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therealbeachfox · 9 months ago

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Twenty years ago, February 15th, 2004, I got married for the first time.

It was twenty years earlier than I ever expected to.

To celebrate/comemorate the date, I'm sitting down to write out everything I remember as I remember it. No checking all the pictures I took or all the times I've written about this before. I'm not going to turn to my husband (of twenty years, how the f'ing hell) to remember a detail for me.

This is not a 100% accurate recounting of that first wild weekend in San Francisco. But it -is- a 100% accurate recounting of how I remember it today, twenty years after the fact.

Join me below, if you would.

2004 was an election year, and much like conservatives are whipping up anti-trans hysteria and anti-trans bills and propositions to drive out the vote today, in 2004 it was all anti-gay stuff. Specifically, preventing the evil scourge of same-sex marriage from destroying everything good and decent in the world.

Enter Gavin Newstrom. At the time, he was the newly elected mayor of San Francisco. Despite living next door to the city all my life, I hadn’t even heard of the man until Valentines Day 2004 when he announced that gay marriage was legal in San Francisco and started marrying people at city hall.

It was a political stunt. It was very obviously a political stunt. That shit was illegal, after all. But it was a very sweet political stunt. I still remember the front page photo of two ancient women hugging each other forehead to forehead and crying happy tears.

But it was only going to last for as long as it took for the California legal system to come in and make them knock it off.

The next day, we’re on the phone with an acquaintance, and she casually mentions that she’s surprised the two of us aren’t up at San Francisco getting married with everyone else.

“Everyone else?” Goes I, “I thought they would’ve shut that down already?”

“Oh no!” goes she, “The courts aren’t open until Tuesday. Presidents Day on Monday and all. They’re doing them all weekend long!”

We didn’t know because social media wasn’t a thing yet. I only knew as much about it as I’d read on CNN, and most of the blogs I was following were more focused on what bullshit President George W Bush was up to that day.

"Well shit", me and my man go, "do you wanna?" I mean, it’s a political stunt, it wont really mean anything, but we’re not going to get another chance like this for at least 20 years. Why not?

The next day, Sunday, we get up early. We drive north to the southern-most BART station. We load onto Bay Area Rapid Transit, and rattle back and forth all the way to the San Francisco City Hall stop.

We had slightly miscalculated.

Apparently, demand for marriages was far outstripping the staff they had on hand to process them. Who knew. Everyone who’d gotten turned away Saturday had been given tickets with times to show up Sunday to get their marriages done. My babe and I, we could either wait to see if there was a space that opened up, or come back the next day, Monday.

“Isn’t City Hall closed on Monday?” I asked. “It’s a holiday”

“Oh sure,” they reply, “but people are allowed to volunteer their time to come in and work on stuff anyways. And we have a lot of people who want to volunteer their time to have the marriage licensing offices open tomorrow.”

“Oh cool,” we go, “Backup.”

“Make sure you’re here if you do,” they say, “because the California Supreme Court is back in session Tuesday, and will be reviewing the motion that got filed to shut us down.”

And all this shit is super not-legal, so they’ll totally be shutting us down goes unsaid.

00000

We don’t get in Saturday. We wind up hanging out most of the day, though.

It’s… incredible. I can say, without hyperbole, that I have never experienced so much concentrated joy and happiness and celebration of others’ joy and happiness in all my life before or since. My face literally ached from grinning. Every other minute, a new couple was coming out of City Hall, waving their paperwork to the crowd and cheering and leaping and skipping. Two glorious Latina women in full Mariachi band outfits came out, one in the arms of another. A pair of Jewish boys with their families and Rabbi. One couple managed to get a Just Married convertible arranged complete with tin-cans tied to the bumper to drive off in. More than once I was giving some rice to throw at whoever was coming out next.

At some point in the mid-afternoon, there was a sudden wave of extra cheering from the several hundred of us gathered at the steps, even though no one was coming out. There was a group going up the steps to head inside, with some generic black-haired shiny guy at the front. My not-yet-husband nudged me, “That’s Newsom.” He said, because he knew I was hopeless about matching names and people.

Ooooooh, I go. That explains it. Then I joined in the cheers. He waved and ducked inside.

So dusk is starting to fall. It’s February, so it’s only six or so, but it’s getting dark.

“Should we just try getting in line for tomorrow -now-?” we ask.

“Yeah, I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible.” One of the volunteers tells us. “We’re not allowed to have people hang out overnight like this unless there are facilities for them and security. We’d need Porta-Poties for a thousand people and police patrols and the whole lot, and no one had time to get all that organized. Your best bet is to get home, sleep, and then catch the first BART train up at 5am and keep your fingers crossed.

Monday is the last day to do this, after all.

00000

So we go home. We crash out early. We wake up at 4:00. We drive an hour to hit the BART station. We get the first train up. We arrive at City Hall at 6:30AM.

The line stretches around the entirety of San Francisco City Hall. You could toss a can of Coke from the end of the line to the people who’re up to be first through the doors and not have to worry about cracking it open after.

“Uh.” We go. ��What the fuck is -this-?”

So.

Remember why they weren’t going to be able to have people hang out overnight?

Turns out, enough SF cops were willing to volunteer unpaid time to do patrols to cover security. And some anonymous person delivered over a dozen Porta-Poties that’d gotten dropped off around 8 the night before.

It’s 6:30 am, there are almost a thousand people in front of us in line to get this literal once in a lifetime marriage, the last chance we expect to have for at least 15 more years (it was 2004, gay rights were getting shoved back on every front. It was not looking good. We were just happy we lived in California were we at least weren’t likely to loose job protections any time soon.).

Then it starts to rain.

We had not dressed for rain.

00000

Here is how the next six hours go.

We’re in line. Once the doors open at 7am, it will creep forward at a slow crawl. It’s around 7 when someone shows up with garbage bags for everyone. Cut holes for the head and arms and you’ve got a makeshift raincoat! So you’ve got hundreds of gays and lesbians decked out in the nicest shit they could get on short notice wearing trashbags over it.

Everyone is so happy.

Everyone is so nervous/scared/frantic that we wont be able to get through the doors before they close for the day.

People online start making delivery orders.

Coffee and bagels are ordered in bulk and delivered to City Hall for whoever needs it. We get pizza. We get roses. Random people come by who just want to give hugs to people in line because they’re just so happy for us. The tour busses make detours to go past the lines. Chinese tourists lean out with their cameras and shout GOOD LUCK while car horns honk.

A single sad man holding a Bible tries to talk people out of doing this, tells us all we’re sinning and to please don’t. He gives up after an hour. A nun replaces him with a small sign about how this is against God’s will. She leaves after it disintegrates in the rain.

The day before, when it was sunny, there had been a lot of protestors. Including a large Muslim group with their signs about how “Not even DOGS do such things!” Which… Yes they do.

A lot of snide words are said (by me) about how the fact that we’re willing to come out in the rain to do this while they’re not willing to come out in the rain to protest it proves who actually gives an actual shit about the topic.

Time passes. I measure it based on which side of City Hall we’re on. The doors face East. We start on Northside. Coffee and trashbags are delivered when we’re on the North Side. Pizza first starts showing up when we’re on Westside, which is also where I see Bible Man and Nun. Roses are delivered on Southside. And so forth.

00000

We have Line Neighbors.

Ahead of us are a gay couple a decade or two older than us. They’ve been together for eight years. The older one is a school teacher. He has his coat collar up and turns away from any news cameras that come near while we reposition ourselves between the lenses and him. He’s worried about the parents of one of his students seeing him on the news and getting him fired. The younger one will step away to get interviewed on his own later on. They drove down for the weekend once they heard what was going on. They’d started around the same time we did, coming from the Northeast, and are parked in a nearby garage.

The most perky energetic joyful woman I’ve ever met shows up right after we turned the corner to Southside to tackle the younger of the two into a hug. She’s their local friend who’d just gotten their message about what they’re doing and she will NOT be missing this. She is -so- happy for them. Her friends cry on her shoulders at her unconditional joy.

Behind us are a lesbian couple who’d been up in San Francisco to celebrate their 12th anniversary together. “We met here Valentines Day weekend! We live down in San Diego, now, but we like to come up for the weekend because it’s our first love city.”

“Then they announced -this-,” the other one says, “and we can’t leave until we get married. I called work Sunday and told them I calling in sick until Wednesday.”

“I told them why,” her partner says, “I don’t care if they want to give me trouble for it. This is worth it. Fuck them.”

My husband-to-be and I look at each other. We’ve been together for not even two years at this point. Less than two years. Is it right for us to be here? We’re potentially taking a spot from another couple that’d been together longer, who needed it more, who deserved it more.”

“Don’t you fucking dare.” Says the 40-something gay couple in front of us.

“This is as much for you as it is for us!” says the lesbian couple who’ve been together for over a decade behind us.

“You kids are too cute together,” says the gay couple’s friend. “you -have- to. Someday -you’re- going to be the old gay couple that’s been together for years and years, and you deserve to have been married by then.”

We stay in line.

It’s while we’re on the Southside of City Hall, just about to turn the corner to Eastside at long last that we pick up our own companions. A white woman who reminds me an awful lot of my aunt with a four year old black boy riding on her shoulders. “Can we say we’re with you? His uncles are already inside and they’re not letting anyone in who isn’t with a couple right there.” “Of course!” we say.

The kid is so very confused about what all the big deal is, but there’s free pizza and the busses keep driving by and honking, so he’s having a great time.

We pass by a statue of Lincoln with ‘Marriage for All!’ and "Gay Rights are Human Rights!" flags tucked in the crooks of his arms and hanging off his hat.

It’s about noon, noon-thirty when we finally make it through the doors and out of the rain.

They’ve promised that anyone who’s inside when the doors shut will get married. We made it. We’re safe.

We still have a -long- way to go.

00000

They’re trying to fit as many people into City Hall as possible. Partially to get people out of the rain, mostly to get as many people indoors as possible. The line now stretches down into the basement and up side stairs and through hallways I’m not entirely sure the public should ever be given access to. We crawl along slowly but surely.

It’s after we’ve gone through the low-ceiling basement hallways past offices and storage and back up another set of staircases and are going through a back hallway of low-ranked functionary offices that someone comes along handing out the paperwork. “It’s an hour or so until you hit the office, but take the time to fill these out so you don’t have to do it there!”

We spend our time filling out the paperwork against walls, against backs, on stone floors, on books.

We enter one of the public areas, filled with displays and photos of City Hall Demonstrations of years past.

I take pictures of the big black and white photo of the Abraham Lincoln statue holding banners and signs against segregation and for civil rights.

The four year old boy we helped get inside runs past us around this time, chased by a blond haired girl about his own age, both perused by an exhausted looking teenager helplessly begging them to stop running.

Everyone is wet and exhausted and vibrating with anticipation and the building-wide aura of happiness that infuses everything.

The line goes into the marriage office. A dozen people are at the desk, shoulder to shoulder, far more than it was built to have working it at once.

A Sister of Perpetual Indulgence is directing people to city officials the moment they open up. She’s done up in her nun getup with all her makeup on and her beard is fluffed and be-glittered and on point. “Oh, I was here yesterday getting married myself, but today I’m acting as your guide. Number 4 sweeties, and -Congradulatiooooons!-“

The guy behind the counter has been there since six. It’s now 1:30. He’s still giddy with joy. He counts our money. He takes our paperwork, reviews it, stamps it, sends off the parts he needs to, and hands the rest back to us. “Alright, go to the Rotunda, they’ll direct you to someone who’ll do the ceremony. Then, if you want the certificate, they’ll direct you to -that- line.” “Can’t you just mail it to us?” “Normally, yeah, but the moment the courts shut us down, we’re not going to be allowed to.”

We take our paperwork and join the line to the Rotunda.

If you’ve seen James Bond: A View to a Kill, you’ve seen the San Francisco City Hall Rotunda. There are literally a dozen spots set up along the balconies that overlook the open area where marriage officials and witnesses are gathered and are just processing people through as fast as they can.

That’s for the people who didn’t bring their own wedding officials.

There’s a Catholic-adjacent couple there who seem to have brought their entire families -and- the priest on the main steps. They’re doing the whole damn thing. There’s at least one more Rabbi at work, I can’t remember what else. Just that there was a -lot-.

We get directed to the second story, northside. The San Francisco City Treasurer is one of our two witnesses. Our marriage officient is some other elected official I cannot remember for the life of me (and I'm only writing down what I can actively remember, so I can't turn to my husband next to me and ask, but he'll have remembered because that's what he does.)

I have a wilting lily flower tucked into my shirt pocket. My pants have water stains up to the knees. My hair is still wet from the rain, I am blubbering, and I can’t get the ring on my husband’s finger. The picture is a treat, I tell you.

There really isn’t a word for the mix of emotions I had at that time. Complete disbelief that this was reality and was happening. Relief that we’d made it. Awe at how many dozens of people had personally cheered for us along the way and the hundreds to thousands who’d cheered for us generally.

Then we're married.

Then we get in line to get our license.

It’s another hour. This time, the line goes through the higher stories. Then snakes around and goes past the doorway to the mayor’s office.

Mayor Newsom is not in today. And will be having trouble getting into his office on Tuesday because of the absolute barricade of letters and flowers and folded up notes and stuffed animals and City Hall maps with black marked “THANK YOU!”s that have been piled up against it.

We make it to the marriage records office.

I take a picture of my now husband standing in front of a case of the marriage records for 1902-1912. Numerous kids are curled up in corners sleeping. My own memory is spotty. I just know we got the papers, and then we’re done with lines. We get out, we head to the front entrance, and we walk out onto the City Hall steps.

It's almost 3PM.

00000

There are cheers, there’s rice thrown at us, there are hundreds of people celebrating us with unconditional love and joy and I had never before felt the goodness that exists in humanity to such an extent. It’s no longer raining, just a light sprinkle, but there are still no protestors. There’s barely even any news vans.

We make our way through the gauntlet, we get hands shaked, people with signs reading ”Congratulations!” jump up and down for us. We hit the sidewalks, and we begin to limp our way back to the BART station.

I’m at the BART station, we’re waiting for our train back south, and I’m sitting on the ground leaning against a pillar and in danger of falling asleep when a nondescript young man stops in front of me and shuffles his feet nervously. “Hey. I just- I saw you guys, down at City Hall, and I just… I’m so happy for you. I’m so proud of what you could do. I’m- I’m just really glad, glad you could get to do this.”

He shakes my hand, clasps it with both of his and shakes it. I thank him and he smiles and then hurries away as fast as he can without running.

Our train arrives and the trip south passes in a semilucid blur.

We get back to our car and climb in.

It’s 4:30 and we are starving.

There’s a Carls Jr near the station that we stop off at and have our first official meal as a married couple. We sit by the window and watch people walking past and pick out others who are returning from San Francisco. We're all easy to pick out, what with the combination of giddiness and water damage.

We get home about 6-7. We take the dog out for a good long walk after being left alone for two days in a row. We shower. We bundle ourselves up. We bury ourselves in blankets and curl up and just sort of sit adrift in the surrealness of what we’d just done.

We wake up the next day, Tuesday, to read that the California State Supreme Court has rejected the petition to shut down the San Francisco weddings because the paperwork had a misplaced comma that made the meaning of one phrase unclear.

The State Supreme Court would proceed to play similar bureaucratic tricks to drag the process out for nearly a full month before they have nothing left and finally shut down Mayor Newsom’s marriages.

My parents had been out of state at the time at a convention. They were flying into SFO about the same moment we were walking out of City Hall. I apologized to them later for not waiting and my mom all but shook me by the shoulders. “No! No one knew that they’d go on for so long! You did what you needed to do! I’ll just be there for the next one!”

00000

It was just a piece of paper. Legally, it didn’t even hold any weight thirty days later. My philosophy at the time was “marriage really isn’t that important, aside from the legal benefits. It’s just confirming what you already have.”

But maybe it’s just societal weight, or ingrained culture, or something, but it was different after. The way I described it at the time, and I’ve never really come up with a better metaphor is, “It’s like we were both holding onto each other in the middle of the ocean in the middle of a storm. We were keeping each other above water, we were each other’s support. But then we got this piece of paper. And it was like the ground rose up to meet our feet. We were still in an ocean, still in the middle of a storm, but there was a solid foundation beneath our feet. We still supported each other, but there was this other thing that was also keeping our heads above the water.

It was different. It was better. It made things more solid and real.

I am forever grateful for all the forces and all the people who came together to make it possible. It’s been twenty years and we’re still together and still married.

We did a domestic partnership a year later to get the legal paperwork. We’d done a private ceremony with proper rings (not just ones grabbed out of the husband’s collection hours before) before then. And in 2008, we did a legal marriage again.

Rushed. In a hurry. Because there was Proposition 13 to be voted on which would make them all illegal again if it passed.

It did, but we were already married at that point, and they couldn’t negate it that time.

Another few years after that, the Supreme Court finally threw up their hands and said "Fine! It's been legal in places and nothing's caught on fire or been devoured by locusts. It's legal everywhere. Shut up about it!"

And that was that.

00000

When I was in highschool, in the late 90s, I didn’t expect to see legal gay marriage until I was in my 50s. I just couldn’t see how the American public as it was would ever be okay with it.

I never expected to be getting married within five years. I never expected it to be legal nationwide before I’d barely started by 30s. I never thought I’d be in my 40s and it’d be such a non-issue that the conservative rabble rousers would’ve had to move onto other wedge issues altogether.

I never thought that I could introduce another man as my husband and absolutely no one involved would so much as blink.

I never thought I’d live in this world.

And it’s twenty years later today. I wonder how our line buddies are doing. Those babies who were running around the wide open rooms playing tag will have graduated college by now. The kids whose parents the one line-buddy was worried would see him are probably married too now. Some of them to others of the same gender.

I don’t have some greater message to make with all this. Other then, culture can shift suddenly in ways you can’t predict. For good or ill. Mainly this is just me remembering the craziest fucking 36 hours of my life twenty years after the fact and sharing them with all of you.

The future we’re resigned to doesn’t have to be the one we live in. Society can shift faster than you think. The unimaginable of twenty years ago is the baseline reality of today.

And always remember that the people who want to get married will show up by the thousands in rain that none of those who’re against it will brave.

#gay marriage #gay rights #gay history #gay

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cursed-peanut · 4 months ago

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Before Sukuna was defeated, he hid your identity from history as well as he could. He wanted to make sure his beloved lover was never found by the sorcerers. However, after his death, no one was there to stop you from being found and sealed.

They would have killed you, but the love poetry and letters Sukuna had written to you was proof that you were his only weak point, so you were sealed in the fear that Sukuna could possibly return centuries later and you could be used to calm him as a back up.

Centuries later and the ancient sorcerers were right. The fearful King of Curses was revived and the higher ups of the Jujutsu world wanted Itadori Yuji executed for being his vessel.

However, Gojo Satoru had other plans.

Your prison realm was stored away deep within Jujutsu High, and he knew exactly where you were and how to unseal you.

“Where…am I? Who- who are you?”

“You are currently at Jujutsu High, a school that trains young sorcerers for the world ahead of them. And I am Gojo Satoru, a teacher here at Jujutsu High and the strongest sorcerer of the modern age. But don’t worry, I didn’t unseal you to hurt you.”

“What did you unseal me for then?” You have no clue what he’s talking about. You’ve been stuck in a cube for what felt like — and was — many many centuries. And this strange man with white hair and a blindfold is telling you about things you barely understand. Your head is spinning.

“I wanted to reunite you with someone.” The man turns around, waiting for you to follow. “Are you coming?”

“How do I know you won’t kill me?” You say shakily, tears pricking the corner of your eyes. You’re so unbelievably scared.

“I won’t. I just want to bring you to someone you know. Someone you love. Sound good?” He finally turns to face you again. Even though he’s blindfolded, it’s like he can see you shaking on the floor.

You wearily bring yourself to your feet and purse your lips. “…okay.”

————————————

Gojo: Hey, Yuji. I’m with someone

I’d like you to meet. Meet me at

the training field in 20 mins.

Yuji: Okay! See you soon Sensei.

————————————

The walk to the training field felt long but also fascinating. Everything around you was so new! How long had you been in that cube? You’re pulled from your wonder when you see someone sitting on a step by the field. His fluffy pink hair reminds you so much of Sukuna it makes your heart break. You miss him so much. Perhaps Gojo has taken you to meet his descendant?

“Ah, Sensei! Who did you want me to meet?”

“Hello Yuji! I wanted to introduce you to someone very important. Say hello to L/N Y/N!”

“Oh, hello Mx. L/N! I’m Itadori Yuji.” He gives you a bright smile and a firm handshake.

“Hello…” There’s a beat of silence before Itadori turns to his teacher.

“So, why’d you want me to meet this person?-“

“How is Sukuna right now?” You perk up at this. Did he just say Sukuna? Was this kid Sukuna? No, definitely not. Then what…

“Huh? Well, he’s completely slient for once. It’s actually quite refreshing to not have his constant nagging- why’d you ask?” Suddenly an eye and a mouth apear under Itadori’s left eye.

“Y/N…”

“Huh- hey!” Itadori slaps his cheek to stop Sukuna from freaking you out.

“It’s okay, Yuji. Let it happen.”

“But-“

“Sukuna?” Itadori’s confusion intensifies when he sees you tearing up. Not out of sadness, but rather happiness and confusion. Just who are you?

————————————

Please don’t copy or take as your own. Likes and reblogs are appreciated!

Like what you read? Here are all my other works and consider following me! If you’re interested in this AU, here is the masterlist for all works in this AU so far. If you would like to request something, please check my rules first before doing so.

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rosesradio · 1 year ago

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#i had this dream last night about my ex #i knew that realistically turning 20 wouldn’t make them go away per say but i was hoping that along with them being more rare—#they’d also be different. and this one was #normally my dreams were kinda scarier to me—with him standing in front of me or following me down dark hallways—#but this one was almost kinda funny #i was at a restaurant with my family and he called my phone. FaceTime actually—#(you know how you don’t have phones in dreams? i guess i had mine)#and when i answered and could see myself i looked like how i looked when I was 16 (which was weird because i met him when I was 17–#and i looked different then)#I tried to cover my face when i realized it was him—but his hair was bleached and it was a weird look #but he said he got the wrong number and was looking for a Natalie. and he didn’t say anything but i had a feeling that it was actually—#not another victim. because for the sake of others i want him to become a better person even if i don’t want to be there to see that #but he casually said sorry and it was nice to see me. and then the call ended #of course i had kinda freaked out a little but kept cool for my parents. but it didn’t feel as bad as it had before.#i kept eating and the dream ended #now i know realistically if i did see him in real life i don’t know what I’d do but it wouldn’t be good #but with so many people and a world so big hopefully I’ll never have to worry about that #but knowing i can handle it a bit better internally with every passing day makes me feel better #rose.txt

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monstersflashlight · 10 days ago

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Day 20. Monster-kinktober: Creature feature + Monsterfucking/Shower sex

A/N: I blame nobody but me (and @cheesomancer) for this ridiculous situation, and I apologize because I really like gym settings for my stories. Enjoy!

Demon x fem!reader || size kink, (very light) tail play, weird dicks, semi-public sex

You’ve been eyeing the red demon across the gym for an hour. And he’s been eyeing you back. It feels like foreplay in a weird way, and your pussy is claiming for attention. In a normal day, you wouldn’t do anything about it, but you are horny and needy and you don’t have nothing to lose.

So you walk to him with only one thing in mind: dick.

He looks at you without blinking as you approach, not stopping his bicep curls as you stand before him. “Do you wanna… Grab a shower?” You both know that’s the international euphemism for gym shower sex, and you truly hope he gets it because you need a dicking like you need your next breath.

“Goddess, yes.” He drops the weights on the rack and follows behind you.

You get undressed faster than lightning and turn around in time to see him lowering his pants over his impressively thick thighs. And you stop dead in your tracks. “Wha- what is that?” You ask with a short chuckle, confused as you stare between his legs to what seems to be a lava lamp. It’s translucent and you can see some kind of glowing liquid go up and down, it’s low-key mesmerizing.

“My dick?” He asks back, as confused as you. “It’s a normal demon dick,” he clarifies, looking at you like you are the weird one in the situation and not the demon with the lava lamp dick. How did you get into this surreal situation?

“Dude, it’s a lava lamp!” You giggle almost hysterically as you look at him.

He looks embarrassed and you feel bad for laughing, but good goddess he has a lava lamp for dick. “It’s normal, okay? All demons have similar dicks.”

But then between your amused brain something filters, it doesn’t only look like a lava lamp, but is almost as big as one. Looking back at his dick your mind fills with anticipation, that shape must feel pretty great inside of you, but you aren’t sure you could fit him inside. But you are horny enough that you would die trying to fit it inside if that’s what it took.

“Are they all that big?” You ask him, your pussy clenching over nothing.

“N- No. That’s all me,” he stutters, making you giggle again as you approach him. You coo at him, your hand caressing his chest as you pinch one nipple and kiss the soft gasp off his mouth. He’s so cute.

“Come on, big guy, I like you sweaty, but I’d like you more buried deep inside of me,” you tease as you walk to the shower. You smile when you hear his rapid footsteps behind you. Such a cute demon, fuck.

You turn the water on and start rinsing the sweat off you, he does the same, his big body crowding you against the wall as he takes the water. You complain, and he chuckles, lowering his big body to kiss you slow and gentle. But you don’t want slow and gentle, you want frantic monsterfucker sex in the shower, and you are going to get it. Your hands find his hair and you pull him down, devouring his mouth and taking control of the kiss as he whimpers against your lips.

He puts his hands under your ass and pulls you up. You wrap your legs around his middle, trying not to kick his wings accidentally as he presses hid big weird dick against your needy center. You both groan at the same time as he starts rubbing his length to your dripping pussy. You groan and moan, trying to muffle your sounds against his neck (not that it works).

He probes your pussy with his fingers, holding you up with just one arm and making you groan at his strength. Good goddess, you love gymbros so fucking much. You roll your hips, urging him inside your tight heat as he presses kisses down your neck. He’s so tall his back is hunched, but you don’t hive a fuck as he thrusts two fingers inside of you and you bite down on his neck to stop the groans from escaping. But you only accomplish to make him moan very loudly.

“Come on, come on, I’m ready…” You urge him again, bouncing on his fingers.

“But you are so tight and I’m so big…” He tries to argue, but you are more than over with that. You want his dick, and you want it now.

Your hand travels down and you grab his dick, squeezing the biggest part and marveling at the feeling. You almost thought it would feel like an actual lava lamp, but it’s fleshy and hot, hard in all the good ways. You jerk him a couple times, the liquid inside dancing and making you gape at him. He claims your mouth with his, taking your hand away from his dick and pushing the tip against your entrance.

He pushes inside slowly, but you have no time for that. You bite down on his lower lip and take advantage of the sudden confusion to push down on his dick. You get almost all of him in you, but the wider part is resting against your entrance when he stops you. You don’t like to beg, but you are almost about to when he starts wriggling his hips against you until you feel your body give out around him.

The first feeling of his widest part inside of you sends you almost into a coma. It’s so big but so good, it’s like you were made to take it, your body accommodating around it and your breath coming in short pants as he whispers sweet nothings over your head, trying to regain some kind of control. You don’t let him. You roll your hips and start bouncing on him. His dick is too wide, but it presses against your G-spot with every tiny twitch of his body, and going up and down is making your brain lose all train of thought.

Your body is mush against the shower wall when he pushes your body against it with more force than necessary, but you don’t care. He starts fucking you with intent, his dick going in and out of you, the sounds obscene as he fucks you fast and hard. You are chanting ah ah ah, not even caring somebody could come in and catch you two fucking in the showers like two desperate creatures.

His tail comes around your middle and settles over your ass, making you whimper as he reaches lower with it. It probes your asshole, and that’s enough for you to cry out and come messily around his cock buried deep inside. He starts cursing over you, his thrust stuttering as he pushes one last time and stuffs you with his come. He comes so much you can feel it gushing out of you as he thrusts a couple more times inside of you, the big part of his dick making you see stars as it rubs against your G-spot. It feels raw and abused in the best way possible.

After a couple more minutes of wet embrace, he lets you down slowly. You feel warm and content, marveling in the afterglow when he looks down and gasps. You follow his gaze in alarm, and when you see a trail of neon orange come go down your leg you laugh so hard you trip on the wet floor. He grabs you by the waist as you kiss his mouth tenderly, your smile so big the kiss is more teeth than lips, but you don’t care.

You can definitely get used to having hot shower sex with the lava lamp dick demon.

And that's a wrap on monster-kinktober. Hope y'all enjoyed this as much as I did. I would be super happy to hear your thoughts about the stories, which one you liked best, which idea you thought you wouldn't like but didn't, which monster surprised you more... :)

1K notes · View notes

brunchable · 3 months ago

Text

UNDER HIS COMMAND [R 18+]

Steve Rogers × Agent!FReader

Words: 6.2K Warming: Age Gap (reader in early 20s), unprotected piv sex, domineering acts. oral (both receiving), dirty talk, praising. Summary: You drove Steve to his utmost limit, but what is it going to take to get him to calm down? A/N: I rewatched the old Marvel movies and have been feeling feral towards coughCAPT'Ncough. Bon appetitties?

The mission had gone sideways in a way that left Steve Rogers simmering with frustration. He could feel the anger bubbling up inside him, a foreign sensation that made his chest tight and his thoughts cloudy. You had gone against his direct orders, putting yourself in danger—again—and it had pushed Steve to his breaking point.

As you stood in your private cabin, both your voices echoing off the walls, Steve couldn’t hold back any longer.

“You had no right to do that, Y/N!” Steve’s voice cut through the air like a blade, sharper and louder than you’d ever heard it.

Your eyes flashed with defiance as you fought back with all your frustration. "I made that call because it was the right thing to do! I was not going to allow those people to die just because you were excessively consumed with following the agenda!

Steve’s fists clenched at his sides, his muscles taut with barely restrained anger. “This isn’t about saving lives—it’s about you ignoring direct orders! You put yourself in danger, and you compromised the entire mission! You can’t just act on impulse and expect everything to work out!”

As he felt feelings he wasn't accustomed to expressing, his normally composed demeanor began to crumble under the strain of mounting aggravation. It frightened him that he could feel his grip weakening. He had never been so furious with you before; the level of intensity was nearly too much to bear.

You stepped closer, refusing to back down. “I thought about it! I knew exactly what I was doing, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat! You’re the one who doesn’t get it! You’re so obsessed with being in control that you can’t stand it when someone else makes a decision!”

“This isn’t about control, Y/N! This is about you thinking you know better than everyone else! You think you’re invincible, but you’re not! One day, your recklessness is going to get you in serious trouble and then what? How are we supposed to deal with that?” Steve’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as the anger threatened to spill over.

Your eyes narrowed, your voice rising in anger matching his. “You’re the one who’s supposed to trust me! But you don’t! You can’t stand it when things don’t go according to your plan, so you lash out at me like I’m some kind of liability!”

Steve took a step closer, the space between you charged with tension. “I trust you, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to sit back and watch you throw yourself into danger without a second thought! You didn’t see how close you came, Y/N. You didn’t see what I saw!”

“What you saw?” you shot back, your voice shaking with emotion. “You’re always trying to shield me from things, Steve, but you can’t keep doing that! I’m not a child! I’m your partner, and that means you have to let me make my own choices, even if they scare you!”

As Steve struggled to control the flood of emotions that were about to overflow, his breaths came in short, quick bursts and his palms quivered.

“You think I’m trying to control you? I’m trying to keep you alive! I’m trying to make sure that you come back, every single time! But you… you don’t think about what that does to me.”

“And what about what it does to me? Every time you go off on some mission, every time you put yourself in danger without thinking about the consequences, do you know what that does to me? Do you?”

Steve’s face twisted with frustration, his voice lowering to a dangerous whisper. “I do know. I know because I feel it too, every time you do something reckless, every time you make a decision that could get you. . .” He couldn’t say the word, “And it terrifies me, Y/N. It terrifies me because one day, I might not be there to save you.”

Even though he looks angry, worry is visible in his eyes. You tightened your jaw because you were at a loss for words to respond to him.

Steve pivoted and stomped out of the room before you had a chance to reply. He had to escape for a moment to collect himself before he spoke a word he would regret. Heading directly for the woodpile, he stepped outside, his breath coming in quick, angry bursts.

By the time you caught up with him, Steve was already there, his jacket discarded on the ground. He grabbed the axe with a force that sent a jolt of pain through his arm, but he welcomed it. He needed to feel something physical, something tangible to anchor him in the midst of the storm raging inside him.

Without hesitation, he began chopping. The axe came down with a powerful swing, the wood splitting cleanly in half. But it wasn’t enough. The anger was still there, burning hot and fierce in his chest, so he swung again. And again. And again.

These pent-up emotions had been growing for weeks, if not months, and it was evident in every swing. The fear that he would lose you, the frustration that you didn’t seem to understand how much he cared, how much it hurt to see you risking your life time and time again. He was feeling helpless and that his only option was to keep chopping, to redirect his wrath onto something that wouldn't harm you or ruin everything both had built together.

Steve reached for yet another thick log, this one feeling rock-solid and unmoveable. None of that mattered. His muscles tensed as he lifted the axe above his head, and he lowered it with such power that the wood splintered. Although he felt the hit all over, it failed to provide him with the relief he had hoped for. He was being torn apart by the rage that remained dormant, just below the surface.

“So this is it? You’re just going to chop wood until the problem disappears?” Amidst the steady clack of the axe on wood, your irritated, sharp voice sliced through the air.

Steve didn’t respond. He couldn’t. The overwhelming wave of feelings he couldn't articulate washed over him, leaving him unable to speak. He swung the axe again, harder this time, as if he could somehow chop away everything he felt.

But then, a switch went off in his brain. That axe wasn't cutting it. He needed more—he needed to break something with his own hands, to feel the physical release of the anger that was consuming him.

He snatched up yet another log, this one heavier and thicker than the rest. His hands, still trembling with fury, gripped the log tightly. His muscles bulged as he poured all his anger, all his frustration, into his grip.

“Steve, talk to me! You can’t just—”

But before you could finish, Steve let out a low, guttural roar and pulled at the log with all his might. The wood resisted at first, but Steve was relentless. His biceps strained, his veins standing out against his skin, and with a deafening crack, the log gave way. He tore it in half with his bare hands, the wood splintering under the sheer force of his strength.

The pieces fell to the ground with a heavy thud, the sound almost drowned out by the ringing in your ears. You stood there, frozen, your breath caught in your throat as you watched Steve’s display of raw power. It was terrifying—seeing him so close to the edge, so consumed by anger—but it was also something else, something that sent a shiver down your spine.

You were genuinely scared by his actions just now. The shock that he could lose control, that he could be so driven by his feelings, was a stark reminder of how much he cared, how deeply he felt. But alongside that shock was a rush of something primal, something that made your pulse quicken and your cheeks flush.

You shouldn’t have found it attractive—this display of strength—but you did. Seeing Steve like this, so powerful, so intense—he never bragged about his power, and it stirred something inside you that you couldn’t deny. Your body reacts before your mind could catch up, a rush of heat flooding your senses.

Steve turned to face you, his chest still heaving, his eyes blazing. “What do you want me to say, Y/N?” His voice was rough, almost broken. “That I’m okay with you going off on your own and putting yourself so close to death? Because I’m not!”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. You could see the chaos in his eyes. It made your heart ache. To him it didn’t matter if you were one of the best agents out there because he knew how life is so fragile, he knew because he's been around for ages—you forget that sometimes his cellular age is not twenty-seven.

For now, both of you stood there, the tension thick and suffocating, wrapping around you like an iron vice.

You took a shaky breath, the sound of it almost deafening in the quiet that had fallen between you. You knew you should say something, anything, to defuse the situation. But your throat felt tight, and the words wouldn’t come. All you could do was stare at him, your heart pounding in your chest as you tried to reconcile the man you love with the fury that had just been unleashed.

Steve’s chest heaved with each breath, his fists still clenched at his sides. He didn't know how to come down from the brink he'd been driven to, didn’t know how to deal with the mix of relief and frustration that you were standing in front of him, unharmed but defiant.

His mind raced with the images of what could have happened, what might have happened if he hadn’t been there to pull you out of the fire. The thought was enough to make his vision blur with a fresh wave of anger and fear.

“I can’t lose you, Y/N,” Steve finally managed to say, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. “Do you understand that? I can’t. I don’t know what I’d do if something happens to you.”

Your breath hitched, your heart hurt at the openness in his voice, and the urgent plea cut through your barriers. You knew how much he cared—how deeply he felt everything—but hearing it, seeing it in the way his hands shook, in the way his eyes were filled with unshed tears, made it impossible to stay mad.

Driven by a surge of emotion you couldn't contain, you briskly walked towards him. Steve kept his gaze glued onto you, anticipating your next move. In an instant, you closed the distance between you, your body moving on instinct alone.

You leaped up, wrapping your legs tightly around his waist, your hands fisting in his hair as you pulled him down into a kiss that was searing, desperate, and filled with every ounce of the fire that had fueled the argument.

His kiss was intoxicating. You pressed yourself against him, your body molding to his as you deepened the kiss, your mouth moving against his lips with a fervor.

You could feel the tension in his muscles, the heat radiating from his skin, and it only made you want him more, made you kiss him harder, as if you could imprint yourself on him, claim him in a way that left no room for doubt.

Steve's grip on you was bruising as his hands found your hips, pulling you even closer, his own body responding to the intensity of the moment. He angled his head, deepening the kiss further, your tongues clashing in a dance that was as much about dominance as it was about the overwhelming need to feel connected.

You let out a soft moan, the sound vibrating between you, spurring you both on. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, as if you couldn't get enough. You shifted against him, your hips pressing into his, feeling the undeniable evidence of his desire for you, and it sent a jolt of heat through your entire body.

When you finally broke apart, it wasn't because you wanted to, but because you both had to breathe. Your foreheads rested against each other, your breaths mingling, both of them trembling from the force of what had just happened.

Your breathing was ragged, your heart pounding in your chest as you looked into Steve's eyes, blue like the ocean but filled with fire. The air between you crackled with an electric tension, the heat of your shared desire still burning hot.

“I’m still mad at you. Chopping wood was not enough,” Steve whispered his voice rough, “I hope you're prepared for that.”

“Try me.” You replied breathily against his lips.

Steve didn't need any more encouragement.

When he reached the back-door, he didn’t hesitate. With a powerful kick, he busted it open, the door slamming against the wall with a force that echoed through the room and shook walls.

Steve's hands gripped you firmly as he turned, pinning you against the nearest wall, his body pressing onto yours, the solid weight of him making you gasp. His mouth found yours again, and the kiss, filled with intensity that left you both dizzy, desperate for more.

You could feel the way his body responded to your every touch, every kiss. Your hands slid from his hair to his shoulders, your fingers digging into the hard muscle, needing to hold on, to anchor yourself against the storm of emotions swirling inside you.

Steve's grip on you tightened, his hands sliding from your hips to your lower back, pulling you impossibly closer. He pressed his lips to the side of your neck, his breath hot against your skin, making you shiver. The sensation sent a wave of heat rushing through you, igniting every nerve in your body.

“Y/N…” Steve's voice was low, a rough whisper that sent a thrill down your spine. You could feel the restrained tension in him, the way his body was coiled like a spring, ready to snap. “You drive me fucking crazy.”

Shit. He swore. Now you know you're in deep trouble—and it excites you. You tightened your legs around his waist, leaning into him as you captured his lips once more, this time with even more intensity, more urgency.

Steve responded immediately, his mouth moving against yours in a kiss that was possessive. His hands roamed over your back, his touch firm, grounding you as you lost yourself in the taste of him. His touch ignited a trail of fire everywhere.

He pushes the hem of your shirt above your head and pulls off your black tee shirt, tossing it aside like it was nothing, exposing your bare breast, then his mouth devours you. He suckles and licks urgently, opening his mouth wider to envelop nearly your whole breast. It’s as if he wants to taste every inch of your skin all at once.

You moaned and arched your back, which thrusts your breast against his face, causing your fleshy mound to squeeze against him and bulge out at the sides.

His hand, rugged and calloused from years of relentless work, moved with purposeful intent to the other. He gripped your breast firmly and began to knead, applying a rough pressure on your flesh.

You squeeze his shoulders, grasping at the starched cotton of his shirt. It feels manly under your palms. Your mouth drops open when the shape of his hard cock lines up perfectly against you, applying a delicious pressure you desperately need.

“Oh my—Steve. . .”

Any self-preservation you've been holding on to evaporates at the feel of his hot length, and your hips tilt into him on their own.

You groan simultaneously at the much-needed friction. His scent, his rough groans, the tight hold of his large hands, the stab of his hot tongue—everything about Steve is strong, hard, domineering, and so deliciously male.

His mouth leaves your breast whispering into your ear, “Are you going to disobey me again?”

“I can't promise you that I won't.” You try to pull back and drop your legs, but he grips your thighs, holding them open, and presses his bulging cock onto you.

He loved the way you looked, the way you reacted, and he loved everything about you. You were the most precious thing in the world to him. So beautiful, so sweet, so giving and too damn good for him, but he was a selfish bastard and wouldn’t let you go.

Ever.

His breath fans over your neck, and he whispers dangerously. “That so?”

You didn’t notice how you both ended up in the bedroom until he shoved you toward the bed, because you found yourself falling onto it, the descent feeling agonizingly slow.

Your head turned sideways just as it was about to collide with the mattress, but you were too shocked to react, too numb to fight back against what was unfolding.

Steve moved with a swift, commanding presence, leaping onto the bed and straddling your torso with an authority that pinned you down. His shirt was already on the floor when you met his eyes—dark, angry. A side of him you're seeing for the first time in the bedroom.

His muscles are swollen from chopping all that wood and splitting one in half with his hands. His abs were a testament to the discipline and strength he had cultivated over the years. The six-pack was not just defined but chiseled, each muscle distinct and firm beneath the taut skin.

He pushed your thigh open with his knee, his palm grazing from your stomach, between the valleys of your breasts, stopping at where your collar bone meets the base of your neck.

All of your focus is on its path, and you quiver when his thumb now brushes the bottom curve of your breast.

“This is mine.” He twists your nipple, sending shards of electricity tumbling through you, and you buck against him, lust completely taking over all your senses.

“Yes,” You gasp and roll your hips, willing to say anything he wants to get him to continue touching you, searching for the right position to hit your clit with the head of his cock, desperate for more.

His chuckles tickle the sensitive shell of your ear, and a shiver runs through you as the sharp ridges of his teeth gently close on the soft earlobe. “Such a good girl all of a sudden?”

He drags his hand down your body, exploring it like he’s mapping every inch of you by touch alone. He forces your jeans off, almost ripping it in the process.

His thumb grazes your clit through your underwear, and a pained cry escapes your lips. He craves knowing the sounds you'll make as he drives his cock hard inside you. He'd make you beg for more until you scream out his name as he sear himself into your soul.

“Do you know what good girls get, Y/N?” He slides under the thin fabric and circles the spot you need him the most. “Good girls get to come.”

“Please,” you beg. Every molecule of your being is focused on his fingers. The weight of the air around you compresses until it’s hard to suck in your next breath. Tension radiates as you wait for what happens next. His touch is the only thing that matters.

He shifts you so he can reach lower, sliding wet fingers through your slit, then circling your entrance. You whimper his name as he sinks two fingers inside you.

“Look at you, soaked for me. Ready. This pussy knows she’s mine.” His voice is a dark rumble as he pumps his fingers in and out in a slow, torturous rhythm.

“I need more,” you grind out through your teeth.

“Take it. Fuck my fingers,” he orders you against your ear and loosens his hold to allow you to take control.

You wrap your arm around his neck, leveraging yourself, and grip his hair as you work yourself on his fingers.

Steve’s breath comes out in hot pants against your jaw, and he bites down on the edge at the same time his palm massages your clit. You forget to breathe as you rock against him, your head buzzing with the lack of oxygen.

“Oh yes, right there.” You gasped.

“That’s my pretty little pussy, fucking herself so well.” He adds another finger, and your world goes blank. All that’s left are his commands. “Come for me.”

Tingles shoot up your spine as your entire body pulls tight, and then your orgasm crashes over you in shuddering waves. “Steve.”

He pumps every last ounce of your release, his hands glistening. “That’s it. Say my name.”

“Steve,” You say, barely a whisper.

He withdraws his finger then and lifts his hand to your face, pressing his finger against your lips. It’s the same finger that was just inside you.

“Suck it,” he orders, and you obediently open your mouth, sucking the finger in. You can taste yourself, your own desire, and it makes you even more turned on.

When he’s satisfied that the fingers are clean, he removes it from your mouth, grasping your chin with his hand instead, forcing you to meet his gaze, “I'm going to ask you again, are you going to disobey me?”

You stare up at him, mesmerized by the dark blue striations in his irises. Your body is throbbing with need, desperately craving his possession. You want him to take you, to fill the aching emptiness within.

A smile of defiance crept on your lips as you cocked your head forward, “My answer remains that same.”

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Y/N.” he warns, voice low, and a tremble runs through you.

Your instincts are on high alert, but you don’t try to pull away. You swallow hard. “What game?”

“The one where you act like all has been put aside. That you don’t already know who you pissed off. Or do you need a reminder?” He shifts his grip and circles your neck with his fingers, resting them on your collarbone as a warning.

Heat pours into your core, and your clit throbs. A low moan escapes you, and his smile turns dark. He pushes closer, bent so his breath fans against your mouth.

“I’m going to spin you around and fuck your pretty pussy against this bed, I think it’s fair I take out my frustrations on you. I will make you beg so hard, because baby, I can do this all fucking day.” He said with grit.

Your ears ring, and all your thoughts vanish with his words. You push yourself up, closing the distance between your mouths. He groans deep and takes over the kiss, running his tongue against yours until you're consumed by him. Your head feels light from the lack of oxygen, but you don’t pull away, letting him do whatever he wants to you.

There’s a power that surges inside you, giving in to his control. No matter his threats, you know if you told him to stop, he would.

He’s not gentle when he flips you on your stomach. His hands fisted at your hips and you heard a snap as he tore your panties away. The abrupt sound and the violent action behind it spurred your desire to a fever pitch.

You hear him unzip his jeans, and in your attempt to look, he presses your head hard into the mattress. Then, you feel him pulling while he collects all of your hair and wraps it around his hand with the intention of using it as a rein.

You let out a whimper when Steve tugged harder. You don’t hesitate to move when his foot meets yours and spreads your legs further apart. He grunts in approval and runs his fingers up your slit, before his erection brushed between your legs as he moved and you whimpered, so aching and empty, as if the orgasms he’d given you earlier had only deepened your craving rather than appeased it.

Then he shifts his hips a little and uses his hand to guide his shaft toward your opening. You gasp, squeezing your eyes shut as he begins to push inside. You're extremely wet, but you still feel uncomfortably stretched as he slides in all the way. Steve doesn’t give you time to adjust before withdrawing and slamming in again, his thrust doling out punishment and pleasure.

“Fuck,” he hisses when you squeeze around him, and a sharp slap lands on your ass. “You’re so tight.”

You bite your lower lip, trying to cope with the burning, too-full feeling. You clutch at the bed sheets, needing something to hold on to as the familiar tension starts to gather low in your belly. The head of his cock brushes against that sensitive spot somewhere inside you. You gasp as he pulls your hair harshly making you arch to take him deeper, needing more of that intense sensation, wanting to bring you over the edge.

“Oh my god, Steve, yes,” you cried, finding your face pressed into the mattress again and you could hardly breathe. All you can feel is him: the back-and-forth movement of his thick cock inside your body, the heat emanating from his skin.

In this position, he goes deep, even deeper than usual, and you can’t help the pained gasps that escape your throat as the head of his cock bumps against your cervix with each thrust of his hips. Yet the discomfort doesn’t seem to prevent the pressure growing inside you again, and you feel climax coming again, your inner muscles clenching helplessly around his shaft.

“Oh no you don't,” He groans harshly, sensing that you're about to come. Then he pulls out. Leaving a void of emptiness that aches. The womanly fluids that leak down your thighs now felt cold, before you could protest, Steve flips you again and your eyes finally get to lay upon his magnificence, his erection at your eye level.

But all he does is look at you, a mocking half-smile playing on his beautiful lips. “You think I’m going to come inside you, Y/N?” he asks softly. “Is that what you’re expecting me to do?”

You blink, startled by the question. Of course you expect him to do that. You did something that upsetted him. Apparently reading the answer on your face, he smiles wider. “Well, sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not exactly in a generous mood.”

“Sit up and suck it,” he murmurs, looking down at you.

Aroused by the command, you fluttered your tongue across the underside and shivered with delight when he rewarded you with a hot burst of pre-cum. Fisting the root of him with one hand, you hollow your cheeks and draw rhythmically.

You cup his balls in your other hand and squeeze them lightly. He groans, his eyes closing and his hand fisting your hair, and you continue, moving your mouth up and down on his cock, swallowing him deeper every time.

Your head bobbed as you pleasured him, jacking him with one hand while you sucked and stroked the crest with your mouth. Heavy veins coursed the length of his cock, and you slid the flat of your tongue along them, tilting your head to find and caress each one.

He swelled, growing thicker and longer.

“Baby, you suck me so good.” He held your head still and took over. Thrusting his hips. Fucking your mouth. Stripped to a level of base need where only the race to orgasm mattered.

You gripped his straining thighs in both hands, frantically working your lips and tongue, desperate for his climax. His balls were heavy and big, an audacious display of his powerful virility. You cupped them, rolling them gently, feeling them tighten and draw up.

“Ah, Y/N.” His voice was a guttural rasp. His grip tightened in your hair. “You’re making me come.”

The first spurt of semen was so thick, you struggled to swallow. Mindless in his pleasure, Steve was thrusting against the back of your throat, his cock throbbing with every wrenching pulse into your mouth. You eyes watered and your lungs burned, but still you pumped your fists, milking him. His entire body shuddered as you took everything he had. The sounds he made and the muttered, breathless praise were the most gratifying you'd ever heard.

You licked him clean, keeping eye contact the entire time, marveling at how he didn’t fully soften even after an explosive orgasm. He was still capable of fucking you senseless and more than willing to, you knew. He wasn't kidding when he says he can do it all fucking day.

�� × × ×

“OH, God.” Your hands fisted the sheets beneath you, your back arching as Steve pinned your hips to the bed and his lips circled your clit and his cheeks hollowed. Sucking rhythmically, he massaged the hypersensitive knot with the tip of his tongue.

Your skin was coated in a fine sheen of sweat, your vision blurring as your core tightened viciously in preparation for orgasm. Your pulse was thrumming and racing. You've comed twice already, as much from the sight of his blonde head between your legs as from his wickedly gifted mouth.

“I’m ready.” You pushed your fingers into his hair, feeling the dampness at the roots. His restraint was costing him. You're overstimulated and he's taking the time to make sure you are soft and wet before filling you too full with his long, thick cock.

“I’ll decide when you’re ready.”

“I need you inside me, please. I won’t disobey your orders again.” You pleaded, bucking your hips towards his face.

“You ache without my cock inside you. You’ll say anything to have me there.” Steve crawled toward you like a sleek panther on the prowl.

“Yes.”

He hovered over you, his big body casting a shadow over yours. Tilting his head, he lowered his mouth and lightly traced the seam of your lips with the tip of his tongue.

“You crave it. You feel empty without it.”

“Yes, damn you.” You gripped his lean hips, arching upward to try to feel his body against your. You never felt closer to him than when you were making love, and you needed that closeness now, needed to feel like you were okay.

He settled between your legs, his erection lying hard and hot between the lips of your pussy.

“I need you,” you breathed, rubbing your wet cleft shamelessly along the heated length of his cock.

“Not yet.” He moved, rolling his hips to find you with the broad head of his penis. He pushed gently against you, parting you, spreading you open as he slipped just the tip inside. You writhed against the tight fit, your body begging.

“Fuck me. God … just fuck me!”

Steve reached down with one hand and grabbed your hip, stemming your frenzied attempts to push up and take more of him.

You fought his hold. Your nails dug into the tight curves of his ass and you tugged him against you. If you didn’t get him in you, you thought you'd lose your mind.

“Give it to me!”

Steve slid his hand into your hair, fisting it to hold you where he wanted you. “Look at me.”

“Steven!”

“Look at me.”

You stilled at the command in his voice. You stared up at him, your frustration melting as you watched a slow, gradual transformation sweep over his handsome face.

With his eyes still on yours, he reached beside him to claim your wrists. One at a time, he lifted your arms over your head, restraining you. Pinned to the mattress by his grip, his weight, and his unflagging erection.

Steve slowly enters you, penetrating you inch by slow inch. It feels good, so unbelievably good, and you moan again, tightening your inner muscles around his shaft. He groans, closing his eyes, and you do it again, wanting more of the sensation.

He opens his eyes and stares at you, his face taut with lust and his eyes glittering. You hold his gaze, fascinated by the fierce need you see there.

He began to thrust, stroking through the trembling walls of your cunt with the thickly veined length of his big cock. Claiming you. Possessing you.

You can hear his harsh breathing, and you know that he’s exerting a lot of control over himself, that he probably wants to fuck you harder but is trying not to ‘damage you beyond repair.’ Nevertheless, his movements cause your insides to twist and churn, causing you to cry out with every stroke.

“I love you.” your voice is barely audible, each word feeling like it’s being wrenched out of your very soul.

You can see his pupils dilating while grinding breathlessly, “Tell me again.”

“I love you.” which came out like a small, helpless sound.

“I love you too.”

Struggling with the grinding urge to rock into the ferocious thrusts of his big cock. He shoved his other hand beneath your hip, cupping your rear and lifting you into his thrusts so that his cock head stroked over and over the spot that ached for him.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he growled, pounding his hips up at you, yanking your hips up to meet his punishing strokes.

“Yes, yes! Come inside me.” you yelped, eyes rolling to the back of your head.

Steve hit the end of you with every deep thrust, battering into you. You could feel him growing harder and thicker. You watched him avidly, needing to see it when he went over the edge for you. His eyes were wild with his need, losing their focus as his control frayed, his gorgeous face ravaged by the brutal race to climax.

“Y/N, I'm coming!” He came with an animal sound of feral ecstasy, a snarling release that riveted you with its ferocity. He shook as the orgasm tore into him, his cock jerking as it pumped thick spurts of scorching semen into you.

You climaxed in a rush that had you sobbing his name, your bodies convulsing as the sensation enhanced and magnified by the way he’d controlled your body.

Steve laid on top of you, waiting for his cock to get soft before he pulled out. Your body remains convulsing under him.

“You’re a machine,” you told him, trying to catch your breath. “Or a god.”

Steve let out a low, breathless chuckle, the sound vibrating against your skin as he held you close. He laid beside you, his chest was still heaving from the intensity of what you had just done, but there was a satisfied smile playing on his lips as he looked down at you. Steve shifted slightly, so he could meet your eyes, his expression softening as he brushed a strand of hair away from your face.

“Maybe,” he murmured, his voice rough and warm from exertion. “But as much as I like the sound of being a god,” he continued, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, “I think I’d rather just be the man who’s lucky enough to have you in his arms.”

“Just don’t pull a stunt like that on me again and I’ll be fine,” he responded, his tone a mix of lingering concern and affection. But there was still an edge to his voice.

“But it’s against my nature to ignore—” you started, trying to explain yourself, but Steve cut you off, his gaze intense.

“Do I have to impregnate you? For you to think more carefully?” he asked, his voice low and filled with a rough, teasing tone that sent a shiver down your spine. The words were provocative, laced with a mix of frustration and possessiveness that made your breath catch.

Your eyes widened slightly at his bold statement, your heart skipping a beat as the meaning of his words sank in. There was a challenge in his eyes, but also a deep-seated need—a desire to protect you, to keep you safe in a way that was so intensely Steve.

“Is that what it’s going to take?” he continued, his tone softening just a bit, though the intensity in his gaze never wavered. “Because I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make sure you’re careful out there. I can’t lose you, Y/N. I won’t.”

You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, your mind racing with his words and the seriousness behind them. He wasn’t just teasing; there was a part of him that meant every word. It was possessive, yes, but it was also born from a place of deep love and fear of losing you.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly as you reached up to cup his face, your thumb brushing over his cheek. “I’ll be more careful, I promise.”

Steve’s expression softened, his eyes searching yours as he leaned in to press a gentle kiss to your lips.

“Good,” he murmured against your mouth, his tone still laced with that protective tone. “Because I’m not letting you out of my sight, not if I can help it.”

#steve rogers x you #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x female reader #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers smut #steve rogers imagines #captain america x female reader #captain america x you #captain america x y/n #captain america smut #captain america imagines #steve rogers fanfiction #captain america fanfiction #captain america x reader

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tojisun · 1 year ago

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simon (ghost) riley x fem reader

!! suggestive-ish; hinted age difference (20s vs 30s); hinted d/s; minors dni

“why won’t you fuck me?”

your pitiful voice stops simon from moving, his feet stuttering with muted thuds. he breathes in sharply, not having expected the words that slipped from your lips, before he turns and tips his head towards you.

you’re trembling, and simon doesn’t know if it’s because of the cool air or the intensity of your emotions, those that urged you to whine at his pathetic display of restraint, but still he hesitates. afraid that if he comes close, then the remnant of his patience will finally snap.

because it’s not that simon wouldn’t fuck you – god knows there’s nothing more he’d want to do than love you slowly and deeply, caressing you tenderly until you are trembling at the intensity of his passion; until the doubts are finally crushed by the force of his affections – but it’s that he knew you deserve someone better.

someone who wouldn’t leave you for months and years long because of a mission. someone who’d stay by your side each and every hour because he knows you (sometimes he wished he didn’t, if only to make it easier to forget about you), and he knows that you need someone to spoil you. to pamper you.

simon knows you deserve more than the world, knows that he can only give you pieces of it but he’s selfish. he’s a monster wearing a human suit – incapable of surrendering, incapable of giving you up.

because simon knows you deserve better but gods he doesn’t want to let you go.

he moves to speak but you beat him to it, your lips wobbling as tears trickle down the corners of your eyes like molten diamonds. “you parade me around like a trophy wife but you won’t even give me a portion of that attention. you-”

his heart stops at the choked sob that gets stuck in the base of your throat, your face crumpling as you tremble at the intensity of your heartache.

it was instant how he moved to you, his frantic steps echoing against the cobblestone. he takes you in his arms, tucking your head underneath his chin and engulfing you in his embrace, hoping that you’d hear the staccato of his heart and know that it only ever beats for you.

you whine like you couldn’t decide if you want his comfort or not and simon freezes, afraid that he’s just heightened your bleeding heart. he moves to step away, his lips parting for an apology, but you clutch at the ends of his shirt, refusing to let go.

he follows your silent command – simon will follow you no matter where, no matter what – and presses you close again, his warmth mixing with yours and chasing away the goosebumps that littered your skin.

he kisses the top of your head, breathing you in. simon mulls over what to say, his own hesitation bursting at the corners of his mind, but he wants to stop pretending. he wants to stop lying to himself.

you love him and he loves you – sometimes, it could be that easy.

words aren’t his strongest suits but he tries anyway. “i love you,” he begins, the words slipping past his teeth with the simplicity of the truth. “i burn with the desire to be with you, sweet girl. but not this way. not yet.”

you tip your head up just enough to catch his gaze and simon croons at your swollen eyes, pressing gentle kisses on your eyebrows in comfort.

“why not?” you ask, ever so stubborn.

“because there are preparations that need to be done,” he replies, humming when your eyes widen in surprise. “i want to make love with you, sweetheart. not just make it as something fast and temporary.”

he watches you breathe in shakily.

“would you want that?” simon continues amidst your silence, his hand coming up to tuck a stray strand of your hair behind your ear.

you bite your bottom lip and nod. he clicks his tongue. “use y’r words. i need to hear it from you.”

“yes please,” you whisper, and simon coos at the broken rumble of your voice, still heavy with doubt. “i- yes. please, simon. i’d love that.”

“me too, sweet girl.” simon kisses your forehead, sealing the promise. “i’d love nothing more.”

#suns.f #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #ghost x reader #i was rereading that established simon/reader + eventual price/reader AND THIS. THIS IS KIND OF THE PRELUDE #suns

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ziggyyyystardust · 10 months ago

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The Star Wars fandom is like a case study of what happens when you overthink media intended for children to the point that you’ve completely altered the message and plot that the creator intended. The whole “the Jedi order is evil and Anakin/Vader is the good guy!” Idea fails to take into account the fact that like.. these movies are meant for kids, they’re meant to be easy to follow and easy to understand with obvious good guys and obvious bad guys. Yknow how we know the Jedi are the good guys? - they’re the main characters, they have funny one liners, they kill the evil bad guys who have red laser swords with their blue and green laser swords, they’re relatable, they’re nice, they’re paternal, so on so forth.

I love critical analysis and I’d never speak a word against it, when we consume media we should always take a step back to consider what ideas they’re selling us, what undertones are portrayed, is this supposed to represent a real life problem? But it’s also equally as important to consider who the audience is and how that might impact the story. And ultimately the audience is children, Star Wars is not meant to be a mystery thriller where the good guys are secretly the bad guys which you can only tell when you pick the story apart 20 which ways. The movies could not more clearly tell us who were meant to support. - is it the angry guys with red swords, ugly old guy who shoot’s lighting out of his fingers and takes over the universe, people who blow up planets, chop off their kids hands and blow up planet’s? Or is it the people who wear warm coloured clothing, talk about wanting peace, who tell funny jokes, have heartfelt moments, with blue and green lightsabers, fight against the space fascists and love each other.

Ultimately, Star Wars isn’t that deep, enjoy it for what it is and I promise you’ll enjoy it 100 times more

#pro jedi order #pro jedi #star wars #the rebellion #the empire star wars #jedi order #the best skill you’ll ever learn is to just enjoy things I promise

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f0point5 · 1 year ago

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Max Verstappen x bestfriend!reader Masterlist

She’s still bejewelled - Y/N finds out F1 wag pages are once again speculating she is dating her best friend, Max Verstappen

It’s (not) a cruel summer - Y/N and Max enjoy the summer break

August slipped away - Y/N does a Q&A to catch up with her followers after summer break

Burning red- Lando puts his foot in it

Holy ground - Fans discuss their excitement to see Y/N and Max interact at Zandvoort

I’m the one who understands you - A window into Max and Y/N’s home life

It turned into something bigger - Y/N’s comments about her childhood friend, Mick Schumacher, lead to a social media firestorm

They’d say I’d hustled, put in the work - A look at Y/N’s podcast, Dirty Air(time)

Shake it off - Determined to forget her worries, Y/N goes out parting with Max and Lando

They say home is where the heart is - Fans discuss how Y/N and Max love being roommates

(We’re) in the club doing I don’t know what - Fans look back on Max and Y/N’s Club Rat Renaissance

Pauses, then says, (he’s) my best friend - Y/N spends the day in Amsterdam while Max does press at Zandvoort

How evergreen, our group of friends - Snippets of Y/N and Max’s other friends on the grid and beyond

We’re faster and never scared - It’s a dramatic Friday in the Zandvoort paddock

I watch Superman fly away - The drama continues as Y/N and Mick have a run in in the paddock

Long live all the magic he made - Y/N supports Max as he equals the record for most consecutive wins

Remember the footsteps - A look at Y/N and Mick’s lifelong friendship

He has his father’s eyes…his father’s ambition - A look at Y/N’s relationship with Jos

I love your handshake, meeting my father - Fans discuss Jos’s perspective on Y/N, and her relationship with Max

And maybe it was egos swinging - Everyone speculates about the cause and consequences of Y/N and Mick’s falling out

I fell from the pedestal - Y/N becomes the subject of internet trolling after her fall out with Mick becomes public

Don’t know how long it’s gonna take to feel okay - Unable to deal with the stress and trolling, Y/N goes home to Switzerland, cutting off Max

My reputation’s never been worse so - Y/N’s absence sparks concerns amongst those closest to her

If someone comes at us, this time I’m ready - Y/N’s friends publicly support her as the hate continues

You don’t want to know me, I will just let you down

My words shoot to kill when I’m mad - Mick and Y/N finally talk

Something in your eyes says we can beat this - Max has a tough start to an important weekend, but his luck is about to change

(We) saw something the can’t take away - Y/N is there as Max wins at Monza and breaks another record

This is life before you know who you’re gonna be - Netizens discuss Max and Y/N’s enemy era

20 questions, we tell the truth - Y/N catches up with her followers after a hectic couple of weeks, and meets a man in Monaco

On a Wednesday, in a café - Y/N’s podcast with Daniel leads to some interesting revelations

Do you really want to know where I was? - Y/N and Max spend a day at the factory as rumours begin to swirl

I make it look oh so easy - Y/N and Max choose different confidants as they both attempt to avoid the elephant in the room

You’ll find me on my tallest tiptoes - It gets harder for Y/N to keep her secret

Slow motion, double vision in rose blush - Y/N gets back in the saddle while Max watches from the sidelines in more ways than one

Carnations you had thought were roses - Two of Y/N’s secrets are revealed

Didn’t it all seem new and exciting - Max leaves Y/N behind in Monaco as she reflects on her date

Loose lips sink ships all the damn time - Y/N heads to Switzerland for a special appointment as her relationship with Max is put under a microscope

I don’t wanna miss you like this - Y/N and Max deal with the distance between them differently

Your finger on my hairpin trigger - Tensions run high as Max has a bad day on track and Y/N gets defensive

Takes one to know one - Y/N’s much needed talk with Elliot is interrupted by an explosive qualifying in Singapore

I want to tell you not to get lost in these petty things - Max’s streak comes to an end and he and Y/N look ahead to Suzuka

Forever going with the flow, but you’re friction - Max asking Y/N to fly out early to Japan leads to tension and Y/N turns to Daniel for advice

I drive down different roads - Fans, and Y/N, speculate about her budding relationship

(They) knew what it was, he is in love - Netizens set out to prove that Max is in love with Y/N

(We) counted days, I counted miles, to see you there - Y/N arrives in Japan and is reunited with Max

Balancing on breaking branches - Max receives an unexpected delivery as Y/N answers questions from the media and her mother

It’s you and me, there’s nothing like this - As Max gets back to business as usual in Suzuka, wag social media does it’s thing

My (baby flies) like a jet stream - Max has a good day on track and Y/N’s Vogue article goes live

I can read you like a magazine - The internet reacts to mentions of Max in Y/N’s Vogue article

He’s passing by, rare as a glimmer of a comet in the sky - Red Bull securing the WCC is overshadowed by the revelation that Max hates podcasts

The lingering question(s) kept me up - Y/N does an Instagram Q&A

I just may like some explanations - Y/N answers more questions

How you held me in your arms that September night, the first time you ever saw me cry - Set in 2017, we learn what led to Y/N’s dad being dropped as Max’s sponsor, early in their friendship

People started talking, putting us through our paces - When Y/N is spotted out with Elliot, Instagram, Max, and Lando react

I don’t wanna touch you - Y/N finds herself short of breath on her padel date. Later, she appears on Max’s stream

(I) will never make my parents’ mistakes - Y/N’s dad hears about her dating life, and her mother weighs in

Drinking on a (yacht) with you all over me - Y/N and Max kick of his birthday celebrations with a day on the water, while Elliot changes his tune

I’d pick you up and we’d go back in time - Y/N and Max bring in his birthday somewhere special

We’re gonna be timeless - It’s Max’s birthday, but Y/N isn’t the only one planning surprises

Take the moment and taste it - Max enjoys a birthday boat day with family and friends, and Vic makes an accidental discovery

There’s glitter on the floor after the party - It’s the morning after night before. Max and Vic discuss Y/N’s letter

Movin’ on was always easy for me to do - Y/N and Elliot meet up to talk and Y/N’s friend weighs in. Y/N’s tweets irritate Max

Your eyes look like (being at) home - Y/N goes riding, Lando proposes plans, and Max has plans of his own

No I didn’t hear the news, ‘cause we were somewhere else - Max and Y/N arrive in Doha, but rumours about Max’s Monaco exploits follow them

You heard the rumours from (your friends) - Max attends Media Day while Y/N hangs out with an old friend

‘Cause they don’t know about the night in the hotel - Max’s GQ interview exposes an interesting part of Max and Y/N’s past

I was dancing around, dancing around it - Y/N and Clara celebrate Max’s on track triumphs

(You) stand up, champion tonight - Max becomes a three time world champion

This life is sweeter than fiction - Max wins in Qatar in a physically gruelling race

Life makes love look hard - Back in Monaco, Y/N is seen out with Elliot, and he makes a bold suggestion

Can we always be this close? - Y/N and Max have a chill day at home and while Twitter notice Max made an admission in an interview, Y/N makes an admission to Victoria

Inescapable, I’m not even gonna try - Y/N and Max spend a day at the factory, where both realise they may have something to work on

You go talk to your friends, talk to my friends, talk to me - Y/N’s podcast with Oscar comes out, on the same day she finally films one with Max. Meanwhile, Max uses the sim in an unconventional way

Yes, I remember what you said last night - Y/N’s plans for COTA baffle Christian, and Y/N learns an unexpected fact about the past

Take out, then take me home - Y/N prepares for Austin, and an interview with Max comes out

Love’s a game, wanna play? - Y/N tries her hand at padel after watching Max compete, and Max steams with Redline

Rosé flowing with your chosen family - Clara and Y/N spend the day together, and Clara becomes determined to finish what she started in 2017

(We are) a flight risk, with a fear of falling - Y/N and Max head to the US

Ain’t it funny, rumours fly - Y/N heads to a Ferrari gala as rumours swirl about Max’s next career move amid reports of infighting at Red Bull

As if I don’t already see (it) - The circus settles in to Texas and Y/N’s dad weighs in on Elliot

Can you see right through me? - Y/N and Elliot make a king and awkward paddock debut

I’ve been sleeping so long in a twenty year dark night - Y/N sheds light on her dating history while she and Elliot struggle to adjust to life in the paddock

It’s morning now, it’s brighter now - Y/N reaches out to an old friend for support. Meanwhile, Daniel tries to support Max

The moment I could see it - Max takes another win in Austin while Elliot reaches his breaking point

You’ll find the real thing instead - Y/N and Elliot have an honest conversation

In the name of being honest - Bonus part where Y/N answers Instagram questions after the Austin GP

I’m asking you why - More of Y/N’s post Austin Q&A

You’ve got a girl at home and everybody knows that - Y/N and Max are suspects in the wildest paddock rumour yet as they wrap up their trip to Austin

You learn my secrets and you figure out why I’m guarded - Y/N gets brutally honest with Mick as Max plays goalkeeper twice

You saw the truth in me - Max cuts it close before media day as reports surface of security threats in Mexico

They tell you that you’re lucky, but you’re so confused - Max attends a gruelling media day as Y/N deals with the heat of Mexico

Laughing with (your head in my) lap, like you were my closest friend - Everyone has a tough quali day

This is the golden age - Maxico delivers another win, and Y/N celebrates with tequila

(You would never) me darling, but who could stay? - Y/N and Max arrive in Brazil for a short break before the race

No one has to know what we do - Max and Y/N fall off the map and enjoy some private time

I can’t say anything to your face - Max and Y/N continue to leave each other flustered and Max starts press for the Brazilian GP

The way you move is like a full on rainstorm - Max takes pole in difficult conditions and Y/N gets near her breaking point

We were cards sharks, playing games - Max wins the sprint and Y/N wins games of her own

🚨I’ve had to add a second masterlist for all posts after this point. That can be found here 🚨

#max verstappen x reader #max verstappen #f1 fanfiction #f1 x reader #formula 1 #max verstappen fanfiction #max verstappen x you #f1 imagine #f1 social media au #f1 #lando norris #lando norris x reader #daniel ricciardo #daniel ricciardo x reader #mick schumacher x reader #mick schumacher

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zeroclockk · 9 days ago

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—⋆˙⟡ Guilty

——— ⋆˙⟡

Jungkook barely spends any time with you lately, but tonight is dinner night. I put all the effort into making his dinner, only to end up on the sofa watching TV.

Pair: jjk x fem reader, idol, absent boyfriend, fluff

Word count: 1,4k || oneshot

Nini’s library

——————————————————————₊˚⊹♡

He’s always busy, so damn busy. Sometimes he doesn’t even bother coming back to the apartment, figures it’s too late and just heads to his own place. He doesn’t want to be so busy, he doesn’t want to keep me a secret. but he has to…

Tonight, he promised me, though. Tonight we’d have dinner. So, it’s ready; his favorite pizza. The table is set, a candle lit. I put everything into this, trying my absolute best.

I made the pizza from scratch. the dough, the sauce, everything. It took me all day, but I wanted to do something special. I haven’t seen him in two weeks, and it feels like ages. All I want is a romantic night with him. I even cut the pepperonis into little hearts and set it on the table with a bottle of wine.

I dressed for the occasion, too. hair and makeup neatly done, a white fitted dress with lace and spaghetti straps. Paired with white socks, hidden beneath. Jazz music playing softly in the background, it’s all perfect.

I’d thought about baking cookies too, but that seemed like a little too much. So instead, I bought sweet corn ice cream, knowing he’d like it just as much.

He was supposed to be here by 6:30, but I figured with traffic he might be a little late. But eventually, the clock strikes 8 p.m. Can being an hour and a half late still be justified?

I take the bottle of red wine —along with a glass— and move to the couch, nearly downing the whole bottle while watching some random TV show. I don’t even notice when I drift off to sleep, half-drunken from all the wine.

I don’t notice it when he finally unlocks the front door, sighing as he stands in the doorway. He looks over, seeing me sprawled on the sofa, cheek resting on my arm. The bottle of wine sits on the coffee table, the empty glass still loosely tangled between my fingers.

The food remains untouched on the table, and the candle has burned itself out. He feels so guilty.

He walks over to the couch and crouches down in front of me, gently taking the wine glass from my fingers and placing it beside the nearly empty bottle.

“Hi, baby,” he says, tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear.

My eyes flutter open slowly.

“Jungkook? W-what time is it?”

He lets out another sigh. “It’s… it’s 1:20 a.m.”

I sit up, knees to his chest, head down, trying my best not to tear up.

“You’re late.” I avoid his face, not wanting to look at him and feel sadder.

“I know, I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry,” he says, stroking my hair, his voice low and apologetic.

“You were with Jimin, weren’t you?”

“What? How’d you know?”

“C’mon, Koo… I can smell the whiskey on you.”

I stand up from the sofa and walk to the kitchen table, slowly putting the unused dishes back in the cabinets.

He follows behind me, keeping just a little distance.

“You made this?” he asks, looking at the pizza on the table.

I rest my hands on the counter and sigh. “Yeah… I, uhm, I spent all day making the dough and the sauce, and I—” My voice trails off, tears filling my eyes.

He steps behind me, gently pulling my arm and wrapping me in his. He kisses the top of my head, whispering apologies.

“I’m so sorry, baby…”

I can’t hold back my tears any longer and start sobbing softly into his chest.

“I miss you. I miss my boyfriend.”

Even though he knows it’s his fault, his heart aches with guilt. He just holds me, letting me cry out my frustrations.

“How can I make it up to you, baby?”

“I just want a boyfriend who’s here. Someone who can hold me at night, who I can have dinner with, who makes me feel loved.”

I still don’t look at his face, I know my heart would forgive him for anything if I did.

“I shouldn’t have gone with Jimin, baby. I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I chose to go,” he says.

“It’s not just this, Koo. I haven’t seen you in two weeks, and on the night we planned a date, you just didn’t show up.” I pause, still not looking at him.

“I feel silly. I made you dinner, put on this silly outfit, and…” My sentence breaks into a sob, trying my best to keep it together.

“You look gorgeous, baby. It’s not silly. I’m an idiot for not showing up. I’ll never do it again. I’ll never be late again, I promise.”

“I love you…” I whisper against his chest. I’ve never said that to him before, and it hurts to admit it now.

He lifts my chin, and for the first time tonight, my eyes meet his. His big, brown, boba eyes staring back at me.

“You really mean that?”

I bury my head back into his chest, sobbing.

“I love you too, baby, so much.”

It hurts to hear, but I also feel a sense relief. How can you love someone and treat them like this?

“I want to feel like you do. I want to feel like I’m your number one.”

He cups my cheek, gently lifting my face to his.

“Baby, I’ll make that happen. I’m going to make you feel like the most spoiled girlfriend alive. There won’t be a moment in your day when you don’t know how much I’m obsessed with you. I’ll treat you the way I should’ve all along.”

I roll my eyes, a faint smile tugging at my lips. “Gosh, I hate you.”

He chuckles, giving me a soft kiss, and for a moment, the rest of the world fades away. I melt into the kiss. I know I’m a fool for choosing him again and again, but maybe this time he’ll really change. He’s never made such a promise and not done it, besides not showing up. My heart wouldn’t survive moving on from him, and I think he knows that, too.

“C’mon,” he says, guiding me to a chair at the table. He reheats the pizza in the microwave and lights a new candle. The wax from the first one has pooled on the table; he’ll have to clean that up for me.

He places the pizza back on the table and sits across from me, taking a slice.

“It’s delicious, baby. The best pizza I’ve ever had.”

With barely any appetite left, I take a bite. It’s good, I guess. I’m not one to compliment my own food, but he’s enjoying it, and that’s all that matters to me.

His hair is fluffy, and he’s dressed comfortably in a black shirt and jeans. My eyes are stuck on him, unable to focus on anything else, he looks so beautiful. It’s hard to believe he’s my boyfriend, sometimes it feels like he’s really not.

“I’ll talk to the agency tomorrow.” He then says.

“Huh? What?” I snap out of my thoughts.

“I’ll talk to the agency tomorrow,” he repeats. I don’t understand why, and he seems to catch onto my confusion.

“I can see it on your face… You want people to know, right?”

“You mean going public?” It’s what I’ve dreamt of, but I never thought he’d take it seriously. Some other idols date publicly, but I never thought he’d be one of those.

“Yeah. I mean, it has to happen sometime, right? I don’t think people would like it if I suddenly showed up married one day.”

“Married?!”

“What? You’re not dating me for that?”

I’m a stuttering mess, honestly. As a hopeless romantic, of course I dream of marriage. But right now, I don’t know what to say—it’s all happening too fast.

“I love you, baby, more than anything. I can’t picture my future without you. I’ll talk to the agency tomorrow about going public, slowly.”

He walks over to my side of the table, with half of the pizza left. He leans over, kissing me gently on the forehead.

“You look gorgeous, baby. I’m sorry I ruined tonight,” he whispers, pulling me for another kiss.

I don’t know what I’d do without him.

#jeon jungkook #jungkook fic #jungkook fanfic #bts fanfiction #bts fanfction #jjk #bts jungkook #fanfic writing #fanfiction #jungkook fluff #jungkook oneshot #jungkook #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jeon jungkook fanfic #jungkook imagine

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fingertipsmp3 · 11 months ago

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I can’t wait until I’m in like my 70s or something and fully don’t give a shit. I mean I’m already getting there now but I feel like I could give even less shits tbh

#i stood up from the dinner table and said ‘i’m going home because it’s too hot and my butt hurts’ and just went #(all food had been eaten and i’d paid for my share. it was just getting to the part where people were ordering more follow up drinks #and i knew they’d stay there for like 2 more hours if not more #and i was like ‘no. i’m overstimulated; my butt hurts; and i’m sitting right next to a radiator and i know i won’t be able to convince #anyone to switch with me’ so i thought ‘fuck this’ and went #i am recovering from a tailbone injury that makes sitting on a hard surface extremely painful :) and the options at this place were hard #chair or hard booth. i endured an hour and a half and then gave up #i just know i never would have been able to express myself like this in my early 20s. i would’ve been like ‘oh i have work to do’#or something. like no i plan to sit on a soft couch and read a book when i get home #also! there were a bunch of men clustered around the door laughing obnoxiously at their friend who was playing darts badly #because country pub = the dart board is directly across from the door. you walk in the establishment and immediately you’re watching #a darts game. everything is on top of each other. tbh even though the food is good; this is one of my least favourite places to eat #because it’s so CRAMPED. like i don’t know how people can deal. it’s hot and loud and uncomfortable #well anyway. when i was in my early 20s i would probably have waited for the men to vacate the door area and stop blocking it #with their bodies; but because i’m approaching the land of ‘doesn’t give a fuck’ i barged up to them and shouted ‘EXCUSE ME PLEASE’#parted them like the red sea. it was a lot of ‘sorry love’ and ‘didn’t see you there’#i’m taller than the tallest one of you so i highly doubt that but thank you regardless #anyway. if you need me i’m going to enjoy my soft couch and my book :)#personal

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macfrog · 1 year ago

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sweet child o' mine | pt. i

purely just some fun and games putting big grumpy joel miller slap bang in the middle of a romcom. i hope you guys enjoy. dedicated to big sis @mrsmando, who is the light of my life, let herself be completely swept away by this idea into unhinged, whimsical mania with me, and who inspired so many lil details for this story. love u, zhort x

pairing: neighbor!joel x fem!reader

summary: you strike up a deal to attend a wedding with your neighbor as his date. what could go wrong?

warnings: age gap (late 20s reader, late 40s joel), grumpy!joel initially finds reader mildly infuriating, cursing, alcohol consumption, discussion of a car accident (non-graphic) & dead parents, softdom!joel as per, fingering, handjob, comeplay, spitting, drunk unprotected one night stand, creampie, praise kink, one mention of nausea (but nothing happens, my little emetophobic angels), someone falls pregnant and it's not joel miller i'll tell you that much. honk if you love cats!!!

word count: 9.8k

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It’s just gone seven on a Saturday night when his knuckles rap on your door.

The sun casts tall, angled shapes on your living room wall. Lights the pages before you in a glow of tangerine. Refracts through the glass tumbler on your coffee table and bleeds the amber liquid onto the pale wood surface. Everything lit in some variation of gold, everything bowing its head quietly as the day begins to turn its back.

The house is still. The world feels still, as though transitioning. Like you’re sat in a waiting room, leg bouncing, anticipating something you don’t know to look for yet.

Perfect, comfortable, still – until he’s on your porch. And he knocks again.

You snap your book shut and slide it across the table, nudging the heavy glass. The ice clinks, irritated.

“You mind fastenin’ your…delicates to your clothesline a little better?”

His voice shoulders its way into your hallway before you’ve even pulled the door back enough to see him. Not that you need to see him to know who it is. You’ve lived in Austin three years now and met only one person with a voice as low and toneless as Joel Miller’s. Slung in sarcasm, dripping with disdain. All that.

You cross your arms and slant against the doorframe, unable to mask your amusement. “Excuse me?”

He answers by lifting his left hand. From his pointer finger hang a tiny pair of white panties, lace pattern fluttering in the late summer breeze. You glance over his shoulder as you steal them from his grasp, balling them in your fist.

“Uhuh. They were sitting on my back lawn. I have company tonight, y’know. I can’t have women’s underwear just – lyin’ in my damn yard.”

Your head tilts. Ears prick. “Company? You hostin’ somethin’?”

His shoulders drop with a sigh. “No. I am not hostin’ anythin’.”

“Good. ‘cause I’d want an invite.”

“If I were hostin’, you’d be the last person I would invite. And you know that.”

“Ouch,” you pout, “that hurts, Miller. I watered your plants while you were off visiting your brother last month. They woulda died without me there.”

“And I am grateful to you,” Joel grumbles, “but that doesn’t mean I need those anywhere in view of my kitchen window.” He throws a pointed finger to your elbow, where your panties sit scrunched in your fist.

You look down to the froth of frill spilling between your knuckles, and back up to his dark features – his glower casting a shadow over the hazel eyes and deepening the creases between his brows. You smirk, a realization dawning.

Company – that he doesn’t want seeing a pair of someone else’s underwear.

“You have a date.”

Joel’s tongue flicks across the inside of his cheek. He glances over his shoulder and speaks through his teeth. “No, not a date,” he quietly tells the street.

“But you have a lady comin’ over. Or at least – someone you don’t want seeing these.” You unfold your arms and twirl your fist. The gentle wind lifts the lace.

He grunts. A low hmph. Agreement, you think.

“Sounds like a date.”

He hisses, “’s not a date.”

Your stare doesn’t slip from his. Not when his brows tighten, not when his jaw does, too. Not even when he sucks a breath between gritted teeth. Your smile widens.

Finally, with a sigh, he concedes. “It’s…it’s somebody Tommy ‘n Maria are tryna set me up with. Alright?”

“So – a date.”

“If you don’t –” Joel’s head flicks over to his own driveway at the same time his hand lifts, a pointed gesture you read as – shut the fuck up. “We’re just having a few drinks. Just – hangin’ out.”

“Just hangin’ out,” you repeat, eyes widening. “One-on-one. With some woman who – Wait, Tommy’s in Wyoming. How the hell do he and his wife know someone way the hell down here?”

“From before they moved. And – Maria ain’t his wife. Yet. They’re getting married next month.”

Suddenly the sun reappears over the dark horizon. The evening begins to clear up, make sense again. You lift your chin, nodding.

“Right, right. So, she gonna be your plus one, or…?”

The understanding raises his heckles again. Exasperated, he asks, “How many damn questions are you gonna –? I’m only here to – to return your –” He nods once more to the pale fabric in your hand.

A laugh shoots from your nostrils. “What’s the matter? You don’t like – whatever her name is?”

“Laura.”

“Laura,” you breathe.

“And there ain’t nothin’ wrong with her. She just – she…”

“She…?”

“She has, like, five cats, and it’s just…hair, everywhere. And at their engagement party, she spilled an entire margarita down me. Right down my –” He sweeps a hand down his front, balling his fists again once they reach the hem of his shirt.

Your lips turn, amused. “Five cats. Cat lady Laura. Well. Have fun, I guess. Thanks for these.”

He acknowledges your raised fist with a bashful glance. He’s already halfway down your front steps when he says, “Keep an eye on your laundry from now on,” and strides off back to his own place.

Joel has lived here his whole life. In Austin. You’ve no idea when he moved in next door, just that he was here when you did. You don’t know much about him at all – the fact he even filled you in enough to tell you about his date is shocking enough.

The day you first arrived, U-Haul truck squealing to a halt by the curb, he found himself unlucky enough to be stood in his front yard watering the blond patches of his grass. He saw you struggling to open the rear door of the truck, and with a grumble and a glance across the street for a more eager rescuer, he tossed his hose and came over to help.

He unclicked the heavy latch and pushed the door up with enough ease to put you to shame. And he seemed to feel some obligation when he saw the mass of belongings stuffed in the back, to help you unload them. Didn’t seem overjoyed by the thought, mind you, what with the sigh he let slip when you hopped up and held out the first box.

He indulged you for no more than one hour. Answered every question you had about the neighborhood, dodged every one about himself. He told you about the couple across the street with the newborn baby, told you about your neighbor on the other side who pretends to garden just so she can snoop on everyone else’s business. And as soon as the last box thudded down on your gleaming living room floor, he nodded, and paced back over to his own property.

He's a good guy. You know this much. He’s a dick to you most days, but he’s honest, and he’s kind when you catch him in the right light. He takes deliveries for you when you’re not home; he once drove Diane to the vets when she showed up on his doorstep in the dead of night, Fred the Jack Russell ailing in her arms.

He’s observant. Noticed just this summer the three different plumbers who showed up to your house in the space of two days, and came over as the third guy was leaving – his shining bald head low between his shoulders.

‘s the matter? Joel asked, watching the navy overalls sink into the rusted vehicle.

Kitchen sink’s leakin’. Fuckin’ – nobody can fix it.

He shouldered you out of the way with his then-trademark sigh and left twenty minutes later, your kitchen finally free of the dripdripdrip you’d been plagued with for a week straight.

He’s good. He’s a good neighbor. But, man, is he private.

You’ve never seen the inside of his place. His body blocks it anytime you’re on his doorstep. He has a brother, you know that – though, only since last month, when he asked you to keep an eye on his garden – and you know, now, that the brother is getting married.

You know that he likes country music, know he plays guitar – accidentally. You heard him one day in the spring, when he left his window open and you were lounging by your pool. When he looked out and noticed how you’d angled your sunbed to listen, really listen, he slammed it shut.

You know he’s single and childless and has been for at least the three years you’ve lived next door to him.

You know little fucking else.

The words on the curled pages seep into one another. You’re staring through the book now back in your hands, the shape of your living room blurring around you: the brick fireplace, the still, red light of the TV. The lulling sway of the sheer curtains, pushed like the tides by the air through the open window.

You cross your ankles on the coffee table. Your lips purse. Tongue dabs at the smoky-sweet singe of whiskey on the flesh of your cheeks. From here, you can see the street outside Joel’s house. If – when – Laura pulls up, you’ll know. And you’ll be here to watch. Survey. Observe.

See what kind of woman a guy like Joel Miller takes to his brother’s wedding.

It’s nine fifty-two when she eventually leaves.

She’s been in there two hours and seventeen minutes. Her car – a kind of rotten green Chevrolet with one tail light out – sits patiently out front, like even it can’t wait to help her fucking disappear.

You’re hoisting a swollen black bag down your drive when his porch light flickers on and his front door opens. The glossy plastic exhales as it slumps against the trashcan. You dust your hands. Joel hasn’t noticed you yet.

“…so nice gettin’ to properly know you,” Laura’s crooning, sidestepping as Joel walks calmly down to her car. Ushering her. You hold back a laugh.

“Thanks for comin’,” he says, his voice falling flat in the windless evening. He’s a step ahead of her, like a parent leading their child away from the park. She’s still babbling about his six-string.

“Maybe next time I can hear a little somethin’…” she says, and you know from the way he halts that Joel hears the same questioning tone you do, the way somethin’ curls up at its end.

“Maybe,” he says, curtly. His words curl down. And then nothing else, and Laura – who, now that she’s a little closer, stood on the curb by her car door, you notice has sweeping golden hair which flicks away from her plump cheeks, and bright eyes which dazzle in the dusky glow – is forced to cough up one last chance.

“I gave you my number,” she says, then, “I didn’t get yours?” and this time, it’s definitely a question.

Joel pretends to pat down his pockets. “I musta left my phone in the house.”

You can’t help it. A scoff bursts from your lips. But he still doesn’t look over.

“Well,” Laura tugs on the handle, “thank you for a lovely evenin’. I’ll hear from ya.”

Joel smiles but puts a hand on the door, like he might slam it shut for her if she tried to backtrack. But she doesn’t. She swings both legs in, pulls it closed, and the engine spurts to life.

As she pulls off, Chevrolet jolting a little, you notice the bright yellow bumper sticker plastered squint beneath the license plate. You walk silently over to Joel, grass prickly under your socks.

“Honk If You Love…Cats,” you murmur, shoulder brushing off his bicep.

He sniffs. Tightens the grip his arms have on his chest. His eyes are fixed on the one red light, slowly shrinking into the distance. “Don’t even.”

“Good date?”

“I said don’t.”

“She talk much about her cats?”

“Goodnight.”

“Did you ask their names, at least?”

He’s backing up, crossing the dark lawn towards his front steps. He looks you up and down, his lips a flat line. Your sweat shorts. Your bare legs. The tight vest top molded around your breasts. His eyes shoot back up. “No more questions. No more pesterin’ me.”

“Nothin’ about the cats? Seriously, dude?” You lift your arms, grinning after his dark figure, swaggering up the porch steps.

Joel ignores you. He disappears through his front door and the light is snuffed. You slink back up to your house, grateful for the blanket of darkness covering the skip in your step.

Eleven hours later, you’re stood in front of your bedroom mirror.

The day melts against your window. Brilliant blue sky, cradling soft puffs of snow-white clouds. Crows on Diane’s roof cawing, slowly yellowing trees rustling. The bright, hot square across your front where the sun forces her way in.

You turn, taking the loose hem of your sleepshirt in your fingers, and pull it over your body, tossing it to the foot of the bed as you examine the pattern of colors hanging from inside your closet.

You take them one by one, tug them free, slot them back in. Eventually you settle for a gray hoodie, cropped and loose. As you haul it from its hanger, there’s a whine from the wooden cabinet. A squeal. The top shelf rips from either side, dropping to the closet floor and taking the pole with it.

“What the f–? You gotta be fucking kidding me,” you growl, stepping forward to run your fingers along the splintered wood where the nails have ripped themselves free. Four black holes, jagged insides of the closet pricking your fingertips.

The crumple of clothes and hangers sulks up at you pathetically. You fall back onto your bed with a sigh, staring up at the ceiling. The fan whirs slowly, scooping your gaze and throwing it in lazy circles.

The closet was old, anyways. Was here when you moved. It’s probably about time you had some new ones built. But fuck, that’s gonna cost. Ripping the old ones out, building them from scratch. The fan pulls your eyes back around to twelve o’clock.

Joel’s a contractor. He could do ‘em. Might give you a discounted rate, too, for all the times you move his newspaper from his front lawn to his doorstep for him. Either that, or he’d want something in return. And what handy skills do you have? You once knitted a scarf for you grandma for Christmas. Maybe not Joel’s thing. You can cook mac ‘n cheese – though one lousy meal isn’t payment enough for an entire wall of solid wood, two panes of glass and two days’ labor.

A favor, maybe. An IOU. What the fuck kinda favor does Joel Miller need–?

You’re hopping over the tiny burst of hedge between his yard and yours before the thought is finished, bending to scoop his newspaper up and slotting it under your arm. He answers just as you lift your fist to pound on his door for a second time.

You slap the rolled paper into his chest. “I have an idea.”

He squints at you in the summer light. “Wh–? Didn’t I tell you not to p–?”

“I’ll be your date.”

Joel blinks.

“I’ll be your date,” you repeat. “I got a wardrobe needs replacing. You do it, for free, and I’ll be your date.”

“Your wardrobe?”

“Crapped out on me this mornin’. I don’t want to pay for some stranger who’ll overcharge me ‘n do a half-assed job. Fix it, ‘n you don’t have to take cat lady Laura to Tommy’s wedding. And you can fix my kitchen sink, too.”

“I already fixed your kitchen sink.”

“It’s back at it. Drippin’ all through the damn night. Drip drip drip –”

“Alright.” Joel’s palm is up again. He does that a lot when he’s talking to you. “Alright. Wardrobe ‘n sink.”

“We have a deal?” you ask, extending your hand.

His chest fills with a thoughtful breath. His eyes scan you up and down, lingering somewhere a little lower than your jaw for a second. And then, the heavy weight of his palm against yours. The tightening of his fingers around your wrist. One sure shake.

Deal.

Two weeks before the wedding, you’re at Joel’s door again.

He’s in a black tee, dark sweatpants slung low on his hips. His hair is damp, fringe still dripping onto his forehead. He runs a hand through the gray-singed brown and stares at the tangle of fabric slung over your arm. “The hell is this?”

“Do you know what you’re wearin’?”

His eyes roll up to meet yours. “Do I know what I’m wearin’?”

You nod. “You’re the best man. Guessing Tommy has you covered?”

“Black suit,” he says, after a beat.

“That’s it? He ain’t got no theme?”

Joel’s head cocks. “I don’t do themes.”

You roll your eyes, ducking under his arm fixed against the doorpost. He manages three words of protest and then shuts the door in resignation, turning to watch as you take his stairs two at a time.

“You are so damn annoyin’, you know that?” his voice echoes behind you.

“You want this date or not, Miller?” you call over your shoulder, following the route through the identical house to your own bedroom – thankful when you nudge the door and it opens to reveal his bland, colorless decor. “Very…gray,” you note, feeling the shadow of him over your shoulder.

You throw the dresses down on his bed, satin and lace and pink and green swimming between one another on his sheets.

“I’m not wearin’ a dress.”

You glower at him. “Ha. We have to match.”

He rubs the towel against the back of his head, drying the dark hair. “Match how?”

“Y’know, your suit ‘n my dress. If I’m your date, we have to match.”

“Already told you. I’m wearin’ a black suit.”

“Right. But, like – what color tie? And can it be any of these colors?” You hold your hands out, surfing over the sea of shades. “Maybe,” you lift your eyebrows, eyes darting to the pale teal color, “this one?”

Joel entertains you for all of five seconds, lifting his cheeks in a false grin before they deflate. “No. Black.”

“Joel.”

He slings the towel over his folded arms, and looks at you plainly. “Black,” he says again, in a tone of voice which sounds something like a door being slammed shut.

Your eyes thin, and you gather your dresses up in one swipe. “Can you just –? Will you make sure that you match my corsage, at least?”

“Why the hell are you so hung up on this?”

“I’m not. I’m just tryna make it believable. You turned down cat lady Laura, this is what you get.”

He sighs, tossing the towel over to his laundry basket. “I will make sure I match your corsage. Happy?”

“Happy. Are you ready?”

“Give me five minutes.”

You huff, head rolling back. “You are so prima-donna, Joel Miller.”

With a sarcastic chuckle, he shoves you out of his bedroom to get dressed. You saunter down his stairs, drinking in every detail of his home as though it’s the only chance you’ll get to see it.

It probably is, when you think about it. You don’t imagine he’ll be inviting you over for drinks anytime soon.

Your eyes move along the wall as you slowly thump down his stairs, thrown from framed photo to framed photo – a black and white photo of a man with a tousle-haired boy on his lap, the kid’s tongue sticking from the corner of his mouth as he wraps his small hand around the neck of a guitar; an out-of-focus Christmas photo, a family of four sat in front of a million multicolored orbs dotted along the branches of a tree; a kid with skinned knees crouched by a German shepherd, his lanky arms hooked around the dog’s thick neck.

One brown suede jacket hangs from a coat peg at the bottom, Joel’s boots sat loose and unlaced beneath. A dark blue blanket draped over the back of his couch. A painting of a moose over his fireplace. Shelves lining one entire wall decorated with carved-wood animals, with more photographs of times gone and memories made, with books and DVDs that lend your fingertip with a heap of white dust as you drag it across their spines.

Enough to paint a picture, not quite enough to show you the colors. The tones, the depth. Despite your best efforts, the man remains a mystery. You settle with the fact he will never be fully revealed.

The creak of his stairs turns your attention from the guitar on the wall around to his tall figure, fixing the collar of the loose flannel over his shoulders.

“You ready?” Joel asks, bending with a groan to reach for his boots.

“Yep,” you reply, leaning forward to glance into his kitchen while his head’s down. The most you manage to observe are the light drapes, the sunlight shooting through and bouncing off of a white-topped island.

“’s go,” he says, keys dangling from his finger.

It takes twenty minutes to drive to Home Depot.

You chitter in Joel’s ear the entire time, reading from his handwritten list of measurements and supplies needed for your new closet. ‘n how do you know this is all enough? Because I know. What if you get started and it’s not? I won’t; it’s enough. You sound so sure. That’s ‘cause I’ve done it before, kid. You take many closetless girls out on fake wedding dates, Joel?

“What’s our story, then?” you ask in the store, fiddling with hanging packets of door hinges while Joel reads thrice over his note. Your hand dives into the bag of M&M’s he begrudgingly bought you at a gas station on the way.

“Our story?” he mumbles back, the words slipping under the mental math you can see going on behind his eyes.

“Like, when people ask how we met. What’s our meet-cute? Both reached for the same door hinge, our hands touched and lit aflame? That kinda thing?”

He doesn’t laugh. Your smile dampens instantly. You kick his boot. “Joel.”

“’sec,” he frowns, “I’m focusing.”

You lean close, pushing on your toes to study the folded slip. His scrawled numbers, the pencil lines blunt and smudged in the creases of the paper.

“Twentytwofortysixeightyninetyfivesixhundredelevenfourtwelvenineteen–”

Joel’s lips seep a maddened sigh; he glances down the aisle like a store attendant might separate you from him if he demanded with enough passion, or maybe if he slipped them a twenty.

“Do you mind?” he barks, his expression a brick wall for your giggles to fall flat to the floor against.

“Home Depot’s your stomping ground. Why the hell do I gotta come watch you pick hinges and timber?”

“Because it’s your damn closet I’m fittin’. Just –” he swipes two packets from their peg, tossing them into the shopping cart, “– come on.”

Joel makes off down the muck-colored floor, the overhead lights reflecting harshly in the shiny surface. The front right wheel of the cart trembles as it rolls, nervously leading the two of you down an aisle lined with cylinder tins and pamphlets on Choosing the right finish.

“So, are your parents gonna be at this wedding?” you ask, taking the cart from Joel’s hands when he drifts off to study a shelf of wood varnish.

His jaw turns towards you, and then back to the tin in his hand. “Yeah. Why?”

“Do I get to meet ‘em?”

“No.”

“Oh, come on. You’re not gonna introduce your date to your mom and dad?”

He scoffs, stealing a handful of candy. “My fake date?”

“They don’t know that. Let me meet Mr. and Mrs. Miller.”

He holds two tins up, offering them to you like answer to your question. “Matt or gloss? Guess it don’t really matter if I’m painting ‘em after.”

“Stop fuckin’ ignoring me. I hate when you do that.”

He leans in close, lowering the matt varnish into the cart. “You think I’m gonna introduce you ‘n your potty mouth to my mom?”

You smirk, eyes narrow. “Dick.”

“Funny. What color paint you want? You said something about duck egg?”

“Planning on repainting my room that color, yeah. Hey, you could –”

He swats your pointed finger away, taking the cart back. “We shook on new wardrobe. No changin’ the deal,” he mutters, wandering over to the rainbow of paint tins on the opposite side of the aisle.

You follow him over, eyes moving from blue over to green, the tins plastered with the fake smiles of families and fluffy pet dogs on the front. “Where are your mom and dad from?” you ask.

“Austin,” he replies, eyes squinting to read the small print on the back of one vibrant shade. You shake your head and guide his wrist back to the shelf, where he obediently sets the heavy tin back. “Never known anywhere else,” he adds. “What about you? Where’s Mr. and Mrs. Potty Mouth?”

“Uh,” you swipe at your nose awkwardly, “they’re up in Allandale. That’s where I grew up.”

“That so? I got a cousin who used to live that way. Used to take my bike up every Saturday. He lived right by this old car shop, all these old classics they used to fix up ‘n resell.”

“Yeah,” you say, “right next to the cemetery, right?”

“That’s the one,” Joel says, lifting paint tins to the light and setting them down again. “They live nearby?”

Your breathing shifts, starts to claw its way up your throat. Your chest heats, skin lighting with an irritating anxiety. “They’re, um,” you gulp, “they’re in the cemetery.”

Joel pauses, letting the tin slip from his grasp with an echoing thud against the wooden shelf which reverberates in your ears a second too long. “Oh,” he says, set on your expression.

“It’s okay – I don’t mind. It’s – it was a car accident, back when I was eight. I wasn’t in it, or anything. I grew up with my grandma. Really, Joel, I don’t mind,” you add, when his face falls and he begins to apologize.

“I had no idea,” he says, and you break the eye contact before you break a fucking sweat.

“’s all good,” you murmur, lifting paint tins of your own now, focusing on deblurring your glossy vision, “I got to buy a big house with the money they left.”

It thaws him a little. He snorts, and taps the lid of the tin you’re holding. “That one’s nice. You, uh – you okay?”

You finally turn back, the world clearer, colors no longer bleeding into one another through sharp tears. “Yeah. I’m fine. We got everything?”

Joel nods, and wheels the cart around. “You can meet her, if you want. My mom. She’s a little full on, but I reckon you can handle her.”

You smile, following him down the aisle.

A month after he delivered your underwear back to you, you’re back on Joel’s doorstep.

Your hand flicks nervously at your side as you wait for him to answer, petals of your corsage quivering. The clip of his footsteps echoes down the stairs, a deep sound growing louder and louder until the door clinks open and you’re separated only by air.

Joel’s eyes scan down your body at the same time yours scan down his. Black suit, sure enough, just without the jacket, and with his tie slung around his loose collar. You both freeze when your eyes meet again, your lips silently forming the shape of an avalanche of words that refuse to sound until Joel’s do.

“Wow, you –”

“– look great, I –”

“– nice dress, is that –? Sorry –”

“– no, I’m sorry, you were – sorry.” A laugh pushes from your throat. “You look – you look good. Scrub up well, ‘n all that.”

“You too. You – Yeah. That’s a nice color, after all. You suit it.” His eyes linger on your chest, your breasts draped in lustrous silk, decorated with the glint of golden jewelry. You notice.

“Thanks. After all?” You snort, and Joel’s exterior seems to crack a little.

He steps back, ushering you in. “Alright,” he says, taking the tote with your change of clothes from your wrist. He watches across the street as you step over the threshold, his fingertips light on your back as you pass by, like little shocks of lightning up your spine. “You know what I meant.”

Your dress swishes around your ankles, your heels clicking along his varnished floor. Your arms lock around your torso, holding your pashmina in place while Joel totters around, tossing his jacket over his shoulders. His shirt stretches from his tight waistband, fabric flattening against his tummy. Your eyes shoot north again when he speaks.

“You mind doin’ my tie? It’ll end up squint if I do.”

“Sure,” you reply, stepping forward.

He buttons the top of his shirt and lifts his chin, staring at the wall behind you as you tug on the black fabric, the silk slipping through your fingers. You steal glances at the trim of his beard, his pink lips beneath the dark bristles; the slope of his nose, the lines on his worn skin.

He’s rough around the edges, sure, a man in his late forties. But there’s something soft about him, something familiar and…comfortable. The pages of a used sketchbook, the lived-in material of a favorite dress.

You pull the knot higher until it’s sitting in the notch below his Adam’s apple, smoothing it down and giving his chest a light pat before stepping back again.

“Thanks, darlin’,” he mumbles, and a spark lights in your chest. “Oh,” he says, holding a finger up and disappearing into the kitchen. He returns with a little white box, holding it out for you to see.

Your cheeks swell, eyes flitting up to acknowledge the proud look on his face. “Very nice. Good job.”

“You can do the honors,” Joel says, handing you the boutonniere by the stem.

You pin it through his lapel, straightening it with a focused glance. Joel’s eyes are on you, watching the flutter of your eyelashes, the tilt of your head. “There,” you whisper, leaning back.

He extends his elbow, something of a smile on his lips. You don’t see it often. It beckons a mirrored expression.

Arm in arm, Joel leads you out to the truck, where he helps you up and waits for you to scoop your dress into the footwell before closing the door. You watch patiently as he locks the front door, slings both your bags over his shoulder and jogs back to the truck, tossing them in the backseat before joining you in the front.

“How come he didn’t send a limousine? Or a Jag, or somethin’?”

“You think we’re made a’ money?” Joel asks, smirking.

You return the smile, wrapping your shawl over your body. “Can I pick the music?” you ask, earnestly, a tinge of sweetness to your voice.

Joel glances over again, reaches behind your headrest to reverse out of the drive. He runs his tongue along his top teeth. “No,” he says.

Three hours later, Tommy and Maria are married.

The wedding is…big. Joel’s family is big. The venue – a rustic hotel suite, fairy lights draped from the rafters, blooming flowers sprouting from crystal vases, lace tablecloths and tied chair cushions and wax dripping from thick, naked candles – is big.

Joel’s been good about it – that friendly neighbor you see all too little has been kicked into high gear. He delivered you by hand straight to his mom – a small woman with silver hair neatly twisted into an updo at the back of her head – who took your hand and held it tightly all the way to your seats.

Kind and warm, she asked where you were from, how you met Joel, how long you’d been dating. She offered you some tissues before the ceremony started, then winked and nodded in Joel’s direction as the bridesmaids swept down the aisle.

You lingered behind the photographer while he took photos of the wedding party, instructing them to shuffle a little closer, that’s it; ma’am, with the red hair, lower your bouquet a little; alright, now, everyone: big smiles!

You worried that Joel had kept the same placated smile frozen on his face for so long that it might never melt away, might never return to the stoic scowl you’re so used to seeing on him. You didn’t even realize you were staring at him, until he waved you down, flicked his hand, and beckoned you over to the group.

You hesitated. I don’t know if I –

Get over here, girl, Tommy had called, grinning alongside his big brother.

The two Millers slotted you in like a jigsaw piece between their bodies, two arms wrapped around your back – Tommy’s, loose on your shoulders, and Joel’s, tight around your waist. He held you close, squeezing you into his side while the photographer praised the party and snapped photo after photo, the flash burning into your eyes by the time he clapped his hands and thanked you all for your patience.

Drink? Joel had asked, and you’d responded with one thumb up, the other massaging your eyelids. He squeezed your shoulder and disappeared into the crowd of bodies.

He’s still over there – by the bar, a wooden structure draped in ivy and studded by steel bolts. His beer in one hand and your wine in the other. A lean, poised figure stood opposite him – her dress a royal purple, her hair a wave of brown spilling over her bare shoulders.

She’s beautiful – a striking charm which draws your eye to her like an arrow directly through the sea of bodies between here and there. Her languid movements, the slow roll of her neck to sweep the hair from one side of her body to the other.

Her head falls back in laugher, her bejeweled hand falls softly on his arm. Your throat closes sharply. Joel nods, angling as if to make off, but she holds onto him and leans in. He laughs, then, at whatever her full lips whisper into his ear, and he finally breaks off from her and returns to you.

He pushes the glass by its base across the smooth tablecloth. Your fingers brush over one another as you trade, the stem sitting between your index and middle. He’s warm, his knuckles kissing yours.

“How was it, then, talkin’ to my mom?” Joel asks.

You smile, propping your chin on the heel of your palm. “I like her. She’s funny.” And then, when he tosses his head in response, “Who were you talkin’ to?”

Joel follows your eyeline over to the woman in the purple dress. The glint of white crystal on her neck. The drama of dark hair on pale skin. “Uh,” he wanders around your back to his chair, “we used to work together.”

Your nails tap against the glass. “Oh, yeah?”

He sniffs. Doesn’t meet your eye. “Yep.”

“You were talking to her for a long time.”

He watches a blue orb dance over your head on the wall, a spot of light from the disco ball over the dancefloor. “Lotta memories.”

“Why won’t you look at me?”

His eyes plummet. Fall from the string bulbs straight to your face, sparkling in the rainbow lights. “You want me to look at you? There.”

You grin. “’s better. If you stare up there long enough, they might stick.”

“Safer to have ‘em stuck on you, is it?”

“Mhm,” your voice echoes around the curve of your wine glass, “better view. So, who is she?”

Joel shifts uncomfortably. He twirls the bottle in his fingers. “We…we were together for some time. A few years.”

“An ex,” you muse, stain of lipstick left on the rim of your glass. “How many years?”

“Eight.”

You almost choke on your drink. “Eight – eight years?”

Joel nods, waiting for you to catch your breath. Expression never changing. Bottle still twirling. “Haven’t seen her in a while. We were just catchin’ up.”

“Eight fucking years. Why the fuck aren’t you married?”

He scoffs. “That’s a fifth-date question.” He lifts the bottle to his lips, tongue pushes against the glass.

“I don’t need five fuckin’ wardrobes,” you quip, and he laughs. Like, genuinely laughs. His head tips back, his teeth show. Your chest swells, confidence and relief blooming there. She didn’t make him laugh like that – not from where you were watching.

It becomes something of a mission in the back of your mind – tallying up how many times you can make his chest shudder, his shoulders jerk. How many times he leans in closer and repeats whatever you said, eyes closing over and hand hitting his thigh. How many times he looks at you and your stomach flutters, the blood cartwheels through your veins, the bones of your ribcage readjust and make room for the swelling of your heart.

Within four rounds, you’ve lost count.

The thudding beat of the music muffles in your drunken ears, like it’s coming from the next room. Your gaze fixes on the vase in the center of the table, the bouquet spilling over the glass. The wide burst of speckled lilies, the humble blush of tulips between. The colors soften and blur the longer you stare at them.

The jerk of Joel’s shoulders stirs you from your daydream. That’s one more.

“What?” you ask, head rolling to look over to him.

“You still in there?” he asks, one word slurring into the next like waves lapping.

You scoff, looking back to the pink flowers. “You know who has tulips?” you ask him.

He lifts his eyebrows. Who?

“Alice.”

“Brown?”

Your head nods heavily. “One time, she was out getting her mail, and I had just pulled up in my car on the phone to my best friend – he’d just broken up with his girlfriend, it was a whole thing…” You bat your hand. “Anyway. She pretended to tend to her tulips for forty-five minutes while I sat talkin’ to him in the driveway.”

Joel’s head tilts back with a burst of laughter. “She hear every word?”

“Every – damn – word. Stood by the fence listenin’.”

“That woman is som’ else,” Joel says, shaking his head. He stares down at the bottle between his fingers. His thumbs play with the curled corner of the label. “Didn’t I warn you about her?”

“Mhm.” You smile, realizing he has the same memory that you do, locked up somewhere in his mind. The sweat running down his temple, the dark patch between his shoulder blades. His hands gripping the heavier boxes, leaving you to carry the linen, the base of a lamp. Nodding as he wandered back over to his own porch, calling back for you to Holler if you need anythin’.

The high squeal of the Sweet Child O’ Mine intro snaps you back to the wedding reception. Tommy and Maria are playing air guitar on the dancefloor over Joel’s shoulder. You unstick your gaze from his white shirt, unsure how long you’ve been fucking staring.

Joel sits forward, drags his chair across the polished floor closer to you. He fixes the strap on your dress, untwisting it before settling back again. Your eyes follow his fingers as they leave your shoulder and sit back on the curve of his thigh, lifting when his voice breaks through to your eardrums.

“What room number did you say you were, again?”

Your shoulders roll. “Thirty-four, I think.”

Joel nods. Points to himself. “Thirty-six.” And then he glances over his shoulder, watches as Tommy kneels before Maria and rocks his head, his messy mop of hair tossed across his shoulders. The older Miller brother turns back. “Think they’ll miss us if we call it a night?”

“We’re callin’ it a night?”

“Figure if I’m headin’ off then you won’t wanna be sat here by yourself,” Joel says, and he’s right. He stands up, sets the half-empty bottle on the tablecloth and stares down at you. “I’m callin’ it a night,” he tells you. “You comin’?”

The colors in the room spin like the reels of a slot machine. Your fingers sit lightly in his outstretched palm, and you pull yourself up alongside him.

“’s a good girl,” he mutters, looking over your shoulder to the doorway, and your eyes sober up long enough to catch the flicker in his eye.

You totter along the hallway, arm in arm, anchoring yourselves together. Whichever way one sways, the other inevitably follows. You’re laughing, and Joel’s hushing you, warning that there are folks tryna – tryna sleep, we’re in a fancy place, hey, da-rlin’, no – you gotta shhhut up.

“Great party,” you decide, finally docking against your door.

“Yeah,” Joel agrees, leaning a little on the wall. The gentle glow of the hallway lights him perfectly; the strong angle of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbones. The hazel pools that make up his irises, the swollen circles of black in the middle. And the twinkle in them, like the moon reflecting on dark water, every time his gaze lifts to you.

He’s different tonight. Maybe it’s the alcohol. The way it colors everything in a peachy film, all objects softened and rosy and shapeless. But he feels different, too. You suddenly realize, shoulder pressed hard against the cold doorframe, that you’ve never touched one another more than you have today. His elbow in yours, his arm around your waist, his hand through yours as you danced together.

“Are you tired?” you ask, head rolling.

“Tired? No. Drunk, yeah. Not tired.” He laughs again. It’s infectious.

“You wanna come inside?” you ask, words leaping from your giggle.

He takes ten seconds to consider it. Slumps into the wall, steadied only by his forearm pushing him back upright. His watch face catches the light behind him.

“Yeah. Fuck yeah, I do.”

Your hand fumbles in your clutch for the keycard, swiping the handle and pushing down heavily. You spill into the dark room, light sneaking in from the sconce outside your window, and spin back to face him, his hand locked tight with yours.

Joel follows you slowly as you back towards the bed, kicking your heels off and tripping over the skirt of your dress. When your legs hit the plush mattress, his body leans into yours. Your lips ghost across his, your words pushing them apart one by one.

“This ain’t – part of the – agreement,” you murmur, the coarse hair of his beard scratching your chin. You pull apart his tie, loosening the knot.

“Changed my mind,” he replies, collapsing on top of you on the bed.

Your head rolls back when his lips suck into your neck. You wrestle with his belt, with the waist of his suit trousers. “No changin’ the deal, remember?”

“Tell me to stop.”

If you had any intention of answering him, your body overrides it. Words lassoed and dragged back down where they came from, your throat opening only to gasp when Joel’s teeth graze the flesh of your breast. His fingers tug on the straps of your dress, letting them fall from your shoulders until your chest sits exposed.

He drags his tongue along your skin, dipping between your tits while his hands massage them, fingers pinching your nipples. Your back lifts and his hands move beneath, following the curve of your spine to where your dress pools loose around your waist. He pushes down, slinking the smooth fabric from your body.

“You fuckin’…” He clicks his teeth, laughing behind them. Another flush of heat washes over your skin.

You giggle, bending your knees to cover the lace panties he knows all too fucking well. Joel stops you, pushes your legs back down with two heavy hands.

“Don’t get shy now, baby,” he murmurs, opening your body up again. “You were so happy about me seein’ ‘em a few weeks ago, no?”

“’s different,” you reply, tang of alcohol fueling your words, “now I just want you to take them off me.”

He cocks his head, drinking every word you’re handing over like it’s water from an oasis. “Such a dirty girl, ain’t you?”

You pull him closer by the collar and line your mouth against his, the tip of your tongue wetting the inside of his lips. “You got no fucking idea,” you whisper, whipping the shirt from his torso.

Joel growls, flipping you over and pulling you by the shoulders flush against his chest. You hook an arm around his neck, turn to grant him access to your lips. He kisses you like a starved animal, savoring every taste, teeth nipping at your tingling lips.

His hand curves around your hips, pushing beneath your underwear to cup your mound, middle finger pushing on the spongey hood of your clit. Your head falls limp against his collarbone, back arching as Joel holds you steady with an arm around your waist.

“’s alright, baby,” he coos, his tongue licking the shell of your ear. “I’m gonna take good care of ya. Gonna give you what you need, alright?”

A strangled moan unravels across your tongue, echoing into Joel’s mouth. Your hips begin to gyrate, meeting the rhythm of his hand, his finger massaging rough circles into your clit. He smirks, peeling the panties down your thighs.

“Attagirl,” he breathes, “you want it bad, huh? Gettin’ so worked up so fast. Here.”

He removes his hand from between your legs, ignoring your moan of protest and replacing it with two fingers on your bottom lip. “Open,” he instructs, and you obey like a fucking dog. He slips them in, thick and heavy, and waits for you to coat them with your wine-stained tongue.

Joel pushes down, forcing a muffled gag from your throat which lifts the corners of his mouth. He shakes his head lightly, whispering, “You got it, ‘s okay.”

A thread of saliva strings between his fingers and your lips when he lowers his hand again, trailing his fingers through your folds until he’s dancing along the seam of your cunt. You jolt forward; Joel hauls you back.

“Just fucking – do it,” you whimper, your walls clenching around nothing.

He holds his fingers together, curling and inserting them in a painfully slow motion. Your knees widen on the mattress, body sinking down by instinct to meet his fist, to feel his thick fingers and wide knuckles as deep as they’ll go.

You gasp when Joel begins hooking them inside you, nudging against your walls like your heartbeat against your clit. Your hand lowers, slipping beneath his loose waistband, beneath the elastic of his boxers and around his already solid cock.

Joel groans, fucking you harder on his hand. “Fuck, just like that, baby. You feel what you do to me?”

“Uhuh,” you reply, voice wanton and broken.

You squeeze him, your fist moving up and down, his warm skin following the movements of your tight grip. His tip is already soaked, precome staining his underwear, dribbling down your thumb.

Joel uses his free hand to shove his pants down, crumpling on the floor at his feet when they free his cock. You carve your mouth around his, the two of you exchanging breath and flicking your tongues together as you fuck one another’s hands, the room slowly filling with the hot, muggy smell of sex.

Joel’s the first to cave. With a jerk of his hips, he takes you by the wrist and frees himself from your clutches.

“You’re gonna make me come, darlin’,” he murmurs, pulling his fingers from your cunt.

“That’s kinda the point here,” you reply, teeth bumping into his in a grin.

Joel shakes his head, lifting his hand, glistening with your arousal. “Gotta feel this fucking pussy first.”

You smile, parting your lips for him for the second time, suckling on his fingers and licking them clean of your own salty slick. His cock draws sticky trails on the seam of your thigh.

“Yeah,” Joel breathes, eyes fixed on the place where you close around him, “that good, baby? You gonna let me taste you?”

You release his fingers and he pulls you in, tongue slipping against yours with a groan which vibrates against your jaw. When your lips part, you hold your mouth open, your tongue sat on your bottom lip.

Joel reacts instantly, collecting a bead of saliva in front of his teeth and letting it drop into your mouth. You moan and swallow it, a cocktail of beer and whiskey and slick. Joel watches as you lick your lips, the stained-pink coated in a thick, white shine.

“Alright,” he says, letting you fall forward onto the bed. He jacks himself a few times, spitting into his hand and using it to coat his cock.

“Want you to come in it,” you whine, wiggling your ass for him as he lines up at your slit. You can feel the arousal gathered on his tip, dripping down your cunt.

“Yeah, baby,” Joel growls, a smirk on his lips as he watches himself slowly disappear inside you. And then –

You both fall silent, mouths hanging wide open as you each feel the width of his cock and the tightness of your cunt. The way your body opens up to accommodate his size, the direct pain and ethereal pleasure of Joel pushing into you.

“Fuck,” he groans, your pussy drawing him in with a sweet, wet sound. “Been thinkin’ about this all fuckin’ day, baby. So damn gorgeous in that dress.”

You slowly move your hips back to meet him at the base of his cock; dark, trimmed hair bristling against your lips. Joel’s hands lock around your waist, holding you steady with his entirety buried inside, letting you adjust to him.

He’s so fucking big, so wide and deep that your breath tears rugged from your lungs, barreling up your windpipe. Your walls squeeze tight as he pulls out like your body refuses to let him go, like your cells understand better than you do that you were made for this – made for him. Like the only place in the world that he belongs, is somewhere deep inside you.

So big that it hurts, each time he fills you up and stretches you wide open. The pain an eye-rolling, lung-closing, limb-shaking sensation.

Your elbows give, falling chest-first onto the mattress while Joel fucks you hard, his hands gripping your hips. Your cheek and breasts flat against the sheets, your back arched. He slams into you, edging you closer and closer with each meeting of his warm skin against yours, each sopping slap of come and saliva.

The mattress shifts above your head, two valleys where his palms push down heavily, then the weight of his body at the back of your thighs. He towers over you, hips hammering so hard that you’re forced to hook your fingers around his wrists just to stay on the same fucking planet.

“Gonna – fuckin’ – come – baby,” he spits, his jaw locked tight. “You want it in this little pussy? You think she can take it all?”

“Mhm,” you whimper, the edges of your words rounded by the silk sheets. “Joel, I – fuck –”

“Yeah, she can,” he agrees, playing with the hair spilling across your shoulders and taking it in a fistful.

The hazy drunken blur begins to turn over in favor of something sharper, something electric pulsing through your veins. Every part of your body alive, everything rising to meet the same high, the same release. You cling onto him, body beginning to melt beneath his.

Joel’s lips press between your shoulder blades. “Don’t fight it, baby, let go. I got you.”

You moan his name in one last pathetic attempt before the world whitens. You clench around him as a deafening orgasm shocks through your body, curling your back and forcing your nails deep into Joel’s wrists.

“Fuck, baby, fuck me,” Joel gasps. He slams into you one final time before you feel the staggered pump of his come flooding between your walls. “Ahh,” he groans, pushing apart your ass cheeks to watch the trickle seep from your cunt. “Good fucking girl. Take it, baby. That’s my girl.”

He turns you over onto your back and you wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him against your body as he thrusts into you again, tenderly pushing his spend deeper inside. It draws a strained moan from your throat.

“’s alright,” he coos, hips slowing against yours, “just feel it, baby. You feel how deep I am?”

“Uhuh,” you cry, nails digging into his skin, damp with sweat.

“So fuckin’ full of me,” he says, more to himself, before collapsing alongside you, holding your thigh on his hip, his tip still sheathed inside you.

You lie like that for a while, listening to the distant hum of music from downstairs, the party still raving in the belly of the hotel while you two lay in content bliss somewhere in its ribcage. Tracing one another’s features, learning the lines on Joel’s face, the flecks of gray in his eyebrows – all the parts you’re never close nor brave enough to get to know.

His right hand massages your plush waist, his left arm a pillow to rest your heavy, dizzy, drunk head on.

“I wanna do it again,” you whisper, the words sneaking out between heavy breaths.

Joel nods. His bottom lip sticks with sweat to yours. His hips push a little neater into you. “I wanna do it again, too.”

“I wanna do it all night.”

He hasn’t stopped nodding. He shrugs, tightens his grip around your shoulders, and tilts his head. “Then let’s do it all fucking night,” he says, and his lips slam back into yours.

The morning after the wedding, Joel drives you home. The truck soars down the highway, the two of you an uncomfortable distance apart. The same sobering distance you’ve kept all morning – the unreal aftermath of sex.

The rolling waves of bedsheets between your bodies; the sun sifting her long fingers through his hair as she peered through the curtains. The way you’d silently pushed yourself from the mattress, fragmenting your movements and allowing the spring to dip a fraction at a time so not to wake him. The spongey feel of the hotel carpet under the balls of your feet as you’d tottered to the bathroom. The sharp shot of the lock sliding into place, echoing like a bullet.

He waited until you finished showering to get ready himself. Sat on the edge of the bed patiently and watched your shadow beneath the door, the to-and-fro of your silhouette breaking the sliver of golden light as you dressed your sticky body. When you pulled on the metal lock again, he was sat on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees, pinching the bridge of his nose. His bare shoulders were curved, and tanned. You blinked twice to store the image and turned away as he stood.

He says he feels hungover. You say you do, too. It’s the closest you come to talking about it. You hop out of the truck in his drive, your tote bag hooked on your shoulder. The canvas gnawing at the silk inside. Joel tells you he’ll see his end of the deal through in a couple weeks.

“Real busy with work,” he mutters apologetically, his wrists still balancing on the steering wheel.

“That’s good,” you tell him, nodding. “I ain’t in any rush. I know where you live, so.”

A relieved laugh pushes from his lips. “I will get to it,” he assures you.

You shrug casually. “Whenever, Joel.”

You don’t talk for a few days. A few days bleeds into three weeks. You find yourself stood by his front tires, throwing his newspaper onto the porch and scampering when it lands. The noise like a bomb dropping.

Slowly, as the month draws on, you become braver and braver – daring closer and closer to his front door, until you’re back to marching up the steps like you own the place, depositing the roll on his doormat. Rubbing your thumbs against your fingers to feel the ink like satin.

The door cracks open as you make your way back down his steps one bright morning.

“Hey, kid,” Joel murmurs, reaching down for the paper with a groan.

“Hey.”

“You doin’ okay?” he asks, leaning his forearm against the door.

Your head tilts back and forth, your hand lifting to shield your eyes from the sun. “Think I ate som’ bad, maybe. Weird stomach this mornin’.”

Joel’s chin angles. “Hope it ain’t contagious. Was thinkin’ I could get that closet started for you, maybe tomorrow?”

The offer takes you off guard. You buffer for a few seconds before answering, “Sure. Sure, just, uh – just come over whenever, I guess.”

“Nine work for you?”

You nod. “Nine’s good. See ya then.”

It’s something like nine when you find out.

You wake feeling groggy. Tired, sluggish. A heavy ache pulling on your breasts as you rise from bed, tender and swollen. You stand in the bathroom, milky morning light filtering in through the doorway, and your stomach lurches. Waves of nausea deep in your belly, rocking back and forth, swirling and spiraling.

You’ve a box under your sink. It makes sense. Before Joel was some date from Hinge, who fucked you against the wall of his living room and who snored so loud that you left before the sun came up. Negative. Like always.

But it never hurts to be sure.

The pack tears like it’s liquid in your hands. Peels back to reveal the plastic white test, the bubblegum pink cap – like it’s something fun and sweet to place the direction of your future into this little device. A clinical compass needle.

Three to five minutes. You set it down on the counter and drag yourself back through to your room, lifting your bedsheets, tucking them under the mattress, heaving your pillows back into place against the headboard. An uncomfortable heat boiling under the surface of your skin, a prickle of sweat clinging to the nape of your neck.

A sickly taste harboring on your tongue, you pad back to the bathroom and swipe the test up. Your eyes scan past the result window to the counter as you reach for your toothbrush – and then snap abruptly back to the tiny oval. Your outstretched hand freezes in midair. There’s no fucking w–

Your arm swings back to reach for the light cord. The bulb hesitates – flickers, like it’s unsure whether to reveal the truth to you. It knows something you don’t. It’s seen something it doesn’t want to show you. You stare at the pregnancy test.

Two little pink lines stare back. And Joel knocks at your door.

#forgive me for it not being clm or sof #they're coming very soon i promise #this was too fun an idea not to chase #i have the attention span of my labrador retrievers (nil)#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller smut #the last of us #tlou #macfrog #neighbor!joel miller #neighbor!joel #babydaddy!joel miller

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