siriuslywicked

[siriuslywicked]

The Interview (Chapter 1 of ongoing series When We’re Alone)

Best friend’s dad!Declan O’Hara, boss!Declan O’Hara x AFAB reader

Journalist Declan O’Hara is in need of a personal assistant as his Corinium career skyrockets, and his daughter Taggie has the perfect candidate: her best friend. What seemingly starts as a professional relationship soon snowballs into something both Declan and reader were never expecting and are no longer able to deny.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, (eventual) smut, cursing, age gap romance (reader is a few years older than Taggie), more warnings added per chapter

Word count: 3.1k

Author’s note: Hello! Long time reader, first time poster! Please be kind but also let me know what you think! Proof read but probs still some mistakes. Not entirely canon, Declan still works for Corinium, Maud has disappeared to god knows where and the rest, well, you’ll have to read to find out :)

Chapter One: The Interview

You were going to positively kill Taggie once you returned to the Cotswolds. Only she, your closest friend since you relocated to the country after finishing your university degree six months ago, could convince you to cut your gap year short in favour of interviewing for a personal assistant job at Corinium. And, for her father, Declan O’Hara, no less.

“Oh, go on!” Taggie had pleaded with you over The Priory’s kitchen counter. “I know you’re getting bored out here. You can’t spend all of your days sitting around here, helping me peel the shite out of prawns for dinner parties.”

“Why not?” You plucked a grape from the fruit platter she’d just finished assembling for an event at Freddie and Valerie Jones’ that evening. “I happen to like spending all my time with you. Even if it does mean peeling shite out of crustaceans.” You eyed your friend with faux suspicion. “Are you getting sick of me already?”

“Of course not! I just think you’d be grand at it, that’s all, what with your journalism degree and all,” Taggie explained. “You’ve heard Daddy when he comes home. Always complaining about the sorts he’s had to interview. Plus, he already knows you. That’s ought to win you some points right there.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t be all bad,” you confessed, mulling the opportunity over as you chewed through another handful of grapes. It would look amazing on your resume and you’d have a foot in the door at one of the biggest TV networks in the United Kingdom. Plus, it wouldn’t kill you to have a front row seat to Declan in all his glory every single day. You would never mention it to Taggie, but you fancied her dad a rather handsome sod.

“Say you’ll do it. At the very least, for me?” Taggie bat her thick eyelashes at you.

“Fine,” you eventually relented, a smile cracking over your face at the new possibility. “I’ll go in for an interview, but no promises. And I don’t want you convincing him of me either! I want to get this job on my own merit, okay?”

“Convince Daddy of you? Please, he already adores you.” The sentiment spread fire through your chest. Tag rounded the kitchen bench and grabbed you by the hand. “Now let’s find you an outfit! Mummy ought to have left something halfway suitable behind.”

Taggie nor Declan had said much about their absentee matriarch Maud in the recent weeks since she fled the countryside after yet another explosive argument between her and her husband. You knew better than to ask, but you could tell by the way Taggie’s shoulders sagged at the sight of her mother’s partially empty closet that her absence had a somber affect on her.

You’d only been into the main bedroom of The Priory once before, when the room was overtaken by Maud’s florally perfumes and extravagant evening gowns. This time, however, the space was so intrinsically Declan; all heady cedarwood and whisky and smoke. Shirts with patterns of plaid and tartan as well as numerous odd, natural-coloured socks were peppered across armchairs and vanities, while a stack of memoirs sat on his bedside with a full ashtray perched atop. Your heart swelled, and sunk simultaneously, at the thought of Declan being sat up here alone at night, or early of a morning, thumbing through a book while taking slow drags of his cigarette as he let himself be consumed by a life far different to the one he was currently living.

“How about this?” Taggie’s voice ripped through your daydream, forcing you away from thoughts of her father. You peered at the oatmeal-coloured dress she had retrieved from the closet, surprised that Maud owned something so…brown. You’d always known her to wear jewel tones that complimented her flaming red hair. You shook your head, and thus began a cycle of Taggie suggesting an outfit and you shooting it down. Eventually, you agreed to Taggie swapping out your creature comfort jeans and Wham! T-shirt for an old black pencil skirt that you were convinced had given you hives from the way your legs hadn’t stopped itching since you put it on, as well as a silky fuchsia blouse that stretched a little too tight over your breasts. While your friend had done a good job at assuring you that you’d fit right in at the Corinium offices, you weren’t as convinced.

The receptionists, all in latest season fashion with not a hair out of place, had looked you up and down as soon as you stepped foot in the marble foyer, snickering behind your back about your fashion fauxpas once you’d checked in. Sarah Stratton wasn’t as covert with her judgement. As you sat outside Declan’s office, waiting to be called in, Sarah outwardly guffawed when she spotted you across the floor. You’d met her several times in passing at parties and Corinium events you’d previously attended as Taggie’s plus one, and for the most part, she’d kept her observations to herself. But now, as her red heels clip across the carpet, her gaze set right on you with her matching rouge lips upturned. “I would never have expected to see you here, darling!” she coos down at you, reaching for a strand of hair that has slipped in front of your shoulder. “And playing dress ups, no less!” Another laugh tinkers out of her as she twirls your hair around her finger. “Interviewing for the assistant job with Declan, hm?”

You nod with a taut smile and try not to let her comment about you looking god-awfully out of place get to you. Sarah’s eyes shift to Declan’s closed mahogany door and tuts. “Well, good luck, sweetheart. Seems like you’ll need it with the way the rest of those interviews have panned out.”

“Oh, hop off it, Sarah!” an unmistakingly Irish voice barks from your left. Sarah jolts upright and despite the embarrassment that tinges her cheeks pink, still manages throw a sultry smile in Declan’s direction. Your posture matches her pin-straight stature as you side-eye his office. It hadn’t occurred to you that he wasn’t inside, preparing for your interview the way you had been all morning. You’d crafted your pitch of yourself perfectly, complete with ideas and suggestions for potential guests for Declan’s show, anything to set you apart, make you seem even a fraction less useless that the interviewees that came before you. “Don’t you have anything better to do? Where’s James?” he questions Sarah, alluding to the very common knowledge that she and her co-host James Vereker are having an affair. Declan makes a show of raking through his moustache - god, that moustache - then adds with a smirk, “James and better. Probably not two words that should be in the same sentence, eh?” Sarah’s smile plateaus at that, and that stiff upper-lip culture she was dying to marry into takes its place.

“I’m sure I can make myself busy, Declan. Got a show to prepare and all that. Ciao!” She doesn’t look at you again and you’re grateful that Declan starts to speak before you bumblefuck your way through the silence.

“Ciao,” he repeats once Sarah’s out of earshot . “Doubt that leech of a woman’s ever had a decent carbonara, let alone stepped foot in Italy.” he says, offering you the first genuine smile you’ve received all day. “Let’s get to it, shall we?” He swings open his office door and holds an arm out. “After you, love.”

“Thanks.”

You shuffle into the room ahead of him, completely oblivious to the way Declan’s eyes are trained on your arse in a skirt that’s familiar to him, but he’s unsure how. Right now, however, he doesn’t care, because it fits your body so magnificently, as if it were made for you. He fights to ignore the dull throb beneath his trousers while he watches you sit, the black fabric pushed to its limits as it stretches across the globes of your arse.

God, has she always been so… womanly? Declan wonders, then immediately chastises himself for leering so openly at his daughter’s best friend. Yes, she was a few good years older than Taggie, and always a beautiful girl, but he was glad his middle child had finally made a friend amid the shitshow that was the move to the country and his crumbling marriage to Maud. He didn’t need to muddy the waters with pervacious thoughts about the young lass’ curves. If only she’d shown up to his office in her usual ripped jeans and George Michael-adorned tees.

“Everything okay, Mr O’Hara? Should I sit somewhere else?” you ask when you notice Declan frozen in the doorway with a furrow etched in his brow. You immediately start second-guessing yourself and wonder if this was a bad idea after all. You can only imagine everyone else who lost out on this job before you faced that same expression. He shakes his head at you, at himself, then busies himself with straightening his maroon tie as he moves to sit behind his desk. You shift in your seat, trying to thwart of the lingering itch Maud’s skirt has buried into the back of your thigh. You think if you can wriggle just so, you can ward it off for at least the main portion of the interview. While you think your subtle movements go unnoticed by Declan because he’s perusing your resume - impressive, he’d earlier noted in black pen beside details of your internship at The Times - he’s been clocked onto your behaviour since he’d laid eyes on you across the office. Scared shitless, and he doesn’t half know that Sarah’s sneaky comments only added to it, thanks to the way you’re fidgeting with that damned skirt mere metres away from him. If Declan had any less sense in him, any less dignity, he’d have half the mind to tear it straight from your body. Of course, he decides against it and tries a less barbaric approach to settle your nerves.

“No band t-shirt today?”

Now it’s your turn for your brows to knit together. “I’m sorry?” Declan nudges his head in the general direction of your chest and your chin dips in response to see what he’s referring to. There, your vision is flanked with fluorescent pink and a tinge of flesh where the silky material doesn’t quite stretch to cover your breasts between buttons, and you silently curse Taggie for allowing you to wear something so borderline revealing at her father’s workplace. Plus, you were surprised he’d even noticed your usual attire.

“I thought it was best I grow up a bit in the clothing department if I were to go for a job at Corinium,” you confess. Declan doesn’t miss the way the swell of your breasts arch against your shirt when you take a deep breath and fold your arms across yourself. “But now I’m thinking the bright pink was a mistake.”

You peer across the expansive wooden desk expectantly, and Declan pitches his hands up in mock surrender. “Don’t ask me! Fashion, clearly, is not my strong suit. All I know is, according to my girls, leaving the house with ladders in your tights is a big no-no unless you’re a gothic or Winona Ryder.”

You chuckle at that, even more so for knowing that his youngest daughter, Caitlin, would be all for half-shredded tights.

Declan looks coy as he sips from his tea. “But if it counts for anything, you look lovely.”

“Well, I should hope you think so. These are your wife’s clothes, after all.” Your confession elicits a splutter from the otherwise put together man in front of you. Tea spouts from his lips across the desk, marring your resume and any other papers with brown stains. You immediately spring into action, scanning the room for a towel, handkerchief, anything that could mop up the mess.

“Sorry, love,” Declan says quietly, thumping a fist against his chest. “Wrong pipe.”

That’s when you see it, a pocket square the same colour as his tie poking from his breast pocket. Without thinking, you lurch across Declan’s desk and pluck it from its resting place, and begin soaking up the liquid. Declan ought to help you, it’s his mess after all, but he’s frozen at the view you’ve awarded him as you lean over. Your cleavage fights against the V cut of Maud’s blouse and Declan can just make out the ripple of a black lace bra below the neckline. He can’t even imagine Maud in that outfit. Right now it’s all so you. His cock stirs at the sight and he can’t help the pained groan that bubbles up his throat.

“Stop,” he breathes in barely a whisper. You don’t, of course, you can’t hear him, and you keep wiping at the desk, your breasts bouncing with every swipe up and down.

“Christ, girl, stop it!” Declan explodes, bolting up from his chair. Thankfully, the height of his desk hides his growing bulge, but it doesn’t matter. The look of pure fear painting your face has the same effect as a cold shower. You sink back into your seat and begin spluttering apologies, that you shouldn’t have used his pocket square, that you were out of line and another dozen variations of sorry, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Declan mirrors you by returning to his chair, raking a hand over his face.

“I’m sorry, darlin’,” he states eventually. “I don’t give a dying rats arse about the pocket square. It’s just… I’m a bloody fool just standing here while you clean up after me. I can’t have you doing that. You don’t even work for me.”

Despite the shock of Declan’s outburst, you manage to muster up a bit of cheek in response. “I don’t even work for you yet,” you correct him.

Your confidence juts Declan’s eyebrows to his curly hairline and a grin cracks across his face. “Cocky little thing, aren’t ya? Go on then.. tell me why I should hire you.”

You spend the next twenty minutes talking Declan through your university studies and experience, the tension from earlier already forgotten. When Declan mentions he once worked with your media law professor, the conversation detours into the pair of you sharing stories about your experiences with the man, far too senile and set in his ways to do the younger generation any good. The rest of the interview carries on like that, you and Declan laughing and exchanging anecdotes like two friends in the pub rather than an employer vetting a potential employee. You’re about to pitch the idea of getting Farah Fawcett on Declan’s show when the office door thumps open to reveal Corinium’s managing director, Tony Baddingham, at its entryway.

“O’Hara! If you’re done with giggling like a little schoolgirl down here, we’ve got a production meeting to get to,” he bites, barely glancing in your direction. You don’t miss the roll of Declan’s tawny eyes as he waves Tony off.

“Alright, Tony. Give me five, I’m just finishing up here,” he says before introducing you by name.

“Nice to meet you, Mr Baddingham,” you tell him, standing to shake his hand. He doesn’t properly look at you until your palms meet, and your spine stiffens when his beady eyes rake over you.

“One of Declan’s assistant candidates, I presume?” he wonders aloud.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, you’re far prettier than some of the other trolls we’ve had roll through here recently.”

“Tony,” Declan warns. The last thing he wants is another man leering at you like you’re a rite of passage for them.

“Right, well, lovely to meet you,” Tony clasps his other hand over the top of yours, careening his neck so he’s at your eye level. “Hope to see you around here. You’ll definitely be a much-appreciated addition.”

Offering a tight-lipped smile, you reserve the urge bawk in his face. You’ve worked with enough Tony Baddinghams to know his interest in you has nothing to do with your professional ability and everything to do with aesthetics. Fucking men.

For the most part, they sickened you and Declan all the same, but for the latter, he was mainly sickened with himself for wanting to pummel Baddingham for the way he was eye-fucking you. But who was he to talk? He’d been doing the exact same thing just minutes earlier.

When Tony leaves the office, he leaves the door ajar, a reminder that Declan is expected elsewhere. You’re about to ask Declan if Tony is always so…Tony, but he’s already got his briefcase in hand and is ushering you towards the door. “I have to admit, I was surprised when Taggie said you wanted to interview for this position, with you being on a gap year and all,” he confessed as you strolled out onto the office floor. “But you know your stuff. You’re bloody intelligent. Passionate. That’s rare these days.”

“Thank you, Mr O’Hara.”

“Please, call me Declan. Here, and at The Priory. Just Declan,” he smiles and you return it.

“Alright, then. Declan.”

“I’ve got to get going, but I’ll let you know about the job. There’s a couple more interviews on the books in the next few days, I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course.”

Declan gives you a curt nod, and you start for the elevator, but you barely make it five steps before he calls you back.

“For what it’s worth, I’d be lucky to have ya here. And like I said, you look great, but I prefer the jeans and t-shirts. They’re much more…you.”

His admission sends your heart thrumming against your ribcage, and red creeps up your neck and onto your cheeks. “Thank you, Mr O’Ha- Declan,” you correct yourself. “Thank you, Declan. See you around.” You turn on your patent black heel, leaving Declan standing there with an image that’s bound to haunt him for nights to come: you in that fucking skirt.

Please let me know if you enjoyed this, and if you’re feeling generous, a lil’ reblog won’t go astray <3

[siriuslywicked]

Getting spit roasted by Rupert Campbell Black and Declan O’Hara STAYS on my brain

Especially if Declan has a daddy kink !!!

[siriuslywicked]

“I’m gonna have ‘ta punish ya’.”

(Rivals) Declan O’Hara x Reader

Suggestion by darling anon 🫶🏽 / You and Declan butt heads, and then some…

Set just after the pageant, messed with the timeline a lil i think but I managed to work the punch in another way <3

18+ FANFIC / SMUT GALORE, angsty & lots of swearing. Fairly long and very HEAVY smut, sorry x Declan you horny bastard, we love you. Reader character aged 21.

As always, request what you wanna see in the ask box 💋

“I can’t just stop working for Corinium, Declan. You cannot just waltz into my life and expect me to give everything up for you!” You shout, feeling rage seep through your veins. Declan and Rupert have been cooking up a ridiculous idea within an hour, desperate to overthrow Baddingham’s Machiavellian reign of television. “They have my balls in a fuckin’ vice, my love,”

“No, they HAVEN’T! You have thrown a ridiculous temper tantrum, on television, because you are so determined to get your own way because you’re a selfish, stubborn bastard.” You interject, slamming your reddened palms on the dinner table, face contorting in fury. “They want me to sell my fuckin’ soul, babe. To sit and judge these fuckin’ superficial pageants whilst that cunt Vereker gets MY spot on my fuckin’ show.” The Irishman bellows, leaning across the table and pointing his finger dangerously close to your face. Declan O’Hara is fucking scary when he’s angry, but my God is he sexy.

Rupert leans against the counter top, remaining silent in embarrassment. It was certainly better for everyone that way. Steaming with rage, you sit back in your seat, stray hairs sticking to the beading sweat on your forehead. “You can’t keep behaving like this, Declan. Like a fucking child.” You tut, avoiding eye contact with him. Declan frustratedly rakes a hand through his slicked hair before pouring himself an intoxicatingly large unit of whiskey. “I’m sure you can coax Tony into some amicable solution. It’s blatant he wants to fuck you. He would do anything for someone willing to open their legs for him.” Rupert pipes up and gestures towards you, cigarette smoke creating an ashy veil across his face. An excruciating silence ensued. Your eyes widened in absolute horror — Declan would certainly not take kindly to this joke. Rupert should’ve kept his mouth shut.

“You fucking what?” Declan asked him, walking towards him slowly, eyes frenzied with wrath. “Calm down, Declan, it was just a joke.” Rupert chuckled, offering his hands up in defeat. “What did ya’ fuckin’ say?” Declan asked again, containing to walk towards him until they were nose-to-nose. Another incredibly painful silence— even Rupert didn’t dare speak. After a few seconds, he opened his mouth to speak but Declan swung at him, landing a brutal punch with a wet smack. “DECLAN.” You bellow, grabbing his muscular arm and pulling him towards you. “Get out, Rupert. I’m so sorry, but just go home.” You shake your hands frantically as Rupert pulls himself from the floor and ushers himself out, clutching his face in agony.

“What the fuck are you playing at?” You scream, voice croaking under the pressure. You push Declan away from you as soon as you hear the front door click. “Ya’ t’ink I’m gonna let him talk about ‘ya like ‘dat? Talk about ‘ya spreadin’ ya’ legs for tha’ CUNT Tony?” Declan matches your enraged tone, pacing around the kitchen table but maintaining eye contact with you. You couldn’t reply to this. He was wildly protective of you — often infuriatingly so, but he could barely stand to see another man so much as look at you. Rupert’s joke was way too far.

“My job is turnin’ me into a fuckin’ laughin’ stock, you t’ink I’m a joke and you’re wavin’ your fuckin’ arse around in front of Tony.” He howled again, enraging himself with his own words. “Oh, fuck off Declan.” You spit, pushing yourself out of your chair and beginning to abandon the kitchen. “Don’t walk away from me.” He tuts, grabbing your arm and pulling you towards him. “Don’t fucking touch me.” You scream and the words can barely leave your mouth — a pathetic mixture of anger and despair. “I am fucking sick of you!” You immediately regret the words as Declan’s top lip curls in vexation. Oh fuck.

•

He hurtles towards you, pushing you towards the wall and almost taking you off of your feet. You close an eye, internally preparing yourself for the crescendo of noise he is about to create. Instead, he collides his lips onto yours, grunting in annoyance as his tongue pushes his way into your mouth. Feeling yourself melt under his touch, Declan’s hand rides under your blouse, ripping it off from the inside and exposing your bare chest — perky breasts wobbling with the force and nipples hard from arousal. The bristles of his moustache send a quiver down your spine as he kisses down your chest before taking your left nipple into his mouth: swirling around the pink bud and sucking it softly. A stifled whimper escapes your lift as you lift your hand to his trousers, rubbing across his hardening bulge.

“Bend over.” Declan demands, pulling away from you and pushing you gently towards the dining table. Hesitantly, you do as you’re told and bend over the table, skirt riding up your thighs. Not that it matters too much, as it was promptly yanked down, exposing your bare arse to the man that owned it. Running his rough hand across the right cheek, Declan smacked it firmly, the harsh noise of skin on skin reverberating across the room. “Ya’ do know I’m gonna have ta’ punish ya’.” He growled, readying his hand for another firm smack. “Mhm hmm.” You whisper, nodding your head, consenting softly. Another unyielding smack made you yelp with aching pressure — a reddened hand print beginning to take form. “Oh fuck.” He groaned, lowering himself to your level and biting firmly into your arse, pleasure taking control of his entire conscience. You keep your eyes firmly pressed shut, awaiting the next smack. Instead, you chomp down on your lip as you hear Declan’s zipper, and the subsequent sound of his trousers dropping to the ground.

“Do ya’ want it?” The Irishman questioned, teasing your slick entrance with the head of his painfully erect cock. You could feel yourself practically dripping as he placed a firm hand onto your waist. “Yes…” You breathlessly moan, pushing yourself towards him, aching to feel his girth inside you. “Yes, what?” He growled. “Yes… Daddy.” You whimper once more, desperation overtaking you.

“Good girl.” Declan praised, and pushed the full length of his cock into you, but thrusted slowly in and out. “Oh, fuck.” You wail, as the walls of your vagina grip him like a vice, already aching with the girth of his dick. “Ya’ like that? Do I feel good stretchin’ ya’ out?” He asks, grabbing a fistful of your hair and increasing his tempo with every wet smack of your arse against his pelvis. Eyes rolling back in ecstasy, teeth firmly planted into your bottom lip, mind fuzzy — you must definitely cannot muster a reply. “Tell me, girl. Tell me how good I feel inside ya’.” He asks again, hand reaching under to stroke your clit, coaxing you even closer to orgasm. Declan lolled his head back, pumping harder inside you as his fingers worked their rugged magic. “So fucking good, Daddy.” You manage to muster a reply.

“Ya’ so fuckin’ wet. Wrapped around my cock. Look at ya’ bouncin’ on my dick like a good fuckin’ whore.” Your lover groaned under your heat as he pounded into you, but the tension twisting inside your stomach was too much to bare. “Dec..Declan, I’m gonna…” You begin, but you feel him pull out in preparation.

The repetitive pounding of his enlarged cock on your g-spot left you in a dazed mess as you squirted onto the kitchen floor, legs trembling insanely throughout your orgasm. Declan watched the obscene mess he’d created with a terrible smirk on his face, full of adoration. “Good girl,” He affirmed again, “Look at the mess you’ve made for Daddy. Fuckin’ good girl.” He thrusted into you again, tempo increasing, hungry for his own release. “Are ya’ gonna let me cum inside ya?’ He asked, but he needn’t. You were already pleading with him to fill you with his seed. You needed to feel his hot, sweet cum inside of you.

“Please. I need it, Daddy. Please fill me up.” You begged, feeling Declan’s cock twitching inside you. The gratifying groans leaving his mouth prompted you to reach under your legs and stroke his cum-filled balls, luring him to ecstasy. “Fuck. Get ready, princess. I’m gonna fuckin’ cum.”

Bracing yourself to feel his warmth inside you, you kept your hands wrapped round his balls whilst pushing your arse into him, goading him to go faster. Spurts of hot cum covered the walls of your pussy, each rope accompanied with a pleasurable groan — absolute music to your ears. “Ahh, fuck.” Declan murmured, pulling his cock from your pussy and pausing for a moment to watch a droplet of his seed drip from your walls.

“Well done, my girl. You’ve fuckin’ milked me dry.” He chuckled to himself, slapping your arse once more playfully and huffing to himself.

[siriuslywicked]

your blog is sooooo fab!!! Can I request a Declan x reader set on a plane where Rupert is flirty with a girl between him and Declan not knowing she is secretly seeing Declan & when he gets jealous he drags her to the back of the plan to join the mile high club? (Idk if that’s a good request but it seemed good in my head so I hope it’s okay!)

good girl

declan o'hara x female reader

summary: when declan's had enough of watching rupert flirt with you, he decides to take matters into his own hands.

content: 18+, smut (are we shocked?), cursing, jealousy, unprotected sex, dirty talk, praise kink, airplane bathroom quickie!!

author's note: spoiler alert i got a little carried away with this request lol. this idea was just so juicy and yummy i had to. also i'm trying to go to paris with rupert and declan if you know what i mean. wink wink nudge nudge

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

Your palms were sweating as you anxiously awaited takeoff. You didn’t fly often, in fact you avoided it as much as you possibly could; however, your position as production assistant at venturer landed you a seat on a redeye to New York. You had agreed to join two of your bosses on the work trip not considering your extreme fear of flying and now you sat between them attempting to hide your trembling hands and racing thoughts. You bit the inside of your cheek as the flight attendants walked the aisles to clear for takeoff and felt the weight of Declan’s shoulder meet your own. Your eyes carefully looked in his direction and your nerves were instantly calmed by the gentle curl of his lips, his sweet smile and warm brown eyes always had a way of grounding you.

If it weren’t for Declan being seated next to you, you weren’t sure if you would survive the eight-hour flight. No one else knew, but the two of you had been somewhat inseparable recently. What started as wholesome conversations and innocent glances quickly turned into inappropriate touches and passionate rendezvous. Your relationship was a secret you were both determined to keep, which made situations like this so much more difficult. 

The plane began moving and all you wanted to do was squeeze Declan’s hand and hide your head in his shoulder to keep the nerves at bay. You wanted to hide in the warmth of his touch and the sweet scent of his cologne but you couldn’t, not with Rupert Campbell-Black sitting directly on your right.

Their friendship wasn’t enough for Declan to confide in Rupert about his new relationship with you, so you had to keep a professional relationship with both of them for the weekend.

This was hard for two reasons. The first being your deep need to constantly be near Declan; to have your hands on him, your mouth on him, to feel him buried deep inside you, you were desperate for him. The second thing that made a professional relationship with your bosses difficult was Rupert’s continuous flirting.

This wasn’t new for Rupert. He was known for being a flirt, and boy did he love toying with you. He would go out of his way to pay you compliments or make innocently dirty comments toward you. Nothing serious, just little things here and there, but it drove Declan mad. Sometimes you were convinced Rupert knew about your little secret and his flirting was just another way to mess with Declan and get under his skin, but you could never be sure. 

As the plane gained speed you couldn’t stop your knee from bouncing- a nervous tick. Then suddenly a hand was on your thigh halting your movement. 

“Darling, no need to be nervous” Rupert’s voice purred, his hand on your leg and a smirk on his face. 

The contact wasn’t inherently sensual. For anyone else it would have been sweet or even friendly, but coming from Rupert, the touch was seeping with ulterior motives. His palm was gently resting just above your knee and the pad of his thumb was slowly drawing patterns into your skin. You were so distracted by the foreign touch on your thigh that you had hardly even noticed the plane was now lifted into the sky.

You fought the urge to look at Declan on your left knowing he was probably losing his shit right about now.

“See there. You’ve done it, good girl.” The smirk was still on Rupert’s lips as he winked playfully at you, taking his hand off your thigh with two quick pats. 

You playfully glared at Rupert, internally hoping he wasn’t planning on being this aggravating for the whole trip. 

“Try to calm down a bit, it’s a long flight.” Rupert spoke, resting his head back on his seat and closing his eyes. You didn’t know how he did it, but Rupert always managed to have such a silken and seductive tone to his voice.

“Don’t be afraid to wake me if you need some help relaxing. You know, I’m quite an avid member of the mile high club.” His eyes just barely opened enough to peek at you from beneath his lids, a full-blown smile breaking onto his face. 

“Rupert.” You say his name as an attempt to warn him to shut the fuck up, but you can barely get it out without laughing. His ridiculous attempts to flirt with you, while flattering, were now becoming a running joke between the two of you. 

You’re rolling your eyes and jabbing at Rupert with your elbow when you catch Declan shift in the corner of your eye. You let your gaze wander over to the man in the aisle seat, he now had a book in his hands. Seeing his furrowed eyebrows and tensed shoulders had you guessing he wasn’t actually reading but was instead listening as Rupert tried to make a pass at you. 

You slouch down in your seat praying that you can just sleep for the entirety of the flight.

-

You’re not sure how much time has passed since takeoff, maybe two or three hours. Your dream of sleeping the flight away was crushed when you realized it was nearly impossible to get comfortable in the middle seat. You had thought about leaning on Declan’s shoulder to help you doze off but he was deep in his book and had hardly even looked in your direction since Rupert’s little charade earlier. As for Rupert, he had been fast asleep for pretty much the entire flight so far. His body was leaned against the window, his chest rising and falling as he slept. 

Declan’s eyes were tired and trained on his reading, his lips pouted slightly as he focused on the book in his hands. God, you wanted to kiss him. This was absolute torture, sitting next to him for this long and barely speaking a word to one another. You quickly took note of the other passengers in the plane, almost everyone within sight was sleeping. So you took the chance and without much thought you let your hand find Declan’s thigh. As soon as he felt your touch, his eyes were on yours. 

Bingo.

You blinked slowly at him, and a minuscule smirk appeared on his face. After a minute of thought he leaned in so close that you could feel the warmth of his cheek on yours. 

“Meet me in the bathroom.” His whisper was gruff. 

It wasn’t a suggestion; it was a command. 

Without so much as looking at you, he stood, leaving his book in the seat and walking toward the back of the plane. 

You sat in shock for a few seconds. This was so out of character for him. Jesus it was even more out of character for you, now wet at the idea of it. Having sex in public like this. Being together in such a risky way. The notion of getting caught right under your noses. It was stupid, it was dangerous. You couldn't. And then you were. 

You were up out of your seat, your legs carrying you to Declan. You let your eyes scan the rows as you walked. Everyone was sleeping or preoccupied and thus not paying you a bit of attention. Thank god. 

You reached the bathroom swiveling your head once more to make sure no one was watching you make such a disgustingly risqué decision. Your head buzzed with anticipation as you opened the door just enough to slip in. You were instantly met with Declan’s broad chest. He was looking down at you, a devious grin playing on his lips. In half a second his arm reached behind you locking the door. 

“I wasn’t sure if you’d join me.” His accent was thick, and his hand reached for your hair, twirling it between his fingertips.

“You told me to.” You respond sweetly keeping your voice low.

Declan hummed as the words left your mouth. Using his strength he effortlessly spun your body, so you were now pressed against the wall with him directly behind you. 

“Good girl.” 

He uses the words that were on Rupert’s tongue just a few hours ago and you can’t help but squirm under his touch. 

Your bodies were wedged together in such a confined space that you’re sure he can feel the desire radiating off your skin.

“Does my good girl think it’s funny when someone else has his hands on her?” 

His touch is needy as it roams your body. 

“Because I don’t find it very funny.” He’s still whispering as his hands find the waistline of your pants, tugging them down just enough to get what he needs. 

“I think infuriating might be a better word.” His voice is simultaneously rough and tender.

You can feel his hand come between your bodies as he wastes no time letting his fingers find your center. He hasn’t even slid a finger into you, but he groans in approval upon feeling the wetness pooling at your entrance. Then, just as fast as you felt the warmth of his touch near your heat, it was gone. You wanted to whine at the loss of contact, but your grief was replaced by excitement at the sound of Declan’s belt coming undone. After a split second of rustling, you felt the tip of his length meet the slick of your cunt, keeping it right at your opening withholding the satisfaction of feeling him fill you completely. He was teasing you like it was some sort of punishment. You could feel him throbbing and you knew he was enjoying himself. It had you biting your lip to keep from making an obscene noise. 

Suddenly the full pressure of him hit you and he was stretching you, bottoming out in one swift thrust. Just as a squeal was ready to leave your lips Declan’s large hand reached up to cover your mouth. 

“Shh, we wouldn’t want anyone to hear us, would we?” He’s condescendingly murmuring in your ear and you’re lazily shaking your head in agreeance, his hand keeping your mouth shut. 

He began thrusting in and out of you. While the pace was slow, the power behind his movements had your legs trembling and your arousal swelling. 

He moves his head closer to yours, his lips nearly kissing your ear.

“That’s my good girl.”

 He hums the praise, and you practically buckle under the words. 

He can feel your body react to him and he takes it as an opportunity to pick up the pace. His thrusts are deliciously timed and hitting all the right places making you melt further into his body. Your pathetic moans are being muffled by his hand. 

“My good girl yeah? All mine.” His words are a low quiet groan, reflecting his own arousal. 

You’re furiously nodding your head to appease him when you feel Declan’s other hand trail down the front of your body until it stops at your clit. The small circles he begins pressing into your bundle of nerves opposes the feral way he’s fucking into you from behind. 

The thrill of the moment is catching up with you and your panting into the hand covering your mouth. As your orgasm pools at your core threatening to burst, you clench around him causing Declan to let out a moan. His slip up makes you smile, and you know he can feel your grin on his palm because he starts plunging into you relentlessly, hitting your walls in that place that makes you scream out in pleasure. But you don’t scream, you can’t. Instead, you allow Declan’s touch on your lips to keep your mouth shut and squeeze your eyes closed to focus on your release. 

“You gonna be good and cum for me?”

 Like a key to a door, Declan’s words unlock the pressure building inside you and your hand instinctually reaches up to stop yourself from moaning in pleasure, clutching at Declan’s hand that’s already over your mouth. 

Just as you reach your peak you can feel Declan’s fingers fumbling at your clit and his thrusts are growing sloppy. You can hear his shallow breaths, and you reach your hand back to tug at his hair. Your fingers play with the dark curls, and you know it’s enough to send him over the edge. With a few more thrusts deep into your sopping core, he buries his face in the crook of your neck to keep his grunts from being heard.  

He lets himself rest there for just a minute, hands caressing your body as you lean back into him. You’re both trying to regain composure through deep breaths and gentle touches before cleaning up and heading back into the sea of sleeping passengers. 

“You go first, I’ll wait a bit and then go out.” His words are laced with amusement as he fastens his belt.

He’s glowing with pride as he places a quick kiss to your temple and pats your ass as you turn toward the door. You were like two teenagers, unable to keep their hands off each other. Never in your life did you think you would be the person having sex in an airplane bathroom, yet here you were- hair messy and knees weak from getting fucked against the wall of a lavatory. 

“Smug bastard.” You whisper back at him through a smile as you open the door. 

You creep your way back to your seat and your stomach turns at the sight in front of you.

A wide-awake Rupert Campbell-Black was sat comfortably awaiting your return. The shit eating grin plastered on his face was enough to tell you he was going to have a lot to say about this. 

“Welcome back.” His voice was a poor excuse of a whisper as you find your spot next to him. 

You’re avoiding eye contact and trying to hide the blush on your cheeks when you hear soft footsteps coming up the aisle. 

“Ah Rupert, how’d you sleep?” Declan’s sliding into his seat next to you and peering over at Rupert as he speaks. His demeanor is calm and a bit playful unlike yours which is completely frazzled with a hint of humiliation. 

Judging by the smirks on both of their faces you know Rupert knows where the two of you disappeared to, and you know Declan loves that he knows. 

“Oh, just fine old pal.” Rupert’s tonguing his cheek to keep from chucking in enjoyment, his eyes darting between you and Declan. 

“Okay both of you just shut up.” You finally huff out in defeat covering your face with your hands. You could hear Rupert’s soft laugh and feel Declan’s reassuring touch on your leg. This was bound to be the longest flight of your life. 

[siriuslywicked]

'swept away: season two' masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Series Summary: Your return to the island for the grand opening of The Parador: Fiji holds even more drama than the first visit. Desire, love, heartbreak, mystery, and luxury await your stay.

Series Warnings: no outbreak au, language, smut (18+ MDNI), food and alcohol consumption, fluff, angst, reader has a rocky relationship with parents, tammy, occasional references to sugar daddy/sugar baby dynamics, past infidelity mentioned, lots of marriage/wedding talk, references to drug use, physical violence - more warnings stated for each chapter

Status: coming soon

Sequel to Swept Away

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Chapters:

Prologue: Two Rings - posting Feb 1

1: Long Time, No Sea - posting Feb 15

2: Kokomo - posting March 1

3: Jet Lagged - posting March 15

4: Oh, sugar, sugar - posting March 29

5: In a Tight Spot - posting April 12

6: No Hard Feelings - posting April 26

7: Come Clean - posting May 10

8: Adrift - posting May 24

9: Fresh Start - posting June 7

Epilogue: Wild and Free - posting June 21

Please follow @punkshort-notifs and turn on notifications for fic updates ❤️

[siriuslywicked]

Thawing Out

summary: You and Sirius are in dire need of a new coach just weeks before the Olympics. Remus is a former figure skating prodigy forced to retire after a career-ending injury. Though it's not smooth skating right away, those stiff Olympic village beds are dying to be broken in.

collab with @ellecdc

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10 | part 11 | part 12 | part 13 | part 14 | part 15

cw: modern au, chronic pain

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ♡ 1.3k words

Remus still wakes before dark every morning. It’s automatic, an urgency and excitement that thrums through him like an old instinct, born from years of his alarm clock rousing him at this time. The rink is always at its best right now, when they’ve just finished resurfacing the ice and no one else is around. It was Remus’ favorite time to practice. 

Now, he has a new reason to get up. His hip clicks as he does it, so he starts his day with a couple of proactive painkillers. If he really wanted to be proactive he would stretch like he’s supposed to, but there’s no time and Remus doesn’t feel like it. He’ll pay his toll for the negligence later. 

The webpage of his Airbnb boasted a five-minute walk to the rink, but with his hip it takes Remus seven. It’s like an odd sort of muscle memory, an old routine from another life that feels as bitter as it does comfortable. He heads out early to give himself some cushion. The streets are empty but for bakers and baristas, the first hints of dawn tinging the sky a deep blue. When he turns a corner and the rink comes into view, the absence of his bag hanging from his shoulder is a phantom ache. 

The front doors are locked but the side one staff uses isn’t, the Zamboni driver already inside. Remus lets himself in, makes a cup of tea from the hot water dispenser they leave out when concessions are closed, plants himself on a bench, and waits. 

And waits. 

And waits. 

Remus has nearly nodded off when two pairs of shoes come bounding up to him. Well, one pair bounds. The other drags. 

“Hi, sorry we’re late.” You’re breathless and hauling a sullen-looking boy along behind you by the hand, but you manage a smile when Remus looks up at you. “I had to run over and get him out of bed. It’s good to meet you!”

You hold out your untethered hand. Remus might normally stand to take it, but he no longer feels like doing you the courtesy. Your grip is firm and warm. 

“You were supposed to be here at six,” he says. 

You wince. “I know. Sorry, Sirius is really not a morning person.” 

Remus thinks that he might put more stock into your apologies if you looked a tad more contrite. As it is, your countenance is almost cheery, a fizzy eagerness about you as you look between him and the ice like you can’t wait to get out on it. 

In stark contrast, the ill-tempered boy behind you seems not to have a clue where he is. He looks rumpled and disoriented, squinting in the rink’s fluorescent light. 

“Then why didn’t you pick another time?” Remus asks. 

He hadn’t realized he was still looking at Sirius, or that the other boy could talk, so it’s a surprise when he answers. “Wasn’t my bloody idea.” 

By the way you grin, Remus wonders if you’ve even heard the obvious bitterness in your partner’s tone, or whether it’s gone straight over your head. 

“I like the rink better early,” you explain. “No one else ever comes before the hockey practice starts at nine, and they’ll have just finished resurfacing the ice.” 

Begrudgingly, Remus nods. “I always preferred it about now, too.” 

He realizes immediately that his agreement was a mistake, because your smile grows into something far too brilliant for the early hour. Christ, what has he gotten himself into? There’s you, starry-eyed and effervescing all over the place, and your partner, who looks more inclined to fall asleep on your shoulder than put on his skates. 

And this is the pair skating duo Remus is supposed to take to the Olympics. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

“Watch that back foot!” Remus shouts across the ice.

Sirius doesn’t look happy about it, but he corrects the placement of his skate, transitioning smoothly into the next synced turn. 

“Good,” Remus murmurs to himself. 

Once Sirius got out on the ice and woke up a bit, he was good. He skates with the technical proficiency of someone who’s been in the sport since before they started primary school, and the intuitive artistry of someone who loves it. You’re much the same, though your virtuosity and obvious competence are consistently undercut by hesitation, the grace of your movements interrupted when you second-guess yourself. But these—technical prowess paired with devotion—are the basics of what makes a good figure skater. You’ll have to be flawless if you want to do well at the Olympics. 

And Remus has found many flaws. 

“No, no—shit!” Remus stands as you fall out of your jump again, catching yourself on your forearms. “You’re still under-rotating! Come on!” 

Sirius snarls a quick “Hey!” over his shoulder before turning his back on Remus, going to help you up. He speaks to you quietly, checking you over as you stand. Remus seethes. 

He has no clue why he’s been called out here to coach a pair. Remus doesn’t know pairs, has never been a part of one. He was a solo skater. And frankly, it makes him wary that what’s supposed to be the best skating pair in Britain has asked him, a former solo skater who’s been isolated from the figure skating community in general for the past two years, to coach them. But Remus does know figure skating. And he knows when skaters are making stupid mistakes behind their skill level. 

“What aren’t you understanding?” asks Remus as you skate back to the edge of the rink. He really wants to know. “It’s simple. You can do this.” He knows he could have. As easy as breathing, and he would kill to have the chance again. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” 

Sirius’ glare is sharp as knives. He steps off the ice before you can, positioning himself between you and Remus. Your lips purse with a knowing sort of apprehension. 

“Sirius…” 

“No, you don’t talk to her like that,” Sirius spits. “It was a tiny mistake.” 

Remus raises his eyebrows, incredulous. “I’m trying to help her! It was a giant mistake, with a simple fix. You ought to be telling her the same, unless you’re okay with your partner snapping her ankle weeks out from competition.” 

“None of that means you get to fucking yell at her! Who do you think you are?” 

“Okay—” 

“I’m her coach,” says Remus, voice rising, “and—”

“Then coach her! Maybe if you’d give some actual fucking feedback instead of just nitpicking—” 

“Okay!” Your shout cuts through the space, echoing in the empty rink and silencing the other two. “That’s enough.” 

You haul Sirius back by his shoulder. Your grip doesn’t look severe enough to move him, but he goes, stepping back to your side. His eyes never leave Remus’. 

Your own gaze jumps between both boys, that same spark he’d seen in you earlier burning with a different light. 

“Let’s call it for today,” you say firmly. “Okay? We’ll try again tomorrow.” 

Neither boy speaks, though Remus nods. It seems to be taking all of Sirius’ willpower to bite his tongue. He gets the impression it isn’t something he succeeds at often, so Remus isn’t ashamed to say that it brings him a perverse sort of joy to see it now. His tiny bit of smugness fizzles out, though, when your eyes land on him. There’s something desolate in your expression that’s a salient deviation from how you’d looked at him before. Remus has the sinking feeling that he’s disappointed you. It’s more distressing than he can account for. 

“We’ll be here on time tomorrow,” you say in that same steady tone. “And my jump, I’ll work on it.” 

Remus nods again. You return it, and when you turn to leave, you drag Sirius after you by his shirtsleeve, picking up your bags along your way. Remus’ mouth feels dry. His lips are chapped, his fingertips hurt from the cold, and the sight of your skates sinking into the rubbery floor makes his hip ache terribly. 

It’s only once you’re nearly out of earshot that he manages to mumble, “Thank you.”

[siriuslywicked]

What Ifs and How It Was

-`♡´- pairing: Poly!Wolfstar x Fem!Reader

-`♡´- summary: A late-night conversation with your best friends—Sirius and Remus—leads to playful confessions. The three of you assume enough time has passed for any romantic feelings to fade. But the awkward silence that follows suggests otherwise.

-`♡´- contains: confessions, kissing

-`♡´- word count: 3.9k

You’d never believe the whole “friends-of-the-opposite-gender-can’t-exist” nonsense. It always kind of seemed like an excuse. A way for people to justify turning casual friendships into something way more complicated than they needed to be. In fact, you hated hearing it. You always brushed it off with a sigh or an eyeroll. After all, you had plenty of friends who didn’t fit into those narrow definitions. Until that one night.

You weren’t much of a pub-goer, but that night, something strange pulled you there. Maybe it was the dull hum of the city that night. Or maybe it was the promise of a drink you didn’t have to make yourself. Either way, you found yourself tucked into a corner of the first loud, dimly lit place you could find. You nursed a glass and enjoyed the atmosphere, staying just close enough to any brawls for free entertainment, but safely away from getting hurt.

During your little adventure, you stumbled upon a very drunk man, and his very apologetic friend. Actually, it was more like he had stumbled into you – literally.

Sirius Black was an intoxicated mess of long, unruly hair and had the kind of energy that could ripple through the air like static electricity. One minute, you were sipping your drink, minding your own business. The next, you were knocked sideways by a body that practically materialized out of nowhere. You tried to catch your balance but only ended up stumbling backward.

“Shit! Sorry! I didn’t—” His own laughter interrupted him as he tried to untangle himself from you.

Before you could even process the situation, another presence appeared – calm, collected, and letting a string of “sorry”s fall from his lips. Remus Lupin, his sober friend, helped both of you up with a surprisingly gentle grip.

“You alright?” Remus asked, his voice soft but sincere. His eyes roamed over your face with a mix of concern and just a mild amount of amusement. You found yourself nodding before you could even stop yourself.

Sirius, meanwhile, was still rambling apologies, his words tumbling clumsily over each other in a way that made it clear he wasn’t entirely control of his brain at the moment.

“I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to—” He paused, staring at you with wide, doe-like eyes. “But, hey… you’re alright. You look alright. Maybe even better than alright.”

You blinked – slightly confused – before shaking your head with a smile.

“It’s fine. No harm done.” You straightened, brushing yourself off.

He turned toward his partner, his attention already shifting to something else.

“Moony,” he slurred, nudging his shoulder. “Get the beautiful thing a drink, yeah? It’s the least I can do after practically throwing her across the pub.”

Remus gave him a pointed look with a raised eyebrow, but he didn’t object. Instead, he reached into his jacket pocket for some cash. A small laugh bubbled up from your throat. The absurdity of it all made you suddenly realize how amiable they both were together.

As Remus went off to grab the drinks, Sirius took a step closer to you. Thinking back on that moment, it had been a little too close, but it felt… oddly natural. He grinned, still a little wild-eyed. You could tell that despite the graceless introduction, he exuded a sort of warmth that was impossible to ignore.

“So,” he started, as if you’d known each other forever, “Why are you at a place like this by yourself, gorgeous?”

It was cheesy, and it was a clear attempt at flirting. You’d find out that the drunker Sirius got, the worse his flirting was. You never let him live it down from that day on. But in that moment, there was something about it – the light in his eyes, the tilt of his head – that made you grin.

Before you could respond, Remus returned with drinks in hand. He was a little bemused by Sirius’ antics but was clearly used to them.

“You alright?” He asked, handing you your drink with a small smile.

You accepted it gratefully, still processing the oddness of the situation. “I think so. I’ve survived worse.”

Remus chuckled softly and stepped back, more comfortable now that the initial awkwardness had faded. Sirius, however, was still standing a little too close to you. His smirk widened as he took in your drink and then glanced at Remus.

“See?” Sirius said, raising his glass. “I’m not completely abysmal.”

Laughter passed between the three of you, the unexpected bond sinking in quietly.

Even then, you still had the firm belief that you could strictly stay platonic with friends of the opposite gender. They couldn’t count, right? For starters, there were two of them. And, you quickly learned, Sirius Black and Remus Lupin were an inseparable package deal.

Okay, maybe you did have a crush on both of them at one point. But it was almost like they actively tried to make it impossible for someone not to be at least a little infatuated by them. Remus had a quiet charm—the kind that lingered in his soft-spoken words and surprising wit. His pensive gaze always carried an air of controlled intensity. It felt like he was trying to understand you down to your very soul – but never in a way that felt invasive. He carried himself with a reserved elegance, shoulders slightly hunched. If you ever had the pleasure of picking up on a mumbled retort of his, you were sure to laugh. The scars that crossed his face only added to the enigmatic air of mystery around him. He was always your source of calm – perfectly balancing Sirius’ chaos.

Sirius was a natural flirt – his beauty so striking it was almost cruelly unfair. He carried himself with a confidence that tipped toward arrogance, but never quite fell over. That was thanks to the way he could charm the socks off anyone in a heartbeat. He tended to look at people like he could eat them alive if he wanted to – in a violent and sexual way. Everything about him was larger than life – his laugh, his humor, his confidence – and it was hard not to be swept up in his orbit.

They didn’t shy away from touching, either. Sirius didn’t seem to know the meaning of personal space – always draping himself over the nearest friend he could find. He’d sit too close, his thigh squished against yours. Or he would lean in too close to make a point, lips quirking into that devilish smirk whenever he noticed your cheeks flushing. And Remus, although more reserved and respectful, was the kind of person who would grab your hips to gently move past you. Or he’d kneel in the middle of a sidewalk to tie your shoe before you even realized it had come undone.

There were loads of times that you could have justified having a crush on them.

Like that one time you’d walked straight into a pole, and while Sirius was laughing his ass off, Remus wore a worried look on his face.

“You alright, love?” he whispered, his hands tentative as they cupped your face, tilting it gently to inspect for any damage. His touch was warm, and for that brief moment, the whole world seemed to fade away. You hadn’t realized how badly you needed the comfort until it was there.

But it wasn’t just his hands or the softness of his voice. It was the way his brow creased in genuine concern for you, his amber eyes scanning yours as though searching for something deeper than a bruise.

“You had me scared for a second. Can’t have you broken just yet, can we?” His lips curled into a smile, his thumb gently brushed against your cheek.

You managed a sheepish laugh, waving him off with a dismissive, “I’m fine.” But even as you spoke, he remained. His hands fell from your face to your shoulders, steadying you. Sirius grinned, striding over to you both.

“Oi, let me coddle her too.” Before you could react, he slung an arm over your shoulders and pressed his cheek to the side of your head. “You’re alright, love, aren’t you? Say it’s so, for my sake.”

Or that time you’d brought Sirius a drink at a party.

He was talking someone’s ear off when you found him – gesturing wildly as he launched into a tirade. It wasn’t unusual for him to dominate a conversation. His voice was always a little louder than necessary, and his laugh could cut through the room like a knife. He was magnetic, in that way only Sirius could be.

You didn’t even think about it as you grabbed his empty cup and swapped it for a fresh one. You slid it into his hand so seamlessly that it took him a moment to notice. But he always notices when you do something.

When it seemed he finally did, he stopped mid-sentence. He glanced at the new cup and then at you with a look of exaggerated delight, like you’d just handed him a winning lottery ticket. Without missing a beat, he grabbed your face – careful not to spill his drink on you – and planted a big, dramatic kiss on your cheek.

“Oh, I just love you, darling,” he beamed, eyes sparkling with mischief.

And then, just like that, he turned back to his conversation. He picked up right where he’d left off, as if nothing had happened.

How could anyone not be totally, madly in love with them?

… Definitely not you. That’s for sure.

Your feelings seemed to die down when they began dating each other about a year into the blossoming friendship the three of you shared. It was only a matter of time for them, and you knew that. They shared a longer history, and, truthfully, you had assumed they were already a couple when you first met them. You had even offered advice to both men on how to approach the topic with each other. You were happy for them, and despite the coupling, there was never a time the three of you weren’t together. The dynamic didn’t change much, either. Well, aside from those moments when you’d step out of the room for only a second and come back to Sirius practically devouring Remus’ face.

The soft, creamy glow of the table lamp illuminated a small portion of the room they had designated as yours after purchasing a flat together. Sirius is sprawled casually on top of Remus, his chin resting on his folded arms. You are next to them, propped up on your side, a pillow tucked beneath your elbow.

While Sirius casually leaned into teasing you as he often did, Remus just… was. The way his hand subconsciously finds its way into Sirius’ hair, twirling a lock between his fingers, spoke volumes without either of them acknowledging it. You knew them both like the back of your hand – their habits and quirks as familiar as your own heartbeat. But in those quiet moments, you’d find yourself wondering what it would’ve been like if the timing had been different. What if you were a little braver?

No. You are grateful for what you have now.

“Remember our first impressions?” Sirius asks suddenly.

Oh, that’s right. The anniversary of that night was coming up. The three of you had been friends for three years now – three years since that night at the pub. Three years of shared moments and laughter.

You glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah, you tripped over me and nearly knocked me out cold.”

Sirius grins, eyes sparkling with mischief. “That’s not how I remember it. I’m pretty sure I was just making a graceful entrance, and you were too starstruck to see me coming.”

You roll your eyes, and Remus chuckles beneath Sirius, the heat of his hand still resting in his boyfriend’s hair.

“You were a drunk and clumsy fool,” Remus says tenderly and full of affection.

Sirius shrugs melodramatically with a sigh. “Alright, maybe I was a little clumsy. But I’m glad we did have our little run in with each other. I’m pretty sure you were already in love with her by then.”

You freeze.

Remus stiffens, but Sirius is undeterred.

“Moony and I have talked about this, and I think enough time has gone by for this to not be as awkward, but…” He pauses for dramatic effect, turning his head toward you, a sly grin on his face. “I actually had a crush on you.”

Your eyes widen slightly, and you fight to keep your jaw from dropping. You were certainly caught off gourd by the sudden confession. You chuckle, brushing it off with a teasing shake of your head.

“Oh, come on. You’re just messing with me.”

Sirius’ grin stretches wider, and he looks like he’s not going to back down.

“I’m serious,” he insists, though the humor still sparkles in his eyes.

“Not this again.” Remus groans.

But Sirius only looked more pleased with himself. “Oh, don’t act like you weren’t gone for her too, Moony.”

Your breath catches in surprise. The comment he made about Remus being in love with you after the first meeting – you thought he meant it as a joke. Your eyes flick toward his face, where he held an unreadable expression.

“What? You’re telling me you had a crush on me too?”

“Oh, you definitely had him wrapped around your little finger.” Sirius raises his head from his arms to narrow his eyes at you before turning to Remus. “Remember that time—early on—when she fixed your tie for you?”

Remus closes his eyes briefly, silently begging a higher power to take him away as his face turns red. You fight the urge to bury your face in your hands.

“You remember that, right? I saw you. You practically turned to stone when she did that. That was the moment I knew.”

“Sirius, please…” Remus lets out an exasperated sigh, but you can see the edges of his lips twitching upward.

You can’t help but smile at the easy camaraderie between the two of them. It was one of the things you love most about being with them – how natural and effortless it all felt.

“Alright, fine. Maybe I did.” He finally looks at you before returning to stare at Sirius. “Can we move on now?”

“That’s so crazy,” you say, fighting back a big smile. “I remember having a little thing for you two as well.”

The laughter that followed filled the room, the three of you lost in the silliness of the confessions. But as the laughter gradually fades, a sudden silence blankets the space. It wasn’t uncomfortable—quite the opposite, actually—but it carries an undercurrent of something deeper.

When what you revealed finally sinks in, you think you must have misheard yourself. What you said was a joke you hadn’t realized you were about to make, right? You weren’t sure if the sudden heat in your cheeks was from the admission or the way the air in the room had shifted so subtly that it was almost imperceptible. It was as if the past three years of friendship, of teasing, of little moments like these, had all been stripped of their platonic certainty and were now clouded by scrawls of “What if?”

The silence is so thick you can almost hear your heartbeat echo in your ears. The room feels suffocating with the weight of unspoken feelings – as if the walls themselves are holding their breath.

You exchange a glance with Sirius. He’s not looking at you with the usual carefree glint—there’s something else buried beneath it now. Something that makes you think twice before meeting Remus’ gaze. He’s looking at you too, but his eyes are softer, more searching than you’ve ever seen before.

In the stillness, you can hear Sirius’ fingers drumming lightly against Remus’ shoulder. Then it stops, and the sound fades to be replaced by the thrum of your own pulse in your throat. Remus’ breathing slows, and you can see the way his chest rises and falls with a rhythm that seems too deliberate than it should.

Your gaze flits between them. Back to Sirius, then Remus. The question hovers in the air, and even though it’s unspoken, it’s painfully palpable. It’s a question you’ve been trying not to ask for the past few years. It’s one that lingers in the corners of your mind every time they look at you like this.

Then, just as the moment stretches taut and thick, Sirius breaks the silence in the only way he can. His voice is casual – too light – almost too loud for the moment.

“Well, that’s enough emotional exposure for one night!”

He rolls off Remus, flopping onto the bed and causing the springs to protest. His hair spills across the pillow, messy from where he had been lying on top of Remus. The tension that has been building up snaps like a rubber band that’s been pulled too tight. It’s broken—but not completely gone.

You can’t help but notice how Sirius’ cheek is flushed with something more than just playful exhaustion, his lips curling into a mischievous smile. He stares at the ceiling in contemplative wonder before he distracts himself by kicking his feet up into the air.

Remus’ gaze is still on you. He looks at you, a beat too long, like there’s something he wants to say but can’t find the words for.

Before either of you say a word, Sirius is already pulling him back into the moment. With a theatrical sigh, he drops an arm around Remus’ chest, yanking him into an easy, lighthearted conversation again. The three of you move on as if the confessions hadn’t resurfaced feelings you thought had vanished a long time ago.

The room is dark, save for the weak glow of the moon filtering through the windows. You can’t sleep. The silence is suffocating, its heaviness too distracting to lull you into sleep. You’ve been staring at the ceiling for far too long.

You can’t take it anymore.

You throw the blanket off you with a frustrated huff and slip out of bed. The cold floor grounds you slightly as you head for the door. Maybe a glass of water – or two – could satiate the drought in your throat.

 You pad carefully toward the kitchen, instinctually trying not to wake them, knowing both are probably already asleep in their room. The hallway feels endless, your footsteps muffled against the cool wood beneath you. But as you pass their door, something stops you.

A voice.

You freeze, eyeing the light that filters from the space between the door and the floorboards, because maybe your ears were deceiving you. The voice is low, almost too faint to make out. I shouldn’t eavesdrop, you tell yourself – but your feet betray you. You move before you can stop it, drawing closer, until you’re standing close enough to hear. Your heart is racing in your chest.

“Pads, it’s not that simple,” Remus’ voice comes, steady and low.

Sirius huffs from the other side of the room, the sound of the sheets rustling in the quiet.

“It’s exactly that simple, Moony. We just… we tell her.”

Remus sighs in a way that tells you the weight of his thoughts—of this apparent proposition—is pulling him down. “At two in the morning? I think she’d appreciate not being woken up to… this.”

“Because we’ll keep putting it off otherwise!” Sirius’ voice rises before hushing again. He’s trying to gather the right words, being left frustrated but determined. “I can’t keep doing this, Remus. I can’t keep looking at her and pretending like I don’t want—like we don’t want…” His voice trails off, the vexation lacing every word, the quiet desperation in his tone is unmistakable.

Your stomach flips. They’re talking about you, aren’t they?

“I hate it.” He continues. “Feeling this way and not saying anything. It’s like it’s going to rip me apart, and I know you feel the same. Don’t you?”

Silence takes place again, then Remus’ voice breaks the quiet.

“Of course I do, Pads. But what if…”

Your chest tightens. What if? What if what?

There’s a creak of the bed. Then Sirius’ voice intensifies again, louder now. “No. No more of this. Let’s just go talk to—”

“Sirius, it’s the break of d—”

The door swings open.

You don’t have time to step back. You freeze – caught – and there he is. Sirius. Standing in the doorway, his hair tousled, his grey eyes widening as they meet yours.

With no warning, he steps forward. His hands find your face as he pulls you into him. His lips crash against yours with a fierce intensity that you’ve come to expect from Sirius Black.

The kiss is sudden, messy, and it knocks all the breath from your lungs. It feels like lightening, sending a jolt of heat straight to your core. His lips are demanding and desperate, with an undeniable tenderness guiding them too. He sighs against your mouth, his shoulders relaxing as he leans into you. You can’t breathe – can’t think. Everything is buzzing, spinning, and all you can focus on is Sirius.

When he finally pulls back, he huffs in satisfaction.

“There,” he says, as if he’s finally put everything to rest. His hands fall from your face, but his gaze lingers.

Behind him, you can hear Remus groan. He rubs a hand over his face in exasperation, through there’s a subtle smile tugging at his lips. “Well, I guess we’re doing this now.”

You blink, still standing there and completely speechless. You’re sure you must be dreaming right now as your mind races. You open your mouth to say something – anything – but Sirius doesn’t give you the chance. He turns his head to glance over his shoulder at Remus.

“Oh, don’t act so surprised,” he says. “You wanted this too.”

Remus raises an eyebrow, attempting to keep his composure. He rises from the bed and steps forward, closing the small gap between the three of you.

“I’d have gone about it differently,” he teases. He pauses, his gaze locking with yours, his smile widening just a fraction. “But… I supposed he’s not entirely wrong.”

You’re nestled between them, the quiet warmth of their bed wrapping all three of you like a cocoon. Sirius’ arm drapes lazily across your stomach as his fingers trace patterns and shapes on an exposed bit of skin. Remus’ hair tickles your jaw as his head rests against your shoulder. Sirius shifts slightly, propping himself up on an elbow to look at you. His stormy eyes flicker with something almost boyish.

“You’re finally ours now,” he says with a satisfied grin.

The words hit you square in the chest, sending a flurry of fluttering wildly in your stomach.

Remus huffs. “Couldn’t have put it more poetically, could you, Pads?”

Sirius snorts and rolls his eyes. “Excuse me for not wanting to keep pretending like we haven’t been living in a ridiculous tension-filled love triangle for the last few years.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Remus mutters while you laugh. He glances at you, his amber eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them.

Sirius leans in with zero hesitation, catching your lips in a kiss. It’s playful but loving, and your lips curve into a smile against his. Pulling back, he flashes you one of those grins that causes your face to heat up. He tilts toward Remus next, with the kiss being slower, and filled with the same easy intimacy that’s always existed between them.

When they part, Remus raises his head from your shoulder, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. He moves, placing another kiss to your cheek, then your temple, his breath warm against your skin.

“Goodnight,” he whispers against your hair.

Sirius’ arm tightens around your waist as Remus’ fingers lace with yours.

[siriuslywicked]

[siriuslywicked]

🎄🐾🐺✨🌘

[siriuslywicked]

[siriuslywicked]

[siriuslywicked]

Pairing: Millionaire Joel Miller x Female Reader

Rating: 18+ 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️

Updated Word Count: 78k

Series Summary: After recently graduating from university, your best friend offers you a job cleaning luxury homes for clients you’ll never know. It’s only temporary and a good way to save money for when you go back to get your law degree. That’s what you’re promised at least. Easy. Simple. Mundane. That is, until one of your clients is home and everything that you felt was missing in your life starts to fall into place. This goes against the NDA you signed and you could get fired. Or worse, you could fall in love.

Content Warning: In order to avoid spoilers I will not be warning you of everything. This story will contain sexually explicit material around the world of BDSM. Please remember that even with the age gap betweeen Joel and Reader, they are both legal and consenting adults. Although my intentions are never to trigger anyone, you are solely responsible for the content you consume. That being said, as a survivor of sexual assault none of this story will contain dubcon or consensual non consent. At the heart of it all, this is a love story.

AN: I figured that @mermaidgirl30, @littlevenicebitch69, @burntheedges and @joelmillerisapunk are all sick of me yelling at them about this story so I should start sharing! Thank you to the 4 of you for all your kind words and encouragement. To the 800+ of you that follow me, thank you for being such beautiful souls and encouraging me to work on my craft. I hope you love this series as much as I love each and every one of you. Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5 - Part One

Chapter 5 - Part Two

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8 - Coming January

*Chapter count and release dates could change*

Follow @mountainsandmayhem-updates and turn on notifications for updates.

[siriuslywicked]

[siriuslywicked]

sirius 'simultaneously the witty class clown that gives people a laugh & mysterious rebellious mean kid that people are scared of' black

james 'simultaneously the adored rich kid who's king of the jocks & science nerd pining after a girl who doesn't like him back' potter

remus 'simultaneously weird sickly loser people avoid & laidback prefect that people love cause he lets them get away with anything' lupin

peter 'simultaneously the tagalong of the hottest boys in school & smart troublemaker in his own right that's always in detention' pettigrew

[siriuslywicked]

can i get a short lil sumthin sumthin about remus and his girlfriend being academic weapons, sirius and james thinks they're boring bc they've been doing their work in the library for hours but they're actually cockwarming and seeing who'll crack first heheheh 👀👀👀

"Focus, Lupin"

Pairing: Remus Lupin x girlfriend!reader

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: well, smut of course! Exhibitionism, possessive Remus, yall are both freaks tbh, cucking? cock warming, riding

A/N: The other marauders have a big fat stinking crush on you but that's neither here nor there until the end of the fic. Sighhh, I go through my marauders mood swings. Your house isn't clear so feel free to pick any of them.

Tags: @yvy1s @innercreationflower

Remus hooks his chin over your shoulder, looking for all the world as if he's just getting into a better position to read his chicken scratch notes, pressing your back even further against his chest. You inhale, clenching around him at the sudden movement. You scoff at his near-inaudible laughter, elbowing him as he chuckles into your neck.

"Quit it." You grumble, quil moving at the speed of light as you furiously write.

"Quit what?" He moves the textbook you're sharing closer, the big hand he places on the page mirrors the one that's settled on your stomach. He spreads his fingers wide like he's stretching them before he drums them along the parchment. You wish you hadn't left your robes in your dorm, at least then you'd have another layer between your skin and Remus's teasing touch.

"You're cheating." You hiss, but that's the most you do to reprimand him. It's your fault you're in this mess anyhow.

Both of you are always the highest scorers in your class. And with the past few exams, you've been getting the same score or beating each other by a point or two. It's bloody frustrating.

You continuously tried to one-up each other in academics, long after you two started dating. He's your rival first, boyfriend second.

At this very moment, before you both sit two half-done papers for your N.E.W.T-level Alchemy class that isn't due for another week, but you get extra house points if you're the first to turn it in.

Which you plan to be, even if half the blood in your brain has traveled down to where you're swollen and soaked. You both sit completely clothed, other than where you're hitched on Remus's cock, knickers pulled to the side.

Of course, the library is empty. It's nine in the afternoon on a Friday. And it was your idea to see whose dedication would overpower their carnal desires. 

He laughed you off at first. A soft, dismissive chuckle rumbling from his chest, muffled by the book he barely looked up from. Typical, shaking his head as if you'd said something absurd and that was the beginning and end of it. But you knew him well enough by now to know which buttons to push—and exactly how hard. 

"Yeah, right," you sighed, letting your tone drop into exaggerated defeat as you flopped back against his headboard. "Wouldn't be much of a competition anyway."

Remus paused mid-turn of the page. His brows furrowed, eyes flicking to you in sharp suspicion, but you didn't look at him. Not yet. Instead, you stretched out along his bed like a cat, carefully keeping your expression blank as you toyed with the edge of the blanket.

"...And what's that supposed to mean?" His voice was sharp, clipped, but you could hear the curiosity, the irritation. The competitive edge. Exactly what you were counting on.

"Hm? Oh, nothing." You waved a hand vaguely in his direction, settling yourself comfortably against his pillows. You stretched a little more, arching your back like a cat before flopping onto your side. You kept your expression perfectly neutral, but you knew he could feel the smirk simmering beneath the surface. "It's just...well, we both know you'd give in long before me. So there's truthfully no point in even entertaining the idea." You shrugged, all nonchalance, even as you felt your chest flutter at the way his brows drew together. "I'm just agreeing with you, Rem."

His scoff was immediate, sharp and incredulous. You'd earned yourself a full look now, his book lowering just enough to reveal the disbelief etched across his face. “That’s not what I said.”

You shrugged as if it was no concern to you, deliberately looking away like the conversation was already over, knowing full well he wouldn’t let it rest. You flipped onto your stomach, propping your chin on your hands to stare at him with wide, innocent eyes. "Didn’t need to." 

You bit your lip to keep from smiling as his book lowered—not abruptly, but slowly, deliberately. One inch, then two—his sharp amber eyes flicking to yours. The forefinger he slipped between the pages made it look like he might still pretend to be reading, but you knew better.

The scar closest to his eye twitched, irritation flickering faintly across his face. Merlin, you always loved how expressive that scar was when he was annoyed. One of his fingers tapped against the book spine resting on his chest, the motion twitchy.

He exhaled through his nose—sharp, like he was trying to keep it together—and finally set the book aside. His movements were precise, controlled, but there’s no hiding the faint flush creeping over his neck or the way the corner of his mouth twitched.

You knew you got him. He tried, and failed, to mask his irritation and it was almost unfair how easy he was to rile up. Almost

He let a long silence settle, the weight of his gaze pressing into you. Finally: “…You taking the piss?” 

You let the grin spread across your face this time, sitting up slightly so your chin props on your hands. "M'as serious as the plague, Lupin."

The staring match that followed was something out of a duel, the cogs in his mind clearly spinning. The tension stretched taut between you, thick as smoke, neither of you daring to blink.

His book stayed in his hand for a moment longer, though you saw the exact second he gave up pretending to read. Then, to your satisfaction, he closed his book with an audible thud and set it aside. He shifted, sitting up and leaning forward. He crossed his arms over his broad chest, the muscles in his forearms flexing with the movement, and your stomach twisted—just a smidge.

"Go get your books," he said, his voice low and challenging, sending electricity up your spine. "And meet me in the library."

“Oooh, someone's touchy," you said, walking your fingers up his thigh, muscles tensing under your touch. “Formal battlegrounds now, is it? Bold move, Rem. I thought you liked keeping your humiliations private. But if losing in public gets your rocks off, who am I to deny you?"

His lips twitched—an almost-smile that was gone too fast to catch properly. “I’ll be the one handing out the humiliation, thanks.” 

"Stakes?" you asked, cocking your head.

"Loser buys the winner chocolate frogs for a week," he said, already swinging his legs off the bed. Then, after a pause, he glanced over his shoulder, smirking faintly. "Or…whatever else I decide." 

You pushed yourself up with a wicked grin that matched his, already moving toward the door. “Alright, but don’t be mad when you’re the one giving in first. I know you can’t resist me for long.” 

Behind you, you heard him huff a laugh, though it sounded like he was trying to hide it. “Get your books, trouble. Let’s see how well you actually handle restraint.” 

You were confident by the end of this week you'd overdose on chocolate frogs. Remus might be brilliant and disciplined, but he’s not immune to distraction. Especially distraction in the form of his wickedly beautiful girlfriend.

Truthfully, it was daft of you to assume Remus would play fair. You mix two people who are as competitive as they are horny and it leads you here, on your boyfriend's lap, surely dripping onto the wooden bench under you.

He hums as if he's thinking over the definition of cheating and if what he's doing right now counts as it—which it does.

"S'that right?" He mumbles into your neck and you almost reach for your wand, honest, "I don't see any cheating here, love. Just good old fashioned studying, just like you wanted."

He thrusts up, and your hand flies up to cover your mouth. You see his quill moving out of the corner of your eye without the aid of a hand. "Cheater," you pant, but don't move to stop him or even continue writing your essay. You allow yourself to enjoy the slow, steady rock of his hips against yours—only for a moment. Every vein and ridge dragging against your hypersensitive walls.

You go to reach back—for support, for a futile attempt at stopping the way he rocks into you, feeling as inevitable as the ticking of time—with your other hand, but are stopped by the quill in your hand. You're reminded, there and then, that winning over Remus is almost, if not just as satisfactory as a hard won orgasim.

You put quill to ink pot, and then, quill to parchment. Remus curses behind you but doesn't stop. Not with you panting and whining behind gritted teeth. Not with you clenching around him like a Grindylow's spindly fingers, tightening with a merciless grip. He doesn’t stop until the familiar voice of his mates cuts through the fog.

"There you two are. Should've known you'd be held up in here weeks before your assignment is done. On a weekend at that—" Sirius trails off as he and James discover the little nook you and Remus have secluded yourselves too, as well as the...odd position you find yourselves in.

It's not that he's never seen you two be affectionate, especially nearing the full moon as it is, but you in Remus's lap like this, a flustered look on your face, well, he's not a dumbass. Something out of the ordinary is happening here.

James on the other hand is none the wiser, brows furrowing in self righteous disappointment.

"We've been looking for you two everywhere. Party's not that far off, you know the turn out will be lethal even if we lost the match to those snakes." There was a foul that should've been called, but wasn't, a sligh that the refs didn't catch. In traditional Gryffindor fashion, they didn't whine about a rematch or about the unfairness of it, and in typical Slytherin fashion, they didn't either. But they needed you two to help set up certain spells only you two knew because, well, you created them. Definitely not because they liked watching the way their best mate's girl stretched and bent as she set up in the Gryffindor commons.

"We know," Remus says, glancing up at the boys before looking back to one of the open textbooks. "The plan's to party the weekend away, yeah? It's why we're getting the assignment out of the way. Sooner you let us finish this," he's slowly sliding his hands up from your knees to your hips, pushing you down with such strength that your stomach clenches, "sooner we can help."

"It's...it's just an essay, Sirius. We'll be done before the Hufflepuffs start," you almost bite your tongue mid-sentence when Remus ghosts a callused finger over your aching clit, playing it off as a hiccup, "bringing the snacks.

Neither of you say anything more as you have a sneaking suspicion that they're going to catch on, chances of you opening your mouth to speak only for a moan to tumble out are high. Remus is quiet because he hopes they do figure it out, either from the audible wetness of your cunt or your eyes rolling back as he makes you cum. 

Remus knows they're in love with you and have been since third and fourth year. He's tempted to invite them a glimpse under the table so they can see how he has you stretched around his cock, squirming and wanton. What better way of making sure they know you're his?

And from the way Sirius looks the two of you over, glances down at the table, and raises his perfectly sculpted brows as James begins to ramble at you, there’s no mistaking that Sirius knows. Of course he does. Sirius always knows. His stormy eyes flick down again—deliberate, calculating—as if he’s debating whether or not to call you out. He hums, low and thoughtful, as if weighing the satisfaction of saying something versus letting the moment play out. Instead, he smirks faintly and leans against a nearby bookcase, letting James’s oblivious chatter fill the space.

Remus holds his gaze, unflinching, daring him to say a word. For a brief, reckless moment, he considers sliding his chair back just enough to let Sirius catch a glimpse of how thoroughly he has you. The thought makes his cock twitch inside you, and from the way Sirius’s smirk curves a fraction higher, it’s almost like he knows that, too.

Remus doesn’t full-on smirk when they lock eyes, but it’s a close thing.

"…Right.” Sirius tilts his head slightly, his sharp grey eyes dragging over the two of you like he’s piecing together a puzzle he’s already solved. His gaze flicks down to the table again—just briefly—and then back up to meet yours. The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smirk, but close enough to make your stomach drop. “You know, you two really are awful at being subtle.”

Your heart skips a beat, heat rushing to your face as you open your mouth to protest—except Sirius doesn’t give you the chance. He hums thoughtfully, his gaze flicking to Remus, and then back to you, like he’s enjoying the power of watching you squirm. “But don’t think being pretty gets you out of work,” he adds smoothly, leaning in to knock his knuckle against the table. “You’ve got until ten on the dot before I come back and drag you out of here myself.”

James, oblivious as ever, snorts and waves Sirius off. “Don’t listen to him, he’s just mad because we need you for the setup,” he says, rolling his eyes. He jabs a thumb at Sirius, then gestures toward the door. “I told him you’re probably in here studying, because what else would you two be doing on a Friday night?”

Sirius hums again, a low, knowing sound, his gaze locking with Remus’s in a silent challenge. The corner of his mouth curves, just enough for you to wonder if he’s going to say something more—something that will make it impossible to deny that he knows exactly what’s happening beneath the table.

But instead, he lets out a soft laugh, straightening from the bookcase. “Sure,” he drawls, his voice dripping with amusement. “Studying.” His eyes grow bigger as he says it to emphasis just how little he believes that rubbage excuse.

He casts one last look over the two of you, smirking faintly, before turning to leave, James already rambling on about the next Quidditch match as they disappear into the corridor. Relief floods your chest for all of three seconds—before Remus tilts his hips just so, dragging another whimper from you as his cock presses deeper.

You bite your cheek, barely able to return James's wave goodbye before you're digging your nails into Remus's thighs. The same thighs that are currently spreading yours apart. Your skirt rides up, exposing you to the air and his sly hands.

"This," your hips twitch against his as he traces feather-light fingers over your puffy lips, swollen with need. You bite back a whine, huffing harshly through your nose as those fingers move down where the base of his cock sits snugly in you, tubbing slick where you and he are connected. "This is how you're cheating."

"If you're so much better than me, you should be able to focus, no problem, right?" He has an arm wrapped around your waist again, the other flipping pages.

"Fine." If that's how he wants to play, then you are more than game. You lean forward, elbows on the table as you grind your hips back and forth, barely raising off of him before coming back down with your fluttering warmth squeezing around him. "Focus, Lupin. Or, mh, at least try."

"Shhhit. D-dearest, that's not—" he cuts himself off with a truly shameless moan, both hands gripping your waist. He doesn't stop you, no, wouldn't dream of it. Instead, he helps you balance as you move faster, busy chasing your high more than you're focused on sabotaging Remus. "You, your—Merlin, you're bloody brilliant."

At this point, you don't know what'll come first: you, Remus, or Sirius's wrath.

[siriuslywicked]

daddy next door | j. miller (four)

❝ i’ll keep you safe ❞

Your relationship with Joel changes drastically, for better or worse.

chapter warnings: MDNI. age gap (20s/50s). angst. depictions of anxiety and discussion of trauma. fluff. hurt/comfort. mutual pining. foul language. food consumption. explicit smut. praise. pet names. body worship. pussy play. fingering. oral (f receiving). joel miller the munch ™️. daddy kink. dd/lg dynamics. shame surrounding sex/kink. joel lifts reader. reader implied to be shorter than joel, but otherwise has no physical descriptions. wc: 6.3k

➻ a/n: hi. thank you for waiting for me. this chapter means a lot to me. love always to @kiwisbell for holding my hand through it.

previous chapter | series masterlist | read it on ao3!

He tended to you last night as if it were second nature. 

He brought you into his home, guided you to his couch, and wrapped a blanket around your shoulders. He told you, once more, to stay put while he slipped away to the kitchen to make you a cup of tea. If you had been more lucid then, you would have beamed at the sentiment. But you resided in a stupor, succumbing to that faraway place. Safer. Easier. 

Thunder boomed in the distance, heightening the grim affair; it startled you every time it echoed across the sky. When Joel returned, he carefully placed the steaming mug between your palms and sat beside you. His hand found a home at the small of your back, thumb tracing delicate circles over the blanket. You sipped at the tea, and it burned. You welcomed the pain, a distraction. Most of the time was spent in silence, finding it difficult to do anything but let the liquid char your tongue in between quiet hiccups and full-body sobs. 

Joel was patient, if not uneasy, but you couldn’t blame him. 

“You gotta give me somethin’ here, honey,” he said at one point, sounding overwhelmed. “Are ya hurt?” 

“No.” And of course, you lied. There was no other option. “I just—my dad. We… we got into an argument.” 

He sighed. Relief. Blissfully unaware of the magnitude of your statement. 

He didn’t push you any further, to which you were grateful. Deceit had never been your strong suit and the throes of exhaustion were already pulling you into their fortress. Instead, he put his arm around your lower back and let you lean into him. You rested your head in the curve of his shoulder, closing your eyes, and breathing through your nose: mahogany, and linen, and a twinge of honey. 

He jostled you awake when you started to doze off, apologizing, and explaining you would be much more comfortable upstairs. He offered you the guest bedroom, which elicited an unwarranted wave of disappointment. You chalked it up to your vulnerable state of mind for even entertaining the idea of sleeping beside him; burying your nose in his neck, letting his earthy musk, deep breaths, and steady heartbeat lull you to sleep. 

Fantasies. 

All of his movements were calculated, as if not to spook the wounded animal he led up the stairs. The guest room was cozy and plain. Only a full-sized bed and a dresser occupied the space. 

He directed you toward the bathroom, asking if you wanted to wash up, but you shook your head. Too tired. He said to let him at least put the clothes you’d been in all day in the wash, which earned him a quizzical look. 

Where was he supposed to get another pair of clothes suitable for you? 

Disappointment crept in again, only to be quickly smothered when he returned from a short trek down the hall with a neatly folded pile. He handed them to you, and upon further inspection, you realized they were his. 

You blinked at him, almost stupidly, clutching the fabric to your chest. 

What now? 

You were torn between longing and fatigue. He stood before you, hands in his pockets, a pained sort of look in his eyes. You watched his adam’s apple bounce in his throat before he cleared it, eyes dropping to the wooden floors. 

“M’just down the hall if ya need me.” 

And that was that. 

Peaking over your shoulder, you had made certain he was nowhere in sight despite the door being closed, and buried your face into the fabric of the t-shirt he left you. 

It smelled clean. It smelled like him. And you wasted no time stripping yourself of your rain-soaked clothes to replace them with his. And once you crawled into the bed, tucking yourself under the covers, you stuck your nose back into the collar of the shirt, sighing. 

He wasn’t with you, but a part of him was. And you knew the rest of him was only a short way away. 

That soothed you. 

And now, as you wake within the same bed you had burrowed yourself into eight hours prior, you still find yourself fatigued and burdened with a deep sense of longing. 

The sun peeks through water droplets stuck to the cracked window. The scent of dew and the familiar hum of the mourning dove fill the otherwise quiet home. You stare at the ceiling for a while, an intense form of processing. The last twenty-four hours feel like a fever dream, despite every aspect around you reminding you it’s real. 

Your body aches; a response to the grief and adrenaline. It’s a familiar sense of despair, one that’s been embedded in you since an early age. You think you must wake up most mornings feeling this way, just of varying intensities. Whatever force of nature is responsible for steering your life forward, you imagine they must pity you. A waste of sentience, to constantly exist for the convenience of others rather than creating something for yourself. 

But there’s Joel. 

A piece on the board that entirely changes the game, and you suddenly feel equally vibrant and thrown off-kilter. A nervousness creeps into your stomach, though much unlike that of yesterday. It’s warm, and exhilarating, and foreign, but you do your very best not to run from it. You want to see him. You want to be near him. 

You’re tossing the sheets off of you before you have a chance to change your mind. It’s only the glimpse of yourself in the dresser mirror that stops you. You gawk at the sight of unwashed hair and smudged mascara, swollen cheeks from hours of tears, and it simply won’t do. 

As quickly and quietly as possible, you peek your head out the bedroom door finding the hall vacant, using the opportunity to sprint towards the bathroom. You don’t lock the door. There’s no need. Nothing of threat lurks in these halls. 

There, you find your reflection and begin to assess thoroughly. You tilt your head from side to side, making a point to examine the skin revealed by the hem of Joel’s t-shirt. 

No bruises. Good. 

You lift a hand to your jugular and run it across the exposed skin, wincing at the sensitive sting. A little bit of pain now is worth far more than scrambling for an explanation, and you intend to keep up whatever half-true story you told Joel last night. 

You make quick work of a shower, folding his clothes neatly in a pile on the sink before stepping into the lukewarm water. You stare at them once you’re finished, standing in a towel, dripping onto the tile. 

What would he think of you coming down the steps wearing them? Was it something he had cared to picture when he gave them to you? Was it even an appropriate option? You think you gave up on appropriateness the night you kissed him, but that does not negate the boundaries you had promised to respect. 

Or maybe, as far-fetched as your brain tricks you into believing, this is a prime example of thinking about it too hard. In all your interactions with Joel Miller, he had never once shown you anything less than grace and kindness. There’s a likeness between you, to whatever degree it may be, and you feel with great certainty—real conviction, undoubtedly a result of his treatment of you—that he wants you to be comfortable here. 

You slip yourself back into his clothes and don’t think twice about it before heading for the stairs. 

“Joel?” you call out as you descend. No response. 

There is a brief moment of panic, but when you reach the lower level and cross into the kitchen, you’re relieved to find a half-empty coffee mug and a note beside it. 

Had to run to the office. 

Help yourself to anything.

Back soon. - J  

Underneath the words are the ten digits of his phone number, and you take a moment to run your fingers over the penmanship. 

You peer around the kitchen, finding that the silence isn’t so much eerie as it is… odd. It feels wildly intimate to be alone in the place Joel Miller calls home, his entire life laid out before you, free for exploration. However, the loud rumble in your belly takes sudden precedence. 

His fridge is sparse, but you find a carton of eggs and an unopened pack of bacon for a suitable enough breakfast. You take to the loaf of bread on the counter, popping two slices into the toaster to bake whilst you idle at the stove. While the bacon sizzles, you migrate to the coffee pot, finding the batch he put on earlier nearly empty. You flash your eyes to his empty mug on the counter, back to the pot, to the mug, and decide astutely that he’s certainly the type of man to need more than one cup for the day. You quickly start a fresh batch, adding another scoop of grounds for yourself. 

The routine, ordinarily done out of obligation, is refreshing in a new environment. Your mind wanders freely back to the first time you met him. Hot, balmy, your hands sticking to the plate of muffins you carried across his yard. The crinkles in the corners of his eyes when you told him they were blueberry. 

My favorite, he’d said. 

It was that moment, you think, that you decided you would like to know about all he holds dear, and how quickly you may get your hands on them. 

You’ve just finished plating the meal, lost in thought, when the front door opens. You freeze. The floorboards creak under the weight of boots, followed by a succession of thuds. The door closes, and you hold your breath; the soft padding of socked feet heading towards the kitchen follows. You wrap your fingers around the edge of the counter, bracing for impact, but when Joel’s frame morphs into the kitchen archway, you're put to ease. 

He stops short of the tiles, a bit of surprise glazing his eyes despite knowing you would be here—in his home. The same image is mirrored in yours; the uncharted dynamic is foreign and nerve-racking. 

You’ve never even seen him at this time of day before. 

Let alone in his home. In his clothes. 

You both study each other silently. You wonder if you should feel more awkward, or embarrassed even, but the privacy is welcomed, tranquil. 

No one knows you’re here. And while your life may be falling apart outside of Joel Miller’s four walls, what lives inside of them remains to be unseen by the rest of the world. 

“Mornin’,” he says eventually, taking a few gradual steps towards the counter. He’s already in his day clothes—black slacks and a forest green button-up, the only remedy for his hair looking to be a few hurried combs of his fingers. It’s endearing, and you don’t pretend to ignore the way your chest blooms at the sight. 

“Good morning,” you return, a hesitant thing, fiddling with your fingers behind your back. 

The counter acts as a shield between the two of you, but you long to close the space. It’s difficult to fight off the urge, every synapse firing inside of you with the intent to seek him out. 

“Everything okay with work?” you opt to ask instead. 

He nods. “Nothin’ I can’t handle.” And that has you breathing a soft chuckle. You’re certain there isn’t anything he can’t handle. But you notice a tentative look in his eyes before: “You…you feelin’ okay?”

Then, he’s taking another handful of slow steps toward you, and you watch while his eyes map out the path of your body, memorizing the landmarks that belong to him. The distance is painful. Agonizing in a way that leaves you unsatisfied, longing for something more. You need more. You take an unwitting step yourself, rounding the corner of the counter. 

You nod, followed by a soft shrug of your shoulders. The weight of his question is seemingly less important than the consolation of his presence. 

“Yeah,” you say, “I’ll be okay.” And you mean it a little more this time. Unlike the last time he asked you this very question, unlike every other time you’ve repeated the same answer. 

And there’s this surge, this overwhelming force that’s drawing you to him, a familiar feeling. You hesitate this time, unsure of every line, every boundary. But then there’s a softening to his eyes and a downturn to his lips, and he knows. 

He knows what you need. 

His arms are already opening for you when you stride forward, and you eagerly wrap yours around his neck when you reach him. He secures his around your waist in a tight embrace, flushing you to his chest, and burying his nose into your hair. You sigh a breath of relief, whatever coil of panic still lingered in your stomach slowly beginning to unravel. 

Yeah. Just what you need. 

“I made breakfast,” you mutter, but it’s garbled into his skin where your lips press to his neck. So warm. Smells so good. “It’s not much, but um… I wanted to say thank you. For last night.” You lift your head out of the crook of your elbow and press your cheek to the side of his head instead. You want him to hear your gratitude and know that it’s sincere. “And everything else,” you add sheepishly. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” he mumbles back, muffled in your hair. You feel his chest expand and wonder if you smell like him now, too. 

“Wanted to.” Not just to thank you, but to make you happy. Just like you’ve done for me. “Put on another pot of coffee, too.” 

He pulls back then, just enough to peer down at you, his thumbs absentmindedly circling your hips. 

“Woman after my own heart,” he quips, and the shared laughter that follows feels so good. Refreshing and safe, distinguishing any residual unease from the air. 

There’s a square wooden table near the back doors. He carries your plates over and waits for you to sit before sitting beside you. Far enough away so he can still look at you, but close enough that your elbows brush every time you reach for your mug. You’re surprised by the normalcy of it. How naturally the mundane conversation ebbs into silence, and how easily that silence can be enjoyed. You talk about nothing and you talk about everything. Simple things, like his job, or the last book you read, or the latest episode of The Walking Dead. The sun has started to emerge beyond the rain clouds, the morning glow casting you both in a silhouette of serenity and warmth. 

“These are actually really good,” he mumbles at some point. 

You cock an eyebrow at him. “Actually? Rude.” 

You knock your elbow teasingly against his forearm, earning you a glimpse of that dazzling smile. “I’m an excellent cook when I actually have the right ingredients,” you chastise, nudging your head towards his very empty refrigerator. 

Joel barks out a laugh around a mouthful of toast. “I could get used to this happenin’ more often.” He wiggles his eyebrows at you and you roll your eyes. 

“Don’t push your luck, mister.” 

You share another laugh, and it’s equally as healing. It’s easy to forget your misfortunes, your heartbreak that, only yesterday, was dealt by his own hand when he’s beaming at you like this. When the world feels entirely good, and balanced, and full of you and him, there is no need to question.  

“I’ll make sure to leave ya a good tip.” 

“Yeah, you better.” 

Despite your insistence on handling them, he helps you with the dishes once you’re both finished. 

What kinda host would I be, he says, if I let my guest do all the heavy lifting? 

You roll your eyes playfully but press no further. You’re no fool to pass up the opportunity for another moment so close to him, even if it is mostly silence amongst the trickle of the sink. 

It’s nice to feel welcomed. You want to feel it for as long as possible. 

But once the dishes are dry and what conversation you do have comes to its natural conclusion, uncertainty creeps back in. You stand on the side of the island opposite him, your fingers wrapping around the countertop. He wrings his hands on the kitchen towel, leans across the way to flip the switch off on the coffee pot, and faces you. 

Neither of you move, and you think, you know, it’s because there is more to be said. You wish for it, silently but vehemently. 

He isn’t casting you away. He doesn’t look off-put by your presence nor seem to be in any apparent rush. Words weigh heavy on your tongue, and you fantasize about strangling the creature that surrounds you. The tension and noise that feed off your trepidation, but you know you can’t be the one to destroy it. You’ve already laid your soul bare for the taking, baited the trap in which you hope he’ll be reckless enough to poke around. 

The moments grow longer, the silence unbearable. You’re suddenly barren and lost, a foolish little deer in headlights hoping the disappointment will swerve, but it comes barreling towards you. 

You try to swallow your pride. You take a deep breath in through your nose, shaky in its release, and drop your eyes to the floor. 

“Well… I guess I should get going—”

“—I can’t do this.” 

Your lips hang open in awe, and your eyes snap back to his attention. A new picture is painted; tense brows above wild eyes, nostrils flared, and his shoulders squared tense. He looks distraught, displeased maybe?

No. No, he’s angry. 

You know from the way the muscle in his jaw protrudes, how he won’t quite meet your gaze while the wheels in his head seem to turn a million miles a second. Your stomach wounds up in knots, and you start to sift through your memories for anything in the last hour that may have upset him. 

You’ve played this game before. You know how important it is to stay ahead, right your wrongs before they go too far. 

I can’t do this, he said. 

“You can’t…” 

You try to ruminate aloud, fit the pieces of the puzzle together. 

I can’t help you. I can’t see you anymore. I can’t be a part of your life. I can’t be what you need me to be. 

“I can’t… put it behind me.” 

The realization hits you. Not angry, frustrated. He’s walked into the iron jaws, and he’s waiting for you to close the trap. 

Your lips part. He takes another step toward you, and it feels like a million tiny bullets are coursing their way through your veins. You tilt your head back to accommodate for his height when he finally reaches you, and your heart thrums in your throat. 

“Then don’t,” you whisper. The trap seals, ringing in your ears. 

He’s on you before you have the chance to breathe. Overpowering and all-consuming, exhilarating. There’s a force in this kiss that lacked in the prior; a surge of assuredness, or the sheer disregard of reason. It’s urgent but driven. There’s nothing careless about it. He kisses you with intention and you’re keen to follow his lead. 

You take him by the shoulders, seeking an anchor. And he takes you by the hips and hoists you onto the counter with little restraint, and this must be what it feels like to finally be alive. 

He’s bullying his waist in between your thighs that have no option but compliance, welcoming the warm press of his body against yours and the intensity it harbors. Your heart pounds against your chest. A rise to an abrupt peak, and there, it stammers with the thrill of his tongue that weaves past your parting lips, tasting you with careful precision. His eager hands paw at anything he can reach, bruising attention onto thighs and hips. 

And when you are granted a moment of reprieve, a chance to catch your breath, your mind is still clouded by the path of his lips. He mouths at your jaw, your collarbones, sucking splotches on your neck. When he finds the spot that makes you tick, he lingers on it. Laving it in attention until all you’re left to do is tremble beneath him. 

“Tell me to stop.” 

He’s practically begging. He pulls his face out of your neck, half-lidded eyes full of remorse. You wish you had the willpower to free him of his torment, but you suffer the same affliction. Instead, you shake your head earnestly, nibbling at your bottom lip and mumbling a nuh-uh. You dig your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, solidifying your decision, and he groans. 

“Fuck.” 

You’re moving, the force of it making you gasp, but you’re certain you won't fall. Not when he’s holding you. Your arms and legs wrap tight around him, clinging to him for dear life, and your head tips back in ecstasy when he runs his tongue over the vein there, leading you out of the kitchen. 

“Joel,” you sigh, hardly recognizing the neediness of your voice. It’s a plea, a question, a prayer.

He grunts, rounding the corner into the living room. The sun pours in from half-drawn curtains, and you can almost catch the way the dust particles float through the air. As if time has generously slowed, allowing you the opportunity to seize the universe's gift to you. 

You feel dizzy, gratitude so palpable you’re muttering thank you’s inside your head. You will worship the being that has granted you this, even if it’s fleeting. 

“I ain’t tasting you for the first time on the damn counter,” Joel grumbles, and you do fall, but only briefly. Still intertwined when your back hits the soft couch cushions where he comforted you mere hours ago, and his knees fall to the floor before you.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen a man on his knees. Certainly not in the act of devotion. The sight of it, the sight of him, is overwhelming. You wonder if this is a dream after all. 

Tasting you. The words begin to ring, muddled with every other thought you try to rationalize. You aren’t sure where to put your hands, so they dig painfully into the cushions, and you’re hopeful the tactile cue will help slow your panting. 

But it fails to do what his hands do. They ground you; they bring you back to earth while still maintaining the thrill of flying. Coasting up and down the length of you, mapping the spots that make you bend and heave. 

“Joel,” you call, weak and strained. You aren’t even sure why you say it this time, but you think he must understand it in the way he looks at you. Full of mercy, a promise to quiet the worry that often plagues you. 

And he does, in the smallest gesture. He wraps his gentle hands around the backs of your calves and keeps his eyes on you while his lips descend to faintly kiss over each of your kneecaps. Still battered and bruised from the prior day, he tended to them then as he tends to you now. It’s profound and overwhelming, and you need more. 

You reach for him finally, grab him by the fabric on his shoulders, and pull him up into your kiss. He grunts in approval, and it makes your stomach flutter. His hands coast up your thighs, over your hips, taking you by the ribcage. He licks you open, a dance of tongues and the taste of coffee. You find the confidence to lift your legs and cradle your thighs around his broad hips, squeezing them tight. You’re unable to suppress the moan that slips into his mouth when the space between your legs brushes against his belly. 

He responds to this, eagerly kissing down the column of your throat, and sliding his fingers under the hem of his t-shirt you wear. He yanks it up over your breasts, and you have the momentary urge to cover up when the cool air hits your nipples. But they’re warmed in his mouth before embarrassment can deter you, and you’re gasping, lacing your fingers into his hair as he gives each little bud a generous suck and pop. 

“God, you’re so fuckin’ pretty. So fuckin’ soft.” 

The sound of his voice rouses you, little pulses shooting to your core. He sounds almost distant, timbre rough and furious, though his touch couldn’t be any further from. His fingers idle by the waistband of the too-big boxer shorts he gave you, tugging at it gently, left and right, a tease. 

You huff impatiently, boldly petulant, your cheeks warm and your heart on fire. He cocks an eyebrow up at you, amused, and you shy away from the grin he bestows you, biting back your own. He gives you what you want, yanks the boxers clean down your legs, meeting no hesitation by your fluttering feet kicking them off. You didn’t have an extra pair of underwear to put on this morning and decided to do without. When your legs fall back open, Joel groans at the sight. 

“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs, but you think that name holds no weight in what is about to unfold. 

You chew on one of your thumbnails nervously, eyeing him while he eyes you. Every last shred of preservation left exposed. You think you’d be more inclined to deny him such a close look at you if it weren’t for how intensely he does, studying you like a specimen, keen to learn every bell and whistle. You think you may be more embarrassed at how wet you are if weren’t for the way he licks his lips, zeroing in on your pulsing cunt before his head dips down, and you feel his breath along your thighs. 

He glances up, hooded eyes blown wide, and you audibly gasp when he leans forward and presses a chaste kiss to your inner thigh. 

“Gonna let me taste you, darlin?” he rasps.  

You nod. So quickly, it’s pathetic. But there’s no other answer to his question. Every moment with him has led you to this. 

“Please.”  

He chuckles against your skin, something a bit sinister. “So polite.” 

You’d never much believed in God, certainly not amongst a community that held such contempt and utilized their prayers as some false sense of redemption. Heaven and hell had always seemed farcical, a ploy for obedience. 

But if there were to be some glory, some sense of faith, you think you’ve found it in the sight of him. Here, there is clarity and truth, painted plainly on the backs of your eyelids that flutter shut, a sigh of relief. Fire bursts in your belly at the warmth of his tongue, flat, long strokes to fan the flames. Somewhere in the haze, you realize you’re missing the pretty picture. And when he flicks the tip of his tongue over your clit, lips wrapping around it in a tender kiss, you gasp. Your eyes fly back open, and your cheeks warm at the obscene sight. 

His eyes are still on you, focused and intense. His hands pry the backs of your thighs apart, and his jaw practically unhinges when he flattens his tongue against your hole, prodding it inside of you until he’s tasting velvet. 

“Oh, god,” you whine, and you wonder if it really is possible for human skin to spontaneously combust, every inch of you tingling, burning. 

He groans, a sound of approval, of praise. He fucks his tongue in and out of you, curved nose deliciously nudging at your clit with each nudge forward. Saliva pools down his chin, out the corner of his lips, mixing generously with your arousal that only grows with each tantalizing moment. 

You’ve never had a man taste you. Not like this. You could hardly say your limited experience with sex was with a man at all, the memories rather boyish and lackluster. But he, Joel–he devours you like his final meal. Lets his thumbs dip into the sensitive flesh of your outer lips, and pulls them apart so that he may sample all of you. 

The coil begins to wind in your lower belly, inching forward, tighter and tighter. He’s downright making out with your swollen cunt, his darkened eyes drooped, drunken. Little remorse for the way you squirm below him; fisting painfully at his hair, legs seizing on their own accord. It’s only when you sigh, a heavy, staggering sort of sound that he breaks for a moment of reprieve. Relentless licks and sucks turned wet kisses, littering them over your spit-soaked mound. 

You try to blink the haze out of your eyes, but then, he’s placing a heavy hand on your stomach, right above where the build-up churns, and uses his free fingers to spread you apart. Strokes at your puffy lips, spreading the evidence of arousal over your throbbing clit in tight circles. Your eyes roll back, toes curling, and hips bucking up, chasing after his touch. 

“Taste so good,” he mumbles, voice not quite his own. Laced with the same mania that radiates through you, stirs your gut. “So fuckin’ sweet.” 

Your lips part, and you try to speak, only to find that you can’t. Your body rejects it, throat gone tight and words vanishing from your repertoire. You know only sounds, conjured by his hands that grow bold, and you nearly wail when his middle finger prods experimentally between your folds before sinking into velvet walls. 

His eyes gauge your reaction, written so plainly across bitten lips and heaving breaths. It’s only one finger, but the sheer thickness of it still stretches you. He begins to pump, slowly, knuckle to tip, and the realization that he’s inside of you is enough to have you seeing stars. 

“Joel,” you mewl. It’s a warning, one emitted from the thread that connects from the top of your head to the tips of your toes, pulled so taut, you’re sure it’ll snap. 

He’s smirking, and you’re guiding the crown of his head with your greedy fingers back towards your cunt. He’s happy to comply, giving your abandoned clit a few experimental kitten-licks with each delicate thrust of his finger. 

You’re loose, floating on water. You can’t remember the last time you felt the safety of letting go, but it lives in this moment, violently beautiful. Nothing else exists, and you're allowed to, you do, feel it all deeply. The humming embrace of security, precious and new. Pleasure, once imagined, tangible and breathtaking. 

“S’that good, darlin’?” he asks you somewhere through the haze. Somewhere between the generous press of wet lips to hot skin, the prod of his filling finger that grazes an undiscovered spot inside of you. 

Your head has fallen back against the cushions, lips and eyes wide towards the ceiling, though you see only in shapes of bright light. You think you tell him yes, yes so good, at least, you try. But words are still foreign, and the bliss is so real. An intensity that continues to pull, tighter, and tighter, until you’re crying out for more. 

He’s asking you again, begging you to tell him how it feels. How good it feels. And you want him to know. Need him to understand the gravity of this pleasure that, for every waking moment of your once meaningless existence, you presumed didn’t exist.

“Oh, yes,” you manage, the precipice of this real ease far beyond any you’ve ever given yourself. “Yes. It’s—haa, so good. So good, Daddy.” 

It slips out before you have the chance to stop it. 

You don’t even register that you’ve said it aloud until he freezes, and the shining edge of ecstasy is lost. 

A fantasy. One that was never meant to make it past closed lips and isolated ideas. Something to be enjoyed in silly novels and the private discourse of your own interests, safely locked inside your mind, always running with fantasies. A perversion, deeply rooted inside of you to the point of no redemption. A secret. Forbidden and nonexistent. 

Your head falls forward, and the mortification rapidly warms your cheeks. Joel’s eyes snap up to yours and his movements falter. Your jaw hangs agape, but it’s no longer from the searing pleasure, but panic. His hands slip away from you, and you know you should close your trembling thighs, bury yourself into the couch, hastily reach for your scattered clothes, but you’re stuck. You feel the tears sting your eyes and your chin starts to tremble. 

Opportunity served on a golden platter, and you allowed it to spoil. 

Idiot, idiot, idiot. 

“I-I didn’t… I didn’t mean to—” 

He uses the back of one of his hands to wipe the evidence of you from his lips, sitting back up on his heels. You can’t read his expression, nauseous with anticipation. A drop of liquid slips past your waterline and down your cheek. 

“Joel, I’m sorry.” Damage control, stammered, and panicked. “I don’t know what came over me—I mean, you… you must think I’m—”

“No. I don’t.” 

It’s as if he can read your mind. As if he knows you’ll berate yourself for what you’ve said, what you’ve done. And yet, when you look at him clearly, you find no trace of distaste. It twists your brows in a knot, confused as to what you’re in the face of. 

He seems calm. Unbothered. 

Understanding, even. 

But how could that be? How could he manage to see you now for anything other than what you really are: a scared little girl, desperately clutching to any honest validation you can find with nothing else to offer. Nothing of substance, nothing to be wanted, or loved— 

“Look at me,” he urges, but he does all of the work for you. Takes your chin between his fingers and points it towards him. Silences the fear. “That what you need from me, baby? Need me to take care of you?” 

The air leaves your lungs, and you’ve forgotten how to breathe. You aren’t sure what you were expecting him to say, but it certainly isn’t this. The sweet little name he calls you for the first time, baby, dripping off his lips like honey.  

And you feel it, that buried thing inside of you, this piece long forgotten. It starts to rattle, it beams, and it’s bursting at the seams with the prospect of freedom. To be seen, to be cherished, to be taken care of. And it’s he, Joel, who presents it to you, and you think surely now you’ve lost your wits about you. So rooted in your escapism, that you’ve convoluted your reality to reflect your dreams.

But you blink, and he’s still knelt before you. His lips are still shining with your arousal. His hands coast your thighs, leaving indents in their wake. His eyes are blown black, chasmic, perhaps the most alive you’ve ever seen them. You somehow manage to nod your head, recalling that he asked you a question. His left brow shoots up in silent response, and you shiver at the chill of his breath across your neck. He’s testing you, and with the release of all that’s been buried, you feel the mighty impulse to appease him. 

“Yes,” you finally breathe, and you’re not sure why the tears line your eyes again, but he’s leaning forward to press a hot kiss to your jugular, and it soothes all that begins to unravel. “Yes, Daddy.” 

There’s nothing left to say after that. In fact, there’s no time, because he’s back on you, silencing your worries by divulging his tongue over your soaking seam. And you’re feeling brave now, fingers finding their way into his hair, and you think he must like this by the way he growls into you. 

He’s lapping at you hole to mound in broad strokes, and your toes curl midair. The scene is lewd, beautiful and overwhelming. He’s breathing heavily through his nose, a raging bull, massaging his tongue over your clit in practice circles, and you start to tremble from the sheer effort he exerts to please you. 

The cusp returns, a weightless sprint, and you allow the tension in your shoulders to drop. Let your mind wander to a place a little brainless. Breathe him in deeper. 

Your stomach grows taut, and then snaps. The coil unwinds rapidly, and you call for him. This new name, this given name, honeyed on your tongue and musical in your ears. It echoes through his four walls, lives, and breathes, and fans the flames of this budding desire. He groans into your cunt, sending vibrations through the already overbearing aftershocks, and makes certain you’ve endured the high before he dares to remove his mouth from you. 

You vaguely make out the image of him licking his lips, and when he leans up to capture yours, you taste salt. Steady tears stream down your cheeks, mixing with saliva, and something uniquely his and yours. Shaky thighs hug his torso, drawing the weight of him in and smothering you with it. You need it to ground you, steady the weightlessness of your body, and keep you from floating away. There’s a surge of catharsis and immediate exhaustion, the pleasant kind that makes your eyelids heavy and your breath grow quiet. 

He says nothing. Lets his nose bump against yours, drawing his eyes over the contours of your face. He looks at you like porcelain, and it feels something like a dream. 

Dream. It must be a dream.

But he kisses you again, and still, his tongue is remanent with you. You place your hands on his chest, and still, you feel the rise and fall of his labored breath. He takes your cheeks into his palms, and still, warm eyes look upon you, flitting between your clouded gaze and swollen lips. You don’t have room to think; the serenity that occupies the space too precious to disrupt.  

It must be a dream. 

But somehow, you never wake up. 

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[siriuslywicked]