her ass-

"We are such a disaster." She says it wistfully. "You and me, like this. A total fucking disaster."

(With your clothes torn open, hair a disaster, the imprints of your lips and fingertips all over her, she means. If it was anybody but the two of you: oh, how ridiculous it would seem. But the sheer audacity of the possibility has her looking at the cum glistening on her thighs. Then looking back to you, her dark-brown eyes, brighter than stars, searching the depth of the hold in yours, your arms wrapped around her.

Maybe she just wants to have this. For as long as you're giving it to her.)

-

You can feel yourself falling so deeply into her, the pull. The draw. It feels a lot like being lost. Like, there's something about loving her. The night's long and she's pressed so closely, fitting like something just perfect, and the way her hands find your ribs is the nicest, fondest ache. You only break out of the haze once the footfalls of her heels begin to echo behind you. The bass fades as you both make a run for the exit. It gets harder not to laugh - your giggling voices slipping between you. You have her nose pressed to the dip of your collarbone, kisses dropping in her hair, her lips curved into a smile every time your thumb does another circle - that place right below her hip, or right there behind her ear.

"Take me somewhere," she sighs. Her body pressed against yours, her cheek snuggling against you.

"Any suggestions?"

She shrugs, and the elevator chimes. "I wanna sit with you."

When she leans forward, just the faintest movement, her mouth upturning in the smallest smile. Her eyes flit away, and her brow wrinkles and lifts, like this: here. You could swear, to god, or the devil: there isn’t an ounce of light inside you that doesn't live at her mercy.

The clock is ticking down into the small hours. The night at its calmest, darkest, most wicked stillness.  You ask her again, this time, just for clarity, a bit of guidance. "Somewhere we can go? If you have nowhere in mind, we could head back if-"

"No." Irene shakes her head. "Take me anywhere but home."

-

You're drunk. Irene's a little worse off. Her heel snaps. The usual grace, the poise, her ease, that’s all but vanished. It's just her: Irene. Hair windswept and the edge of her nose nipped by the chill, the moonlight.

She’s so fucking beautiful.

The night can hear her laughter in the air; you have her hands clasped around your middle, legs hoisted over your elbows. You’re carrying all fifty kilos of her across the pavement; the streets are quiet and the city's yours. Her dress bunches, and her voice is in your ear, a kiss peppered to the back of your hair. The both of you collapse and - ow, it's the crash onto concrete, a scrape and a bruise and a story to piece together tomorrow. Is this from the tumble? the sex? I don't know, Irene will say, sealing a band-aid over the red, the swell. Maybe this, maybe that. It all happened. The physical marks, the chemical thrill - the proof of life, a permanence, tethered.

"Let me, Irene," you're insisting, half-joking, pulling at the broken heel and tossing it a mile behind you. And like it's instinct, you just can't - can't help yourself. "Your legs are gorgeous, but, y'know. I’d hate to see you get hurt."

You run your palm down her calf and steal the other shoe. It gets tossed in the same direction, over her whine. "Babe."

Irene pouts, still too lovely, still too fucking sweet. 

She doesn't laugh, or blush, or try to argue. Instead, she sweeps your hair back, curls her fist at the nape of your neck, and suddenly you're staring, eyes locked and wanting. Irene leans in, her weight settling against your forearms, and gives you a look; just long enough and tender and dreamy and calm enough to have the ache of your heart match its rhythm with her own.

"What the fuck," and her smile cracks open as the words struggle in her chest; her hand goes down your arm and strokes a featherlight finger to the edge of your jaw. "Please don't throw away a woman's shoes without permission."

She hiccups. Sways.

You kiss her. And kiss her, and kiss her. Irene smiles right against your mouth.

"Stay right here," she says. "Go get my fucking shoes, but stay right here with me."

-

Look, it feels so good, not worrying where she is at night.

-

"I thought," she's whispering as you cross into a twenty four-hour minimart, Irene on one arm and both her heels in the other - a pack of wet wipes in your hand - and then her pausing, stopping; this brief flutter of something - she says, "I used to think about how this would all eventually fall apart."

Irene leans forward and gives her weight onto you, hand playing around with the sleeves at your elbow.

"I used to wonder which one of us it would be," and the cashier is ringing up your purchases: a bottle of water, a cold compress, baby wipes and neosporin. The ice cream Irene's insisted you treat her for. She runs a hand up the back of your hair and smiles when you meet her eyes again, "which of us would drop the other, you know, first."

"The thought still come up?" you say, sliding a bill onto the counter and offering a quiet "keep the change."

"Yeah, sometimes. Or I mean I'd be watching you, sometimes, I guess." She smiles at your reaction, bumping your shoulder. "That’s the look."

You're walking out to the parking lot and you're pressing a soft kiss against her brow, waiting, patiently; because you always do, waiting. "Do I need to ask?"

Her grin, close-mouthed and gentle, a tinge of fondness, of humor: "you're going to ask either way."

"Hm," you say, popping the lid off the ice cream, breaking off the flimsy paper seal of the container. She's in the pocket of your blazer, Irene's fingers weaving in between yours, her hand reaching for a bite and grinning all the while.

It's four-thirty AM and the early hours will catch up to you, but. It's this: the yellow-orange streetlight above the two of you and her bare feet dangling off a concrete half-wall. In a white cocktail dress and sitting, you and her, atop a parking barrier. You're here, together, watching the skies lighten in the east - there, where the road will split to lead towards her place. Towards your own.

"There's no way," she says, wiping the corner of her lips with her pinky and then making a face. "For us to be together and not mess this up, eventually, somehow." She steals the carton and balances it between her knees. "There's no way to save this."

"Probably not."

Her mouth curls. There, and gone; there again.

"Doesn't that scare you?"

Your stomach is a riot of twists and nerves and the base of your throat is tight, like a swelling.

"It does." You lick your lips, can't think. "A bit, sometimes." You look at her - her profile, her silhouette, the messy, knotted ponytail, the wisping hairs beneath her temple. The press of her lips, how the gloss rubs off onto her knuckles, staining. "But then I see you - and I can't imagine how I'd even pull a 'it's not you, it's me,' convincingly."

Her throat clicks, and she leans her head against yours, and you're forgetting everything else.

You both stop. Sharing a bite. Sharing the silence.

There, and gone.

"Hey," she breathes out - and you can't explain her expression, how her brows knit together; she squeezes your hand, a tremor, and the corner of her lips pulls upwards, almost apologetic; sad, or thoughtful.  "This ice cream is so fucking freezer-burnt."

"It’s not great."

You watch her nose twitch like she's holding back a sneeze, or a sniffle. She laughs instead and leans against the warmth of you; the smell of her, your bodies touching.

"I love it," you hear her say, and she doesn't give the container back.

-

Irene falls asleep in the backseat of a cab as the sun rises, your blazer draped over her chest; she murmurs your name and pulls closer, seeking warmth. The traffic thins as the roads lead to where she'll disappear, and you find yourself dreading it already.

In a day, maybe two. It’s funny. You could end up hating each other. You might have to force a pause, or take a break, or even step back from her entirely. That’s how it goes. It's the hardship, it’s living - it’s the knowing that she has a lease on life that will end, will expire, a loan where all her days are slowly counting down; a timer you recognize the injustice that it might someday read zero.

Not to get too far ahead of yourself, or to project some awful ending where one isn’t likely: but when Irene and you are like this, soft, sleepy, curled into each other; her hand at the small of your back, resting; this close, and closer. Your heart aches with an ambiguous type of feeling, indescribable-

Irene shivers a breath and presses her face into your shirt; and like a revelation: you fall further.

"Where do I take her, sir," the cab driver asks, and your eyes turn, watching her chest rise and fall, steady, easy; as her grip grows looser and her cheek presses onto the leather seats.

She's too gorgeous, too pretty in slumber, in sleep, the innocence the most dangerous thing; you fix these wispy tendrils of hair back behind her ear and press a hand to her temple, stroke the line of her jaw, the bow of her lip. How soft, she's always the sweetest sight - with her head resting, her mouth falling slack, eyelashes fanned out over the fullness of her cheeks, and all of her like this, all her darkness tucked away: you think about all those times you've traced her from across a room, across a city; if there was anyone else you'd rather wake up beside, in your bed and beside the pillow; someone who doesn't pick your fights and your silences and loves them in spite of, despite everything. Who lets the fights burn white hot until it leaves you both splayed raw and exhausted, in her, on you-

Someone who fits so, so perfectly with the grooves and the curves, who completes you.

"Just drive," you murmur, looking away, blinking away. "I'm not gonna remember."

You're thinking about a book you'd once read, an idea. The world of difference, the fact in its finer detail; all the myriad iterations of 'loving' and 'missing' and 'want': the imperceptible shifts between being the absence of something and feeling it, tasting it, taking it, drowning it and holding it in your palms, seeing it every time you turn, breathing, living: wanting to never let her go-

"You alright back there, bud?" the driver asks. The tone: the slow and steady understanding, his age, how he watches you, the soft shake in your voice, the gentleness with which you hold your gaze - he knows. A blind man could read what your heart’s written on your sleeve. "Late nights are a killer," he says, a chuckle, before shaking his head, muttering, "but mornings even more."

There are a few more hours left. Maybe more, maybe less, of not worrying, and not caring. The thing about loving Irene is this: her touch, the press and the tugging and pulling; her body and her heart; she can be anyone, the best friend, the boss, the mistress, the princess. The pet. And you would be remiss, she says, not to remember: you, too, can be just anybody. So long as it’s you, I always come running.

-

It's the last time you kiss her, and that's an okay thing; you pull off the side of the street to brush your hand up to her temple, and when Irene opens her eyes to you, her lashes fluttering against the swell of your cheeks; her hair in soft strands over her forehead and framing her face like this. This vision of her is for you, all yours, all the little things.

"I’ll see you soon," Irene says, sleepily, and you know that you will.

-

The nook she occupies in your head by now, is so well-established.

You can't remember when it began. Not like there was a sign, a hint, or a clue. Just, her. And her lips and her tongue and her touch, all this reckless abandon - like everything else, there had to be a leap.

Even with all the lights burning out and the moon hidden in clouds and the nights and days unraveling around you - in those early days, the press of her shoulders or the palms of her hands would always send the worst kind of butterflies through you, like everything else - just her, the sway and the tipsy, the turn and the look she'd have before she would touch the pad of her thumb to your cheek and drag her nail down the curve of your smile.

(It had felt - and you're no longer in it - but it had felt so frighteningly fast.

Weeks, she had told you once. I fell for you in weeks. Months? Years? Fuck, no time at all.)

-

"Hey," Irene says in the not-so-distant present. She's sitting across the kitchenette - knees under her, bare feet pointed to the window, and the steam rises from her tea.

"Mornin'," you mutter sleepily. Stretching, craning your neck and arching your shoulders and ignoring the pop in your lower back, the strain at your ankles. Irene tilts her chin up and blows through the steam. There's an air of self-sufficiency, a state of mind she seems to always have, as if, the ability to ignore her vulnerability is a muscle she could constantly flex, expand, train herself to avoid - and all you're noticing is how that small movement has her shifting and curling over the cup, trying to keep warm. Her hair is pulled high in a knot and held up by an elastic, her baggy sweats loose and rolled twice over, the camisole low, a thin strap sliding off her shoulder.

"When'd you-"

"Had to wake up earlier today." She blinks, her legs slipping open, bending.

"Any chance-"

"No." And Irene snorts. The teasing pull of her lips has your stomach twisting a little more: "you know me."

That you do; the lazy Sunday, the slight pull in the center of her lower lip as she purses it. Irene, with her hair messy-perfect and that stupid fucking smile, so careless, and the joke-flirt she's doing; she knows just what she's doing and, yeah, god. You still have a weak-spot for her and it's so big; the twist in the base of your throat. Your morning wood rising. You’re familiar with this: the deep ache.

"You know," you say instead, blinking through the heaviness of your lashes and scratching a thumb against the line of your jaw. "A girl could walk in and mistake this for an affair."

"Girls love me." She turns the cup around in her grip and grins again, makes sure that the image stays locked. "Or," and Irene holds up the fingers, counts on two. "I've had two affairs in my life. One is basically a distant memory-"

"The other?"

Her teeth press down on her lip again. "How am I doing so far?"

"Honesty and self-disclosure in the kitchen, at eight in the morning? Irene, you're really outdoing yourself."

She lifts a brow, then brings the mug to her mouth - like a second-rate cigarette and a scalding-hot burn. "If you did bring a girl here," she says after a while. And, smiling: "she'd see me sitting here, incriminatingly pretty. I mean, she'd probably cry. Screaming fits, a fist fight. Then the waterworks - oh, he was my first! I loved him! He took my flower - ow, don't touch me, I think I might faint-"

"I doubt it."

"Ooo," Irene sing-songs, turning and crossing the space to sit on the armrest beside you. The sway of her body's so obvious. You've got enough room to pull her onto your lap, but you keep your hands to yourself. She runs the tips of her nails over your shirt, just above the buttons and across the sleeves. "Hun, I bet she'd kill you. It'd be very bloody, but romantic. Sad, but inspiring in a mundane sort of way - something you've only heard in mystery novels. Riveting, sordid stuff. Could fill your entire inbox. I mean, as they say in Chicago: he had it coming."

"Nah," you decide, after a yawn. "Too dramatic."

"Not at all," she scoffs, peering at you over the tops of her glasses. "The man she loved was a heartless betrayer."

"Can I ask why my imaginary girlfriend always comes across like some cliché young ingénue? You seem to have a lot of opinions about this girl."

"What, the girl next door, a little smart, but neglects her intuition?" She flips the bun at the back of her hair. "All wide-eyes, a ribbon in her hair, a flower-child who's seen too many Wes Anderson movies." She sticks her tongue into her cheek. "Never once stops thinking about the bad boy."

"If you want to get technical, all my girlfriends have been older than me."

"Whoops," she says flatly, hand falling to her collarbone, "spoke too soon. Got you wrong. No need to panic. I'm sure you, a man, are not drawn to some young thing, easily swept up in a passion. Simply, if nothing else, for the sweet naivete. Those hushed little moans and then, the screams. She would tell you it hurts - and on the same note, she’d be begging you for more - the little slut. God, she'd still be so, so nice and soft and quiet. Ready to be anything for-"

"And if you're the girl?" You stand up and grab her wrist. "What then?"

She pauses, considering this new development.

"You do not treat me very well." Irene pushes the bridge of her glasses back up the curve of her nose. "No candle-lit dinners or grand, public gestures." She twists a curl of black hair around her finger. "Definitely not a confession on bended knee - oh, no, never, never - you'll not have to stoop to that. Because you are, in fact, quite terrible at it. I don't think I'd have a single opportunity to pine pathetically, waiting. And maybe you're a bad kisser, actually," she concludes.

You tsk, scandalized. "You are really not cut out to be the ingénue at all."

Irene laughs, softly, reaching out to tug gently at a tuft of your hair. She smiles up at you - and it's so easy for her, somehow. So graceful. "Shall I fix that for you?"

"Do not fall for me, sweetheart."

"I will try to resist the urge." She tilts her chin and presses a finger to her lips. "Kiss, first."

You lean forward, let your nose bump her temple, her hairline. "Glasses, first."

"Whiner," she murmurs. She yanks, gently. Tugs and pulls, and presses the pad of her finger at the sharp cut of your jaw - her gaze half-lidded and slow as she holds yours. Like she's reminding herself, something she can't forget - what it feels like, exactly. A reminder. You can only keep your eyes on the slide of her jaw. "Gonna keep you like this forever."

"Love," you find yourself whispering. Sometimes you wait just so you can relive that first kiss. Irene swallows. "What a beautiful temptation."

-

You imagine, again, if it had all really been by the book:

Three dates and a letter of recommendation. Making her pay for half, instead of making her feel guilty about paying at all, which for the life of you, you can't fucking figure out: how to treat a woman. Chivalry in modern times: a fucking travesty, truly. She'd lure you to her apartment, or you'd do the same to her - just after the first, you know, the obligatory. The getting to know her, except you'd end up skipping the post-dinner steps of being a gentleman, which would leave the night open-ended, and you wouldn't give it much thought until the kiss against her door is so fucking filthy it makes you reconsider everything and everyone, you know, the morality of fucking someone more than once in a day.

You'd have hit all the milestones, she'd have to lead you to bed, and you'd play all her favorite movies as she lays across your chest and shows you what she likes to do best: finger herself, or something. And you'd talk about it, afterward, you'd acknowledge it - because this should be what dating is, right? This should’ve been the next few months of your life. Running that same exact pattern, knowing each other so well you can tell what sex will be like before it even happens, anticipating exactly what kind of text you'll get the next day - the call the following night, the feel of her hands on you in all the right places. The lazy moans, her lipstick imprints on your skin, the smile at the corner of her mouth. Nothing like putting your own fucking hand in her pants and rubbing a few hasty circles until her slick gathers around her knees and she can't walk for a whole day.

Things fall into place, they fill gaps, the idea must be mutual at some point - mutual attraction, mutual enjoyment-

How it is Irene got to spending five, six nights a week at your place is beyond you. Not because you're worried about what people will say. You're not. It's just - weird, to not know what you've done to make this last so long.

Are there rules to loving someone? Is there a checklist, a script - what praxis will keep things in place: comfortable. Last you checked, you have no fucking idea how to treat someone like she deserves. To treasure and cherish, hold her tight but never cage - what qualifies, huh?

"Irene," you say, one day - as you're both brushing your teeth. Because really, what does.

She looks at you like she's bored.

"Forget it," you reply, laughing to yourself and leaning down to rinse your mouth. "Idiot."

"Wait, no," she says, stopping mid-brush, her toothbrush bouncing obscenely in her mouth. "What?"

"I said forget it," you tease, and of course, the glint in her eyes is a warning if you ever saw one - but who would you be, then, if you didn't lean in close and tell her, ever so gentle. The three words could be: not a clue, or, you're so petty, or, simply, I adore you and she’d let that one lay to rest.

You choose them a little differently, and Irene's face lights up like she hasn't known all this time. 

A foamy spill of toothpaste leaks down her chin. "Th'a m'eh?" She's a mess, wide eyed and dripping and already reaching to swat you on the shoulder, disbelieving. "You can't just-" and her face scrunches, this exaggerated - ugh! - before she hides it in her hands.

Oh, you love her, and it feels so good, not pretending.

"Again. Say it again. I didn’t even hear you." She knocks her knee against yours, grinning behind her palms: wide and genuinely - happy. "Like, have some decorum."

Laughing - so hard you can't breathe - you shake your head and curl your fingers tenderly around her wrists, pull her hands from her face. "You are so greedy," you attempt between breaths, letting your fingers press against the softness of her palms, her wrists, the pads of her fingers - wanting to be a poet, she is a masterpiece - and tell her properly.

-

a/n: thanks for reading, it's always unbelievable to me anyone ever finishes these fics. This one's a very belated 'thank you' present for @yieldtotemptation. I'm like way late, but thanks for everything.

#irene smut #irene #red velvet irene smut #red velvet smut #red velvet irene #bae joohyun #kpop smut #kpop fanfic

[wheresarizona]

but I would die for you in secret

Part 2

summary: The relationship you have with Joel Miller is less complicated now that he’s going to tell Ellie that you’ve been secretly seeing each other for months. You thought their discussion would go well, but when you get home from work to a note on your front door from Joel that reads, ‘Come over, we need to talk,’ it has you immediately thinking the worst—up until he answers his door in nothing but a towel and drags you inside to fuck your brains out for the first time in his bed.

pairing: Joel Miller/f!reader

rating: E (18+!! No y/n, explicit smut, age gap (unspecified, reader is an adult), Possessive Joel Miller, Dominant Joel Miller, Joel Miller has a big dick, oral sex (m receiving), deepthroating (he tells you to choke on it (in a good way)), unprotected p in v (wrap it up!), creampie, breeding kink, rough sex, dirty talk (so much), spit mention, biting, spanking, whatever the kink is where you’re turned on by good dads, Joel in just a towel, pregnancy discussion, fluff, the last 3k words in Ellie’s pov (truly delightful), Good Parent Joel Miller, Ellie giving Joel so much shit, Joel giving Ellie shit, Ellie and Joel having the best discussions, TLOU AU where Joel doesn’t lie to Ellie and they’re good when they get back to Jackson)

word count: 11.1k+

a/n: Yes, I did make my own gif because I was too lazy to try and hunt for it. I really, really wanted to write about what happened after the last chapter, and here we are. I think this will be the last one. Thank you to the love of my life @juletheghoul for betaing!

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs feed me. I’d love to know what you thought!

Prev - Series Masterlist - Masterlist

The sun hadn’t risen when Joel Miller left your bed this morning.

That's how it usually was, him coming and going in the dark so no one sees him leave his house to come to yours across the street—the nights you spend together are bathed in secrecy, the two of you inhabiting your own little world, confined to the space of your home.

Why the sneaking around?

He didn’t want his daughter, Ellie, to know of his relationship with you. Over the many months you’ve been together, he’s let you in on much of what she had gone through before they got to Jackson. You understood that he’s all she has, and he’s worried that if he started openly dating, she’d think she isn’t as important to him as before or feel like Joel’s abandoning her. That’s the main reason he didn't want her to know, but with how often he brings up you being so much younger than him, and all the times he’s said you should be with someone your own age, you felt that he’s also ashamed of how old you are.

At least, that’s what you thought until the night before when he revealed his feelings for you and told you he wasn’t ashamed of you or the large gap in your ages.

When this all began, Joel was clear that all he could give you was his body—he was emotionally unavailable because he was too focused on taking care of Ellie.

Amazing sex with no strings attached? You were okay with that.

Except it wasn’t something casual, and there were strings attached.

You don’t just occasionally hook up with Joel; no, he’s at your place most nights and some days without his daughter knowing. You also can’t go out with anyone else, not that you want to—he doesn’t share or like when other men are interested in you. You aren’t any better, hating when women flirt with him, especially his next-door neighbor Sandra, who refuses to acknowledge he doesn’t want her.

Why does she, specifically, annoy you so much?

Not only does she shamelessly flirt with Joel any chance she gets, but she also touches him, her hand always ending up on his arm that he shrugs off, making him growl at her not to touch him. Does she listen? No, she still does it every time she runs into him, and it pisses you off that she doesn’t respect his boundaries. Plus, there was an incident a couple of months after he moved to Jackson where she got him over to her house under the false pretense of needing something fixed and then basically jumped him—she kissed him without his permission and came onto him, which he was not into and had him leaving immediately. He can’t stand her, and he’s been very firm with her that he’s not interested. If what she does to Joel isn’t bad enough, she creeps the fuck out of Ellie, and that pisses you off even more. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve saved the kid from talking to her; the look on Ellie’s face that screams she wants to be anywhere other than with Sandra makes your hackles rise, and a need comes over you to get the girl out of there as quickly as possible.

Has anything ever happened between Joel and Sandra to make her delusional enough to think if she keeps harassing him and his daughter, he’ll eventually want to be with her?

From what you understand, Tommy and Maria tried to set them up when he first arrived, but he declined; it truly was a case of right place, wrong time. He was polite when he rejected her and explained that his daughter needed him and that he had zero interest in starting a relationship with someone. Back then, he was completely occupied with taking care of Ellie, and dating was out of the question; it didn’t even cross his mind or was something he wanted. He was content with his fresh start in Jackson, alone with his kid to help her heal.

Why did Joel accept your advances the first time you met?

Right place, right time.

Once you moved to town, the father and daughter were settled to the point that Ellie was doing great in adjusting to life in Wyoming, and Joel felt he could finally do something for himself; you were tempting enough that he wanted to be selfish. He liked that you didn’t reek of desperation or made him feel pressured, neither of you doing anything that made the other uncomfortable. Obviously, there was a mutual attraction between you two, and the flirting went both ways; his head was already leaning toward yours when you went in for the first kiss, which he happily reciprocated.

What it came down to was he trusted you, and you were willing to do things on his terms.

And, of course, as it usually happens, feelings did develop—as his kid got better and more comfortable with living in Jackson, Joel opened up to you little by little, offering a tiny bit more of himself with each passing day and your relationship became confusing; it wasn’t only sex anymore; hasn’t been just that for a while, and it took you both over eight months to admit you’re in love, and for Joel to decide it’s time to tell Ellie, so he could actually be with you out in the open.

So, he left your bed before the sun had risen in order to be home before she woke up—that way, she wouldn’t be confused by his absence. He also planned on talking to her about what was going on between you two.

There’s this ritual he does before he leaves each morning that you’ve chalked up to him being from a different time and big on manners; your two previous sexual partners were closer to your age and nowhere near as courteous as him.

The slightest sounds will wake you, a side effect of surviving, and the moment the mattress springs squeak as he gets up, hours before you need to, your consciousness is coming back to you to assess if there’s any danger. Your ears perk at the rustle of him dressing in the dark, and you’ve learned not to spook when the blankets are pulled up to cover your bare body that gets tucked in. The kiss pressed to your hair always makes you smile at the sweetness, and you expect the whispered goodbye he says before he goes.

This morning, you didn’t expect the added ‘Love you’ at the end, which had your eyes opening and hand shooting out from under the covers to grab his, tugging him toward you. He knew what you wanted, chuckling as he leaned down to kiss your lips. You told him you loved him, too, when he straightened and started to leave, and he stopped at the doorway to get one last look at you under the dim light filtering through the gaps in your curtains from the street lamp outside, then headed home.

It’s safe to say your morning started off pretty great, and even though you didn’t see Joel after he left, the rest of your day wasn’t half bad either; it took a little turn when you got back to your house after working your job teaching at the school to a note from him on your door that read:

Come over

We need to talk

A romantic partner saying you needed to talk was never good, and worry knotted up in your belly like a ball, thinking things with Ellie didn’t go well when he told her about your relationship, and now he’s going to break up with you.

The first time you stopped by his place, you’d made the mistake of knocking; he was home alone and hadn’t known you were at the door until you rang the doorbell. It was adorable how he’d been a little embarrassed he didn’t hear you and pointed at his right ear to explain he had hearing loss. From then on, you always made sure to ring the doorbell, and you did so again, standing on his porch in the freezing cold with your winter coat on and worrying your lip between your teeth.

There’s the faint sound of him yelling from inside, “One minute!” thinking he’s upstairs, which is confirmed when you hear his heavy footsteps coming down the stairs. The deadbolt clicks as it’s unlocked, and the door is cracked open; Joel’s face appears, the rest of his body hidden.

He looks relieved to see you, and that’s a good sign. “Thank Christ, it’s you,” he says, opening the door some more to take your hand pulling you inside. The front door gets slammed shut, and your back is suddenly pressed against it, a surprised sound leaving your throat when his mouth crashes into yours, kissing you hard.

This is an even better sign that everything is okay.

He’s never kissed you in his house before.

One of his big palms cradles your face, the other locking the deadbolt beside you before it glides up your jacket-covered front to squeeze your breast. Your lips part to allow his tongue to delve inside and tangle with your own, looping your arms around his neck automatically. This kiss has your brain fritzing out, unable to think about anything except how he’s claimed you with his lips and tongue so fiercely and possessively while his large body cages you in. It’s embarrassing how long it takes a coherent thought to come through, and when it does, you’re lightly pushing at his chest, the surprise of bare skin under your hand causing you to break your mouth away to look at his body immediately.

A disappointed noise comes from him, and your eyes go wide at what you see.

“You’re naked,” you whisper.

His hand lightly holds your throat as he starts kissing along your jaw. “I’m not naked—I’m wearin’ a towel.”

That’s true. The faded blue towel is wrapped tightly around his waist, stopping just before it reaches his knees. His upper body is entirely bare, with pink and silvery scars etched all over his skin. No matter how many times you see him naked, you’re always so surprised by his broadness—it’s not a trick of his clothing or lighting that makes him appear big; he is that big.

“Still pretty naked.” You remember the thought you had. “Is Ellie home?”

“No,” he says into your skin. “She’s with Cat—” Her best friend. “—and they’re meetin’ us for dinner later.” His mouth is at your ear, feeling his hot breath, and shivering when he rasps into it, “Now, stop worryin’ about her, and let me take you up to my room so I can finally fuck you in my bed—I’ve been dyin’ to break it in with you.”

The proposition makes your cunt clench, and you’re interested in seeing his bedroom—he’s never invited you upstairs.

“Is this why you really wanted me to come over, to christen your bed?”

He pulls back to meet your gaze. “Didn’t want to scandalize the neighbors by puttin’ it in writin’, but yes.” His eyes darken as he slowly unzips your coat. “You comin’ up with me?” His voice deepens, nudging his nose against yours. “Since you’re my guest, we’ll do whatever you want.”

Joel always considers what you want, but he also seems instinctively aware of what you need—that’s the great thing about being with someone so much older and experienced; he knows how to play your body and make you feel so good that you’re happy to go along for the incredible ride.

With him saying you’ll do whatever you want, he’s letting you call the shots.

Your eyebrow raises. “Anything?”

“Within reason.” He kisses your chin, your skin tingling under his lips.

“Is there anything we did last night that’s not within reason…?”

The previous night, you weren’t expecting to see Joel because he’d been taking care of a sick Ellie for the prior few days. When he arrived at your place unannounced, he found you trying to make yourself come on your fingers and ordered you to finish as he jerked off, watching you. Then he fucked your brains out until your limbs were jelly and surprised you by asking if he could come inside you—something he avoided in the past and had only accidentally happened a handful of times.

His head moves to look you in the eyes.

“No.” He shakes his head. “It’s all within reason.”

That sentence excites you. “Let’s go,” you say quickly. He chuckles and helps you remove your jacket, hanging it on the nearby coat rack, which only has a few other items.

He grabs your hand and leads you up the stairs, the third step from the top creaking loudly under each of your weights.

You’re not entirely sure what you’re expecting his bedroom to be like, but when you walk into it, you take a moment glancing around at everything; there’s his queen-sized bed that’s neatly made, he’s got a record player over in the corner with a stack of vinyl records next to it, a couple of landscape paintings of pastures decorate his walls, there’s a walk-in closet not even close to full of clothes, his own private bathroom, and on top of his dresser is a few framed photos—one of Ellie playing guitar, beside that, Joel and her standing next to each other laughing. The third has you walking over to pick it up.

“Joel?”

He’s shut the door, and his bare feet pad across the floor, moving toward you.

“Yeah?”

“If you didn’t want Ellie to know about us, why do you have a picture of me and her in your room?”

It was taken at the town party celebrating the harvest and shows Ellie sitting beside you at a table, leaning into you with her head against your shoulder as you both smile at the camera.

“She doesn’t come in here.”

He’s next to you, and you look over at him.

“But what if she had?”

“Wouldn’t have mattered.” He shrugs and takes the photo from you, setting it back down in its spot.

You turn to face him, crossing your arms over your chest, and his eyes lock onto your bosom.

“What do you mean it wouldn’t have mattered?”

It takes him too long to answer, and you realize he’s distracted, so you wave your hand in front of his face. “Focus, Joel.” His gaze goes to yours.

“What?”

“What do you mean it wouldn’t have mattered if Ellie saw the picture?”

“I mean, it wouldn’t have mattered; it wouldn’t have revealed anythin’ she didn’t already know.”

“How long?”

His face pinches in confusion. “Huh?”

“How long has she known about us?”

His hands sit on his hips, and his weight goes to one side, a crease appearing between his eyebrows.

“I don’t want you gettin’ mad at me when I tell you ‘cause I had no idea she was aware; if I’d known, it would’ve been made clear long ago to everyone you’re mine. Understood?”

It’s said with such conviction it leaves zero doubt that it’s the truth, and it feels like your skin is vibrating at the fact he’s really going to make sure all of Jackson knows that you’re together now.

You smile. “God, that’s hot—yes, I understand.”

“Good—she clocked us pretty much from the beginnin’.”

“Of course she did,” you reply. “I had a feeling she’s known for a while, but since the beginning? I am both impressed and very annoyed. Why didn’t she tell you she knew?”

He grimaces. “She thought it was a subject we avoided...” He scrubs a hand over his face and sighs. “I guess I’m cagey when Tess comes up, mostly ‘cause I don’t even know what that relationship was, and since I never said anythin’ about you, she figured we don’t talk about our romantic partners.”

Your eyes round. “Our? Is Ellie dating someone?”

His hand lowers, and he smiles, nodding. “She said I could tell you—Ellie’s way better at the secret girlfriend stuff than I am.”

“Cat?”

His eyebrows dip down. “How’d you know?”

“Ellie looks at Cat the same way you look at me.”

A long sigh leaves him. “So, it’s true.” He sounds defeated, his shoulders slumping.

“What’s true?”

“When she was pointin’ out how obvious we’ve been, she gave me shit for starin’ at you with, she called ‘em ‘googly eyes,’ whatever the fuck that means.”

You snort and step into his space, wrapping your arms around his neck, Joel’s hands holding your hips.

“It’s this way you look at me, and I couldn’t quite figure out what it was until you told me you loved me last night, and I realized it’s love; devotion—your eyes show the truth of what you’re feeling, and good news, babe.”

“What’s that?”

“You can give her shit for having googly eyes like her father.”

That seems to cheer him up, and honestly, it’s cute.

“She’s gonna hate knowin’ that—I can’t wait to tell her.”

You giggle. “So, Ellie’s really okay with us?”

“She is.” He nods.

“Good—this might sound weird.” You can’t look at him as you say this and focus on a patch of freckles on his shoulder, heat creeping up your neck. “But, um, you being a great dad and loving your kids so much—” He’s told you about Sarah. “—really does it for me. There’s something about it that’s incredibly attractive.”

“Yeah?” He ducks his head to press his lips over your pulse point, peppering kisses up your neck; his hand slides down between your legs where your warmth is felt through your jeans, rubbing over your sex. It makes you gulp, excitement sparking in your tummy.

“Yes.”

His mouth reaches your ear, tugging the lobe lightly between his teeth. His warm breath fans against your skin when he hovers his lips to whisper, “I think I know why.“

Your heartbeat thuds in your chest and pulses in your core to the same beat, feeling your need for him drip into your panties.

“W-why?”

He speaks in a huskier tone, “You know that havin’ my babies means they’d get a good father, and you have nothin’ to worry about when I fill your perfect little pussy with my come.”

Pleasure cuts through you sharp as a knife, and you moan.

“Yeah, I know you like it—is that what you want tonight, sweetheart? Want me to stuff you full?”

What he’s saying is making your skin so hot that your clothes are stifling, and you want him more than anything; you need him to ease the ache in your center.

“God, yes.”

“Then I’ll give it to you.”

You’re wondering what’s changed that suddenly has him unbothered about the possibility of getting you pregnant when he actively tried to prevent it previously—something you’ll have to inquire about later because it seems Joel’s had enough talking as his lips capture yours in a searing kiss, and he pulls your body flush against his.

It’s consuming and exhilarating.

No one has ever made you feel the way he does—the all-encompassing fiery passion that has arousal burning like an inferno in your belly, needing him so badly you think you might die if you don’t feel him inside you.

Wouldn’t that be a way to go? Dying of desperation from not getting Joel Miller’s dick—sounds kind of nice compared to the alternatives in today’s world.

You’ve also never been with someone his age.

There was this girl a little older than you that you met on your travels—you don’t find very many friendly people out in the wilds, and she joined you for maybe a week before she headed west toward Seattle. She told you one evening, as you sat by a fire under the stars together, that hands down, the best sex she ever had was with an older guy who was in his early thirties when the outbreak happened. She went on about how generous he was in actually making her come and that he knew exactly what to do; the entire experience was apparently life-changing. She swore she’d never get with anyone younger again, and you were intrigued.

When you asked her if it was weird fucking a guy old enough to be her father, she gave you a funny look, and you’ll never forget what she said:

“Ain’t nothing weird about two consenting adults having a good time.”

She had a point.

When Joel showed up at your door looking so incredibly handsome soon after you moved to Jackson, the conversation with that girl came to mind, and you decided to see if she was right, and dear god, this man in his late fifties has ruined you for anyone else—he was the first person to go down on you, he was the first person other than yourself to get you off, he was the first person to come inside you; the last one was an accident and it shocked you how much the risk turned you on.

You can’t imagine being with anyone else after him.

The kissing heats up, practically all tongues at this point, Joel’s straining cock beneath the towel pressing against you, and it’s always incredibly sexy the way he knows just what you need without you having to say a word—in less than a minute, he's stripped you of all your clothes, and has you on your back in the middle of his mattress, Joel on his knees between your spread legs, and leaning down, with your pebbled nipple sucked between his lips.

He has both of your breasts in his hands while he laves at one and then the other, the nibble of his teeth on the sensitive buds causing your pussy to weep for him, your fingers clutched in his damp, grey hair.

"Oh my god, Joel," you moan.

He loves worshipping your tits, and if you let him, he’ll play with them for hours; the problem is today, you’re on a time crunch since you have dinner plans, and you want a chance to make him feel good, too.

Your hands tug on his messy waves to get his attention, saying, "Let me suck your dick."

His head lifts, and you're met with dark eyes, his lips shiny with spit. The cool air hitting your wet skin causes goosebumps to rise.

"You want my dick in your mouth?" he asks.

“Yes, please.”

“Okay.” He grunts as he pushes himself up to kneel. He’s still wearing the towel, which is tenting in the front.

You eagerly sit up and get on your knees, shuffling toward him, and when you’re close enough, he can’t seem to help himself, his palms holding your face as he passionately kisses you. Your hands snake between your bodies to unwrap the towel around his waist, tossing it to the side without a care, and you wrap your fingers around his length that’s hard as steel and velvety smooth, feeling hot to the touch.

He nips at your bottom lip when he ends the kiss, and without another word, you’re moving back enough to get on all fours, holding your weight on one arm while your other hand grips around the base of him, and then he’s in your mouth—his girth has you opening as wide as you can, your lips stretching to their limit. He’s heavy on your tongue, taking more and more of him as you bob your head.

“That’s it, baby,” he groans. “Fuckin’ love that mouth of yours.”

Saliva is dribbling down his shaft, lubricating every stroke of your palm over what can’t fit in your mouth, his large hand guiding your head up and down his dick.

“Spit on it,” he commands. You hover your lips over him, gathering saliva on your tongue, and looking up at him through your lashes as you let it drip onto the tip of him—his pupils are blown so wide, there’s hardly any brown remaining, a gorgeous pink flush crawling up his chest and neck to paint his stubbled cheeks.

He’s watching you, his chest rumbling when you take him back into your mouth and fondle his sack in your palm.

When you first met, you were pretty inexperienced when it came to sex—you’d only slept with two men, and it hadn’t been very pleasurable on either occasion. Then Joel came along and showed you how good it could be and let you experiment to figure out what you did and didn’t enjoy. He also walked you through what he liked, which is why you know how he’s going to respond as you suck him off and gently tug on his balls. “Fuucckk,” he says in a drawn-out moan, and it has electricity dancing down your spine that you’re making him feel so good.

You go back to jerking him, your hand moving easily, twisting on the upstroke along his spit-slick cock, while bobbing your head, feeling him slide along the broad flat of your tongue to hit the back of your throat—you’re making appreciative noises that vibrate against his skin, loving him in your mouth, and how vocal he is in his enjoyment, Joel groaning, his breaths getting heavier, and slowly thrusting his hips.

You come off of him, licking a stripe from root to tip, tracing a bulging vein with your tongue, and circling the sensitive edges of the head. His cock throbs in your hand as you hold it out of the way to go lower and suck one of his balls into your mouth, massaging it with your tongue before giving the second the same treatment.

His voice is a deep baritone, the words thick with desire. “You’re so fuckin’ good to me.”

Licking back up, you swirl around the tip and sink down again, hollowing your cheeks.

His hand easily covers yours low on his shaft to keep it and himself still, his other palm going to the back of your head. “Choke on it, baby—take it down that pretty throat.”

This time when he fills your mouth and hits the back of your throat, you relax, swallowing around him, taking as much of him into the tight space as you can, and there’s enough of him that won’t fit for your fingers to wrap around—his other hand clutches your hair as he keeps your head from moving, your eyes watering, drool spilling from the corners of your lips, while his hard cock fills your throat. You’re doing the best you can to breathe through your nose.

He’s panting. “That’s fuckin’ it—so fuckin’ beautiful with my dick down your throat.” His fingers go around your neck to feel it bulge. “You love havin' my cock fillin' you, don’t you? Your pussy, your throat, you're hungry for it and can't get enough 'cause no one can make you feel as good as I do, isn’t that right?” You moan in agreement, his shaft pulsing on the flat of your tongue. “God, you make the prettiest noises for me.”

You swallow around him, and his punched-out groan has your cunt clenching hard on nothing, a layer of slick coating your inner thighs.

“Stop,” he orders, pulling you off of him and causing you to sputter. “I’m not comin’ in your mouth.”

The statement has a sharp spike of arousal erupting low in your stomach because you know this means he’s going to finish inside you, and it has you wanting him with every fiber of your being.

He gets you up on your knees, holding your chin as he smashes his lips to yours, his tongue slipping inside where he sucks on your own. Your heart is hammering in your chest, moaning as the fingers of his free hand pinch and roll your stiff nipple, and you’re trying to convince your lungs that you’ll be okay without oxygen for another minute when his mouth suddenly leaves yours. Your chin is still cradled in his palm, Joel’s breaths coming out hard as he shoves his face against the side of yours and lightly bites the apple of your cheek before his lips are at your ear.

The sides of your faces are touching, his stubble prickling against your skin. “Now what?” he asks. Anticipation has you practically vibrating. “You got to suck my dick, what do you want now? You’re in charge—my fingers? Want me to eat your pussy? Or my cock without me loosenin’ you up so you’ll feel it tomorrow?” He smacks your ass with his other palm, and you gasp. “Tell me.”

Joel is very well-endowed, especially in terms of girth, and he’s aware of this fact; unless you tell him not to, he always gets you off before he fucks you, so it relaxes your muscles and makes it easier to take him. Right now, you need him inside you too much to have the patience for any more foreplay, so be it if you’re a little uncomfortable tomorrow.

You swallow before you answer. “Dick, please.”

“How do you want it?”

“Your choice.”

“You got it, baby.”

He grabs a handful of your asscheek, then gives it a spank and kisses your cheek, letting go of your chin to slide his fingers through the slick lips of your sex, his face coming into your line of sight.

It’s clear in his darkened eyes how much he wants you.

“You get so fuckin’ wet for me,” he says and presses two thick fingers inside you, your mouth falling open when he starts pumping. The tips press into something magical you can never reach, no matter how many times you try. “This needy pussy can’t get enough of my dick,” he continues. “You want it? Want me to stretch you open? Make you feel it tomorrow and come so deep in your sweet little cunt I’m drippin’ from you for days?”

He has you feeling so hot you think you might combust.

“Yes.”

A quick kiss is pressed to your lips. “Hands and knees,” he orders, slipping his fingers out of you.

His way of helping you get into position is manhandling you until your hands and knees sink into the mattress with him behind you—he fucked you hard face down, ass up the night before, and you’re wondering if he’s going to give you an encore.

His fingers dig into your asscheeks as he spreads them and spits on your pussy, feeling the hot saliva start to drip, and hearing him repeat the action on his digits, that he uses to wet his cock. Joel slides himself through your folds and presses to your entrance, your hips pushing back enough to engulf the tip of him—a palm lands on your ass with a loud smack, the sting causing your head to fall forward between your shoulders with a moan, his other hand firm on your waist to stop your movements.

“Don’t be greedy,” he grumbles, slapping your ass again. “I gotta go slow so I don’t hurt you.”

You whine because you want him inside you already.

“You’re real fuckin’ needy today,” he says and slowly begins pushing in. There’s a slight burn as your tight walls stretch around him to accommodate his size, the ache in your core dissipating with every inch he feeds into your pussy. “Jesus Christ,” his tone is strained. “You’re so much tighter when I don’t make you come first—you’re chokin’ me.” Your fingers are clawing at the bedspread, your heart’s pounding, and sweat is starting to bead on your skin. There’s one word repeating over and over in your head: Big.

He takes his time; the seconds that tick by feel like hours, and once he’s fully sheathed inside you, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding in—the familiar fullness satisfies the overwhelming need you had and has something purring in the back of your mind that this is right; it’s perfect how he fills you. He was right; there’s no one else on the entire planet who could satisfy you like he does.

His large palm slides halfway up your spine. “You’re doin’ great for me, baby,” he rasps. “Takin’ me so well. Now, I’m gonna make you feel good.”

And the fact you know he is has your cunt throbbing incessantly around him.

His hands hold your waist, and he does an experimental thrust, your answering moan encouraging him to start moving—he’s slow at first, rocking his hips and letting you feel every ridge and vein on his thick cock as it moves in and out of you.

He’s pressing into heavenly spots you didn’t know existed before him, loving how deep in your depths he reaches. The waves of arousal he’s coaxing from you is soaking his dick and easing his movements.

“God, I love bein’ inside you,” he says and slaps your ass; you clamp down on him, and he groans. “You feel so damn good—fit me like a fuckin’ glove.”

You fuck yourself back on him as you whine, “It’s yours!”

He grits through his teeth, “Yes. It. Is.” Punctuating each word with a hard thrust that knocks the wind from your lungs. “It’s. Mine. You’re mine.”

His rhythm speeds up, a steady slap of his hips against yours that echoes in the room, Joel grunting with each stroke and your moans coming unbidden. Your ass is jiggling from the onslaught, your head is dizzy with pleasure, and heat is growing at the base of your spine, threatening to explode.

This is how you like it, getting fucked senseless.

You squeak in surprise when gun-calloused fingers grip your upper arms at the bend of your elbows and pull you up, making you arch your back, Joel tugging you back each time he thrusts forward, pounding into you hard enough your eyes roll back in your head, and your mouth opens in a silent cry—his rough sounds are slipping through his bared teeth and obscene squelching is coming from where he’s fucking into you at an unforgiving pace.

You’re quivering around him, your entire body shaking, quaking, as he pummels a spot that’s making stars dance behind your eyelids, the muscles in your belly tightening, winding, building you up higher and higher. Your skin is hot and buzzing like every nerve in your body is lit up, a thin layer of sweat coating the entirety of it.

His breathing is ragged, and he grits out the question, “Are you gonna come for me?” He doesn’t slow down. “I can feel you squeezin’ me—I know you’re close.”

His hands have an iron grip on you. Noise finally leaves your lips in stuttered moans, and you’re losing your mind at how fucking good it feels—you’re not going to last much longer.

“Once you go,” he says, “you’re takin’ me with you, and I’m fillin’ you up.”

The reminder has white-hot pleasure scorching in your abdomen, and you’re coming undone, shouting his name as your climax hits and euphoria takes over every molecule in your body.

A choked sound comes from behind you, and you get pulled back flush to him, Joel’s arm locking over your chest with his hand squeezing one of your tits while the other wraps around your throat, his lips pressing to your ear as he raggedly groans “There we fuckin’ go.” His teeth sink into your earlobe as his hips stutter, and he buries himself one last time as far as he can in your depths, whining as he comes—his cock pulses and twitches hard as he releases deep inside you, spurts and spurts of his come filling your inner walls.

There’s a chance you’ve left Earth with how you feel like you’re floating, your brain completely empty of thoughts—you’re not sure you could think if you even tried, let alone move.

You register being laid down on your side and the warm body curling around your back; an arm is over your middle, and your breast is being held in a large palm, feeling so relaxed you think you might fall asleep.

A minute passes.

Five.

Ten.

There’s a loud snore behind you.

“Joel?” It’s embarrassing how it comes out as a croak.

No response—of course, there’s no response, his left ear is pressed to the mattress, and he can barely hear out of the right. You rub your hand along his arm and lightly tap it.

He goes eerily quiet, and you know he’s awoken, but he’s taking a second to assess where he is. Joel sits up a little. “Somethin’ wrong, honey?”

Your torso slightly twists toward him, looking over your shoulder. His eyes are filled with concern when they meet yours.

“Nothing’s wrong,” you reassure him and pat his forearm. “You fell asleep, and we can’t be late meeting Ellie. Otherwise, she’ll come looking for us, and we don’t need to scar the poor girl with her finding out her dad has a very active sex life.”

He snorts, his lips turning up. “She’s not dumb—she knows why I’m at your place every night.”

“She assumes the reason you come over—it’s one thing to assume and another to know for sure, and the second one, when it happens, will probably make her puke and then look at you with disgust for a while.”

He frowns, and you can tell he’s thinking hard. “I never brought women around Sarah…” he says. “I mean, when she was older, she knew, on the incredibly rare occasions I did, that I was goin’ on dates, but that was all. I never had long-term girlfriends.”

That’s something you’re aware of. He’s told you about some of his previous relationships, including Tess. When he was younger, before the world ended, he only had a few girlfriends that didn’t last long and a lot of one-night stands; Sarah’s mom was a fling in his early twenties who disappeared as soon as their daughter was born—she didn’t want to be a mother at such a young age, and only had the baby because she couldn’t stand the guilt of the alternative.

“Oh, so Ellie knowing me and being aware we’re together is new territory for you. How does that make you feel?”

“Real fuckin’ lucky I found someone she likes and who understands that she’s my top priority—the other women I dated couldn’t stand playin’ second fiddle to Sarah even though I was always upfront that she came first before anyone else, the same thing I told you from the get-go about Ellie.”

“And that makes complete sense to me. I know I’m important to you, but it’s different; she’s your child, who you’re responsible for, so she takes precedence. After all the shit she’s been through, it’s great she found a father who loves and cares about her so much.”

He smiles. “And that’s one of the reasons I fell in love with you—you get it and were more than willin’ to be with me in secret to protect her.”

You smirk. “True, it didn’t hurt that the sex is fucking spectacular, too.”

He chuckles, and you find yourself on your back with him half on top of you, happily kissing you.

Your words are muffled against his lips. “I need to ask you something.”

There’s one last kiss, then his pretty face hovers over yours.

“What do you wanna ask that’s more important than me kissin’ you?”

“Something that I need to know after everything that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours.”

His mouth downturns, and his eyebrows furrow. “Is somethin’ wrong…?”

“No, no, everything’s great,” you tell him and slide your fingers through the curls above his ears. “Has your feelings on children changed? Like, in terms of having more…?”

From the beginning, he was clear that he didn’t want any more kids, and it stressed him out whenever he accidentally finished inside you; you’d think that would put him off sleeping with you again, but he couldn’t stay away, and told you, when asked what would happen if you got pregnant, that you’d figure it out and you didn’t need to worry about him abandoning you—the last part always made you wonder how he’d be involved in your baby’s life with Ellie unaware you were together, and the only thing you could imagine was out in public, Joel taking on the role of your close friend your child calls their uncle, which is pretty depressing to think about.

He’s got an arm beside your head, holding himself up, and his other palm strokes along your cheek, his eyes softening.

“A lot has changed since I met you—you’ve turned my world on its head, sweetheart.” He smiles. “I know I swore I’d never bring another life into this world after losin’ Sarah, but Ellie came along, and I love gettin’ to be a dad again.” The fond look on his face is proof of that. “I really do. She’s a pain in my ass, but I love her, and now that we’re done hidin’ and can finally have a life with everyone knowin’ we’re together, there won’t be any doubt that it’s my baby if you got pregnant.”

Something about that excites you that he wants it to be clear he’s the father of your kid—for a second, you imagine what a child with him would look like, and it makes your heart squeeze at the thought of seeing tiny versions of his eyes and cheeks; would they inherit his elusive dimple?

“I know I’m too fuckin’ old to be takin’ care of a newborn,” he continues, “but I like the idea of havin’ one with you, and I think you’d love it. You’re so good with Ellie and all those little kids you teach. I can tell you want one of your own, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

He smiles.

“Yeah, you do. You’d be a great mom. When I realized I was gonna talk to Ellie the other day and tell her about us, I thought this was somethin’ I could give you; it’s some kind of future, maybe not what you deserve, but it’s what I can offer. And it’s reassurin’ you’re gonna live a helluva lot longer than I will, so I know that if anythin’ happens to me, my children will still have their mother, along with Ellie, who I think would love bein’ a sister. So, to answer your question, yes, my feelings on havin’ more children has changed, but only with you—you’re the only woman I’d want to have a baby with.”

This revelation has you beyond excited—you’d love to have a child with him.

“It’s crazy that yesterday I didn’t know how to define what our relationship was—I knew I loved you, I just wasn’t sure if you felt the same, and today, we’re officially a couple and talking about having babies. At this rate, I’ll be moving in with you tomorrow.”

“Do you wanna?” he asks, looking completely serious.

Your eyes widen as you stare. “What? I was joking, Joel.”

“And I’m not jokin’, especially about havin’ you here all the time. I don’t want us livin’ separately if we do the baby thing, and you know I’m almost done remodelin’ the garage out back into an apartment for Ellie.”

Joel was pretty upset the night he came over after Ellie asked about having her own living space. It happened two or three months into seeing each other, and he’d been distraught that she was at an age where she wanted more independence and didn’t want to spend as much time with him now that she had friends—something else he never got to experience with Sarah and it really twisted the knife in his gut. There was no way the town council would give a teenager a house, so Joel agreed to convert the garage into an apartment for her.

“Are we moving too fast?” you ask.

When you say out loud everything that’s happened in the last day and your plans for the near future, it sounds like you’re moving too fast, but it doesn’t feel that way.

His eyebrow rose. “Baby, we could die tomorrow. Life these days is too fuckin’ uncertain to be worryin’ about movin’ too fast, and we should do what makes us happy.”

He’s right, and it isn’t a bad idea…

“I’ll only agree to move in if Ellie says it’s okay.”

Your response has Joel chuckling as he kisses you.

“Wait, I have another question,” your words are said into his lips.

His mouth breaks away from yours as he sighs and presses his forehead to yours.

“I love you more than anythin’, but can I please kiss you without interruptions?”

“If you answer this question, we can make out—with tongue.”

His head lifts, and he looks confused. “It’s not makin’ out if there isn’t tongue.”

“Do you wanna make out or not?”

His expression turns grumpy. “Yes, so ask your damn question.”

“What would you have done if you opened the door in just your towel, and it was Sandra instead of me?”

“I would’ve shut the fuckin’ door—now kiss me. I was promised tongue.”

Snow.

So much fucking snow.

Ellie hated winter in Boston, but Jackson? It’s a new kind of hell with how much of the freezing, white bullshit falls from the sky to blanket everything. On the days when she’s assigned the job of shoveling walkways down the main streets of the town, she wishes the bite on her arm had done her in—a dark thought, yes, but that’s how much she despises doing it.

The only positive thing about getting sick was not having to work; the biggest negative was Joel and how he was worrying so much he wouldn’t leave her the fuck alone. Yeah, it’s sweet, or whatever, that he cares so much, but this guy literally watched her sleep—he sat at the window seat in her room every night to keep an eye on her, and if she woke up, which happened a lot from the coughing, he was there at the side of her bed asking if she needed anything, and touching her forehead to check her temperature.

Thank god, his secret girlfriend came by when she did because Ellie was so close to stabbing him if he asked her how she was feeling one more time; her friends kept her sane the next day when they checked in on her, and luckily, by then she was pretty much over her sickness, and Joel had finally started to chill the fuck out.

That night, she thankfully got to sleep alone in her room, and it wasn’t surprising when she heard the third step down the staircase loudly creak—she’d tried everything, and there was no way to step on it without it making noise—a sign Joel was going across the street.

Oh, Ellie figured out something was going on between Joel and their across-the-street neighbor not too long after she moved in.

What tipped Ellie off was one day she was walking home after work and had almost arrived at their house when she saw the two of them chatting at her and Joel’s front door. Nothing fishy about that, right? Wrong. Joel was smiling as he spoke to the woman, and it wasn’t one of his fake, polite smiles he does when he’s trying to make himself look less scary and somewhat approachable; no, this was a genuine smile, with some teeth showing, and a rare sighting of the dimple in his cheek—it makes her gag to even think this, but she’d call the smile, charming.

Yuck.

Who wants to think about the guy that’s basically their dad trying to charm someone?

Disgusting.

If the smile wasn’t suspicious enough, the moment he spotted Ellie, it suddenly disappeared—why wouldn't Joel want her seeing him being so friendly with the new neighbor? Probably because he was hiding something; she’ll admit it also could’ve been so she didn’t tease him about having a crush, but the thing is, she wouldn’t have, which is really fucking surprising with how much shit she gives him.

See, she’s not stupid; she knows Joel’s made taking care of her his life’s purpose since they left Boston and that he loves her as if she were his own kid; not to get mushy, but she loves the grumpy fucker, too, and she wants him to be happy, like she is—he’s the reason her life is so good now, and it was time that he did something that’d make him happy. So, Ellie isn’t going to be a dick about him putting himself out there because she doesn’t want to discourage him.

Once Ellie was onto them, it was so freaking obvious that they were a thing—anytime they ran into the neighbor, Joel actually talked to her, instead of his usual one to two-word responses, he gave everyone else who wasn’t Ellie or Tommy. Joel always watched her if she was nearby and went over to her house the moment she asked him to fix something or help her—Ellie’s pretty sure a lot of the tasks were bullshit, and it was their excuse to see each other. Then there’s the damning evidence of Joel sneaking out almost every night; there was a night she got to a window in time to see him sticking to the shadows as he made his way across the street, and it confirmed everything.

He was pretty hush about his relationship with Tess—they’ve discussed her in general, and Ellie knows they had some kind of relationship; she’s just not sure if they were, you know, dating or in love. So, with Joel keeping quiet about what he’s got going on with their young neighbor, Ellie assumed he was just a private guy when it came to that stuff, and it was something they didn’t talk about, figuring if things got serious enough, he’d bring it up.

And hey, she’s hinted that she knows by inviting his secret girlfriend to eat and do stuff with them; Ellie’s even attempted to get the older woman to admit they’re together, but she wouldn’t break, no matter how hard the teen tried.

Then Ellie accidentally overslept at her girlfriend’s this morning and didn’t make it home before Joel, and now they’re both aware of the other’s love life. She won’t lie; it made her unbelievably happy that he didn’t give a single fuck she was dating a girl—he had more of a reaction to her getting a tattoo than her telling him she had a girlfriend, and she’s glad he didn’t make a big deal about it, not that she thought for a minute he wouldn’t be cool with her being with a lady since he was chill when she told him she didn’t like boys not too long after they got to Jackson; plus, the guy was really good friends with Bill and Frank, after all—he’s told her he’s glad she never got a chance to meet Bill because apparently, they would’ve caused a lot of trouble together and possibly taken over the world, which sounded pretty fucking great to her.

The snow crunches under her boots as she walks down the road on their way to the mess hall, her girlfriend, Cat, beside her, chatting about their days. Since she recovered from being sick yesterday, she had to go back to work today, and thankfully, she was assigned an easy job—animal feeding duty, which is both easy and fun.

“Shit, it’s Sandra!” Ellie hisses, grabbing Cat’s hand, “Hide!” She tugs the other girl behind a giant snow-covered bush. She peeks around it, seeing the bane of her and Joel’s existence walking up the street from the opposite direction, probably heading to the mess hall for dinner, too. The other woman is pretty far away, but Ellie doesn’t want to risk her seeing them.

“Why do we avoid Sandra again?” her girlfriend asks.

Ellie’s head turns her way; Cat’s wearing a purple beanie and an oversized navy blue coat, her dark eyes meeting Ellie’s. “God, where to start,” she says and takes a deep breath. “So, when we first moved here, Tommy and Maria tried to get Joel to go out with Sandra since they thought she was a great match for him—she’s also from Texas, pretty, widowed, and has no kids. Anyways, they tried to set them up, but Joel didn’t want to go out with her or anyone else. He was super polite when he turned her down. I guess Sandra took that as him playing hard to get, and she hasn’t left him alone since.”

“So, you avoid her, too…?”

“Oh, right—she wants to be my mom.”

“What…?”

“Yeah, every time she talks to me alone, she likes to bring up how I could use a mom, or wouldn’t it be great if I had one to take care of me and my dad—” Ellie makes a face. “—it’s always so fucking weird calling Joel that out loud.” He pretty much is her dad and she won’t correct anyone who refers to him as such, but to her, he’s Joel. “I think when she says that creepy stuff, she’s trying to get me to convince Joel to date her, but we both agree she’s nuts. Like, I overheard Joel talking to Tommy once, and apparently, some months after we got here, she came over to our house and asked if he could fix something at hers, and he went because Joel might be a bit of a grumpy dick, he’s still a good guy, and she kissed him and was all over him—you get the picture—and he got the fuck out of there, and isn’t as polite when he tells her to leave him alone now.”

“He’s made it clear he’s not interested, and she still won’t get the hint…? Does she know there are other single men in town…?”

“She only has eyes for Joel. I don’t think she’s used to men rejecting her, so now it’s her goal to get him. I mean, she’s persistent. If she sees me or him together or separately, she always talks to us; it’s awkward, and I have to tell you it’s disturbing watching someone flirt with Joel so hard—she’s not subtle at all. It’s honestly weird, and Joel is completely over it. I just don’t get why so many women in this town are into his old ass.”

Ellie has witnessed many women shoot their shots with Joel and get turned down, which is another thing that gave him and his girlfriend away—they never openly flirted, but there is a lot of friendly touching, which is out of character for Joel. The first time Ellie saw Joel open a door and guide the other woman inside with a hand on her back, she had to bite her tongue to stop herself from yelling, ‘Aha!’

“It makes no sense to me,” she continues. “This dude’s old enough to be my grandpa, he’s only got one good ear, he’s weird looking, and after a few days not showering, his feet smell so fucking bad you’ll want to chop your nose off—I swear the only reason we didn’t run into more infected while traveling is because Joel’s disgusting stench scared them away.”

Cat snorts. “You’ve mentioned how bad he smelled a lot.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t un-smell him, and it fucking haunts me.” She shudders. “Now, back on topic, Sandra creeps Joel and me the fuck out, and I’m positive his secret girlfriend would’ve murdered her by now if she wasn’t a secret.”

“Hopefully, Sandra will back off now that Joel’s relationship is no longer a secret.”

“That’d be so nice, but I’m not getting my hopes up.”

“I know you’ve never said anything, but does it bother you how young his girlfriend is?”

Ellie’s eyebrows furrow. “Why would it bother me?” she asks. “She’s an adult and can do whatever she fucking wants. I mean, I don’t understand why she’d willingly choose to be with such an old, ugly, grumpy man, but that’s her deal, and she’s pretty cool. I’m just glad Joel got with someone I like and get along with.” A horrible thought comes to her. “God, imagine if he had started dating Sandra, and I had to pretend to like her and not be weirded out by her trying to be my mom? Yeah, who gives a fuck that his girlfriend is closer to my age than his, she’s not weird and makes him happy, and that’s all that matters.” Something pops up in her brain, and she smiles. “Oh my god, Cat—” She grabs the other girl’s arm and shakes it in excitement. “—what if they had a kid? I could be a sister!” That’d be amazing. She’s always wanted a sibling. Her hands go still, and her eyebrows pull together; she’s lost feeling in the tip of her nose with how cold it is. “Wait,” she starts, “is Joel too old to have a baby? Like, I mean his stuff—” She gags. “—you know what I’m talking about. Does it go bad with age? He’s really fucking old.” Cat’s trying hard not to laugh, her gloved palm over her mouth, and Ellie shoves a finger at her. “Don’t make fun of me for not knowing! What I learned in school was pretty basic, so I know how babies are made—revolting, by the way—there’s just a lot of shit they didn’t explain in detail, and don’t get me started on the awkward as fuck conversation Joel tried to have with me when I started hanging out with Dina and Jesse.” Jesse was the first boy her age she befriended in Jackson.

“The one where in the middle of him telling you boys will say anything to get into your pants, you shouted that you didn’t like boys?”

“Ugh, yes, and then he asked me if I liked girls, and I wasn’t completely sure, so I answered maybe, and he said—” She lowers her voice to try and mimic his. “‘Well, shit, I don’t know what the sex talk is for my daughter likin’ girls’—” She spoke normally again, “You know what, I’m actually impressed with what he pulled out of his ass.” He ensured she really understood what consent is and walked her through what a healthy relationship is supposed to look like.

“To answer your question, Joel isn’t too old to have a kid.”

Ellie grins. “Wicked.” She looks around the bush to check if the coast is clear. “Looks like she’s gone. Let’s get out of here.”

When they get to the mess hall, the mood is… weird.

There’s a lot of whispering and people sneaking looks in the same direction. It only takes her a second to figure out what’s stealing everyone’s attention, and her nose crinkles at the sight.

“Cat?” She’s still staring, the other girl standing beside her.

“Yeah?”

“Am I seeing things, or is Joel really playing tonsil hockey with his not-so-secret girlfriend at our table?”

“Um, I can’t tell if they’re using tongue, but they’re definitely kissing.”

That’s obvious—the man and woman are sitting next to each other on one side of the table with their coats off, their upper bodies turned toward one another, and faces mashed together, Joel’s massive hand holding the side of her head.

“It’s weird feeling both happy for him and wanting to puke simultaneously.”

“I get it. Wanna see something that will make you feel better?”

She glances at her. “What is it?”

Cat nods her head toward a table. “Look.”

Her attention goes to where she indicated, finding Sandra clearly pissed off and glaring daggers at the couple making out, her hand clutching a fork so tight her knuckles are white.

Ellie is delighted and pulls Cat along to join Joel and his girlfriend.

“Please tell me,” she says, as they get to the table and start removing their gloves and jackets, “that you guys are being disgusting right now for the audience and that this won’t be a regular thing.”

Their mouths detach, Joel’s arm around the woman’s back while resting his other hand on the tabletop. There were trays of food for all four of them at each of their seats Joel must’ve gotten, Ellie noticing it was chili and cornbread night. The man looks at her with a close-lipped smile.

“It won’t be a regular thing—” he replies.

“—thank god,” she interrupts and sits down, Cat joining her.

“—in front of you,” he continues.

“That’s fine by me.”

He grabs his small bowl of dessert and slides it over to her.

“Peach cobbler!” she exclaims. “Fuck yeah!”

Not to be sentimental, but Ellie knows that every night they have dinner, and Joel passes her his dessert so she’ll have two, it’s him saying without words that he loves her—that’s just how they are; they suck at speaking their feelings, so they show how much they care for the other with random things like that.

“Thanks, Joel!” She ignores the chili and slice of cornbread and immediately starts digging into one of the cobblers.

“You’re welcome, Ellie—what took you guys so long? We were expectin’ you to be here before us.”

“We had to hide,” she says around a bite—it tastes so fucking good; peach cobbler is her favorite.

Joel's expression turns to one of concern. “Who the hell were you hidin’ from?”

Their girlfriends had started eating.

She swallows, giving him a look. “Who do you think?” She juts her thumb behind her. “Miss Crazypants over there, who—” She turns in her seat to find Sandra still looking pissed. “—might be Miss Murderpants now.”

“Stop starin’ and pointin’,” Joel hisses, and she faces him again.

Ellie rolls her eyes. “The woman annoys the fuck out of us, and you’re telling me not to be rude to her? A bit hypocritical, seeing as you’re clearly rubbing it in her face that you’re seeing someone.”

His jaw clenches. “That’s different.”

Her eyebrows dip together. “What?”

He adjusts in his chair to lean forward a little and starts whispering, “I want her to see us, so she’ll get the hint and leave us the fuck alone—I also want the whole town buzzin’ about me bein’ in a relationship tomorrow.”

“The first part of that, I get; the second bit, you lost me. It’s not like you to want to be the subject of town gossip.”

He straightens and picks up his spoon. “Don’t worry about it, and eat.”

That’s Joel speak for, ‘I’m done discussing this topic.’

“Okay, you fuckin’ weirdo,” she mumbles and takes another bite.

There’s some talking as they eat between all four of them. Joel seems incredibly interested in Cat’s hobby of tattooing people, which Ellie guesses is because she told him she was getting one. He’s probably just ensuring it’ll be safe and that she won’t have to worry about infections or whatever else could go wrong.

Ellie has completely demolished all the food on her tray and is stuffed, taking a big gulp of her water. She sets the cup down.

“So,” she begins, “how serious is this?” She points between the couple across from her. “Is this a fling? Is she moving in? Are you guys getting married? What can I expect?”

Joel swallows and wipes his mouth with a napkin, which he clutches in his fist as he lays it on the table.

“It’s serious,” he says. “We wanted to talk to you about her movin’ in.”

She figured that would be the case with how much time they spend together at night. Ellie’s not against the idea, but she also does not under any circumstance want to know what they do when they’re alone. She has an idea; she’s not dumb. She just prefers not having any solid evidence.

Ellie pushes her tray forward and crosses her arms on the tabletop.

“Here’s the deal: I’ll be fine with her moving in under one condition.”

He looks curious. “What’s that?”

“Whatever you guys do alone in the bedroom happens when I’m not home; I don’t wanna hear shit, I can’t unhear, and I absolutely do not want to see anything I can’t unsee. It’ll only have to be like that until you finish my apartment.”

He seems to be thinking it over. “Deal.”

“You assholes gonna get married?”

“We haven’t discussed that yet.”

His girlfriend says, “I’m okay with marriage.”

Joel’s head whips her way, and he genuinely looks surprised.

“Really?” he asks.

Ellie snorts because the other woman is looking at him like he’s dumb. “Yeah,” she answers. “What about you?”

“I’m okay with it also.”

“Great.” She smiles.

It’s nice to see Joel so happy and to know he’s found someone. She always worried he’d die alone; sure, he’d have her, but he deserved to be loved by someone and to get good things after all of the shit he’s been through in his long fucking life.

She glances over at Cat, who’s scraping her spoon along the inside of her dessert bowl to get whatever of the cobbler is left. She’s staring at it so intently that Ellie thinks she looks adorable, and it makes her smile.

“Oh, are those the ‘googly eyes’?” she hears Joel ask the woman beside him.

“Yep,” his girlfriend answers.

Cat takes her last bite and asks them while chewing, “What are ‘googly eyes’?”

Joel sounds a little too happy, “It’s how Ellie looks at you.”

Ellie quickly turns toward him. “I don’t have ‘googly eyes’!”

She wants to wipe the smug smile off of his stupid face. “Yes, you do.”

“No, you’re lying!”

He puts a hand over his heart. “God’s honest truth, baby girl, you stare at her with ‘googly eyes.’”

Her cheeks feel hot, and she wants the floor to swallow her whole. “This is so embarrassing.” She doesn’t want to talk about this anymore and remembers something.

Joel’s smiling. “It’s cute.” He starts drinking his water.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m cute, whatever,” she says, swatting away his words with her hand. She focuses on him, leaning over her arms on the table. “You know what would be really cute, now that you’ve got a girlfriend, and I think it’s still possible at your age, you’re pretty fucking old, though, but if it is possible, it’d be really cute if you guys had a baby.” She grins and nods her head.

Joel sputters and starts coughing hard. It takes him a moment to speak, and the look on his face is a mixture of confusion and anger.

“The hell do you mean if it’s possible at my age?!” he rumbles. ”I’m fifty-eight, not dead!”

Prev - Series Masterlist - Masterlist

Thank you for reading! If you’d like to be tagged in my fics, please fill out the form in my bio, on my masterlist, or just let me know! 

#pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller/reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller/you #joel miller x you #wheresarizona writes #biwdfyis series

[ecoamerica]

Watch the American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 now: https://youtu.be/bWiW4Rp8vF0?feature=shared

The American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 broadcast recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by active climate leaders. Watch to find out which finalist received the $50,000 grand prize! Hosted by Vanessa Hauc and featuring Bill McKibben and Katharine Hayhoe!

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[fayes-fics]

Textual Encounter

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, modern AU

Summary: Text fic. Wrong number meet-cute over text.

Warnings: none... this is fluff and humour.

Word Count: 1.4k

Summary: Fic request fill for Anon (HERE). I kept it fun and fluffy, but yeah, I can see a sequel where they sext. Thanks to @colettebronte for the read-through. Enjoy! <3

Y/N: Hey Liz, it’s y/n y/l/n. Kindle Spa gave me your mobile. Said you had moved to another salon. I don’t trust anyone else to wax me tbh. Big date this week, kwim 😉 Can I get an appt? I’ll come to you. Doesn’t matter where. 

BB: Errr, I think you have the wrong number…

Y/N: Not Liz?

BB: Nope, Ben here. 

Y/N: Not a waxer, I presume?

BB: I may have waxed lyrical in my time, may even have lit a few candles. Have not waxed anyone no - my own body or anyone else’s. Yet. But I’m game to try anything once...

Y/N: Lol.

BB: Big date, eh?

Y/N: ….Yeah. Not that it's any of your business, stranger Ben.

BB: Fair. BB: Does it hurt?

Y/N: ??

BB: Getting waxed.

Y/N: Oh. Yeah. Like a motherfucker. But you sorta get used to it, tbh. And it’s so much less itchy than shaving regrowth, especially in sensitive areas… Wait, why am I having this convo with a complete stranger?!

BB: We don’t have to be strangers. BB: I’m Ben, 33, London. BB: I have no strong opinions on hair removal methods.

Y/N: lol. K. I’m y/n, 28, also London. Y/N: I, as you can see, do have some opinions.

BB: Hi y/n 👋 BB: I hope you can find Liz. Or someone else to assist with your hair needs.

Y/N: I would like it stated, for the record, I’m not hairy like a troll. I just like to keep things neat.

BB: The lady doth protest too much…

Y/N: You are cheeky for a stranger.

BB: Hey, I thought we agreed. Not strangers. Me Ben. You hairy troll.

Y/N: BLOCK.

BB: Just typing it doesn't work, you know.

Y/N: You should work at the Apple Genius Bar.

BB: Hmm, possibly. I do look good in blue. Or so I've been told.

Y/N: Always glad to provide career counselling.

BB: 🫡

4 days later.

BB: How’d your date go?

Y/N: That's odd. I don’t see a Genius Bar appt in my calendar…?

BB: iCal is a lying bastard. BB: I also assume you now can move faster through water.

Y/N: ??

BB: Waxed smooth like a dolphin…?

Y/N: 😆 Y/N: Entirely none of your business, but yes, actually. Well mostly. I leave some. Why am I telling you this?! Y/N: The guy was such a dud tho, I didn't get to show it off 🙁

BB: Please don't stop on my account. This is just delightful.  BB: I apologise on behalf of all men.

Y/N: For what?

BB: Having 4 sisters, I find the safest answer here is usually… everything, of course.  BB: But specifically, your rubbish date.

Y/N: Apology conditionally accepted. Y/N: 4 sisters?! 

BB: Only conditional? What do I gots to do to make it unconditional? BB: Yeah, I know… I’ve got 3 brothers too. My parents were really into each other. 

Y/N: IDK, serve a mean martini? Y/N: Understatement.

BB: That could be arranged. I took an online mixology course during lockdown.  BB: My sister El declared I'm better than Stanley Tucci. Admittedly, that was after 4 espresso martinis… but I'm taking it. She's opinionated but the best one. They are a weird bunch tho 🤔

Y/N: WOAH WOAH WOAH. That's a bold claim.

BB: Well, there’s only one way to dispute it: try one for yourself…

Y/N: Smooth, Genius Bar, smooth.

BB: I do my best 🤷

1 day later.

Y/N: I can't get my AirPods to work.

BB: You do realise I didn’t actually follow your career advice?

Y/N: Urgh. Inconvenient. What use are you then?

BB: As I said. Cocktails. I’ll try my hand at waxing if you want.

Y/N: Best stick to the day job. Which is…?

BB: Graphic design.

Y/N: Oh, that’s quite cool. 

BB: It pays the bills. You?

Y/N: MI-5

BB: Wow, you're a shit spy.

Y/N: It could be an excellent double bluff…

BB:

Y/N: Oh, we’ve graduated to memes now, have we, Genius Bar?

BB: It was called for.

Y/N: I’ll take it. Purely cos it's a Hemsworth.

BB: I would too, tbh.

Y/N: Bi?

BB: For a Hemsworth? Always.

Y/N: Anyone else?

BB: I’ll keep you posted.

Y/N: I'm on the edge of my seat.

3 days later.

BB: Oscar Issac.

Y/N: Good non sequitur evening to you, too, Genius Bar Ben.

BB: For the bi thing.

Y/N: Ahh. Got it. I can respect that.

BB: This is me, btw: www.instagram.com/benbridgerdesign.  BB: Figured you can decide for yourself if I'm a creeper.

Y/N: Appreciated.

3 minutes later.

Y/N: You paint?

BB: I dabble

Y/N: Modesty will only make me like you more.

BB: You like me?! 🥹

Y/N: You didn't mention you were handsome.

BB: There is no way to respond to that without me sounding like a twat.

BB: But thank you 😊

Y/N: This is me: www.instagram.com/ynhandle 

7 minutes later.

BB: Oh, Amalfi is so beautiful, isn't it?

Y/N: Wow. That's a deep cut. How far did you scroll back??

BB: 👀

Y/N: Yeah, it's beautiful. Shame it's tainted for me now. Was there with an ex.

BB: I saw. Very handsome.

Y/N: Are you sure you're not just into men full-stop?

BB: 🤷 BB: You’re very pretty, too.

Y/N: I’d believe it if you didn't mention my “very handsome” ex first…

BB: I call it like I see it. BB: I have had 4 whiskeys, tho, so make of that what you will.

Y/N: On a school night?!

BB: It’s my brother Ant's birthday. This is like non-optional drunk, I’ll have you know.

Y/N: Happy birthday to him. 

BB: He says thanks. He’s also told me to get off my fucking phone. Which is rich. He is texting his wife nonstop.

Y/N: Hah! Safe travels through Whiskeytown, BenBridger 🫡

BB: I kinda miss Genius Bar…. 😞

Y/N: I can't win…

2 days later.

BB: Settle an argument for me.

Y/N: 🍿

BB: Col, younger brother, never stops eating... He claims Katz Deli is overrated. I argue it's touristy but still good. You’ve been. Where do you sit on this matter?

Y/N: You really did go thru my Insta, didn't you?? Y/N: Thanks for the follow, BTW.

BB: It's a compliment, I assure you. BB: Welcome. And same.

Y/N: Not complaining. And yeah, I agree with you, actually.

BB: Hah! Excellent!!

Y/N: Wait… your older brother is Ant, and your younger brother is Col? You’re Ben. So, like ABC?

BB:  … I already warned you my family was weird.

Y/N: You did. You did.

BB: Now, please excuse me while I go gloat.

Y/N: 👍

5 mins later.

BB: Hi. This is Col. You must be the famous y/n. Ben’s in the bogs, and the mug left his phone on the table unlocked, so this is on him.  BB: He like really likes you. Like a lot. Will you go on a date with him pls? 

Y/N: Err, ok, hi Col. Y/N: Umm, I think Ben should be the one to ask me that. Don’t you?

BB: He’s too scared you’ll say no.

Y/N: I won't…

BB: EXCELLENT.

2 minutes later.

BB: I am so SO sorry about that 😬 He’s such a shit. BB: But… do you mean it?

Y/N: Ask me properly…

BB: Would you, y/n, like to go on a date with me? Please?

Y/N: I would be delighted to Ben. 😀

BB: 🙏 BB: Are you free on Thursday? Could I take you to dinner?

Y/N: Sounds wonderful. 

BB: 7pm? Meet at Picadilly Circus? By Brasserie Zedel?

Y/N: I’ll be there 😀

BB: 😀

10 days later.

BB: I think you should know… Liz is an artiste 😮‍💨

Y/N: Stop texting me from my bed, you dork. 😘 Y/N: How do you take your coffee?

BB: I'm like 10 meters away. Why not just ask me?

Y/N: You started this, Genius Bar…

BB: Come back to bed, Mostly Hairless Troll.

Y/N: I asked for that, didn't I? 🤦

Benedict taglist, pt 1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @sya-skies

#benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton fluff #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #bridgerton fluff #bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton x you #bridgerton x y/n

[avelera]

One thing I find really fun and interesting when writing Hob Gadling (Sandman) in fic is to keep front and center that he’s the one of the only immortals I know of in fiction who is completely anti-nostalgia.

That’s not to say Hob can’t have fond memories, or keep mementos or relics of happy times.

But I don’t think we have a single canonical instance in the comic or show of Hob waxing poetic about how good things used to be. Quite the contrary, when actually asked about what the world used to be like, he says, err, colorful things like this:

And when it comes to memories of past lives and lovers, we get scenes in Hob’s Leviathan like this:

… which is actually Hob throwing away what appears to be a photograph of himself from his previous identity, alongside his previous lover (or wife), Elspeth seen earlier in the comic. Truly severing ties with that previous life. (Which is not to say he always does this, he seems to deeply regret pawning his portrait of Eleanor for food in the 1600s.)

This is unusual because most immortals in fiction have some past era that they miss. Or keep some historical affectation, like an accent, or slang, or clothes or hairstyles, which are slightly or even wildly out of date for the present day.

But Hob doesn’t. In the show even more than the comic we really get to see that he updated everything, including clothes, accent, slang, and pronunciation to blend into the latest era. There’s no sense that he misses any previous era and he enthusiastically embraces whatever new thing arrives, like his clunky mobile phone in 1989.

I just find this really fascinating because I think the knee-jerk tendency for writers when portraying an immortal is to make them a product of their time, brought forward to the present. The logical thing would be to have them prefer some time period or aspects of a past time period over another, or fail to be completely up to date on some aspect of life, just like your grandparents might not be up to date with the latest slang.

But because this is such a logical way to depict an immortal, it borders on cliche if not done thoughtfully. What sets Hob apart and makes him such an intriguing character is that he bucks this trend. He doesn’t prefer the past, he thinks every new innovation is brilliant, from chimneys to mobile phones. He doesn’t stick to old ways of speaking, he rigorously adopts the latest slang and pronunciation. He doesn’t wax nostalgic about how things were better in his day. If anything he seems to firmly leave every previous era in the past, as seen when even disposing of a picture of his past identity with his past lover as part of moving on to the next identity.

It’s just something I find worthy of keeping firmly in mind when writing him, as one of those unique little details that make him feel authentic to his character, as seen on the page and on screen, as opposed to falling to my own instincts (often lazy ones) to make him a more standard issue immortal as seen in other stories.

#the sandman #hob gadling #sandman meta

[mattyriddlesbitch]

could you please do one where theo nott boasts about his hickeys from us to his mates and then we hear him and drag him upstairs and he goes all subby :)) btw love ur posts!!!

I would dieeee if you wrote about a needy Theo who is eating the reader out and he enjoys it so much he finishes without even being touched. I love when he’s subby

I combined these two asks, so I hope you guys like it!

Liar

Theodore Nott x F!Reader

Warnings: Cussing, oral(female receiving), shoe humping

18+ Minors DNI!

You had just entered the Slytherin common room when you heard Theo’s friend teasing him about the hickeys, but instead of getting flustered, he bragged about it.

“Yeah, I made my girl feel so good, she couldn’t contain herself. Needed to leave her mark.” Theo said with a smug smile.

That’s not what you recall, though. You recall teasing him by kissing and biting his neck until he begged to fuck you.

So you came up behind him and wrapped your arms around him sweetly. “Oh, I don’t think it went that way.” 

Theo looked at you with wide eyes, surprised you were there and that you were about to call him out. “Ah, doesn’t matter.” He tried waving off your statement dismissively.

“It doesn’t? But you’re bragging about it, love. It apparently does.” You smile at him.

His friends were laughing. “Stop.” He whispered to you.

“Upstairs. Now.” You whispered back to him and he didn’t even hesitate before letting you pull him to his dorm.

You closed the door and crossed your arms. “So, you think it’s okay to lie about me now?”

“You know how the guys are.” He tried shrugging it off.

“Do I need to remind you of last night? Of how I had you begging?”

He swallowed, his eyes looking down. “I could use a reminder.”

You rolled your eyes and sat down on the edge of the bed. “You want me to make you feel good after what you just pulled?”

“I’m sorry, cara mia.” He said, kneeling in front of you.

“Doesn’t sound sincere.” You tsked.

“Please, bella, I’m sorry, I won’t lie again.” He started rubbing at your thighs.

“If you want me to make you feel good, beg.”

“Please, please, make me feel good, principessa.”

“You can use my shoe. I’m not doing any work after what you pulled.” You said, leaning back on your hands.

His eyes widened, clearly not expecting that answer.

“Go on. Give yourself some relief.” You tilted your head expectantly.

He looked humiliated but moved to rub himself against the toe of your shoe, whimpering at the contact.

“Needy boy, willing to get yourself off with just my shoe. If only your friends knew.” You say mockingly.

“Please let me fuck you, cara mia. I’ll do everything. Make you feel good.” He begged, a moan escaping his lips as he kept humping your shoe.

“I don’t know. Gonna make me feel so good, I can’t contain myself?” You asked, using his words against him.

“I’ll make you feel so good, please.” He said, pressing kisses to your thigh.

“You can eat me out.” You said, spreading your legs for him. “But you can’t touch yourself.”

“Deal.” He said, wasting no time in nearly tearing off your panties. He buried his face between your thighs, licking at your cunt eagerly as he wrapped his arms around your thighs.

“Fuck. That desperate, baby?” You teased, tangling a hand in his hair.

He just moaned into you.

“You’re so fucking good at this, Theo. You like pleasing me?” You asked, tugging his hair gently and he looked up at you.

“Fucking love it.” He replied quickly before going back to licking at your clit.

“Better use of your mouth than lying about me, right?” You smiled at him and he nodded, sucking at your clit.

He kept licking and sucking, desperately trying to get you off, his own moans and groans nearly overpowering yours. You came with a cry of his name and some curses, body trembling as he helped ride it out. He pulled back and pressed kisses to your thighs to help calm you.

“Fuck. You still want me to make you feel good, baby?” You asked, cupping his cheek.

“No need.” He said, smiling a bit sheepishly.

“What do you mean?” You asked curiously.

“I might’ve…already…” He looked down and you followed his eyes.

“Oh.” You said once you saw the wet patch on his pants. “Just from giving me head?” You smiled.

“Yes?” He answered but in more of a question.

“I love the power I have over you.”

Taglist:

@jeannie-beannie @yourenogoodforme @mixvchelle @helendeath @evaslytherpuff

@ireallyneed-somesleep @soaked4abby @hpnsfwaddict @mayamonroem @motherfing-stargirl

@dracoslovergirl @littlemadamred

Let me know if you wanna be added!

#slytherin boys #slytherin boys x reader #slytherin boys smut #thedore nott x reader #theodore nott #theodore nott smut #theodore nott x reader smut #theodore nott x you #theodore nott x reader

[majestyjun]

# txt + corruption kinks !!

# corruption, innocence kinks, oral (m. receiving), somnophilia (tentative dubcon), dry humping, masturbation, begging, cameras (dubcon). txt and their corruption kinks. minors dni + nsfw.

not proofread bc mille is tired and it’s 12am lol

# yeonjun

it’s addictive, the way yeonjun thinks about you, the way your innocence invades his thoughts without notice, the way you’re dripping in purity and he desires to ruin you. you wouldn’t know any better, would you, if it wasn’t for him. because god, doesn’t it feel good to teach you, his hand cradling your jaw and cheek as he guides your lips over his stiff cock, your hair tangled through his fingers as he feels you swallow around him, your fingers clinging to his knee and your thighs clenched together, rubbing together to try to cure the heat that pools between your legs as you suck him off to his instructions.

you can do better than that, yeonjun murmurs under his breath, foxy smirk drawn on his lips when you try to take more of him in, tip kissing the back of your throat and tears brimming in your eyes at the unfamiliar sensation, shifting to rub your thighs together as he sits in front of you, thighs spread as his grip shifts to your hair to guide your pretty mouth over his cock, a restrained grunt caught between his teeth and his lip as when you give him those darling eyes, so desperately wanting to do good, to please him, because he’s trained you to know sucking him off properly will have his fingers between your thighs, reaching deeper inside your cunt than you can, making you a mess on his fingers because he won’t give his cock yet, not until you deserve it, his cute slut.

ah fuck, yeonjun groans, his sharp eyes darkening at the sight of yours brimming with pretty, glistening tears, going to swallow it all for me this time? i’ll reward you if you don’t waste a drop.

# soobin

it’s so painful, the way soobin’s held back for you. he’s gone as slow as he can, but fuck, you’re just too pretty, too innocent, aren’t you? you trust him so much,,, are you sure that’s a good idea?

because in the depths of the night, your head cradled against his chest, he’s tired of holding back. soobin’s fingers slipping between your legs, slowly, carefully not to wake you, gently rubbing against your soft, clothed folds, warm and untouched. he can tell you’ve never had anyone there before, your breathing hitching as wetness damps your panties, the effect he has on you so addictive. his cock throbbing when soobin slides aside your panties, pushing one finger in slowly, a small whimper escaping your lips as you curl into him closer, fuck, you’re so tight, never had anyone touch you before. and you’re all his to ruin in time, his finger coated in your wetness as he slips your panties back in place, tasting your sweet, virginal arousal on his finger, cock straining painfully in his sweats as soobin slowly licks his finger clean of your juices, as you sleep so blissfully unaware in his arms.

and you’ll dream so peacefully, as he dreams of the way you’ll struggle to fit him for the first time, your pretty voice so unsure, needing his reassurances, his praises, when soobin has his turn to ruin you, take your innocence and slowly replace your purity with desires for him.

# beomgyu

shit, you’re fucking dripping, beomgyu smirks as you whimper and hump his heavy bulge, heat warming your face as he slaps your cute ass beneath your skirt hard. imagine if anyone else saw you like this, he breathes, a mocking tease to his words, humping me like a whore.

g-gyu, you whine, unable to make it feel the same way he does, can’t feel the same pleasure without him now, can’t you? too uselessly inexperienced, all it took was a dirty whisper or two to have you rutting into him in a bathroom, as he leans against the door, your whimpers probably noisy enough to be heard from outside. gyu, p-please, you gasp, on the verge of crying out of need, n-need y-you to do… it!

do what, honey, beomgyu taunts, relishing your desperation. y-you know, you hiccup, too embarrassed to say it. beg for it. he’ll never let you off easily, not when he’s made you into the mess you’ve become, so desperate and needy for him only, everything he does reminding you of the way he’s absolutely ruined your purity. please… f-fuck me, you whisper, a small moan spilling through your pretty, bitten lips, burying your face in his chest to avoid looking at him. all you had to do was ask, beomgyu grins, his hand coming up to harshly slap your cute ass, grabbing the thin fabric as he tugs it up, pushing you to face the door as his hand slams down beside your head, trapping you in a vulnerable, bent over pose, i’ll give you what you want, baby, the sound of his zipper pull making you whine his name.

# taehyun

it’s evil, it’s impure, the way taehyun’s ruined you, so impatiently waiting for him to come home and fuck you full n dumb. your fingers slipping into your panties, whimpering when you shove two fingers into your dripping cunt, trying to relieve the need you feel, frustrated moans filling the room as you try to fuck yourself on your fingers, but it’s just so hard, isn’t it?

can’t find the right spot the way he can, the way taehyun’s fingers reach deeper and curl at just the spot, tears of frustration brimming in your eyes. if taehyun was here, he’d do it for you, spread your thighs over his and make you watch as his fingers pump into your pussy, shamefully spread open as his calm voice whispers the dirtiest things into your ear. because he won’t let you have his cock until you’re cum twice on his fingers, begging for him to fill you up with his dick because you can’t take the wait anymore, his patience too much for his cute impatient slut, isn’t it?

t-taehyun, you whimper, your fingers slipping and grabbing your phone to video call him. each ring sending you further into desperation, every second feeling like eternity until he finally picks up, his chiseled features smooth behind the screen. you’re not doing it right, kitten, taehyun chides, so telling by your tears and the way your fingers are uncomfortably shoved up your soaked cunt. please, c-come home and do it for me? and fuck, does he love it,,, how dumb you are that you can’t even tell he’s right outside the door, listening in this whole time, his reply just lost to your moans.

# huening kai

ah— k-kai, s-so good, you moan,, thinking he’s not watching you? the camera he’s hidden in your room, his hand clenching his stiff cock as kai watches you jump the poor plushie he’s given to you, cute bear trapped between your legs as you gasp and rub your soaked pussy against the soft fur, pleading his name. and kai knows it all, ever since he’s put the cameras in your room, he knows the way you whisper his name in your sleep, the way you hug the same plushies he gives you only to hump them when he’s away, can’t stop thinking about kai’s cock, can you? the plushies a poor replacement for his thick length, filling you up full but you’re stuck without him when he’s away.

he’s watching, watching as you struggle to get yourself off, kai jerking himself off to the way he’s made you a slut for his cock and using his plushies to make up for the lack of his presence. thick cock dripping down his hand as he roughly fucks his fist to the phone livestream of your bedroom, moaning your name. because deep down, aren’t you two just so ruined for each other,,, shouldn’t he return the favor, send you the video of him jerking off to you back, so you’ll know kai’s just as lovesick as you are for him?

sorry i was supposed to be writing an actual fic but i got sidetracked by this thought and then spent the next 2 hrs writing this lol

#and oh i wrote smth lol #txt smut #txt hard thoughts #txt hard hours

[ecoamerica]

Watch the 2024 American Climate Leadership Awards for High School Students now: https://youtu.be/5C-bb9PoRLc

The recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by student climate leaders! Join Aishah-Nyeta Brown & Jerome Foster II and be inspired by student climate leaders as we recognize the High School Student finalists. Watch now to find out which student received the $25,000 grand prize and top recognition!

#ACLA24 #ACLA24HighSchoolStudents #youtube #youtube video #climate leaders #climate solutions #climate action #climate and environment #climate #climate change #climate and health #climate blog #climate justice #climate news #weather and climate #environmental news #environment #environmental awareness #environment and health #environmental #environmental issues #environmental education #environmental justice #environmental protection #environmental health #high school students #high school #youth #youth of america #school

[zvdvdlvr]

Food for thought: secret relationship with Aaron. Not that you're trying to keep it a secret but neither of you were ready to tell the team and now it's almost a game waiting to see who figures it out. Either way even if your relationship was in the open I don't think hotch would engage in any romantic conversation or pda of any kind in the office or in the field BUT I raise you this the man is a not so secret nerd, he's well read, and certainly a romantic at heart...passing notes. Love notes scribbled on scrap paper tucked away at your desk to find. Little notes left in the books he lends you "this part reminded me of you" or even texts through the day just to say "I love you" plain and simple I could go on about this forever 🤭

HEGEHEHEGEHEHEHEH YES. TRUST AND BELIEVE THAT AARON IS A NERD AND A SAP.

Aaron took note of your favorite authors, songs, poets, and artists. Just a a casual pick-me-up (or rather Aaron hoped it helped lighten your mood), Aaron would use a designated hot pink sticky note to scribble out a little phrase from a poem you had been mentioning consistently. Then when you were off to lunch or just out, Aaron would tuck it neatly onto the bookmarked page of a book or file you were working on.

And you better believe he’d circle phrases (lightly) in pencil and write little notes in the margins of your shared books. If Aaron’s feeling particularly joking during the day, he’ll send you the link to Shakespeare’s sonnet 130 and say ‘Reminds me of you lol’. It makes you laugh every time.

And his texts during the day are so tooth achingly cute im in pain thinking about it/j. 😣😣 Aaron tends to stay away from his phone or most technology on a case, but you were involved- possibly too involved- on a case. Aaron watched your face light up as you read the message: ‘I love you, sweetheart.’

Can’t forget when you’re asleep at night and Aaron’s away for some fucking reason. He doesn’t get too detailed (he doesn’t need too!) but he’ll send you those: ‘You’re sleeping right now, so I wantes to let you know how much I’m in love with you’ texts, sleepily going on about everything about you.

And imagine making a shares playlist between you and Aaron :,). Or not even a shared playlist- you could just send Aaron a song during a boring day of paperwork. He’ll listen to it and think of you, looking at the lyrics and writing the song down for future reference just in case.

Another thing Aaron does is doodle. I know how ridiculous and absurd it sounds, but just little stick figures and a heart or a tiny recreation of a scene from a book you’d recently read. He doesn’t have time most days to actually give them to you, so he just tears them off and tuck the hot pink sticky notes and paper scraps of doodles into your desk and around your home to find for later :)

#x reader #female reader #fluff #jules writes 📓🖊 #male reader #x male reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner angst #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotchner one shot #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner x gn!reader #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotch hotchner #hotch #aaron hotchner x reader #bau team #criminal minds #bau x reader #derek morgan

[fernandopiastri28]

Oscar is angry about carlos situation and his Miami GP result so y/n helps him relax (maybe a handjob,maybe Smut..you chose)

the city that keeps the roof blazing ~ oscar piastri

| warning ~ smut, degrading language. MDNI

Y/N’s heart thrums in her chest, an anxious sweat pooling across her back under her corset dress. Oscar’s not doing well, having taken a hit from the Ferrari of Carlos Sainz and losing his front wing as a result. He’d had to pit, finding himself in last, only in front of Logan who’d already DNFed. Her nails are bitten up, rough on the edges. She can hope and pray for at least a points finish, even if it’s just one or two, but at this point, the whole situation is looking rather dire.

If Oscar doesn’t already despise Carlos, he certainly does now. 

In the final few laps, the team instructs Oscar to basically not pull anything stupid and risk Lando getting his first win. It’s honestly offensive of them, as if Oscar has ever done something to sabotage anyone else in any circumstances. In anything, the McLaren team should be focusing on getting a penalty awarded to Carlos for his shitty stunt against Piastri or figuring out why the fuck Donald Trump is in their garage.

When a McLaren passes the chequered flag first, Y/N can’t even feel happy for Lando. She just feels fucked over for her boyfriend who’s being perfectly polite and mature over the radio but is gonna be absolutely destroyed once he’s out of shot from all the cameras and media. 

He’d been leading the race at one point, and now he’s having his first out of points finish of the year in 13th. Stupid Carlos, stupid fucking Carlos. Y/N looks around the rest of the garage at everyone jumping around and cheering for the brit’s win. She keeps her headset on, smiling politely as Oscar would be if he were here. She can’t muster up any excitement, so she’ll fake the bare minimum.

She navigates her way through flocks of commentators and team members as she attempts to find her boyfriend. “Oscar?” She has to crane her neck, searching for a papaya race suit that isn’t the one being showered in praises. As two men who tower over her push past, she bends her arm tighter to keep her bag in the junction of her elbow and close to her. 

“Y/N,” A tired voice calls out, Oscar tugging his balaclava off with one hand. “I’m not crazy right? You say that- that was all Carlos,” He pants, wiping a line of sweat that’s gathered over his top lip. Y/N rubs his cheek, applying pressure to where the outline from his helmet is especially dark. 

She nods, her hand squeezing his bicep through the thick material of his race suit. “Completely baby, you were doing so good.” She’s about to tell him that she was convinced today would be his first race win before her mind reminds her that telling him that isn’t going to make him feel better, in fact he’d probably feel even more shitty that she was expecting a win for him and he ‘let her down’.

He drops his head into his hands, letting out a noise that’s halfway between a sigh and a whine. “What is his problem with me? Because if it’s genuinely got to do with Lando and I being mates,” He groans, shaking his head in disbelief. “Just can’t deal with this right now,”

Before she knows it, Oscar’s being whisked away from her to be weighed and then dragged through endless interviews and media tasks. It’s the absolute last thing he wants to be doing, which is just going to make him more irritated and upset tonight. 

Y/N has to come up with something to cheer him up.

Something certainly. 

At the end of interviews, when they’re finally allowed to head home, Y/N slips her hand into Oscar’s, squeezing each of his individual fingers as she aligns the time of their feet hitting the floor. He just hums plainly, instead of laughing along with each pinch she gives to his digits. “Do you wanna talk about it?” Her tone is soft as they get into the car, Oscar’s eyebrows furrowed as he clicks his seatbelt in.

Oscar doesn’t need to be offered twice as he immediately shoots off into a rant. “He’s just so immature, he’s almost 30 and driving a 23 year old in his second year off the track. Each time I get blamed for it.” He starts the car, his eyes hyper focused on the road ahead as he just aimlessly insults Carlos. “I mean- he’s just an absolute idiot. I meant it when I asked if he was blind because in what reality did I deserve a penalty and he deserved a spot change?” 

Y/N keeps her eyes on him, watching as the muscles of his neck flex and tense, his cheeks getting hot, the veins in his hands becoming infinitely more defined as he grips the steering wheel. She’s ashamed of how turned on it makes her, seeing him like this. Maybe that’s exactly what he needs tonight though.

“And-and, fuck, he’s just soo desperate for another Carlando podium that he’s willing to drive me into a fucking wall just so he can stand on the top step with his precious Lando,” He mocks him, positively seeing red. “I’ve considered Logan my best mate for years longer than those two have known each other yet you don’t see me risking all of Carlos’ races so Logan can get a fucking point,” The swears are just spilling out of his mouth at this point, sounding like a second nature to a degree.

Her hand meets his thigh, rubbing it tenderly as a way to calm him down. “Keep going Osc, just let it all out,” Her voice is thick, warm, and sweet like honey. It’s exactly what he needs right now. He needs her next to him, needs her voice in his ear. 

Needs her hands on him.

“I just think he’s an entitled brat who doesn’t deserve a seat,” It’s harsh, but it’s coming straight from the heart. “I’m glad Ferrari dropped him,” It’s said accompanied with a long, drawn out sigh. He’s relieved, finally able to have gotten that all out.

Yet, there’s still a bugging sense of dissatisfaction deep in his bones that he knows he won’t get from continuously insulting the spaniard. Luckily for Oscar, he’s just about pulling into the hotel valet. 

With a single look at Y/N, he conveys everything he wants when they get to their hotel room, and lucky for him- she wants the exact same.

They maintain a sense of decorum in the elevator ride up, which can’t be said about each time Oscar has a bad race. Example, the 2023 Belgian grand prix. After his DNF, his mouth had been attached to her neck and his hands on her breasts the second the elevator doors shut. 

It had been a very awkward situation to apologise for after a family of four with two very young kids had entered the lift five flights before their hotel room.

But back to now, the second their hotel door clicks shut behind them, Y/N’s taunting him over to the bed with chaste kisses on his cheeks, each one just narrowly avoiding his lips. “You’re a crazy tease, you know that?” He groans, lacing his fingers into her hair and pulling her in for a kiss as they reach the bed. 

She replies with an ignorant shrug and a careless smirk, “It’s fun- getting you all riled up. Makes me feel like Carlos,”

Oscar’s touch sears hot against her skin, his glare even worse. “Don’t fucking mention him in our bedroom,” It’s barely a hiss, but it’s enough of a warning to keep her in line. Instead, she decides to take action on him. Her fingers drag along the hem of his polo, tantalising slowly. She doesn’t need to wonder why that is, it's the same as when he does it along the zippers of her dresses or buttons of her blouses. 

She wants him to beg for it.

“Please,” The heat between her legs is near unbearable from how desperate he sounds, and her thighs chafe from how she’s kept them squeezed together as an attempt to relieve some of the ache of her cunt. “Y/N, I need you,” 

The tips of her fingers jut down to splay across the bulge in his shorts, applying some sort of pressure to the spot. He groans, grabbing her wrist and pushing down harder so she’s fully palming him. He sits on the edge of the bed, looking all pretty and desperate just for her as she continues her ‘massaging’. “You’ll get it Osc, I promise,”

His legs are nudged apart by her hands as she sinks down to her knees in front of him. His eyes light up, his lips red and bitten up from how he’s been chewing down to keep in his whiny noises and begs. Her fingers expertly undo his shorts, poking him so he’ll lift his hips so she can pull the pants and his boxers down in one go. 

His cock doesn’t hit up against his stomach when his tight boxers are removed, instead just lays heavy between his muscular thighs. Truly a sight to be seen. “So hard,” Y/N marvels, gently sliding her cupped hand up and down his length. One pump, two pumps. “And needy,” He looks up at him through her lashes to where his bottom lip is tucked under his teeth and his cheeks are flaming red. 

Oscar bucks his hops forward instinctively, chasing the high of how good her hand, or mouth preferably, feels. He’s lucky when she doesn’t make him wait too long before she grants his wish, opening her mouth, flattening her tongue, and taking the majority of his length into her mouth. 

Y/N’s toes curl in an attempt to remove her somewhat of a gag reflex she has. Today, she wants to take him as deep as she can and make him feel as good as possible. It’s deeper than she was expecting, which is definitely a win in her books. Pulling back slightly, she focuses on the head for the time being.

A string of praises spill past his lips, “Fuck, yes, so so good.” His hand snakes into hold her hair, keeping her head in place as he gradually goes deeper. “Taking me so good, sucking me off like an angel,” Her lips stretch around his thickness, her eyes void of any emotion beyond lust as she stares up at him. 

Y/N’s tongue glides back and forth along the underside of his cock, disgustingly loud sucking noises filling up the entire hotel room. He cups her cheek, his thumb dragging along the bulging of her cheek. His hips inch forward, his cock stuffing her mouth full and moving towards doing the same for her throat. 

Y/N feels insanely good, and maybe even too good. Panic fills her head, what if Oscar’s still thinking about pleasuring her over himself. It’s typical Oscar, catering each sexual experience to prioritise her and her pleasure, even if it means he doesn’t cum as quickly as expected. Steadying her hands on his thighs,she pulls back gradually, “Fuck my mouth,” It’s not a question, suggestion, or even request. 

It’s a straight up demand.

“What, why?” His voice is more broken and weak than she’d expected. Hers is too, but that’s to be assumed when someone has a cock prodding the back of their throat. 

“Because I'm giving you head to make you feel good. This isn’t about my pleasure Osc,” Her voice is absolutely ruined and will likely be even worse by the end of this. Y/N cuts him off before he can begin to protest, which once again, she knows he will. “No but-s Oscar, just fuck my face,” He gives into the carnal desire as his hips begin to snap back and forth, burying into her throat. 

Drool spills out over her bottom lip and down her chin, her mind fuzzy without another tangible thought besides giving Oscar the best blowjob possible. Her jaw is aching but it’s ignored as she solely cares about getting him to orgasm. He huffs and groans, continuously sending praises mixed with harsh insults of calling her a slut and a whore as he gets more shallow with his thrusts, clearly very much so on edge.

She takes advantage of his situation, suckling solely on the sensitive tip as he warns her that he’s “So close Y/N, I’m ‘bout to cum,” The fact that she doesn’t budge or show any signs of slowing down tells Oscar enough. With three pumps of her hand on his cock, he’s spilling out into the wet heat of her mouth. As if time and consciousness is slipping further from her, his index and middle fingers tap her cheek to get her to pull off, then again to tell her to swallow.

Her jaw goes lax to show the proof that she did what he told her to as he takes his shirt off, gently wiping a mixture of cum and drool off her chin. Her eyes fight so hard to focus on the glorious sight of his toned abdomen and well filled in muscles as he cleans her up, but she’s so overwhelmed by the pleasure that she not only gave, but genuinely got from that experience. 

Oscar scoops Y/N up onto the bed, arranging her under the sheets so he can cuddle up against her, his chest to her back and his arms slung loosely around her stomach. “That was perfect,” He murmured, pecking at her cheek and ear as a further thank you.

Her throat does indeed ache, but it’s a worthy pain. “You’re not as upset about what happened with Car-” She can’t even finish the spanish ferrari’s name or her question before her boyfriend has his hand squished over her mouth.

“No saying his name,” He shakes his head, tutting disapprovingly. “But yes, I feel much better. Thank you babe,”

#oscar piastri #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri smut #f1 #formula1 #formula one #f1 2024 #miami gp 2024 #miami grand prix #carlos sainz #oscar and carlos #ferrari f1 #mclaren f1

[starlit-typewriter]

Genshin SAGAU, Creator of Teyvat, but not Humanity Part 6

Thank you to everyone who liked and commented, it really kept me motivated!

Warning for mild self harm, nothing graphic. There are no depressive feelings associated with it.

Warning for Spoilers up to 4.6

Masterlist | Prev Part

~~~

You’re honestly not sure how long you’ve been sitting in the beautiful meadow, enjoying the scenery and the sounds of nature. 

You spent some time staring at the glowing yellow flowers, admiring their soft silken petals. 

You also spent some splashing around in the small river nearby. Its crystal clear blue water lets you see all the way to the bottom. 

The singing of birdsong echo through the beautiful meadow, providing a beautiful atmosphere. 

It’s probably been some time now since you’ve arrived, as the sun is starting to set and the sky was getting dark.

Well, it’s no fun sitting in a dark meadow, you reasoned, may as well see if you could find someplace to sleep. 

You wander over to the gigantic tree that stood as a centerpiece to this meadow and started to investigate its roots to see if there were any nook-worthy spots.

To your surprise you found, well it’s not a nook, but a cave.

Even better!

You scoot your way down, mindful of the steep incline. 

In the back of your head you realize you should probably be panicked about the fact you’re in the middle of nowhere, alone and with nothing, but its only the back of your head, which means the front part that actually makes the decisions is happily powering on. 

At the back of the cave, is not a wall of rock and dirt, you know like you’d expect the back of a cave to be like, but rather a glowing wall of golden symbols.

There’s also a strange energy behind the glowing wall that’s beckoning you closer.

That voice in the back of your head is outright screaming about how insane this whole situation is, but again as we’ve already established, it’s the back not the front. Therefore you reach out to touch the glowing wall of golden symbols.

You expect nothing to happen, because it’s a wall and you’re just touching it. But something does happen, to you, not the wall. The wall is fine, at least you think it’s fine because you can’t see it anymore.

Instead you see this gigantic underground cavern with a giant round rock in the center, surrounded by other large tall rocks and what looks to be a golden fence surrounding the aforementioned round rock.

Then the round rock starts to move.

Update, that is not a rock it is a living thing that looks like a rock.

You think it might be making some kind of sound, but there’s all of a sudden a loud buzzing in your ears that you can’t get rid of.

You shake your head in hopes it’ll do something, to no avail. Actually it makes it quite a bit worse, since you now have a bit of a headache.

You would like to investigate the creature that was once the large round rock so you start to move closer.

As you do the buzzing in your ears and the pounding in your head gets worse, but you can’t seem to stop your feet from moving you closer to the center. Or really your entire body because it would be weird if it was just your feet moving you closer when your entire body is trying to get away, that would probably look like a weird fusion of a tug of war and a crab dance wouldn't it.

Oh you’re at the golden gate now.

At this point your head feels like it’s splitting open. But your hand moves to touch the golden fence, only for it to shatter into golden sparkling particles. 

Before you can process what just happened, the round rock creature moves towards you at a speed that your brain honestly can’t comprehend due to it being in debilitating pain.

It doesn’t run you over or attack you, but rather it nudges you gently with its snout.

Dragon

The word went unsaid.

Yet it echoed in your mind nonetheless.

They’ve never met a dragon before, not do they know what one should look like. 

But now, looking into the topaz eyes of this creature, you knew in your heart of hearts that they were a dragon.

He was also talking to you.

You couldn’t understand what he was saying.

But you can sense his pain.

You can sense anger, rage, helplessness, fear

And

Relief

Your vision is suddenly filled with glowing golden particles.

The world seems to come alive with energy as it pours into your body.

Flashes of scenes and people run through your head.

These scenes, 

No

These memories.

They’re 

Yours?

But,

Also his?

Azhdaha.

His name falls from your lips as your weakened knees give out.

That was his name,

He was dying

Eroding

But, he still remembered his history

His kin

His family

He gave you his memories,

His powers

And in doing so,

It killed him.

But awakened you.

Glittering tears dripped off your fluttering eyelids as you struggled to wrap your mind over what happened.

Flashes of a history you never knew,

Memories of a family you never had.

Images of a swirling cosmos, dancing around your form. Joy, curiosity, freedom

An orb of golden light, zipping around you like a beloved pet. Fondness, concern, excitement.

The shadow of a large flying creature passing overtop you. Awe, pride, trust.

A pair of desperate golden eyes, apologetic and pleading as a searing pain overwhelms you. Betrayal, pain, hurt, hurt, huRT, HURT.

A sharp, sickening, burning pain fills your body as you fight the urge to cough blood.

Eons upon eons of pain and anger and betrayal crashes into you, bringing you to the floor.

There’s screaming, and pain.

Sounds of something crumbling and falling are but whispers in your ear as they’re filled with the sound of your pounding heart.

Your eyes burn with tears as you lay there.

Your tears stain the earth in front you.

Laying there on your side, you can feel the softness of the cool dirt, and a slight breeze in the air.

It was silent

Not a single birdsong nor the sounds of trickling water to be found.

Your heart bursting with more emotion than they could bear.

How could anyone live like this?

Every moment, every action, every thought is wracked with agony and pain.

All you could do was curl up in a ball and hope it all fades.

Little by little it does.

The fear, pain, panic, and sorrow are all stripped away.

Seeping into the cold hard dirt beneath you, replacing you with a familiar sense of numbness.

You breathe, feeling nothing

This is why you were so calm, you realized.

Even as you got transported to a foreign place, got threatened at sword point and lost all your belongings.

You knew that there was something wrong with your mindset, but you were so calm that you didn't think to question it.

But now, with the dried tear tracks on your face, you realize.

Something is very very wrong with this place.

It's like something or someone is constantly pumping you with a sedative, urging you to not focus on things that make you unhappy.

Even now, a part of you is trying to forget what just happened, to go back to wandering through the flowers.

To close your eyes and ears to the horrors and memories of the past.

No

No, you can't forget.

Azhdaha died for this.

He died to give you a chance at remembering.

You dug your nails into your skin until you felt it split open and something wet trickle out.

The pain helped ground you.

Helped you remember.

With all that swirling around in your mind, you had many questions.

Where am I?

What happened?

Why is this going on?

But the central one remains clear.

Who are you?

~~~

“-ao”

“-iao, please!”

The adeptus turned his head at the call.

While not many people knew his name, there were still times when those who didn’t know better used his name in vain. 

Either those who weren’t sure who its was connected to, or those who didn’t care.

But this one was different.

It wasn’t full of arrogant confidence that he wouldn’t hear.

Nor the simple curiosity of an irritating scholar.

This one was full of fear and panic.

From a familiar voice.

Summoning his adeptal energy he focused on that call, and willed himself to disappear.

The next moment he opened his eyes, it was to a sight that made his blood run cold.

The Traveler, usually so strong and bright and full of life, collapsed on the ground, their flying companion panicking.

He raced over, senses on high alert for any nearby enemies.

“Xiao!” The flying pixie shot over to his side, her hands twisted into her clothing in stress.

“What happened,” he demanded, checking over their body for any wounds or abyssal energy, but could find none. All the while Paimon blabbed helplessly about how they were just walking like normal when they dropped like a stone for no reason.

The conqueror of demons pressed his ear to their chest to see if he could hear a heartbeat.

Thankfully it was beating strong.

He moved over to their head, to examine their breathing and check for head wounds.

He cradled their body in his lap and he looked over their skull for any bumps or wounds.

Unbeknownst to him, as he was checking over this head, the Traveler’s eyes snapped open.

They sat up rapidly, almost hitting Xiao’s chin in their frantic panic.

“Azhdaha,” they breathed, scrambling to their feet and taking a couple of shaky steps.

The Yaksha leaped forward to catch them as they swayed.

The Traveler blinked at their savior.

“Xiao?” They breathed, their eyes glassy and unfocused.

“Are you ok,” he asked gently, trying not to spook them in their disorientated state. 

They blinked at him slowly, before pushing themselves upright. They seemed to be focused on something in the distance.

He shook them slightly, they startled at the contact. They turned to face him, the glassiness in their eyes fading slightly.

“We need to check on Azhdaha,” their tone showed no room for argument.

Xiao had many questions he wanted to ask, but, well.

The Traveler is never this serious. Only a couple times before have they seen them with this look on their face, that was always in the heat of battle.

He wanted to argue, but he knew that they wouldn’t ask like this without cause. 

Not to mention they’d probably go investigate without him if he didn’t agree. 

He exchanged looks with Paimon, who whilst still looking understandably stressed, seemed to to know better than to argue with the Traveler in such a state.

So he nods in agreement, offering his hand to take them to Nantianmen.

In a swirl of Adeptal and Anemo power, the three disappeared.

~~~

As the trio raced towards the base of Mt. Hulao , they noticed an issue.

A glaring issue,

The biggest landmark, the proof of Azhdaha’s sealing. 

The crystalline tree that became the dragon’s tail.

It was gone.

It also seemed that they were not the only people who came to investigate.

A handsome gentleman in a brown and gold suit stood at the edge of where the tree used to be.

At the edge of a giant crater.

“Lord La- Zhongli,” the Yaksha breathed, stalling to a stop behind him.

The man in question turned at his call, his gaze tired as it swept over the three of them. 

“What happened,” the Traveler demanded, walking up to him.

He sighed, seeming very old and tired.  “It seems that Azhdaha has passed on.”

There was a moment,

“WHAT!” Paimon’s shriek echoed through the meadow.

“But, I thought you said that the energy from ki-” Zhongli raises a hand, interrupting her tirade.

“A normal death would result in a backlash that would level the entirety of Jueyun Karst, that is true.” He turned back to the edge of the crater, “But this is no normal death.”

The four of them peered over the edge of the crater.

A small bedraggled figure lay there in the center, their white clothing stained with dirt and soot. 

“It seems,” he breathed, “that they’ve given their energy to someone else before passing one.”

~~~

Masterlist | Prev Part

This one is a little shorter, but I just had to end it here, its such a perfect cliffhan- I mean ending.

Again, the next couple updates might take a while, but I promise I'm trying my best.

My askbox is always open if you have any question, concerns or just wanna chat about Genshin.

Behold, the taglist!

@bunniotomia,@lucid-stories, @ymechi, @chocogi,  @ra404, @ash1, @esthelily, @tottybear, @mmeatt, @quacking-simp, @reemthetheme, @universallyenthusiastsage, @resident-cryptid, @fantasyhopperhea, @thedevioussmirk, @etherisy, @naynayaa ,@mel-star636, @chericia, @aithane, @mmeatt, @xrosegorex

#genshin impact #genshin impact sagau #genshin sagau #sagau #genshin cult au

[weskie]

A New Dawn (Albert Wesker x gn!Reader)

descriptions of injuries, descriptions of violence, tentacle murder, tentacle affection, yeah that's a thing, shared shower, wesker lives au | Fic Directory

You found him by sheer luck.

That rock he’d crawled onto could’ve simply crumbled.  The volatile lava could’ve risen higher and submerged him completely.  Despite the odds being stacked so incredibly high against any hope of recovering Wesker, you managed to pull his legs from the impossibly hot liquid with the help of a small rescue team and loaded his charred body into a helicopter for what was arguably the worst moment of your life.

All you can do is stare at what he’s become– at the autonomous slithering of tentacles that, by some miracle, contained themselves to their host and did not spread to your shaking hands.  His lower body is marred entirely with burns and blisters so severe that you’re unsure if taking him out of there was even humane.  If, perhaps, letting him be swallowed by the earth would’ve been kinder than putting him through whatever is to come next.

Once he’s placed in a containment room, you call in every favor you’ve ever known him to be owed.  But it’s all for nothing.

The first attempt to prick his skin with an IV catheter results in bloodshed.  The entire team of medics stood stock still as the head doctor was impaled and dangled overhead by a mass of black, oozing tentacles emerging from Wesker’s body.  It happened so fast that you only realized it once the blood hit the observation glass.

Such would be the result of any attempts to address his injuries.  Not even a blanket was able to be laid over his bare form without retaliation. It was like the mass of tendrils had a mind of their own, geared only toward protecting their host– though it raises the question of why the initial recovery of his body hadn’t produced the same response.  Regardless, you wager they’re the only reason that Wesker is still alive.

For that, you’re thankful.

You talk to him through the intercom regularly.  You tell him about the BSAA’s seizure of Tricell and its assets, of how you’ve turned one of his hidden facilities into something livable for when he wakes.  That you’ll be there when he does, and how excited you are for the day.  That you hope he can hear you but feel none of the pain.

You pray he doesn’t.

At the end of the first week, you come to the realization that the tendrils are slowly engulfing his body.  Every day, more seem to appear until his legs are cocooned.

You take notes and photos of everything as best as you can, just as you know he’d want you to.  After all, this is his creation in action. The seed for his perfect world that was now seemingly consuming yours whole.

By the fourth week, they’ve risen as high as his clavicle. 

By the fifth, you feel as if you’re losing your sanity.  Alone in a massive underground facility, having not seen the sun for weeks on end, eating only MREs and having what little sleep you get plagued by stress and worst case scenario nightmares… 

You crack.

“I don’t know how to make it better, Al…”  You whisper brokenly, forehead pressed to the glass. “I can’t– I don’t know how to help you.”

Any assistance you could have possibly had turned their backs the moment the danger far outweighed the payment– which had been the case from the very start.  Though you can’t find it in yourself to fault them.  If it wasn’t for the fact your heart was lying on that table, you’d have probably followed. The threat of death can be very convincing. 

When the tendrils creep onto his face, you break containment.  And why not?  Why shouldn’t you go in?  You helped make this mess.  You helped create the organism consuming him.  For years, you worked alongside him to perfect the cure to humanity’s wretches– to cull the species destroying this planet and dragging the rest down.

Perhaps you deserved the same fate for sharing in his endeavors– for even having goals so similar and selfish.  But was it really?  Was it so selfish to want better for humanity? 

You drag your swivel chair behind you as you tread over dried blood smears and dehydrated viscera. 

“You always did like making me do things the hard way,” you jest as you approach him.  But you’re not in there to take notes or vitals.

You set foot inside to relieve your madness.

Your hand quakes as it hovers above his forehead.  You’re unsure if you should even touch him due to the blistering and ripplings of infection marring his skin.  The burns have healed a tad since bringing him in, but not nearly as much as they should’ve.  Then again, it’s been weeks since he’s had a dose of suppressant to keep his strength balanced.

You lower the back of your hand toward his nose, relieved to feel the faintest tickling of air.

“Thank god,” you whisper tightly.  “I really miss you...”

Which was the honest truth.  You miss your mundane nights with him, sitting near as you both worked independently. Stacks of paper, the clicking of keyboards, endless hours in the laboratories spent refining mere dreams into reality.  You miss his cold affections and strange ways of expressing that he, too, had been infected with that parasite known as love.

You let your hand rest shakily over a section of his hair that hadn’t been burnt down to the scalp.  You hold your breath and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

You are not added to the stains of violence on the walls, nor are you impaled in the blink of an eye.

But you are greeted with a much thinner tendril creeping up over his brow and forehead to inspect you.  It nudges your thumb and your whole body goes tense, veins chilling as if your blood had turned to ice.  It slithers over the bumps of your knuckles, leaving a thin layer of ooze over every inch of skin it touches as it trails to wrap around your wrist.  For a brief second, you’re petrified of it taking hold of you like that.  Would it try to bind with you?  What if it did to you what it had done to your precious Albert? What if it rejected you?

And if it did, how would you continue to try to help him? 

But it doesn’t.  It does nothing of the sort, just simply continues snaking up the length of your arm.  The tip rests atop your shoulder in a strangely… docile manner. You cease petting Wesker’s hair for but a moment to calm yourself, and then you feel it do something odd.

The head of the tendril lifts itself and plops back down on your shoulder, stroking backward little more than an inch before repeating the process.  You watch with wide eyes, both fascinated and terrified.

It’s mimicking you.

You pet Wesker’s hair once more and it ceases its movements.

You stop; it begins again.

Was Uroboros itself doing such an act?  Could it?

A flicker of hope flashes in your mind and tears prick at your eyes.  It’s so fucking unlikely– nearly impossible even.  And yet–

“Is that you?”  You ask softly, inching just a little closer to him.  You can see the way his eyes dart around beneath his eyelids– an entirely new development.  Was he dreaming? 

The tendril wraps the slightest bit tighter around your arm. 

“Can you hear me?”

The head of it lifts and falls against you once more.

It couldn’t be… but, at the same time, it had to be.   The tears you’ve fought against so hard fall and you grin from ear to ear.  All of that fear fades away, the desperation, the depression and hopelessness– it’s all gone.

You lean forward and press a kiss to his brow, suppressing your silent cries as you revel in the joy that your love is still in there.  This is no mere corpse kept alive by the resilience of a virus. The tendril wraps tighter the second your lips brush his skin, and you know in your heart that it’s how he’s able to reciprocate.

“We're going to figure this out,” you promise him. “I love you.”

Two weeks pass before his flesh starts to peek from between those slithering lengths.  You’d almost lost hope again.

It’s his lower body that starts to emerge first, bit by bit, starting from the feet up.  Flesh that was once marred an angry red, blistered and scorched beyond recognition, was now a scarred pink.  Amazingly, some patches seemed to have healed flawlessly, as if he’d never submerged in the fires of the earth to begin with.

Notes and photos.  Tests where possible.  Anything you could do to make sure Albert had every scrap of information possible about his otherworldly creation.  

Uroboros works.

Not only that, but it can bring its host back from the brink of death– if not perform a complete resurrection. 

Day by day, more of him is revealed until the pink line at his waist shows you just how deep he’d been submerged.  There are splatter patterns elsewhere, you notice.  Tiny specks of scarring from where lava had touched him long enough to burn through the dermal layers.

You decide to finally attempt to cover his body again.  A simple blanket, but hopefully one that’s warmth would not go unappreciated in the chill of the sterile room. 

When his hands are freed, you hold and press countless kisses to them.  You rest your cheek in his palm, telling him about your findings– that he’s almost healed and that you’re so goddamn excited.

“Uroboros is a success, my love.  You’re proof of it.”

The most fascinating of all, though, is the amber-like formation embedded in his chest.  From what you can tell, it is from this that the tentacles on his body are emerging.

You dare not touch it. Not yet, anyway.

Six days later, you find yourself kicking around in the barren kitchen of the complex.  There’s nothing but crumbs, and you’re miserable.  You haven’t left since arriving, and these compounds of his were never meant to be more than a brief hideaway.

You drag your feet as you make your way back to the bedroom.  Seems there’s little more to do than throw yourself in the shower to start your day, so you do exactly that.  Though not with any degree of enthusiasm.  Instead you sit on the ground and hug your knees, eyes shut as you ignore the complaints of your stomach.

You’ll have to find transportation to and from the nearest town– if there even was one.  It’d be lucky if you spoke the language or could even find the currency, but you’ll figure it out.  You have no choice.

In the absence of your awareness, coupled with the white noise of the shower, you fail to hear the door creak open.  Not even the disoriented shuffling against the tile floor rouses you.

Suddenly, the shower curtain is ripped open, and you startle– damn near knocking your head off the floor as you slip around like a fool.  But you clamber to your knees in an instant, arms flinging around the intruder who had fallen to your level.

You can’t help but weep.

“Al?!  Oh my god!” you exclaim through the tightness of your throat. Your hand strokes at the nape of his neck.  “I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry.”

You should’ve been there when he woke up.  You should’ve fucking been there.

He shouldn’t have had to find you.

You move back and cup his face in your hands, pressing a smiling kiss to his lips despite the torrent of emotion rocking you to your core.  You pull away and find that he looks exhausted.  Completely and utterly drained.  His eyes are hooded, but the blue irises peeking out from under his lashes confirm that he is, in fact, exactly that. The formerly bright formation on his chest is dimmed nearly black.  All of his energy had gone into merely surviving.  Your poor, sweet love looked death in the eye for a second time and emerged victorious.

You help him get under the stream of water where you sit and hold him close.  You’ve never seen him like this before.  Vulnerable was an understatement.

He’s quieter than ever, staring straight ahead at the wall.  Shame, you surmise.  Humiliation.  He was defeated again– maybe even flat out killed.  His pride has always been its own Tower of Babel, built high enough to reach heaven and godhood.  But now it was truly shattered.  Crumbled to bits and buried in the sands of his failure.

There are no words to say.  Not yet, anyway.  He’s already heard them all.  Instead, there is shampoo to massage into his scalp and soap to trail over his body.  You may not be able to fix his pain, but you can wash away the remnants of volcanic ash and ooze tarnishing him.  The burden of grime is at least gone by the time the water runs cold.

You dry him with a towel, taking note of how his hands shake and how he balls them into fists to hide it.  You wonder if he still hurts, but you know he’d never admit to it even if he was truly in pain. Even wincing was out of the question, so you pretend not to hear it when he does.  You pretend like he doesn’t lean on you for support as you walk him to the bed, like he doesn’t need your help to lift his legs high enough to settle in.

He lets you hold him while he sleeps, something so out of the ordinary it leaves you blinking in confusion the second his head lays upon your chest.  Nevertheless, you do it anyway.  You pet through his hair, even occasionally running your fingertips over the healed sections of his scalp.  Normally he would stir if you so much as shifted, but he doesn’t even groan in his slumber.  

You hold him as though he's made of ceramic, basking in the tenderness of hope until your own eyelids grow heavy.  The world can wait.  Rebuilding can wait. Hell, even revenge can wait.  All that matters is this– is him. Your precious Albert, safe and very much alive in your arms, is more than you could ever ask for.

For the first time in weeks, your eyes flutter shut without fear of tomorrow.

#albert wesker #albert wesker x reader #albert wesker fanfiction #albert wesker x you #wesker #wesker x reader #wesker x you #resident evil #dead by daylight #dbd #resident evil wesker

[shaguro]

synposis: the story of how you met your sugar-daddy, nanami, at the cafe you work at. ♡ (the prequel to this drabble!)

ੈ✩‧₊˚ tags: sugar daddy nanami! (college student/barista reader x coo nanami), reader is fem, age gap (nanami is 30, reader is 24.), ceo gojo cameo at the start, flirty nd playful banter btwn reader nd nanami, anna is reader's coworker nd friend. nanami calls reader sweetheart once, nanami is just smitten with her as soon as he sees her. sweet fluff! as a whole, this is very light-hearted and unserious y'all. — w.c: 2.2k. ♡

angel's note: consider this my official comeback from my hiatus! thank you so much @preciousamethyst for beta-reading, love you downn. ♡

“you’re telling me out of the five blind-dates that i set up . . . you didn’t like any of them? not even a little bit?” satoru asks incredulously, the french-vanilla latte in his hand almost spilling on the table as he leans forward. “you’re too damn picky, nanamin! they all seemed like nice, respectable ladies to me.”

nanami sighs, looking up from his laptop with an annoyed expression on his face. “the last one didn’t have any teeth . . . and can you keep it down? i’m trying to focus and you’re making a scene, as usual.”

“oh, heh. my bad.”

nanami’s eyes linger on the white-haired man for a moment before focusing on the screen in front of him again. he’s not sure why satoru tagged along to this new cafe with him on his lunch break. (when he clearly stopped visiting his favorite one to avoid him.) it’s not like nanami could say no, anyway — satoru is his boss. his annoying and extremely invasive boss who always finds a way to be in his way and in his business.

it goes without saying that his dating life is certainly not off-limits.

unwrapping the chocolate eclair he just bought, satoru takes a bite of the puffy pastry, humming once the sugary goodness hits his tastebuds. “you were right, nanamin. this does taste amazing.“ he pauses between his words to lick chocolate off his bottom lip, then off his fingers. “maybe we need to try a different approach . . . dating apps! ever tried tinder or bumble—“

“no.” nanami slams his laptop closed, shooting all satoru’s incoming questions down. “i don’t need your help. let’s try ‘letting things happen naturally and staying out of my business’ for a change, yeah?”

“but i have everything planned out! it’ll take me two seconds to make your profile and i have the perfect bio for you — thirty year old trick looking for a pretty woman to spend all my money on — how’s that sound?”

“terrible.” nanami deadpans, placing his laptop into his briefcase. he lifts the sleeve of his shirt, checking the time on his breitling navitimer before standing from his seat. “you have fun with that. i’m getting my pastry to go, i’ll see you back at the office.”

satoru’s jaw is on the floor. “but, nanami—“

without another word, nanami leaves a whining gojo to make his way towards the line that was, thankfully, empty. the baristas don’t notice him, backs turned while they talk to each other by the back counter and nanami doesn’t mind — it gives him more time to decide on what pastry he wants anyway.

truly, he doesn’t understand the obsession surrounding his love life. while nanami is looking, he is by no means desperate. even he knew it was a bad idea to present yourself as a sugar daddy on a dating app, unless you’re an idiot or just lacking a single ounce of dignity.

both categories that satoru fits into, nanami thinks. 

kneeling slightly for a better view at the assorted desserts behind the crystalline-glass case, nanami’s unsure of which one to choose. this cafè’s selection is extensive, they offer much more than what he’s used to; tarts, cakes and pastries that he’s never even seen before. ultimately, he opts to keep it simple with one of his favorites: a fluffy cinnamon roll with extra vanilla glaze.

“girl, i’ve been working real hard and i still don’t have enough saved to pay tuition.” you murmur, scooping a handful of coffee grounds into the filter and shaking the brew funnel to level them. “i’m stressed out.”

nanami’s eyes flicker to where the two of you stand. while he’s never considered himself to be a nosy man, he finds his focus shifting from his lunch to the conversation you’re having, ears perked in interest as he continues to weigh his other options.

your co-worker, anna, gives you a reassuring pat on the back, her face itched downward in concern. “yeah, you were telling me about that last week . . . how much more do you need?”

“around like five-hundred more.” you sigh, brushing your hands off on your apron. anna starts to speak but you stop her with a raise of your palm, already knowing what she’s thinking. “and yes, i’ve taken out loans already. my loans have loans at this point.”

anna raises her brows. “so what are you going to do?”

“i’m out of options.” you shrug, adjusting the valves on the coffee machine to their correct settings. with a heavy sigh, you lean your head on her shoulder with a pout on your glossed lips, “it’s either i start an onlyfans or god sends me a rich old man that wants to be my sugar-daddy.”

anna giggles and playfully swats your arm. even in a serious moment like this, you find a way to lighten the mood. she plays along, tapping her chin with her index finger, “hmm, that can work! maybe you can start stripping. you watched the tiktoks i sent you, right? they touch thousands on a good night.”

“oh my god, i didn’t even think of that!” you stand straight and cup your hands on your breasts through your shirt, poking your ass out a bit. “i might need a boob job and bbl if i wanna be serious about it, though . . . plus, isn’t twenty-four a little too old to start stripping?”

“girl, please. twenty-four isn’t old and you know that. you have a nice body and you’re pretty. they’ll throw stacks just based off that, trust me —”

that whole sugar-daddy thing that satoru was suggesting doesn’t sound half as bad to nanami, right now. you get the money you need and he gets to spend time with you, it’s a win-win.

“she’s right,” nanami agrees, unable to hold back the chuckle that leaves his mouth when the both of you literally jump at the sound of his voice, whipping your bodies around to see just who that deep, smooth timbre belonged to. “you’re very pretty miss . . .” his brown eyes shift down to your name-tag. “ . . . ( name ).”

you blink once, twice — lips slightly parted, heat slowly rising to your face once his sweet compliment slowly registers in your brain and how your name flowed so easily off his tongue. just looking at this man, you can tell that he has money. he’s handsome, even more so as your eyes shift from his chiseled face down to his body. nanami stands tall, he must be around six feet. sporting a white dress-shirt and navy-blue slacks that match his tie, nanami is built. the soft cotton of his shirt clings to his biceps, outlining each vein and curve. the very top of his shirt is unbuttoned, exposing a sliver of his toned chest underneath.

there is no way god answered your prayers this quickly.

in a trance, you stare at nanami like a deer in headlights, completely enamored until anna nudges your arm, snapping you back to reality. she whispers a curt ‘you better talk to that man, girl’ in your ear and that’s you realize that you didn’t even thank him yet, how rude. 

“o-oh, thank you.” you move towards the register, giving nanami a sheepish smile whilst drumming your french-tip acrylics against the granite counter. “so um . . how much of that did you hear?”

“hmm . . . most of it.”

“the onlyfans part too?”

nanami nods with a grin. “and the old rich sugar daddy part.”

you cover your face with your hand, letting out a long sigh. this is just your luck, embarrassing yourself in front of this extremely sexy stranger. “let’s just . . . pretend that didn’t happen.” you’re certain that you were definitely not getting his number after this. “what can i get you, mr . . .?”

“kento.” nanami answers, leaning a tad bit closer and you have to crane your neck slightly to look at him, that grin still on his plump lips. “but you can call me ken.”

“oh?” you catch the cheeky switch in his tone, the teasing glint in those pretty pools of brown. he’s flirting with you and why not return the same energy? you’re interested in him, too. biting back a smile of your own, you hold his gaze, staring up at him through your wispy extensions. “ok, ken, what can i get you?”

“two of those cinnamon rolls, please.” nanami answers, pointing towards the case he’d been looking at prior.

you nod and grab a set of tongs, opening the glass to place the rolls into a small plastic bag, then into a paper bag on the counter. “just that, nothing else?”

pondering on the question, nanami’s debating the risk of what he’s about to say. it’s obvious that you’re attracted to him but this was a whole different ballgame, asking you to be his sugar baby? — really, the worst that could happen is you rejecting him and as much as he doesn’t want that, he’d just have to accept it. nanami inhales a deep breath once he gathers his thoughts. here goes nothing. 

“well, there is something that i have. it’s a proposition of sorts for you.”

you look up from the register, one of your brows raised. “and what would that be?”

“allow me to take you out a few times a week, whenever you have the time . . . and i’ll pay your tuition.” nanami pauses and shakes his head, combing some of his blonde locks back with his fingers. “no, i’ll pay all your bills. as long as i get to see you, i’ll give you anything that you want.”

you tilt your head to the left and raise your brows. “you want to be my sugar daddy?”

nanami nods, chuckling at the look of sheer disbelief on your face on your face. “i’m missing the old part so i’m not exactly sure if i qualify . . . but yes, i do.”

you scoff at that. “. . . and you just want to see me, take me on dates, no sex?” did he think you were that naive? if there’s one thing you know for certain, it’s that nothing in this world is free —  everything has a price and in this case, your pussy would be the desired currency. you pout, crossing your arms over your chest. “i don’t believe that. what’s the catch?”

nanami supposes you aren’t wrong for thinking this way. it does sound far-fetched, especially from a stranger you met not even an hour ago. he wasn’t a liar or a perv, and he’d just have to make you see how serious he is. “there is no catch. i think you’re beautiful and i want to get to know you better. i understand that this may seem too good to be true but i promise you, my intentions are pure.”

nanami isn’t surprised when you don’t budge, eyes slanted as you glare him down. (and you look so adorable while doing it.) he expected this reaction from you and little did you know, he’s already one step ahead. if his words don’t move you, then he’s sure his actions will get the point across.

fishing for his wallet in his pocket, he pulls it out, handing you a five dollar bill, “this is for the cinnamon rolls and this,” he takes out a set of bills, hundred dollar bills and you watch him, mouth ajar as he counts off each one before placing it in your free hand. is he serious? “this is for your tuition and a little extra to spend. we’ll handle the ‘loans that have loans’ on our first date, alright?”

you’re speechless, eyes shifting between nanami’s face and the money in your hand as you try your best to process what’s happening before you. from joking about needing a sugar-daddy to having one in front of you. and the man wants to spend time with you, no sex required! you surely couldn’t doubt him now, not when he gave you the money without you actually agreeing. maybe this was the blessing from god you’d been waiting for.

you clear your throat, nodding dazedly. “a-alright, yeah . . . we can talk more on our first date.”

nanami smiles once more, glancing at his watch prior to picking up the paper bag off the counter. “as much as i want to stay with you, i have to get back to the office.” reaching into his pants pocket, he slides a laminated card on the counter. “my personal number is on this card. when you get a chance, call or send me a text. i’ll see you soon, sweetheart.”

with a playful wink, nanami leaves the cafe — your eyes trailing his lithe frame until he turns a street corner, completely out of sight. it’s like you were frozen in place, the money still in your hands. when you finally decide to take a look at the business card he left, your jaw quite literally drops to the floor: this man is the coo of jujutsu, one of the biggest marketing companies in the country.

                                 kento nanami

                            chief operating officer

               jujutsu marketing and e-commerce, llc.

                                 xxx-xxx-xxxx

[email protected]

now, you were definitely certain that god did indeed hear and answer your prayers. in more ways than one.

tagging: @sttoru @screampied @thebimbopalace @tojancy

© shaguro, 2023 - do not plagiarise nor repost anything on any other platform.

#⸻꒰ঌ 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘭’𝘴 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 ໒꒱ #nanami x reader #nanami x you #nanami x y/n #nanami kento x reader #nanami fluff #jjk x reader fluff #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk x y/n #jjk fluff

[moonstruckme]

have a bonfire - send a character + a trope (one bed, fake dating, etc.) and I’ll write a drabble

i’m such a sucker for a fake dating trope, could i request a drabble with eddie or tasm!peter? (i feel like out of all of the boyfriends they are the most likely to do it lol) <3

Thanks for requesting lovely!

Eddie Munson x fem!reader ♡ 686 words

You drop Eddie’s hand as soon as you’re around the corner. “Baby?” your voice comes out disgusted, blissfully steady. “That’s what you’re going with?”

“I don’t have a shit ton of practice being couple-y,” he replies, huffy. “Sorry if I didn’t have time to whip out my domestic dictionary.”

You shrug. “Guess I just expected a little more creativity from you.” He does spend most of his time fucking around with chords and making up stories involving dragons and mages. 

You cross your arms, walking with a couple of feet between you and your part-time boyfriend now that there’s no one around to see. Eddie turns to look at you, his hair falling over his shoulder. “You like it.” 

He’s teasing, you think. He can’t possibly know that. But your face heats and you can’t look up from the sidewalk, because there had been an undeniable commotion in your stomach when Eddie had said in front of everyone, voice smooth and sweet as iced tea, You getting tired, baby? I’m about ready to head out.

It had been a warm sort of commotion, more bees than butterflies, buzzing all the way from the pit of your stomach up into your brain, where they’ve stayed, humming quietly even now. 

You try to pass your flustering off as pique, rolling your eyes and making sure Eddie sees. “It’s infantilizing,” you say. “I hate when guys call girls that, it’s so weird. I’m not a literal baby.” 

“Could’ve fooled me.” You look over, and Eddie’s grinning at you now, laying it thick on in the way he has been all night, except that was for show and this appears to be just for you. With how wobbly it makes your limbs feel, you don’t know how much more of it you can take. “You seemed a lot like a baby, the way you let me open every door for you all day and were just about falling asleep on my shoulder a couple of minutes ago.” 

And just like that, the happy buzzing quiet. Real indignation sparks to life in your chest. “I thought you were just being chivalrous for a minute there, but I figured that was ridiculous.” For a second, Eddie looks confused. “And anyway,” you go on, “it’s not like you were any better. I thought I was gonna have to pry your hand off my waist if you got any more comfortable.” 

“You still might have to,” he teases, reaching around your side to squeeze at that favored spot. Your vexation breaks up as a laugh jostles out of you, and you try to move away but Eddie doesn’t let you get far, pulling you roughly against his side. 

Any more of this, and you’ll have to get a tattoo of his handprint on your waist with Eddie’s spot written inside. It’ll be tasteless and suggestive, and you know Eddie will laugh for days. 

“I’ve got to find something equally punishing for you now,” you say. “How do you feel about sweetpea?” 

Eddie rolls his eyes. 

“No? Honeyboo?” 

“You know—” 

“Pookie?” 

“—I actually don’t care what you—” 

“Oh, I know! Stud muffin.” 

“Would you shut up?” Eddie squeezes you around the middle again, cutting you off with your own giggles. He doesn’t look nearly as embarrassed as you’d like, still grinning down at you like you’re a source of endless amusement. “Stud muffin actually isn’t bad, but I don’t give a shit what you call me, so long as it’s you.” 

Some of your playfulness fizzles out, and he smirks at what he takes for your dissatisfaction, stopping and grasping your upper arms to look you in the eye. The metal of his rings are cool on your skin. “Got that, baby?” he asks, stretching the endearment out long and teasing.

It takes you a second to react, grateful for Eddie’s hands on your arms as you try to remember how to balance on your own. Once you do, you scoff, ripping out of his grasp and continuing ahead. “Fuck you,” you say. 

Eddie all but skips to catch up to you. “Oh, you wish.” 

#mae's 5k #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x self insert #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fluff #fake dating #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson scenario #eddie munson drabble #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson one shot #stranger things #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fic #stranger things 4 #stranger things x reader

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

girl on fire 1

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as cheating, neglect, noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: neglected, you find comfort in another home.

Characters: Jonathan Pine, Loki

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself

Another lonely morning greets you. The chirping of birds and the yellow haze of sunlight does little to warm your bed. You stretch your arm out, feeling the empty space beside you. You lift your hand and stare at the ring you forgot to take off, as you often do. Sometimes, you just don’t want to. Sometimes you think if you do, he’ll truly be gone. 

Your husband isn’t gone though. Just absent. Just away on business. What's the difference?

You sit up and that knot under your shoulder pangs. You don’t sleep well without Loki near. Even after all this time, you’re not used to it. You wonder if he lays awake in his hotel beds. 

You go to the bathroom and wake yourself up with a splash of cold water. The day unfolds slowly around you as the dregs of sleep recede to painful reality. Alone. Again. Just like every day. When you said til death do you part, you didn’t think it would be a walking death. 

You wash and dress, for no reason in particular. You suppose because you should look human if you go outside. You sit and drink your tea in the kitchen as you watch the news on your phone. Current events only make you feel worse about the world. Even in your suburban paradise, there is no joy. 

You close out the player and tap on your messages. The last text you got from your errant husband was two nights ago. He landed safely. He doesn’t respond unless you message first. You’re starting to forget the days when he would rush in the door and sweep you off your feet. There is only numbness left where once you tingled. 

You’ll talk. Yeah, you’ll sit down and communicate and make it all better. Sure, that’ll happen. You laugh at yourself as you rinse the mug and leave it in the sink. You say that to yourself every time and then he comes home and it’s just silence. 

This isn’t a home, it’s a prison. At least you get outdoors time here. 

You step into your slippers and go outside, grabbing your gardening gloves as you tie on the tool belt with trowel, rake, and spade tucked in the pockets. You roll your shoulders and stretch, groaning as the dull jab remains under your shoulder blade. You need to stop reading in bed. 

As you near the soil along the walk, you stop short. Dirt litters the pavement and petals scatter all around. You near fall to your knees, staggering instead as you grasp at your stomach. No, no, no. 

You stare down at the ruin of your tulips. Not just any tulips but the pink and white ones you’d been nursing for weeks. The ones you bought yourself to mark your tenth year of marriage. The gift you never got from your husband because he couldn’t fit you into his calendar. 

“Ugh!” You exclaim and stomp the broken stems. “I hate you!” 

You stamp your feet in the dirt, spreading the mess, jumping up and down as your anger swells and your hurt flows over. That damn squirrel! That pest! That horrid creature! 

You kick through the other flowers, crushing peonies and pansies and violets. You don’t care about any of it. It doesn’t matter. It all just wilts and dies. It’s all just a bunch of bullshit. 

You clutch your head and collapse on your heels, sitting on your knees as you hang your head forward. It’s not the flowers. You know it’s not. The one thing you don’t want to think about is the only thing you can think about. 

You stay like that, sobbing into the ruin of your front garden. How pathetic you must look in your old Gap tee shirt and oversized sweatpants. If any of those HOA cyborgs walked by, they’d surely give you a citation. 

“Pardon,” a voice breaks through your tragedy and you close your eyes.  

You’re delusional. You have to be imagining things. It sounds just like him. Like your Loki. You turn your head and open your eyes, lashes webbed with tears. You sniff and quickly mop them away. Of course it wouldn’t be your husband. 

“Are you alright? I saw you fall from across the street,” the slim tall man stands on the other side of your iron gate. “Oh my, well, what a mess that chap made of your garden. I’m afraid he had a go at mine as well.” 

You squint and shake your head, “who?” 

“That squirrel fellow. He broke one of my planters as well,” he points with his long index finger. How peculiar. He reminds you of him. Tall, slim, and his nose... 

“That’s... yeah,” you sniffle and look down, using your shirt, to wipe away what’s left of your grief. 

“They must’ve meant very much. Even if they are just flowers, I can empathise,” he says. 

You shrug, “I’m being dramatic.” 

You stand and sweep off your pants. He lingers and you avoid looking at him. You’ve humiliated yourself enough. 

“Tulips,” he remarks. “I’ve some lovely blue ones from Holland if you’d like some bulbs. Can never have too many.” 

“That’s nice of you,” you keep your head down, turning your back to him, “who are you exactly?” 

“Oh, yes, I suppose I’ve not made the rounds yet. I... do you perhaps know a Hattie?” 

“Yeah, across the street,” you mutter. 

“That would be her. My aunt,” he explains, “she’s in need of some assistance, she’s due for surgery, so I’ve volunteered myself as her minder. She always did make the nicest biscuits, I only think it fair.” 

“That’s... nice,” you nearly choke on emotion. It is very sweet and selfishly, you feel worse for hearing it. 

“Needless to say, I’m a bit of a stranger around here,” he continues, “I’m Jonathan, though, if you... care.” 

You take a breath and lower your head, trying to get yourself together. You face him and try to force a smile but only feel like you might start crying again. You enunciate your name through the tension in your lips.  

He repeats it and it nearly takes your breath away, “do I have that right?” 

You have to hold back a gasp as you nod.  

“Beautiful,” he remarks, “happy to have a name to the face. I hate to be trouble but you might see me around.” 

“That's… That's okay. I'm sorry. I'm just… having a day,” you try to laugh out your distress but it only sounds fractured. 

“We all do,” he says, “I might be so lucky you never catch me in one.” 

“Sure, uh, I'll… I gotta go inside.” 

“Of course,” he purrs, “I shall let you know if I do catch the menace.” 

You put on a perplexed face. 

“The squirrel,” he says, “I am merciful, never worry. I'll only give him a good fright.” 

“Mm, thanks, er, I'll keep an eye out too.” 

“I do hope your day turns for the better,” he dips his head slightly, “can't complain for the sun, can we?” 

He turns and struts to the curb. You watch as he looks both ways then strolls on, hands in his pockets, a man without a care. You envy him that, but you can't quite place that other thorn in your chest. 

#jonathan pine #loki #dark jonathan pine #dark!jonathan pine #jonathan pine x reader #drabble #series #dark loki #dark!loki #loki x reader #the night manager #mcu #marvel #thor #avengers #au #girl on fire

[seungmoonandstars]

𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝐼 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒

Kim Seungmin/female reader

wc: ~2.5k

rating: explicit/little bit of fluff/little bit of angst ಇ

comments: uuh this is me forcing myself out of a block

𓂃 ࣪˖.⋆

It’s been months since you've had him to yourself—since you've had him at all. His voice, his taste, the softness of his lips...everything feels brand new again after so long. He matches the eagerness of your kiss while his hands fight your clothes, but it’s hot tonight, and the AC broke, so every piece of fabric sticks. You might pass out in this bed if Seungmin is as eager and horny as he usually is.

“That’s better,” he says as he finally rids you of everything, and you latch onto his neck, “I have been very, very impatient.”

The words in your head almost slip out. “Yeah? Did you miss me, Minnie?” Much tamer, but his eyes jump up at you, back down to the space between your hips, then back to your eyes.

“Yeah…missed you,” his tongue pokes out and licks his bottom lip.

Maybe he did, but you know exactly where his mind is when his palm runs down his side, pulls at his shorts, and his hard, aching cock is finally free. The sigh that comes from his chest is so heavy—every bit of stress inside of him is trying to escape.

You go for his neck again, and he laughs when you suck the spot beneath his ear. Ticklish. You know how to get a good giggle out of him, and you never miss an opportunity. Seungmin can be as rough and serious as he wants to be, but a kiss or a lick in just the right spot always softens him up.

Seungmin squeezes your side as you lift yourself, and grins as you jump, and he can’t hold the rest of his smile back. His teeth part and you watch his tongue poke out between them.

“Okay…okay” You shake a little as you hold yourself there, bracing for another squeeze, but it doesn’t come. He has one thing on his mind.

Seungmin slides a hand between your open thighs, strokes himself with his other, “be a good girl for me.”

“I’m always good for you”

He laughs again, then relaxes and digs his fingers into your hip. The slow stretch as he slides in makes you whine, and the seriousness of his gaze, a different Seungmin from a moment ago, makes you heat up even more. He’s patient as he pushes up, lifts his hips and rolls so gently—he gasps and moan with every movement. You watch the muscles on his stomach flex. The only light coming in reflects the warm shimmer of his skin, and it’s hypnotizing as he moves for you.

Your head falls back and you squeeze your eyes shut, because you have to look away. The look on his face, and his soft moans—the sound of him sliding in and out of you is too much, and already feel like you could come for him if you let yourself.

“You are…my good girl, so wet for me,” he coos and moans, sucks his teeth. Seungmin grips again and brings you down until you’re skin to skin, slides and rolls your hips against the slick mixture of sweat and arousal pouring from you. “How many times you gonna come for me?”

The pressure makes you gasp, and you grab for him to hold yourself up and get some relief. But Seungmin loves watching you take it all, so you gently bring yourself back down and let all of him in—up and down, over and over. You can feel yourself gushing around him; hot and wet, running down your shaking thighs, covering him and squelching so obscenely with each pump.

mmm…minnie

You can’t hold yourself back. The moans, he likes those…he loves it when you’re loud for him. But you have so much brimming inside of you, and it’s not just the cries of your first orgasm.

tell me baby

min...ah fuck…fuck

The bed shakes as you bounce on him.

you feel so good

Seungmin whispers and holds you so tight as you move. When you finally look down at him, his eyes are dark, fluttering open and closed. His mouth hangs open as if he can’t bear to keep any of his moans inside, and he doesn’t, and it sounds like he’s finding the perfect pitch for you as he does it. He touches and rubs your swollen clit in gentle circles, careful not to disturb the perfect rhythm you both created.

min…seungmm ah

You stutter. You can’t get it out around the stars popping up in your vision.

minnie god please I’m gonna come

He bites down on his lip and smiles, keeps his pace, swipes his thumb slowly up and down until you shake and scream for him. It’s too much and you want to fall back and cry from the pleasure. But he doesn’t stop touching you, and when you get your palms flat on the bed, finally, he thrusts his hips up and fills you again. Seungmin comes hard as you squeeze tight around him. But he doesn’t stop.

I cant…no more minnie no not yet

a little more… good girl

He keeps touching, and you keep coming for him. It feels like he slows himself as you reach for his hand, lightens his touch, but you’re gone—you’re floating, and you feel like you can’t come down from your high yet. But he brings you down, eventually. Seungmin grabs you, whispers something under his breath, and pulls you close until he slides out.

You groan, whine his name as you place wet kisses on his sweaty chest. Seungmin is catching his breath, but his hands don’t leave you—they slide up and down your back, slow and rough, almost lovingly.

“Minnie?” You sigh, “Min…I—”

He sushes you and runs his fingertips across your skin, “relax, catch your breath…and then we can go again.” Seungmin is insatiable when he’s here.

You kiss back up his chest and into the dip of his throat, “we go again…and then we can shower, get another drink. Yeah?”

“Ah, you wanna shower? Already worn out, huh?”

The lightness in his voice is obvious, but he likes to poke and tease whenever he gets a chance.

“No, no I’m okay”

“You’re usually good for three or four rounds…or five”

As much as you want to keep kissing him, you roll off and onto your back, and Seungmin grumbles when your weight is suddenly gone.

“I just wanna shower with you, but we don’t have to…” you try not to sound too defeated. He didn’t even say no yet.

“Oh, shower together? We’ve never done that before.”

No, you don’t do much together aside from this. Making a mess of your bed, drinking too much, having breakfast before he leaves…if you’re lucky. You keep wondering if he ever lays in bed needing a little bit more. Wanting him to match your feelings doesn’t seem like it should be so unattainable, until he’s next to you, humming sweetly and running a lazy finger over some delicate part of your body. He seems satisfied, and when he leaves in the morning, you’ll be empty again.

“No, we haven’t”

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ

The cold water continues to beat down on his face and his chest, and you watch him closely from your spot, towel wrapped tightly around you. You got a little too cold, but he’s enjoying himself and he’s not coming out. Fresh sweat is already starting to form and run down your chest when he finally turns the water off, but he stands there for a few moments and drips.

“I feel much better”

He walks out towel-less and runs his hands through his dark, wet hair, and most of it stays slicked back so you can see his eyes. You can’t decide what part of him to watch; his hair dripping onto his broad shoulders, the beads of water rolling down his chest and stomach, or his soft cock swaying between his thighs, taunting you. Your eyes venture up and down, very obviously.

“You look as if you can’t touch”

“I like looking at you”

You catch a smile before he throws a towel over his head. “Cute.”

“I do…you’re more than just a good fuck”

“You getting all romantic on me?”

He’s poking fun again, but you still feel your stomach drop. Seungmin doesn’t want to take things seriously if he doesn’t have to, because he already has plenty of serious in his life.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ

Your fingertips slide easily over his chest, down past his belly button, and just above where his towel still rests. Seungmin is already damp with sweat when you finally get him back to bed, and the salty taste of his skin on your lips is stronger than any alcohol you’ve had tonight. He laughs under his breath when you keep going back for more, kissing softly, dragging your tongue and teeth across him.

Seungmin squirms a little against the fresh sheets. “Mm, that tickles”

“I’m gonna find every last ticklish spot on you tonight”

“That sounds mean, not romantic”

“Which do you prefer? Mean…or romantic?”

Your heart races when you look up, but it takes a few seconds before he feels your eyes on him. No answer…but you can feel his breathing change.

“Start up here." His fingers drag across the curve of his neck, and you kiss your way back up until you can feel his pulse beneath your lips. A bite gets a laugh out of him, and he squirms again.

“That’s a good start,” you whisper in his ear, and the feeling brings his shoulders up as he shivers. “Two spots there.”

Seungmin pulls you against him and holds tight, “mean.”

“I don’t wanna be mean,” you wiggle free and work your way down, moving your kisses across his chest—lift his arm and kiss his soft inner bicep. Seungmin just sighs contentedly as you work your way down his side.

The room is so quiet. It’s just his steady breaths and the sound of your lips releasing from him, and the occasional giggle when you find a good spot. When his palm spreads over you, you jump. Seungmin is running his hand across your back again, just like before.

“Okay, romantic…”

He groans when you pull at the towel and reach his hip, then his thigh.

“Mean again”

Your lips graze over his growing cock and kiss the other thigh.

“Very mean”

“You like it,” you laugh and peak up at him, “you love being teased.”

“You would know”

Another groan as you grip his cock, run your tongue up his length, and close your mouth around his head. He stares intensely, and you stare right back as you suck and lick the pre-cum leaking from him.

“You know what I like”

Seungmin whines when you let go and kiss again, but it turns into a laugh, because he does like being teased.

“Are you having fun down there?” His voice shakes a little.

You are. He groans out in pleasure when you squeeze his calf muscle as hard as you can, and you keep doing it with both hands. Seungmin arches his back, runs fingers running through his hair, and you think you see a little smile—but when you kiss the top of his knee, his body relaxes, and his legs slowly fall back onto the bed. His sigh is a little dramatic.

“What’s wrong?” You stop, lift yourself, look up at him. You can feel something in that sigh. “Seungmin?”

“Nothing…uh,” he puffs his cheeks and pulls himself further up the bed, so now…you feel a little abandoned in your spot. You reach for your shirt at the bottom of the bed and think about putting it on, but decide to just get up and get a fresh one. His eyes follow as you dig for something comfortable, and as soon as the shirt is pulled over your head… “come back.”

“I need a drink”

The bed creaks as he jumps to his feet and follows you, which you weren’t expecting, but he probably needs a drink, too—you’re not preparing for some big revelation in the kitchen, and you can act distant, too, just like him...you just don’t want to. Seungmin only bothers to throw his briefs on, and you catch a quick glance of his dick getting softer and softer as you pull out a bottle of water for you, and one for him.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, stupidly. But not really—it just sounds stupid to you right at this moment. Seungmin might have a vague idea of what’s going on in your head, but you’ve done a pretty good job of hiding it before tonight.

“You moved away from me, I should be asking you that...so…what’s wrong?” It takes all of your energy to sound casual. Inside, you feel like screaming.

His eyes grow, and they look around the room like he needs to find a quick exit, but he just folds his arms over his chest, scrunches up his face, and sighs again. “It just got, I don’t know…I don’t know how to say it without sounding like an ass.”

“Just say it,” you turn your back to him, though, because you can’t look at his pretty face. Seungmin is intense, whether he means to be or not, and his eyes burn right through you.

“I can’t”

“Did you really miss me?” The cold water hitting your stomach makes you feel sick. The question does, too, because now you have to hear his answer. “Don’t answer that.”

“Fuck”

He turns and walks toward the bedroom, but changes his mind immediately and stops, turns, huffs. “Fuck,” this time a little softer, and with a little more confusion behind it. “I’m so stupid.”

There is no sound of him stomping away again—he’s just standing there, and you’re stuck in your spot. “You’re not stupid, you just don’t, uhm…” the tightness in your throat makes your voice crack, but you manage to hold everything back.

“Don’t what?”

“You don’t know how you make me feel”

Seungmin is thinking very loudly, but he’s quiet for a few more beats, until… “how I make you feel?”

The emphasis on his you is the loudest he’s said anything all night. Now you finally turn to look at him, and he’s still standing tall with his arms crossed over his chest, but his face has softened and his eyes look even more dark and wet than usual. He looks like a kicked puppy.

He takes a cautious step forward, “yeah, I really missed you. I wanted to call you a few nights ago to tell you, but I never had enough time alone.

“You never call me”

He turns and heads for the bedroom before you even finish. When you get there he’s on the far side of the bed, feet on the floor, back flat on the mattress, arms splayed out above his head.

“Min?”

“Yeah?”

You walk in quietly, sit gently, just close enough to reach out and touch his fingers. His curl around yours as soon as he feels your touch. But neither of you say a word—not for several minutes, and you watch his eyes close…his breathing steadies in a way that makes him look like he’s asleep.

“I’m sorry if I was being too much,” you finally break the silence, because you can’t take it anymore. “It’s hard not to be sometimes.”

A smile tugs at Seungmin’s lips.

𓂃 ࣪˖.⋆

#kim seungmin x reader #seungmin x reader #kim seungmin smut #kim seungmin fluff #kim seungmin fanfic #seungmin smut #seungmin fluff #seungmin fanfic #seungmin x you #kim seungmin x you #seungmin imagines #skz kim seungmin #skz smut #skz fanfic

[goingmerryfics]

Previously Betrayed/Cheated on w/ Killer, Zoro, & Mihawk

Content: Gender neutral reader, SFW, mentions of past cheating/betrayal in another relationship

Notes* Added a few more characters here! Thanks for the great prompt @juinewasbonker !

Killer

Killer is very calm as you explain your past to him, even while you’re a mess as you do it.

Offers physical comfort; he’ll hug you or hold your hands while you talk, never interrupting you even for a second

His patience also knows no bounds- he will wait there while you half to calm yourself in-between sentences as the painful memories and feelings begin to surface. He helps you by guiding your breathing by example

The great thing about Killer is how stoic he is here. You know he would never turn it around and make you feel as if it were your fault like your narcissistic ex did- in fact, he’s the opposite, and when he does speak to you, it’s so validating.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that. You deserve so much better than someone who would betray your trust."

He pushes your hair out of your face and wipes your tears away so gently while going on and on about how it wasn’t your fault, and praising you for coming to him and letting him know so the two of you could become closer in your own relationship. He tells you that it's normal to feel hurt or distrustful after such an experience, and that he doesn’t take it seriously when you’re apprehensive about certain things with him.

Being who he is, he does get a little protective and asks if there is anything you need him to do. You know what he means by that, and it makes you laugh a little at the notion of him beating down your ex for something that had happened ages ago. He’s already a criminal, but you still shake your head at his offer and let him know you’ll keep it in mind, though.

"I promise to always be honest with you and to never do anything to hurt you. You mean everything to me, and I'll always be here to support you."

Zoro

Zoro is very direct, even to the point of that being a bad thing sometimes. So as you explain your past to him, you search his face constantly for any hint of a reaction, as if you’re trying to prepare yourself for him to tell you that you must have done something to cause the betrayal- that you were too much of a prude, or maybe it’s the way you speak

But he doesn’t say anything like that at all. This isn’t the time for his problem solving, and he knows that. He hasn’t experienced a betrayal like you have, and that’s all the more reason why he knows that this is an active listening situation

When it is his turn to talk, he knows exactly what to say and doesn’t hesitate for a moment

“You're better off without someone who can't stay loyal. You deserve someone who respects you."

In this situation he would be talking about himself, but it comes out so fast that he forgets he’s your current boyfriend for a moment

The both of you share a bit of a laugh at that, and you let him know that you hope he can be patient with you while you learn how to trust your romantic partner again. He understands that you need some time for that, and he’s not worried about having to wait.

"You're not alone in this. I've got your back, always. If you need anything, just say the word."

He’s not big on initiating physical contact, but he gladly returns it when you pull him in for a hug and a kiss.

You let him know that you appreciate him, and the two of you go off for a nap to regain the energy from the exhausting reveal

Mihawk

His strong suit does not lie in handling big emotions, so this conversation takes a while. 

He keeps asking you what’s wrong, knowing from your actions that there’s something you want to tell him, but you keep mentioning that you don’t want to talk about it yet- and he doesn’t want to push you, but he’s getting worried

Finally, you two sit down to have this talk over a glass of wine. You keep yourself calm while you explain, and you talk about how the situation had destroyed your self confidence in the past and your ability to trust. He listens to every word, and even sets his glass down so you have his full attention.

"I admire your resilience in the face of adversity. Remember, you are not defined by the actions of others."

The way he leans forward to take your hands in his and kiss your palms is so romantic that you can’t help but to swoon and break into a smile. He can be so sweet very suddenly, and you were glad that this wasn’t something he would find as a waste of time, or a nuisance

He shares that he has gone through this before, too. He understands your feelings of hurt, and he understands the malice towards the person that destroyed you just as he felt to the person who destroyed him, too

He urges you that dwelling on that hurt will only keep you stuck in that time of pain, and even offers to guide you back into self-love in many ways. He asks if you’d like more insight into his life, like coming with him to warlord meetings, or if you simply would like more compliments, which he is always happy to do

Whatever it is, if anything, he commits to doing it for you if you say it will help you to feel better in your relationship with him

"Should you ever require guidance or assistance, know that I am here to offer what counsel I can.”

#one piece #harleywritesop #hwop #killer op #op killer #massacre soldier killer #one piece killer #killer one piece #op mihawk #mihawk x reader #hawkeye mihawk #mihawk one piece #dracule mihawk #killer x reader #one piece zoro #ronoroa zoro #zoro roronoa #roronoa zoro #zoro #zoro roronoa x reader #zoro x reader

[elly-grace]

His world

Idk what to name this one lol also not edited at all

Pairing: Joe burrow x reader

Warning: not eating, mean comments

Word count: 1176

The day started off like any other day. Joe wakes up to the sun shining through the window, then gets ready for practice. After Joe is ready he wakes you up with a good morning kiss, then after a short conversation heads to practice. This was normal, it was the status quo, it was routine.

But the status quo was broken after Joe left for practice, you felt off. You felt like crying, the hate from Joe's fans was really starting to get to you. There have been so many rumors about you and Joe recently. The main three were; cheating allegations, an engagement, and pregnancy. None of which were true, you would never cheat nor would Joe. You and Joe have been together since freshman year of college. Neither of you ever thought of cheating on the other in all the time you've been together. There's no engagement, at least that you knew of. But the pregnancy rumor hurt the most, you knew why it was being thrown around. You had been gaining a little weight, which you were self conscious about.

The comments flowed through your head.

‘She's so ugly! Like gross.’

‘She’s getting really fat, must have had to get pregnant for Joe to stay with her sorry ass.’

‘Joe can do so much better than her’

You felt the tears well up in your eyes.

“What if Joe leaves you?”

With that thought the floodgates were opened. Part of you knew that Joe would never leave you, he loved you with his entire heart. His world literally revolved around you, he didn't know how to do what he loved without you in his life. You two have been part of each other's lives since birth. Robin and (your mom) had been friends since childhood, which forced you to be friends. Joe was the built-in best friend, always there for you, and you were the same for Joe.

The other part of you thought the comments were factual. With you gaining weight you've been having troubles feeling comfortable in your body. It didn’t make you feel ugly just different. You knew Joe could have literally anyone he wanted, he could do better than you.

You try to calm down and take a few breaths coming back to rational.

You walked to your closet and found your oversized hoodie and a pair of leggings to change into. Then sluggishly made your way down the stairs then into the kitchen. Making your way to the fridge, you open it but then the fat comments come to your head. Deciding you would just skip breakfast you close the fridge. You check time seeing it was almost 9 which meant the other WAGs would be calling you soon. As if on cue your phone rings, it was Jess, Sam's fiance.

“Hey, are you coming out with us today?”

“Hey Jess. I think I am going to stay home.”

“You sure? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m just not feeling good today.”

“Okay, call us if you need anything.”

“Okay, have fun!”

You said then hung up.

You started to do some house work around the house. You cleaned the entire house, starting in Joe's office and finishing in the basement. When you finished cleaning it was already noon meaning Joe would be home soon. You head to the kitchen to start making lunch for him, deciding to make a chicken caesar salad. You finished plating the food as soon as he walked in the door. He made his way to the kitchen and saw you and moved towards you to give you a kiss.

“Hi, baby. Have you been crying?” his eyes were fixed on your doleful looking face.

“Maybe.” you just shrugged, “it doesn’t matter.” as tears weld in your eyes.

“It does! It matters, why are you crying?” he said in a voice the told you he wasn’t going to stop until you told him.

“I’m getting so much hate. People say I'm ugly, fat, and you could do better than me. Which don’t say the last one isn’t true.” You looked down. Joe instantly made you look back up at him by putting his fingers under my chin. Noticing that my hair was messy and all over he moved some of it out of the way.

“Listen to me please, I love you, only you. You are beautiful, I don’t care that you're gaining weight, it means you're healthy.”

Your stomach starts to growl. Joe gives you a sad look.

“When did you eat last?”

“Yesterday”

“When? Cause you barely touched your dinner.”

“Breakfast was the last full meal.”

“You need to eat.”

You sighed but you would do anything for him. He was the love of your life.

“Okay” you said and started walking to the fridge when he grabbed your arm and pulled you back.

“Wait, I'm not done. I’m never going to leave you, never let those comments get to your head.”

He gave you a passionate kiss, then walked away. A few seconds later he comes back with something in his hand.

“This is definitely not how I wanted to do this but.” He spoke getting down onto one knee.

“Joe?” You were shocked.

“Y/n m/n l/n, I can not fathom my life without you in it. You’ve been here since day one, literally day one. You're the only constant thought in my mind. Every Injury, every bad day you’ve been there. You're it for me, it’s always been you. It took us 18 years to finally get together but I knew in middle school when that guy broke your heart. When I saw you crying I wanted to beat him up for hurting you. Now here we are 9 years later, I don’t think I can spend another moment of you not being mine forever. You are my world, my best friend and hopefully soon my Fiancé.” The tears that have been welling in your eyes finally fell.

You nod “yes”

Joe slides the ring onto your finger and stands and gives you a hug and then a kiss.

“I love you Joe”

“I love you too Y/n. I’m going to address the fans about the hate today when I go on ‘New Heights’.”

“Thank you.” You gazed at his face with his beautiful smile plastered upon it.

“How about you come with me?”

“Will Travis and Jason allow that?”

“They will, they’re pretty laid back.”

You nodded and soon you were in joes car with him.

“Welcome to the pod Joe, I hear you got some exciting news” Travis said

“Yeah, as of today I am an engaged man.”

“What, congrats man!” Jason yelled.

“Thanks guys, but I’d also like to address one more thing before we start.”

“Yeah go ahead.”

“So my fiancé has been receiving some pretty brutal hate from some of my fans recently. I just want to say that she is beautiful the way she is, and I love her more than anything in the world. Please stop hating on her.”

Requested by: @funnyjb

Hope you enjoy!

#joe burrow x reader #joe burrow #nfl x reader #nfl