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gurugirl · 1 year

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The Con Artist | Part 1*

Summary: You're a wanted criminal and when Harry Styles, the detective on the case, finally catches up to you he finds it difficult to resist your charms.

A/n: This is detective!harry x crimina!reader / y/n | This will be a short series (3-7? parts). The Con Artist Masterlist

6.7k words

Warning: Criminal activity detailed (drugging, stealing, conning), smut (oral sex)

◈ ◈ ◈

The first time you remember stealing anything was when you were about three years old. From what you recall, you were with your mother at a dollar store of some sort. On the bottom shelf in one of the aisles was a pretty mirrored compact. It snapped close with a satisfying click and opened up easily for your three-year-old hands and so you put it into your mother’s purse as she was bringing you out of the store.

Being three years old, though, you forgot all about the mirrored compact when she surprised you with a toy she bought for you. The next day she came across the stolen item and somehow, she knew you’d done it. Because maybe there had been some sort of pattern. You just can’t remember stealing before that day.

But then you started stealing clothes from the mall when you were older. Lip balm (you became fond of the Chanel lip balm in Light but frequently settled for a Lancôme or Clinique as they were usually easier to snatch up), candles (the expensive ones to make it worth your while), pens, and lighters. You stole anything small enough to be taken without anyone noticing.

The only time you ever got caught was when your mom found the mirrored case in her purse when you were three. Even now, 23 years later. Here you are, stealing for a living. The man lying on the bed you are standing next to is knocked out cold. You may or may not have slipped him a little something to send him off to sleepy time before he could take his pants off, but that was the game. He wanted something and so did you.

Yours was a simple grift. Straight men are easy. All you have to do is hang out in really nice clubs and bars near the nice neighborhoods. Dress a certain way. Talk a certain way. Compliment the man. Compliment him some more. Laugh at his attempt at flirting and play dumb. Definitely laugh at his jokes. Act dumb. Sit alone. Bat your lashes. That kind of bullshit.

The man would need to be rich, or if not rich, showy and cocky (because how fucking annoying is a showy cocky asshole with nothing to actually show for it?). You typically looked for a nice watch (Rolex is easy to spot, but the really expensive watches are Audemars Piguet and Patek Philippe). He’d need to be a little drunk. Or even desperate is fine. Sometimes drunk isn’t necessary. You just need to get him to take you to his home. Never to yours. Married men would suggest a hotel. And that could work too, under the right circumstances. And married men were special because they’d never report you.

Then, once you’re in his house you suggest a nightcap, a drink for your nerves you say (a lie because you don’t drink alcohol) and insist on making them yourself. Drop in enough crushed benzos and voila. The man thinks he’s about to get laid but he falls asleep fast and you steal his cash and his jewelry. And sometimes a few other things you can take with you on your way out the door.

Tonight’s meal is a married man but his wife is out of town. The “house” is in Hope Ranch but it’s more like a mansion. It’s massive and the guy is loaded. That’s all you care about.

You served him a gin and tonic with a lime wedge and 10 mg of crushed-up benzos. You poured yourself a tonic and chucked a lime in for good measure, so it looked like you were drinking too.

He brought you to his room after drinking his glass of nighty-night juice and you could tell it was taking effect. He fell asleep almost too quickly. But who were you to complain? His wallet was lying on the coffee table and his Rolex was an easy snag. You were out the door in less than an hour. He only had about $50 cash in his wallet but the Rolex would be worth around nine thousand dollars for you. You loved the dumbasses with the expensive watches the most. Rolexes are a dime a dozen. They’re the easiest to come by and the easiest to get rid of.

By the time you get back to your little studio, it’s past 3 am. You don’t live in the best part of LA but it’s also not bad. Koreatown has its moments. The supposedly haunted Gaylord Apartments studio has been your home for the last two years. You truly could afford something nicer but it’s hard to imagine paying more than you already do for rent. It’s a waste of money really. You’re living fine and saving your cash. You don’t want to be a thief all your life. Just for long enough to save up so you can go anywhere you want, buy a house for cash, and live out your days as an old maid who never found love. Because love seems like a pipe dream at this point.

Men suck. But then again, you’re not really much of a catch yourself. So ending up alone is probably your true calling. You’ll buy a bunch of books, get a few cats, maybe grow a garden and wear robes all day long. Drink cold juice and watch murder mysteries at night with your cats all curled up around you, and fall asleep on your couch because sleeping alone in your bed just sounds depressing. And maybe you’ll do some traveling. Who knows? You’ve amassed a decent amount of money. You’ve given yourself until 30 and then you’ll call it quits. Just a few more years.

At the Gaylord, you’re not allowed to have pets, but you can have fish. You crouch down to look into your aquarium and see that Buster and Barry are fine. They usually are. They’re pea puffers. Kind of cute really. But Buster killed his first mate, Brenda. When you introduced Barry, Buster left him alone. Buster and Barry don’t usually interact which is why they get along. You had no idea that puffers could tend to be aggressive but when Brenda was found belly up in the 10-gallon tank one Thursday evening after you’d secured a nice Saint Laurent coat and a Royal Oak Piguet, you were quite disappointed. You’d had such a good night too. The Royal Oak was worth close to $60 thousand. And the coat was just an extra on your way out the door. But poor Brenda. Dead in a day.

You turned off their fish tank light, “Goodnight boys.”

At night, when you were alone in your bed you’d think about the things you’d done. You never really found guilt anytime you thought back. You did feel like what you were doing was wrong, though. You knew that much, you just didn’t feel that bad about any of it, though. You’d made yourself a nice small fortune and you did it doing something you loved. Why did you love stealing from unsuspecting idiot men?

Who knows?

You had a mostly-typical upbringing. Your mom and dad split when you were five and you saw your dad every other weekend like most of your friends with their dads.

Your mom was a good mom. She took care of you. Loved you. Protected you. Encouraged you.

You didn’t have an unusual childhood. Others who had it far worse turned out normal. You had no excuse. No trauma to point at. No mental health problems ran in the family. No vendetta against men. Nothing to prove.

You just liked it. There was a thrill that came with it. And the better you got at it, the more fun it was. And you loathed the idea of working a regular job somewhere earning a living wage. A living wage. What a joke. You were earning like a CEO and not once did you ever have to put out for anyone you didn’t want to. Everything was on your terms.

You could sleep in as late as you wanted. Skip a day of work if you chose, never needing to call anyone to tell them you were taking a sick day. You could do two in one day if you were on a roll. Or you could abandon ship if the man you started chatting up turned out to be someone you could actually see yourself fucking. Because you did draw the line there.

If you started to become interested in the guy, or he was attractive enough, and he invited you back to his place you would have a choice to make. You could stay the course, drug him, and then steal his watch and his money or you could just have a fun night with an attractive man at his place. You wouldn’t steal from someone you’d slept with. You had some moral boundaries.

You were nice, though. You weren’t like a bitch to anyone. But I guess ask any of the men you’d stolen from and they’d have a different mind about that. You had a small handful of friends. You didn’t like letting people get too close, though. For good reason. Because when you got close it became harder to hide your dark secret. People always asked what you did for a living. What an intrusive question to ask anyone. You always made up some lie about working online and inputting data for a medical corporation. Something that pointed to you making just enough money that would explain your nice clothes and expensive purses, but also that would have you home during the day.

Your best friend, Raechel knows your secret. Probably your mom as well. Also, Josh who buys your stolen goods but that’s a different story. But that’s it. In the whole wide world, you have one person that you’ve told directly what you do (again, not counting Josh). Because you couldn’t hide it anymore. And Raechel is still around. She’s your best friend. Now your mom, well, you never told her but she knows. She’s not dumb.

Bright and early the next morning, if you can consider 11:30 am bright and early, you headed to your dealer slash fence man, Josh, after shooting him a message that you were on your way.

You had with you the white dial Rolex Daytona you took off of whatever his name was the night before. Now, this watch is worth about $20,000 but Josh would take a big cut of the profit because he was the one going and selling the stolen item, he needed to make money from the deal too. Plus whoever he sold it to wouldn’t pay him the full $20,000 either, because they also needed to make a profit.

You met him in your usual spot. He took a look at the jewelry and searched for the model reference number to make sure of its value. Then you left with $8,500 in cash and a quarter ounce of Girl Scout Cookies (that’s a nice strain of marijuana bud to clarify).

The bank wouldn’t take big ass deposits like that at a time or there’d be some kind of flag on your account and it would get reported to the IRS (protocol), so you generally would only deposit $3,000 at a time. Which also meant you had a large stash of cash in your apartment at all times. You tried to space out the deposits. Had multiple bank accounts at different banks, and went to different branches in different locations but cash was difficult to work with at times. It was the only part of the job you hated. Dealing with all that cash. Especially when you preferred to save most of it. You usually bought yourself nice things, but most of your money you didn’t touch. You were serious about your future plan of buying a house for cash and getting lots of cats.

Tonight you planned on going to the Warwick again. The last time you were there was six months ago. You’d gotten a big hit with a B-list celebrity and you didn’t want to show your face around there for a while just in case he found you there or anyone recognized you somehow. Six months seemed like a good amount of time to wait.

You stopped at your favorite café and picked up a latte and scone to go. Then you walked to Liberty Park to drink and eat your breakfast slash lunch in the sunshine.

You wondered who would be at the club tonight. The Warwick was usually crawling with celebrities (lots of money). You knew how to handle them all. It really didn’t take much though. Look cute, act dumb. Usually. There were a few times you’d encountered a celebrity or wealthy man who was looking for someone with substance, but that wasn’t what you were going for. You searched for the ones who wanted one fun night and nothing more.

You were sitting on the concrete ledge near the sculpture and sipping your hot latte when a shadow appeared blocking the sun from your body. You looked up to see a tall man looking down at you. Instantly you sat up straight. He was very attractive.

“Hi… I was hoping you could point me in the direction of The Ritz Carlton. I seem to be lost…” he looked at his cell phone and then held its screen to your face and you laughed, placing your latte down next to you.

You stood up and smiled and noticed he didn’t have a watch on his wrist (old habit), “You’re definitely lost. The nearest Ritz is gonna be like a 45-minute walk from here. It’s that way,” you pointed in the direction of the 110, though it couldn’t be seen from where you were.

“Fuck. Well, thank you, I guess. I’m new here and went for a walk and found myself enjoying the sun and now here I am. Lost puppy in a big city.”

The man had thick, dark hair, seafoam green eyes with a dark green limbal ring, richly pigmented lips, and a jawline that could cut rock. And he was British. Clearly from out of town.

You held out your hand and introduced yourself and he quickly wrapped his big paw around yours and you saw the tattoo on his wrist. His clothes didn’t indicate that he was well-off. But sometimes it was hard to tell. Some rich guys didn’t give a fuck. This one didn’t. If he was, in fact, wealthy.

“Harry. Nice to meet you. S’hard finding a friendly face in a new city. Do you live here?”

“I do. Not far from here. What are you in town for, Harry?” You asked, keeping eye contact. You didn’t know if you should size him up for a job or see if you could get him to take you back to his hotel for a fuck. This guy looked like he could fuck. Tall and broad, deep voice, and big hands. A dimpled smile.

“Ahh, just work. Plan to be here for about a month. Staying at The Ritz off Olympic while I’m in town,” he smirked at you and that was all you needed to hear to know he was interested. Yeah, you’d fuck him.

“Is that so? For a month huh? Here, let me give you my number, ya know, in case you need anyone to show you around. A friendly face like you said…” you gestured toward his phone so you could put your number in and he unlocked it and opened up his messages app.

You were bold. You had no problem picking up a guy to fuck. You just needed to be somewhat straightforward. Your jobs were different. Playing coy was the game when they wanted to feel like they were in charge. But when it came to actually fucking someone, you were in charge and you wanted them to know it.

“Seems quite forward to give your number to a complete stranger, Y/n,” he spoke your name, wrapping his lips around the vowels in the most sensual way. That mouth of his could do some damage. You swallowed.

You laughed and shrugged, “Not really. It’s just a number. Now, what you do with it is up to you. If you’re bold, you’ll use it.”

Harry grinned at you and the way you nearly let your knees buckle when you saw his dimples was not a normal reaction. But Harry was gorgeous. You'd let him fuck you if he was into it. Absolutely. This man could get it from the top to the bottom. He was well-muscled and sturdy under his clothes. Something told you he’d have a big dick too and you’d love to let him use it on you.

You shook yourself of your thoughts and Harry cleared his throat, “Well, thank you. I’ll certainly consider calling you,” he lifted his cell phone upward as he spoke.

You were a little disappointed by his remark. Consider calling you? What the fuck? Maybe he wasn’t straight. Would explain why you found him attractive. All the hot ones were some shade of gay. But he was flirting with you... Wasn’t he?

Harry waved as he walked off and you sat back down to finish your latte and dry scone.

◈ ◈ ◈

You got yourself dolled up and tried to erase the way you were feeling annoyed that Harry hadn’t messaged you or called you. You gave him your number. You were rarely rejected. Unless he was gay… You laughed at yourself as you sprayed your hair to hold the style and then looked at your phone again. It was 9 pm. The perfect time to show up at the Warwick. It was time to work.

You were let in with no problem, despite the long line to get in. No cover for you. You got yourself a soda water with lemon and sauntered around the perimeter. Lots of groups tonight. Some of the guys watched you walk by. But you were specific. Precise about the men you worked. The young ones in the groups were probably spending more than they could afford to be there. Not your type. You moved along the lower room until you spotted a group of men sitting together. Now, these guys were job material. Men with money.

You neared them slowly, sipping your soda water until one of them looked up and saw you. You smiled at him and kept walking until you found a place to sit where you could be in the sight line of the man with whom you smiled. He had his eyes on you alright.

You’d give it ten minutes before heading their way. Just to see if he’d come to you first. Just to see if he was into feeling like he had the upper hand. Sometimes older men preferred more traditional roles and liked to be the aggressor. Oh, little did they know…

You swung your left leg over your right one, letting your dress ride up your thigh so he could see what you were working with. You smiled at him again and then looked away, pretending to be caught in the act.

But then suddenly someone sat down next to you, catching you off guard. You jerked your neck toward the intruder (this was not uncommon), ready to tell him to buzz off when you were met with the warm smile of the man you couldn’t stop thinking about.

Your look of disdain quickly turned to one of excitement and you couldn’t help the smile that crawled over your face at the sight of Harry. He was in a suit; his hair was styled just so with a thick curl falling over his forehead. He had rings on his fingers and he looked like he’d been drinking a little with dazed-out eyes on yours.

“Y/n. I didn’t expect to see you here,” his gaze dropped down to your dress and your thigh and then back up to your face.

You mimicked his display, dragging your eyes down his frame and back up to his handsome face, “It’s been a while since I’ve been out. Felt like a good night to have some fun.”

The man you’d scoped, was long forgotten as you and Harry began to chat. He was alone at Warwick. Like you. And he was hot. He was clearly a bit tipsy with the way he was so loose with touching your arm and your hand, the way he’d pause his eyes at your lips as you spoke.

The thing that really got you worked up was how he’d lean in to speak into your ear so you could hear him. It was necessary to do because the club was so loud, but you fucking loved having him so close you could smell him and feel his voice vibrating off your ear.

“You look amazing,” he said as he plucked at the hem of your short dress, his fingers brushing against the skin on your thigh as he did so. Probably on purpose. Definitely on purpose.

You decided he’d be worth the work raincheck. You’d let him fuck you. And it seemed like that’s just what he wanted when his eyes settled on yours and he looked like he wanted to devour you.

“Wanna get out of here?” You asked. You were a-okay with abandoning ship for a hot night with Harry. Work could wait. This man before you, flirting with you and watching your lips as you spoke was ripe for the taking. You didn’t want to miss the chance to try him out in the sack.

Just like he said, the taxi stopped at The Ritz-Carlton on Olympic and he took you up to his room. In the taxi on the way to his hotel, he scooped his arm behind your back and pulled you into his side, brushed your hair from your neck, and put his mouth next to your ear, “You sure you want to do this?”

Your breath hitched in your throat. Yeah, that happened. That never happens. Not to you. You were the one making men’s breath hitch. But Harry had some kind of natural charm about him that matched your own energy. A panty-dropper. But it helped that he was so goddamn fine with a deep British accent and dazzling eyes.

The room didn’t appear to have been slept in, but that’s probably due to the strict housekeeping staff taking care to clean up behind their guests.

You kicked your heels off near the door and Harry walked up behind you and wrapped his arms around your front. He kissed your neck first. You were admittedly caught off guard by his energy. He was quite forward and confident.

You leaned your head to the side and smiled when you felt him in your back, poking you with what you knew was going to be a big cock. He was already very turned on.

You turned in his arms to face him and slid your hands up to his shoulders and kept your eyes on his, “I don’t usually do things like this…” you spoke innocently.

Harry tilted his head to the side and smirked. The look on his face said he didn’t believe you, “Me neither.” You certainly didn’t believe him.

You lifted yourself upward on your toes and pressed your mouth to his. You had had enough of the back and forth. It was time to get down to it. Harry’s cock was hard and your panties were wet. That’s all that was necessary at that moment. Talk could wait.

Harry gripped your waist and walked you backward to his bed with his mouth attached to yours. You let go of his shoulders and slid yourself back onto the bed as he crawled after you. You grabbed his collar and pulled him down to you, lips locking together in haste.

Putting your leg over his hip you bucked yourself upward to feel his hard-on under his pants and you moaned at the bulk of him.

“Get your pants off, Harry,” you cooed as you palmed over him. Harry sat back and removed his shirt and there was nothing in you that was disappointed by what you saw. More dark tattoos covering his chest and his arms. His body was masculine and sculpted exactly to your preference. Firm with smooth skin and a smattering of hair at his pecs and under his belly button.

You moved your arms behind your back and unzipped your dress and let it fall down your arms. You were wearing a special bra that was sticky on your breasts, which you’d forgotten about until that moment. It was difficult to remove in one quick go because the sticky inside was super sticky so it stayed put. You sat up and turned away from him as he began to unbuckle his belt and undo his pants.

Pulling the bra away from your skin slowly you looked over your shoulder and Harry was looking at you with his brows scrunched in confusion. You laughed and when you’d removed the bra lifted it upward so he could see, “It’s a sticky bra and it’s awkward to take off. Didn’t want you to see it coming off. It’s less magical that way.”

Harry spit out a laugh as he visually inspected the bra and he nodded, “Okay. If you say so,” taking the bra from your hand and tossing it on the bed. Harry was only in black briefs when he put his hands up to cup your jaw and pulled you in for a kiss. He pushed you back into the bed with his lips smoothing against yours and he settled himself in between your legs. You were left in only your nude thong. Harry’s briefs-covered cock was pressed right over your pussy. He was thick. You knew he was something special down there. He rocked down over you and licked into your mouth. His solid arms kept his torso held up while his hips were pressed down over you.

You bent your right leg at the knee and spread a bit for him to access you better and he moaned.

“You’re getting me wet even through your underwear. Need something, Y/n?” His cocky smirk was warranted. You hated a cocky man but Harry had every reason to be. He was delectable.

“I need you, Harry. S’why I’m here right now,” you spoke in your sultriest voice and licked at the seam of his lips. Harry brought his mouth down slowly, his warm lips pecking and licking a cherished path down toward your breasts. He palmed and sucked at them. You arched your back and panted. He wasn’t going easy on your nipples as he pulled each into his mouth and swirled his tongue around your areola. His nips caused you to moan loudly into the room.

He moved his head further down and you knew what was coming. But in all honesty, you hadn’t shaved in a while. You were full-on bush down there. You didn’t expect to be getting laid tonight. You were on a job when you saw Harry at the club. You got all dolled up, shaved your legs, and did what needed to be done. But no more than what was necessary.

When he got to your hips you braced yourself for him to see your pussy in its natural state. He put his fingers into the band at your hips and looked up at you as he slid them down slowly. You craned your neck up to see what his expression was when he finally took you in.

He saw your bush. You saw him pause at your pussy but he continued dragging your panties downward. You held your breath when he put himself back between your legs and lowered his face to your inner thigh, planting a hot kiss very close to the curve of where your ass and your cunt met.

“Can I?” He looked up at you, his mouth parted in lust. You weren’t going to say no to head. If he wanted to get down there with your wild garden of desire and wrap his mouth around your clit you’d let him.

“Yes,” you smiled but felt yourself blush a little at the idea of being munched on while you’re pussy-scaping was nonexistent.

But he didn’t seem to care at all. He put his lips over your mound and went to town. Like all the way into town and back home again, then back to the strip so he could have dinner and seconds. He found all the parts that needed to be found under your pubic hair. You settled yourself back into the pillow and relaxed. Harry was a man who liked pussy clearly. He wasn’t deterred by the bush one bit.

Your clit was being given sufficient attention when he began to use his fingers in your crease, softly stroking you up and down until he placed his middle finger right at your hole. He prodded it in a bit and you looked down at him between your thighs. He had his eyes closed, his tongue lapping at you then you watched as his lips found your clit and he pulled at it, sucking you into his mouth and you gasped. He was good. This man was hot and he was good at giving head?

“Fuck, Harry! Right there…” you moaned your words, needing to let him know to keep up with what he was doing. He was going to get you off fast this way.

Harry moaned into your pussy and opened his eyes when he heard you and he nuzzled in further, shaking his head left to right quickly and slurping your clit just as he inserted a second finger. You felt it go in. Harry’s fingers were long and he was getting the job done nicely.

You arched your back at the distinct feeling of heat traveling from your groin outward. You slid one of your hands down and placed your fingers into his thick hair. Something you’d wanted to do since you first saw him earlier in the day. You just had no idea it would be happening while he was expertly eating you out in his hotel room at the Ritz.

You bucked upward toward him and panted, “I’m gonna come, Harry… please….” Your voice was shaky and your orgasm was beginning to blossom. Harry was making a mess of his face with your arousal as he dug in further, one hand holding you down while his other kept his fingers stroking your walls just like you needed.

The snap fuzzed up your hearing for a moment. Your ears rang as you came in his mouth, your body stiffening and jolting with each stroke of his tongue. You were sure you were speaking but your mouth and your brain didn’t meet up as you quivered under the man who was lapping at your pussy like there was no hair in the way.

You opened your eyes when Harry kissed both sides of your hips and sat back. He looked down at you with a grin as your chest was rising and falling quickly, “Holy shit. That was the fastest I’ve ever come from… that.”

Harry chuckled and got off the bed. He walked toward the dresser and you could see his hard cock pressing against the front of his dark briefs. He grabbed two glasses and a bottle of water and brought them to the bed. Pouring a glass for himself and for you. He sat down next to you as you sat up and handed you the glass, which you happily guzzled down. Harry did the same. You hoped he wasn’t washing away the taste of your hairy pussy. That would be embarrassing.

“Sorry. About the lack of trimming. I really didn’t expect to show anyone the goods tonight,” you laughed. It was so ridiculous for you to be apologizing for that. It was natural for most women to have hair on their crotch. Just like it was for men. You weren’t sure why you were apologizing. Maybe it was because Harry was so incredibly attractive.

Harry’s brows pinched together and he frowned, “Really? I mean, I don’t care about the hair, but you weren’t thinking you were gonna laid tonight? Looking like that?”

You shook your head, “No. Truly.”

“Well, you have a beautiful pussy. I doubt anyone would ever kick you out of bed for going au natural. Doesn’t bother me.”

You smiled at him and leaned forward to brush the back of your hand over his cock, “What about you? Do your trim?” You smirked.

Harry laughed through his nose and took your glass, placing his and yours on the side table before covering your hand with his and pressing your palm down on his lengthy cock. He brought his other hand up to you, his fingers at your neck and thumb over your cheek when he leaned in to kiss you.

When he backed away from the kiss he looked down to where he had your palm pressed over him, “Why don’t you check.”

You let out a laugh of disbelief but smiled and took the top band of his underwear in your hands and pulled at it, lowering the material and seeing the smattering of hair at his low stomach turn into a darker, thatch before his cock sprung out. The cock was a total distraction. You had forgotten all about the hair when you saw his large organ standing out.

Harry lifted his hips and helped you pull his underwear down. He was certainly nicely built. That was for sure.

You smiled at him and then looked back down at the masterpiece between his legs and leaned in to kiss the tip. Harry moved back, putting his arms behind him to give you space to worship him.

You heard him inhale a sharp breath when your lips came into contact with the tip of his crown and then you looked up at him, “May I?”

Harry nodded quickly and you stuck your tongue out to lick him up and down. You had a lot of area to cover with his penis but you managed to lick him from base to tip all around. He was very hard in your hand. Heavy and thick. You stuck your tongue softly into the slit at his head and looked up at him. He had his eyes closed and his mouth parted.

Just as you wrapped your lips around his tip and swirled your tongue over his frenulum he jolted his hips and gasped, “Wait, god… hold on…” his hand was at the back of your neck, pulling you off.

You looked up at him and then sat back, causing his hand to fall away from your neck.

“I’m not going to assume you wanted to have sex, but I kind of wanted to,” he kept his dark eyes on you.

You hated giving blow jobs if you were honest and Harry’s cock was going to cause some damage to your tonsils you could already tell. That monster might not even fit quite well enough for you to really get the job done anyway.

“So, you don’t want a blow job?” You queried, just to be sure.

“I love a good blow job, but…” he looked down and laughed as he shook his head and then set his eyes back on yours with a goofy grin, “this,” he gestured toward his crotch, “tends to take a little training. Not the easiest man to suck off.”

You raised your brows and scoffed, “So, you’re saying that you think your cock is so fat that I’d have trouble taking it down my throat and you’re giving me an easy out and offering to fuck me with that instead of choking me with it?”

Harry barked out a laugh and nodded, “Well, I guess you could put it that way.”

“Thank God, because that thing is quite daunting. Would rather have it in my vagina than my throat, so thank you for that,” you couldn’t believe this man, but he wasn’t wrong. In all honesty, he probably got used to this spiel. It kind of sounded like he’d said it all before.

“So you do want to have sex?” Harry repeated to be sure.

You rolled your eyes and climbed over his thighs, pushing at his chest to bring his back down to the mattress. You straddled his hips and put your unshaven pussy over his cock and then kissed him as your answer. You rolled your hips up and down and Harry grabbed your ass and guided you up and down along his shaft.

There was a lot of girth to rub yourself on with him so your clit was being pressed into on each stroke. Harry moaned into your mouth and pressed you down harder over him as he rocked upward, pressing himself between your slick folds.

“Come on…” he breathed out, “I’ve got a condom,” he said and nudged you up. You stayed in his lap as he leaned over and pulled out a condom from the side table. You found it interesting that he had a condom there being that this was a hotel room. You knew the pattern of men staying in hotels.

Condoms would typically be kept in the luggage or a wallet. Unless the man was expecting company… But you decided to let it go. So what if he was expecting company? Maybe he planned on getting lucky tonight when he went out and thought ahead by putting condoms conveniently in the side table (which is odd for a man to think ahead like that). A woman, now she would think ahead and put condoms in the side table because women think about things like that. Men don’t. Not normally. It’s not a big deal, but it’s also out of character for a man staying in a hotel that he only very recently checked into.

“You okay?” Harry asked you, making you realize you were stuck in your head a bit.

“Oh… yeah. I’m totally good,” you nodded feeling a bit like you were missing something important. Like you were being forewarned of something by the tiny revelation you just had.

You took a breath and tried to push the sudden inexplicable feeling you had down. You wanted him to fuck you. Of course, you did. But what was that feeling you were getting? This sense that something was off? You knew to trust your senses. You had a good read on people and something was not quite right. And you saw him twice in one day? In LA of all places? A strange man from out of town? Yeah… something was off.

You put your hands on Harry’s shoulders and frowned, “I’m… sorry…” you pinched your brows together as you slid off of his lap, “I think I should go.”

Part 2

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seasonsbloom · 2 years

Text

baby, let's play house. rooster (part 1)

part 2

pairing ; bradley bradshaw x female!reader

synopsis ; marriage of convenience. you got yourself in trouble. bradley has a bit of a savior complex. together, you come up with what could potentially be the worst idea in the longstanding and illustrious history of bad ideas.

wc ; 12.5k

warnings ; 18+ only, minors do NOT interact; angst; explicit language; explicit sexual content in later parts; pregnancy; mentions of infidelity; mentions of vomit; mentions of Tom Cruise; unhealthy family dynamics; one mention of suic*de but it's not a plot point; age gap

note: uhm... i blacked out. idk either. part 2 should be out eventually, which of course means that i haven't even started writing it yet. there will probably be several mistakes in here regarding the navy, etc. so i'm sorry about that i'm just dumb :-(

sol. sunderlust. crab. bestie... i love you forever, what would i ever do without you?

When you’re fourteen, sitting on a floral couch in one of the nondescript, army-commissioned houses you’ve been moving to every few months since you were old enough to remember, your mother turns on Cocktail with Tom Cruise, and you decide that, once you’re grown up, you’re going to be a bartender. You’re going to do just what Tom does - get a job in some dive, work your way up, learn the bottle slinging and the shot pouring and the flirting, and then you’re going to franchise the whole thing and take it national. It’s going to be just like TGI Fridays, except your drinks will actually be good instead of whatever watered-down punch they serve.

Of course, you’re fourteen, and you don’t even know what alcohol tastes like yet. Years later, you’re going to take a shot of Tequila at a bar, you’re going to splutter and cough and think you might choke, and it’ll leave you wondering if maybe you’ve made a mistake. But for now, you’ve got a dream, and you’ve got a plan, and not a smidge of doubt that you’ll make it all come true.

You’re going to do just as Tom Cruise does - minus the best friend’s suicide from the movie and the real-life Scientology thing and all that. But you’re going to be successful. You know it.

So this, then. This is not part of your plan at all.

Behind you, there’s a bang, and then the back door is ripped open. The buttery light of the bar spills in a rectangle across the beaten path, but it doesn’t reach your little corner. You hear the muffled thud of footsteps, a curse, followed by a shout of your name.

“Yeah?” you call back, hope you don’t sound like you’re balancing on the edge of a mental breakdown. Hope you don’t sound like you feel.

“Your shift’s about to start. I really need you in there cutting up some limes, please,” Jerry, your co-worker, says. Thank God he doesn’t walk over to investigate just what you’re doing huddled in the sand behind the bar.

“Okay,” you answer, voice a little wobbly, “I’ll be in in a sec.”

You wait until you hear the door shut behind Jerry, then you unfold yourself, get your shaky legs underneath your weight. You feel like somebody hit you over the head with one of those huge hammers they use to knock down walls. The nausea is back, too, something queasy and watery that shifts through your stomach.

Inside the bar, everything is like it always is. The chatter of the customers, the drawl of the music, the smell of beer, and the Ocean Breeze scented cleaner you use to wipe the floors. Far below it, the scent of the real ocean breeze drifting in through the opened windows. It seems wrong for the Hard Deck to be unchanged, unaltered, untouched when your own life has gone so completely off the rails.

You sneak in a quick, discreet bathroom break to swipe at the mascara smudged beneath your eyes, to dab at it with some damp toilet paper, to hope nobody will notice the obvious signs of tears still clinging to you. To stare at your reflection in the mirror for a moment, try not to think about that stupid test you buried at the bottom of the trashcan. You can taste your heartbeat in your mouth.

You don’t look any different - same nose, same hair, same eyes - but something has irrevocably shifted inside of you.

Behind the counter, you cut up the limes you promised Jerry. The scent clings to your fingers, the juice settles in the calluses. The steady sound as the knife meets the cutting board and the familiar motion of your hands help to ground you a little.

“Could we get a refill?”

You lift your head and then immediately lower it again, shoulders going up, turning to the side in an attempt to hide your face. If there are two people you don’t want to see tonight, then…

“Oh my god.” Natasha’s face pushes into your line of vision, her eyebrows crinkled, her mouth pursed. “Have you been crying?”

Waving her words of concern away with one hand, you grab for their empty glasses with the other.

“Allergies,” you lie. “I’ve got two on tap here, which one did you guys have? The German or the…”

“You don’t have allergies,” Bradley points out. You’d made it a point not to look at him, but now your gaze snaps in his direction. He stands with his eyes narrowed, with his hands on the polished wood of the bar top. Concern flutters across his face.

There’s something about Bradley Bradshaw. You like to think of it as a gravitational pull. Something with force, something that makes people look at him. Something that grounds them, too, though, gives them a tether.

Ever since he first walked into this bar a little over a year ago, it’s like he’s become a fixture in your life, even if you only see him once or twice a week, even if it’s just a quick exchange of words over a countertop. Bradley Bradshaw makes for a good North Star.

He shrugs, and there’s something almost sheepish to it. “It was part of your list of reasons why you’re better than Hangman last month.”

You pause, still holding the glasses, and stare at him. He looks right back.

“That’s beside the point,” Natasha pipes up. She’s balancing both her elbows on the bartop, pulling herself closer. “Why were you crying?”

That sort of shifts reality back into focus. What are you supposed to say? I let a guy who isn’t even really my boyfriend but also not really not my boyfriend knock me up, and now I have no idea what the fuck to do? To two people who are little more than glorified acquaintances?

You shrug and decide they look like they’d enjoy the new craft beer Penny got on tap. It has notes of vanilla and apple, and you’re not much of a beer person, but even you like it. Or at least you used to.

“It’s nothing,” you say, drawing the first glass. It ends up perfect - amber liquid topped with just the right amount of foam, the little bobbles popping as you push it across the counter toward Natasha. Your life might be a mess, but at least you still know how to draw a damn good glass of beer from the tap. “Don’t worry about it.”

Natasha’s eyes narrow, but then she lets it go. “You know I’ll beat a guy up for you, right?”

You don’t doubt it. If there’s anybody in this bar you wouldn’t want to cross, it’s Natasha, and not just because of whatever training the Navy put her through. You’re convinced she came into the world knowing how to take a guy out.

“Yeah,” you agree and are surprised to find you mean it. Realistically, you’re not particularly close to any of the pilots. You chit-chat sometimes, have had a few drunken conversations after everybody else has filtered out of the Hard Deck while wiping down tables or collecting shot glasses, but that’s not really enough to support a true friendship. Still. If you asked, you have no doubt Natasha would go to bat for you. “It’s okay, though. I’m fine. I’ll put this on your tab, yeah?”

She looks like she wants to say something else, but then decides to let it go. Sighs, “Okay.”

As Natasha pushes off the bar to rejoin her group of friends toward the back of the bar, Bradley takes a step closer instead. You make it a point not to look at him, but the yellow and white of his Hawaiian shirt flashes in your periphery despite your best efforts.

He places a large hand on the countertop, palm down, and you should be looking busy, but all you can do is stare as his fingers starfish across the wood.

“You can talk to me, yeah?” he asks, and his voice is soft enough that it almost disappears in the din of this Saturday night. “Whatever it is.”

You do look up then. Bradley has brown eyes, round and big and deep. There’s something about them that makes you want to trust him, trust his words, trust the sincerity. It almost makes you start crying again.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Thank you.”

Then somebody’s shouting an order at you, and you’re pushing a coaster under a sweating Cuba Libre, you’re pouring a Tequila shot, you’re looking for the maraschino cherries, you’re passing out salt shakers, and you don’t notice as he disappears and you don’t think about anything for a short, blissful, beautiful time.

Two months ago, you met Luke halfway through the door of a bar you’d seen on Instagram, something with low lights and neon signs and booths cushioned in lush, ruby velvet. They had this signature cocktail there, something with rum and gold foil and a lot of smoke that drifted up in sweet-smelling plumes.

Luke was charming and laughed a lot, and when he put his hand on your waist, when he looked at you, your heart skipped a beat or two. And still, the first thing you told Penny about at work the next day was the cocktail and not the guy.

You’re almost entirely sure you’re not in love with him, but you’re excited about the idea that maybe someday you could be. Luke is a nice guy. He works in finance somewhere in San Diego, takes you to expensive seafront restaurants, and once or twice, he even bought you expensive lingerie. Luke likes the same movies as you do, likes putting on Jazz music when you go down on him in his car, and that always manages to make you feel strangely sophisticated even with a dick in your mouth. He’s older, and he has a real, grown-up job, completely unlike you with your singles soaked in beer.

He’s a stead-fast, reliable guy. If you have to be in this situation with anyone, you figure it’s better to be in it with him than some twenty-something surfer dude who couldn’t even find the word responsible in a dictionary.

The anxiety has been gnawing at you since last night, has been chipping away your composure and your calm. Has reduced you into a jittery, terrified, chafing shell of your former self. All day you were fumbling - burning your hand on the heated water kettle in the morning, almost running a red light, cutting your finger deep enough it didn’t stop bleeding for a whole five minutes.

Earlier today, you took a last, desperate stand. Propelled by the sort of hope that exists against all better judgment, you went on a CVS run and returned with three more pregnancy tests. You left them back at your tiny apartment, right on the counter where you put them out in the first place, those three tiny, horrible, life-altering plus signs laughing right in your face.

And that was it then. Your fate decided. Your luck run out.

Since you were fourteen, sitting on that floral couch, the course of your life had seemed so clear to you. You’d been so sure of where you wanted to go, so sure of how to get there. And yeah, okay, maybe you used to think you’d get there sooner, but that’s never deterred you before. Slow and steady wins the race, that’s what you used to think.

Now, ten years later, everything is muddled. You can’t see an inch ahead in the fog of all this.

To add insult to injury, those tests were fucking expensive. The next time you check your bank account, you might start crying.

So you spent a good fifteen minutes curled up on your bathroom tiles, staring at your shower curtain, blinking away tears you never shed. You spent a good fifteen minutes trying to figure it out, trying to untangle it, trying to make sense of how you could fuck up so completely.

And then you finally picked yourself up, massaged the grid pattern of the tiles off your cheek, and shot Luke a text asking if he was free tonight.

He drops by at the end of your shift.

“Hi, babe.” Luke grins as he slides into one of the bar stools. “You good?”

You nod, then pause. “Not really?”

You’re wiping down the bartop, dumping an ashtray you collected from the smoking zone outside into the trash. The Hard Deck is empty now, even the last stragglers filed out. Bob selected a song on the jukebox before he left, something slow and decidedly country. Your hands shake when you go to wet the rag again.

Luke frowns and leans across the bar to look at you closely. “What happened?”

“I have to tell you something,” you say and run the tap. The water hits the chrome of the sink with a splatter.

Luke raises an eyebrow, grins. “Illicit confession?”

Under any other circumstances, you would have laughed. But your stomach is coiled up in knots so tight you wonder if they’ll ever untangle again. Like the earphones you fish from the bottom of a purse.

You just so manage a half-hearted chuckle, a sad, pathetic little sound that has Luke’s eyebrow climbing even higher.

He pushes a brown paper bag across the counter. “I brought your favorite take-out… Would that cheer you up?”

Almost immediately, your stomach growls in answer. You’ve been so hungry the past few days that you can’t even manage to be embarrassed. “Mexican?” you ask, something like excitement in your voice for the first time in over 24 hours.

“Ah...” Luke bites his lower lip. “No, uhm… I got something from that one place we went to. The fusion kitchen?”

“Oh…” The excitement dampens immediately, and you force a smile. “Yeah, cool. Thanks.”

“Sorry… you did say you liked it when we went.”

He’s right. You did say that.

Luke likes experimental food, things like that cocktail with the gold foil. Things that look much better than they end up tasting. He takes pictures of them and posts them on his Instagram, and he always makes sure not to get your hand in, your purse, your foot. He doesn’t even follow you back, and you want to not care about trivial things like social media so very badly that you never ask him about it.

He looks genuinely apologetic, though, so you resolve to forgive him. You smile and say, “I did! This is great. Thanks, Luke.”

His satisfied smile puts you at ease.

“So, what did you want to talk about?”

It’s a bit like a bucket of ice water. The ease slips away as quickly as it came. You start wiping almost furiously at a stain on the bartop, then give up. Stare at your fingers gone wrinkly with the sudsy water.

You open your mouth, and then you say, “I’m pregnant.”

It’s not what you meant to say. You meant to ease into this, make it sound… less final, somehow. As if that’s at all possible. As if that isn’t exactly what it is. Final.

You’re never going back from this, you realize suddenly. No matter what happens from here on out, there’s never going to be another moment where this hasn’t happened. Where you weren’t pregnant, where you didn’t mess it all up. The plan, the dream, the life.

Tears aren’t enough anymore. You’re going to run headfirst into the ocean and scream until the saltwater fills your lungs.

Luke laughs. You stare at him.

It takes a moment, but slowly he realizes that you’re not joking. That this is serious. The smile slides sideways off his face.

“Oh,” he says, and you can’t look at him anymore. So you let your eyes wander, down towards the lapels of his white dress shirt. He’s still wearing his suit and tie, and the realization that he’s come straight from the office touches you more than it should. At the same time, guilt settles in your stomach. You’re doing this to him, you’re altering his life, you…

The rational part of yourself scoffs, takes over the reins. It takes two to tango, you remind yourself. This is as much his fault as it is yours.

But that doesn’t get rid of the bitter taste in your mouth.

“Why…” Luke pauses. “Why are you telling me this?”

When you look up at his face again, his expression is carefully blank.

“Uh…”

“Shouldn’t you be telling the father?”

You blink. The cogs of your mind turn slowly like somebody slapped gum between them. “I am,” you say, wondering what the hell he’s on about.

“I’m not the father,” Luke says, very matter-of-factly. “You don’t need to lie about it.”

“I’m not lying.” You’re too stunned to even be insulted by the insinuation.

“It’s alright.” He shrugs his shoulders, his expensive suit in the tacky, glossy fabric catching the light. “It’s not like we’re exclusive. I don’t mind if you slept with somebody else.”

“Not exclusive,” you repeat lamely. Maybe that part shouldn’t catch you as off guard as it does. You’ve never discussed it with him in as many words, never sat down to have the whole boyfriend/girlfriend talk, but you’ve been seeing each other semi-regularly for two months now, and you’d just sort of assumed…

“Sure.” Luke nods. “Don’t blame this one on me, then.”

Oh. Your heart clenches, and suddenly it feels like you can’t breathe.

“I didn’t sleep with anybody else,” you say, but your voice sounds far away.

Luke shrugs. “Well, it can’t be mine.”

You don’t even know what to say to this. You’re in desperate, burning need of a shot, and the realization that you can’t have one zaps through you like a pain.

“We always used a condom,” Luke is saying, and his words drift to you through a fog, through a mist, through a thicket of fear and anxiety and ice-cold panic. “I made damn sure of that.”

“It’s not….” You clear your throat. “They’re only like… 98 percent safe. Condoms, I mean.”

“What, so you’re saying we’re those two percent?”

He looks like he’s about to start laughing again, and suddenly you barely recognize him. You’ve always known that Luke wasn’t the love of your life, but that was fine. Love hadn’t been part of the plan anyway, that was for later, much later, after you’d gone international and gotten rich off Mojitos and Pina Coladas and the occasional Old Fashioned. But Luke had been… well, he’d been nice. Always. He’d been someone to laugh with, had been long walks on the beach, and quick tumbles in his backseat. He’d been fun and nice and…

And you’d been stupid enough to hope. Hope for more, hope for better, hope for something.

“I can’t have a baby with you,” he says. His voice rings with finality.

What are you supposed to say to that? With those three positive pregnancy tests back home on your bathroom counter. With the knowledge that you haven’t slept with anyone else.

“Well,” you whisper, and the words come out softer than you want them to, “you are.”

Luke is very quiet for a moment. He’s looking right at you, the blue eyes you used to think were open, inviting, now slitted and probing. Like a snake.

“Jesus,” he says finally, draws back to run his fingers through his hair, a gesture of exasperation. His voice has lost some of its calm. “What do you want from me?”

You wonder if you look as dazed as you feel. “I don’t… I don’t want anything from you.”

That’s not true. You’d like him to hug you. You’d like him to tell you it’s going to be okay, even if that might be a lie. You’d like him to be nice to you.

Instead, Luke, who looks increasingly distressed, jerks his head and says, “If it’s a family you’re after… I can’t give you that.”

Everything has happened so quickly - the toppling of your plans, the chaos of your life. You haven’t really had time to think about how you want him to react. Not like this, though.

“Why not?” you ask and regret the question the moment it’s out of your mouth. You sound like a child - lost, confused.

Luke sighs. He rakes a palm over his face and shakes his head. When he finally looks at you again, there’s something almost guilty on his face. You can’t tear your eyes away, can’t help but feel your stomach plummeting down down down toward the ground. It’s like standing on the ledge of a skyscraper, feeling what the fall might be like even with both feet firmly planted.

“I can’t give you that,” he says, “because I already have a family.”

Beneath you, the ground seems to quiver.

“What?”

Luke pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, then reaches into his pocket and produces a shiny, golden wedding band. When he slips it back onto its original place on his finger, you watch the patch of pale skin, several shades lighter than the rest, disappear.

Your breath gets stuck somewhere in your chest.

“You’re… married?”

“Going on five years,” he says, and you think he sounds sad, but maybe that’s just your hope getting the better of you again.

You don’t know what to say. For a moment, you just stand there with the rag still in your hand, listening to the sad, sad voice of some wanna-be cowboy drawling from the speakers. Hear the phantom thud of the cues hitting pool balls. Turn your head to where the pilots were having fun earlier, back when things weren’t all jumbled up.

The whole world moves far, far away from you. Like something you watch on TV screens, something intangible, something fake. It’s not something that happens to people like you. It’s not something that happens to real people.

“It’s… you didn’t tell me that,” you say, and it’s like your voice echoes through a long, long tunnel, bounces off the walls like a tennis ball. “I didn’t know.”

And then you think back on it. Think of whispered phone calls in the dead of night, think of erratic work schedules, think of his insistence to come here instead of going to San Diego. Think of how little you know of his life, how firmly he kept you locked out of it.

Suddenly you’re not so sure if you didn’t know or if you just didn’t want to know. If you closed your eyes to what was right in front of you.

Guilt and anger and confusion flash through you in rapid succession. You feel sick to your stomach.

“I’ll give you money,” Luke says. It’s a peculiar thing - you see his mouth move before the words ever reach your ears, like a movie that’s gone out of sync with the audio.

“Money,” you repeat, very slowly. Or maybe not slowly at all. You just feel like you got stuck in molasses, like the whole world has been dipped in something sticky.

“Well. You’re getting rid of it.”

It’s not a question. He says it like it’s a fact, like it’s something that’s already been decided. Like it’s something you don’t get a say in.

You stiffen, fingers sinking into the wet rag. Soapy water drips over the lacquered wood of the bartop.

“No,” you say. “No, I’m not.”

About five minutes ago, you hadn’t even made your mind up about it yet. Hadn’t decided whether to keep it or not. Had still been weighing the pros and cons in your mind, turning them over like a Rosetta Stone that might help you decipher the encrypted, tangled mess of your thoughts.

And now that he’s said it, now that the option is right there in the open, suddenly you know that’s not the way you want it to happen.

“What,” Luke says, “you wanna have it?”

“Yes,” you answer, and you know it’s the truth.

Maybe it’s stupid. You’re twenty-four. You’re broke. You pick up shifts at a bar to pour tequila shots for other people. You live off the guys you flirt with long enough they decide you’re worth a tip. All those plans of grandeur, of franchises and cocktails and Park Avenue apartments, are dead-ends. You’ve been walking a cul-de-sac your whole life.

And still… something about it feels right to you.

You’ve been thinking about the whole thing in theory - the theoretical truth of that test, the theoretical reaction of Luke, the theoretical existence of that baby, the theoretical impact on your life. But it’s not a theory. It’s real.

There’s a baby growing in you.

It’s the most terrifying thought of your life. You’ve never experienced something so wonderful. Even as the fear eats away at you, even as your stomach churns and your head spins, some part of you feels illuminated with light.

Luke laughs. “Babe… no offense, but that’s a horrible idea.”

You clench your teeth and grit out, “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

He shrugs. “Well, you’re gonna get it. You really think you could raise a kid?”

“I don’t know,” you say, truthfully, and wonder where all this calm is coming from. “But I want to try.”

Luke stares at you as if you’re growing a spare set of ears right in front of him. Then he laughs again, shakes his head. You can’t see what’s so funny about any of this.

“Babe,” he says, “this isn’t some new Cocktail recipe. This is an actual child you’re talking about.”

If you weren’t so goddamn tired, it would make you angry. Set fire to you like a fuse. But you’re drained, empty, hollow. You want to go home, want to curl up in bed, want to cry. You want to go back two weeks in time, back when you were still just a failing waitress with a big dream. Back before the responsibility of it all hunched you over.

“I’m doing it,” you say, and hope he understands the decision is final. Hope your voice is firm.

Luke exhales. A muscle in his jaw twitches as he grinds his teeth, as he turns half away from you.

Finally, after an eternity, he says, “I can’t be involved in this.”

For your part, you understand that decision is final too.

You nod, grab onto the bartop to keep yourself from toppling over. The ground beneath you is a gaping, beckoning abyss. It’s going to swallow you whole.

“Fine,” you whisper. “I’ll do it alone then.”

For a moment, Luke looks almost surprised. As if he was sure you’d fold eventually, see reason. Listen to him.

You wonder if that’s how it’s been before - him pushing and you giving in. Rearranging your life to fit his schedule, his plans, his wants. Shrinking yourself to make room for him. And you didn’t even notice.

You straighten your spine.

“For what it’s worth,” Luke says as he slides off his chair, “I’m sorry.”

And then he does what men do best: He leaves. Walks away from you and the baby growing inside of you. Walks away from the mess he made, the dream he shattered, without a care or a thought. Without looking back.

You watch his retreating form, watch the set of his shoulders, the spring in his step, watch as he bounds down the steps onto the gravel of the parking lot, watch as the shadows eventually blot out the sight of him.

Good riddance, you want to say, but you can’t even form words.

With your heart torn to shreds, with your fear clawing a bloody path up your throat, you sink down onto the floor, press a hand to your mouth, and you sob.

Twenty minutes later, Bradley Bradshaw finds you in the exact same position.

You know it’s been twenty minutes because you’re staring at the digital clock of the dishwasher, counting down the wash cycle. The neon red of the numbers blurs through the veil of your tears.

It’s like somebody’s cut your chest open. Scooped you clean like taking a spoon to a tub of ice cream. Behind your ribcage, you feel hollow in a way that aches down to your bones. That spiderwebs through your veins.

Bradley pauses in the doorway, silhouetted by the outdoor lighting you still haven’t turned off. Like this, with your vision blurred, he looks like a drawing of the Virgin Mary on one of those cheap, tacky candles. Descending on a flurry of clouds and light and doves. Only this Virgin Mary wears Hawaiian shirts, apparently. It almost makes you laugh.

He casts his eyes over the room, a slight furrow dipping between his brows. It takes you a moment to understand he hasn’t seen you yet, not with how you’re crouching by the crates of Corona.

Part of you wants to hide, wants to crawl under the jutting canopy of the bar. Wants to pretend you’re not here, fold yourself into a tiny pocket square of a person until he leaves again.

“Hello?” Bradley asks, genuine confusion laced with the word, and you know you can’t do that.

“Hi,” you call back, and your voice sounds tiny. Miserable. You push up on your knees to preserve a bit of your dignity. The room goes spinning in a whirlwind, and you catch yourself with both hands on the wood, lifting up to peek at him over the edge of the bar. “I’m down here.”

For a moment, Bradley just stares at you. He takes in the scene, the smeared mascara, the swollen eyes, the fresh tears leaving tracks down your cheeks like you’re drawing rivers on a map.

Then he snaps into action. He’s crossing the room before you can even really come to terms with the fact that he’s here in the first place, pushing through the hip-high swinging door that separates the oval space hugged by the bar from the rest of the room and falling to his knees by your side.

“What happened?” Bradley asks, something hard to his voice. But when he goes to touch the side of your face, carefully as if you’re injured, as if you’re made of porcelain that’ll break at the slightest jostle, his brown eyes show nothing but genuine concern.

It makes you cry harder.

“Nothing,” you say, which is a ridiculous lie, all things considered. You’re crouching on the floor of your workplace, over an hour after your shift has ended, crying your eyes out. Clearly, there’s something wrong. “I’m fine.”

Bradley sits cross-legged on the hardwood floors, his knee close enough to graze against yours. He looks decidedly out of his depth, almost uncomfortable. Helpless. His mustache quivers as he opens his mouth, then closes it again.

But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t try to get you to explain it, doesn’t ask again. He just sits there with you, elbows on his thighs, and lets you cry.

It’s nice not to be alone. To have somebody with you, even if he doesn’t know you. Even if he has no idea what it is that has you on the brink of a complete crisis.

You do your best not to think about it. Not about the baby, not about the guy who just dumped you. Not about gold foil and Instagram posts and wedding bands. Not about how he’s made you a homewrecker, and you didn’t even know.

Maybe this is karma. The universe punishing you for your sins. Something like that.

Maybe it’s just really, really bad luck.

“What are you doing here?” you ask when you’ve finally calmed yourself enough the sobbing has subsided to sniffles.

Bradley jerks his head noncommittally. “I forgot my wallet.”

“Oh.” You try to get up, but your legs won’t cooperate. “I’ll help you look.”

He shakes his head, pulls you back onto the floor by the elbow. “It’s okay,” he says. “I’ll look for it later. What happened?”

There’s something about his tone that tells you this time he won’t let you get away with a half-assed lie. Which doesn’t stop you from trying.

“Just… rough day.”

Bradley looks at you, then pulls his knees up, lets his arms dangle between them. “You don’t have to tell me,” he says, and his voice is very gentle. “But if you want to… I can listen.”

This is the thing about Bradley Bradshaw. He has the kind of face that makes you want to tell him things. Makes you want to spill your secrets to him, pour them into his space. He’s steady, reliable, calm. It would be so easy to trust him.

That’s dangerous.

But you’re so tired, and you’re so broken, and you’re so terribly, horribly lonely. With Luke gone, with your parents out of the picture, with nobody to help and no one to hold you, the loneliness is like an ache, like a stain, like something that festers and spreads and unfurls inside of you.

You just want to pretend you don’t have to do it alone. Just for a moment.

So you say, “I think I did something stupid.”

Bradley’s eyes are very brown. A soft shade of brown, like milk chocolate. When you look at him, you feel warm all over.

“Alright,” he says, and there isn’t an ounce of judgment in it. It’s just a gentle, careful nudge for you to continue.

“I…” You exhale shakily, look down to the floor, twist the bracelet around your wrist. It’s so much harder to form the words the second time around. “I’m pregnant.”

Saying it to Bradley, who is practically a stranger, saying it to someone outside of whatever little bubble, whatever vacuum two people playing at love built around themselves, makes it real in a way it wasn’t before.

You’re pregnant. In a few months, your belly is going to grow to the size of a watermelon. You’re going to get ultrasounds and wear maternity clothes and buy a crib. You’re going to hold a baby in your arms, a baby that will become a toddler, will become a child, will become a teenager, will become an adult. They’re never going to leave again.

I’m pregnant.

One moment - and in it the rest of your life.

It’s a skyscraper, it’s a monument, it’s a mountain. It dwarves you. How can you ever be enough for the path that lies ahead?

The panic jumps you. It rattles you. Suddenly you’re panting, you’re shaking, you can’t think, your head spinning circles around the enormity of it all.

“Oh,” Bradley says. He sounds like he expected you to say just about anything except that. “Congratulations.”

You stare at him, and he backtracks.

“Unless you don’t want me to congratulate you? Sorry, I shouldn’t just….”

“No,” you stop him, your voice a tiny, trembling thing. “It’s okay. Thank you.”

You wonder what it might be like if you were older, if you were married, if you weren’t such a fuck-up. Would people beam at you, hug you, shake your hand? Would they share the joy they must assume you feel?

Neither one of you says anything for a while. Through the opened windows, the sound of the ocean drifts in, of the waves crashing against the shore. The chrome of the fridge you’re leaning against is cold even through the layers of your shirt. You count the wooden tiles on the floor.

After half an eternity, Bradley says, “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”

It’s like a knife to the heart, it slices right through you, stabs you between the ribs. And you’re not even angry, don’t even feel betrayed… it just hurts. The kind of pain that stays with you. The kind of pain that leaves phantom traces even after the wounds have healed.

“I don’t,” you say finally.

Beside you, Bradley shifts his weight. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m really putting my foot in it today, aren’t I?”

It’s almost enough to make you laugh. “It’s okay,” you say, even though it isn’t. This whole thing isn’t okay. “I’ll be fine.”

Without hesitating, Bradley says, “I know you will be.”

There’s such conviction in his voice that it baffles you. You stare at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“He’s… have you told him, though? Or are you guys not in contact?”

Still trying to recover, you shrug. “Yeah,” you whisper, drawing your shoulders almost all the way up to your ears, “I told him.”

You can tell he wants to ask more, but he gives you a second before his next question. “And you… you guys are gonna try co-parenting? Or is he… are you going to get married?”

That makes you frown. You say, “What is this, the 1950s?”

“I just think….” Bradley clears his throat. “I just think if you get a girl pregnant, you should step up. Take responsibility.”

Of course he’d think that. You’re not even surprised.

There’s always been something traditional about Bradley Bradshaw, like he’s one of those men written by women people rave about all over TikTok. If he takes a girl out on a date, he probably holds open car doors and pulls out chairs for her, hands her his jacket if she gets cold.

Distantly, you wonder what that would be like.

“I don’t want somebody to marry me out of responsibility,” you say. “I can take care of myself.”

Bradley scrambles. “I know that!” he says quickly, and out of the corner of your eye, you see him shift his weight forward, elbows resting on his thighs. “Of course, I know that. I just thought… I just thought you shouldn’t have to do this alone.”

It’s such a simple thing to say, but it almost bowls you over. You turn your head to the side, press your face into your shirt sleeve and dig your fingernails deep into the skin of your shins.

Bradley watches you, eyes intent, and then he probes carefully, “Are you… are you going to keep it?”

You sink your teeth into your lower lip, blink against the sudden dampness. Keep your face turned away from him. The shame of it all, of the situation you’re in, of him seeing you like this, overwhelms you. Your vision blurs.

“I think…” You swallow around the lump in your throat. “I always used to think if I ever got in this situation, I’d just get an abortion but now… I don’t… I just don’t think it’s the right thing for me.”

Slowly, he nods. “You want to have the baby,” he says, and it’s not really a question, but you answer anyway.

“Yes. I mean… I don’t know, it’s just… I want this. I don’t know why or how, but I… it feels like I have to do this.”

“Yeah,” Bradley says, completely sincere. “Your body, your choice.”

Now you do snort. “What, are we at a rally?”

“I follow a few Instagram accounts,” he admits. His voice has gone almost sheepish. “Abortion rights should be everybody’s concern. Nobody’s free until everybody’s free.”

It’s endearing in a strange way because there’s nothing performative about it. It’s just bumbling and awkward and peculiarly genuine.

“You sound like you spend too much time on Twitter,” you say softly, and it makes him laugh. Bradley’s got a nice laugh, one that starts in his belly and seems to end at the back of his throat, punches out into the air from back there.

After things have gone quiet again, the anxiety sets back in. Or maybe it’s been there all along, chomping at the bit, and you just didn’t notice.

“You must think I’m crazy,” you say finally, a self-deprecating chuckle loosening from your throat.

But when you glance up at him from beneath lowered lashes, stomach tight with anticipation, Bradley doesn’t look judgmental at all. Instead, his face is wide open, his eyes clear, the corners of his lips still curled upward with the remnants of his smile.

Luke laughed at you, but Bradley is looking at you with something like admiration, and it takes your breath away.

“No,” he says. “I think you’re really, really brave.”

And then you’re crying again.

You’re surprised there are any tears left in you after your earlier session, but they burst forth now, in a sudden eruption of all the fear and all the pain. And Bradley is so nice. So goddamn kind even though he doesn’t know you, not really, even though this isn’t even his problem. Sits there on the floor of the Hard Deck with you at half past one am on a Sunday night, and doesn’t complain, doesn’t sigh. He just listens.

You don’t feel brave. You feel terrified, you feel overwhelmed, you feel… you feel… you feel like the whole world has toppled over. You feel like Atlas crashing down, buried beneath the weight of his burden. You feel tiny. Inadequate. You feel scared, scared, scared.

“I don’t know what to do,” you confess, choke it out between sobs. Wonder why you’re telling him this. When you don’t know him.

Funny how it is so much easier at times to be honest with strangers than it is to be honest with the people we love the most.

“I’m so… I’m so scared, Bradley.”

He moves as if to touch you, then seems to think better of it and slumps back into himself. The expression on his face is unreadable, his eyebrows furrowed, his jaw clenched.

“He’s not gonna… the father isn’t going to help you out?”

It makes you realize you never really answered his earlier question. And you don’t know why, can’t explain it rationally, but for some reason, this, too, makes embarrassment well up at the back of your throat.

What is Bradley going to think? The poor, little, stupid girl who got herself knocked up by a guy who won’t even stay? Is that what everybody’s going to think now? Is that all you’ll be?

It’s a life sentence, this whole thing.

You shrug, pause. Shake your head. “No,” you say finally. “He’s not going to be involved.”

You know it’s true. Luke won’t come back, not now, not in ten years, not in twenty. There was something final about that exchange, something permanent. Something that can’t be undone.

Suddenly, you think of that tiny, unborn child inside of you. Abandoned before it ever came into the world.

It’s just you and me now, baby, you think to yourself, and it goes through you like a current, sweeps you under like a wave. We’re all alone. All we have is each other.

“What about your parents? Your dad’s in the Navy, too, right?”

If you could, you’d run away. Fold yourself to invisibility. Slip into the pockets between moments and become something other, something that exists out of sight.

You think of your parents. Floral couches and polished hardwood floors. Tom Cruise on the television as your mother scrubbed every part of the house like she was getting rid of an illness, wiping away a disease, perpetually finding another stain or another cobweb or another wrinkle to smooth over. Think of your father, rigid and strict and absent. Always on some mission, always thinking of a greater good that definitely didn’t involve you, always looking through you even as he looked at you. You don’t know if you have a single memory of him smiling.

You haven’t spoken to them once since you gave up a perfectly fine full-ride scholarship to college.

“My parents,” you say, and as the words spill from you, you realize they’re the truth, “would probably kill me if they found out I got pregnant out of wedlock. Maybe if I were married, they’d give me back my trust fund or something, but… No, I don’t think they’d help me out.”

A muscle in Bradley’s jaw jumps, then he’s looking away. Turning to the side so you’re knee to knee again. You stare at his profile, at the curl of his ears, the cut of his jaw. The jagged edges of his scars blur through the fog of your tears.

“So, how are you… do you have a plan?”

You had one. You had Mojitos and Daiquiris and Cosmopolitans. You had a slew of business classes at a community college. You had a dream and a set of tools to achieve it, and when you close your eyes, you can almost see it right there in front of you.

But now it’s been swept up in a hurricane. Swallowed by a tsunami.

“No,” you admit, and your voice trembles. “I have no idea what to do.”

Bradley’s jaw moves as he chews on his lower lip. He swallows, and his throat unudlates with it, and then he’s shifting, shuffling forward a bit.

“I…” He clears his throat. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he looks nervous. “I may have an idea.”

“An idea?” you repeat slowly.

You think he’s going to tell you about some friend who’s looking to hire someone, looking to rent out a very cheap apartment, works at a doctor’s office and is going to treat you for free. Something like that, maybe.

Instead, Bradley takes a deep breath and says, “Marry me.”

It takes a while for the words to register. At first, you think you’ve misheard, then you wonder if maybe the romantic parts of your mind cooked that up. If he even said it at all.

But Bradley is looking at you expectantly, the only indicator of nerves the slightest glimmer in his brown eyes.

And you can’t help yourself. You laugh, even through your tears. It’s a sound that rips from you unconsciously, unstoppably, because surely he’s joking. It’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard.

“Good one,” you say, and wonder just how big of a mess you look like. You wipe at your cheeks, your nose with your sleeves and sniffle once, twice.

Bradley’s lips twitch into the pathetic half of a smile, then he’s serious again, avoiding your eyes.

And that, finally, is when you realize that he isn’t joking at all.

“I…” You pause, mind whirring, head spinning. “What?”

“It’s just….” Bradley shrugs, then explains, “It’s only a suggestion. But you said your family might consider supporting you again if you were married. It might be an option.”

You don’t know what to say. You feel like you’re in a low-budget Hallmark movie.

Bradley pushes on, “It wouldn’t be permanent. We could get a divorce quickie in a year or two, just stay together long enough for you to get settled with the baby and everything. Plus, you’d get free healthcare.” He glances at you, and the blank expression on your face must light a panic in him. Now his words come faster. “I wouldn’t expect anything from you, of course I wouldn’t. It would just be… keeping up appearances. Just for a while….”

Finally, he trails off. The silence stretches between you like a palpable thing, thick and dense like summer heat.

When you were twelve, sitting in the back of the car as your parents argued up front, the woods of Washington flying past in rapid ribbons of black and blue and green, the moon a disk of silver in the sky, a deer ran out into the road. You remember the screeching of the tires as your dad did what you’re not supposed to and brought the car to a sudden, abrupt stillstand. You remember the wide eyes of the animal, the muscles locked in its state of catatonic horror. You remember the flanks rising and falling quickly beneath the matted fur.

For a second, you feel like that deer. Frozen. Caught completely off guard. Vulnerable.

Then you think you might be a little overdramatic.

You say, “What the fuck, Bradley?”

Part of you expects him to backtrack immediately, laugh, and tell you that he was joking after all. But Bradley stands his ground, even as he still won’t look right at you.

“I probably wouldn’t even be home much anyway. I leave for work all the time,” he says, brows drawn into a straight line above his eyes as he stares intently at his thumb rubbing circles into the skin of his arm. “But I could babysit, and then you could go back to work. I really wouldn’t mind. I’m good with kids, you know?”

You’re not entertaining the whole thing, not really, but you can’t help yourself. Your curiosity takes the upper hand.

“Why would you… why would you ever offer this? You barely know me.”

Bradley seems to think about it for a long moment, his face unreadbale. Then finally, he says, “There’d be something in it for me, too, you know? I’ve been meaning to get assigned to North Island permanently, do a relocation. But those spots tend to go to the guys with family, so…” He shrugs, but the gesture seems forced. “I could help you out, you could help me out. Win-win.”

“That’s all?” you ask, and you don’t know why there’s something like disappointment in your voice.

Bradley looks like he wants to say something else, and for a moment his face is vulnerable. But then it shutters again, and he nods. “That’s all.”

For a second, just a second, you let yourself imagine it: Imagine saying yes to this mad, insane, incredible proposal. Imagine marrying Bradley, someone soft and warm and responsible, someone completely opposite to Luke. Imagine him in a tux and you in a white dress, imagine his mustache tickling against your cheek as he leans in to kiss you. You imagine one of the quaint little houses you grew up in, but one that would belong to you, at least for a while. You imagine a toddler running through it, imagine Bradley bending down to scoop them into his arms. You imagine a life without this aching, shifting loneliness. You imagine a life with Bradley.

When you finally shake your head, when you let go of that ghost, it feels like it takes a piece of you with it.

“No,” you say softly, and it breaks you open in ways you can’t describe. “I can’t let you do that, Bradley.”

It’s just too insane. Too far out there. It wouldn’t be fair to him, when you’d be getting so much more out of that arrangement.

And besides. I don’t want someone to marry me out of responsibility. That’s what you told Bradley earlier, and you meant it.

When you do marry, when you walk down that aisle, you want it to be for love. And people can call you delusional, naive, whatever. You don’t care. You just know you want the big thing, the real thing, True Love, capital t, capital l. You want the hurricane of romance, the monsoon of love. You want to fly into it.

Bradley’s quiet for a moment. Then he says, “Okay. But if you… change your mind, yeah? I’ll be here.”

And he means it. Bradley carries his heart on his sleeve, you’ve learned this much. He tries to hide it, but he’s no good at it. Eventually, his emotions always get the better of him, burst forth like fountains. It’s part of his charm.

“What,” you say, “right here on the Hard Deck’s floors?”

It’s a sad attempt at a joke, but Bradley is nice enough to laugh anyway. “Sure thing. You guys have the cleanest floors in all of North Island, did you know that?”

You hum. “Sure. I’m the one who cleans them.”

Finally, you get up off the floor, unfold yourself from the bundle of misery you’ve crumbled into. Your legs ache, your back hurts, your chest still feels hollow. All the crying has left a dull pain pulsating behind your left brow.

The two of you look for Bradley’s wallet together, finally find it over by the pool table. You pretend like you’re not still reeling from his proposal, like it’s not suddenly become impossible to do so much as look at him without your heart flopping around like a fish finding its sad end on dry land.

“Can I give you a ride home?” Bradley asks as he watches you lock up. The Hard Deck has an old lock that gets jammed whenever the slightest bit of dampness creeps into the air. You have to hang onto the doorknob with all your weight while simultaneously turning the key to get it to lock.

“I drove here,” you say, casting your eyes about for the tiny tin can you call your car. You can’t even remember where you parked earlier.

“You okay to drive?” Bradley asks.

You glance at him. With the lights off, the parking lot is almost covered in a thick blanket of darkness. The headlights of a few passing cars winding their path along the coastal highway illuminate patches of gravel now and then. Moonlight spills silver and dim across his shoulders, like fingers caressing him. He looks concerned, examining the state of you.

The truth is that you’re tired. Bone tired. Dead tired. So tired you could probably go to sleep where you stand if you put your mind to it. But you don’t want to bother Bradley anymore, have already stolen enough of his time.

So you’re about to decline, but it seems you hesitated too long.

“I’ll take you home,” Bradley says decidedly, “and you can come get your car tomorrow, okay? I don’t think you should be driving like this.”

“You don’t have to do that, you….”

“I know,” he interrupts you, a smile spreading on his face. “But I’ll feel better knowing you got home safe.”

That makes your insides clench in a way they shouldn’t. Your chest feels tight, and you look away just in case you start crying again.

Is it too soon in your pregnancy to start blaming raging hormones?

Wordlessly, you let Bradley lead you across the parking lot toward his monstrosity of a car. His hand hovers at the small of your back, incredibly close yet never touching. He’s big behind you, bulking, and you try not to think about it. When he opens the door for you and waits until you’re buckled in to close it, you feel like your head’s going to explode.

The ride home is quiet, as is the town around you on this Sunday night. An old Killers song plays on the radio, and you think of deer stepping out into streets, then press your eyes closed and will the thought away.

In Bradley’s car, with the windows rolled down, with the Californian night breeze whipping your hair into your eyes and clearing the fog from your head, for a short, blissful while, nothing seems real. It’s one of those liminal moments, a not-time, when reality feels like a dream and even the sharpest knives don’t cut deep enough to hurt.

It ends quicker than expected because time always goes the fastest when you want it to go slow. Then you’re thanking him, saying goodbye, both of you pretending he didn’t just propose some strange, fake marriage to you behind a bar counter not even thirty minutes ago.

Bradley waits until you’re inside the building before he starts the engine again. You hear the roar of it as you climb the stairs up to the second floor.

In your bedroom, you don’t even bother getting undressed. You just slip under the covers, pull them up over your head, bury in the sticky, stale air beneath them, close your eyes, and fall asleep within seconds.

The first time you told your parents about your bartending dreams, your father yelled at you for forty-five minutes. He hurled words at you that hurt, that left scars, that made you wonder and kept you second-guessing yourself for years, that stayed with you. Your mother didn’t say anything.

Somehow, that was worse.

You call her on the landline at five pm on a Tuesday, just before your dad gets back home, and she answers after the third ring. You’re so sure she’s going to acknowledge the four-year gap in contact, the crumbling of the relationship, the fall-out of screaming and crying, and your dad kicking you out of the house.

What you get, instead, is a ten-minute spiel about who brought what to last week’s church potluck and which laundry detergent your father’s contact allergies don’t act up with.

You’re sitting cross-legged on your bed, your digital alarm clock counting down the time in radioactive green. Outside, you hear the sounds of jets roaring through the sky. In your tiny kitchen unit, the faucet is leaking.

Finally, five minutes into a lecture on the advantages of pre-chopped garlic, you interrupt, “Mom?”

You wonder if she hears the shift in your voice, the slight tremble of it. Something makes her go very quiet on the other end of the line, no sound but her breath.

Drip-drip-drip goes your faucet.

When she doesn’t acknowledge you, you push on, your heart beating a staccato rhythm against your ribcage, “I might… I think I might need some help.”

She doesn’t answer for so long you think you might have lost connection. Then you hear shuffling, imagine her walking through her empty house the way she sometimes does - like a phantom, like a specter.

“With what?” she asks after an eternity.

It’s all you can do to keep yourself from hyperventilating. Years of pain and fear clog up your chest, settle like goosebumps on your skin. You close your eyes and let your head drop back against your pillow.

“I’m pregnant,” you say.

And then you can feel it through the phone, like something physical. What you’ve always known deep down. The disapproval and the disappointment, and the complete lack of understanding.

You’ve never been who your parents wanted you to be, and they’ve always punished you for it like it was a crime.

When your mother says your name, it’s so plain. That she can’t understand what you’re doing, with your cocktails and your late nights. That she doesn’t see why you’d ever choose something like that over a real education and a real job. That she cannot fathom how it could come to this now - you, broke, young, alone, pregnant.

It’s like being five again, trying to get somebody to look at the picture you drew. It’s like being ten again and being overlooked. It’s like being fifteen again, still vying for the attention you’ll never really get.

Your mother is a stubborn woman, set in her ways. She knows what she wants from people, more specifically, what she wants for them. And you’re no exception. Nobody’s ever asked her a question whose answer she couldn’t find in the bible.

More than wanting you to go to college, wanting you to work in an office, your mother has always wanted you to get married. To fit yourself into the picture-perfect stencil of white picket fence and smiling husband she cut herself. For you to let some guy put a ring on you, put a kid in you, buy you a house and a porch swing and a family van.

It’s pathetic, but it doesn’t matter how much time passes. How much older you get. At the end of the day, you still want her approval, just once, even if you have to lie to get it.

So, like a child, like you’re five again, like you’re ten again, like you’re fifteen again, you say, “I’m getting married.”

“Oh?” your mother asks, and there’s so much hope in the one word it hits you like a ton of bricks.

“Yeah,” you confirm, and then the lies just burst out of you, and you hate yourself, hate yourself so much it’s like bile on your tongue, “yeah, we’ve been engaged for a while, and now with the baby and all… It’s been long overdue.”

Your mother almost sounds excited. Sure, she’d probably prefer for you to have been married before getting knocked up, but all of this must still seem better than the last plan you presented to her four years ago. “What’s his name? What’s he do?”

You squeeze your eyes closed. If your mother knew you at all, if you hadn’t spent the past few years not speaking, you’d like to think she would have heard the shame in your voice when you say, “Bradley. He’s a Naval aviator.”

It might be the worst thing you’ve done in your life: Dragging poor, kind Bradley Bradshaw into the mess you’ve made of your life. Nevermind that he offered. It doesn’t matter.

Your mother starts babbling, the way she only does when she’s actually pleased about something. She’s talking about how happy your dad will be that you’re getting married to a fellow army guy, but you barely hear it. Now that you’ve gotten the approval, it doesn’t feel at all like you thought it would.

It just hurts.

For a while, you just let her keep talking as you blink away the tears, as you stare at your bedroom wall, as your mind spins and spins and spins in circles. Then you promise to send her an invite, say your goodbyes, and hang up.

It’s like you’re numb all over. You stay on your bed for another five minutes, and then another, and you feel just as empty as you did after your last conversation with Luke.

What has your life become? How could it crumble as quickly as it did, going from okay to horrible in less than a week?

Even when you weren’t speaking to your parents, you never felt this distant from them, this far removed. A chasm you’ll never be able to breach. An ocean you’re never going to bridge. The only way you’ve ever gotten your mother to be happy with a decision you’ve made is when you lied to her.

The loneliness is everywhere, then. In your chest, in your bed, in your veins. Crawling like a shadow that swallows you whole.

And then the panic sets in, ice cold in your veins, and with it comes the guilt. Your stomach rolls with it.

What have I done? you wonder. What have I done to myself, to Bradley? How will I ever get out of this?

You scramble. Blindly reach for a dress to slip into, for a pair of flip-flops, for your car keys. It’s a miracle you don’t crash on your way to the Hard Deck. Your heart works itself up into a frenzy, and the guilt gnaws at you, slashes at you, paws at you. All these emotions are tearing you apart.

In the back, Bradley and Bob are playing Pacman on one of the retro machines. They’re pretty loud, too, and from what you gather in your mad dash through your workplace, Bradley seems to be disproportionally competitive about the whole thing.

Figures. Nobody gets into Top Gun without a cutthroat streak and a mean penchant for ambition.

“Bradley,” you say, and when he looks up, his eyes sparkling, the smile slides right off his face. “Can I talk to you?”

He seems stunned for a second, then nods and deposits his beer on a nearby table. “Sure thing.”

You lead him out the back. Out of the corner of your eyes, you spot the exact corner you huddled in a few days back, agonizing over the positive pregnancy test, the decline of your life, the decay of your dreams. Don’t look, you tell yourself, and then do it anyway.

The sun hasn’t set yet, but twilight is descending on the world rapidly. Everything is washed into soft pastels, the sand and the last surfers shaking salt water from their hair. Bradley’s shirt and the honey gold of his skin.

You can’t look at him. It’s a shame that grows in the pit of your stomach, that settles there, heavy like a stone. How can you do this to him?

You’ve never felt worse about yourself, and still… The fear is too big.

Since you decided to give up on the scholarship, since you walked out of your parents house four years ago, you’ve been on your own. You’ve been footing your own bills and renting your own apartment and paying for insurance on your car. You were alone the time you got a cold so bad you couldn’t get out of bed for two days. You were alone when your tire popped on the highway and you almost hit another car. You were alone when you got rejection after rejection from the big San Diego bars, the ones that end up featured on TV and in magazines.

And that was fine. You’re strong, you know you are. Any issue that came your way, you managed to figure out eventually. You’ve been doing fine without any help.

But this, here, now. This… You just can’t do it on your own. Not when it’s about a baby. Your baby.

So you take a deep breath and ask, “Is the offer still on the table?”

Bradley exhales. You watch as he takes a step closer to you, as his shoes move in the field of your vision, grains of sand crunching beneath the soles. When he speaks, a cadence of insecurity has snuck into his voice, “The marriage?”

You nod because you can’t say it. Your mouth just won’t form the words.

“If…” Bradley clears his throat. “If you want it… yeah.”

When you look up at him, there’s something strange on his face. Something that looks less like surprise and more like awe.

His eyes are so brown, and your heart beats so fast, and you’re dizzy like you just got off a rollercoaster.

“I…” You pause to collect your thoughts, and then you rush it all out at once, scared that if you don’t say it now, you never will. “If I were to say yes, like, hypothetically… I’d need to know that you’re not just doing it for me. That there’s something in it for you, too, so….”

He’s nodding before you’ve finished. “I told you. I wanna stay here. I’m sick of getting sent around the country all the time, so… It’s good. It’s an opportunity.”

An opportunity. That sounds like business, sounds like a transaction, sounds rational and level-headed and reasonable, and you latch onto the idea. Maybe if you try to take the emotion out of the equation, it’ll be easier.

Bradley seems relaxed about the whole thing, much more relaxed than he should be given the absurdity of the situation, but you feel like you need to make things clear anyway, if only to put yourself at ease. That’s what people do before singing contracts, right? Put all the cards out on the table?

So you go on, “And I wouldn’t, like… Like you’d still get to do anything you want. I wouldn’t expect you to help with the baby or anything. And you could keep dating, of course, you could, I won’t mind. I promise. It’d just be for show, right?”

Bradley hesitates, and for a second, you think he’s going to say something. But then he just shrugs, nods, says, “That’s fine. Yeah. Whatever you want.”

For a moment, you both just look at each other.

“This is insane,” you say because it is, and you don’t know what else to say.

And Bradley just chuckles and agrees smoothly, “Yeah, it’s nuts, isn’t it?”

As you look at him, here in this pastel lighting, here on the verge of something monumental, there’s something so reassuring about him. Something so steady and reliable and constant. Something that makes you think, with him, maybe it could be okay, no matter how insane the whole idea is. An opportunity. An investment that just might pay off.

North star, you remind yourself. Bradley Bradshaw is the North Star.

At the very least, you won’t be alone.

“So is that….” Bradley shifts, scratches the back of his neck. “You saying yes, then?”

There’s a lump in your throat like you’ve swallowed a pebble. It almost chokes you.

“Yeah,” you agree finally, and can’t believe you’re saying this, doing this, can’t believe you’re this mad and this selfish and this desperate. “I guess I am.”

It’s awkward after that. You both just stand there, you with your arms around your own ribcage, Bradley with his thumbs hooked into his belt loops. Space and silence stretches far and gaping and glaring between you.

Then he says, “Can I hug you?”

That’s sort of the last thing you expected him to say.

You blink at him. “Uhm… sure?”

When Bradley pulls you into his arms, when he holds you against his chest loosely, carefully, giving you room to pull away at any moment, the whole thing almost bowls you over. It’s the first time anybody’s hugged you since you found out you’re pregnant, since your entire world came crashing down, and you can’t help yourself. It’s a visceral reaction. You cling to him, wrap your arms around his neck, press your face into his shoulder and your chest against his and squeeze your eyes shut, and stay there for longer than you planned to, longer than you should. Let him hold you tight enough that for a moment, for a while, it almost feels like you’re whole again. Like you’re not alone.

For the first time in a week, for the first time since that positive test, things feel real. You feel real. Only with his hands on you. The thoughts that have been echoing through your head constantly, loud enough to drown out everything else, quiet.

You could get addicted to it, could get greedy and selfish and never-satisfied. Could eat it raw.

Bradley smells like sunscreen and sandalwood. You try to commit that scent to memory, try to ingrain it into your brain and your body. Something to remember the next time the loneliness sets in.

Finally, he pulls away, and his smile is gentle. You feel every inch of separation like an ache in your bones, like an echo, like a reverberation.

You can’t cry again. You’ve been doing it so much recently that you just won’t allow it again. If you’re going to do this, if you’re going to be a mother and a wife, in whatever capacity, you’ll have to be strong. No matter how hard that will be.

“I don’t even have a ring for you,” Bradley says, a frown etching itself into his forehead. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” You’re shaking your head quickly, vehemently. “No, Bradley, that’s fine, you don’t need to….”

“I think you should have something, though. I want to give you something,” he interrupts you. “I just don’t know….”

And then he seems to think of something. The epiphany is practically written all over his face, and for a moment, he looks so much younger. Rosy cheeks and all.

Bradley reaches into his wifebeater and pulls his dog tags from beneath the fabric. Before you know what’s happening, he’s tugging the thin silver chain down over your head, moving your hair out of the way carefully. It settles against the skin of your neck, warmed by his body heat.

You stare down at the metal dangling over your dress, the letters of his name etched into it. Bradley Bradshaw.

Your heart seizes.

When you were younger, much younger, you used to dream of this. You used to imagine what being proposed to would feel like, what it would be like. A fancy restaurant, an expensive glass of champagne, and a diamond ring at the bottom of the flute. Something flashy, something extravagant, something beautiful. The man in your fantasy was faceless at first, and then he looked like Robert Pattinson, and then he looked like your first crush, and then he went back to being faceless again.

He never had a mustache. He was never a stranger. Your dreams were never this: Rushed and fake and no ring at all. You, pregnant with somebody else’s baby, and Bradley, marrying you to get assigned to a base of his choosing. None of it real. No True Love, no capital t, no capital l. Not even lowercase. Nothing but madness and guilt and business between you.

And still you want it, want it so bad it swells inside you, pushes against your ribcage with enough pressure to crack bones - you want to be wanted.

You wonder what Bradley dreamed of. Not you, probably. So much younger than him, so naive, so gullible, falling for married men and getting yourself into situations you can’t climb out of yourself. Making him do this when he deserves better, more, deserves something true and real.

It makes you sick to your stomach. It makes you want to cry. It makes you want to ask Bradley to hug you again, so you can forget, just for another second, just for another moment.

Instead, you say, voice barely a whisper, “Thank you.”

Bradley shakes his head. “You don’t have to thank me,” he says, and he sounds so genuine you have to avert your eyes. “We’re friends, right?”

Friends. This man you barely know. This man who is doing something unfathomable for you.

“Yeah,” you agree softly. “Friends.”

And then later, in the bar, as Bradley’s friends discuss some new Star Wars show you haven’t seen, as they order round after round of beer you can’t drink, as the sky goes from pastels to blues to blacks, you’ll pretend you don’t see Natasha staring at the dog tags around your neck, pretend you don’t wish you could hold Bradley’s hand, pretend you don’t feel like you’re falling apart, like you’re capsizing where you sit, like you're kicking water miles and miles and miles below the surface.

Beneath the table, you put a hand on your stomach, fingers spreading out, close your eyes, and let the current drag you under.

part 2

#rooster #bradley bradshaw #rooster x reader #rooster imagine #bradley bradshaw x reader #top gun imagine #mine #f:blph

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blondeboyfriend · 8 months

Text

𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐃𝐍𝐈

[ PAIRING ] Zeke Yeager x f!reader [ AUTHOR'S NOTE ] Another remastered oldie. No cute banner this time because I'm lazy. [ SYNOPSIS ] Your slutty boyfriend convinces you to fuck in a nasty bar bathroom. [ WORD COUNT ] 2.9k [ CONTENT ] Modern AU, established relationship, dom/sub undertones, sadomasochism, exhibitionism, public sex, rough oral sex, degradation (Zeke calls you a slut, says you're dumb), cum eating, drugs (marijuana), alcohol, Zeke's pullout game is mid tbh, and there's Neopets nostalgia.

Any establishment that opted to have red lighting as an aesthetic choice never failed to put you on guard. There was nothing quite like a wannabe speakeasy to set the mood. You had sad men hiding in corners. Sad men waiting for cute girls to talk to them. Sad men who hoped their presence in a trendy, gaudy bar with old guns hung on the walls made them interesting.

You and Zeke passed by it one cold morning and you mentioned how tacky you thought those kinds of places were. You said you wanted to go ironically. And of course called your bluff and decided your next date night would occur there. You reluctantly agreed. Denying him was a near impossible task.

You were the first at the bar, a disappointment because you wanted to have some form of comfort greet you. But no, Zeke was late as always.

He was probably at home, sitting on his ugly couch, smoking his ugly weed. His perfect body laid out next to an ugly ashtray overflowing with ugly cigarette butts, watching old Jerry Springer episodes on Youtube.

There was no other place you’d rather be. You wanted to be sprawled out on top of him, your head on his chest as he dithered about class disparity in the United States.

We can laugh at Beau and Cletus all we want, but look at us. I pay for high-speed internet so I can watch this shit unfettered and make fun of their shoes. You just complained about two-day shipping not being fast enough. And you ordered, what, loose leaf chamomile tea? We’re just as embarrassing as them, maybe even more so. The difference is that we have disposable income.

On second thought maybe you were better off languishing in a faux speakeasy. The ground may have been sticky underneath your shoes, but at least you didn’t have Zeke blabbering in your ear.

“Miss me?” Zeke purred in your ear before.

“Nope, I’ve been too busy.”

“Do you expect me to believe that?”

“Yeah. I got caught up feeding my Neopet… Or if that’s not an acceptable answer, I can say I was sleeping with your dad. You choose.”

“Neopet. I like knowing you care about things.”

“Did you know they never die?”

You order a round of Cuba Libres.

“I don’t like rum,” Zeke whined.

You shoved the drink in his hand and stole a handful of cut limes from the little container behind the bar.

“Really?” he asked bluntly.

“They never put enough. Trust me. Anyway, that little green Mynci you made in 2001 is sitting there. Literally starving! Zeke.” You grabbed his wrist. “That is verbatim what it says on the website. Starving.” You plopped two slices of lime in his drink.

He stared at you, his grey eyes full of concern. He was high off his ass. “She was yellow.”

“What was her name?”

“I can’t remember, but I know it had like six numbers and probably three underscores.”

“Do you miss her?”

“Every fucking day.”

Laughter overtook both of you. You grabbed a table closest to the exit and he slid his backpack under it. You figured he didn’t want to linger long as well. The chairs were freezing. You shifted in your seat. The cold didn’t help your sore ass. Zeke took notice of this.

“I told you I was paddling you too hard.” He took a tiny sip of his drink.

“I still stand by that you weren’t hard enough.”

“You were crying, pet.”

“They were tears of happiness. You know, like when people win a Golden Globe or whatever.”

“No one gets that excited over a Golden Globe.”

You slumped down into your chair. You had no witty retort. This happened more often than not when he was around. In just about every other social situation you were the paragon of humor, a true queen of comedy.

“Aww, did I hit a nerve?” He kicked your shin from under the table. The pain perked you up. You proceeded to stomp on his foot eliciting an audible wince from him.

“How long are you trying to stay here?” you asked, hoping he’d say something like zero seconds or if I stay here any longer I’ll turn into sand.

“Long enough to have sex in what I am assuming is a gross bathroom.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re high, right? You can’t—This place is gross.”

“I had this planned from the beginning.” He leaned back in his chair. “It shouldn’t be too gross. This hellhole hasn’t been open that long.”

“My feet stick to the—”

“That’s character.” He leaned forward over the table, yanking you by the collar of your shirt so you were inches away from his face. “It makes for an interesting experience.”

You let out a nervous laugh, desperately fighting off the beginnings of arousal. The gross old men leered.

“Ugh. Fine. But I wanna be high too,” you complained.

He glanced at the growing pod of old men. “Let’s hit the bathroom.”

He got up, leaving his unfinished drink behind. It prompted you to do the same. They weren’t that impressive. You walked down the hall turning corners until you saw a sign for a bathroom. Zeke kicked in the door and shoved his head inside.

“I’m pretty sure no one is in here. And look, there are even stalls.”

He made his way over to one and tried to lock its door.

“Well that’s broken.”

He repeated this process on the remaining two stalls. None of them had working locks.

You looked around. “This is—”

“An even better opportunity than I could have imagined.”

You were speechless. You knew he was a borderline insatiable tramp, but this was a lot. You were conflicted. On one hand, getting railed by him always sounded like a good time. But on the other, getting potentially caught by one of those decaying dinosaurs sounded like torture. And you hadn’t committed any crimes bearing that level of punishment.

“But those guys are so weird looking,” you whined like a child.

“Who cares?”

“I care. It’d be one thing if they were like your hot friends…”

“You can’t say that and not specify which ones. It’s illegal. You and I both know that.”

“Fuck… Pieck, duh. Or Colt.”

“Oh god. Really?... Colt?” he sounded vaguely disgusted.

“Fuck you! Yeah, really Colt. It’d be a learning experience for him.”

“I wouldn’t let him join in.”

You smirked. “You say that now, but in the moment the tides may change.” You punctuated the sentence with a wink.

“Alright, you might have a point with the Colt thing. But I’m disappointed Reiner didn’t come up.”

“You know you can just say who you would want to catch us? Like my answers aren’t the end-all-be-all.”

You went to join him in the decrepit stall. You hugged his toned body and buried your face into the crook of his neck. His hands went straight to your ass, typical.

“Reiner, because I know it’d fuck with him,” he yammered on. “Or what’s that one guy’s name? The one that hangs out with my brother?”

“So many people hang out with your brother. You really want a 19-year-old catching us?”

“Hush. I’m thinking. Blonde. Blue eyes.” He paused. “Also Colt’s 19, dumb ass.”

“Colt doesn’t count!! Are you thinking of Historia?”

“What?! No.”

Zeke broke the hug and rubbed his temples. “It’s a boy. He is a boy.”

“Well, more like a man.”

“You’re not helping. Blonde. Blue eyes. He’s a,” Zeke paused for emphasis, “man.”

“I think that’s Armi—”

He barreled through your sentence. “Armin! Yes, him. It’d fuck him up too. He’s like an angel; we’d be stripping him of all innocence.”

“Dude, I’m pretty sure a cute, 19-year-old college boy is getting at least some form of action. We all know who the right option is.”

“Alright, fuck it. Fine. Colt. Are you happy?”

“Yes.”

“Pervert,” he mumbled.

“Like you have room to talk.”

You grazed his cock with your hand. He smirked and pulled a joint from his pack of cigarettes. He held it between his lips and sparked it.

“I see you’re not concerned about getting caught.” He took a hit and then passed it to you.

You took a heavy drag off the joint. “I’m already going to get loudly fucked in a bathroom. I might as be high.”

You passed the joint back to him and he took a lengthy hit. He let the smoke drift from his mouth slowly. You plucked the joint from his fingers.

“I recommend taking another. A long one.”

“Why?” you said, smoke drifting from your mouth.

“Because you’re getting on your knees the second you exhale.”

You held the rest of the smoke in for as long as you could to spite him. But Zeke quickly tired of your bullshit and took the joint from you. He grabbed a chunk of your hair from the back of your scalp and pulled.

“Knees,” he muttered.

You scoffed. “Rude.”

However you did as you were told and he loosened his grip. He took a hit from the joint and blew the smoke towards the ceiling. The ground wasn’t sticky, but that did little to quell your disgust. You were always ashamed at the depths of depravity you allowed yourself to descend into for your boyfriend.

You looked up at him and asked, “Are you really gonna be able to keep the door shut?”

“No. Undo my belt.”

You gritted your teeth and started to fiddle with his belt. His rough hand rested on your head, softly caressing it. You knew such tenderness wouldn’t last long.

“I know you can work faster than that.”

You sighed dramatically. You quickly pulled his belt off and unbuttoned his jeans. You pulled them down and noted that his black briefs were sullied with precum. You yanked his underwear down and was greeted by his thick cock, a beautiful sight to behold. Drool pooled in your mouth, a small drop of it trickled from the corner of your mouth. Zeke lifted your chin and wiped it away with his calloused thumb.

“You’re foul. What will I ever do with you?”

You gazed up at him. “I don’t know… Let me milk every drop of cum from your cock?”

He smirked. “You’re so fucking stupid. Are you done talking?”

“I guess. I can’t think of anything else to—”

He grabbed the back of your head and forced his cock into your mouth. You lurched forward, using the bathroom stall door to keep some semblance of balance. His thrusts were methodical. Never too deep as he didn’t want you to gag on him, it was too early for that.

“You’re filthy, you know that? An utter degenerate.”

He continued to plunge his cock deeper and deeper into your mouth. You carefully breathed through your nose and tried to not cough on his length.

“You deserve to get caught. Everyone deserves to know what a disgusting slut you are.”

You attempted a nod, but Zeke put his rugged palm on your forehead and shoved you off of his cock.

“Say it.”

“I deserve to get caught.”

His grey stared down at you hazy with lust. “And?” He took one last hit off the joint.

“And everyone deserves to know how gross I am.”

He frowned and blew the smoke directly in your face. “Not quite, but close enough.” He shoved his cock back down your throat.

The bathroom stall proved to be a poor source of balance so you rested your hands on his tense thighs. His muscles contracted with pleasure. You relaxed your throat, finally getting the entirety of his cock in your mouth. You held it there for a few seconds before you felt the beginning of a gag. You pushed his hips away from you. He pulled out and continued to jerk off as you coughed and caught your breath.

“I’m getting really close,” he teased.

You smacked his hand away. You spit in yours and jerked him off while running your tongue along his slit.

“Fuck,” he said under his breath. He held your head in place and rammed his cock in your mouth. You grabbed onto his taut ass for leverage. His thrusts were becoming sloppy. He came hard, filling your throat with cum.

“I’m getting fucked, right?” you asked, wiping your lips.

“No, I thought I’d just stand here in this bathroom with my dick out.”

You rolled your eyes and got undressed. He led you out of the stall and shoved you against the sink. He groped your breasts, rough fingers pinching your nipples.

“Ouch!” you yelped.

Zeke laughed and pinched harder. He slipped three of his dexterous fingers into your slick pussy. They slid in and out with ease. He pushed you harder against the sink, the basin digging into your spine. You winced. He took notice and put his hands under your ass and lifted you up.

“Lock your legs around me,” he commanded.

He slammed his cock balls deep inside you. There was no tenderness in his thrusts. He wanted you to moan his name louder than you’d moan anyone else’s. But you resisted. The last thing you wanted to do was to bring any attention to yourself.

“Come on, pet,” he practically begged. “Say my name.”

You shook your head. You pictured those leering old men sipping their martinis, cocks stiff as they heard you moan. Zeke rubbed your clit with his thumb and started kissing your neck. His soft flaxen beard tickled your skin.

“Say my name or else I’ll go find some cheap whore that will.”

His breath was hot on your neck. He pressed his thumb down hard on your clit.

“Fuck! Zeke!” Your legs tightened around his waist.

He placed his hand under your chin and forced you to make eye contact. His eyes were feral, darkened with desire.

“Weak. You can do better than that.”

You hugged him closer, fingernails digging into his chiseled back.

“Zeke!”

You felt your body growing warmer. Every cell in your body writhed with pleasure. You clung to his body as your orgasm intensified.

“I don’t remember giving you permission,” he whispered in your ear.

You attempted to hold back but it was too late. You moaned his name louder than even he anticipated. He held his hand over your mouth, his cock still inside you, thrusting away.

“I don’t remember saying you should start screaming either.” His tone was anxious. “I never thought I’d say this, but please shut the fuck up.”

You glared at him, but remained silent and allowed him to continue fucking you with his engorged cock.

“Good girl.”

The words barely left his lips before he let out a hearty moan. He pulled out of you.

“Hurry, get on your knees.”

You dropped down to them and opened your mouth. For the first time in years he missed, getting his cum all over your chin and down your neck. You were not impressed.

“You look so cute.”

He pinched your cheek and ordered you to stand up. He held your face in his hands. Just as he went to lick your neck the bathroom door swung open. It was one of the old men. Zeke didn’t stop licking you.

“Oh my word! I am so sorry. You, uh… You two… have fun.”

The guy ran out as quickly as he came in.

“I wonder if I could pay that guy to walk in on us whenever I want.”

You went to search for your underwear and found them inside a toilet. You flushed them away.

“No. We talked about this already.”

“Colt would be traumatized if he walked in on this.”

Zeke finally put his dick away. You both stood at the sink washing your hands.

“Isn’t that what you wanted?! Whatever, let’s leave before we get kicked out for being absolutely disgusting. Not that I ever plan on coming back here.”

You walked out of the bathroom and faced the geezers. You kept your head down. Zeke on the other hand seemed to relish in the shame and even tried to high five the man who caught you.

Zeke grabbed his backpack from under the table you two had been previously sitting at. You headed to the spiral staircase that led to the exit. It was one of those rickety metal ones that would be considered decorative in a world that made sense. Zeke offered you his elbow and you held on while you cautiously made your way down the stairs. You pushed through the heavy doors and were greeted by a rush of cold air.

You shivered. “Fuck! I was inside before the sun went down.”

You were woefully unprepared for the weather.

“Good thing I’m a genius then, huh?” He pulled out a sweatshirt from his backpack. “Arms up.”

You raised your arms and he tugged the sweatshirt down onto your body.

“Thank you. I didn’t think it would be so chilly.”

Zeke pointed up at the perfectly clear night sky. “Yeah, we’re in for a cold one. Look.”

You both let out a collective whoa. It was a gorgeous sight; it almost made up for the ugliness that had previously occurred moments ago.

Zeke lightly slapped your ass. “Let’s get moving. We need to shower.”

“Come on, you don’t wanna stare at something dumb ass beautiful?”

If you had craned your neck back any further to see the stars you would have toppled over.“I already have a beautiful dumb ass I can stare at whenever I want. Now come on. I was balls deep in a paternity dispute before I got here. You’re going to love it, the baby daddy threw his gold tooth at his ex-wife. Jerry is pissed.”

#zeke yeager x reader #zeke jaeger x reader #zeke yeagerr smut #zeke jaeger smut #aot smut #snk smut #shingeki no kyojin smut #attack on titan smut #aot x reader #.fics #.aot #.zeke #x reader #reader insert

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gasolinerainbowpuddles · 7 months

Text

Jizz Fingers║ ⓞⓝⓔⓢⓗⓞⓣⓢ

|| ꂵꍏꀤꈤ ꂵꍏꌗ꓄ꍟꋪ꒒ꀤꌗ꓄ || | PAIRING(s): alien!Joel x reader

| RATING: explicit material | 18+ | WORD COUNT: 3.2k | CONTENT: This is a crackfic. Joel is not Joel. He’s an alien that can shapeshift and isn’t into the splorgimums on their own planet. He wants to nut in you with his creampie fingers. It’s not supposed to make sense. It’s not supposed to be anything but fun and sexy and silly. It’s meta. It’s tongue-in-cheek. It’s self-indulgent. If you’re not into that kinda thing then idk what to tell ya, bud.

| SYNOPSIS: u get creampied by a dick finger alien Joel Miller.

The sonorous silver ship glided above you before descending gently into a large clearing in the field ahead. Bright light flooded your vision as a hidden door pushed away from the spacecraft and revealed an occupant.

It appeared to have an amorphous, fluid corporeal form, but no matter the shape it always remained an off-white greenish gray color. Six large onyx orbs were situated near the top of the form. You assumed they must be eyes or some other sort of organ. When the greenish grey flaps snapped together and apart a few times in quick succession, you realized they were in fact lidded eyes.

A warbled voice sounded inside your mind. “Do not be afraid. I come in peace, and I stand before you with no intention of harming you.”

You realize the creature is speaking to you through your own mind.

You should be afraid, but instead you’re just fascinated and exhilarated. You aren’t sure why they’d say the same thing twice, though, just in a slightly different way. You also aren’t sure if you should respond in your head, out loud, or at all.

“That’s kinda a weird thing to say. Like, you said it twice,” you point out, speaking loudly and clearly enough that the creature can hear you.

At least, you think they can hear you. You don’t see any ears. Then again, they possess the capability of telepathic speech, and there must be some equivalent to hearing for that. You try to think what that is called or what that might be called when the creature shifts back and forth but still doesn’t approach.

“Those were two separate statements,” the voice in your mind contends firmly.

“Huh?” you ask. You’re sure you sound dumb, but you were never really going to be a match for a higher level intelligent being anyways.

“When I bust, it is peaceful for every being involved. I also greet you with good intentions,” the voice patiently clarifies.

Suddenly you are standing no more than arm’s length away from the being. “I saved your achilles the trouble,” the voice in your mind said, as if it was some huge favor.

“My achilles is fine,” you grumble awkwardly. “I know I should hit leg day more, but sometimes it’s just so–”

“Our sex organs are complimentary,” the voice interrupts. “We could perform the Divine Dance, if you’d like.”

You wanted to ask why they had to come all the way to Earth just to get laid, but you think better of it.

“The splorgimums on my planet just don’t get me,” the voice explains. You realize you said your thought aloud.

“Oh. Uh, okay. S-Sorry about that. I, uh, didn’t mean to offen–”

The creature waves a gelatinous blob arm dismissively. “No offense taken. You’re not like other splorgimums. I can tell. You’re different,” it assures you.

You feel a blush creep onto your cheeks. “Oh. Well, uh–” an awkward giggle “—thank you. But I’m not really that special, here on Earth I mean. There are other women who are wayyyyyy more attractive. Oh! I know! You should try driving by Doja Cat’s house because oh my god she is so. fucking. fine. Like, if I had her in that I’m A Cow Bitch Moo costume for 5 minutes I’d—”

“No. No Doja Kitties. Only you.”

You shrug and accept their obsession with you.

“Okay. So now what? I don’t know where your Divine Dance hole is, and your floating blobs are sort of freaking me out,” you admit.

You keep tabs on the hovering goops that orbit the creature. They remind you of the time you tried to make Key Lime Jello Shots for your uncle’s cousin’s dog’s recital but added too much vodka.

“I can take the form of something pleasing to you. An earth male, perhaps? The female of your species is more difficult to capture as they are far superior.”

“So fuckin’ true,” you agree. “But, hhmmmm, a male specimen? I mean, I hate all men, but Pedro Pascal seems pretty decent. Maybe you could turn into Joel Miller? You know, from The Last of Us?”

The creature nods — you think it’s a nod — and transforms into Joel. Game Joel.

“Oh, uh, look, Pixel Daddy is fine as hell, especially in part 2, but I meant the HBO adaptation of the game. Please,” you correct.

“How’s this?” Pedro’s version of Joel’s voice asks aloud.

Your pussy bottoms out. “Oh, fuck yeah.”

You disrobe completely as you enter the spacecraft.

“I set it to 72º Fahrenheit. Is that a suitable climate for your meat suit?” Joel asks.

“Yeah, that’s perfect. Mr. Alien, could you, like, put more of the twang into his voice? And use words like he does? Like, how he sounds on the show? You know what, let’s watch a few clips to get it right.”

You pull up your account on your phone, but it takes you a minute to find it because you forgot they changed it from HBO Max Go to just Max. “So fuckin’ stupid. Purple is a better color than blue anyway,” you mumble to yourself as you pull up an episode.

The galactic creature uses some magical time skip thing to binge the entire series and gets a yucky smudge of goop on your phone screen when it attempts to find season 2.

“There’s just one season? Please tell me there’s another one,” Joel implores.

“Yeah, there’s a second season, but it’s not out yet,” you inform him.

“Damn. But you said there’s two games already? So what happens in the second game?” he asks.

“You know what, we super don’t need to get into that right now. Let’s see what you’re working with,” you quickly change the subject and grab at his crotch.

He grunts in approval. “Needy lil thing, aren’t’cha? You want my cock, baby?”

Your eyes narrow suspiciously. “Did you use a time jump thing to read a whole bunch of Joel Miller smutfic on Tumblr?”

Joel blushes and scratches the back of his neck. “Eh, mighta read a few.”

“Oh my god, you’re gonna be super nasty and dominant, aren’t you?” you sigh.

“Only if that’s what you want, baby. I’m a consent king,” he assures you.

“Well, alright then. I want you to rawdog me and slap my ass, okay?”

He smirks and pulls you close. “I’ll give ya what I give ya, and you just gotta take it,” he grunts into your neck as he nibbles and sucks downward.

You gasp at the sensation and grind your hips into him. “Oh fuck, Joel,” you whine. “I want you to wreck me, please!”

“Gonna fill that cunt up,” he says gruffly as he gropes your ass and breasts.

“Yes, Daddy, please!” you beg.

He pauses for a moment and looks confused.

“Oh, uh, you must not have got to those kind of fics–” you cough awkwardly “–uh, anyway. Sorry. Joel. Yes, Joel, please.”

“I can sense the vibrations of your inner sex organ when you call me that. If it is sexually gratifying to you, I wholly welcome the use of it,” the original voice says inside your mind.

“Oh wow. I love that you’re not kink shaming me. Glad you didn’t make it to that side of Tumblr,” you huff in a laugh.

Joel suddenly pins you against the wall and presses his hard, clothed cock against your bare skin. Even through the denim you can tell he’s huge. Apparently all those fic writers were right all along.

“Who’s gonna fill up that pretty cunt uh’yours, huh?” he demands as he grabs the back of your neck for leverage.

“Y-You, Daddy,” you say in an aroused tremble.

“That’s fuckin’ right. When my fat cock is inside you, I better hear you singin’ some thank you’s to Daddy for fillin’ you up so good,” he warns.

“Yes, Daddy, I’ll be your good girl,” you promise.

He flips you around without warning and pushes your chest flush against the wall.

“Even good girls need to be reminded every once in a while what happens if they don’t listen to Daddy,” he says in a low gruff.

His clothes have magically disappeared with the help of his alien outerspace boi powers. You feel him firm against your backside before a harsh slap of his palm replaces it. You jump and yelp in pain at the surprise spanking.

“Mmmm, pretendin’ you don’t want it, but I feel you pushin’ your ass back for more,” he taunts.

You whine because he’s right. You can only imagine the derisive comments he’d make if he felt how wet you are.

He lands another three harsh swats on the same patch of skin. Tears prickle up in your eyes. “D-Daddy,” you moan.

“You gonna thank Daddy for keepin’ you in line, baby?” Another swat. It stings so much you know there must be an imprint of his hand clearly outlined by your welting red flesh.

“Thank you, Daddy!” you choke out. “Th-Thank you for k-keeping me your good girl and not letting me b-be bad, Daddy. I only wanna be good for you, Daddy!” you wail.

“That’s what I like’tuh hear, baby,” he grunts into your ear. “Ask Daddy to make you into his own little cocksleeve. Ask Daddy to give you this big, fat cock.”

You whimper as he slips his length between your folds and rubs back and forth in teasing passes.

“Daddy, I want you to use my pussy. I need it so bad. Please. I just wanna be your cocksleeve. Use my holes, Daddy,” you whimper.

You barely finish your sentence when he flips you around again and lines himself up with your entrance. Apparently the alien creature was just as into this as you are because their altered form reverted back to the amorphous gray green blob. You’re way too horny to be picky about it right now, so you squeeze your eyes shut. You forgot to charge your vibrator, anyway.

Their penis was more like fingers that kinda moved around randomly. You don��t know. You’re not an astrophysicist or whoever it is that would best be knowledgeable about alien wieners.

Its spongy gray appendage felt firm and slimy as it entered you. There was some sort of phantom connection to your mouth and throat as well, the sensation of its finger-penis dragging back and forth, able to be felt in both your pussy and your mouth. It was weird, but you knew if it was Joel Miller doing it then it would somehow become totally fine and very hot.

“You’re getting too lost in the sauce,” you whine. “You’re in your true form again. Change back.”

“Mmmmm, sorry, baby,” came the familiar gravelly voice once more.

When you felt brave enough to open your eyes again, you saw those familiar Wreck-It-Ralph sausage fingers and sighed in relief. The alien had changed back to your preferred form of Joel Miller as portrayed by José Pedro Balmaceda Pascal.

As much as you wanted to stare at his face, you also wanted him to dick you down through the floorboards of the ship. You wiggle to sink down onto your hands and knees. “Wanna be wide open for you, Daddy,” you pout.

He makes an approving growling noise and scrambles behind you, shoving you downward between your shoulder blades until your face is smushed into the floor. He makes no effort to warn you before slamming his entire length into you. The impact of his wide tip against your cervix is so forceful it punches the air out of your lungs. You let out a panicked, strangled moan, suddenly unsure if you were going to be able to take this dick like a champ.

Joel grabs your hips for leverage and starts pistoning rough, deep strokes into your drenched pussy. “Gaahh–Goddamn! Fuckin’ chokin’ it, honey,” he rasps in a labored voice. “Feel so fuckin’ tight for me.”

“It’s s-so big, Daddy. I dunno if I can take it,” you cry.

“You can take it. You can take it for Daddy. Be a good girl or m'gonna hafta punish you,” he cautions. As a reminder of what that might entail, he strikes your backside so hard your entire body jerks as you let out a sob.

A high pitched moan gathers in Joel’s throat as you start to accommodate his size. “Yeah, fuckin’ like that, huh? Like when Daddy spanks you? Makes ya listen?”

“You’re so good to me, Daddy!” you sob. Your arousal is practically dripping down your thighs. You listen to the hum of the engines mixing with the sounds of your drooling cunt being fed Joel’s massive cock over and over again. He grabs your wrists and pulls you upward, using your limbs like reins on a horse. You have no control over the depth of penetration in these positions, and Joel is opting for nothing less than utterly devastating your pussy.

“M’gonna give you these fingers, too, baby. Know you can take it,” he pants.

He releases your arms and lets you scramble to catch yourself before faceplanting.

“Hey! You could’ve at least–”

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth and take what Daddy gives you,” he snarls.

You whine and clench around him. You feel a boogery churro type object prodding at your asshole. You turn your head quickly enough to see the creature has let Joel’s arm halfway revert back into the wiggly blobby thing.

“Did I say you could turn around?” he barks. He spanks you again with his 100% Joel hand, hard enough that you know there are pinpricks of blood beginning to seep through.

“I’m sorry, Daddy!” you scream.

You feel him now inside both holes. It’s overwhelming and amazing. The phantom throat thing is back again, and you like how you gag even with an “empty” mouth.

“Got enough for every hole you got and then some, sweetheart,” he practically slurs. He sounds completely wrecked.

You feel your lower belly heating up and quickly tightening.

“Oh my fucking god, Joel. I’m getting so close,” you gasp.

“THAT AIN’T MY FUCKIN’ NAME WHEN I’M STUFFIN’ YOU WITH MY COCK, SWEETHEART,” he grits out as he wraps his hand around the front of your throat and squeezes.

When your breaths quickly become hard to take, you know you’re going to come soon.

“I want your space juice inside me, Daddy!” you cry out, not caring if you’re breaking the illusion. You still needed to be clear and consensual in your approach to this intimate exchange, and you needed to address the weird topic of whether or not your birth control could do effective hand to hand combat with spaceboi cum.

“Our sexual organs are compatible, but our reproductive hormones and liquids are not,” the voice explained in your mind.

The Jim Carrey baby grinch was kinda cute, but you still felt better knowing you weren’t going to birth a little green gremlin alien baby. (Although you did think Victor or Clementine would be nice names.)

“Put a baby in me, Daddy! Fuck your baby into me!” you beg now that you know you can’t actually get pregnant.

“Uh, I mean, there’s just so much pregnancy fic out there,” Joel hedges carefully, still maintaining his merciless thrusts. “You don’t really wanna make this into a whole thing do you? Ya know, with the pregnancy storyline and stuff? Some users have actually said they prefer—”

“No, Joel, I’m not actually—” you interrupt in a huff “—I’m just saying it to be sexy. It sounds sexy. Besides, there’s some fic writers who basically only write creampies but none of their characters ever seem to get pregnant. It’s kinda wild. There’s a fic writer I can think of right now, actually. She loves creampies so much.”

“So she’s just really into pussy gettin’ drenched but nobody’s gotta deal with babies? Sounds like a pretty sweet deal if ya ask me,” he approves.

“Yeah, I think the only pregnancy fic she has is, like, this really nasty oneshot where the reader is already pregnant and she gets double teamed by Tommy and you at the same time. Oh and she lactates. I wasn’t into it at first, but it was kinda hot. Maybe you’ve read it? The author calls herself Puddles?”

“Oh, her? That Gasoline Rainbow lady? I thought she just made memes?” He sounds surprised and impressed. He’s hitting your cervix repeatedly with such force that you feel like your vagina is going to look like somebody dropped a tray of lasagna on a pubic hair linoleum floor.

“No, she actually has, like, legit fic on there, too. She’s, like, really talented. I can’t believe she doesn’t have more followers,” you laugh incredulously.

You’re glad he doesn’t ask how you would know how many followers she has since that isn’t publicly available information. You hate it when plot holes have to be smoothed out nicely and still fit in with the story. It’s so boring and way too much work sometimes.

“Maybe stuff like alien jizz fingers is a little too much for people to–”

“Okay, this is getting too meta. Let’s just get back to you fucking me so rough I can’t walk right for an entire week, okay?”

“Hnngg, fuck yeah. Daddy’s gonna wreck this cunt,” he hisses as his thrusts pick up pace.

“DADDY, I’M GONNA COME,” you cry as you start clenching and seizing around the massive circumference of his cock.

Joel lets out a guttural, choked moan as he empties inside you. You can feel it from his weird creampie fingertips, too — even the invisible one in your mouth and throat. You’re trembling, trying to keep yourself upright as Joel fucks into you through his orgasm. You lick your lips. There’s a flavor there. Is that….?

“You like Daddy’s brisket cum, sweetheart?” he grunts as his thrusts slow to a sloppy grind.

“I thought I tasted barbecue,” you muse. It was bewildering, but mostly satisfying.

“Yeah, tastes just like those Fourth of July backyard get-togethers you love in that Texas heat,” he breathes. "You runnin' around in barely anything, makin' me hafta adjust myself so your dad don't catch his best friend ogling his precious daughter."

“I’m starting to think you read more fic than you admitted to earlier,” you assert.

“I like it, darlin’,” he shrugs.

“Are you gonna follow Puddles now? Oh! Can you do a mind link thing with her and see what she’s working on next?” you implore.

Joel appears to zone out for a minute, and you take the opportunity to stare at his naked body. He looked perfect. His eyes focused again as he looked at you.

“Her waveforms are erratic and very concerning, but once I subdued a Brain Goblin inside her mind I was able to discern she is likely to be releasing some Ezra from Prospect centered fictional stories,” the voice inside your head revealed. "They are very sexually aggressive."

“Nice,” you say under your breath.

“So you gonna let me have that sweet pussy again, sweetheart?” Joel drawls.

“Yes. But I’m going to need you to familiarize yourself with Pedro’s extensive works. I’m thinking we could do some really great Mando roleplay in this spaceship,” you say with a big smile as you gesture around.

Joel smirks at you. “Don’t matter what form I take. You’re still gonna be callin’ me Daddy.”

“Yes, Daddy,” you agree with a big grin.

I hope those splorgimums understand what they lost bc that's our man now! Special thanks to Multiversed Daydreamer (Fuzz) for inspiring part of the title and @xdaddysprincessxx for the shared derangement over That Old Man™.

Undying thanks to @psychedelic-ink and @bonezone44 for writing some of my fave ~aLtErNaTiVe KiNk CoNtEnT~ and inspiring me to let my brain run wild with this crackfic.

Art in graphic includes transformed works of the Mucinex booger man.

catch ya later, ♥Puddles♥

P.S. - I counted how many times "Daddy" appears in this, and it's 29.

tagging: @wannab-urs, @gracieispunk, @milla-frenchy, @patti7dc. @lumoverheaven, @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog, @toxicanonymity, @rubyfruitjungle, @huffle-punk, @jupiter-soups, @swiftispunk, @theywhowriteandknowthings

#crackfic #joel miller #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #tlou fic

143 notes · View notes

sadhours · 5 months

Text

scumbag blues: 1) first it giveth

gator tillman x f!original character

contents: 18+ minors dni, sex work, mean!gator, slow burn, enemies to lovers, smut, oral (m receiving), p in v, rough, anal play, choking, lots of dirty talk, unprotected sex, lots of spitting

The sheets are fresh, it’s the first thing Gator smells as he and Daisy walk through the doorway. She leans against the closed door, locking it and batting her lashes up at him. Big blue eyes behind false lashes and a scattering of sun sprouted freckles dusting the apples of her cheeks and bridge of her nose. Gator feels a little dizzy at the sight but his dad doesn’t approve of her, tells Gator he better stop paying for her services but he can’t help himself. Winds up at the Inn at least twice a week. Bills fresh from the ATM tucked neatly in his wallet, burning a hole in his pocket. Gator’s hands find her hips, holding her in place while his body crowds her tiny one. He’s a good seven inches taller than her. He gets off on the size difference, likes knowing he can easily throw her around.

Daisy’s fingers find the zipper of his utility vest, her pink stained lips parting as she tugs it down and smoothes her hands under it, pushing it off his shoulders. Gator lets it fall to the floor, cringing at the thud it makes as it hits the hardwood. Daisy then moves her hands to make purchase over his chest, making his skin chill with goosebumps. She gently squeezes his hips, blinking up at him with those coquettish eyes. Turns Gator to putty in her hands like that. Wills himself to stop thinking about how much dick she’s ran through today. Tells himself she don’t look at those men the way she’s looking at him. Daisy promises so, has Gator believing it like it changes anything.

Roy wouldn’t let him and even if he did, Daisy ain’t gonna stop turning tricks. Her dad thinks this is an Inn, but they make money ‘cause his little girls turned it into a brothel. Her mothers scarce, like his own. Gator doesn’t ask her personal questions like that. They keep it professional. Though he knows it ain’t, knows Daisy brings him to her personal bedroom and not one of the rooms for rent. Lets her rest her head on his chest after and tell him about her dreams. Kisses her stupid before he inevitably leaves.

“S’nice dress you got on,” he mumbles, “Put it on just for me?” It’s a white one, short with big flowy sleeves and her cleavage just about pours from it.

“Bought it just for you,” Daisy replies, fishing her manicured fingers in his pocket and retrieving his lime green vape. She holds it up, “You know the rule.”

“Dumb fuckin’ rule,” he grumbles but takes it from her, taking a deep pull from the little box and tilts his head back to exhale the smoke out towards the ceiling. He passes it back to her and Daisy side steps him to put it in her desk. Gator’s got a not so good habit about reaching for it while they’re in the throws of passion, Daisy ain’t a fan of the acidic fruity vapor in her face during sex. So she made a rule, it stays in her desk drawer until after he’s paid her.

“Gator,” she scolds, furrowing her brows as she looks at him.

“I’m just saying,” he raises his hands in defense before trailing to the bed. He sits on the foot of it, clicking his tongue and nodding to the ground before him. Daisy complies, getting on her knees and starts unlacing his boots with her French tip nails and looks up at him with those big eyes again. “Good girl,” he praises, placing his palms on the comforter.

Sometimes he makes her lick ‘em but he’s feeling sweet tonight. She looks a little too innocent for that right now. So he just watches carefully, humming in approval when she gets one boot off and massages his sweaty, socked foot. Daisy smiles, flush rising up her neck which has Gator thinking this part gets her real excited. Has half a mind to reach between her legs and find out. Daisy rubs her face against his knee, bouncing a bit where she sits before she moves onto the other boot. She doesn’t spend as much time in massaging that one before she’s reaching for the button of his cargos, Gator moves to unclip the strap on his thigh but Daisy stops him.

“Keep it on for now,” she pleads, pulling his cargos down as far as they’ll go with the strap on.

“Yeah? Got yourself a cop kink?” Gator teases.

“More like a Gator kink,” she mumbles and immediately looks like she regrets it, eyes wide and cheeks ruddy. She bites her lip and moves her hand to palm him through his underwear. He can’t dwell on what she said for long after that, hot pleasure rising up his legs as his cock twitches from the attention. A long, low groan pushes from his throat and she shushes him. Her daddy’s bedroom is next to hers.

“C’mon, stop teasing,” he hisses.

Daisy raises a brow, lips quirking into a smirk before she’s nudging her nose against his clothed cock. Gator gasps and his hips lift off the mattress for just a second. And then Daisy sniffs and Gator’s a little self conscious, knows he’s been sweating in these cargos all day. But Daisy groans softly and takes another whiff, squeezing the bottom of his thighs and lets out a moan.

“You’re nasty, ya know that?” Gator exhales shakily and Daisy rubs her face against his boner and tells him he smells so good. Pheromones or someshit, he doesn’t know but he knows it turns him on that she likes his scent. His cock fills out even more and he grabs a hold of her head, pressing her face flush against his briefs. Daisy mouths at his length through the fabric, digging her fingers into his thighs. “You fucking love that cock, don’tcha, darling? C’mon, show daddy how much you love it,” Gator groans out, loosening his grip on her head.

Daisy takes a breath as she pulls away, immediately hooking her fingers into the waistband of his briefs and pulls ‘em down to get his erection out. Gator has to bite his lip to stifle the moan rising up his throat as she grips the base of him in her hand and licks a broad stroke up the underside of his cock. Daisy’s a real pro when it comes to head. Experience, Gator knows but she acts like she needs to suck it. Like she’s hungry for his cock. Daisy delivers kitten licks to his slit, moving her head with the motion before she wraps her lips around the head, giving a hard suck before taking him as far as he’ll go, hot and wet enveloping his cock. It twitches in her mouth and Gator pathetically moans out a “Oh, dear lord.”

He can feel her smile around the mouthful of him, has his hips rolling up on their own volition. For fucks sake, it feels so good. All the stress from work and his dad just dissipates like a switch. Gator’s sure that Daisy was put here on earth to service his cock, that’s what God made her for. And fuck, if he could marry her he’d do it in a heartbeat. Daisy pulls his cock out of her mouth with a pop before slapping it against her tongue and swallows before she asks him, “S’that feel good, daddy?”

“Yeah it does, sweetheart,” Gator bumbles out, “Get your mouth back to work.”

Daisy obliges with a giggle, running her pouty lips against the tip before slipping it between them. She sucks on his head, stroking him with her hand. Keeps her eyes locked on his face, like she’s eager to watch him fall apart. Like her whole self worth depends on whether or not she can make Gator cum. And he’s a fucking asshole.

“Aw, darlin,” he laughs softly, “You can do better than that, can’tcha?”

Daisy huffs through her nose, eyes squinting at him as she squeezes his cock in her hand but she clearly can’t help herself, as stubborn as she may pretend to be, she really just wants to please him. So Daisy sinks her mouth down on his cock, takes him until the head pushes against the back of her throat. She blinks quickly and Gator can see the tears prickling the corners of her eyes, slipping out and down her cheeks. Watches with his breath held as she exhales through her nose. He scoops her blonde hair up in his hands and holds it like a pony tail at the crown of her head, using the leverage to move her mouth as he pleases. Fucks her pretty little mouth until his balls are covered in her drool. Bucks his hips with it, reveling in the gagging sounds she makes around his length.

Gator’s real close to pulling her off, feels his orgasm is inching in quicker but it’s just too good to make her stop. He ain’t leaving here without filling her pussy though, it is what he pays for anyhow.

“Slower,” he whimpers out, hating the way it sounds on his ears but Daisy complies, pulls off of him and strokes him languidly in her hand. She blinks up at him, those eyes wide like she’s never done this before. The mortgage being paid for this place says something else though.

“Such a sweet girl,” Gator coos, “Do whatever you’re told.” He pats her bicep, “Up. Show me how wet y’are.”

Daisy flushes, standing up on shaky legs and lifts her dress above her waist. Her thong is white, slick soaked through and glistening on her thighs. Gator reaches forward and presses his fingers against the damp material. He moves them firmly up and down, Daisy rolls her hips into it and Gator lets out a low chuckle.

“Reckon you’re a good whore or… it’s only my cock that gets you soaked like this,” Gator muses, tilting his head as he pushes her panties to the side and gets his fingers against her folds. “Huh? You get this wet for those other fuckers?”

Daisy gasps, fingers grasping at the bunched material of her dress as she gazes down at his face.

“Answer me,” Gator demands when Daisy’s eyes glaze over from pleasure, his fingertips moving against her aching clit.

“No,” she whines, because it’s the truth. There’s bottles of lube hidden away in every single room. It’s nothing but men her fathers age and then there’s Gator. Handsome and around her age. Fucks her like he owns her. She won’t tell him he does. That she’s looking forward to their scheduled appointments. Cleans her room for him, wears clothes bought just for him and is soaking wet in anticipation. Hell, he’s the only client who gets to fuck her raw.

“That’s right,” he purrs, pulling his hand back and leans back against the bed, “Touch yourself for me.”

Daisy puts on a show, pushes her panties down mid thigh and spreads her lips with her fingers, giving him an eyeful of glistening folds. Rubs her pretty little clit in slow circles for him. Makes these breathy, quiet moans as she does it. Gator watches with an unimpressed expression that has Daisy insecure and eager to please. She slaps her pussy and inhales sharply at the way his eyebrows raise, moving to sink her fingers into her warm core. Fucking herself all slow and exaggerated, walls clenching around the digits and the desire to have his cock stretching them starts to get unbearable.

“Taste yourself,” Gator instructs.

She obliges instantly, shoving her fingers in her mouth and humming around them. Gator grins, eyes crinkling and Daisy clambers on top of him. Smashing their lips together desperately, grabbing his face and rocking her hips against him. Gator grabs her ass, squeezes it before delivering a harsh smack to the right cheek as he licks into her mouth. Daisy has a strict no kissing rule, but most of her rules go out the window when it comes to Gator. As much as she despises who he is, she’s overwhelmingly attracted to him. It’s carnal, animalistic the way they make out and rut against each other. Gator gropes her wherever he can, pressing his cock against her dripping cunt and rolling his hips. The most delicious slide, slick coating his shaft as he drags it through her folds. Their muffled moans fill the room as they writhe against each other. Daisy’s so goddamn wet Gator can feel it dripping down to his balls. He grabs her hair and tugs her back, breaking the kiss with strings of salvia still connecting their lips.

“Take that fucking dress off,” Gator demands, “Now.”

Daisy fumbles to pull the hem up and over her head, body exposed to him and his hands take advantage, smoothing down her sides and then back up to unclasp her lacy white bra. She tosses it aside and rolls her hips into him as his hands cup her breasts, thumbs grazing against her pert nipples. Daisy elicits a loud moan and Gator’s pinches her nipple and tugs it.

“Shh,” he scolds, “Don’t want your daddy knowing what an easy slut his little girl is.”

“Fuck,” Daisy gasps, hands moving to grab Gator’s wrist and forearm. His words produce a wave of euphoria laced shame, coating the length of his cock in even more slick. He uses her secret to blackmail her all the time, get dirt on her clients and get free services from her when he gets power hungry.

Gator hums, smirking up at her and says, “Does that make you wet? Screwing for money when daddy’s in the next room? Fuck, you’re such a whore. Picked the perfect profession.”

“Shut up,” she pleads in a moan.

“Ah ah,” Gator purses his lips as he smooths his hand up to wrap around Daisy’s neck, “I know you don’t wanna spend the night behind bars again. Soliciting a deputy and all.” Gator tsks, “Better behave.”

“Yes, sir,” Daisy gasps, feeling light headed with the pressure Gator’s got on her windpipe. Tells herself it’s part of the service, that she isn’t massively turned on by the power Gator truly holds. “I’m sorry, Deputy Tillman… I’ll be a good girl.”

“Music to my ears, darlin,” Gator drawls before giving a squeeze to her throat and letting go.

“How do you want me?” Daisy asks, breathlessly as her fingertips ghost down the swell of his biceps. She ignores the dumb tattoo peeking out of his sleeve.

“Ass up, face in the pillows,” Gator instructs and Daisy moves quick to get into position, thong still draped at her knees. Gator gets up, she can hear him undo his thigh strap and carefully placing it on the dresser before she feels him peel her underwear the rest of the way down. When she feels Gator’s hips pressing the globes of her ass, she knows he’s undressed. The tip of his cock grazes her fluttering hole, causing a whine to raise out of her throat and she pushes her ass back at him, desperate to catch the head of his cock in her hole and sink down on it. But Gator has other plans, grabs handfuls of her ass and spreads her cheeks before jiggling them in his hands. Watches her asshole flex from the motion and he spits on it, moving his thumb to spread his saliva against the hole she doesn’t let any other man touch. Hasn’t told Gator he’s the only man whose fucked her ass.

Gator spits again, uses it as lube to slip his thumb inside her asshole and groans lowly as Daisy’s toes curl.

“That’s it,” he coos, “Such a good little whore for me.”

Daisy keens, grabbing onto the pillows as she pushes her ass back at him. He spanks her with his right hand, so hard she’s sure she’s got an angry, red print of Gator’s large hand on it. Then he’s grabbing the base of his cock, swirling the head of it around Daisy’s clenching, dripping hole. He slips it in, but keeps it shallow. Just the tip.

“C’mon, Daisy,” he says condescendingly, “Fuck that dirty hole on my cock.”

Daisy’s head is swimming with just the tip, the notion that this is work completely vacated her thoughts. This is pure pleasure, all play and no work. Daisy fully believes in this moment that she exists to be used by Gator and God’s a real kind son of a bitch for giving her that purpose. She rolls her hips back, sinking down on Gator’s cock and he gasps. Her eyes are rolling back as he fills her up, all the way down to his tight balls. His cockhead presses into her g-spot so deliciously Daisy cannot hold back the guttural moan punching through her lips. He’s the only client to make her cum, to make sex enjoyable.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he exhales, “Tight little cunt, no matter how many dicks you take.”

His filthy words make both her holes clench around him. Gator wiggles his thumb and then uses the grip he’s got on her to drag her up and down his cock. He’s so thick and she’s squeezing him so tight. Can’t imagine not taking Gator raw. Needs to feel him without the stinky, thin layer of latex.

“Christ,” he moans softly, “Just keep squeezing that dick. You love it so much.”

Daisy fucks back against him, her nipples brushing against the bedspread as her tits sway with the motions. The sensation spreads hotly down her spine. The wet sounds of Gator’s cock sliding in and out of her cunt fill her ears, sprouting goosebumps over her skin as desperation starts to take over her. With each thrust of their hips, their skin meets with a sweaty slap and the tip of his cock brushes against her g-spot. Gator keeps letting out these low grunts, right hand gripping her hip tight enough to leave bruises. All the marks on her skin are left from him.

“So wet,” he chokes behind clenched teeth, “My little whore, all fucking mine.” He slaps her ass, “Yeah? I own this tight fuck hole, don’t I?”

“Yes,” she cries out, the slapping sounds of their skin gaining in tempo as Gator pounds into her relentlessly.

“Say it, bitch,” Gator seethes, moving her hand between her shoulder blades and pushing her harder against the mattress, “Tell me who owns this fucking pussy.”

Daisy turns her head, though her voice is still slightly muffled as she whimpers out, “You own this pussy, Gator owns me…”

“Damn fucking right,” he grunts. And just as he slips his thumb out of her ass to grip her hips, his radio goes off.

“Gator, do you copy?” that static laced voice rings throughout the room but the deputy ignores it, drilling into Daisy at breakneck speed, pushing involuntarily little yelps from her.

“Gator, you there?” Again, the voice comes through. “Gator,” in a singing tune.

“Fucking useless pricks,” he pulls out from Daisy and climbs off the bed. She sighs as she flips onto her back, rubbing her pussy as she watches his plump ass while he walks over to his vest.

“I’m fuckin’ busy,” he says into the radio and drops the vest, turning and grinning from ear to ear as he sees Daisy laid back, running her fingers through her folds as she eyes his hard cock.

“Fuckin’ busy or busy fuckin’?” The voice replies as Gator makes it to the edge of the mattress, stroking his cock while his eyes rake over Daisy’s body. “You with that whore again, ain’t ya, Gator?”

He rolls his eyes and climbs back on the mattress, gets between Daisy’s legs and slaps the head of his cock against her pussy, “Ignore ‘em, they’ll leave us alone.”

Daisy is used to what everyone says about her. Hell, the majority of Stark County Sheriff’s Department has paid for her services. She’d be amiss to ignore the realization that Gator talks about her to them, though.

“You tell ‘em about me?” she giggles, moving her hands up to play with her nipples while Gator drags the tip of his cock through her folds.

“Sure do,” he mumbles, “Tell ‘em you let me fuck your ass for no extra charge.”

“You get a flat fee,” Daisy admits, looking up to see his gelled back hair coming undone, the longer strands flopping out. He’s so frustratingly good looking, can’t help herself to grab his arms and pull his lips to hers. As Gator kisses back, he slips his cock into her hole which makes Daisy moan against his lips. Her legs come up to wrap around his waist and her arms drape around his shoulders.

He grinds into her cunt nice and deep before snapping his hips, head of his cock hitting her cervix in a way that has her body jolting and nails dragging down his back. Tears fill her eyes at the sharp sensation but Gator doesn’t relent, pounding into her pussy with abandon. Daisy has to bite his lip to stifle her cries but the assault makes Gator growl and break the kiss, pulling back and wrapping his fingers around her neck. Not applying too much pressure, but pressing her into the bed while he hammers his hips impossibly faster and harder, face all contorted in frustration and pleasure.

“Ya wanna bite me, bitch?” he grunts out.

Daisy whimpers, eyes rolling back in her head as Gator drills into her. Euphoria radiating all over her body as Gator slams against her g-spot repeatedly, turning Daisy into a drooling, incoherent mess as her voice attempts to apologize. Gator pouts, his thumb stroking her cheekbone as he slows his thrusts.

“Poor girl, make you cockdrunk already?” his voice is just a tad shaky, like he’s struggling not to fuck her into oblivion. “We just barely started, darlin.”

That’s another thing different about Gator as a client, the sex lasts hours. They usually do it more than once. Rest of her clients can barely last five minutes. Daisy wouldn’t complain though. Four hundred bucks for five minutes of laying on her back isn’t bad. Course, Gator gets a discounted price. Half off. It started because she actually enjoyed herself, had a rough time considering it work. Until he would leave, drop the cash on her dresser and not talk to her until he showed up for their next appointment. Gator makes her remember its work.

He drags his fingers down her arms before grabbing her wrists and pinning them above her head, leaning down to connect their lips again. Daisy whimpers against it, squeezing her legs tighter around his waist and trying to chase the europhoria she felt just seconds ago. If he hadn’t slowed down she would’ve came. Gator likes to take his time, really drag it out of her. He can’t do anything without making it convoluted and difficult. Which he proves by shoving his cock as deep as it’ll go, their skin flush and then stills his hips. Pants into the kiss, moves his free hand up to squeeze her tit again. Daisy flicks her tongue against his and he wraps his lips around it, sucking on her tongue as he attempts to penetrate her even deeper. Fruitless, his cocks into the hilt, balls pressed against her ass.

The kiss quickly devolves into the pair of them moaning into open mouths, Gator thrusts but barely pulls back. And his cock is so hard and firm, Daisy’s squeezing around it with all she’s worth. Fuck, they’re libel to get stuck like this. Animals in heat. Pleasure swirling around in her stomach, bleeding down to all her nerves. They’re as connected as they’ll ever be, in the most raw and guttural way they can be. She opens her eyes as he pulls back, whimpers when his cock goes with him and she’s left feeling empty. Gator spreads her legs, looks down at her cunt and let’s a line of spit drip from his lips to her pretty, fucked bright pink pussy.

“Think it’s time you earned your money,” he pats her thigh, “Ride me, cowgirl.”

Daisy knows she’s well earned her money as is but she isn’t gonna say no to riding Gator. Gains a bit of her power back in that position. She nods enthusiastically and straddles Gator once he’s on his back, smoothes her hands through his chest hair and grazes her fingertips against his nipples. It earns her an almost pathetic moan from the man and Daisy’s giddy on it. She grinds her slicked up pussy against his hard cock, the slide easy from how soaked he gets her.

“C’mon, now,” he quirks an eyebrow, “Get on that cock and show me what you’re worth.”

Daisy licks her lips, lifts herself up and grabs hold of Gator’s erection, the head easily catches on her hole and she sinks down on him. Her puffy lips fall open as he fills her, a saccharine moan pouring out of her. He hums, eyes locked on where their bodies connect.

Then he directs her, “Slow. Wanna see it all. Need to see your pussy swallowin’ that cock.”

Holding onto his thighs, she leans back and slowly lifts her hips. Up until just the tips inside. She watches Gator’s expressions intently, his brown eyes blown wide with this hazy lust in them. Cheeks flushed and breathing heavily. His lips are swollen from the kisses.

“Take that cock, baby,” he mumbles out, sounding so delightfully dazed.

Baby. The word goes right to her head, makes her stomach fill with butterflies. Daisy complies, sinking back down on it and repeating the languid motions a few more times before she can’t take it anymore. Needs it faster and harder. Gator turns into a bumbling puddle, moaning out as he encourages her, “That’s it, yeah. Fuck yourself on my dick. Oh, yeah…”

“Gator,” she whines out, milking his cock with her tight cunt. Bouncing on his cock, squeezing his thighs for leverage. Her eyebrows pinch together and her mouth hangs open, chasing that burst of ecstasy only Gator can give her.

“Yeah, you filthy little slut,” he seethes, teeth clenched as his eyes dance around from their sexes up to her eyes and down to her tits.

Daisy huffs, moving a hand so she can rub erratic circles against her throbbing clit. Balancing herself on the one hand still plastered on Gator’s thigh. Feels the way her legs burn from exertion but she’s too focused on chasing the orgasm teasing her insides. Rides him like a woman gone mad. Gator’s moans turn breathless and border on whimpering, be it by her cunt quickly working his cock or her animalistic determination to get herself off, it’s doing something to him.

“Really workin’ for it, yeah?” Gator babbles out, “Gonna make yourself cream all over my cock, baby?”

“Feels so fucking good,” she heaves through pants.

“Mmm,” Gator’s hands snake around her hips, his own legs spreading which makes Daisy falter and she lets out a frustrated whine. “Don’t stop,” Gator tells her, fingers digging into her skin.

He begins thrusting up at her, the pair of them relentlessly humping each other. It’s a little sloppy, but the force of Gator’s hips pushes her over the edge. Intense waves of absolute heaven rippling through her, mouth open in a silent scream as she writhes against Gator. Vision gone absolutely white, riding out her orgasm blindly. Gator growls a laugh while he watches, reveling in the way her face scrunches and contorts as her body starts to buzz all over. He’s following close behind, before Daisy’s orgasm even finishes she feels his hot, thick seed filling her and leaking down the sides of his cock. Makes her cry out, body collapsing on top of him as he wraps an arm around her and fucks up into her, emptying all he’s got in her sore, used hole.

“Gator, Gator, Gator,” she chants breathlessly in his ear, tears trailing hotly down her cheeks as the aftershocks of her orgasm have her rolling her hips against him. Imagines he’s her husband. Imagines this is a marital love. That when they’re out in public they don’t hate each other.

He hums, pressing a sloppy kiss to her cheek before he’s pushing her off of him. Daisy lays on the mattress beside him, panting as she tries to catch her breath. Gator’s panting too, turns on his side and grabs her hip to pull her close. Drapes his arm around her as his lips find hers and they share lazy kisses.

“You let anyone else cum in ya?” he wonders aloud, lips dragging along hers. He hopes not. Can’t be too sure of her answer anyhow. She is a working girl after all. He pays her to be what he wants her to be. He still fantasizes about knocking her up, telling his dad he’s got no choice but to be with Daisy and keep filling her up with babies. She’s on birth control though, has that chip in her arm he hates so much.

“Gator,” she sighs as she presses her hand to his jaw and kisses him softly, “You’re the only one I let fuck me raw. Therefore… you’re the only man who's nut in me.”

He cringes, “Don’t talk like that. S’not ladylike.”

“Haven’t you heard? I’m not much of a lady,” she kisses him again, can’t stop kissing him.

#gator #gator tillman smut #gator tillman #gator tillman x oc #gator Tillman x original character #gator tillman fanfiction #gator tillman x original female character #gator tillman fic

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local-pr1nter · 10 months

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General Mondo Oowada Headcanons

One of the only students of the 78th class to get his driver's license. And considering his talent, he's pretty damn good at it. He's the only one trusted with driving other classmates during hangouts (Leon tried it once. Everyone came to a mutual agreement to never let him drive them again.)

Big dog person- will go on long tangents about them if you let him. In his younger years, he would always try to bring stray dogs home. Daiya would always tell him "We already have Chuck," then give the dog to a shelter or one of the gang members.

Bold of you to assume he would stop as he got older.

The man got big to hold all the dogs I tell you.

Kiyotaka always has to search his dorm to see if he's hiding a dog in there. Said dog always goes back to Gundham, much to Mondo's frustration.

He would always visit them afterwards and help Gundham out with finding them homes and taking care of them.

Mans just a dog lover what can I say.

When he's not gushing about dogs he's either hanging out with his friends (THAT will be a whole other post) his gang, or Daiya.

He's not all that into social media - personally thinks it's dumb and useless. He only has any to keep up with his friends and current events. (Leon sends him stupid memes constantly. He denies ever laughing at the particularly dumb one.)

Does his own bike modifications. Miu or Kazuichi typically help him with the more complicated parts. They're the local motorheads of the school.

Doesn't drink coffee or tea - more of an energy drink/protein shake guy. His favorite drink of all time though are slushies. Flavors vary, but he's partial to blue raspberry or lemon lime.

He's honestly become a convenience store "connoisseur" due to his drives with the gang. Knows which place has the good snacks, which has the best slushies that sort of thing.

Despite being taller, he's still the typical younger sibling. He always falls victim to noogies or wet willies from Daiya - somehow, he always finds a way.

Absolute dog shit at cooking.

Pretty good with make up though.

It pisses off Junko to no end. She's envious of his eyeliner skills.

Overall Mondo comes off as that guy you can rely on for lots of things (after you get past the "ah scary delinquent" part) Need a ride? He's gotcha. Need to carry something heavy? Not a problem. Need a late night snack? Mans got shortcuts to the best convenience store. If you need some comfort the man's already got a hidden stash of snacks and a musical at the ready.

He just has that energy about him yk?

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ronas-reveries · 2 years

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×I'm Gonna be a Dad | Bonten Trio

×Characters: Rindou Haitani, Ran Haitani, Sanzu Haruchiyo.

×Author's Note: Listen, I know I have other requests, but I have baby fever and Rin's involved so I might have had a little favoritism when sorting the list lmao I may have made it a bit spicy. It was late, I couldn't help it.

×Contents: Pregnancy, Long Distance Relationship without contact, Lime lmao, Mentions of a breeding kink in Rindou's, slight angst in Sanzu's.

×Additional Tags: Not proof-read, Female Reader, Mildly Comedic, Ran being his teasing self, Fluff, Slight Angst, 18+ because it does get spicy, Under Read More because it's long.

Requests Are Open!

×Ran Haitani×

•The moment he walked through the door and found you in the kitchen was one of the most relaxing moments that he’s had for months. You had your back turned to him, not hearing him come in because of the running water from the faucet.

•He tip-toed over to you, wrapping his arms around you and pressing his lips to the shell of your ear to whisper that he’s finally home. This startled you, accidentally elbowing him in the abdomen before you turned around, clean frying-pan in hand.

•For a moment, you glared down at him, and he looked up at you from his place on the floor. You looked mortified when you processed the fact that he was home, but he nearly had a sparkle in his eyes when he saw you and your belly.

•You kneeled, apologizing profusely before he quickly took your hands and helped you back up on your feet. The both of you were trying for a child, so this didn’t surprise him, but damn if it didn’t almost make him visibly giddy. He placed his hands on your belly, careful not to press down too hard.

•It’d been around half a year since he last saw you, and he swore you got even more beautiful since then. He couldn’t keep his hands off you, and he didn’t know if it was because he missed the feel of you, or because he couldn’t contain his excitement. Either way, he finally gave you the kiss both of you had been longing for; passionate, almost desperate, and it elicited a soft whine from you when he pulled away.

•Ran brushed a thumb over your bottom lip, spreading the small amount of saliva that resulted from your kiss, and you instinctively took it into your mouth. It sent a shiver down his spine as he locked eyes with you.

•All that time away from you was Hell and going no-contact made him miserable. He hadn’t realized just how much he hated not being by your side, to hear your voice, to feel you against him, your taste—

•Your taste… He wasted no time in placing his hands on the back of your thighs, lifting you up onto the counter and settling between your legs for another kiss as he undid his suit jacket and shrugged it off. Any whimper and noise were swallowed up greedily by him, and the only thing connecting your lips afterwards was a thin string of saliva.

•Ran rolled up the sleeves of his dress-shirt and ran a hand through his hair before he made quick work of the only thing standing between him and what he was craving. It’d been so long since he devoured you, he couldn’t hold himself back from pulling you to the edge of the counter and diving between your thighs.

•He looked up with half-lidded eyes, and you tried to meet them as best as you could with your belly in the way. “Let me hear you, darling, I want to reward you for waiting so patiently for me.” It was the only time he spoke during the time he was down there, and by the time he came up, you were a tired, trembling mess.

×Rindou Haitani×

•You nearly ran to the door when you heard him call out that he was home, and he gladly took you in his arms, immediately looking down when he felt something bump against his abdomen. To say he was shocked was an understatement. He swallowed thickly, his eyes looking up from your belly to your eyes.

•He was met with a nervous smile and a fumbled explanation. He wasn’t dumb, he knew the two of you had sex multiple times the night before he left on a job with Sanzu and his brother, and apparently the contraceptive had failed. But to think he’d gotten you pregnant and couldn’t even hear the news until now left an awful taste in his mouth. All he could think about was how scared and lonely you must’ve felt with the uncertainty of him coming back alive or not.

•Tears welled up in your eyes, but before you could start apologizing, he kissed them away gently before they could fall. Assuring you that everything was okay and that he won’t leave you a second time.

•Everything went back to normal, as if he never left, picking things up where the two of you left off as both of you chatted about what had been happening for the past six months. Though, he did seem a bit distracted… gaze wandering all over your body like he was undressing you with his eyes.

•That’s the look that got the two of you here in the first place. Rindou was never satisfied until he stuffed you full, always saying he��d fuck a baby into you whenever his breeding kink got the best of him, and he had you in a mating press. It was funny, now that you think about it, trying to be safe before he left and it ends up backfiring, landing him where he wanted to be in the first place and not being able to enjoy it.

•You leaned over, a mischievous look in your eyes as you ran a hand through his hair lovingly. He let his head fall back, relishing your touch and your soft coos. He knew what you were doing, he knew you figured him out already, what he was unsure of was who was going to break first.

•With the way your hands rid him of his shirt and the way his freed your swollen breasts before taking a nipple into his mouth, it was anyone’s game. It was almost embarrassing with the way he leaned into you as if he had never been touched before, needy.

•You didn’t even bother to move the make-out session to the bedroom, not being able to take your hands or mouths from each other until both of you were breathless. Rindou pulled you onto him, being wary of your belly, so you were straddling him. He was flushed, going from his ears all the way down to his neck. You knew you won and had him wrapped around your little finger.

•He ground against you, chest exposed so you could run your hands over his tattoo and feel him shudder under your touch while your mouth kissed his Bonten tattoo, trailing over his neck to litter it with deep hickies.

•His hands held onto your waist, bringing you down to grind against him. Both of you letting out a low moan from the friction before he spoke. “Fuck, I missed you so much.” He breathed. “Let’s do it again. I wanna relive the night I made you a mommy.”

×Haruchiyo Sanzu×

•He’s… the least excited out of the three. Unlike the Haitani brothers, he’s never really thought about having or even wanting kids, so when he comes home and sees you sleeping on the couch with a belly that’s about to burst, he turns on his heels and walks out the door.

•It hadn’t even hit him with the fact that he just walked out on his pregnant partner, he just got back in his car and drove. He didn’t even know how he got to the bar, or when he called up both Haitani brothers, but now he was just sitting at a booth, whiskey glass in hand as the other two executives pulled up with annoyed looks on their faces.

•They didn’t even have time to ask why he called them almost at 2am before he blurted out the news. Rindou’s annoyance just grew while Ran mused that seems like all three of them had been busy before they left, much to Sanzu’s dismay.

•The brothers weren’t of much help since they wanted kids to begin with, but Sanzu argued that he had other priorities, earning a firm scold from Ran to not get his dick wet or get snipped if he didn’t want this to happen. Rindou threw in his two cents and told him to stop being a coward and face you, because he was never getting anyone better than you to love him so genuinely.

•Sanzu clicked his tongue and downed the rest of his whisky before telling both of them to fuck off, once again walking away from his current reality to drive off into the night. He ended up near the beach, drunk and high off his mind as everything came violently crashing down.

•When he came to, it was already morning, and being both hungover and sober, he instinctively went home, wanting nothing more than to curl up in your loving arms while you told him everything was going to be okay. As much as he hated to admit it, both Ran and Rindou were right, and it was only fair to you that he tried. God, when did he get so soft and goodie-goodie?

•He made up his mind as soon as you pulled him into a tight hug and let out a choked ‘I missed you’. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad, he’s gone through way worse, after all. He wrapped his arms around you and rested his forehead against your shoulder, muttering out that you looked as beautiful as the day he left.

•It took him a bit to warm up to the idea of being a dad, but the more he spent getting everything ready with you, the more relaxed he felt about the idea. You knew his responsibilities and didn’t pressure him to be happy from the get-go, but it made you happy whenever he placed his hands on your belly when you would tell him the baby kicked and then laid his head to try and see if he heard a heartbeat.

•You weren’t even sure how, but Sanzu surprised you the most when he said Mikey agreed to be the godfather. You never asked, so you assumed Sanzu asked when he announced it at work. The sentiment made you nervous and relieved at the same time, considering that Mikey didn’t seem mad… but that your child’s godfather was going to be the Manjiro Sano.

•It was the night where the two of you were in the shower, with you washing Sanzu’s hair while he massaged your sore breasts. “I promise not to fuck up too bad.” You couldn’t help but giggle, assuring him he’ll do just fine.

#ran haitani #rindou haitani #haruchiyo sanzu #ran x reader #rindou x reader #sanzu x reader #tokyo revengers #tokyo rev headcanons #request #rindou haitani smut #ran haitani smut #mobile upload

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chen-chen-chen-again-chen · 3 months

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Friends! Hello, hi, hola! It's Wednesday and I'm here! I am finally, after several ice ages, slowly dipping my toes back into the world of My Good Egg, Good morning, good night, good morning AKA the SnowBaz kidnapping meet ugly/cute that turned into a dumb horny rom com.

Here's a snippet from Chapter 4 that I am honestly not sure will make it into the finished fic, but it's fun! Some info redacted for spoilers (if you haven't read Chapter 3):

“Does Simon know things?” Crowley, does Simon know the way that Baz has been lusting after him? Or how Baz has been - mooning over him? Which is more embarrassing? “No, not necessarily. But he’s the easiest one for me to know, maybe because [REDACTED]. Like right now I know he’s still kind of hungry and he wishes we’d ordered more lime beef, and he’s worried you won’t want to have sex with him anymore because he used to be a disembodied chaos entity that was swallowing up all the magic in the world.” “That’s-” “I know you still want to have sex with him,” Winifred says, her gaze withering.

More musings about being back in this world behind the cut, but hello and thank you tags to folks who have tagged me in the past few weeks! (Months? Year?) @shemakesmeforget @ic3-que3n @bookish-bogwitch @nightimedreamersworld @j-nipper-95 @larkral @cutestkilla @aristocratic-otter @confused-bi-queer @imagineacoolusername @thewesterndoor

Y'all, past year has been... wild. It has been a journey. I looked back at this update post from October and then sort of laughed wildly, like, "Oh Baby Chen of the past, oh you sweet summer child."

But! I have finally been able to soften and ease myself back into this kind of writing. My Good Egg (as I call Good morning &c) has always been in the back of my mind, and I have felt so much shame and guilt about leaving that story hanging (see this post that feels like it was written in a different lifetime about why I don't usually post WIPs).

I facilitated a writers' circle yesterday and it was the most intensely fulfilling and joyful thing I have done in a very, very long time. And seeing the writers there, some of whom were sharing their work for the first time, being so fucking brave and honest and intimate and funny and revelatory and generous and so human, paying such loving attention to the world - it has helped me in this process of re-learning how to be brave with my own writing, again.

So here is a secret to tricking My Big Sad Brain. Instead of setting out with the goal "I am going to finish this fic," I am instead telling myself, "What if I just continue this process and see where it goes? What if I just try to get a little bit further than I was before? What if I just play with this silly little story, because it's fun and it gives me joy? What if I try to work out the questions through the story instead of trying to answer them?"

And that is helping, a lot. So as always a BIG THANK YOU to everyone who has touched this story in any way. Your kindness and lack of judgement and infinite patience is such a balm. I know that there are many who would say "You never need to finish it! Your health is more important!" or "Take as much time as you need!" And I am so, so grateful for that. I am so excited to share the rest of this story with you in the future.

Thank you. I love you all. ❤️❤️❤️

#wip wednesday!?#good morning good night good morning #my good egg #the EGF fic that never ends #mild spice?#like one chili?#process not perfection #is literally the name of the book i am reading on trauma recovery XD

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kushblazer666 · 26 days

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So my bratty children have grown up in an era in which it is a perfectly normal and everyday thing for ordinary families to have chopsticks available in the house.

They have no idea the absolute accomplishment it was to be sixteen and *proficient* with chopsticks when you took your annual school trip to an exotic location that was just the one Chinese restaurant in town.

Like, I was the shit, because I had lived in Europe and my parents had taken me fancy places and taught me fancy things like how to eat with sticks.

At home, though, we ate every meal with a fork and a knife like every decent middle class American family (excepting, presumably, actual families from places where chopsticks were a normal thing to eat with, but I didn't know anyone like that personally).

And the only thing approximating "Chinese" food that we had available on a regular basis was Cup of Soup ramen noodles (YES I KNOW RAMEN IS JAPANESE IT WAS THE 80s AND WE WERE ALL CLUELESS AND UNINTENTIONALLY RACIST (I'm so sorry, I do regret that in fact)).

Which noodles in a styrofoam cup we ate with a fork. Because DUH.

So, imagine my absolute let-down recently when I discovered the most amazing, innovative breakthrough. I had run out of clean forks, you see, and I was hungry, and there are Cup of Noodles (lime shrimp flavor, the best one - we didn't have fancy LIME flavor in our Cup of Noodles back in the day so "with shrimp" was the preferred style but you gotta move with the times and LIME is it, now) in the house, so I prepared myself a cup of noodles and then had to figure out how to eat them without washing a fork (oh, the humanity).

And my eyes landed on my big box of chopsticks.

And I realized.

OH MY GOD I COULD EAT MY CHILDHOOD COMFORT FOOD WITH CHOPSTICKS HOLY SHIT.

Needless to say, I was excited. So I set up my cup of noodles, let it steep in the boiling water for the required time, peeled back that limp, wet paper topping that you always eat some of in every serving no matter how hard you try to keep it out of the cup, and dug in with my chopsticks.

My son, who, as I've mentioned, is spoiled rotten, walked by at exactly that moment and I PROUDLY showed him my discovery. I held up the cup of noodles, held up the chopsticks, dug in and lifted noodles out of the cup, and said, "DID YOU KNOW YOU CAN EAT RAMEN NOODLES WITH CHOPSTICKS OH MY GOD"

He stood in my door for several moments, struck dumb with wonder, I'm sure.

And said:

"Mom. It's ramen. That's how you're SUPPOSED to eat them."

Then shook his head and continued down the hall to the kitchen. Presumably to eat MY food with that disrespectful mouth.

Anyway.

I feel old.

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morningberriesao3 · 9 months

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MWMD - Kiss My Lips

Steve Harrington X Virgin!Eddie Munson

Summary: It's the Fourth of July -- Steve and Eddie have a bit too much to drink, and have some fun playing party games.

Word Count: 4.4K

Chapter: 4 of 6 CHAPTER LIST

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Content Warnings: Explicit m/m sexual content including… Virgin Eddie Munson, Dry Humping, Coming Untouched, Coming in Pants, Minor Crossdressing (ahem, EDDIE WEARS A G-STRING), Oh no they’re both tops?! what will they do!!?!, Top Steve Harrington, Power Bottom Eddie Munson, Blow Jobs, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Nipple Clamps, Under-Negotiated Kink, Unsafe Sex, Creampie. Underage Drinking and Recreational Drug Use.

Tags: Eddie Munson lives, 5 + 1 Things, slow burn, POV Eddie Munson, Gay Eddie Munson, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Slow Burn, Sexual Tension, Caretaking, Massages, Sharing a Bed, House Party, Play Flighting, Bros Being Bros (JK it’s very homoerotic), Halloween, Boys in Makeup, Independence Day, New Years Eve, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending

Many Ways, Many Days, to Say ‘I Love You’

July 4th, 1986

Everyone’s a little drunk already.

By everyone, Eddie means the only adults the gang really knows. He’s brought along Gareth and Jeff, who are absolutely beside themselves that they get to hang out at King Steve’s house. Robin has brought Vickie as her definitely not date. Jonathan has brought Argyle who Eddie already considers one of his new favourite people. Or maybe his mortal enemy. He’s not sure.

Eddie half expects Steve to have some girl attached to his hip since he hasn’t exactly been getting lucky since all but moving into his trailer. It would be one of Steve’s only chances, seeing as his parents have gone on some fancy business trip for Fourth of July weekend and he’s offered his house as tribute for a (kind of sad) rager.

But there is no girl that Steve has invited, at least not yet, and Eddie is more than okay with that. This way, he won’t have to pretend not to be jealous. And he won’t have to think about Steve’s dick being inside whoever’s pussy the next time it’s pressed against his own in the middle of the night.

It’s the first time Eddie has been invited to one of Harrington’s parties, and he’d be lying if he said he isn’t a little bit excited about it. Maybe King Steve is falling from his throne, but Eddie seems to be climbing the ranks. Maybe they’ll eventually meet somewhere in the middle.

Steve is currently lining up shots on the edge of his fancy, built-in kitchen island while Robin watches over his shoulder.

“Ugh, I hate tequila,” Robin says, scrunching her nose while Steve gets the saltshaker.

“Then don’t drink any.” Steve slices a lime into halves, and then into quarters, and then into eighths. He scans a few faces, and then his gaze lands on none other than Eddie’s. “You’ll do some shots with me, won’t you, Eds?”

Eds. Eds.

He barks out a startled laugh that Gareth raises an eyebrow at. Eddie smacks him in the arm before joining Steve by the island. Drinking had never been Eddie’s thing, mostly because he can’t afford that and weed. But he’s at a Harrington house party. When in Rome and all that.

“How’s this work then?”

“You’ve never done a tequila shot before?”

“Of course I have, Harrington. I’m not fucking twelve.” Eddie scoffs. He’s lying. “I just can’t remember the order.”

“Lick, shoot, suck,” says Steve, pointing first to the salt, then to the shot glasses, then to the lime slices. “Lick the salt, shoot the tequila, suck the lime.”

“What do I lick the salt off of?” Eddie asks.

“That’s the fun part.” Steve takes the saltshaker in his hands. “You can be boring and lick it off your own hand. Or –” he peels his dumb, striped polo off from his shoulders. This time Eddie doesn’t even pretend to look away. He’s already had a few beers, “– you can do a body shot.”

Eddie stares at Steve’s bare chest, made of all muscle and hair and sun-kissed skin. He lets his gaze fall to Steve’s navel where – rhetorically – he’d be taking the shot from.

“I…” he makes a kind of choking sound, then clears his throat, “I never back down from a challenge?” It comes out as more of a question, but honestly, Eddie is just glad he’s able to form words.

Steve’s face splits into a crooked smirk. He cups his hand over his mouth and swiftly turns to face the living room where most people are loitering around. “BODY SHOTS!”

There are a few whoops that come from probably Argyle and Jeff (who’s clearly gotten comfortable with the other guests). And suddenly, they have an audience.

“Alright, Eds and I are going first, because I want to be the one to pop his tequila cherry –”

“I’ve had tequila before!”

“Yeah, okay, whatever, man. We’re going first because Eddie is an expert at tequila body shots –”

“You’re such a prick.”

“– and we have to teach all you losers how to do it properly. Capiche?”

Everyone is gathered around the kitchen now. And to Eddie’s surprise, Steve heads for the giant oak table in the dining room. He steps onto one of the matching chairs, and then plunks his ass down on the tabletop. Steve twists to his back, his head propped up with his hands, and a shit-eating grin plastered to his features like it’s now a permanent fixture of his face.

“Go ahead, Munson. Show them how it’s done.” Steve finally shuts up when he clamps down on the peel side of a slice of lime.

Fuck.

Eddie is making a fool of himself already, and he hasn’t even started… whatever this is.

Robin saves his ass. She grabs the tequila bottle and flings the cap into the unknown. “I hope you washed your belly button, dude,” she says before pouring the liquor into Steve’s navel. It overflows a bit, dripping down his ridiculously pronounced obliques. “Where do you want to lick the salt from?”

It takes a second for Eddie to realise that Robin is talking to him. “Is his cock an okay answer?”

Just kidding. Eddie doesn’t say that.

Instead, he says, “I don’t know. Wherever is the least hairy. It’s hard enough not to gag on tequila as it is,” like he hasn’t fantasized a million times about pressing his face, his nose, his tongue, into every enticing patch of Steve’s hair, from his head down to his fuzzy calves.

Steve rolls his eyes and points to the dip under his ribcage where the skin is relatively smooth, compared. Robin wastes no time sprinkling salt onto that area. And then Steve is prepped, and all eyes are on Eddie. He kind of wants to die, but if he was dead he wouldn’t be five seconds away from getting his tongue onto Steve fucking Harrington. So in conclusion, he’s actually very, very thankful to be alive.

Eddie eyes up Steve’s body, plotting the easiest plan of attack. He decides he might as well commit since he’s already entirely mortified, so he hikes himself up on the table so he’s straddling Harrington’s thighs. Everyone starts hooting and hollering. Nancy is giggling behind her palm while Argyle is slowly nodding with a joint tucked behind his ear. Robin’s hands smack over her eyes but she peeks out from between her fingers. Gareth nudges Jeff’s shoulder like they know something, so Eddie throws them daggers with his gaze.

It takes Eddie a second to steel himself, but soon he musters enough courage to bend himself over Steve, who immediately starts giggling when Eddie licks a fat stripe over his salty skin. As Steve laughs, tequila sloshes around on his abdomen. So Eddie presses his palms into Steve’s hips to still them. He might be imagining it, but it sounds like Steve sucks in a sharp breath.

Which really just encourages Eddie.

He buries his fingers into the flesh of Steve’s hips (because he might as well while he’s here) and tucks his head low to suck the bitter liquid from Steve’s navel. He dips his tongue in there, too – he just can’t help himself – which makes Steve squirm under his body. The button of his jeans rub against Eddie’s chin and it takes everything inside of himself not to nip at Steve’s skin and trail his mouth lower.

He knows that’s not really body shot etiquette even though this is the first ever body shot he’s ever done.

Finally, Eddie crawls up the length of Steve’s body and hovers his mouth over the slice of lime that’s still being held between Steve’s teeth. But he pauses, because Steve is staring straight into Eddie’s soul, with lidded eyes and pupils blown. Maybe it’s in Eddie’s head but it really looks like Steve is turned on, but no, that doesn’t make sense because Steve is straight, and Eddie is pretty sure he’s not a girl.

Well, he does have feminine features, like his long hair and his big eyes, and his full lips which are actually kind of an insecurity because his upper lip is bigger than his lower lip, and he always thought that was weird. But maybe that’s why Steve looks like this – like he’s about to drag Eddie up to his abandoned bedroom – because he’s drunk and Eddie kinda sorta looks like a girl.

Whatever. Eddie will take it.

He brackets his arms around Steve’s shoulders as he bends down to bite the wedge of lime from between Steve’s teeth. It’s really lodged in there, and Steve isn’t exactly making it easy to pry it from his mouth, so Eddie seals his lips into the pulp, trying to suck the juice back from right there, in Steve’s mouth. The lime bursts sour liquid that squirts into Eddie’s mouth and dribbles down Steve’s chin, and Eddie nearly chases that with his tongue too, but ultimately decides against it since he’s already pushed the limits enough.

“It’s so wrong, but I can’t look away.” Robin’s voice pries Eddie from his revery. He sits back up, spine rod straight, to shoot her a look and point a finger into her face.

“Can it, Buckley.”

“Yeah, Eddie, how come you’ve never sucked tequila from my stomach?” Gareth barks a laugh, but then the girl that Nancy brought with her – Eddie forgets her name, but it’s some chick that ran the school paper – turns to Eddie’s friend.

“I’ll do it.”

That wipes the grin straight from Gareth’s face, replaced by a healthy flush beneath his cheeks. The whole group is then in an uproar, pointing to each other, and laughing, and separating into pairs to do body shots of their own. Only then does Eddie remember that he’s straddling Steve when he feels him wiggle beneath his thighs.

“Um, Eddie?”

“Oh, shit.” Eddie clambers from the table ungracefully as ever, lucky to land on his feet. “Sorry. Sorry, Harrington.”

Steve sits up, wiping his mouth of lime juice with the back of his hand before giving Eddie a mischievous look. “All good, man. Let’s get some more drinks.”

Steve grabs Eddie’s hand (like, he actually holds it for a minute, like he did in the hospital all those months ago) as he drags him to the counter with all the liquor. And there they do shot after shot until Eddie can’t down anymore without gagging it back up. But he does crack open a beer, and so does Steve, and they head to the living room while everyone else is screaming when Nancy sucks a shot of tequila from Robin’s navel.

Vickie looks a bit jealous, but Eddie averts his gaze before he can read too much into it.

“Holy shit,” Steve says, falling into the plush cushions of his parents’ couch. “I’m so drunk. I haven’t been this drunk in… forever.”

It’s not hard to believe, because Steve is slurring his words and each time he blinks his eyes it seems like it takes all of his energy to open them again. The room is spinning a bit, and Eddie realizes that he, too, is way more drunk than he’d been in a while.

“Same. But you know what would make it even better?” He pulls a joint from his crumby pocket and waggles his brows at Steve.

“Oh, man.” Steve slings his arm around Eddie’s shoulders. “I knew there was a reason I love you.”

Eddie tries not to think too hard about that, and instead drags Steve up off the couch and out the door that leads to his pool. He digs around in his pocket until he finds a fluorescent orange lighter, and then he sparks it up.

The first drag burns deep, calming the excited, jittery nerves that he’s had all evening for some reason (his crush on Steve). He takes one more, then hands the spliff off. Steve takes a hit and lets his head loll backwards on his shoulders as he hums a noise of approval.

“Fuucckk,” he moans, making the little hairs on the back of Eddie’s neck stand on end. It shouldn’t sound so damn pornographic, but it does. Eddie’s been fighting off a boner all evening and the noises that Harrington makes is what finally takes the cake. He wishes he could readjust his dick in his too-tight jeans without being obvious about it but alas, he cannot. So he just lets his cock fill out as he breathes through it, and hopes that Steve doesn’t let his gaze fall below Eddie’s belt.

“You make it sound like that joint is better than sex, Harrington.”

“Yeah, well it might be.” Steve opens his eyes as he takes another puff and then hands it over to Eddie. “Not that I can remember, it’s been so long since I’ve gotten any.”

Eddie snorts and averts his gaze, sucking back on the roach in his fingers.

“What about you?”

Eddie looks back at Steve. “What about me?”

“When’s the last time you fucked someone?” Steve asks, unabashed. “Or, I don’t know. Got fucked by someone.”

Blood rushes around Eddie’s body, not sure if it wants to settle in his ears, or his cheeks, or his dick. But there seems to be plenty of it, because all three are getting a fresh supply. “Oh. I – uh. It’s been – you know. A while.”

Ever?

“Uhuh.” Steve nods. “So, when was it?”

“C’mon, man.” Eddie laughs nervously, snubbing out the joint on Harrington’s parents’ landing. “I haven’t – I mean. It’s been, a reeeaally long time for me.”

Twenty years.

Steve narrows his eyes, catching onto something Eddie isn’t sure he really wants him to. “Are you saying you’re like… a virgin?”

“No!” Eddie lies, crossing his arms defensively. He huffs out an embarrassed breath. “Well, maybe? When you’re gay, virginity isn’t exactly as black and white –”

He cuts himself off.

He just said that, in real words, out loud, in English. He just said he’s gay. And he also kind of admitted he’s a virgin, and Eddie doesn’t know which is worse. Maybe Steve is too drunk to realise? But no, he’s not, Steve still has his general wits about him and he’s looking at Eddie with such an intensity that Eddie feels like he’s about to get punched. Or maybe kissed?

Probably the former.

Steve doesn’t do either. He doesn’t even dwell on the elephant in the room. He just says, “Huh. So what have you done?”

Eddie feels the tension in his shoulders relax a bit. Maybe he’s okay, but it’s better safe than sorry. He tells himself that he’ll keep his words genderless, so he doesn’t out himself by accident a second time.

“I don’t know. A handjob here, a blowjob there.” The second thing is another lie, but admitting he’s only had one handjob seems more embarrassing than just being a virgin, period. He shrugs. “Believe it or not, when you’re a threepeat senior, and the Dungeon Master of a D&D club, you’re not exactly swimming in opportunities, Steve.”

Steve takes a step towards Eddie, which just makes Eddie believe that he really mustn’t have heard the gay thing. Because why would he be crowding his face into Eddie’s like this? Why would he be getting so damn close if he knew Eddie was into dudes?

“You’re a good-looking guy,” Steve says, cocking his head to one side and letting his gaze slowly trail down Eddie’s body like he’s appraising him for value. “Maybe you’re just not searching hard enough?”

Eddie makes a noise, something like a squeak, or a hiccup. He’s about to say something – anything – but before he can form words, Robin comes rushing out from the sliding doors. “We’re playing spin the bottle! Come on, it’s gonna be so fun.”

“Yeah, coming, Rob.” Steve takes a step away from Eddie. Smiles. “Maybe we’ll be able to get some action now. Let’s go.”

Eddie hopes that his blush isn’t all that visible, but he knows with his white-ass skin he’ll be stained up with splashes of pink watercolour. He kind of wants to sit this one out, because he’s sure that nobody wants to kiss The Freak of Hawkins High (even if they are all friends now).

He’s never once wished in his life to kiss Gareth or Jeff, but here he is, hoping that when he spins, the bottle will at least land on one of them to spare himself having to see the disgust in someone else’s face.

Everyone inside is already forming themselves into a loose circle. There’s enough space for Eddie and Steve to cram themselves between Argyle and Nancy. There’s an empty brown bottle in the middle that Robin is immediately taking hold of. “It was my idea, so I get to go first! And no copouts. Whoever it lands on, it lands on.”

She gives the bottle a good crank, and it ominously spins and spins, and eventually slows. The neck is pointing towards Jeff, who blushes, and Eddie feels a little bad for him because he definitely doesn’t know Robin is queerer than a three-dollar bill. He has a feeling he’ll be hearing Jeff talk about the pretty girl from the party for the next couple of months until he realises for himself that nothing is going to happen.

Robin grins and leans forward on her knees. Jeff meets her halfway. They smack a quick but playful kiss against each other’s lips right in the centre of the circle, and everyone cheers. Eddie catches himself grinning, too.

Jeff smiles his dopey little smile that Eddie kind of loves (but he’d never admit to it), and he grabs hold of the bottle next. It spins, and lands on Gareth. Eddie finds himself laughing aloud, clapping his hands together and chanting some sarcastically encouraging words.

Gareth grabs Jeffs cheeks and smooshes them together, and then plants a fat kiss to his forcefully puckered lips. Everyone in the circle laughs. “I know, I know,” says Gareth. “Here to rock everyone’s world.”

Eddie is still very much drunk, so he says, “Yeah? Make sure it lands on me and share some of that sugar.” He’s never said anything like that in his life, and as soon as he hears himself, he cringes. Beside him, Steve kind of furrows his brows and shifts around.

Maybe he is a little bit uncomfortable with gay things.

The whole circle is giggling when Gareth spins the bottle. It doesn’t land on Eddie, but the girl from earlier. Gareth looks all flustered again, and Eddie feels soft for a minute. He hopes that maybe something could come out of all this. It’s about time that one of them gets to start having sex.

The girl leans forward first. Gareth crawls on his knees and lets her press her lips into his. It’s a softer kiss than all the others – Robin and Nance coo while Eddie makes a dramatic gagging sound.

“Shut up, man!” Gareth tosses his empty beer can at Eddie’s head. The girl laughs and spins the bottle. It lands back on Gareth. The room erupts in cheers when they go in for their second kiss. It’s more confident that the first and Eddie feels like he’s witnessing something a little bit too personal. Gareth goes next, and it lands on Steve. “Pucker up, your highness.”

Eddie isn’t sure what he expects. Maybe for Steve to cringe or look mildly horrified. But he’s grinning a genuine grin, all crooked and happy like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Eddie is also ferociously jealous. Even though he knows both Gareth and Steve are straight.

Steve grabs Gareth’s head and smacks an aggressive but quick kiss to his lips. Gareth fakes a shudder. “C’mon, man,” Steve says. “Tell me that didn’t make you want to cream your pants.”

“That didn’t make me want to cream my pants.” Gareth rolls his eyes. “Guess I’m immune to the Harrington charm.”

“What a shame. Hopefully whoever it lands on actually wants a piece of this.”

“I’m pretty sure nobody here wants you, Steve,” says Robin. Steve sticks his tongue out at her, and she does it right back.

Eddie almost says that she couldn’t be more wrong, but he’s sober enough to keep his lips sealed.

Steve reaches down, grabs the neck of the bottle, cranks it to the side. It spins and it spins, and by some divine intervention or maybe some cosmic joke, it lands on Eddie.

His ears are ringing, but it’s not quite enough to drown out Robin’s laughing. “Part two to the show we got earlier!”

“Yeah, come on! Lay one on him!” says Gareth. Eddie whips his head to the side, hopefully looking at him with a menacing warning, but something tells him the only thing in his eyes is fear and want.

Eddie barely has time to think, let alone form a witty response, before Steve is grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and yanking him towards him. “Pucker up, baby.”

There are a few things that go through Eddie’s head in that moment.

First: Steve just called Eddie baby, and as one might guess, it definitely makes his dick jump in his pants. He’s embarrassed by how often that happens now, but there’s only so much he can do about it. And if Steve insists on always being so frustratingly sexy, it’s just something Eddie is going to have to get used to.

Second: That look is back in Steve’s eyes. The one that makes Eddie think he might actually want to be kissing him, like Steve’s glad that the bottle pointed towards him. Half-lidded gaze focused on Eddie’s lips, meanwhile his own tongue is wetting his, and fuck –

Third: Steve is kissing him. But it’s not like all of the other kisses of the evening, Eddie would like to point out. No, this one is very different. Because it’s lasting a lot longer than a second or two. It’s lasting – God – it’s lasting forever, and Eddie is vaguely aware that people are cheering. And then – Eddie shits you not – Steve’s lips part and Eddie just follows along, because what else is he supposed to do? So now their lips are slotted and moving together and Steve’s tongue fucking rubs against Eddie’s lower lip.

This is when Eddie realises he’s been holding his breath, so he pulls away from Steve out of instinct for air, not because he wants it to stop, and then everything kind of zeros back into reality that he’s at a party and he’s definitely trying to turn what’s supposed to be an innocent game of spin the bottle into a full-on make out session with Steve fucking Harrington. So instead of leaning back in to continue like he wants to, he just shakes his head and clears his throat, and says, “Jesus,” because it seems like an appropriate response.

“Wow.” Robin’s eyes are big, staring at Eddie and Steve with a sidelong gaze like she’s embarrassed for them. “That definitely bumped up this game from general audience.”

The whole circle laughs, and Eddie blushes, and he very pointedly does not look at Steve before he takes his turn. It lands on Nancy, and it’s a little weird to kiss her but it’s definitely not like the kiss he and Steve just shared. But he can see Steve staring from his peripheral vision and he battles everything in himself to look back because he knows he won’t be able to look Steve in the eye and not at his mouth.

The game continues for another fifteen minutes before people start getting up to refresh their drinks, and others get bored, and it just naturally fizzles out.

Eddie keeps sitting cross-legged on the floor next to Steve, who’s in some heated discussion with Jeff about six versus eight cylinder motors that Eddie knows absolutely nothing about. He toys with his empty can of beer, until there’s a hand on his knee.

It’s Steve’s.

“Can I get you another drink, man?” he asks, and Eddie just nods. Steve takes his empty can and brings him a fresh one, and Eddie decides that it’ll be the last drink of the night because his mind has been plotting about how to get Steve to kiss him again, which is a pretty good sign that he needs to stop.

The party wraps up at about one in the morning. Some people take cabs, others ride their bikes, some parents even come to pick up their children.

Eddie stays, because why wouldn’t he?

He and Steve half clean up, throwing the empty cans and bottles into bags, tossing the cardboard pizza boxes into the recycling after wrapping the leftovers and putting them in the fridge.

When it’s time for bed, Eddie eyes the spare rooms in the hall and wonders if that’s where he’s supposed to go, but Steve speaks up before he has a chance to dwell too long. “C’mon, man. My room is this one.”

Eddie follows Steve into his room, and watches as Steve strips down to his boxers. It shouldn’t be weirder than it normally is, but Eddie is very aware that this is an entirely different situation because at his trailer, his bed is the only option. Here, though, there are several, and Steve is still inviting Eddie to sleep next to him like it’s the only thing that makes sense, when really he’s having a whole internal crisis about it.

But Eddie tries not to think about it too hard, even though it’s kind of too late, and he undressed and follows Steve into his giant bed. Steve scootches closer and slots their legs together while they’re still awake. And fuck, they both have semis. Eddie feels like he wants to unpack that a bit, but instead he tells himself not to overthink it.

By the time Steve is sleeping, Eddie is leaking in his boxers, and he condemns himself for doing this but he really has no choice. He goes to Steve’s attached bathroom and he rubs one out, he comes to the thought of Steve’s lips and his tongue and his half-hard cock that he felt on his thigh. He comes hard, and he tries to aim it for the toilet, but it flies everywhere. So he spends a few minutes cleaning up after himself, ashamed. Satiated.

He crawls back into bed with Steve and hisses a bit when Steve’s thigh slots between his and rubs against his over-sensitive dick.

And maybe Eddie’s imagining it, he probably is, but it sounds like Steve huffs out a small laugh.

He really hopes he’s imagining it.

NEXT CHAPTER

MASTERLIST

SOCIALS

111 notes · View notes

randoimago · 2 months

Note

happy valentines! PLEASE ‘This is my best pickup lime…’ would be freaking hilarious with Ryuji! I was thinking Yosuke first but I def think Ryuji fits better lmaoooooo

Fandom: Persona 5

Character(s): Ryuji Sakamoto

Note(s): Yosuke and Ryuji do feel pretty similar in ways, but I do have my bias for Ryuji so I'm happy to write for him being a dork~

Ryuji

He thought this was stupid. He thought it was so incredibly stupid. But Joker and Mishima told him to go for it. So he sighs as he buys a lime from the supermarket, not even knowing what he's going to do with it afterwards. Maybe if things go badly then he'll just torture himself with eating it.

Ryuji sees you and forces a smile onto his face as he tries to calm down. His face is already red from embarrassment because he knows this is unbelievably cheesy and he turns around and watches Joker and Mishima giving him thumbs up from where they're hiding and Ryuji sighs and turns back to you.

You greet him, give him a smile that is way too cute for his heart to take and he takes a deep breath before showing you the lime that he had in his backpack. He stares at the fruit and sighs before looking to your curious face.

"This is my best pickup lime…" he says, trailing off and knowing that he probably looks like an idiot. There's a moment of silence and he's about to just laugh it off, but then he hears you starting to giggle about his dumb joke. His heart feels lighter and he smiles at you as you tell him the line was silly. He just shrugs and asks you if it worked.

"Well, I'm not sour about the pick up line. I actually thought it was pretty sweet," you say and he chuckles and shakes his head. But he has to admit that this is a very sweet outcome.

#Anonymous #persona 5 x reader #ryuji sakamoto x reader #ryuji x reader

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starbabyg · 6 months

Text

Surprise | Braden Schneider Instagram edit

Y/n and Braden have a surprise for the fans <3

⊹˚. ♡.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⊹˚. ♡.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⊹˚. ♡.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⊹˚.

liked by reavo7five, jacobtrouba, and 103,527 others

yourusername: hey, hey, hey daddy c;

kandre.miller: 🤞🏽🤞🏽🤞🏽🤍

reavo7five: woahhh guys. a lil too much PDA ☝🏽

user1: couple of cuties ❤️❤️

jacobtrouba: There’s only one daddy and that’s Daddy Troub 👨‍👧‍👦🫃🏼

— reply to jacobtrouba bradenschneider: That emoji tho??

—— reply to bradenschneider jacobtrouba: Shhh baby Troubs 🫃🏼👨🏼‍🍼👨🏼‍🍼

₊✮⸜ ༘⋆

“Just get in!” Braden shooed y/n into the old timey Photo Booth. He followed in after her, having to squish in due to the small space. Y/n shuffled a bit and ended up on Braden’s lap.

“Jesus I can’t even see how I look,” y/n whined, looking into the lense of the camera. It was a straightforward Photo Booth with no screen to show how the pictures would come out. Vintage and a bit decrepit. Braden argued that the old thing had charm though.

“Oh stop it, you look fucking amazing,” Braden squeezed her cheek and went in for a kiss. The couple laughed in between each peck, high off of happiness. “This is the happiest day of my life don’t ruin it by saying dumb things like that.” He smiled at her, y/n truly was the love of his life.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹

liked by kandre.miller, reavo7five, and 226,934 others

bradenschneider: mom and dad 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨💞

yourusername: you look so yummy here 😋

kandre.miller: my parents look so good in this 😌🤞🏽

reavo7five: babies are all grown up 🥹🥲 miss y’all!!

—reply to reavo7five bradenschneider: miss you too bro, gotta come down and visit us!

—reply to reavo7five yourusername: I miss you the mostest Ry!! 🫶🏽🫶🏽

user2: Mom and dad?? Hold on 🧐

—reply to user2 user3: No cause I noticed that too o.O

—reply to user2 user4: you don’t think…

—reply to user2 user5: It’s all making sense from y/n’s post now this! 😶

jacobtrouba: BABY TROUBS!!! 🫃🏼

—reply to jacobtrouba bradenschneider: Hey grandpa 👴🏼

₊✮⸜ ༘⋆

Back again at the Photo Booth, Braden entered first, not wanting to squish y/n this time. She plopped herself on his lap, adjusting the bandana on her head.

“More pictures from the Photo Booth where I don’t know if I look good,” y/n joked. Although there wasn’t a mirror or screen to look at, she still did small touch ups as if there were one.

Braden started to put the coins in the coin slot, “Mhmm. We’re gonna start taking a picture here every month. Just to see how time moves by.” The Photo Booth started to make those familiar clicks which let you know it was time to get ready.

“Awe baby, you’re such a sentimentalist,” Y/n cooed as she placed a kiss on Braden’s cheek. She loves that about him, how much he cared about the little things. He always made the most of their time and memories.

“Well you bring it out of me,” Braden turned his face and brought her in for a kiss. And then another one. And another one. Y/n heard the clicks from the camera, knowing they only had one more picture left.

“Oh my gosh, we’re gonna ruin our photos cause you wanna make out!”

“Alright, alright. Let’s do a lil silly one just to make up for it,” Braden laughed as he got into his final pose.

“Im gonna look silly regardless cause you messed up my makeup!!” Y/n gasped realizing she was wearing lip product. She hid her face with a peace sign.

Soon the pictures came out of the photo slot, Braden grabbing the warm paper. He tapped it, smiling at the final product. “These came out perfect.”

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹

liked by nyrangers, nhl, and 462,758 others

bradenschneider: Surprise! 👶

kandre.miller: not really, I could tell from those weird concoctions of food y/n would be eating

—reply to kandre.miller yourusername: hey!! 😡 you said the Doritos and cottage cheese with lime tastes good!!

——reply to yourusername kandre.miller: errrr I lied bc lately you’ve been a little mean bookie. I understand now it’s just pregnancy wrath 🫣

nyrangers: Congratulations to the Schneider fam!! 🎉🎉🎊

—reply to nyrangers user1: it should’ve been me 😩😩

reavo7five: My lil dawg is all grown up now 🥲👶🏽

—reply to reavo7five bradenschneider: been bigger dawg wym 🧍🏻‍♂️

——reply to bradenschneider reavo7five: Two inches does not count allat much 🙄🙄

jacobtrouba: BABY TROUBA IS HAVING A BABY BABY TROUBA 🫃🏼🫃🏼

₊✮⸜ ༘⋆

“And one, two, three,” Braden counted as he held the camera up to his eye. You stayed in the exact pose he told you to, you had to translate his vision perfectly. Braden had bought a camera just to take pictures of the pregnancy journey. There was nothing he was more excited for than seeing his baby grow. Both you and the actual literal baby inside of you. He got up and showed you the photo he had just taken.

“Oh my gosh, Braden,” you gasped happily, “the picture came out perfect. You really have an eye for photography.” You we’re so proud of him. I’m everything he does he just excels. His hockey career was flourishing. Obviously he was amazing at his new hobby. There was no doubt in your mind that he would be the perfect father.

“Yeah, if I don’t make it to the big leagues in hockey I can always just be a photographer huh,” he joked. But his eyes never left the picture that was displayed on the screen. He could never explain how he felt in words, but it felt like his heart was glowing and radiating. Just pure joy.

“You can give your resignation today when you post that picture on Instagram, tell ‘em you’re done and you wanna take photos of pregnant ladies all day,” you joked back, now laying back on the bed because carrying a baby in your stomach all day was tiring.

Braden’s head whipped back at you, “You mean… I can actually post it? Let everyone know now?” He was like a big ol’ kid who could finally let out a secret.

“Yes, Braden, you can. Besides, they’re gonna start suspecting something when I come to the games. I’d rather them know I’m pregnant than think I’m sneaking snacks into the arena.”

#braden schneider #braden schneider imagine #Braden schneider edit #Braden schneider Instagram edit #Braden schneider fic #Braden schneider one shot #starbabyg #hockey fic #hockey imagine #nhl imagine #starbabyg masterlist

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muselixer · 12 days

Text

dumb things my friends and I have said: 2024!

part one: january - march apologies ahead of time for length! feel free to change pronouns if need be. warning for foul and dirty language, suggestiveness, and capslock-implied yelling :)

"I think [hometown] dirt would taste better than the dirt here because it contains a level of lead I've grown used to."

"Incorrect. I am not a mother fucker. I have never fucked a mother."

"Your authoritarianism is quite insatiable."

"He absolutely pulls his limbs off for funsies."

"There's a Pope in the road again!"

"Get a tramp stamp that says 'this is no place for a horse'."

"Have you perhaps considered experiencing natural sunlight? No I'm genuinely asking."

"Everybody wants to see Santa's cock and balls!"

"I think calling physical food in front of you "cuisine" is incorrect."

"Hey Google, unshit my jorts."

"DON'T MAKE ME WHIP OUT MY VAGINA HOLE."

"Ayo, what them balls do, king?"

"It goes hard in a hard way."

"THIS DUDE FARPIN' FOR TWENTY DOLLARS."

"I'll be there in Sprite."

"Get all this Jesus outta the way so I can eat my dinner!"

"With my luck, it could be raining titties, and I'd still look up and catch a dick."

"You must be smoking chicken fried dick if you think I give a chicken fried fuck."

"It is ready for gripping at all times. ...That's what she said!"

"I want that fucking twink in a blender."

"Aw hell nah, they used my boy as a plot device!"

"I meant, as to the condition of the Italian."

"Gimme some of that peepee in the mouth."

"Tell her that her son is cringe."

"A scallop is like a brother to me."

"I blame your astigmatism on your brother."

"She got a cooch like Grand Central Station."

"I BET YOUR PICKLES AREN'T EVEN CRISP."

"Yes, I am a little stupid. It's part of my charm."

"There's a specific kind of white boy that I would... you know."

"Man, don't do this to me. I'm gonna get sads in my ramen."

"Wow, okay, orphan. Who killed YOUR dad?"

"Hell yeah, let me power that rock, daddy."

"Keep sniffing me and I'll peg you."

"I'd get MY interior designed, if you know what I'm saying."

"I think I just get possessed by Chad the frat guy."

"He's what the color lime smells like."

"Can't hear you. Too busy barking."

"...I didn't wanna have to be homophobic today."

"Yehowdy, y'all should vote for me, Mayor Weenis."

"One man complained about the viagra commercial because he was having sex for five hours straight."

"I was busy fighting math."

"I am like a horse. I will not elaborate."

"PICK UP YOUR TITTIES BY YOUR BRA STRAPS."

"Sometimes I hate you and your stupid nipples."

"We have to do super-blow in the hospital."

"The highway to Hell has guard rails!"

#sentence starters #rp starters #ask meme #rp meme #rp prompts #(( this is almost two weeks late!! sorry!! bye!! ))

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mangoshorthand · 1 year

Text

No Hard Feelings- [Five Hargreeves x F Reader]. Ch7

Note: this chapter was added as part of a major edit/extension of this fic which is why it's being posted now and out of order. SUMMARY: You're Five's latest assassination target, but things don't go to plan and now he wants you as his fuckbuddy. Funny how what we want and what we need are rarely in line. (Aged up Five because things get smutty...obviously.) Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Chapter Five- Chapter Six - Chapter Seven - Chapter Eight - Chapter Nine - Chapter Ten - Chapter Eleven - Chapter Twelve

Having stormed out of your apartment, Five's getting fifteen flavors of fucked up.

GIF by thisgameissonintendo

Chapter Seven: Scars

Now he knows why Lila’s been acting like more of a prick than usual lately. Since not murdering her is essential to maintaining his position as Santi's favorite uncle, he decides against doing his drinking at home. Instead, he sucks his final lime with his elbows on the bar before dropping the shot glass on the tray beside the other five. Tequila is an efficient delivery system, and the ritual of salt, tequila and then lime always appeals to him.

“Jesus, son. Another bad day?”

“What?” he snaps, head whipping in the direction of the voice like a bated dog on the brink of biting.

“Woah,” says the old man, one hand held up in surrender, “just saying hi. We talked in here a few weeks ago, remember? You bought me a drink. Just repaying the favor.”

As Five looks at him from under lowered brows, the guy places another tequila slammer in front of him.

“Oh,” Five says, recognizing him and nodding, “Thanks, but I’m not in the mood to socialize.”

The guy, clearly drunker than Five is, (and nowhere near as drunk as Five intends to get), seems to brush off the rebuff.

“Name’s Geoff. What’s eatin you…?” the question tapers off expectantly.

“Five”, he supplies, reluctantly.

“Like th-”

“Like the number, yes,” Five snaps, irritated by the predictability.

Geoff, undeterred by his obviously forbidding attitude, sits down next to him.

“Sure. Five. Is it still chick stuff and job stuff?”

Five chuckles darkly. Drunk as it was like six shots from a revolver, the tequila’s permeating his brain extremely quickly. He finds that Geoff isn’t as annoying as he might have initially expected.

“Just chick stuff now.”

Geoff makes a sympathetic noise as if he knows the situation of old.

“You in a fight with your girl?”

“No,” he says, “she’s not my girl. That’s kinda the point.”

Geoff looks his confusion and Five explains.

“I’m seeing her casually but she’s getting clingy.”

“Treating her mean to keep her keen, huh?”

“No.” Five said, raising his new glass briefly to Geoff before downing the shot. When he surfaces, wincing slightly, he says:

“She knows the deal. It’s casual or nothing, but she’s sticking her goddamn nose in my past.”

He’s becoming effusive, the liquid sounds in his words starting to drag and hand gestures becoming more pronounced than usual.

“What gives her the right to…to psychoanalyze me? To pathologize the only good thing I had- she has no idea what I’ve been through.”

“Sounds tough, son,” Geoff says, only understanding part of this, “she sounds like my ex-wife. Everything’s always ‘oh, you have a transactional understanding of relationships’, ‘you aren’t attuned to my emotional needs’ or some dumb shit like that.”

“Exactly!” Five says, pointing at Geoff, “she doesn’t know my goddamn shitass life. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t understand. All we had was each other for over forty years. You don’t just forget that.”

“Exactly!” Geoff repeats, not really listening, “my ex could never understand that I’m not a mind-reader.”

The two men talk over each other:

“-You don’t just throw it away because it wasn’t normal or whatever.” Five says, tipping the shot glass again in the hope of a final drop of tequila. “She was the fuckin’ love of my life. She saved me. She was there when nobody else was and I don’t regret a single minute of it. So fuck her.”

“...just expected me to magically know when the housework needed doing. Here’s the thing, Karen: I don’t know if you don’t tell me.”

“-she doesn’t get to judge us. She doesn’t get to call her a fuckdoll just because she wants me to be her emotional support animal. Dolores was twice the woman she is-”

“...and maybe,” Geoff rants, “if she’d put out now and again I might not have got all that credit-card debt spending money on cam girls.”

“Looking up at me with those goddamn puppy-dog eyes and she thinks she can…she thinks she can make that all go away? Like it never mattered?”

They both stop talking at the same time, both of them having caught up with some of the contents of what the other said. There’s a brief moment in which they look at each other, confused.

“Well…thanks for the shot,” Five said, not wanting to hear any more about Geoff’s cam-girl debt.

“No problem.” says Geoff, clearly deciding that the mental wherewithal to unpack how such a young man could have had a 40 year relationship with a sex doll is beyond him, “bye then.”

He decamps quickly, not looking back.

After the brief interruption, Five turns his attention back to the task at hand: getting fifteen flavors of fucked up.

“Hey- you,” he says to the bartender, “will you do me a double tequila and ginger ale?”

The bartender looks over at Five and the several empty shot glasses in front of him. “I think you’ve had enough. Your ID says you’re over twenty-one, and that’s fine, but I’m not serving you any more.You’re gonna end up having your stomach pumped at this rate.” Five tries to summon the wit needed to persuade the guy, but finds it’s missing after the sudden influx of alcohol to his brain. “Ah…well fuck you.”

He blinks with surprising accuracy given the booze and emerges, swaying, behind the bartender. He grabs an opened bottle of scotch and gives him the finger before disappearing again.

Out on the street, he shivers in the sudden blast of chilly December air. Drinking out in the open isn’t exactly a problem for him: it’s where he’s done most of the drinking in his life. In the apocalypse, drinking alcohol was a rare godsend. It represented brief moments of respite: a break from obsessive reading, calculation and fight for survival. Alcohol even gave him sweet, dreamless sleep: something he learned to value above almost anything else.

And throughout it all, she’d been there. His angel, his saving grace: Dolores. She’d been there when he was thirty and sure he was going to die of an infection, she’d been there when he was forty-two and had the most severe of his nervous breakdowns. She’d been there through the good and the bad, and she’d borne it all with her Mona Lisa smile.

He takes off his tie and undoes a couple of shirt buttons as he walks, not knowing where he’s walking to. He’d clung to her; a lifebuoy in stormy oceans In return, she’d kept him afloat. Their love was a deep-rooted thing and, in itself, terrifying. In his fractured, beleaguered brain, she spread and clung, filling the gulfs, digging into the sinew and creating new, if diseased, pathways. His love for her was so essential to his sanity, so entwined in the basest part of his brain, that there was a time he thought she could never be extracted, even if he wanted her to.

At random, he turned down a sidestreet and then down the sort of alleyway he envisioned Klaus inhabiting during the worst of his addiction With numb hands, he twisted the lid off the whisky and took a long swing, smacking his lips appreciatively.

He left her behind when he first got back because he felt himself come full circle: once again, he was a young boy in a strange world. He felt their lifetime together could end poetically...and she had always appreciated poetry. Leaving her behind in the department store had attractive symmetry: her back with her friends and him back with his family…but he’d anticipated visits. He hadn’t imagined skipping between timelines, encountering more apocalypses and ending up somewhere similar but entirely different, where that department store didn’t even exist.

He lowers the whisky bottle and slides down the wall, back leaned up against it and legs splayed in front of him.

Dolores didn’t even speak in his head anymore.

Before, when he was apart from her, he had a direct line to her consciousness. The part of his mind reserved for her could communicate easily with the rest of him. When they were together, he liked to talk to her out loud, but he didn’t really need to: they could have entire conversations without either of them needing to speak a word. She simply wasn’t there now: at some point in the last six years of contact with other people, she’d faded into nothing.

He raises the bottle to his lips, inhales the smoky, molasses smell and relishes in the precious oblivion it promises.

An improvised fuckdoll. A fuckdoll, you called her?

His teeth work furiously at his lower lip.

“Fucking bitch,” he murmurs, inbetween deep gulps of whisky.

“Please! S’still Thursday.”

You awake suddenly, eyes wide. It’s him. He’s outside in the hall, knocking loudly and insistently.

“Please….please,” he begs, “c’mon…it’s Thursday for like ten more minutes.”

Cautiously, you get to your feet, grabbing your robe from the back of your bedroom door, wrapping it tightly around yourself and creeping out into the hall. You can hear him moving around in the hall: his heavy movement sliding against your door.

“Please. I’m sorry. Pleeeaase.”

He doesn’t sound like himself.

Briefly, you consider just ignoring him. You could pretend you never heard him and wait for him to leave. You waver on the cusp of indecision.

Voice shaking, you call out, “Go away, Five.”

“Please…I won’t blink in but please… oh shit, I couldn’t blink in. But please, talk to m-” he cuts himself off with a dry heave.

Maybe it’s his increasing volume, maybe it’s the thought of what your neighbors will think, after this racket at ten to twelve, only for the whole hallway to smell of puke in the morning. Whatever it is, you open the door.

He all but falls through it, catching his balance at the last minute and stepping slightly back into the hallway, waiting to be formally admitted.

“m’sorry”

He looks entirely and absolutely awful.

“Can you shut the fuck up?” you hiss, sticking your head out and taking a furtive look down the hall.

He sways, following your gaze as if expecting to see onlookers gathered. If his hair was mussed before, now it’s a disaster; some sticks up at odd angles and yet more is plastered to his face. His tie, waistcoat and left shoe are gone. His shirt is untucked and unbuttoned to just above his nipples. His face, though still handsome, looks slack, his eyes unfocused. He holds a bottle of scotch by the neck with less than a finger’s width left in the bottom.

“Shit.” you mutter, under your breath.

He smells so strongly of the whisky that it hangs in a miasma around him.

“I need to pee,” he says, like a kid in school. You regard him for just one more moment before standing aside with an angry exhale, now just happy to get him off your doorstep. Better he be in here embarrassing himself than being out there embarrassing you.

“Thank you,” he says. He stops a second, facing you in the doorway. His eyes are bloodshot:

“Your eyes are a lot like hers, you know.”

You’re not sure what to do with this information.

“How much have you had to drink?” you ask, worried, as he crosses the threshold, “have you drunk that whole bottle?”

“Nah. It was only…only half…maybe three quarters full. I only had that and some tequila.”

His words blur together.

“How much tequila?”

He steps past you. At his first attempt he walks into the bathroom door frame, making it through on the rebound. You hear him urinate, muttering incoherently under his breath.

“How much tequila have you had?” you ask, raising your voice to follow him through the bathroom door.

“Only two shots…or maybe like, six?”

“In…” you check the time incredulously, “under two hours?”

“M’fine.” he says, sounding more his age than usual: every inch the gruff old man.

Rolling your eyes, you go as if to wait for him on the couch, but then you hear a crash, a short yell and more retching.

“Five?”

Yet more retching is the only response.

“Okay, I’m coming in.”

You push the door, still ajar, and find him kneeling with his head in the toilet bowl with vomit splattered on the cistern and toilet seat. He can barely draw breath in between bouts of vomiting. His whole body heaves with the force of the mostly-liquid mush surging out of him.

You hover, unsure what to do. Him vomiting is probably good, right? Listening to his pained groans is difficult. As much as he terrified you tonight, hearing him in real discomfort tugs at you. Your hand hovers for a moment as you consider laying it comfortingly between his shoulder blades, but something stops you.

When, at last, he subsides into watery gasps, you lean and flush the toilet.

“God…I’m so sorry.”

He falls back onto his heels. One hand still holds the bottle, standing upright on your bathroom floor. He looks up at you, chin caked in puke. The mixed smells of scotch, piss and bile are disgusting. You shake your head.

“Take off your clothes.”

He giggles drunkenly.

“This is hardly the time!”

“Shut up and get in the shower.”

He laughs again and stands up, swaying. You catch his bicep and steady him.

“Whoops” he says, steadying himself with difficulty, “thank you m’dear.”

He’s being ironic, but the use of this endearment makes you frown.

He manages his shirt and shoe alone, but needs to put a hand on your shoulder for balance to remove his trousers and underwear.

You turn on the shower for him and help him take the wobbly step over the side of your bathtub.

“Shampoo is next to you. Make sure you wash everything. You stink.”

“Yessirrr,” he slurs.

You draw the curtain and kick his clothes to one side. With a sigh, you turn to the cupboard beneath the sink and dig out your cleaning stuff: the heavy-duty antibacterial variety. You clean the floor and the toilet, trying not to puke yourself at the smell. As you work, you can hear Five stumbling in the shower.

What the fuck are you doing here? Here you are, cleaning the vomit of a man who screamed in your face today, someone who you had not-unreasonable worries could murder you if he chose. A man who trashed your apartment, who treated you like shit, who never even held you after he fucked and degraded you.

A small clatter and a whisper.

“Shit.”

He’s dropped the shampoo. Not wanting him to attempt to bend over, make his head spin and vomit again, you remove one of your latex gloves and lean over the bath to pass it to him.

“Th-nks.” he slurs, face and hair covered in suds.

He tries to take it off you, but his reactions are too shoddy, especially with the addition of soap on his hands, and he drops it again with an identical clatter.

“Shit,” he says, again, as if faced with an impenetrable problem.

“Just leave it.” you say, firmly, “you got plenty on you.”

“Yeah, okay,” he replies, sounding thankful that this insurmountable issue has been solved for him.

You finish up your cleaning and close the toilet lid, using it as a seat whilst you wait for him to finish in the shower. Once or twice, you’re sure you catch him sing-humming a couple of bars of Cher’s If I Could Turn Back Time. You certainly hadn't imagined any of this knelt on the floor with his gun to your head.

“You nearly there?” you ask, searching for a spare toothbrush.

“Yup.”

A few seconds later, the water shuts off and he opens the shower curtain. As he does so, he gives a small hand gesture as if to say ‘ta-da’. You can’t help but laugh at this with him standing there, looking so pathetic..

After getting him dried, his teeth cleaned and his underwear back on, you shepherd him into the living space and onto the couch. The water seems to have sobered him up slightly.

“I don’t deserve you.”

He tries to take your hand, but you avoid his touch, instead throwing the blanket over him.

“No, you don’t.”

He lies down. You put a full glass of water on the coffee table and a basin on the floor near his head, just in case. He looks up at you.

“She did…challenge me,” his eyes appeal, begging you to understand, “i-in the ways I could imagine.”

He takes a few sob-like breaths before continuing

“She kept me sane…more or less.”

You sit cross-legged in front of the couch.

“I know- I know how it sounds. But she was real. She made me...laugh. Y'know, take myself a little less seriously? She didn’t always agree with everything I said. She wasn’t some…Stepford wife.”

He turns his face into the couch cushion, his voice muffled now.

“She’d kill me if she knew what I did today.”

You wait. He’s not done and you can sense it.

“But the love was- is - real. The grief is real. I know what a shrink would say. I know that I projected my conscience onto an…an object. But I love her. I love her and I miss her every day. I felt like I could fuck you and not betray what we had, but I couldn’t hold another woman like I held her.”

You can’t help now but pity him. Your anger and resentment ebb away as you watch him, hiding his face in your couch. You know how much this cost him to say. For once he looks like the lost, lonely boy of so long ago.

“She sounds very special.”

“She was”

“And,” you hesitate, “I’m no shrink, but if she was ‘just’ part of you, then…isn’t that good?”

He can’t unpack this. Maybe it’s the drink, maybe not. You try to explain.

“She sounds sweet and loving and she stopped you going mad. And that…that’s all inside you . You and she did that together. You can’t lose her if she never fully left. It means you have all that love to share. The love you have for her and the love she had for you. If she was loving, then so are you.”

“You're getting a little ‘kumbaya’, don’t you think?” Then, as his characteristic cynicism fades, “Thanks.”

You stand up.

“I have work tomorrow. Sleep on your side just in case you puke again. I’d rather avoid having someone who looks like a teenager choking to death on my couch.”

“ ‘kay,” he mumbles, eyes already closing as he shifts, “she always said I drink too much.”

“She was right.”

Friday morning. You intend to let him sleep, but when you enter the living room he’s not there. The blanket is folded neatly on the couch, the bowl and water glass clean and drying on your draining board.

He’s cleaned up the glass from the vase and your destroyed TV is gone. In its place is a note:

New TV arrives tomorrow. Sorry again.

Masterpost

Alternatively, join me on A03. Here is a link to the whole series

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