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punkshort · 4 months ago

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Swept Away | Epilogue: Smooth Sailing

Pairing: sugardaddy!Joel Miller x f!reader

Chapter Summary: Your new job at The Parador allows for some exciting perks.

Chapter Warnings: language, angry!joel, oral (m!receiving), smut (18+ MDNI), office sex, unprotected piv sex (reader has implant now as previously mentioned, we're safe), spanking, praise kink, mentions of substance abuse (not Joel or reader)

WC: 6.1K

Series Masterlist

Ten Months Later

It was still surreal sometimes to walk into an office with your name and Creative Lead printed on a nameplate next to your door, but after a handful of months, you were beginning to feel like less of an imposter.

Admittedly, it wasn't the type of job you had been applying for. You tried to use your experience as a production assistant to get your foot in the door with a talent agency, but you weren't having any luck. When Joel offered you the job in his marketing department, you didn't think you were qualified for it, but after discussing the duties with Caroline Harris, the creative director, you discovered your background would be well suited for the job. He must have known you would have instantly taken a liking to her because after a few more days of soul searching, you accepted the offer.

It felt strange in the beginning, and sometimes you still felt paranoid other employees were looking at you like you didn't deserve your success, but you felt confident all the hard work you did in the past several months spoke for itself.

And as it turned out, you were actually really fucking good at your job.

You left your office door cracked and set your things down on top of the chest of drawers behind your desk. Smoothing down your simple, grey dress that fell just above the knee, you sat down with a sigh in your leather chair and booted up your computer. While you waited for it to turn on, you sipped your coffee and glanced at your phone.

Zoe: Remember to call me later, I have news! I'm dating someone new!

You grinned and tapped out a quick response, promising to call before it got too late on the East Coast. Zoe never found out the truth about you and Joel, but you figured by now it didn't matter much. As far as she knew, you were still planning the "wedding", but it was just delayed until the hotel was built in Fiji, meaning you had a decent chunk of time to come up with another cover.

You saw a flash on your computer screen, indicating the monitor was up and running, so you placed your phone down to type in your password, then gasped excitedly when you were reminded of a Zoom call you had scheduled with Ellie.

Even though hiring Ellie wasn't technically your idea, Joel told Caroline it was because as he had told you at the time, he wouldn't have given her a second thought had you not been so taken with her work. So Caroline put you in charge of overseeing her progress, as well as a few other things for the new hotel.

It had been almost a month since you last spoke to Ellie and you were thrilled to get an update. The little video popped up, briefly displaying her name before she turned her camera on. You grinned from ear to ear when you finally saw her, specks of paint adorning her face and hair.

"How are you still up? Isn't it, like, three in the morning?" you asked.

"Yeah, but you know I do all my best work at night," Ellie replied before flipping the camera around so you could see her studio. There were a few drop cloths down, splashed with all sorts of colors of paint, and about six easels, all of which held paintings in different stages.

"Don't look at those yet, they aren't done," she said, and you laughed.

"You're the one in control of the camera, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah," she mumbled. You could hear her converse sneakers scuffing along the canvas drop cloth while she took you across the room. She flicked on a light and you gasped at the shock of color.

"Oh, my god!" you exclaimed.

"Man, I was feeling so inspired last week, I just couldn't stop. We had a little tropical storm blow through and it just created all these beautiful scenes. Like, beauty amongst the wreckage, you know?" Ellie was saying as she slowly walked around the room, panning the camera to each painting so you could get a good look.

"Oh, wow. Ellie... these are stunning. You've made such incredible progress, I'm so impressed!"

She finished her lap around the room and there was a pause in the video before her face returned to the screen.

"Yeah, thanks. It's going really well. You know how nervous I was in the beginning, I didn't think I would be able to make the amount of paintings you were looking for, but at this rate I think I'll have them done ahead of schedule."

"Well, I always knew you could do it. You're so talented and you see things in such a different way than everyone else. I swear, your work is going to make the hotel really stand out," you gushed before taking a long sip of coffee.

"You gotta thank Joel again for me," Ellie said, flicking off the light and heading back into the main part of her studio. "The amount of money he's paying me is keeping my bills paid so I can focus entirely on this."

"I will. I'm sure I'll see him later this afternoon. He'll be so happy to hear about all your progress."

"I'll take a few pictures and text them to you before I go to bed. That way, he can see for himself," she promised.

"That sounds perfect. Is there anything else you need? How's Dina?"

You spent the rest of your thirty minutes catching up with her about her girlfriend, laughing as she told you how Dina finally wore her down and they adopted a cat. Just as she was telling you how the cat stepped in some paint and walked across one of her paintings, she yawned.

"Go get some sleep. We'll touch base again next month but in the meantime, if anything comes up, you know how to reach me."

She gave you a little wave before ending the call and you sat back in your chair, your office filled with silence once again.

The rest of your morning was spent reviewing potential candidates for a pianist position in the hotel lobby. On one screen you had a video of a candidate playing and on the other, their resume and list of references. All of them were natives from Fiji, just like Joel had promised Glenn.

By noon, you had whittled down the candidates to your top five. You were making a little pile with your notes written on bright pink post-it's when you heard a gentle knock on your door.

"Come in," you answered distractedly.

"Hey... busy?" Liam said. You looked up and smiled before shaking your head and offering him a seat.

"Just getting some resumes ready for the pianist job. I have to set up some interviews after lunch. What's up?"

Liam sighed dramatically and collapsed into a chair.

"Your boyfriend is on a tear today, I needed a break," he said, curling his fingers into a loose fist so he could examine his cuticles.

"Why? What's going on?" you asked, setting down your pen, curiosity piqued.

"Well... first, Jack kicked his ass during his boxing lesson, which he always fucking hates," Liam said with a roll of his eyes. "Then he found out there was a delay in shipping the marble flooring, but I told him that shit's coming from Italy and it's custom!"

"He really hates when there's any delays in construction," you said, wrinkling your nose. You had seen your fair share of his outbursts over the past few months as the hotel in Fiji slowly became a reality. Joel always said, Time is money, baby. The longer this takes, the less money I make.

"Then Tommy called to tell him some wood or... something... got damaged in a storm they had down there recently, so now he's waiting on another shipment from the states."

You buried your face in your hands at that point, knowing exactly the type of mood Joel was in just one floor above you. On one hand, you were always thrilled whenever Joel and Tommy spoke after they finally hashed things out and made amends six months ago. But on the other, you would have much preferred Tommy call with an update about his wife, Maria, or TJ, their son.

"And about ten minutes ago, Chrissy spilled his coffee," Liam finished, dropping his hand to his lap and crossing his legs. "Only saving grace was she spilled it on the floor and not on him."

You cringed when you imagined how stressed out poor Chrissy must have been in that moment. She was a trooper, you had to hand it to her. She had been Joel's secretary for almost three years and every time you saw her she looked more meek and frightened than the last time.

"So, what you're saying is I should surprise him and take him out to lunch."

Liam's face broke out with a huge grin and he lightly clapped his hands.

"Would you mind? I think it would really help. He's always so much easier to handle after he sees you." He was really laying it on thick now and you knew it.

"I already agreed, you can drop it," you laughed, locking your computer and grabbing your purse.

"It's not an act," Liam said, following you out the door towards the elevator. The floor was quiet, most employees likely out to eat already. "I mean, yeah, maybe sometimes I try to flatter you into helping us out, but I'm serious. It's like you're chamomile tea on legs."

You arched an eyebrow at him when the elevator doors slid open. "Chamomile tea?"

"Is a tranquilizer dart better? Or lion tamer?"

You pursed your lips, thinking it over when you pressed the button to his floor. "Yeah. I like lion tamer."

Liam laughed and pulled out his phone to check his texts.

"This is perfect timing. He's about to wrap up a meeting and he doesn't have another one until two." Liam slid his phone back into his pocket and gave you a pleading look. "Please feel free to take your time."

"Oh, come on! He can't be that bad," you said with a hand on your hip. The doors opened up and let you out onto the executive floor, on the opposite side of the building from Joel's office, which is why it was so impressive you could hear him shouting from where you stood.

"Is the door open?" you asked quietly.

"Nope," Liam replied, giving you a look that said I told you so.

You swallowed nervously then lifted your chin with confidence as you made your way past the conference room towards his office. When Chrissy spotted you, she practically jumped out of her chair.

"Oh, my god, thank you," she whispered, her curly brown hair bouncing across her forehead with every step she took. She clasped her hands together and held them tightly against her chest.

"Don't thank me yet, I haven't done anything," you replied, but gave her a reassuring smile anyway. "Why don't you guys go to lunch? I'll take it from here."

The speed in which they tore out of the office was Olympic level.

You perched on the edge of Chrissy's desk as you waited for Joel's meeting to be over. Through the door, you could hear some voices through his phone, as well, one of which you recognized as the project manager for the hotel in Fiji. You looked down at your hands, ignoring the raised voices in the next room, and stared down at the huge diamond ring on your right hand. Splaying your fingers wide, you admired the way the light caught the little facets of the diamond, smiling a little when you saw rainbow flecks dot the walls of the mostly empty floor.

Ages ago, Joel had asked you to keep the ring he got you to use in Fiji. You nearly had a heart attack until he realized how it looked and he nervously clarified he wasn't asking you to marry him, just that he felt the ring was always yours and he couldn't bring himself to return it, so he bought it.

You smiled to yourself when you thought back on that day. It was just after he finally said I love you for the first time. It was a little ridiculous to think he would be asking you to marry him when it took him months to say those three words, but your heart still skipped a beat in that half a second of confusion.

After your pulse slowed, you accepted it with an awkward laugh, putting it on your right hand where it had remained ever since. You knew there was no use arguing with him about gifts and money anymore. When he bought you something, he was relentless until you took it.

Actually, you've grown to kind of like it.

Or, maybe you just liked the idea of Joel thinking about you when you weren't around.

Through the door, you heard the phone call cut with a terse farewell and then, the tell-tale rustle of men's dress pants with the clearing of throats. One man was still talking, his voice forcibly calm as he assured Joel that he would get back to him by the end of the day with the correct numbers on some payroll report, and then the door swung open. Men poured out, some hurrying past you without even realizing you were there, their faces red and their jaws clenched. The ones that did notice you gave a quick nod of acknowledgement before hurrying away, as if they were afraid Joel would remember he had one or two more biting comments and call them back in.

When the last of the men filed out, you heard Joel bark, "Shut the door," and then the creak of his leather chair under his weight. A man you vaguely recognized pulled the door shut behind him before spotting you. He was frazzled and exhausted when he exhaled and loosened his tie.

"Good luck," he said, and you laughed softly. You watched as the last of the men filed towards the elevators, their padfolios and phones overflowing in their hands as they shuffled onto the car and disappeared behind the closed doors.

The floor was quiet now. Joel's office was the only one with a light on.

Biting back a smirk, you pushed off Chrissy's desk and straightened your dress before rapping your knuckles on his door.

"What the fuck now?" came Joel's sharp voice from the other side. You pushed the door open and crossed your arms, waiting until he dragged his gaze up from his desk. When he realized it was you, his expression instantly softened and he stood.

"Sorry," he grumbled.

"It's okay," you replied, stepping inside the room, shutting the door behind you. Joel rounded the desk and raked his fingers through his hair. You bit your lower lip, gaze quickly drifting down his broad frame. He was wearing a white dress shirt with his dark grey suit, the coat abandoned over the back of his chair. It was the first time you had seen him since you left him asleep in bed early that morning.

"What's goin' on, baby?" he asked as he crossed the room to pour himself a drink. You made a face at the amber liquid and he swiveled around, raising the glass of whiskey in your direction.

"Want one?"

"No, Joel. It's barely noon. I came to see if you wanted to get lunch, but I'm guessing today's not the best day," you said, closing the distance between you to smooth down the front of his shirt with your palms. He lifted the glass to his lips and tossed the drink back in one go before setting it down on the bar and wrapping his big hands around yours, pressing them firmly to his chest.

"'M sorry, not havin' a great day."

"I can tell."

"You hear all that?" he murmured, bringing one of your hands up to his mouth. His lips brushed over your knuckles as he gazed at you through tired, heavy eyes and you smiled. Moments ago, those eyes were firey and filled with rage.

But not when he looked at you.

"Some of it," you admitted. "What's wrong?"

Joel exhaled through his nose and dropped his hands to your hips, giving them a little squeeze and pulling you closer. "You weren't there when I woke up this mornin'."

You rolled your eyes playfully at him and he gently pinched your side.

"I told you I had to get up early so I could get ready for work-"

"'N I told you to bring your stuff over last night," he countered.

"Joel, I hadn't been home in days. I needed to make sure the place was still standing and water my plants."

Then, he said something that sent shockwaves through your whole body.

"Just move in with me, then it ain't a problem anymore."

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise and you forgot to breathe for a moment.

"What?" you asked breathlessly. But Joel just shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Move in with me," he repeated. "Plants, too."

"Y-you... you want me to move in with you? Like, permanently?" you repeated in disbelief. Joel smirked down at you and nodded.

"Yeah, like, permanently. The hell you think I mean? Get rid of that place, you know I don't like that neighborhood," he said, then lifted his chin when he heard his email program chime somewhere behind you.

"Joel... are you sure? That's a big step for you," you replied, feeling completely knocked sideways by his blunt request. Sure, he had the room. His house was the closest you'd ever come to being inside a mansion. Hell, to you it was a mansion. Six bedrooms and four bathrooms with an in-ground pool, tennis court, steam room and gym was only ever something you'd seen on television. But living in Los Angeles told you there were plenty of houses three times the size of his.

"Yeah, I'm sure. I want you with me all the time," he said, kissing your cheek before leaving you by the bar so he could check his email.

"My stuff, too? I can't imagine my shitty television in your house," you joked. Joel just nodded, his eyes pinned to his computer screen.

"Your stuff, too. I want all a'you. Even your coffee pot."

Joel collapsed angrily into his high back chair to answer the email while you sneakily slid back to the door, quietly flicking the lock before slowly walking towards his desk. You knew most people were at lunch, but you still didn't want to risk it for what you had in mind.

"Okay," you said softly, hip pressing against the hard wood, fingers nervously digging into the complex design carved into the edge.

"Okay, what?" he murmured, focus still fixed on the email. You watched his scowl deepen the more he read and you knew he was slipping back into that mood you found him in earlier.

"Okay... I'll move in with you."

His eyes snapped up to yours and for a moment, the scowl smoothed out into a pleased grin.

"Good. Start packin' tonight. Don't wanna be wakin' up anymore without you," he said, then his eyes dropped back down to his email. "Messes up my whole day when I do."

You giggled and rounded the desk, intentionally slotting yourself between his eyes and the computer.

"Is that why you're up here screaming at everyone? 'Cause you woke up without your sugar baby?"

Joel leaned back in his chair and narrowed his eyes at you.

"Quit it. You ain't a sugar baby."

"Didn't answer my question."

Joel laced his fingers together and dropped them in his lap with a sigh. "Sure didn't help."

You gave him a fake pout and leaned forward, hands bracing yourself on each arm of his chair. "I'm so sorry," you whispered, mouth hovering over his as you spoke. You could see his muscles tighten under his shirt when he heard the seductive tone in your voice. "Want me to suck your dick and make it all better?"

The corner of his mouth tugged into a devilish half-smirk, email long forgotten.

"Feels like it's the least you could do," he replied, his voice deep and gravelly. It sent a shiver down your spine and you grinned.

"The least I could do? What else do you want?" you asked before allowing your lips to brush delicately over his. You could taste the whiskey there and you licked your lips.

"Wanna bend you over this desk and fuck you. Hard."

A soft moan slipped past your lips right before his mouth crashed into yours. His tongue opened your mouth, licking feverishly past your teeth, giving you a stronger taste of the whiskey and mint from the gum he was likely chewing in anger during the meeting.

"I think that can be arranged," you gasped when you pulled away from his kiss. His dark eyes lit up when you sunk to your knees, his legs spreading wider when you began to unbuckle his belt. Two fingers rubbed against his lips, hiding his smile while he watched you pop the button on his slacks and slowly work the zipper down.

Your heart was beating wildly in your chest when you dipped your fingers past his waistband and felt the stiffness of his cock hiding just underneath a thin layer of fabric. Your eyes flickered up to meet his and with a sly smile, you said, "Hard already?"

Joel shrugged with a shit-eating grin.

"Been hard since you walked in the goddamn room, baby."

You bit back a smile, chest bursting with pride and, yeah, it turned you on to be the one who made this big, scary man all soft and weak. Rubbing your thighs together, you inched forward to gently pull his stiff cock over the top of his underwear.

You tutted under your breath and frowned, both of you watching your hand slowly slide up and down his shaft.

"Poor thing," you murmured, smiling when you heard his breath stutter after your thumb swiped over the bead of arousal pooling at the tip. "Look at you. All worked up and angry the whole morning when all you needed to do was call me. I would've come up to help you."

Joel gasped, fingernails digging into the padded leather armrests when he felt your fingers tighten around him.

"Then fuckin'... goddamnit - fuckin' help me now. C'mon, quit teasin' me and suck it," he commanded through clenched teeth.

You raised an eyebrow at him and your hand paused.

"Say please."

"Please," he whined without hesitation. The sound made you weak, eyelids fluttering for a second before you shook it off and met his gaze again.

"Good boy."

He smirked down at you, some snappy response on the tip of his tongue but it disappeared when your wet lips wrapped around him, tongue darting forward to flick teasingly at his slit, all while maintaining eye contact.

"Oh, fuck," he groaned, allowing his eyes to close and his head to tip back when you took him deeper into your mouth. Before he reached the back of your throat, you swirled your tongue around his girth, moaning when you tasted a new drop of precum.

"Yeah, baby, just like that," he murmured when his hand found a new home on the back of your head. Carefully, he urged you down, hissing when you hollowed your cheeks and took him as deep as you could handle. Joel forced his eyes to open so he could admire the pretty little mess he made of you. Your lips were swollen and wet, stretched wide over his considerable length while you focused on keeping your breath steady and your gag reflex in check.

He could have came from the sight alone.

You pulled back with a gasp, saliva pooling around the corners of your mouth as you dragged in deep lungfuls of air. Your hand picked up where your mouth left off, twisting your wrist and spreading the wetness up and down his shaft as you caught your breath for a second.

"You taste so good, Joel," you whispered, locking eyes with him again. "Might just have you come down my throat, instead."

Before he could answer, your lips were wrapped around him again, sucking and moaning around his cock like it was the sweetest thing in the world.

"No," he rasped, fingers tightening their hold in your hair. "Wanna - fuck you," he added with a deep groan. Even though he knew he shouldn't, he let you keep going, his hips involuntarily bucking up towards your mouth as he spoke.

Right when you began to get carried away, your head bobbing faster and your wrist flicking quicker, he yanked you off with a shared gasp.

"Sorry," he apologized, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment before reopening them. "Too close."

You stood up, thumb swiping your lower lip with a cocky grin. Then, Joel watched as you shimmied out of your panties, dropping them in his lap before hiking up the skirt of your dress to your mid-thigh.

"Whenever you're ready, sir."

He chuckled darkly and stood, thighs trembling for just a quick moment before he swiveled a finger in the air.

"Turn 'round."

You did as you were told, palms pressed flat against the top of his desk, tilting your hips back so your ass jutted out, just barely covered by your dress.

With one hand he pulled the material up, exposing you to the tinted windows behind him. His other hand came down with a sharp smack across your skin, the action so fast and unexpected that it took you a few seconds to register it.

"Again," you whispered over your shoulder, this time bracing for the hot sting of pain across your ass. When he gave it to you, you moaned, arousal pulling tight between your legs, then you dropped your head limply between your shoulders as the pain blossomed into pleasure.

"That's my girl," he growled in your ear. His knee pushed your legs open and you held your breath when he leaned back to slide his cock through your folds before lining himself up at your opening.

"Breathe, baby," he whispered, and you let out a shaky breath right as he pushed inside.

"Shit," you panted, arching your back and digging your fingers into the dark wood of his desk while he continued to ease inside of you, muscles only relaxing when he finally buried himself to the hilt and his lips returned to the shell of your ear.

It wasn't the first time he fucked you in his office. In fact, both of you were very eager to take advantage of the new situation only a week into the start of your job. But it didn't matter how many times you'd done it because it was still always a thrill. There was something incredibly hot about this powerful man fucking you on his desk. Or his couch. Or his chair.

Or one time on the conference room table long after close of business.

Joel set a quick pace right away, knowing full well your time was limited before people began to return from lunch and inevitably came looking for him. One hand remained firmly on your hip while the other drifted up to squeeze your breast through your dress, fingers giving your nipple a little pinch just so he could hear you whimper for him.

"Always ready for me, ain't you?" he groaned, teeth grazing over your earlobe. His breath was shallow, soft pants against your skin matching the rhythm of his hips. "Christ, baby. So fuckin' wet. You love takin' my cock like this, huh? Or was it me askin' you to move in that did it?"

"Both," you moaned, tossing your head back to rest on his shoulder, eyes gliding shut and mouth falling open as you focused on the intense pace he set. The tip of his cock brushed steadily against that spot inside you that had your knees going weak and you could feel that warmth in your stomach turning into fire the harder he fucked you.

Joel's eyes lifted to glance at his door when he heard the faint sound of voices filing off the elevator. Lunch hour was wrapping up, and so was your time. He clenched his jaw and pounded into you faster, the telltale sound of skin slapping against skin the only noise echoing in the room.

"I... locked it," you gasped, falling forward onto your elbows, hips sparking with pain against the hard wood of his desk. He grinned and straightened his spine, watching the way your ass rippled against him every time he slammed into you.

"Good. 'Cause no one gets to see you like this 'cept for me."

You nodded dumbly, unable to form words as your orgasm began to swell, threatening to destroy you. Your pussy started to pulse around him, stars littering your vision and you slapped your palm over your mouth to muffle the sound when you came.

"Oh, fuck yeah," he groaned, hips losing rhythm. Breath growing sharp. Fingers digging deep and eyes rolling to the back of his head. You whimpered when he pounded into you one last time, stilling as he pumped you full of his release, broken moans tumbling from his lips until he was spent.

Almost immediately, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you up and pressing you protectively against his chest.

"You okay?"

"Mhm," you hummed, admittedly still in a bit of a daze but you were starting to snap out of it. His ragged breath in your ear was all you could hear, his pounding heart against your back all you could feel, and it was enough.

Without warning, he slipped out of you, but kept his arms circled around your front, pressing sweet kisses behind your ear and down your neck. You melted into him, knowing how much he enjoyed holding you after, at least until he caught his breath and came back down to earth.

"I love you."

Those three words still managed to send a tingle down your spine and brought a lazy smile to your face.

"I love you, too," you whispered, twisting your neck so your mouth could seek out his. His beard was untamed and prickly against your lips, tickling you and making you giggle.

"C'mon, get yourself decent," he teased with a playful grin and a smack against your thigh. He stepped backwards to fix his clothes while you swiveled back and forth, searching the ground for your panties.

"Lookin' for these?" he asked, holding them up between two fingers when you turned around. You reached out to grab them but he pulled them back, shoving them in his pocket before tucking in his shirt.

"You're gonna make me walk around the rest of the day without underwear? With your come dripping out of me?" you asked. You already resigned yourself to your fate and pulled down the skirt of your dress.

Joel pinched your chin and pressed a quick kiss against your lips.

"Yep. Just the way I like you."

"Dirty man."

"Just the way you like me," he laughed, dodging your hand when you reached out to smack him against the arm.

You opened your mouth to say something back when his desk phone chimed and the red light in the corner lit up. Joel finished buckling his belt and glanced up at you to make sure you had fixed yourself before pressing the intercom button.

"Yeah?"

Chrissy's nervous voice filtered through the speaker.

"Mr. Miller, just confirming your dinner reservation for tonight. Still expecting three people?"

"Yep," he replied, then thought about it for a quick second before pressing the button again. "Thanks, Chrissy. Why don't you take off early, after my two o'clock?"

You grinned, practically sensing her shock through the wall as you sat down in the chair opposite his desk.

"Uh... okay. T-thank you so much!"

"No problem," he said, then the red light turned off and he slumped down tiredly into his leather desk chair.

"Where are we going tonight?" you asked, crossing one leg over the other while you watched him shake his computer mouse back to life.

"Sarah picked this time. Some Mexican spot she wanted to try," he murmured, already fixating on an email in front of him. After some encouragement on your end, Joel had reached out to Sarah around the same time he called Tommy for the first time in years. While things had been rocky and awkward at first, it got easier over time. Eventually, they committed to dinners every other week, and after maybe the fourth one, Sarah had asked to meet you.

You were nervous leading up to it, but the moment you met you knew you'd get along. She was smart, beautiful, funny and had the same smile as her dad. She told you both a little bit about high school but preferred to talk about her soccer team or the play she was trying out for.

She didn't mention her mom much, and you didn't want to pry. From what Joel had mentioned, her mother ended up having some substance abuse issues in the past, which caused a strain on her relationship with Sarah. He felt horrible when he found out, told you that he felt like he should have been involved more to protect her, but you reminded him that he was there for her now and that you were proud of him for stepping up.

Despite it all, Sarah was a great kid. Every time you saw her, she opened up a bit more, smiled wider and laughed louder. After your dinners together, you could see the change in Joel: he was happier, too.

"Sounds good. I like Mexican," you said, fidgeting with your ring while Joel quietly replied to an email. The scowl was gone, his shoulders were looser and there were no more angry taps on the keyboard.

You opened your mouth to announce you should get back to work when he suddenly spoke.

"Why're you wearin' the ring on your right hand?"

Your eyes flickered up to his face but he looked like he was still absorbed in an email.

"This ring?" you asked, holding up your hand. It was the only ring you wore but you didn't know what else to say. You'd been wearing it on your right hand for months and he never said a word.

"Yeah. You wore it on your other hand in Fiji," he said, tearing his eyes away from the computer to look at you.

You stood up from your seat and gave him a curious look. "We were pretending to be engaged then, if you recall. We're not engaged now."

Joel smirked, the corners of his mouth dipping down when he shrugged, then stood to walk you to the door.

"Huh. Suppose you're right. Someone oughta do somethin' 'bout that."

You threw your head back and laughed before coming to a stop at his door and turning around.

"You just asked me to move in with you. What happened to the commitment-phobe I fell in love with?"

He grinned and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close so he could press a gentle kiss against your lips.

"You're right. I'll wait a week," he joked, then gave your ass a little tap before opening his door for you. "Thanks for lunch," he added as you walked past Chrissy, who was mid-whisper to Liam, no doubt telling him about Joel's sudden burst of generosity. You gave them both a little wave and tossed a wink over your shoulder at Joel leaning against his doorway, hands shoved in his pants pockets with a sly smirk on his face after his fingertips grazed the wet fabric shoved in there.

"See you tonight."

"Can't wait," he said, watching you disappear around the corner towards the elevator bank.

"So, you ate?" Liam confirmed, holding a leather bound journal and pen in his hand as he approached Joel. Even though the answer was no, he still nodded in response. "Good, because I have a couple things," he continued after clearing his throat. "Ellie's painting arrived yesterday, I'm having it gift wrapped right now. I got a call back from the guy who's renting you the yacht. He's good for Saturday. The captain and crew know the deal, too. Drop the anchor, make the food, pour the champagne, and disappear after dinner's cleared up. They have a little boat they can take back to land so the yacht's all yours til morning."

A slow smile stretched across his face and he looked down the hall again, towards the elevator bank.

"Reschedule it for next week. I made a promise."

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#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel the last of us #joel miller fanfic #joel miller tlou #joel x reader #joel x you #joel miller au #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #the last of us hbo #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us fic #the last of us au #swept away fic

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ijustmissyouraccenths · 29 days ago

Text

Sick as a Dog

Where Harry is sick and y/n just wants to help him.

Word count: 3,833

Content warning: cursing, mentions of being sick (no throwing up).

I wake up to the soft warmth of sunlight streaming through the curtains, casting a golden glow on the room. The familiar scent of him—clean, woodsy, with just a hint of his cologne—fills the air. For the first time in what feels like ages, Harry’s here. Really here. Not a FaceTime call, not a text, not a fleeting thought as I drift off to sleep alone. His arm is draped lazily over my waist, his chest rising and falling steadily next to me.

I shift slightly, careful not to wake him, but the movement stirs him anyway. His eyes flutter open, green and warm like spring after a long winter. A soft, sleepy smile spreads across his lips as he tightens his hold on me, pulling me closer.

“Morning, love,” he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep and that raspy undertone I adore.

“Morning,” I reply, tracing lazy circles on his forearm.

For a while, neither of us says much. Words feel unnecessary. He presses a kiss to the top of my head, then my temple, and finally my lips, slow and unhurried. His stubble grazes my skin, a reminder of how real this is.

Eventually, the world outside our cocoon of blankets starts to intrude. My mental checklist of errands creeps in, and I know his does too. But for now, we linger, soaking in the quiet intimacy of the morning.

“You know,” he says, breaking the silence, “I could stay like this forever.”

I laugh softly. “You say that, but we both know the list waiting for us today.”

He groans in mock protest, burying his face in my neck. “I just got home. Can’t we just…not?”

I want to agree. I want to cancel the errands, turn off the world, and spend the day exactly like this. But life has other plans. I kiss him one last time before sitting up, dragging him reluctantly along with me.

“Alright, Mr. Styles,” I tease, “up and at ’em. Groceries won’t buy themselves.”

With a dramatic sigh, he stretches and finally rises, his hair a tousled mess that somehow still suits him perfectly. The day awaits, but in this moment, everything feels right. He’s home, and that’s all that matters.

Harry’s standing at the dresser, pulling on a simple white graphic tee that hugs his chest just right. He pairs it with light-wash jeans and his trusty white Vans, and I can’t help but stare. His hair is still a little messy from sleep, and there’s this ease about him that makes him look so effortlessly… Harry.

He notices, of course. He always notices. Turning to catch me mid-stare, he smirks, tilting his head slightly.

“Take a picture, Y/N. It’ll last longer,” he teases, his voice dripping with that cheeky charm.

I roll my eyes, trying to fight the grin tugging at my lips. “Maybe I will,” I shoot back, grabbing my phone and pretending to snap a photo.

“You’re ridiculous,” he chuckles, stepping closer to press a quick kiss to my forehead before grabbing his wallet and keys.

I pull on my own pair of jeans, a plain tee, and sneakers. Comfort over style today—though Harry always insists I look good no matter what. As we make our way to the kitchen, he hums softly under his breath, a tune I don’t recognize but know I’ll ask him about later.

Breakfast is simple: toast, eggs, and coffee. Harry insists on making the coffee, declaring himself the “king of the French press.” I don’t argue; he really does make it better than I do.

As we finish up, he grabs his sunglasses and tosses me a lopsided grin. “Ready, love?”

We head out to his car—a sleek black Range Rover that feels way too fancy for a trip to the market, but that’s Harry. As he starts the engine, he glances at me with a playful glint in his eye.

“Do you remember the last time we went to the market?” he asks as we pull onto the London streets.

I laugh, shaking my head. “Not specifically, but I’m sure you’re about to remind me.”

He grins, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. “You tried to convince me we needed three different types of cheese for one dish.”

“Because we did,” I argue, crossing my arms.

“And we forgot the bread,” he counters, his laugh filling the car.

The easy banter flows between us as the city passes by outside. It’s moments like these—simple, mundane, yet filled with so much warmth—that make me realize just how much I’ve missed him while he’s been away. He reaches over to squeeze my hand, and for a moment, everything else fades away.

The market is alive with the hum of people, the scent of fresh produce, and the clatter of carts. As soon as we step inside, Harry grabs a cart and immediately veers toward the snacks aisle.

“We don’t need that,” I laugh as he tosses a jumbo bag of crisps into the cart.

“Don’t we?” he counters, feigning offense. “I’ve been deprived of proper snacks for months, love. Let me live a little.”

I roll my eyes but can’t help grinning as he starts piling in more things—chocolates, biscuits, and a random jar of pickles. “Harry,” I warn, trying to keep a straight face.

“What?” he says innocently. “Pickles are essential. You can’t deny it.”

We wander through the market, switching off who pushes the cart while the other roams the shelves. He sneaks in a box of cereal I’m pretty sure we already have at home, and I add a bottle of wine, pretending I didn’t see the outrageous snack haul he’s created.

As we pass the fresh pasta section, he stops, holding up a package of tagliatelle. “What do you think? Pasta for dinner?”

“Sounds perfect,” I say, reaching for a jar of marinara sauce. “What should we do for a side? Garlic bread?”

He nods enthusiastically. “And maybe a little salad. Gotta stay balanced,” he jokes, throwing in a bag of pre-washed greens with exaggerated flair.

By the time we’re at checkout, our cart is an eclectic mix of essentials, indulgences, and things we absolutely don’t need but couldn’t resist. As he loads the bags into the back of the car, he turns to me, a sly smile tugging at his lips.

“What do you think about a movie night tonight?” he asks casually, though there’s a twinkle in his eye that tells me he’s up to something.

“I’d love that,” I reply. “I’d love to do anything with you.”

His grin widens, and he leans in just slightly. “Anything, huh?” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a suggestive tone.

I shove him playfully, trying to fight the blush creeping up my neck. “Don’t start.”

He laughs, the sound warm and infectious. “What? I’m just saying we could… expand the agenda.”

“Let’s focus on dinner first,” I quip, climbing into the passenger seat.

As he starts the car, he shoots me one last cheeky glance. “Dinner and a movie, it is. For now.”

As we drive back home, the city whizzes by outside the windows, but my attention is completely fixed on Harry. His hand rests casually on the steering wheel, the other drumming lightly to the rhythm of the music playing softly on the radio. The late afternoon sunlight filters through the windshield, casting a soft glow over his face.

I take in the details—the way his tattoos peek out from beneath the rolled-up sleeve of his tee, the way his hair curls just slightly at the ends, looking perfectly imperfect. It’s all so him. Effortless, magnetic, entirely Harry.

My chest tightens with a wave of emotion I can’t suppress. For months, I’ve been waiting for this—to have him home, to watch him do something as simple as drive, to just be with him.

“I love you,” I say softly, the words spilling out before I even realize it.

He glances over at me, his green eyes warm and a little surprised, like he wasn’t expecting it but loves hearing it all the same. “I love you too, Y/N,” he says, his voice gentle but steady, like it’s the easiest truth in the world.

I shake my head, smiling as I try to find the right words. “No, I mean… I really love you. I missed you so much, Harry. I missed this. Us. You.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just reaches over to place his hand on mine, squeezing it gently as his thumb brushes over my knuckles.

“I missed you too, love,” he says quietly. “More than I can even put into words.”

The car falls into a comfortable silence, but it’s filled with so much more than quiet. It’s filled with the weight of everything I feel for him, everything I’ve held onto while he’s been away.

As I look over at him again, I realize just how deeply he’s woven into every part of me. The sound of his laugh, the warmth of his touch, the way he knows exactly what to say to make me feel like the only person in the world—it’s all part of why I love him.

As we pull into the driveway, Harry shifts the car into park and turns to me with a smirk. “Alright, love, get those muscles ready. It’s time to show me what you’re made of.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Excuse me? I’m a delicate flower. I shouldn’t have to carry groceries,” I tease, fluttering my lashes dramatically.

He rolls his eyes, playing along. “Right, how could I forget? Well, I guess I’ll just do it all myself then,” he says, feigning exasperation as he climbs out of the car.

“Good plan,” I call after him, though I follow and grab a couple of bags because I’m not that cruel.

Between the two of us, we manage to carry everything inside, though Harry insists on making a show of flexing his arms every time he brings in another load.

“Impressed yet?” he asks, winking as he sets the last bag on the counter.

“Totally,” I say, deadpan. “Your talent for grocery-hauling is unmatched.”

He grins, leaning against the counter while I start unpacking. As I’m putting things away, I notice him setting a few things aside on the island—the pasta, marinara, garlic, and salad mix.

“Getting a head start on dinner, are you?” I ask, glancing at him over my shoulder.

“Just being efficient,” he replies, pulling out a cutting board and inspecting it like he’s about to perform surgery. “Also, you know I’m starving.”

“You’re always starving,” I tease, but my words are muffled as I reach into a bag and pull out a pack of cookies.

Harry spots them instantly, his face lighting up. “You’re a genius,” he says, grabbing the pack from me and tearing it open.

“Hey! I was going to do that,” I protest, but he’s already popped a cookie into his mouth, grinning as he chews.

“Too slow, love,” he says, holding the pack out to me.

I take one and lean against the counter next to him, snacking while we chat about nothing and everything. The kitchen fills with the sound of our laughter, the clinking of jars and cans as I finish putting the groceries away, and Harry’s occasional commentary about how he’s “the true mastermind behind dinner.”

Harry hums softly to himself as he moves around the kitchen, a wooden spoon in hand as he stirs the pot of simmering sauce. It’s a sight I’ve missed—his ease, his focus, and the way he somehow makes cooking look like an art form.

I sit on one of the barstools, resting my chin in my hand as I watch him. He glances over his shoulder and smirks. “You’re staring again.”

“Can you blame me?” I reply, grinning.

He shakes his head, chuckling as he dips the spoon into the sauce. “Alright, taste test,” he says, walking over to me with the spoon held out.

I lean forward and take a small sip, the tangy warmth of the marinara spreading across my tongue. “Mmm,” I hum, nodding in approval. “That’s really good.”

Harry grins proudly, but his expression turns playful as he tilts his head. “Really good, huh? Just ‘good’? Not ‘amazing’ or ‘out of this world’?”

I roll my eyes and lean in, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “Amazing,” I say, teasingly.

He whines dramatically, turning to face me fully. “That’s all I get? A cheek kiss after slaving away over a hot stove?”

Laughing, I reach up and pull him down for a proper kiss, his lips soft and warm against mine. He hums in satisfaction, pulling back just enough to look at me, his green eyes sparkling.

“Much better,” he says, his voice low and content. Then, with a grin, he gestures toward the living room. “Now go on, find us something good for movie night. I’ll finish up here.”

I linger for a moment, watching him as he turns back to the stove, stirring the sauce with one hand and tossing pasta into a pot with the other. He looks so at home, so effortlessly himself, and I feel a wave of love wash over me.

“Anything in particular you’re in the mood for?” I ask, heading toward the couch.

“Something good,” he calls back. “No pressure, though.”

I laugh, flopping onto the couch and scrolling through the streaming options, already knowing whatever I pick, he’ll make it perfect just by being there.

A few minutes later, Harry walks into the living room, balancing two bowls of pasta with garlic bread perched neatly on the side. His careful concentration makes me smile, and he lets out a dramatic sigh of relief as he sets the bowls on the coffee table.

“Dinner is served,” he announces with a grin, plopping down next to me and handing me my bowl.

“Thank you, chef,” I say, nudging his shoulder.

“Only the best for you, love,” he replies, leaning back into the cushions and taking a bite of his pasta.

We settle in, the familiar hum of a rom-com filling the room as we eat. Every so often, Harry sneaks a piece of my garlic bread, and I swat at him in mock protest, though I don’t really mind. It’s comfortable.

When the credits roll, Harry stretches with a groan, his head tilting back against the couch. “I hate to admit it,” he says, his voice laced with playful regret, “but I think I’m officially an old man.”

I laugh, resting my head on his shoulder. “What are you talking about? You’re a spring chicken.”

He shakes his head, smiling. “As much as I’d love to expand the evening and, you know, do naughty things, I’m absolutely knackered.”

I giggle, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “That’s fine, Harry. Go on, get some rest. I’ll clean up here.”

He gives me a grateful smile, standing up and stretching again. “You’re too good to me, you know that?”

“Don’t forget it,” I tease, watching him as he heads upstairs, his steps slow and tired.

Once he’s gone, I take my time cleaning up the kitchen and living room. I rinse out the bowls, wipe down the counters, and straighten up the cushions on the couch. It feels good to take care of the space we share, to know he’s upstairs waiting for me.

When I’m done, I slip into the shower, letting the warm water wash away the day. The quiet hum of the house wraps around me, and I feel an overwhelming sense of contentment.

After drying off and pulling on a cozy t-shirt, I head upstairs and crawl into bed next to Harry. He’s already half-asleep, his arm draped across my side as I settle in.

“Night, love,” he mumbles sleepily, his voice muffled but full of warmth.

“Goodnight, Harry,” I whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his temple.

The next morning, I wake up to the soft glow of early sunlight streaming through the curtains. I glance over at Harry, expecting to find his side of the bed empty like usual—he’s always the first one up. But this time, he’s still there, lying on his stomach with one arm draped over the pillow.

It’s rare to catch him sleeping in, but he looks peaceful, his face relaxed in the quiet morning light. Not wanting to disturb him, I carefully slip out of bed and head downstairs.

Once in the kitchen, I decide to make breakfast—something simple: scrambled eggs, toast, and some fruit. The rhythmic sounds of the whisk and the faint sizzle of butter in the pan fill the kitchen as I work.

I’m almost done cooking when I hear slow, shuffling footsteps behind me. Turning around, I see Harry leaning against the doorframe, his hair sticking up in every direction. His face looks pale, and there’s a groggy, pained expression in his eyes.

“Morning,” I say, but before I can say more, he groans softly, running a hand through his hair.

“I feel like absolute shit,” he mumbles, his voice hoarse and scratchy.

Concern washes over me as I set the spatula down and walk toward him. “What’s wrong?” I ask, scanning his face.

He rubs his temples, leaning heavily against the counter. “Head’s pounding, throat feels like it’s on fire, and I’m pretty sure I’ve got a fever,” he mutters, his tone laced with irritation at his own body. Then he waves his hand weakly at me. “Don’t come near me. I don’t want you to catch whatever this is.”

Ignoring his warning, I step closer, my brows knitting in worry. “Harry, I don’t care about that. Sit down,” I say firmly, guiding him to a chair at the kitchen table.

He doesn’t argue, letting out another groan as he sinks into the seat. His head drops into his hands, and I can tell he’s trying to push through it, but it’s clear he’s not feeling himself.

“I’ll get you some tea and medicine,” I say softly, already moving to put the kettle on.

He glances up at me, his green eyes heavy with exhaustion but still filled with affection. “You don’t have to fuss over me, love,” he says, his voice cracking slightly.

“Of course I do,” I reply, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You always take care of me. Now it’s my turn.”

He smiles faintly, leaning back in the chair as I set about getting him what he needs, determined to nurse him back to health.

I set a mug of tea in front of Harry, the steam curling up in delicate clouds. “Tea with honey,” I say softly, sliding the plate of scrambled eggs and toast next to it. I make sure to add two Tylenols, placing them neatly on the napkin.

He looks up at me, his face still pale but his expression grateful. “Thanks, love,” he murmurs, his voice raspy.

I sit across from him, watching as he takes a sip of tea and winces slightly. “It’s the post-tour crud,” he says with a small, tired chuckle. “Happens every time. My immune system’s just catching up after weeks of running on adrenaline.”

“Well, it’s catching up hard,” I reply, leaning my elbows on the table. “But it’s okay. I’ll take care of you.”

He shakes his head slowly, frowning. “I feel bad, Y/N. You shouldn’t have to deal with me like this. And I don’t want to get you sick.”

I reach out and cover his hand with mine, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Harry, I don’t care. You’ve taken care of me plenty of times when I was sick. Remember when I had that horrible flu last year? You didn’t leave my side.”

“That’s different,” he says, his lips tugging into a weak smile. “I’m supposed to take care of you.”

I laugh softly, brushing my thumb over his knuckles. “Well, now it’s my turn. You’re always looking out for me, Harry. Let me look out for you this time, alright?”

He doesn’t argue further, just looks at me with a mix of gratitude and affection, his eyes slightly glassy from the fever. “I don’t deserve you,” he mutters, shaking his head.

“Yes, you do,” I say firmly, standing to refill his tea. “Now eat, take your Tylenol, and let me fix you.”

Despite his groans of protest, I can see the small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

After breakfast, I set to work transforming the couch into a fortress of comfort. I grab every blanket I can find, piling them up alongside a collection of fluffy pillows, creating a cozy little nest. I pick a lighthearted show—something easy to watch, the kind Harry loves to have on in the background when he’s feeling off.

“Alright,” I say, standing back to admire my work. “Your throne awaits, Mr. Styles. Sit down, relax, and get comfy.”

He shuffles over from the kitchen, looking every bit the part of someone who’s feeling under the weather. As soon as he sinks into the pile of blankets, a sneeze erupts, followed by a series of coughs.

“Bless you,” I say, walking over to him. I lean down to press a kiss to his forehead, but he holds up a hand weakly, stopping me.

“Y/N,” he warns, his voice hoarse. “I’m sick. You shouldn’t—”

I ignore him, leaning in anyway to kiss his warm skin. “I really don’t care,” I say softly. “You’re stuck with me, germs and all.”

He shakes his head, clearly too tired to argue further, as I wrap my arms around him and pull him into a hug. His head rests against my shoulder, and I can feel the heat radiating from him. He’s definitely running a fever, but I don’t let go.

Once he settles, I sit on the couch and tug him gently toward me, guiding him to rest against my chest. He lets out a tired sigh, letting his body relax into mine as I drape a blanket over both of us.

I start running my fingers through his hair, smoothing it back from his forehead, and rub his back gently. “You’re burning up,” I whisper.

“I told you not to get close,” he mutters, though his voice is soft and grateful.

“Well, I told you I don’t care,” I reply, pressing my cheek to the top of his head.

He shifts slightly, snuggling closer, his hand resting lightly on my leg as the show plays quietly in the background. I keep stroking his hair and tracing light patterns on his back, hoping the touch soothes him.

For the first time since he woke up, he seems to relax fully, his breathing evening out as he watches the screen. Even though he’s warm to the touch and clearly miserable, I can feel the tension in his body melting away.

“I love you,” he mumbles sleepily.

“I love you too,” I whisper back, holding him a little tighter.

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capseycartwright · 10 months ago

Text

just kiss me slowly

tommy does this thing, when he kisses buck. to quote myself, i underestimated your rizz, tommy kinard. the two finger chin pull has been playing on my mind since the episode aired, and this pointless bit of fluff was born. buck and tommy are running circles in my head.

ao3 link

Tommy does this thing, when he kisses Buck. Buck has kissed Tommy enough times in the past couple of weeks to know its a thing, and not just a fluke. He hasn't kissed Tommy enough that he's lost count (27 kisses - he's been counting because it still doesn't feel real, and every time he can add another kiss to the growing list of moments he lets himself linger in as he lies in bed at night, or sits in traffic on the way to work, is another reminder that this is real: that Tommy is real) but he's beginning to learn more about the way Tommy kisses, has begun to map the surface of Tommy's lips with his tongue.

He knows its a thing, is the point.

The first time Tommy had kissed him, he'd tugged Buck closer, two fingers pulling on Buck's chin as he'd pressed that chaste first kiss to Buck's lips. Buck had assumed that had been a heat of the moment sort of thing, Tommy tugging Buck closer so he could get his point across, but then it had happened again.

Tommy had come to pick Buck up, for their date. "Old fashioned," Buck had teased. Tommy had simply rolled his eyes in response, catching Buck's chin between his thumb and forefinger, pressing a brief kiss to Buck's surprised lips. "I didn't want to wait until after dinner to kiss you again," he had said, by way of explanation, and Buck had been in a haze the whole drive to the Italian place Tommy had suggested they grab dinner at. No one - no one had ever kissed him like that, pulling Buck closer with a gentle grasp, as though they didn't want to give him a chance to turn his head away.

Tommy liked to kiss Buck. Buck was learning that too. It was all so new for him, but Tommy was confident, a reassuring presence to - quite literally - lean on as he navigated his newfound bisexuality. Tommy had been thirty-one when he'd come out, he'd explained to Buck - so he understood. Understood why Buck had played their dinner off as a friendly thing, understood why Buck hadn't told Eddie yet, understood why Buck hadn't told anyone, yet, only his sister, and Hen. Understood why Buck was more at ease here, in the warmth of Tommy's apartment, than he was at a bar - for now, at least. Buck wasn't ashamed, he was just learning how to lean into this new part of himself.

Buck couldn't help but flush as he remembered the genuine look of pride on Tommy's face when he'd leaned into the other man's space that afternoon at the farmers market, listening intently as Tommy explained the benefits of using a certain kind of tomato to make pasta sauce - the way his mother had taught him to, growing up in New York. Buck had leaned against Tommy, enjoying the way colour rose in Tommy's cheeks as he'd done so.

He'd earned a reward for it too, Tommy using two gentle fingers to redirect Buck's face toward his own as they'd loaded the groceries in the trunk of Buck's jeep, pressing a brief kiss to Buck's waiting lips.

That was the thing, Tommy did - he touched Buck so gently, always redirecting Buck's mouth to exactly where he wanted it to be, and it made Buck melt right down into his sneakers. He'd - he'd just never had someone kiss him so reverently, before.

"If you think any harder, you'll give yourself a headache," Tommy murmured, glancing up from the sauce he was stirring. This version of Tommy was new to Buck - the version of Tommy in his own apartment, relaxed, shoes kicked off by the door, an unfamiliar jazz album playing over the record player in the living room - because of course Tommy had an actual fucking record player. Buck liked this version of Tommy. He was realising he liked all versions of Tommy, actually.

Buck could tell him. He could tell Tommy that the way he grabbed Buck so gently by the chin so often when he was going in for a kiss made his insides turn to goo. He could tell Tommy how good it felt to have someone want him like that, want to initiate kisses. He could tell Tommy that he had spent years of his life chasing other people's lips, desperate for the affection Tommy was already so freely offering him, a mere three and a half weeks into dating.

He could tell him all that, and Tommy probably wouldn't mind - but Buck wanted to keep the thought to himself, a little while longer. This thing with Tommy was so new, and it was good, but it still felt delicate, and Buck didn't want Tommy to stop the way he kissed Buck.

"I'm admiring you hard at work," Buck tilted his head slightly. It was still strange, to hear himself flirt so openly with another man, but he was getting used to it. He had to, really, when Tommy always responded to his flirting with a delighted grin, or laugh.

Tonight, Buck got both.

"C'mere," Tommy murmured, hand gentle on Buck's face as he caught Buck's chin between his thumb and forefinger, pressing a lingering kiss (28) and then a second (29) to Buck's mouth. "Just wait until you try the sauce. Then you're really going to want to kiss you."

As if Buck didn't spend every second of every day fantasising about kissing Tommy, like he was a horny teenage boy again. "Promises, promises."

Tommy rolled his eyes. "Make yourself useful and set the table," he pretended to order, but he wasn't moving, nose brushing against Buck's. He kissed him again (30) and then kissed the corner of Buck's mouth, right where Buck's grin was splitting his face in two, his delight so overwhelming he couldn't contain it.

Buck leaned into the embrace, cheek scruffy where he pressed it against the palm of Tommy's hand. "I'm glad we're doing this," he admitted. Kissing, dinner - dating. All of the above. Tommy could decide which one Buck had meant.

Tommy's grin was liquid fucking gold. "Me too, Evan."

#911 on abc #evan buckley #tommy kinard #buck x tommy #in which i ramble #in which lorna writes fic #theres no plot just kissin

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violentdelightsandviolentends · 2 years ago

Note

☀️ with evan buckley "I would choose you over anyone." { keeping the relationship a secretl and catching eyes in a crowded room} pleaseeee

Fire Hazard.

l. Catching eyes in a crowded room + m. Keeping the relationship a secret + 17. "I would choose you over anyone."

Author's Note - this is a drabble written as part of my 500 Followers Celebration!! find that post here if you're interested. my first buck fic!! love him so much, he's an angel :((

Pairing - Evan Buckley x Female Reader

Age Rating - 16+

Warnings - none!! just tooth rotting fluff x

Word Count - 710

Masterlist. 500 Follower Celebration Masterlist.

It's absolutely against the rules.

There's a strict no fraternisation policy in place in every firehouse. It's there for a reason, after all. The city can't have all of its firefighters totally distracted because they're in love with each other.

Buck has never been one to follow the rules.

The minute he saw you, he knew he was in trouble. You cruised into the 118 with your sun kissed skin and gentle eyes and he knew there was no turning back. You flashed that million dollar smile in his direction and he could have sworn his heart skipped a beat. Yeah, he was screwed.

Little did he know, the feelings were very mutual. The first time he laughed at one of your jokes, your knees almost gave way. He looks at you like you're the only girl in the world. You feel like it, when you're with him.

At the 118, they call you Hazard. No one knows the meaning of the nickname besides Buck. Your little secret.

It came about one Friday morning shift. You weren't supposed to be working that day, but Hen called in sick, so Bobby asked you to cover. You were actually planning on going to the farmer's market, but you diverted your journey and made your way to the firehouse.

You weren't exactly dressed for work. You were wearing a pale yellow floral sundress that fell mid thigh, paired with sneakers and sunglasses. Buck took one look at you and almost passed out.

"Thank you so much for coming at such short notice. You're the best," Bobby says as you walk across the floor.

"It's no problem," you smile, making your way upstairs to grab some water.

Everyone goes back to their tasks, but Buck's eyes are glued to you. You look at him through your lashes, and he abandons cleaning the truck to run after you.

"Hey, you," he grins.

"Hey! You're in a good mood today," you wink.

"Well a pretty girl just walked into the room, so."

"Really? Where?"

You look around while laughing, and he shoves you playfully.

"You're an idiot," he chuckles.

You look at each other for a moment, before you realise what you're wearing.

"Well, I guess I better change," you tell him, turning to leave.

"Wait!"

Buck grabs your wrist and spins you back around, pulling you into him.

"Can you just give me one more minute to admire you in this dress?"

You look down at your feet, slightly taken aback by his boldness. Buck is not one to ever hold back, but he seems to with you. If only you knew it's because he's worried he'll accidentally tell you how he feels - or worse.

He uses his thumb to tilt your chin up so you're looking at him.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers, aware of the other people on the level below. "Most beautiful girl in the world."

"In the entire world?" you tease.

"Are you kidding?" he asks sincerely. "I would choose you over anyone."

He leans in without hesitation and presses a kiss to your lips. It's sweet and chaste and a promise of so much more. When he pulls away, you're both grinning like idiots.

"I've been waiting to do that since the first day I met you," he confesses.

"Well I've been waiting for you to do that since the first day you met me," you giggle.

He kisses you again quickly, before grabbing a hold of your hand.

"Wear this dress again tomorrow night."

"Tomorrow night?"

"When I take you out on a real date."

You aim a beaming smile at him, and his heart skips a beat.

"Fine, since you asked so nicely," you wink. "I can't wait."

You lean up to kiss him softly. You both can't get enough.

"If I knew that this dress is all it would take for you to ask me out, I would have worn it months ago," you laugh.

"You walked in and I thought I was gonna burst into flames. You're a fire hazard, woman."

You shove at his arm jokingly, smiling as you do it.

"Well it's a good job I'm a firefighter, huh?" you tease.

No one needs to know how you got your nickname. It's your little secret.

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pedrospatch · 11 months ago

Text

wip wednesday

thank you for the tags angels 🤍 @mrsmando @honeyedmiller @mermaidgirl30 @gasolinerainbowpuddles @thelightsandtheroses

here are snippets of some of the many wips i am actively working on. or trying to anyway.

the gold room - dbf!joel x stripper!reader

“Jesus Christ.” Joel stares at you, using every last ounce of strength he has in his entire body not to let his gaze wander past your chin. He’s trying not to look at the way your skintight, neon pink dress hugs every soft, heavenly curve of your body, how the matching rhinestone garter shimmers around your deliciously plush thigh. “Is it even legal for you to be fuckin’ workin’ here?” Rolling your eyes, you cross your arms and shift your weight from one seven inch heel to the other. “You can dance at eighteen,” you inform him. “And in case you’ve forgotten, I’m twenty one, Mr. Miller. So with all due respect, chill the fuck out, okay?” “You went to college—“ “College is fucking expensive,” you interject with a shrug. “The job market is shit and I don’t plan on drowning in my student debt for the next ten years. Look, I don’t have to explain myself to you. Don’t stand there and judge me. Don’t act like what I do is so terrible when you have been paying good fucking money for girls like me to dance for you and sit in your lap all night long.” “That’s fuckin’ different. None of those girls are my best friend’s daughter.”

flutter - post outbreak! joel x pregnant!reader

As strips of bacon sizzle in one pan on the stove, you crack a couple eggs into another, knowing the kid was on her way downstairs. You can hear the sound of her old, tattered low top sneakers that you have been trying to throw away for almost a year now squeaking on the kitchen tiles just as you finish plating her breakfast. “Morning!” Ellie pipes, the plop of her backpack into a chair prompting you to turn around. “What’s for—whoa! Holy shit!” Her brown eyes widen in shock when she sees you. “Ellie,” you warn, walking over to the table. “Don’t—” “You’re bigger!” With a playful glare, you set her plate down along with her glass of orange juice. “Thanks, you little jerk,” you say, feigning offense. “You’re making your own eggs from now on.” “Fuck, I’m sorry.” Ellie’s cheeks flush a shade of red and she starts to sputter. “I swear, I don’t mean it like that at all. It’s just, your stomach—you didn’t look like this yesterday. You look great, just different.” She’s lucky your raging hormones decided to take the morning off.

chapter 10 for a safe haven

*this is just a short short snippet because it’s being heavily edited rn so i can post it soon!

He peels off his clothes, being careful not to further agitate his sore, inured hand. After changing into a pair of gray sweatpants and an old, faded black t-shirt, he turns around only to find you sitting in bed under the covers.

“Sorry,” you apologize with a nervous chuckle as you rest your back against the headboard. “It just looked so warm and cozy. I couldn’t resist making myself comfortable.”

Joel pads over to the side of the bed. He leans over, planting one hand on either side of you as he dips his head and brushes his lips against yours. “Ain’t got no reason to apologize, baby,” he assures you in a gentle murmur. “This is your bed now too, peach. This is your room. This is your home.”

np tags! 🤍 @sugarcoated-lame @ozarkthedog @amanitacowboy @sp00kymulderr @ilovepedro @ezrasbirdie and anyone else who’d like to share their wips!

#wip wednesday

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anon-sect · 2 months ago

Text

Picture source: Instagram account: @Madnikemaster

Travis heard a knock on his front door. He opened it to see a FedEx delivery guy holding a package for him. He handed over the device for him to sign for the package. He saw it was an overnight delivery sent directly to him. After signing for it, the guy left.

Travis wondered who was sending him a package. He opened it to see a note address to him. It was from one of his devoted followers. He read the note before opening the box in the wrapping.

"I know you were looking for this kind of shoes, but they were hard to find online. So, I used a special formula that would help me turn into these shoes. The formula is temporary and only lasts a week. Afterward, I would revert back to my human form. Inside the box is provided another formula that will make this form permanent and durable. Should you decide, it's available to you, but I hope your mercy will be shown." The note read out.

Travis opened the box within. He saw the sneakers he had been wanting for a long while. He also saw the vial that would make it permanent. He thought about talking to the sneakers, but that sounded silly. The guy wanted to be his shoes. He should be treated as such.

He immediately tried in the sneakers. They felt so good on his feet. And they looked like his style. He thought about using the formula now but changed his mind. Travis decided he would make up his mind later on in a few days. For now, he wanted to enjoy his new shoes despite what they really are.

'Jake was happy to be worn on the feet of his favorite person on Instagram. The socks were a little dirty, but he didn't mind it. The experience, though, was slightly different than he initially imagined it. It was quite painful being walked on. It was like his nerves were dialed up by a thousand. He face being pressed on really hurt. Not to mention the odor of the socks seem more intense the longer he stayed in this form. Something else he didn't expect happened. He could feel every surface he was being pressed up against. He could feel the carpet and hardwood floors beneath him. He could also taste the saltiness and dirt of the socks pressing on his insole face. It wasn't exactly a good taste. Being a pair of sneakers now seemed way different than he imagined. He didn't want to be stuck this way forever. He hoped the guy would show mercy in five days or so.

Four Days Later......

Travis absolutely loved his new sneakers. They were so super comfortable and supportive of his feet. He literally had worn them all four days. He would go to the flea market to sell his product while wearing his new sneakers. He went to work wearing his new sneakers. He wore them to the gym and hanging out with friends. By the fourth day, the sneakers had a ripe odor of his sweaty feet all in them. He took the vial that came with the sneakers and emptied the entire contents onto both shoes. The liquid was absorbed into them. Both sneakers were left completely dry. He knew exactly what he had done. He didn't want to lose a perfectly good pair of sneakers despite the material used to create at them. During the entire four days, he never spoke to the sneakers despite them being conscious of what his feet did to them. It was the poor loser's choice to literally put his fate in his hands. To get rid of perfectly good sneakers would have been a stupid choice in his eyes.

Jake felt his form become permanent the moment the liquid got absorbed into him. He could never change back to normal now. He reeked of his owner's foot sweat and odor. His insole face had been molded by his owner's feet that there was no going back to the new. The fact that he was treated like a regular pair of shoes made him feel like just an object to the guy. It was so cruel to him. He practically had worship the guy prior to all of this. To treat one of his followers as nothing but his footwear felt so humiliating and degrading. He could at least talk to him since knowing the truth. Yet, he should have realized his fate. He let a dominant guy wear him as his sneakers and have control to decide whether it's permanent or not. This was his fate. He had no choice but to accept it even though he didn't want it to be permanent.

#inanimate transformation #foot domination #shrinkage #tf story #permanent transformation #unwilling permanent transformation #sneaker transformation

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bidisasterevankinard · 10 months ago

Note

for the prompts can you do 1 and 8 I feel like they fit so good together

Nonnie, it's a little got way from me (1211 words) because I have strong Tommy feels so. here you are(I know it's not just fluff and I'm so sorry)

Sometimes there are days Tommy just doesn’t want to get up from the bed. It can be simply because he is exhausted after a long and hard shift or because it’s rainy, and cool wind, which walks all around, makes his bones and old wounds ache. Those days are pretty easy to get through. Just take it easy, take painkillers, make sure you’re warm and watch Love, Actually in bed with cocoa. Simple and comfy.

But they're also days when he can’t get out of bed, not because of a little pain, or at least it’s not because of physical pain. There are days in his life when his head attacks him with memories of the army, or bad calls, or all the years he was looking for someone to love him, and, most importantly, for a reason to love himself. Because there were more than enough days he was rough, rude and just simply awful to himself. And all this darkness around him forever found a place in his heart and head, mainly staying low, being overpowered by his self-growth and reasons he founds to love himself anyway, by hanging outs with Eddie, sometimes with Chim and even Hen, and of course, by dates and smiles of Evan.

Evan, this adorable dork, found the way to give him the sun to light his life enough that darkness is scared to get out. But it still is waiting for the moment when he will be too distracted and unprotected to hit again.

Like today.

Yesterday was … a lot. He accidentally met his mother on the market where he went to get some good groceries for the meal he was planning to cook for Evan to make him feel good after the shift. The literal bumping into each other near the vegetables quickly became a screaming match, mostly from his mother’s part, because Tommy way long before stopped to try to to prove that just because he likes men, doesn't mean he's a bad person, or son, or chose the wrong way. Eventually, he just ran away from there.

Then the dish he tried to make burned because he was too distracted crying in his bathroom. He had to order take out.

And then Evan texted him that he couldn't come tonight because they had a long and hard call, and the only thing he wanted was to fall into his bed.They changed plans from a little dinner together yesterday to spending all day together today.

Yesterday ended as awful as it was all day. The nightmare of one of his close calls made him sleep badly after, turning half the night in his bed, trying to get the best position for sleeping, but not succeeding for more than two hours.

So, here he is, miserable and alone in his bed, looking at the clock which shows him that Evan will be here in less than five minutes, but he is still in his bed, in his the most comfy, but really old hoodie and boxers.

Tommy kind of wishes Evan would text him now and rain check again, not wanting to drag the man into his mess, but of course as he thinks about this, Evan opens the door.

“Hey, sleepy beauty, I brought us coffee and your favorite burgers from this cafe you like so much,” Evan’s voice, as always sunny as his face and smile, spreads throughout the small house.

The sound of the sneakers being taken off, then steps to the, as Tommy suspects kitchen, as next he hears sounds of the plates taken out. Next he hears footsteps again and then his bedroom’s door is open, to reveal his boyfriend in his dark skin jeans and burgundy hoodie, Tommy pretty sure Evan was wearing during the tour.

“Hey,” Evan smiles at him, putting plates and coffee on his nightstand, and sits down near his face, putting his hand to stroke his hair.

Tommy will never admit he melts into the touch. But he melts and ready to purr like a kitten being pet.

“Are you having a blanket burrito day?”

“Blanket burrito day?”

“Yeah. I call the bad days, when I can’t get out of the bed because of my leg or because of bad mood, or both, ‘blanket burrito day’,” Evan kisses his forehead. “Are you having this today or you just want me to jump into your bed?” his boyfriend smirks and winks at him and Tommy smiles a little too.

He knows he can joke about that. Say that yes, it was his way to get Evan into his bed and maybe make out or even something more, but he doesn’t want something like that.

He needs someone to hold him. Just hold him and show him he’s not alone and it will get better.

“Can you hug me?” Tommy doesn't like how small his voice sounds and he hates how quick he folded looking at his boyfriend who with one glance knew he was having a bad day. “If-if it’s ok.”

“Are you kidding me? Of course it’s ok. I love cuddles,” Evan smiles at him, taking his jeans off and lying down behind him, putting his hands around his waist.

He makes sure Tommy can feel himself touching every part of Evan’s big body behind him and Tommy wants to cry from the feeling of being safe. Protected. Loved.

They stay like that for half an hour, not talking and Tommy breaks the silence, needing to know.

“You don’t ask questions. Why am I having a bad day? What happened?,” Tommy plays with Evan’s fingers on his waist, “Or you are not even trying to tell me to stop. You aren’t telling me to male up,” he whispers it but in silence and with how close they are he knows Evan hears him.

Hands on his waist only squeeze tighter and then he feels a careful little kiss on his neck.

“We all have bad days. Especially on our job, with everything we saw. It’s normal to have them and you deserve to let yourself be sad if you feel it without trying to move on. You deserve someone to take care of you. And the reason for your bad mood isn’t so important for me to find out, if you don’t want to talk right now. You can do it on your time. Just,” Evan turns them so he can look him in the eyes. Blue to blue. “Don’t push me away. I want to be here, with you not just on good days. I want bad days too. Because you can’t live without them. But,” Evan smiles at him and kisses him so chaste Tommy wants to cry, “you can be not alone. Especially on bad days. You can share the pain with your person, making the burden easy to bear.”

Tommy just nods and lets himself get comfortable in Evan’s hands, feeling how slumber takes over him because the warmth from Evan and his breath lull him into sleep.

“I’ll tell you after the sleep,” Tommy mumbles before falling asleep.

“Take your time, baby,” Tommy feels the kiss on his shoulder, “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Tommy knows it’s not the promise only about today.

read on ao3

prompts

#my fics #evan buckley #911 #evan buck buckley #911 abc #tommy kinard #tuck #bucktommy #tevan #kinkley #911 on abc #bucktommy fic #buck x tommy #buck buckley #9 1 1 #evan buck buckely #911 show

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fleurywiththesave · 15 days ago

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OKAY okay lol now see this is so far from the truth BUT i just saw that gif of Matty/Perry Ellis thingy again AND stylist mattdrai au?

oooooh. OOOOOOH, anon. I don't know if you mean Matthew as the stylist or Leon as the stylist, but I can actually see it going either way. Matthew is the intensely enthusiastic rising star who Leon is strong-armed into going to see for some new game day suits, and he wasn't prepared for how peppy Matthew would be. Or how long his eyelashes would be.

OR Leon is the somewhat abrupt and oddly aggressive stylist and tailor who all the best guys use for their NHL Awards duds, and Matthew is convinced to enlist his services because "he'll make you miserable, but he'll make you look great." Only Matthew's not miserable. Other than the fact that Leon seems so determined to make him put clothes on when he really thinks he'd rather be taking them off.

You know what, as long as we're all here.....

Matthew is quite certain that if he had to choose between spending twelve hours getting fitted for a suit or spending twelve hours getting dental surgery, he'd pick dental surgery before Satan had even finished asking the question. But Ekky insists that this guy is the best of the best and that Matthew just needs to put up with whatever he says if he wants to look halfway decent on the red carpet.

He's pretty sure that means that this Leon isn't going to let him wear his slides with a suit.

He almost walks past the storefront, if it even counts as that. It's an unassuming door that must lead into a space behind the specialty foods market that occupies the windows. The narrow hallway just leads to another door, and Matthew has to briefly consider the possibility that Ekky has secretly obtained the rights to his life insurance and is planning to have him murdered before he braces himself and opens it.

"Hello?" he calls. There's a desk, but no one sitting at it, and zero signage to confirm that he's in the right place. "Hello?"

"Matthew." It's not a question. The guy who's just emerged from the back is staring at him. Matthew is staring too, but he has a feeling it's for very different reasons. He's staring because Leon turns out to be no more than thirty, with the best hair Matthew's ever seen and thick-framed black glasses that are kind of making him sweat behind the knees.

Leon is staring with something more like horror, scanning Matthew from head to toe like a robot and apparently not at all happy to see his ripped-neck Panthers shirt, athletic shorts, and the trusty slides. Matthew has a vague idea that perhaps he should apologize. Leon closes his eyes — actually closes his eyes — for a second and takes a deep breath before speaking again.

"Okay. It's okay, we have time. Come with me."

The dim hallway and tiny foyer turn out to be misleading, as Leon leads Matthew into a massive room with brilliant lighting and more racks of clothes than he's ever seen in his life. The walls are decorated with pictures of what must be some of Leon's clients, all dressed and styled to the nines. Matthew even spots a photo of Henrik Lundqvist, damn. Maybe he is in the right place.

"Okay," Leon says, coming to a stop by some of the racks and flipping through them with almost disturbing efficiency. "NHL Awards. Rule number one: pick something other than the ass to emphasize. Anyone who's watched a single hockey game has been there, done that."

"Well, what if that's my best feature?" Matthew can't help but ask. Leon glances back at him and snorts.

"No. Rule number two. No. Sneakers. That's for actors trying to fake relatability at the Oscars. You'll wear dress shoes and you'll like it."

Matthew resists the urge to hide his sandals behind the potted plant in the corner.

"What's rule number three?" he asks.

"That depends on how much trouble you give me," Leon answers. "All right, we'll start with these three racks. What jumps out?"

Matthew hasn't been this nervous about giving the wrong answer to a question since his post-draft interviews. He studies the array of suits in front of him and starts to feel a little dizzy from all the choices. He had no idea they could come in so many colors and patterns. Does Brady know about this?

"Well, okay," he finally says, looking at a gray suit that seems like a reasonably safe option. "I kind of like this—"

"No," Leon says flatly before Matthew can even pick up the hanger, and he snatches his hand back like he's been burned. "Single-breasted only."

"Um. Right. Then how about—"

"Absolutely not. Do you want to look washed out?"

"I don't—"

"Try this one," Leon says, pulling a lighter-than-navy blue suit off the rack and shoving it at him. "With the cream shirt."

Matthew stares at the array of white button-downs in front of him. He swears he can hear Leon's soul dying as he sighs and picks one up.

"This. Go."

When Matthew comes back out, trying not to draw attention to his bare feet, Leon slides his glasses down and studies him carefully, even walking in a circle around him several times. Matthew tries to stay still, but it's not so easy when that behind the knees sweating is picking up again and Leon is close enough for Matthew to get a whiff of his cologne, which is somehow earthy and light at the same time.

"Good," Leon finally proclaims. "Look in the mirror, tell me if you like it."

"Oh," Matthew says when he steps in front of the trifold mirror. He wasn't expecting to be surprised — a suit is a suit, right? — but apparently this particular suit is subtly different from any of the ones he owns. He seems tall and strong, despite being end-of-season skinny, and the jacket draws attention to his shoulders, and the color makes his eyes look brighter. "Hey, that's really nice. What about a tie?"

"No tie," Leon says. He's pulled out a tape measure and is flying through the notes he wants to take with the same startling efficiency as before. Matthew barely has a chance to appreciate Leon's hand on his thigh before he's done with the inseam. "Clearly you don't like having something too close to the neck." He smirks at Matthew in the mirror, and Matthew barely manages to bite back a retort about how there are some things he wouldn't mind having too close to his neck. "You can leave the top button open, but that's it."

When Leon is done getting all his measurements, Matthew finds that he's reluctant to leave.

"So, uh, you'll call me when it's done?" he asks.

"Nope," Leon says, tilting his head toward the sewing machine on the side of the room. "Get comfortable, you're going to be here awhile."

Over the next several hours, Matthew discovers that he could be quite happy putting up with pretty much anything Leon says, regardless of whether or not he's going to get a great suit out of it. He learns that Leon started sewing when he was twelve, making things for his sister and her friends; that he finished his studies in Germany a full year early; that he came to New York with the intention of getting some intern experience through Parsons and focusing on women's wear, but one of his father's former players came to Leon asking for help with a suit and the rest is history. Leon, in turn, learns an awful lot — probably more than he was expecting — about the grief Matthew gets from Taryn for his sartorial choices, about Matthew's feelings on the NHL dress code, and about how his style has changed since leaving Calgary for Florida.

Matthew only has to stop himself from making a suggestive remark about what they'd both look like out of a suit a few times, though it doesn't keep him from wondering.

"There," Leon finally says, pressing a garment bag into Matthew's hands. "Please tell me you know that you're supposed to cut the pocket and vent stitching before you wear the suit."

"I'm not a complete dunce," Matthew says indignantly. Leon doesn't have to know that his billet mom had to inform him of that little fashion rule after he'd already been wearing his new juniors suit for two months.

"Just partially," Leon says, but there's no bite behind it. He grins when he walks Matthew to the door, wishes him luck at the awards.

It's hard to walk away.

Two weeks later, when Matthew cuts the tacking stitches on the night of the ceremony, he discovers a slip of paper in his left pocket.

Rule number three: call me after you win.

— Leon

#thank you anonny #that's exactly what i needed tonight #mattdrai #hockey rpf #leon draisaitl/matthew tkachuk #tumblr fic #my writing #asks

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mostlysignssomeportents · 2 years ago

Text

Dow promised to turn sneakers into playground surfaces, then dumped them in Indonesia

Dow Chemicals plastered Singapore with ads for its sneaker recycling program, promising to turn old shoes into playground tracks. But the shoes it collected in its “recycling” bins were illegally dumped in Indonesia. This isn’t an aberration: it’s how nearly all plastic recycling has always worked.

If you’d like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here’s a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/26/career-criminals/#fool-me-twice-three-times-four-times-a-hundred-times

Plastic recycling’s origin story starts in 1973, when Exxon’s scientists concluded that plastic recycling would never, ever be cost-effective (#ExxonKnew about this, too). Exxon sprang into action: they popularized the recycling circular arrow logo and backed “anti-littering” campaigns that blamed the rising tide of immortal, toxic garbage on peoples’ laziness.

https://pluralistic.net/2020/09/14/they-knew/#doing-it-again

Remember the campaign where an Italian guy dressed like a Native American shed a single tear as he contemplated plastic litter? Funded by the plastic industry, as a way of shifting blame for plastic waste from the wealthy, powerful corporations who lied about plastics recycling to the individuals who believed their lies:

https://www.chicagotribune.com/opinion/commentary/ct-perspec-indian-crying-environment-ads-pollution-1123-20171113-story.html

When I was a kid in Ontario, we had centralized, regulated, reusable bottle depots — beer and soda bottles came in standard sizes, differentiated by paper labels that could be pressure-washed off. When you were done with your bottle, you returned it for a deposit and it got washed and returned to bottlers to be refilled again and again and again.

After intense lobbying from soda companies, brewers and the plastic industry, that program was replaced with curbside “blue boxes” that promised to recycle our plastic waste. 90% of the plastics created has never been — and will never be — recycled. Today, the plastic industry plans on tripling the amount of single-use plastic in use worldwide:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/04/26/plastic-fatalistic/#recycled-lies

You know those ads from companies like Bluetriton (formerly “Nestle Waters”) that promise that your single-use plastic bottles are “100% recyclable…and can be used for new bottles and all sorts of new, reusable things?”

Bluetriton is a private equity-backed rollup that has absorbed most of the bottled water companies you’re familiar with, including Poland Spring, Pure Life, Splash, Ozarka, and Arrowhead. When they were sued in DC for making false claims about their “recyclable” water-bottles, their defense was that these were “non-actionable puffery.” According to Bluetriton, when it described itself as “a guardian of sustainable resources” and “a company who, at its core, cares about water,” it was being “vague and hyperbolic.”

https://pluralistic.net/2022/04/26/plastic-fatalistic/#recycled-lies

With this high standard for plastic recycling, Dow’s Singapore scam shouldn’t come as a surprise, but it seems to have surprised the government of Singapore. Writing for Reuters, Joe Brock, Yuddy Cahya Budiman and Joseph Campbell describe how they caught Dow red-handed:

https://www.reuters.com/investigates/special-report/global-plastic-dow-shoes/

The method is actually pretty straightforward: Reuters hid tracking devices in cavities in the soles of sneakers, dropped them in one of Dow’s collection bins, and then followed them. The shoes were passed onto Dow’s subcontractor, Yok Impex Pte Ltd, who sent them hopping from island to island throughout Indonesia, until they ended up in junk-markets.

Not all the shoes, though — one pair was simply moved from Dow’s collection bin to a donation bin at a Singaporean community center. Of the 11 pairs that Reuters tracked, not one ended up at a recycling facility. So much for Dow’s slogan: “Others see an old shoe. We see the future.”

Dow blamed all this on Yok Impex, but didn’t explain why its “recycling” program involved a company whose sole trade is exporting used clothing. Dow promised to cancel its deal with Yok Impex, but Yok Impex’s accountant told Reuters that the deal would be remain in place until the end of the contract. Yok Impex, meanwhile, shifted the blame to the low-waged women who sort through the clothing donations it takes in from across Singapore.

Indonesia bans bulk imports of used clothes, on the grounds that used clothes are unhygenic, displace the local textiles industry, and shipments contain high volumes of waste that ends up in Indonesian incinerators, landfills and rivers.

In other words, Singaporeans thought they were saving the planet by putting their shoes in Dow bins, but they were really sending those shoes on a long journey to an unlicensed dump. Dow enlisted schoolchildren in used-shoe collection drives, making upbeat videos that featured students like Zhang Youjia boasting that they “contributed 15 pairs of shoes.”

Dow does this all the time. In 2021, Dow’s “breakthrough technology to turn plastic waste into clean fuel” in Idaho was revealed to be a plain old incinerator:

https://www.reuters.com/investigates/special-report/environment-plastic-oil-recycling/

Also in 2021, in India, a Dow program to “use high-tech machinery to transform the [plastic from the Ganges] into clean fuel” was revealed to have ceased operations — but was still collecting plastic and promising that it was all being turned into fuel:

https://www.reuters.com/article/us-environment-plastic-insight-idUSKBN29N024

Dow operates a nearly identical “shoe recycling” program in neighboring Malaysia, and did not return Reuters’ requests for comment as to whether the shoes collected for “recycling” in the far more populous nation were also being illegally dumped offshore.

The global business lobby loves the idea of “personal responsibility” and its evil twin, “caveat emptor.” Its pet economists worship the idea of “revealed preferences,” claiming that when we use plastic, we may claim that we don’t want to have our bodies poisoned with immortal, toxic microplastics, that we don’t want our land and waters despoiled — but we actually love it, because otherwise we’d “vote with our wallets” for something else.

The obvious advantage of telling people to vote with their wallets is that the less money you have in your wallet, the fewer votes you get. Companies like Dow have used their access to the capital markets (a fancy phrase for “rich people”) to gobble up their competitors, eliminating “wasteful competition” and piling up massive profits. Those profits are laundered into policy — like replacing Ontario’s zero-waste refillable bottle system with a “recycling” system that sent plastics to the ends of the Earth to be set on fire or buried or dumped in the sea.

The ruling class’s pet economists have a name for this policy laundering: they call it “regulatory capture.” Now, when you hear “regulatory capture,” you might think about companies that get so big that they are able to boss governments around, with the obvious answer that companies need to be regulated before they get too big to jail:

https://doctorow.medium.com/small-government-fd5870a9462e

But that’s not how elite economists talk about regulatory capture: for them, capture starts with the very existence of regulators. For them, any government agency that proposes to protect the public from corporate fraud and murder inevitably becomes an agent of the corporations it is supposed to rein in, so the only answer is to eliminate regulators altogether:

https://doctorow.medium.com/regulatory-capture-59b2013e2526

This nihilism lets rich people blame the rest of us for their sins: “if you didn’t want your children to roast or freeze to death in the climate emergency, you should have sold your car and used the subway (that we bribed your city not to build).”

Nihilism is contagious. Think of the music industry: before Napster, 80% of the music ever recorded was not for sale, banished to the scrapheap of history and the vaults of record companies who paid farcically low sums to their artists.

During the File Sharing Wars, listeners were excoriated for failing to pay for music — much of which wasn’t for sale in the first place. But today, fans overwhelmingly pay for Spotify, a streaming service that notoriously pays musicians infinitesimal sums for their work.

Spotify is a creature of the Big Three labels — Sony, Universal and Warner — who own 70% of all the world’s recorded music copyrights and 65% of all the world’s music publishing. The rock-bottom per-stream prices that Spotify pays were set by the Big Three. Why would the labels want less money from Spotify?

Simple: as co-owners of Spotify, they make more money when Spotify pays less for music. Musicians have a claim on the money they take out of Spotify as royalties — but dividends, buybacks and capital gains from Spotify are the labels’ to use as they see fit. They can share that bounty with some artists, all artists, or no artists.

Not only that, but the Big Three’s deal with Spotify includes a “most favored nation” clause, which means that the independent artists who aren’t under Sony/UMG/Warner’s thumb have to take the rock-bottom rate the Big Three insisted on — likewise the small labels who compete with the Big Three. The difference is that none of these artists and small labels have massive portfolios of Spotify stock, nor do they get free advertising on Spotify, or free inclusion on hot Spotify playlists, or monthly minimum payouts from Spotify.

The idea that we shop at the wrong kind of monopolist in the wrong way is a recipe for absolute despair. It doesn’t matter whether you listen to music with the Big Tech-owned monopoly service (Youtube) or the Big Content-owned monopoly service (Spotify). The money you hand over to these giant companies goes to artists the same way that the sneakers you put in a Dow collection bin goes to a recycling plant.

Think of the billions of human labor hours we all spent washing and sorting our plastics for a recycling program that didn’t exist and will never exist — imagine if we’d spent that time and energy demanding that our politicians hold petrochemical companies to account instead.

At the end of Break ’Em Up, Zephyr Teachout’s outstanding 2020 book on monopolies, Teachout has some choice words for “consumerism” as a theory of change. She writes that if you’re on your way to a protest against a new Amazon warehouse but you never make it because you waste too much time looking for a mom-and-pop stationers to sell you a marker to write your protest sign, Amazon wins:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/07/29/break-em-up/#break-em-up

The problem isn’t that you shop the wrong way. Yes, by all means, support the creators and producers you care about in the way that they prefer, but keep your eye on the prize. Structural problems don’t have individual solutions. The problem isn’t that you have chosen single-use plastics — it’s that in our world everything for sale is packaged in single-use plastics. The problem isn’t that you’ve bought a subscription to the wrong music streaming service — it’s that labels have been allowed to buy all their competitors, creators’ unions have been smashed and degraded, and giant accounting scams by big companies generate minuscule fines.

The good news is that after 40 years of despair inducing regulatory nihilism and “vote with your wallet” talk, we’re finally paying attention to systemic problems, with a new generation of trustbusting radicals working around the world to end corporate impunity.

Dow is a repeat offender. A repeat, repeat offender. Chrissakes, they’re the linear descendants of Union Carbide, the company that poisoned Bhopal:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bhopal_disaster

They shouldn’t be trusted to run a lemonade stand, let alone a “recycling” program. The same goes for Big Tech and Big Content company and the markets for creative labor. These companies have repeatedly demonstrated their unfitness, their habitual deception and immorality. These companies have captured their regulators, repeatedly, so we need better regulators — and weaker companies.

The thing I love about Teachout’s book is that it talks about what we should be demanding from our governments — it’s a manifesto for a movement against corporate power, not a movement for “responsible consumerism.” That was the template that Rebecca Giblin and I followed when we wrote Chokepoint Capitalism, our book about the brutal, corrupt creative labor market:

https://chokepointcapitalism.com/

We have a chapter on Spotify (multiple chapters, in fact!). For our audiobook, we made that chapter a “Spotify Exclusive” — it’s the only part of the book you can get on Spotify, and it’s free:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/09/12/streaming-doesnt-pay/#stunt-publishing

Next Thu (Mar 2) I’ll be in Brussels for Antitrust, Regulation and the Political Economy, along with a who’s-who of European and US trustbusters. It’s livestreamed, and both in-person and virtual attendance are free. On Fri (Mar 3), I’ll be in Graz for the Elevate Festival.

[Image ID: A woman kneeling to tie her running shoe. She stands on a background of plastic waste. In the top right corner is the logo for Dow chemicals. Below it is the Dow slogan, 'Others see an old shoe. We see the future.']

#pluralistic

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octuscle · 1 year ago

Note

My wrestling coach of 6 years has been on my ass trying to get me to join him as his assistant coach. I’m not so interested as I have to prioritize my studies.

The problem is he keeps sending his dirty compression gear to my flat — I don’t get that. But something about that smell… it reminds me of him, his manliness… And I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t had a crush on him for the past 4 years… maybe I should accept his offer…

Well, crush is a harsh word… I mean, you started on the youth team in elementary school with your coach. You're a sophomore in college now. Sure you had a little crush on him when you were in high school. But you weren't really in love.

Since you've had a laundry basket full of his dirty clothes in your apartment, that's changed a bit. You dream about your trainer all the time. And the dream usually ends with rough sex. And a nocturnal ejaculation on your part. You're already sleeping in one of his wrestling singlets so you don't have to keep changing your bed. This prevents bigger messes.

When you get out of the shower this morning, freshly shaved all over, there's a knock at the door. Someone has left a package in front of the door. A wrestling singlet. It's still warm and damp with sweat. And someone has recently squirted into the singlet. It's actually disgusting. You actually have to go to class. But you have to try on the singlet. Now. Damn, it feels so great. The cum from Coach sticks to your smooth cock. You can feel his sweat on your skin. You smell your freshly shaved armpits. It's a good thing you haven't used deodorant yet. So you can smell Coach's musk and imagine it's yours. You have a boner. You play with your nipples. Your precum mixes with Coach's cum. And shortly afterwards you cum. An incredible amount!

You don't have time to shower. Your first marketing lecture starts in half an hour. You pull on a pair of jeans and a hoodie over your singlet, slip into socks and sneakers, grab your backpack and make your way to campus.

You could have saved yourself the day at university. You couldn't concentrate. You went to the toilet three times to have a wank. And as soon as you get back to your apartment, you wank the next time. It feels so great to come in Coach's singlet.

The next morning you wake up in your own university team singlet. You must have changed into it at some point while you were half asleep. Phew, you stink of sweat and cum. Yes, you remember… After training yesterday, there was a private wrestling session with Coach. He tried to use gentle force to persuade you to take on the job of assistant coach. The fight was great. But you don't want to. The fact that you let yourself be persuaded to switch from business studies to sports science a semester ago is the furthest thing from your mind. First lecture this morning is athletics. Not your favorite sport… But at least you don't have to shower. You take a deep breath from your bushy armpit. Fuck, yes! No wonder it drives Coach crazy. If you could, you'd fuck yourself.

Coach is still lying next to you, snoring. Today is your last fight as a student for your university. You're still wondering whether you should cut your hair for the graduation ceremony. Since you've been Coach's assistant, you've let your curls grow. But when you graduate, you'll also lose your assistant position. In two months, you will become a coach at your old high school. Best job you can imagine.

Pic found @athletic-collection

#male tf #muscle tf #reality change #wrestler tf #age progression

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gatheringbones · 1 year ago

Text

[“My girlfriend (I’ll call her Rachel) and I have been riding the same bus to the Metro station together nearly every weekday morning for the last two years. After a few weeks, all the commuters on the bus start to look familiar. You begin to notice who travels with whom. You start to give people secret nicknames (Franklin Planner Guy, Park Service Guy, Beautiful Woman, Vancouver Boy). Pretty soon you start noticing each other around town, start saying hi at the farmers’ market. You don’t know each other’s names, but if someone disappears from their regular bus for more than a few days, you begin to wonder if they’re okay, if they’ve moved or changed jobs. It’s an odd sort of community.

Rachel and I wondered sometimes if our fellow workers had nicknames for us, too. What would we call ourselves? Dress Alike Girls? We’ve committed the Ultimate Lesbian Sin—dressing alike—on more than one occasion. We have totally dissimilar clothing tastes, but an unfortunate affinity for the same colors, so we’ve been known to show up at each other’s houses in the morning to find one of us wearing tailored silk khakis, black pumps, and a dark blouse—that would be Rachel—and the other (that would be me) in khaki shorts, black sneakers, and a dark blue T-shirt. Embarrassing. We finally decided that our bus gang would call us Jointed at the Hip Girls. We’d sit at the back of the bus, hold hands sometimes, whisper. We didn’t need to wear T-shirts that said “Dyke.”

But we didn’t actually think about it very much either. We felt safe enough in our little bus world to be “straight acting” (ha ha).

And one morning, when we were standing on the platform at the Metro station, one of our bus buddies approached. She’s tall, light-skinned African-American woman with a penchant for outfits that Rachel admires, and we had wondered if she were family; she had that look about her. She apologized for interrupting and said, I just wanted to tell you guys that it’s so nice to see you in the mornings. I looked at Rachel, a little puzzled. I mean, the woman continued, You both just look really happy when you’re together, you sort of glow.

I started to blush. My ears got very, very hot.

Umm, I umm, I said.

Rachel was more composed (although she was blushing too). She thanked the woman graciously, and asked her name. Kara, she told us. I actually ran into Kara the other day at the grocery store, and we rode the bus home together. I found out that she’s a poet and a sculptor, and she lives three blocks from me. I told her I was writing about her in an essay I was doing for an anthology. She laughed and said, Oh, because of that thing I did that morning?, and chatted for a few more minutes. I don’t remember the rest of that conversation either, really. After all this time, is it possible that I’m still traumatized at the thought of coming out?”]

kanani kauka, from freedom rings, from a woman like that: lesbian and bisexual writers tell their coming out stories, 2000

#kanani kauka #lesbian literature #currently reading

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bitchlessdino · 2 years ago

Text

TPC: Seungcheol hot tub sexcapades

Series

Pairing: afab!reader x seungcheol

Genre: smut

Word count: 2.6k

tags: virgin!reader, mention of body image issues, mention of adult content, mentions of tresspasing, mentions of drinking alcohol, smut but not sex? nag!seungcheol, heavy making out, oral (reader rec.), fingering

Summary: At the grown age you are, you were very much ready to lose this social construct that is your virginity, and who better to lose it to than the hottest guy at the party.

author note: i haven't touched this in so long. Happy to have them back and with cheol of all people. hopefully finishing this soon bc it looks like I have another mile stone Im about to hit.

Tag list: @iwouldbangchan @1uvlywon @just-here-to-read-01 @candidupped @minnie-mouser22 @shiningstar-byulxx @90s-belladonna @misssugarlips @tommolex @hoeforhao @honglynights @homerunhansol @dkakapizzaboy @junhui-recs @svtup @buffhoshi @meowmeowminnie @caratochan @lovebot4han @lovelyhan

The only times you’ve cum were by the will of your own hand. It’s embarrassing to admit, but you are painfully a virgin.

High school wasn’t great to you and neither is college, but it came at a point in time you were ready to get it over with. God, did you sound like some cliche. Not any more cliche than this party you’re at though. Drunk, horny, high. Almost everyone there was one, two, or all of the above.

You aren’t all that different. Especially after landing your eyes on possibly the best lay you could have. His eyes round like planets, shining brighter than any star in the sky. His hair is coiffed more perfect than the head of any Ken doll. And his lips, so naturally pouty and biteable, sinking your teeth into his bottom lip would taste sex alone.

“Ooh, he's a good one. Nice eye.”

“Em, I can’t,” you say, shaking your head at your friend. “Look at him. He’s too out of my league. What would I even say? Hey, you’re really hot, wanna take my virginity sometime? Are you kidding me?”

“Why the fuck not? You’re hot, he’s hot. You would make the hottest porno ever to exist—if that was your plan.” She adds that last part after seeing the panicked look in your eyes.

“Yeah,” You reply, rolling your eyes. “Hot stud steals V card from loser virgin.”

“There’s a market for that,” she nudges.

“Whatever. I’ll probably just look for someone more approachable.”

“Hey, the worst thing about coming up to him is he says he isn’t interested.”

“And how is that not at all traumatizing?”

“It’s life. Just be willing to walk through it.”

With a bit more convincing, somehow she’s managed to push you toward him. Your sneakers dragged against the floorboards, hands shaking in anticipation. In a split second, his bored gaze lands on you, and a chilling strike runs down your spine. It halts your step. Time slows down as the corner of his lips slowly turns up. His chin lifts up to greet you nonverbally, waiting for you to come closer.

You finally reach him, eyes following you like a hawk, you try to relax in his presence. Emphasis on try because besides the music, all you can hear is the pounding in your chest that travels to your ears. You release a shallow breath before saying “hi,” really wishing now you accepted that drink earlier when you arrived.

“Hi.” His voice was deep, yet mellow. “Having a good night?”

“I think so. You?”

“You can say that.” He briefly nods off to scan the party. “Could be better though.”

“How so?”

“It just,” he simply shrugs his shoulders, “could be better.”

You take a second to think about how you can turn this around in your favor. Strategizing happens to be one of your many amazing qualities. Like a light bulb appearing above your head, you remind yourself of the neighborhood you’re in and how familiar you are with it than you realize. “What if I told you I knew a place we can use a hot tub? No one home, all to ourselves.”

“I’d say, ‘hi, I’m Seungcheol. Pleasure to meet you. What’s this about a hot tub?’”

You make your grand escape from the party to take Seungcheol to a neighbor's house that you’re used to babysitting. As far as you know, they’re on a vacay to the Bahamas and won't be back until next weekend. That means you have all the freedom to hop over the fence to their backyard with an unlikely chance of getting caught.

“So, how do you know this place we’re trespassing?”

“I know the owners. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.”

You turn on the hot tub and watch as the bubbles start to form, your smile doing just the same. Your eyes shift from the water to him nervously. “Just takes a few seconds. Meanwhile…” Your fingers fiddle with the bottom hem of your shirt, raising it past your mid-drift. Your nails graze up your sides as your shirt is pulled over your head, revealing imperfect skin, an imperfect body, scantily clad by beige–your safe color–lace and ribbon. “We can’t get our clothes wet.”

It took time for you to give your body the love it deserves and some days you still feel it’s not worth it, but at the end of the day, you’re the one living in it. You had it only in yourself to love it the most, even if you made it the reason you’ve gotten this far without popping your cherry. Your worst critic would always be yourself, after all.

Even in this backyard, where Seungcheol can't even bear to tear his eyes away from you. He draws in a breath, quietly scoffing to himself as he outlines the shape of your body. To him, the evening air smells delicious with the addition of the view. And no, he wasn’t looking at the full moon tonight.

The sensation in his chest deepens when your shorts are released from their top button, falling to your ankles after the zipper is pulled down. “Well?”

He looks up after your eruption of giggles, watching as your toe is first to dip in the warm water. Inch by inch, your body gets submerged, raising your internal body temperature by several degrees. He breaks away from your gaze with a smug smile, finally removing articles of his clothes, starting with his shirt.

An Adonis body perfectly matching his Adonis face. Chiseled all over, his muscles stood taunt on his figure. He joins, sitting across from you, sharing the heat of the surrounding water, now glistening his skin in the beautiful twilight. You could devour every inch of him.

“This is nice.”

“I told you. Would take this baby out when the kids I babysit are asleep. Let my mind go blank for an hour or two.”

He nods at that, silent after.

“This is actually the first time I brought someone, always too scared about getting caught on the job. Haha.” Why would you say that?

You shut your eyes in embarrassment but tried to get over the initial cringe of your words before changing the subject. “So, do you always follow strangers at the mention of a hot tub?”

“Not always, but I find it better not to question most things. More fun that way. Do you always lure strangers into intimate and private settings?”

“No, but so far I have no complaints.”

He gives you a closed-mouth grin, now making you wonder about the smile he’s hiding behind those lips. “Let’s hope I keep it that way.”

The air is thick with tension, even six feet apart from each other. Most men would pretend not to look, but not Seungcheol. His eyes stayed stuck to you, dark and stormy in stark contrast to the clear skies faintly illuminated by the lawn lights and barely there stars. You are almost sure he wants you at least a third as much as you want him, but he made no gesture in approaching you first, so you dangle yourself in front of him.

Lifting off your seat, your breasts bounce up from the water it once floated in into the cool, crisp air. You saunter in his direction until you're mere centimeters away from him, supremely conscious of the pure sex radiating off his pristinely large build. “It’s gonna sound like a cliche, but I don’t do this kind of thing. I’m usually a by-the-books person.”

“What’s changed?”

Your hand reaches for his bicep, hard and pulsing under your fingertips, and you pull yourself towards him, knees bent on either side of his thick thighs until you're straddling him. Your eye level ascends until you’re looking down at him, his irises dilating once he sees you and feels your soft curves meet his deep hollows. “You look more fun than books.”

“So what, you’re gonna do things differently with me?” You feel the pad of his fingers ghost over your spine, shivers following, causing you to arch into him with a gasp. “I don’t know if I’m worth all that.”

Your hands trickle on the nap of his neck, threading in his dry hair, and excitement bubbles inside you. “The call I get to make.”

His lips, pink and plump, meet yours when you lean in. Like pillows, they cushion the impact and hug the curve of your lips before they start ebbing with carnage. His hands press into the solid of your lower back, fusing into like a tense thread has snapped loose. Your tongue beckons him for access, cheeks flushed against him. You whimper as he holds you tighter, his erection digging into your crotch, and you can somehow feel how wet you are. You’re wet all over from the water your party submerged in, but the lining of your warmth contains a more viscous fluid.

Eventually, Seungcheol pulls away, earning your bemused expression. “I’m not taking your virginity.”

“What?” You ask, shocked, backing away. “How—Why the hell not?”

“I overheard what you and your friend said. Not very subtle. As to why…you deserve better than that.”

You roll your eyes, “Ugh, you’re one of those guys. Remember that not everyone holds the value of sex to this same high standard.”

“But you do, given you feel so pressured to do it for the first time.” He lays an awkwardly platonic pat on your arm, discomfort apparent on your face, but he shows no sign of caring. “I’m not going to let you throw something…heavy away to someone you met—what, 15 minutes ago—to cater to a societal norm. Depending on the person, they would have hurt you. I could’ve hurt you.”

“Look.” Your hand presses against his bare chest. “I approached you. I chose you. Who I decide to have sex with is up to me. I’m grown enough to make that decision.”

“I’m not telling you to promise your body to someone you plan on marrying. What you deserve is to have it to be with someone special, at least someone you trust. Why would you let me even this close to you?”

You scoff. “You had no complaints when we were making out. So don’t use this generic ass excuse that it should be ‘special’ or someone I ‘trust.’ If you don’t want to sleep with me then don’t.”

“You don’t listen.”

“I’ve complied with most things in my life. This will not be one of them. Now, if you don’t want this, it won’t be you. I’ll move on to someone else…I’d just hoped it’d be you.” You lift yourself onto the ledge, only your feet in the water. “Seeing as this is going nowhere, thanks for wasting my time. Good kisser though. Three stars.”

You’re about to leave when his hand stops at your knee. You look down at him expectantly as he gets closer. “Stubborn too.” He stands in the pool to meet your eyes, lips pursed in an amused smile. “I followed you so no one else would. I plan to keep it that way.”

You raise a brow, unsure where your surge of confidence came from, finally feeling the tremble of your hand as it covers his. “What makes you think after this I plan on staying with you?”

“Because although I won’t be having sex with you, I can give you something just close enough.”

Now both hands are on your knees, lips colliding with yours once more, just as hot and sweet as the first kiss. You moan as his teeth dig into your bottom lip, his hands finding your unbreached heat. Then there's that familiar reflex of pulling away, the situation dawning on you now. You blink back at this beautiful man that takes your breath away just from his mere presence and get that same feeling every other time you come close. “Seungcheol…”

“You backing down on me, virgin?”

“Okay, that hurt.”

He chuckles. “I’m teasing, but not the kind I should be doing.” He lands a kiss on your nose. “I’ll be careful. If you let me, that is.”

“I am. You just make me really nervous.”

“I understand. I won’t do anything you wouldn’t want me to.”

You nod, a little too eagerly. “I want you. I-I’m letting you.”

“Good, then relax.”

He parts your legs further away, hand firmly pressed against your warmth, seizing the oxygen from your lungs, and he kisses you tenderly. Your hand clasps over his cheeks, deepening your liplock, and you feel the courage seep out of his fingers as they push aside your damp panties. His digits glide over your moisture, coating himself in the arousal built over your time together and you feel him smile against your lips. “That’s definitely not water, but I have a feeling you know that already.”

“More teasing?” You ask in a weak breath.

“I’ll make sure it’s worth it.”

He bows his head, his knees hitting the plastic bottom. His hands glide over your thighs, a tingling sensation follows its path. His kiss marks your skin in a way that wasn’t visible, only burning you with an unreplicable heat. His touch—gentle and firm—makes your head go to places you usually go to when you’re alone. His eyes tell you comfort and safety, but conflict with the glint of hunger that shines through.

He kisses the center of your folds, easing at you with light flicks of his tongue. Although delicate, it drives you insane, wanting you just to bury his face inside you already. Patience eventually rewards you as his tongue runs stripes over your bordering thighs—small jumps on your end—then your slit. He coats himself in your translucent nectar, sighing in your heat. Mewls then leave you like a nursery rhyme, haunting yet addictive. “Delectable just as much as you look.”

There’s a slow rise and drop of your chest watching him devour you. His lips purse to your core, darting in you to lap your insides, and you whine from his vigor. Your thighs press against his hot, red cheeks as water splashes around him. You shake—vibrate actually—speaking his name like it was the only thing that makes sense, and somehow you still feel how gentle he is with you.

This stranger is meant to be a stranger, so why did he make you feel special?

With the curl of his fingers, they plunge in you, feeling how you pulsate around him as he sucks on your clit. You buck into his face, a wreck, hands glued to the edge of the tub in anguish. Your moans are a grand symphony on loop, the background music to the beautiful moment he’s savoring. How you gush feels him with pride, tightening his core as you push his head closer with your knees. “I-I’ma cum…”

He says nothing, only rummaging faster, deeper, holding on to the pace until his gums are filled with your climax, not minding how it makes him a mess. Your hips hit his face in an erratic beat, only settling down after he licks your thighs clean. You gasp in amazement, only for that gasp to be swallowed by Seungcheol as he sticks his tongue down your throat; you taste his promise.

You part in thick, glossy ribbons, eyes fucked from–you still can’t believe you’re saying this–orgasming by someone other than yourself.

“T-thank you,” you say with gratitude you conjured from the pit of your stomach.

“If you really want to thank me,” he leans in closer, “Let me take you out sometimes and I’ll let you experience it all over again.”

406 notes · View notes

mariacallous · 22 days ago

Text

After the presidential election, many fashion and lifestyle influencers began to come out of the closet as conservatives. Some, like tradwife TikTok darling Nara Smith, were predictable, while others were less so. But what was clear was that MAGA culture, and the fashion and aesthetics associated with it, were becoming increasingly mainstream.

Inauguration weekend, with its mix of parties and formal events, brought together the who’s who of right-wing players. Observing the proceedings was Derek Guy, known online as @dieworkwear—a longtime menswear enthusiast and writer who has came to prominence as an influencer on X for his hot and unnervingly well-informed takes on the sartorial choices of everyone from Donald Trump to Andrew Tate, and what they might be telling us about this political moment.

WIRED spoke with Guy after the inauguration ceremony to get his takes on MAGA fashion, what it says about who the party is for, and what the richest men alive are wearing these days.

This interview has been edited for clarity and length.

WIRED: First, give us the reviews of the inauguration suits and ties. What are we looking at here? These are some of the richest men in the world, but I’m not sure they really look like it.

Derek Guy: You can break up the inauguration almost by age. The older someone is, the more likely they are at least avoiding the worst of what we're seeing. And the younger someone is, the more likely they are wearing something that looks cheap, because tailoring as a craft has mostly died in this country. Many people shop ready-to-wear. And when you're very wealthy, you are probably just buying a luxury-level off-the-rack suit. And just because something is made with fine materials doesn't necessarily mean it fits. So you have a market system that makes it difficult to find a good suit.

If you're younger, like Mark Zuckerberg's age, you're more likely to kind of fall into this short-jacket silhouette that you think looks modern and hip but frankly looks really dated and makes you actually look more middle-aged, like someone who learned how to dress in the early 2000s.

Vivek [Ramaswamy], for example, wears really shrunken suits. Jeff Bezos often wears pretty good tailoring, but today wore a very short jacket which did not look very good on him. He looked surprisingly bad today, given how he looks in tailored clothing other times.

Elon Musk, I'm pretty sure he wears a Tom Ford suit because that's five buttons on the cuffs. I thought it looked pretty good on him, but he looked bad at the rally last night. He was wearing a short overcoat with grey jeans and it didn’t flatter him very well. The outfit didn’t make much sense.

Zuckerberg, his suits are neither fantastic nor horrible. Tim Cook and Sundar Pichai, they are still clearly nerds who don’t care about clothes.

But, you know, for example, JD Vance has a custom tailor. He has a 90-year-old Italian tailor in Ohio. That guy is not following fashion trends.

Why do the rank and file MAGA enthusiasts favor such slim-fit suits when Trump himself often wears things that are quite baggy?

What you're seeing is young conservatives will often wear very shrunken suits because they care more about the tailored aesthetic. Ironically, you actually look better if you're the kind of young Democrat who doesn't care about aesthetics at all. So then you wear a sloppy suit. You still look bad, but you essentially avoid the shrunken look. The MAGA aesthetic will change over time as conservatives change their tastes naturally. But I mean, just to be frank about it, many conservatives are often behind on fashion trends.

We are at this moment where the large part of the market has shifted away from the shrunken look of the early 2000s. But if you're kind of behind on fashion trends, you still think that looks good.

Are you seeing changes to the hallmarks of the MAGA aesthetic, particularly as we're seeing it merge a bit with the quiet luxury vibe that became very popular online?

MAGA is a very populist aesthetic, so it's intentionally vulgar and thumbing its nose at WASP morality and aesthetics, even though within the Republican Party there is still that kind of celebration of bourgeois 1950s aesthetics.

I often like to contrast it. When Ronald Reagan and George Bush were first inaugurated in 1980, the Republican Party commissioned custom blazer buttons commemorating their inauguration, and they gave them out for free to attendees at the various events surrounding the inauguration. So if you attended Reagan's inauguration in 1980, you would have gotten a brass button commemorating the inauguration, made by Ben Silver in Charleston, South Carolina. It was presumed that people who attended Reagan's inauguration would have a navy tailored jacket. And if you put brass buttons on a navy jacket then that jacket becomes a blazer. It was presumed that not only would young Republicans have a navy jacket, but that they would want to wear a blazer with a button commemorating Reagan's victory.

The merchandise surrounding Trump's movement is gold sneakers and Never Surrender T-shirts and, of course, the red MAGA hat.

To me, this demonstrates the schism between the classic Republican—which is the Brooks Brothers, free trade, globalist, Reaganite Republican—and the new Republican, which is populist. They pay reverence to Reagan, but they don't share his politics.

The aesthetic is very much not the classic WASP aesthetic, which used to be the Republican aesthetic. Trump's own aesthetic comes from the 1980s—the “greed is good” of Wall Street boom times. He wears very padded shoulders and a power tie. He used to wear a banker collar, but no longer. And that's very different from the demure look of Brooks Brothers WASP. MAGA is a very aggressive, populist “fuck you” to the establishment aesthetic.

When you think about the MAGA aesthetic are there particular brands or influencers who come to mind for you?

It's all very campaign merch and the most mainstream item is just the MAGA hat. It still seems very much like campaign merch. I don't think there's anyone else that sets the tone except for Trump. There are certain people that embody that look very well. Forgiato Blow, he has that kind of very loud aesthetic. There was a moment where Viper sunglasses were very popular, which was, I think, driven by Baked Alaska. So there are microtrends in that universe. But it’s really Trump—whatever he releases next, people will wear.

Do you think that sort of classic American look—the Ralph Lauren, the Oxford shirt—is that going to be sort of the purview of MAGA forever or do you see that changing?

I don't think the classic American aesthetic is strictly MAGA, though. I think a Brooks Brothers look is like the ABC of menswear; that's like a very classic American tailored look. In the postwar period, right after the end of the Second World War, there was a culture clash between establishment lifestyle–the man in a grey flannel suit, who works in a corporate job and has a conventional kind of nuclear family and white picket fence house—and the counterculture. That was this kind of liberal side of the political spectrum. They wore workwear and chambray shirts, hippie gear, motorcycle jackets. That all became counterculture.

But if you go back further than that, everyone wore tailored clothing, from criminals to CEOs to liberals and Republicans. Ralph Lauren could not have built his empire if button-down shirts and penny loafers were exclusively conservative attire.

I think it's interesting that the current status of Republican politics is trying to unite the Brooks Brothers aesthetic with the gold sneakers. Do you see them coming together?

I think that's the weird dichotomy at the moment, because the MAGA movement and Republicans in general have always been kind of looking back towards some idea of America. Even though not every man wore a suit in the 1950s, the suit has historically been associated with the kind of bourgeois lifestyle. And a lot of conservatism in general is about upholding bourgeois lifestyles, morality, identity, politics and so forth.

There is now a populist section of the Republican Party that's not about Reaganism or Bush. It's very about Trump. And its aesthetic is very different from what William Buckley would have worn. William Buckley would not have worn gold sneakers.

I think they are distinct and contradictory, but people can hold contradictory ideas in their head. We are in an age where politics is very tribal. And so long as it fits the narrative of our tribe, then I think it's coherent for that group. For Republicans, I think those two very contradictory aesthetics are just now within the party.

The men of tech are new to the MAGA crowd, but many people have noted a significant change in their looks, particularly Mark Zuckerberg’s. Can you talk about what they’re trying to signal and to whom?

I heard from through the grapevine within my industry that [Elon Musk] used to have a stylist. I don’t think he has a stylist anymore. Mark Zuckerberg denies having a stylist, but I don’t believe him. He is certainly going through a style transformation in the last year and three months, I would say. Jeff Bezos most obviously has a stylist. I don't think what they're doing has anything to do with politics. I think Jeff Bezos went through a style makeover after his divorce. And I suspect Mark Zuckerberg just got tired of dressing like a college student. Elon has clearly given up on his stylist and doesn’t dress very well.

[Zuckerberg] dresses more like an MMA guy. He is wearing the boxy tees and the gold chain. But he looks like someone who updated his look to be trendier. There are a lot of guys wearing that kind of silhouette and gold chain and I don’t know that that says anything about their politics.

We saw a lot of the sort of “spaghetti Western” vibe happening. What’s your take on that?

As a fashion trend, the Western look really leans more liberal, right now, because it’s popular in big cities. Conservatives now dress like metrosexuals in the early 2000s and liberals dress like Bush-era conservatives. Conservatives are in slim-tight suits or slim-fit suits and then liberals are like Carhartt double-knees, Western shirts, cowboy boots. There is some of this inherently on the right because it's a Midwestern look.

But Elon Musk does wear cowboy boots pretty frequently, as does Jeff Bezos.

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