#Worst Golf Balls

[gabsterz1]

Woah I'm actually posting on tumblr, anyways Taco ii and Marina and the diamonds

[steelycunt]

tennis looks so fucking boring im sorry. cannot get on board with a sports event where there is no telling if it will end in one hour or five. and not only is there no telling but its also the most boring game to watch ever. so like you can rest assured that what you will be watching is just a ball travelling back and forth across a net but what you dont know is whether it will finish in time for you to get home for dinner or maybe your mother's birthday which is two and half weeks away

[urmum-lovesme]

Bunny (P4)

Rafe Cameron x Maybank!Reader

summary: Struggling to keep her and JJ’s home afloat, Y/N turns to the only option that guarantees fast cash- stripping at a club on the Cut. But when Rafe Cameron catches her in the act, he sees the perfect opportunity to tighten his grip around her life.

a/n: I'm not gonna lie I've never been on a golf course so this might be really inaccurate. however #justiceformygirly/n

warnings: mentions of drinking, rude comments, aggressive behaviour, black mailing.

(P1) (P2) (P3) (P4) (P5) (P6) (P7) (P8) (P9) (P10) (P11)

The sun was beating down on the manicured greens of Figure Eight’s most exclusive country club as Y/N crouched by her cart, restocking the mini freezer with ice. The scent of freshly cut grass lingered in the air, mixing with the distant sound of polite laughter and the occasional crack of a golf club hitting a ball. She exhaled sharply, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead as she shoved a bottle into place. Working the beverage cart wasn’t the worst job in the world- decent tips, the occasional rich old man slipping her an extra twenty just to call him sir, and best of all, no uniform beyond the white polo and tennis skirt. But the heat, the mind-numbing small talk, the entitled customers was already testing her patience.

With a huff, she straightened and glanced out over the course. A group of men stood a little ways off near the ninth hole, laughing too loudly. She didn’t even need to get closer to know who was there- she could feel him before she even saw him.

Rafe fucking Cameron.

She rolled her eyes and turned back to the cart, shoving a few more bottles onto the shelves with unnecessary force. Of course he was here. He was always here, like a shadow dressed in designer. And judging by the obnoxious laughter echoing across the course, he wasn't planning on leaving anytime soon. Y/N had spent the past week trying to avoid him, especially after what happened at the club- but clearly, the universe had other plans. And sure enough, as she climbed onto the cart, ready to make her rounds, a sharp whistle cut through the air, snapping her attention toward the very last person she wanted to talk to. Rafe stood a few feet away, golf club resting against his shoulder, that same smug grin tugging at his lips. His eyes flickered over her, slow and deliberate, before he tipped his head toward the cart.

"You gonna do your job, or just sit there like a stuck up bitch?"

Her grip tightened around the steering wheel, teeth grinding together. A few of the other guys chuckled, amused at her expense, and she forced a slow exhale before putting on her best fake smile.

"What can I get you, gentlemen?"

She asked sweetly, voice laced with poison. Rafe exchanged a look with Topper who was already stepping closer, resting his forearm on the top of the cart like he belonged there. "Let’s see…" He dragged the words out, acting as if he were actually thinking about it.

"How about a Johnnie Walker Blue? Neat."

Y/N fought the urge to scoff. Of course he’d order the most expensive whiskey they had. "Sure thing," she chirped, already scheming.

"And for the rest of you?"

The other guys rattled off their orders—beers, vodka sodas, a gin and tonic. She nodded along, pretending to be the perfect accommodating employee, but Y/N barely spared Rafe a glance before turning to the rest of them.

"And you?"

She asks, voice clipped as she looked towards the brunette. Rafe glances down at the selection of bottles lined up on her cart, dragging out the moment. "Hmmm." Her fingers tighten around the bottle as she makes one of the other guys drinks. "Sure, go ahead. Take your time," she says flatly, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. A slow grin spreads across his face at her impatience.

"I’ll have a Bloody Mary."

"A Bloody Mary?"

She scoffs before she can stop herself, staring at him. He speaks, tone nonchalant, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Yeah"

She exhales through her nose, shaking her head, "You don’t even drink shit like that-"

"-Is there a problem?"

Her jaw clenches. Of course, this is exactly why he ordered it- because its the most complicated drink on the menu to make. He knows she’s going to put in the effort for a drink he won’t even finish. He’s just doing it to get under her skin. And the worst part?

It’s working.

Y/N turned away from him, yanking a cup off the shelf with more force than necessary. The ice clattered loudly as she scooped it in, the sound grating against her nerves as she reached for the vodka. The other drinks were easy- simple pours, barely requiring her attention- but this dumbass Bloody Mary… She grabbed the tomato juice with a scowl, biting back the urge to roll her eyes. The thick liquid sloshed into the glass, the deep red already annoying her before she even had to reach for the Worcestershire sauce. A few dashes, a heavy pour of vodka again, a squeeze of lemon she nearly crushed in her frustration at the never ending ingredients.  Behind her, she could feel Rafe’s eyes burning into her back, could practically hear the smirk in his voice when he said,

“You’re taking your time Maybank.”

Her grip on the drink tightened, and she soon found a slow smirk creeping onto her lips as her fingers curled around the Tabasco.

One, two, three, four, five, six—

She lost count of the number of shakes she gave it, but the deep red liquid swirled ominously in the glass, promising nothing but regret. A quick stir, a squeeze of lemon once more, and she shoved the celery stalk inside, pushing it down so hard that the juice nearly sloshed over the rim. Turning back, she plastered on her sweetest smile and placed the drink down in front of him with a little too much enthusiasm.

“Your drink”

She said brightly, tilting her head as she batted her lashes at him. Rafe eyed her, then the Bloody Mary, before lifting it lazily to his lips. He took a long, slow sip; the burn of all that extra Tabasco, the overwhelming taste of tomato and spice hitting his tongue like a slap, but there’s no way in hell he’d give her the satisfaction of a reaction- instead letting the awful taste settle, all while maintaining eye contact with her. His jaw flexed slightly, the faintest twitch of his lip as he smacked his lips, 

“Mmm- Perfect.”

She’s fuming. She knows it tastes like absolute shit, knows it should have him coughing or gagging, but instead, he’s sitting there acting like he just ordered the best damn drink of his life. He lifts the glass toward her, a smug glint in his eyes as he adds, 

“You should try it”

She glares up at him, fingers tight around the cold cup as he presses it into her hand. He’s close- too close- his broad frame looming over her, one hand braced against the top of the cart as he watches her with that insufferable smirk. He murmurs, voice low and taunting.

“Drink it”

Y/N hesitates for half a second, but she refuses to let him win. So, she lifts the glass to her lips and takes a sip- too big of a sip. The spice immediately scorches her tongue, searing all the way down her throat. She barely suppresses a cough, blinking rapidly as her eyes well up, the heat hitting her like a slap. Rafe tilts his head, watching every flicker of discomfort with smug amusement.

“Aww—what?” His voice is mocking, dripping with fake sympathy as he leans in just a little more.

“You don’t like it?”

She swallows thickly, willing herself not to react as she forces the glass back into his chest, her jaw clenched so tight it aches,

“Go fuck yourself Cameron.”

And now he’s looking down at her, eyes flickering over her face, dark with something unreadable as his tongue darts out to wet his lips.

“Such a naughty mouth Y/N.”

She doesn't to look away, refuses to give him the satisfaction of seeing her falter. Her jaw tightens, other hand curling into fists at her sides, but she holds his gaze, a silent challenge burning between them. Then he moves, reaching for the cup, fingers brushing against hers as he takes it back—too fast, too careless- and the red liquid sloshes over the rim, splattering against her white polo and tennis skirt.

She sucks in a sharp breath, eyes snapping downward as the cold, sticky drink seeps into the fabric, staining it instantly. A drop lands on his own polo, but he doesn’t seem to care- doesn’t even glance at it. Her gaze flicks back up, burning with rage, but he’s already watching her, already grinning, amused by the whole thing. His voice is anything but apologetic.

“Oops.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—”

She mutters, stepping back instinctively, eyes darting down to the spreading stain. Rafe, meanwhile, just watches her, amusement flickering in his gaze as he sets the now almost-empty cup back on the cart. His tongue swipes over his bottom lip, slow and deliberate, before he tuts. “Look at that,” he muses, eyes dragging over her ruined uniform.

“Messy, messy.”

“You’re such a dick.”

She clenches her jaw, nostrils flaring as she glares up at him. Rafe just smirks at her stubbornness, gaze flickering between her eyes before dropping, taking his time to lazily drink in the sight of her, now disheveled and stained because of him. Then, he exhales sharply, like he’s made some kind of decision. “Well,” he drawls,

“you should probably go clean that up- wouldn’t want to look unprofessional.”

God, he was insufferable.

Y/N's eyes narrow as she dabs at the stain on her polo with a tissue, but it’s no use. The red liquid has already seeped deep into the fabric, leaving a glaring mark. She sighs in frustration, bending over to wipe the mess off her shoes, her white skirt riding up her thighs. She can feel a set of eyes on her, Topper and Kelce standing a few feet away, their gazes lingering and she rolls her eyes, already irritated. But the way they’re elbowing each other and snickering only makes her more uncomfortable.

Before she can fully straighten up, she feels a sudden, sharp slap against her ass. Y/N jumps, her body stiffening as a rush of heat floods her face. Her head whips around, her eyes flashing with fury.

"What's wrong with you?!" 

She snaps, her voice sharp as she scoffs, brushing it off as best she can, but her face is red with embarrassment and fury. Rafe's staring at Kelce now, his gaze practically burning through him. Kelce’s smugness falters for a second, the cocky grin fading slightly as he tries to meet Rafe’s eyes, but he can feel the threat hanging in the air. Without a word, Y/N steps over to the cart, her fingers already reaching for the wheel. Yet as she goes to grab it, she hears Rafe’s voice, low and commanding.

"Hey—hey!"

He grabs the wheel himself, his grip tight and unforgiving. Y/N looks up at him, confused and a little frustrated. He demands, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Where are you going?"

"Really? I'm covered in tomato juice, Rafe," she snaps, voice dripping with sarcasm. "What do you think I’m doing? Going back to get changed."

Rafe narrows his eyes, still looking at her with that dead, intense glare, and it’s almost like he’s seeing right through her. "Well, you got your shitty drink on me," he says, his voice dripping with irritation.

"Excuse me, I did that?"

Y/N blinks, incredulous. Her eyes flicker down to the tiny splodge of red on his polo, her expression shifting into an exaggerated roll of her eyes as she looks back up at him. Rafe’s jaw tightens, but his gaze doesn’t falter as he stands there, silently assessing her, his posture rigid with tension.

"Yeah, well," he mutters, clearly not done with the situation, "drive me back. I need to change."

Y/N glares at him, shaking her head. "What? No."

She can't even protest any further as Rafe steps around her, sliding into the cart, and sitting down beside her with that infuriatingly casual air, like he’s the one in control. His leg bumps hers as he settles, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as if the whole thing is just a game. Y/N glares at him as he casually sits down beside her in the cart, crossing his arms and leaning back like he’s completely at ease.

"Uh- get out?"

She says, her voice sharp with frustration. Rafe doesn’t even flinch, just looks over at her with a lazy smirk.

"Get out"

"I hope that’s not how you talk to all your customers, Maybank."

“Are you fucking serious right now?”

Y/N’s eyes widen in disbelief, she’s seething, the smell of the tomato juice stain on her uniform only adding to the frustration. Her hand clenches around the wheel as she tries to keep her composure, but it’s hard when Rafe is sitting there, acting like he owns the place.

"Better get going, or that stain will stick”

He adds casually, the smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth. Y/N’s jaw clenches, and she takes a deep breath, trying to suppress the urge to snap back at him. But with the tension thick in the air, there’s no ignoring him. She huffs, gripping the wheel even tighter. “Fine,” she mutters under her breath, eyes flicking to him before she starts the cart and drives off, the sound of the engine almost masking the anger simmering between them.

Rafe leans back, perfectly comfortable in his spot, not a care in the world, while Y/N fights the urge to punch him in his stupid fucking face. Her eyes stay on the road, trying to ignore the irritating presence next to her, but she knows this is far from over. The cart bumps along the grass of the golf course, the soft hum of the engine doing nothing to ease the tightness in the air. Y/N’s hands are tight around the wheel, her grip rigid as she focuses on driving, trying to ignore the heat from Rafe’s presence beside her. Her body’s tense, her muscles stiff under the weight of his gaze.

Rafe, on the other hand, seems perfectly relaxed, like he’s completely comfortable with the silence stretching between them. But he’s not looking at the horizon or the passing course; no, his eyes are on her. Slowly, they drift over her face, studying her every feature with an intensity that makes her skin crawl. Then, his gaze lowers, tracing down her body with lazy attention, stopping at her thighs—bare beneath the drink-stained skirt. Y/N’s pulse picks up, and she doesn't even process it, but she feels Rafe’s hand is on her thigh, resting just above her knee.

The touch is so casual, but it makes her freeze. Her body stiffens in shock, and her eyes snap to his, wide and full of surprise.

"Rafe—"

"Shhh, relax"

He murmurs, his voice low and slow, the words cutting through the tension like a hot knife. His fingers rub gently up and down her thigh, almost as though a sweet gesture, but the touch feels possessive, like he’s marking her without saying it aloud.

"What- What the fuck are you doing?"

She asks, her voice betraying a hint of uncertainty, and every part of her wants to pull away. He squeezes her thigh lightly, almost teasingly, and his gaze doesn’t leave her as he speaks.

“Well I pay for your services, don’t I?”

His words are heavy with meaning, his tone casual, but there’s an edge to it that makes her stomach flip. Y/N scoffs, a mix of disbelief and anger rising inside her.

“Yeah, wrong club”

She bites back, trying to push him off, but the way his hand stays there, the way his fingers grip her just a little too firmly, a little too high, keeping her in place.

Her heart races, the air around them charged, and it’s clear that neither of them is backing down. Y/N’s pulse thunders in her ears, and her breath catches in her throat. Rafe’s hand is still on her thigh, just a little too far up, the warmth of his fingers on her bare thigh making her feel exposed. She grips the wheel tighter, her knuckles going white, the engine’s soft hum doing nothing to drown out the sound of her rapid heartbeat. The cart lurches over a bump, and it snaps her attention back to the road, but Rafe’s hand doesn’t move—his fingers squeezing once more. She feels a rush of heat, but the anger bubbles just as fast, rising in her chest.

"Get your hand off me"

She says through gritted teeth, her voice more forceful this time. She forces her gaze ahead, trying not to look at him, trying not to react to how his hand is still there, how it’s still so present. But Rafe just smirks, leaning in closer, his breath ghosting over her ear as he whispers,

“Make me.”

His voice is laced with a challenge, with something dark that makes her skin prickle, makes her feel like she’s walking a dangerous line between hatred and something else. Something she’s not ready to confront.

Her jaw clenches, and for a split second, she contemplates slapping his hand away. But then she feels it—the sudden weight of his gaze as it shifts to her lips, lingering for a heartbeat too long. The chemistry between them, that dangerous spark, shifts just a little. She knows he’s pushing her, testing her limits. But there's also this magnetism pulling her toward him, something about the way he’s looking at her drives her crazy.

"Cut it out Cameron"

She warns, voice barely above a whisper, but it’s a warning that means nothing when Rafe just chuckles and moves his hand upward almost hitting the edge of her panties.

Then, without warning, she jerks the wheel to the side, sending the cart veering slightly off course toward the edge of the course.

It’s a quick move, almost out of desperation, as if she’s trying to shake off the way he’s affecting her. The cart jerks again, and Rafe has to steady himself hand letting go of her thigh to hold onto the dashboard.

"You really want to play that game, huh?"

He muttered, eyes narrowed. Y/N doesn’t know what she’s doing, but all she can think of is how badly she wants him out of her space, out of her head. She doesn’t care about the stain on her skirt anymore; she’s thinking about the best way to get a thousand miles away from him.

The cart bumps back onto the paved path leading to the club, and she slows it as they approach the building, her fingers twitching on the wheel, still burning from the heat of the moment. Rafe leans back against the seat, but there’s still that smug look in his eyes, that feeling of control he loves so much. He glances at her, as she gets out the cart, he slips out after her taking in her expression, the way she refuses to meet his gaze, and then says,

“I need a change of shirt.”

“Okay”

She replies flatly, her tone as cold as she can make it. Y/N doesn’t even flinch, still focused on the path ahead. Rafe steps closer, closing the space between them with slow, deliberate movements, he leans down slightly, his voice low and insistent.

“So... get me a shirt.”

“I don’t see how you're my problem”

She shoots back, her voice dripping with sarcasm, finally looking up at him, her arms crossing over her chest. Rafe doesn’t step back, doesn’t even give her a second to breathe before he takes another step forward, crowding her space.

“Well, I am, so fucking find me a change of top”

He demands, his tone sharp, full of that same cocky authority. Y/N’s lips curl into a sarcastic smile even though she’s seething inside. She rolls her eyes, turning her head away just enough to make it clear how little she cares.

“Sure Mr. Cameron, let me get that for you”

She mocks, voice dripping with fake sweetness. He can't even say anything else because she turns on her heel and strides toward the club, walking away with that same attitude as she leaves him standing there with his challenge unanswered.

Yet as she's walking away, she feels the sharp tug on her arm, her body jerking back as Rafe’s fingers wrap around her bicep, pulling her toward him. She turns, ready to snap at him again, but before she can open her mouth he scolds,

“Don’t walk away from me.”

His voice is low, almost a growl, and there’s something dark and angry simmering under the words. Y/N’s eyes flash, but she stands her ground, lifting her chin as she spits back, her annoyance clear.

“Or what?”

Rafe’s jaw tightens, a vein at his temple throbbing with the effort to keep his temper in check. He doesn’t want to be this pissed off, but the way she’s treating him- like she doesn’t give a shit about him- it drives him mad. It’s like a challenge, and he’s not backing down from it, even though he knows he’s been just as bad. His voice comes out seething,

“Or I’ll complain to your manager.”

At that, something shifts in Y/N’s expression- her eyes narrow, defiance flickering for just a second. She can’t afford to lose her job, not like this.

Not over him.

She snatches her arm back, her frustration visible, and for a brief second, the fight in her dies down. She exhales, the anger draining from her posture as she steps back, eyes flicking toward the staff quarters.

“C’mon”

She mutters under her breath, quieter now, and there's a weariness in her voice that wasn’t there before. She’s not giving him the satisfaction of being totally submissive, but her tone has changed—it's more resigned than anything.

Rafe watches her for a beat, still standing a little too close, but this time, he doesn’t say anything. His eyes follow her as she walks through the club, her movements brisk as she heads toward the staff quarters. There’s a flicker of surprise in his chest, and for a moment, he considers backing off, letting her go, but something about how she’s reacting entices him So, he follows her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Y/N walks briskly through the club, the sound of her shoes clicking against the polished floors echoing in the quiet hall. Rafe follows closely behind, his presence heavy in the air as they make their way toward the staff quarters. She doesn't glance back at him, but she can feel the heat of his gaze boring into her.

They pass a few of the staff lockers, the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights above the only sound as they walk down the narrow aisle of the staff area. Y/N moves with purpose, each step holding no sign of the unease she’s feeling on the inside. She turns the corner at the end of the hall, and they reach the large lost and found. It’s a mess- shirts, jackets, random pieces of clothing, and forgotten items strewn across the bins, piles of things that have clearly been left behind by members and staff who aren’t quite as neat as they should be. There’s no order, no system, just a jumble of lost things waiting to be reclaimed. She gestures to it, voice laced with that same sarcasm she’s always got, but with an edge of frustration creeping in.

“There.”

She motions to a polo shirt thrown over a pile of forgotten jackets. Rafe takes a step forward, his eyes scanning the pile. He doesn’t miss a beat, his gaze flicking back to her for a moment, sizing her up. There’s something about the way she’s handling this, the way she’s pretending to be completely unaffected, that gets under his skin. He doesn’t like it- not because she’s hiding something, but because it’s like she’s challenging him to break her composure. He grabs the shirt off the top of the pile, holding it out in front of him like he’s completely entitled to it. The material is rough, not the kind of quality he’s used to, and he sneers at it for a moment.

“This is what you got for me?” he mutters, voice dripping with mock disbelief, “I didn’t realise I was getting leftovers.”

“Not my fault you spilled tomato juice on yourself.”

Y/N crosses her arms, her body language unreadable as she leans against the nearby counter. She rolls her eyes, eyes flicking over his shoulder for a moment, clearly unimpressed by his dramatics. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches her with that cold smirk, but then his hand reaches out, his fingers brushing against the fabric of the shirt with exaggerated slowness.

“I thought you were supposed to take care of me- Y/N”

He says, voice low and purposeful, the undercurrent of something more in his tone now. Y/N shoots him a quick look, her eyes narrowed, frustration simmering. She stands up straighter, ready to walk off, but she’s not backing down.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I am serious.”

He steps closer, his face unreadable, but there's something about his presence, the way he stands there so close, that makes her freeze for just a moment. Rafe's gaze unwavering as he watches her, looking for any crack in her cool exterior. Y/N’s pulse quickens, but she’s not going to let him see that. She stands her ground, even though every instinct is telling her to get away from him. He tilts his head slightly, his voice low and deliberate.

“You really don’t care, do you?”

“About what, exactly?”

Y/N arches an eyebrow, her lips curling into a sarcastic smile. Rafe takes a slow step forward, the proximity between them shrinking. He’s invading her space, pushing against her comfort zone, but she’s still not backing down, she won't appear weak- she's not weak.

“About making sure I’m... taken care of”

He says, his words hanging heavy in the air. She exhales sharply, rolling her eyes again and shes surprise they've not fallen out of their sockets yet.

“I’m not your fucking personal assistant, Rafe.”

“-but you sure as hell act like it”

There's a flicker of amusement in his eyes, like he enjoys seeing her fight back, his hand's still gripping the shirt, his fingers brushing against her arm lightly as if testing her reaction. Y/N’s breath catches, but she doesn’t flinch. Instead, she meets his eyes, the defiance still strong in her stance. She leans in just a fraction,

“And what? You think that means you can boss me around?”

Without warning, Rafe moves, stepping into her space so suddenly that she has no choice but to press her back against the lockers, the cold metal digging into her skin. His large frame looms over her, his hand bracing against the locker next to her head. He’s so close, she can feel his breath against her cheek. For a second, she freezes, eyes wide as she realises just how trapped she is- physically and mentally. She looks up at him and his eyes are already fixed on her, his expression unreadable, almost cold.

“Maybe I do”

He says, his voice now barely a whisper, but it feels like it’s cutting straight through her. There’s something in his eyes- something dark, predatory, like he’s daring her to make a move. Her chest tightens. She hates that this proximity makes her heart race, but she refuses to let him know that. She’s not going to let him see that he’s rattling her.

“And if I don’t want to be bossed around?”

She challenges, her voice shaky, but she’s still holding her ground. Rafe’s gaze flickers for a moment, then he moves even closer, his knee brushing lightly against her thigh as he adjusts his position. Her breath catches again, her body tensing instinctively, but he’s not done yet. His voice drops even lower as he leans in, his words like a private threat just for her.

“You’ll learn to deal with it, Maybank.”

She almost flinches at how intimate it sounds- like there’s more than just the words hanging between them. It makes her nauseous- she’s so close to him now, she can’t tell where he ends and she begins.

Then, suddenly, her phone buzzes in her pocket, breaking the tension like a gunshot.

She takes the opportunity to glance down, breaking eye contact with him just for a moment. It’s a message from her manager. She sighs, her shoulders sagging as the reality of her situation starts to settle back in. This isn’t a game. She can’t afford to get caught up in whatever power struggle Rafe’s trying to pull. Without looking back at him, she pushes her self away from the lockers speaking out sharply.

“You’ve got your shirt. Now get out.”

Rafe doesn’t move right away. He stands there, staring at her, his expression unreadable. For a moment, Y/N thinks she’s won their little silent quarrel, but something about the way he looks at her- dark, calculating- tells her she hasn’t. Finally, he steps back, his gaze lingering on her like he’s trying to figure her out. His voice, when it comes, is dripping with something both mocking and serious.

“You might want to work on your customer service skills, Maybank.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Y/N steps out of the club, exhaustion settling into her bones after a grueling double shift. The cool night air hits her like a breath of fresh air, and she sighs, stretching her arms overhead. She’s almost to the parking lot when she hears a familiar voice calling her name.

"Hey, Y/N!"

Sofia's voice is warm, and Y/N turns to see her friend walking towards her with a bright smile. They meet halfway, and she smiles, grateful for the distraction. Sofia pulls her into a hug, the kind of hug that only close friends give.

"Hey, Sof," Y/N says, her voice a little tired but genuine, "how’ve you been?"

"Good, just the usual stuff but you look like you could use a nap," Sofia jokes, pulling back to get a better look at Y/N, her eyes narrowing playfully.

"Double shift today?"

"Yeah, you know, Can’t resist the overtime."

Y/N chuckles lightly, shrugging. Sofia grins but then her expression softens.

"I saw you with Rafe earlier…"

"Oh, uh, yeah. He's just being a bitch as usual..."

Y/N's heart skips a beat, and she immediately tries to brush it off, her gaze flicking away. She trails off, not wanting to get into it. It’s not like she owes Sofia an explanation, but it feels weird to talk about Rafe. She adds quickly, forcing a smile.

"It’s nothing"

"You sure?’"

Sofia tilts her head with a small smile but she can sense the shift in Y/N’s mood. Y/N exhales sharply, trying to hide the heat creeping up her neck. "It’s really not a big deal," she says, voice a little too sharp.

"Just a… a thing. Nothing worth getting into."

Sofia watches her for a moment, her eyes searching Y/N's face. "Alright," she says, though the tone in her voice suggests she’s not entirely convinced, "But just so you know, people talk. I’m not saying you need to explain yourself, but one of the girls said you went to the locker rooms and I know that doesn't mean—"

Y/N cuts her off with a soft but firm laugh. "Sof, it’s really nothing. He’s Rafe Cameron, I don't want anything to do with him, relax. Anyways- I’m not going to waste my time worrying about whatever it is other people gossip about."

Sofia doesn't push further, but her concern lingers in her eyes. "Okay, okay," she relents, nodding.

"You're not mad right?"

"What!? No- of course I'm not. Don’t worry."

Y/N gives her a half-smile, trying to look confident. The two share a brief, comfortable silence before Sofia raises an eyebrow.

"You heading home now? Need a ride?"

Y/N shakes her head, glancing back at the club, "No I'm good I drove- besides I know when I get back I’m crashing tonight for sure, so I doubt I could keep up any good convos right now."

Sofia smiles knowingly, "Alright, well, if you need anything, you know where to find me."

“I know- I love you get home safe.”

“I love you too! Text me when you're back”

Y/N waves at the girl, and the two of them part ways, Sofia heading off into the night while Y/N walks toward her car, a heavy feeling settling in her chest. Her mind drifts back to the Chinese leftovers sitting in the fridge at home, wondering if JJ got to them before she had a chance. As she gets closer to her car, her pace slows, and she sees a figure leaning against it.

Her heart skips a beat, and instinctively, she hesitates.

It’s late.

She’s alone.

She knows better than to approach someone like that without caution. She stays still for a moment, the feeling of being vulnerable creeping over her, before she takes a few steps forward, straining her eyes to make out the person.

Then she sees it’s him.

Her stomach drops, and she mutters under her breath, "What the-?" She’s always been a decent person, always tried to do the right thing. But then there’s Rafe- always showing up at the most inconvenient times. "Seriously?" she says, her voice low, laced with frustration as she walks around to the opposite side of the car.

"What do you want?"

She shoves her bag in the backseat, the motion sharp, as her thoughts race. She can feel his presence by the driver's side, looming, as if he’s waiting for something. He’s standing there, leaning casually, but she can tell he’s not entirely sober- his eyes are blown, his posture sloppy, like he's a little drunk and definitely high. She rounds the back of the car and stops just short of him, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. Rafe doesn’t move, his eyes locked on her with that same unreadable expression.

"Why the hell are you here?"

She mutters, now visibly annoyed, but not completely surprised. Was his tormenting the morning not enough for him? Of course, he’d show up when she’s least expecting it, and definitely when she least wants him around. Rafe steps closer, his presence overpowering the air between them. His eyes are half-lidded, and his stance is far too relaxed for the late hour and the situation they’re in. He tilts his head as he studies her, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "So," he starts, voice low and a little too smooth for Y/N's liking,

"You headed to the club tonight? Gonna work that shift of yours... ?"

His words are dripping with something- teasing, playful, but also a little too sharp, like he knows exactly how to push her buttons. She steps back instinctively, glaring at him, but he doesn’t give her any space. He steps forward again, this time almost closing the gap completely. She pushes his chest, trying to push him away.

"Get your fucking act together, Rafe. I don’t have time for this shit."

Her voice is tight, forced out through gritted teeth. But he’s not having it. Instead, he steps in even closer, his hand brushing her arm, an unspoken challenge in his touch. The air between them is thick with tension, and she can feel it creeping under her skin. He’s toying with her. Again. “Come on, Y/N,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, his hand reaches up to rest lightly on her waist, and he gives her a slight, mocking smile.

“Don’t make things complicated”

“Get off me, Rafe”

She snaps, shoving his hand away harder, but he’s not backing off. Before she can react, he steps around her, his movement quick and decisive. With one smooth motion, he flips them around, so now she’s trapped- her back against the cold metal of her car, his body closing the space between them. Her breath hitches at the sudden shift, and she looks up at him, eyes wide with a mix of anger and disbelief.

“Where r'you going?”

He mumbles, his voice low and threatening, but there’s something in it that sounds almost possessive, like he’s done playing games. Y/N’s heart is racing, but she doesn’t show it. She tries to push him off again, her hands firmly against his chest, but his body is solid, unmoving. She glares up at him, her chest heaving with each breath, but he’s not giving her an inch.

“You’re fucking insane”

She spits, her voice barely audible, but laced with venom. Rafe’s hand slides down to her waist, his grip firm but possessive, as he leans in closer, closing the distance between them. The proximity is overwhelming, his body heat radiating off him. His other hand rests casually on his hip, his gaze dark as he looks down at her, an almost predatory gleam in his eyes.

“Come on, Y/N,” he murmurs, voice thick with an almost smug satisfaction. “Come home with me- be my little dancer." His words are dripping with insinuation, the suggestion hanging heavy in the air, thick with promise and something darker beneath the surface.

“I’ll pay you well... you won’t regret it.”

Y/N freezes for a moment, shock and outrage flickering across her face. Her hands which were instinctively pressing against his chest, trying to keep some distance between them, faltered slightly. Is that really what he thought of her? The audacity of what he just said is enough to make her blood boil, the anger rising up in her chest like fire.

Her hand swings up and cracks across his cheek.

The sound of the slap echoes in the night air, sharp and satisfying. Rafe stumbles back in surprise, his eyes widening in disbelief, his drunken haze momentarily shaken. Y/N, her breath coming in short, angry gasps, doesn’t give him a chance to react. She yanks open the car door, the movement quick and jerky as she turns on her heel to face him one last time.

“I’m not a fucking prostitute”

She spits out, her voice low and venomous, the words sharp as daggers. She slams the door behind her with a force that makes the whole car shudder, her heart racing in her chest, the adrenaline coursing through her. The silence that follows is deafening, and all she can hear is the ringing in her ears.

Rafe stands there for a moment, he’s drunk, but even through the haze of alcohol, something in his chest tightens as he watches as she drives off, the sting of her slap still lingering on his skin.

taglist: @xoxosblogsblog @moonywhisp3rs @i-love-gvf @my-name-is-baby @ltristessedureratoujours @stoned-writer @mariamadison6-blog @rafecameronswhoore @lovelytoomusic @rafesgurl @mysticbby2009 @vanessa-rafesgirl @silkenthusiasts @partygirl14 @amterasuu @xoxo-ada @icaqttt @ivysprophecy @mauvesmax @larema121 @ggraycelynn @emeloyy @pluviophilis @slut-4-gojo @willowpains @wtfisastiles @rafecqmeronslove @pleasstory @lolasangelz @beau-dabomb @psychocitylights @constantsadness @rhianthebest @emmiesummers @sfotiegiuls @ggraycelynn @larema121 @emeloyy @pluviophilis @urgoldens @insominagirlss @urfavoritebrunette007 @mauvesmax @miniiminie@kythefangirl25 @niyalovests @scream4mami @aizawawify @prettybabyyyy@barbiefan14 @keennerdslover @rafeysslut @jennieonline @sugak00kie03 @hannieskzzz

[russellbee]

YOU'D THINK THEY'D KNOW BY NOW (OP81)

oscar piastri x fewtrell!golfer!reader (she/her) summary. you and oscar have both started your professional careers, so it's the perfect time to share your relationship with the world. pr makes you wait a bit and chaos ensues. (mainly smau, a little bit of writing) (2.7k) warnings. for sexual implications (but no actual sex) and nosy fans. andi's note!! so this is kind of a condensed version of a series i might write (though i'm not sure). anyway i hope you all enjoy bc i had a lot of fun making this!

nav+masterlist

september, 2022 ->

Lando Norris why does my new teammate follow u

and why do u follow him

whats goin on there 🤨🤨

You lan please tell me ur joking

Lando Norris wait.

HES UR BF?? Ur Bf OScAR?

You …yes???

Lando Norris HES THE GUY WITH THE BITING THING??? 😨😨

You i am blocking you

never bring that up again oh my god

Lando Norris …is it the teeth? he looks like a bunny 🐰

YOU HAVE BLOCKED LANDO NORRIS.

january 2023 ->

yourusername

[caption 1: some fun b4 i go pro...] [caption 2: 📍orlando, florida] [caption 3: @.maxfewtrell @.landonorris]

story replies:

oscarpiastri i think i might have to stick with mini golf 😅

yourusername but i like teaching you golf ☹️☹️ oscarpiastri you just like holding my hands yourusername well duh

maxfewtrell i don't think we can play golf with oscar again

yourusername DONT BE MEAN yourusername he's my bf who cares if he can't swing maxfewtrell i do! i've got a golf ball-sized bruise on my thigh if you want proof yourusername stop crying, there's an ice machine in the hallway 😒

landonorris i am banning you from races idk if i can deal with you and oscar together

yourusername well ur not the fia...so i will now be attending every race i possibly can. just to terrorize you landonorris at least stay in his garage pls. yourusername ...did i tell you what pr said landonorris NO PLS I CANT yourusername it's just till belgium! landonorris brb planning my retirement

yourusername first pro tournament 😁 very happy to have this opportunity (and to be in florida again!)!! thank you @.hiltongrandvacations!

liked by oscarpiastri and others

gatorswgolf We miss you!

yourusername miss you all more!!! 🐊

logansargeant florida golf is always good 😌 (liked by yourusername)

user LOGAN??? user he's shooting his shot ↳ user let him live 😭😭

user that's my golfer 🥹

user like wydm she's pro now??? 😭☹️

user i think we need another quadrant video of her destroying lando and max in golf 😁 (liked by yourusername)

maxfewtrell swoosh!

landonorris swoosh!! yourusername alright why are you making fun of me... ↳ maxfewtrell we're reminding you of your humble origins ↳ yourusername 😒😒

landonorris your cat looks like he's crying...

yourusername leave him alone 💀 user her cat...?

february 2023 ->

"It's only a four hour difference." Oscar murmurs and you groan into his neck. "Don't remind me." Oscar's hands, warm and comforting, hold you against him. Your suitcase packed for Thailand and Oscar's packed for Bahrain sit near the couch you're lying on.

"We've had worse." He continues, his hand on your lower back squeezing your side in reassurance. You shift your head so you can see Oscar, his recently cut hair and soft smile. "I don't wanna share you, can you just be my trophy boyfriend?" His nose scrunches up when he tilts his head back as he laughs.

"I'd have to work on my golf knowledge before I can do that."

"I don't mind you being a little clueless. ‘Cause then I get to play teacher." You position your knees on either side of Oscar's hips, grinning down at him as you speak. A bright red flush builds on his neck and face. "I think everyone knows that's just your excuse to touch me on a public golf course."

"Obviously," You roll your eyes, face a little warm. Oscar grins, teeth and all. "It's not the worst way to learn when it's from you."

"Yeah?" Oscar sits up more so he's level with you. "Makes it more fun. Since...it's golf."

"Oscar!"

yourusername close friends story

[caption: i want my bf back. but thailand here i come 😭✈️🇹🇭]

story replies:

oscarpiastri we'll see eachother soon ❤️

yourusername ITS NOT SOON ENOUGH oscarpiastri miss you too! yourusername i love u and i miss you already 😭 (oscarpiastri reacted with ❤️)

maxfewtrell it's been like one day.

yourusername ur one strike from being kicked off my close friends maxfewtrell i actually might enjoy that. no more photos of you and oscar kissing yourusername ...ykw just for that i'm keeping you on it forever

logansargeant i'll treat him right while you're gone👍

yourusername YOU BETTER

march 2023 ->

sentosa golf club, singapore

yourusername a very good weekend! 🏆 thanks for having me, @.hsbcwomensgolf! see you soon @.f1 😁🇸🇦

liked by oscarpiastri and others

maxfewtrell alright we're never playing golf again

yourusername this is you admitting you're bad btw. 😁😁 maxfewtrell i was gonna congratulate you but i think i've changed my mind

landonorris share some champagne please? 😌🥂

yourusername it's gonna be flat by the time i see you again landonorris it's okay you can just buy another bottle yourusername nuh uh. you've got the money to buy it yourself! user my otp...i need them together now ↳ user i don't think max would ever let that happen ↳ user LET ME DREAM

user oscar in the likes? i see you op 👀

user he's BEEN here. he is never not here tbh...

user OMG YOU'RE GONNA BE AT JEDDAH???? (liked by yourusername)

Mclaren • MclarenF1

Lando & Oscar take a quiz on golf terms with @.yourusername! [Video attached]

Lando Norris Get destroyed @.OscarPiastri ↳ Oscar Piastri You've got the upperhand. I wasn't going to win anyway 🤷‍♂️

Y/N Fewtrell @.OscarPiastri you'll win next time 😉 ↳ Lando Norris I'm gonna put in all my effort so you don't rig it

yourusername jeddah things 🌺 (tagged landonorris)

liked by oscarpiastri and others

landonorris is there any trophy for golf quiz winner?

yourusername nope :) landonorris damn. all that and i get nothing yourusername cry about it

user soft launch and lando on the same post...hmmmm

user 🤔🤔 user building up an essay on why they're dating user you guys are insane 🙄 they're not even that close ↳ user she's literally only been seen with lando this week. who else would she be dating?? ↳ user i think you're forgetting the fact she was also seen with oscar... ↳ user they just met. don't be ridiculous

oscarpiastri it was nice seeing you!

yourusername you too!! 😊😊😊😊 maxfewtrell are you going insane user MAX??? user crazy behavior from the fewtrell siblings... ↳ user LITERALLY!! the emojis?? max's deleted comment?? what's going on 👀👀

april 2023 ->

yourusername close friends story

[caption: BIRTHDAY BOYYYYYY 🎂🎉!!!!! my amazing bf has turned 22 everyone go tell him happy birthday 😠]

story replies:

oscarpiastri i love you so much ❤️

yourusername if you actually loved me you'd come back to the flat early oscarpiastri On My Way! (you reacted with 😭)

maxfewtrell tell oscar i said happy birthday 🎊

yourusername 👍 maxfewtrell why did it take you 2 days to respond to this

may 2023 ->

yourusername public story

[caption: wasn't my best performance, but either way, thank you @.jmeaglelachamp for having me! time to go coast to coast ✈️ (📍 los angeles, california)]

story replies:

oscarpiastri can't wait to see you ❤️ you look great in orange 😍

yourusername i miss you!!!! yourusername the orange was for you i hate that color so much (oscarpiastri has reacted with ❤️)

oscarpiastri btw you did so well, don't beat yourself down

yourusername i love you so much yourusername now go do your pr lando is messaging me (oscarpiastri has reacted with 👎)

user the orange??? 👀👀👀

user • user

max f's sister wearing papaya at her tournament in la...interesting

user put some respect on her name 😭 she's literally a professional golfer not just max's sister ↳ user lmao literally. also the constant dating rumors in HER insta comments is crazy. keep that to yourself, you don't need to go telling her

user the 'time to go coast to coast' on her story...is she gonna be in miami?? ↳ user there's a tournament in new jersey next week, which is also on the east coast. she might just be flying there. ↳ user idk the papaya outfit seems like a hint. i have a feeling she's gonna be in miami ↳ user the delusions are crazy

Formula 1 • F1

@.yourusername is in the paddock, with Mclaren of course 😉 #F1 @.MclarenF1

user F1 ADMIN WHAT DO YOU KNOW

user where's the person who called me delusional. are you seeing this

user LANDO IN THE BACK you're kidding me like this can't be real

messages with logan sargeant 🦅

logan sargeant 🦅 oscar's snap says you're in a mcdonald's parking lot

can you get me an oreo mcflurry (00:19)

logan sargeant 🦅 how are you still in the parking lot WHAT ARE YOU DOING

logan sargeant 🦅 actually don't answer that (1:47)

you srry my phone died we got you the mcflurry

logan (3:28)

logan sargeant it's been 3 hours...

p sure oscar has my extra keycard btw

you alright he's dropping it off

sleep well 🤗

june 2023 ->

springfield, new jersey

yourusername OHHHH YEAHHH!!! a great weekend in new jersey, thank you @.kpmgwomenspga for having me!!!!!! 🏆🏆🏆🏆

liked by oscarpiastri and others

yourusername also smth coming soon...stay tuned 🤭

user can you just tell me now, my dms are open i swear i won't tell anyone user please. im not patient. please 😭🙏

oscarpiastri congrats! 👏🏆

yourusername thanks!!!! 😆

user alright...where is lando

user you cannot be serious. she's celebrating a win and you're speculating on her relationship?? ↳ user it's not that serious 🙄

maxfewtrell legend in the making 👑

yourusername why are you being nice... yourusername THANK YOU!!

user WHY HASNT LANDO COMMENTED

user lando hasn't even liked...WHERE ARE YOU LANDO

comments have been limited

sportsmag @.yourusername, a rookie in the LPGA discusses golf, relationships, f1, and her new found fame in our June edition. the full interview can found at our website sportsmag.com!

liked by yourusername and others

comments have been turned off

Y/N FEWTRELL TALKS GOLF, F1, FAME, AND ROMANCE WITH SPORTSMAG

June 30th, 2023 • Lola Lyon

In May earlier this year, I had the pleasure to meet with Y/n Fewtrell at a golf course (a personal favorite of hers) in Florida. She acts the same way she does on social media; energetic, snarky, yet kind. However, I noticed a shyer part of her personality when discussing the people and things she holds dear.

I seemed to be the first person to ask her about her relationship status — as an interviewer. The young golfer's comments have been full of relationship spec....

SUBSCRIBE TO READ THE REST OF THE ARTICLE

user • user

alright i paid for the y/n fewtrell article, will be posting some very important quotes below 🧵

user "Before she told me about her boyfriend, she told me about her feelings on the speculation. 'I never expected my relationship to be a big deal to so many people...it's a lot sometimes to see people assuming I'm dating a close friend or just a stranger. It can be funny though to see how many jumps people have to make to associate me with someone else. So far, not many people have been right."

user "I then asked her what her favorite rumor was. Her reply is something I'm sure not a lot of people could guess. "My favorite?...I mean— the ones including Lando are always so weird. He's my brother's best friend, and he's a close friend of mine. But I'm not dating him. I don't know if I could live an entire week with him as my boyfriend [laughter]. He's a great guy but, yeah. Not dating him."

user "Golf, according to her, has always been a staple in her life. 'I first played golf in Singapore, and I didn't love it at first. But, Max had played before so he was better than me, naturally. [laughter] It made me so mad. So I just kept playing, I started practicing and watching tournaments on TV. The first time I ever beat Max, I thought: What am I supposed to do now? I kept playing after that, obviously [laughter] and I still beat him, so."

user on her mindset going into a tournament: "I mean, I try to stay positive. I've— I know how sports, especially those in the public eye, can damage your self-esteem. I dealt with it myself a couple times when I was still at the collegiate level. Hearing people be so rude about you and your skills, it hurts. So, sophomore year I think it was, I started logging out of all my social media accounts a couple days before a game or a tournament. The only criticism I needed was my coach's, and now I feel like I'm at a point in my career where I can judge my own skills."

user "For my final question, I asked her about her opinion of the current F1 season. '[laughter] Well, I'm supporting Mclaren obviously. I know Red Bull's been doing really well. I've heard— seen people's complaints on Twitter, it's something. But honestly, good job on Red Bull for making a rocket ship [laughter]."

view 702 replies

july 2023 ->

Mclaren • MclarenF1

A message from Lando and Oscar before summer break!

[Lando and Oscar are standing in front of a barren wall, both wearing their team polo's. "Hi everyone, Oscar —and Lando— here." Oscar glances at Lando who starts speaking. "It's been a decent start to the season, but we're gonna go rest and come back better than ever." He gives a tired smile to the camera, and then Oscar starts speaking. "I, personally, will be vacationing with my girlfriend. So, I'm excited. What about you, Lando?" Lando's smile has changed, he's clearly trying to stop himself from laughing. Oscar raises a brow. "Um— I've got a nice vacation planned, gonna visit family too." Oscar nods along. "We'll see you all in Zandvoort." Lando waves to the camera, and a second before the video ends he can be seen falling forward, laughing hysterically. Oscar has his head tipped back, laughing as well.]

user mclaren admin i think you uploaded the wrong cut...

Mclaren Nothing wrong here 😉 ↳ user OMG ↳ user they posted this...on purpose...hmm... ↳ user i swear this means oscar's gonna hard launch his gf i know itttt

august 2023 ->

yourusername and oscarpiastri how did no one assume this. where were you all at. Hi, everyone 👋💗 (edited 3hrs ago.)

logansargeant FINALLY i no longer have to cover for you guys omg

logansargeant congrats tho! ↳ oscarpiastri thanks mate! ↳ yourusername you were our strongest soldier. we will get you a reward dw ↳ oscarpiastri we did not agree abt that ↳ yourusername do i have to remind you about the mcdonalds situation from miami ↳ oscarpiastri logansargeant i'll send some money your way as a reward user alright. whats going on here guys ↳ user i'm getting the feeling they somehow traumatized logan in a mcdonalds

user I'VE BEEN HERE (liked by yourusername)

user i knew it. oscar had been in her likes for so long user i think i manifested this tbh

maxfewtrell i feel that i'm owed a thank you

yourusername thank you for driving in the formula renault eurocup in 2018, max. i would've found him anyway but i'll let you take credit ↳ maxfewtrell i knew something was wrong from your formality. but i'll take it. ↳ user it's giving "i'd find you in every universe" ↳ user user WHAT IF I DIED oscarpiastri thank you both for being obnoxiously loud talkers ↳ yourusername OSCAR 😢

user THE CAPTION CHANGE 😭😭

landonorris oh thank god. yourusername please stay in oscar's garage, and oscar's garage only from here on out.

yourusername that won't stop me. i will make you increasingly annoyed every single race i attend until you explode oscarpiastri should i remind you that this is a public comment section and you're also talking to my teammate? ↳ landonorris yourusername LISTEN TO YOUR BF ↳ yourusername check your text messages ↳ landonorris why are you like this ↳ oscarpiastri landonorris i think you deserved that mate user oscary/n casually traumatizing every member of the grid. love this

mclaren 🧡🧡 our favorite couple

yourusername admin you are my favorite mclaren employee ↳ oscarpiastri what about me? ↳ yourusername favorite person on earth. obviously. (liked by oscarpiastri)

user • user

so it seems that i am actually delusional. anyway #oscary/n

THIS IS SO LONG I'M SORRY

[steddieas-shegoes]

🪱 Wiggly Wednesday 🪱

Steve who is forced into golf lessons at a young age because his dad expects him to play to impress business partners when he joins him at the firm.

Steve who is a naturally boisterous child, energetic, cheers when the ball goes in the hole even though you’re supposed to maintain composure and have minimal celebration.

His coach is endeared, but the moment his father sees it, he gets reprimanded and told to act “like an adult.”

Steve who is very good at golf, but hates it because he can’t enjoy it the way he wants to.

Steve who gets a scholarship to a university for golf, but ends up losing it because his grades aren’t the best.

Steve who gets disowned before he has a chance to redeem himself.

Steve who turns to being a caddy for money and ends up working a lot of special events, like fundraisers.

Which is when he meets Eddie Munson, the lead guitarist for the band that’s hired to do any special event at the club. He always wears the required uniform of black pants and a white button down, but he rolls the sleeves and shows off his tattoos, his hair is unruly, and he wears a smirk that Steve knows would irritate him on anyone else.

Eddie’s hot.

Steve’s a little bit of a slut.

They find a bathroom when everyone’s cleaning up.

It may be three in the afternoon, but there’s no proper time for a bathroom hookup.

It continues for months.

Neither of them ever talk about meeting up outside of this stolen time together in an empty bathroom at a country club filled with the worst types of people they could possibly have to be around.

Until Eddie makes the mistake of offering to drive Steve home. And Steve has to explain he’s currently living with his best friend and he doesn’t wanna risk her parents waking up from his loud van pulling in the driveway.

And then he makes the mistake of offering for Steve to stay the night with him in his new apartment.

“We can break in my bed,” he offers.

Steve’s mistake is that he agrees.

But is it a mistake if Steve starts to leave his clothes at Eddie’s? And starts staying every night with him, even when they aren’t planning on hooking up? And sometimes Eddie comes home from his regular day job as a mechanic to Steve cooking dinner for them? And Steve sometimes has nightmares that Eddie holds him through.

And sometimes they say they love each other.

Maybe more than sometimes.

[baigepueckers]

Caitlin Clark X Reader

Love on the Back Nine

You’re sitting at the kitchen table with your phone buzzing in your hand as you scroll through your messages. You’d made plans earlier to hit the mall with a friend but they just canceled at the last minute, leaving you with an empty afternoon. You sigh already silently debating whether to just stay in or come up with something else to do.

Cait has been pacing around the living room, messing with her golf gear when she catches your sigh. She looks over her eyes lighting up as if a lightbulb just went off in her head.

“Plans fall through?” she asks walking over and leaning on the back of the chair across from you.

“Yeah” you reply, setting your phone down. “Guess I’m stuck here now.”

“Stuck here?” Caitlin grins like she’s been waiting for this opening. “Or… you could come golfing with me.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Not this again.”

“Come on” she says circling the table to stand beside you. “It’s perfect! You’ve got nothing else to do, and I’ve got a tee time. Plus I need a partner.”

You arch a brow at her. “Partner? Or someone to show off for?”

“Baby, I would never show off.” she says, though the twinkle in her eyes suggests otherwise. She leans down..her face close to yours. “I’ll be your personal coach. I’ll teach you everything you need to know. It’ll be fun, just you and me.”

You snort. “You’re gonna be my personal golfer girl?...”

“Yep, that’s what I’m here for!” she says, straightening up. “I’ll start you off slow. Show you how to hold the club, line up your shots by the end of the day, you’ll be killing it.”

You tilt your head, amused. “And if I’m awful?”

She places a hand over her heart, her voice turning sweet. “Then I’ll still love you, even if you’re the worst golfer in history.”

You chuckle and shake your head. “I don’t know…”

“Please, baby?” Caitlin moves behind you, wrapping her arms around your shoulders and resting her chin on top of your head. “It’ll be a cute little date. Just us, cruising around in a golf cart soaking up the sun. I’ll even let you pick the music for the ride.”

You glance up at her. “The entire playlist?”

She grimaces but nods. “Even your cringy guilty pleasure songs.”

You bite your lip pretending to reconsider. “Tempting...”

“Fine…what if I throw in ice cream after?” she adds, giving you her best puppy dog eyes. “I’ll even let you pick the place.”

You laugh finally giving in. “Okay baby, but I call driving the golf cart!”

Caitlin beams, pressing a kiss to your cheek before pulling you up from your chair. “Whatever… you’re gonna love it, I promise.”

The drive to the course is filled with Caitlin’s nonstop chatter. She’s clearly hyped, between explaining the different clubs and teasing you about being a great coach. “I bet you’ll nail at least one shot today” she says with a wink. “And when you do, I’ll totally take credit for it.”

You shake your head and laugh. “Sure, Coach Clark.”

When you arrive Cait wastes no time, guiding you through the basics. She hands you a club and positions herself behind you, her hands gently adjusting your grip. “Okay babe, so just relax” she says, her voice low and soothing. “Keep your eye on the ball, and follow through like this.”

You nod letting her guide you for the first few swings. The shots are decent, but nothing impressive. Caitlin cheers you on regardless, offering tips and encouragement with every swing. You can tell she’s enjoying herself, and honestly you’re having fun with her. But then it’s your turn to take a real shot.

You step up lining up your stance and gripping the club just right. You take a deep breath, then swing with confidence. The ball soars through the air landing cleanly on the green.

Caitlin’s jaw drops. “Wait, what?”

You suppress a grin as she rushes over to you. “That was perfect!” she says, wide eyed. “Do it again.”

You shrug pretending it was a fluke, but your next shot is just as good. Caitlin stares at you, clearly in disbelief. “Okay seriously babe….where did this come from?”

You bite your lip, hesitating for a moment before dropping the bomb. “Well… my ex taught me...”

Caitlin freezes her expression shifting from shock to a mix of disgust and mild jealousy. “Your ex?”

You nod, trying not to laugh. “Yeah, they made me go to the driving range almost every other weekend.”

She groans dramatically throwing her head back. “Ew, Y/N! Why would you tell me that?”

“You asked!” you say laughing at her reaction.

“Yeah, but I didn’t expect that answer,” she grumbles crossing her arms. “Now I’m picturing some loser trying to impress you on the course. Gross.”

You grin stepping closer. “Jealous?”

“No” she says quickly, though the slight flush in her cheeks tells a different story. “I just think it’s weird that anyone else ever got to teach you anything. That’s my job.”

You wrap your arms around her waist pulling her close. “Well baby, for what it’s worth…I like being out here with you way more.”

She softens, her pout fading into a smile. “Good. Because you’re stuck with me now and for the record, I’m way cooler than your ex.”

“Oh, way cooler,” you agree leaning in to kiss her.

For the rest of the game Cait makes it her mission to outdo you…though she can’t help but laugh whenever you land another perfect shot. By the end of the day she’s both impressed and annoyed.

“You totally hustled me, darlin..” she says as you load the clubs back into the car.

“Maybe I just wanted to see you sweat a little” you tease grinning.

She wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close as you walk. “You’re lucky I love you.”

You lean into her smiling. “And you’re lucky I love you, even when you’re a sore loser.”

She laughs squeezing you tighter against. “Next time I’m bringing my A-game so you better be ready.”

“Oh, I’ll be ready.”

[cowboyschumi]

MUSE

Summary: Oscar is known for being bad at padel, which is why he tries other hobbies, like photography. Now, he clearly needs something to take photos of.

Author's note: Oscar trying to play paddel 🤏

I'm a huge fan of taking inspiration from songs, so you can listen to this. Don't forget to enjoy the reading and show some love. <3

Warnings: None ig.

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COWBOYSCHUMI | 2025 All rights reserved. Do not copy, translate, or upload on other platforms.

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Oscar had to be grateful for being that good of a driver. Man, he was really bad at other sports. Everyone pointed it out and made fun of him, some people even pitied him or found it cute. He even tried golfing, but that racket was his last straw. He was a bit frustrated, but Oscar wasn’t the type to get frustrated and give up. He just accepted the fact that he wasn’t gifted enough.

His Instagram was— for his luck because he wasn't a media guy— managed by a social media professional, who made him posts and even took charge of taking pictures. Yes, none of his dumps, captions, or stories were posted by his own hands, which was crazy. He wanted some sort of control over that, after all, he had a voice and a platform. Not taking advantage of that would be a shame, besides there was no fun and genuine part if he wasn't the one behind his Instagram. So he decided to take it more seriously, it made his brain hurt in the most untolerable ways but he started to post more, engage with his fans.

Instagram dumps are such a religious thing for some people, he wasn't in that group until now. Having a picture perfect Instagram would let people have more connection with the places, his interests— perceive him differently and not some boring and flat boy with not much to say.

Like any driver, he had a stylist, a PR team, and other fancy stuff—which he didn’t like much because the main focus was on him, physically. His content was different now; it was full of sunsets, yachts, cars, and food pictures. He had to thank his team for lending him a professional camera—it made the quality ten times better.

"It's a lost cause." Oscar spoke as he carelessly dried his hair with a towel.

You vividly remember the first time he stepped into one of your classes—the typical shy kid who barely spoke. Other drivers came along with him, doing most of the talking, but they weren’t consistent in attending. For them, padel was just a way to kill time. Oscar, on the other hand, wanted to know everything about it—from the size of the court to executing the perfect shot with his racket. A few weeks after his first class, he started booking lessons on his own, demanding more focus and dedication.

He came around twice a week, and seeing him so often, you quickly grew close. So it wasn’t surprising to find him frequently emerging from the showers at the padel club. You had even learned to tolerate his wannabe tennis grunts when he hit the ball. At this point, you had already seen the worst of him.

"You’re just being hard on yourself. Not everything has to be perfect."

Like in any common locker room, there was a bench where people placed their clothes after showering. You sat there as you two talked.

No matter how comfortable you were around Oscar, you respected him, so you made a point of not looking at his shirtless torso.

"Don't give me a pity speech. I’ve heard enough of that." He really did sound tired of hearing it. But it was true—no one should be too hard on themselves for not meeting their highest expectations. Striving for perfection in everything wasn’t normal. Oscar’s mindset was too rigid, and being optimistic felt like an impossible task for him.

"Webber told me you started… photography? He even sounded worried about what you might do with that." Chuckles and laughter echoed through the warm changing room.

"Yeah, I mean, it’s pretty great. Still got a lot to work on," he admitted sincerely, making that classic uncertain face he always did when he wasn’t sure about something. His facial expressions were always amusing. "I got bored of photographing the plants on my balcony at home. Took some photos of Lando, and Hattie doesn’t even want the lens near her."

Laughter filled the room again—it felt like a comedy show at this point. But when it faded, you exchanged a tense glance, as if communicating telepathically. A mischievous smirk lit up his face.

"No." Your answer was immediate and firm, anticipating what was coming.

"I haven’t even said anything!" He raised his hands in mock innocence, his guilty smile still in place. Oh, you knew him too well.

"I won’t. I’m not photogenic."

"Please, just one time."

Oscar always swore on one-time things. But when something felt good, you tended to repeat it. He knew exactly how to take advantage of your kindness, always asking for harmless favors—because, in the end, you never said no to him.

————————————————————————

And there you were, in his Monaco apartment, on a morning when rain was pouring outside. Oscar always pointed out the differences between his current lifestyle and the one he had in Australia, the daily longing for home. That small place in Europe had its charm, and he wouldn’t complain, but he missed the wide-open spaces, the warmer weather, and even his mom’s cooking. Now he lived on the highest floor of the busiest avenue, in a cramped apartment so small that he barely had space to walk around.

"I brought donuts and coffee," You announced while cleaning your boots on the entrance mat.

"Cool, thank you. Would you mind sitting by the window? The light is majestic." His attention was focused on his camera, probably adjusting some tricky settings.

"Already bossing around?" Unbelievable. The kid already thought he was a professional photographer, giving orders and having the worst attitude.

You had a big trench coat on, surprisingly still soaked after the unstoppable rain. And it kept coming—people still struggling with their umbrellas, cars almost floating down the street. That’s what you could see from how high his apartment was.

The brown-eyed boy placed his face behind his huge, intimidating camera, yet somehow, you didn’t feel intimidated by it—after all, he was the one taking the photos. But then, an unexpected expression of discontent crossed his face, confusing you. Your brows furrowed instantly, maybe you weren’t pretty enough to be photographed. You relaxed your body, stopped posing—that was it. At least you tried.

"Take it off." Oscar’s index finger pointed at my jacket, his face continued hidden behind the camera. The view was limited, but his expression remained unreadable—no emotion, all seriousness. Clueless.

"It's freezing cold outside, you're insane." Despite your protest, you did as he told you—just like always, hating yourself for it. Your body leaned against the nearly immense open window, the breeze sneaked through with ease, making your skin shiver. Your face card wasn’t your main attribute, maybe your toned padel body was. Still, you couldn’t quite grasp why he chose you, considering all the contacts and friends he had. Favors were an unbreakable thing between you two, but, of course, you never owed him a thing.

A few more adjustments, and his camera was down again, poker face still tattooed all over him. With slow, measured steps, he walked closer until he stood right in front of you. His mannerisms were always soft and gentle, like he had been written by a woman. Not exactly naive, but delicate enough to make you feel safe and comfortable in his presence.

Oscar set your coat aside, draping it over his vintage couch. His whole place had that aesthetic. You especially loved the Abu Dhabi carpet that stretched across the floor, its deep reddish tones were delightful. His eyes couldn’t help but dart down your slim silhouette. Your white sleeveless shirt, drenched from the rain, clung to your curves, turning entirely translucent against your skin.

Finally, your eyes connected, and you desperately searched for answers, whether in his gaze or through words. The driver was entirely focused on his task, calculating angles, observing the natural lighting, and analyzing your body. Over-analyzing your body.

You knew that look—the one men gave when they stared too long, leaving a disgusting feeling. But Oscar wasn’t like that. Yes, he was staring, but with such admiration and adoration that, for once, you didn’t mind. For the first time in a long time, you felt pretty. Feminine. Reaching that level of femininity wasn’t easy. Padel and sports had always shaped your image, conditioning you to appear tough, stereotypically masculine. But under his gaze, all of that melted away.

You broke eye contact as the staring became too overwhelming for your liking, exceeding your daily dose of attention. You couldn’t just escape him because he was there, and you were working, or something like that. Your breathing hitched, and you involuntarily let out a low gasp at the feeling of his fingers brushing against your skin. His touch was cold, just like your body. The only warmth came from the fire igniting in your cheeks. His fingers hooked around one of your white straps, which had fallen out of place.

God, you wished you could say a word, anything, but you were petrified.

“You look gorgeous.”

“You just say that hoping I’d say yes to another photoshoot. Your guinea pig.” The back-and-forth banter and sarcastic flirting didn’t end, but now you were playing silly enough to avoid any heartfelt compliment. You didn’t like those types of things because you never knew how to react, especially when they came from him. His contagious laughter filled the room and your world turned upside down.

Something always lingered between you two, and it was the expectedly obvious, taking into account the amount of time you spent together—padel mornings or sometimes afternoons, dinner nights if class ended late, and when he actually managed to wake up to his multiple alarms, cycling together. But it was casual because you never knew what could cross a man's mind; spending a whole day together could mean nothing to them, maybe he even saw you in a sisterly way. So you tried to chill, not giving it much importance—because, again, a compliment could mean nothing.

His free hand found its way to your nape, resting his palm there, barely cradling it. You had no choice but to regain eye contact; he had you cornered with his gaze—physically, too. Any cold once brought by the winter weather had vanished. Your skin was hot, almost burning. Oscar's gaze didn’t reflect frenzy or desire; he looked lost, even stunned.

“Let me kiss you, please.” He murmured hopelessly, his words caressing and sweetening your ears in the most shivering way.

“Oscar, professionally is not the best to-” It was just a matter of seconds before he silenced you in the most cliché way possible. His kisses mirrored his personality—timid and shy, as if he were afraid to go too far. Yet, at the same time, they were sweet and innocent, like a first kiss, completely inexperienced.

Something that you clearly weren't used to.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him even more close, letting each other feel how you teetered, how you edged by just a kiss. Your consent gave him more confidence, turning the encounter into something deeper, sloppier. His lips parted against yours with more urgency, the hesitation melting away as the two of you let each other get lost in the moment. His breath was uneven, intoxicatingly mixing with yours. The kiss grew needier, desperate, and hungry. The sound of your teeth crashing messily together was secondary as his tongue brushed against your lips, savoring, tasting, before he dared to explore further. The slick warmth, the breathy sounds between kisses, the way his body pressed against yours—it was thrilling in the best way.

“I never really liked padel that much, nor was I good at it. There was no chance of improving. But you know why I kept coming back.” Oscar's smile emerged in the middle of the kiss, his tone playful, hinting that he knew he’d been doing something wrong just for the fun of it. Paying for extra classes just to see your face more than once a week? Genius move.

“Oh, I'm so gonna kill you.” You warned him, still in disbelief, that he’d been such a fool, especially since you would’ve said yes to any date prior if he’d only had the courage. There was no need for this extreme and unnecessary padel. But, still, seeing him struggle was part of your routine—and you enjoyed it. Not wanting to hear any lame excuses, you pulled him in, deciding to stay glued to his lips for a very long time

[deliciousangelfestival]

Guilt

Character: Mob!Bucky x Police!Female Reader

Summary: "Of all the women in the world, does she have to be a cop?" Bucky, a gangster, fell in love at first sight with a policewoman.

At the golf course, two outstanding men in the mob world are playing golf together to have a quiet time, to forget the worst day at the club they owned.

Steve, the second person in charge, still feels frustrated, while Bucky, the leader, is the only one enjoying the game.

"Of all the women in the world, does she have to be a cop?" Steve, his childhood friend, asked as he watched Bucky hit the golf ball.

Bucky clenched his fist in frustration as he made the shot. Turning to Steve, he replied, "I can't help it. She just took my breath away the first time I saw her."

Steve sighed, recalling the first encounter between Bucky and the policewoman when their club was unexpectedly visited by the narcotics police force.

Steve sighed, "She's known as a scary person, even among her colleagues," he said, relaying what he had learned from his connections.

"And from what happened last night, I feel like she holds a big grudge against people like us," Steve continued, reflecting on the recent events. Most of the cops he knew turned a blind eye to their business dealings, never getting involved with drugs.

Bucky remembered how composed you had been last night, effortlessly throwing punches and giving orders to make arrests. He even recalled the moment you pushed him to the ground and handcuffed him.

At that instant, he knew you were different from other women.

Bucky took another swing at the golf ball, causing it to fly too far. With a smile, he declared, "I will make her mine."

Steve sighed deeply, realizing that once Bucky had made up his mind, no one could stop him.

As Bucky began his courtship, he tried various approaches to get closer to you:

1. He sent you flowers with cryptic notes, hinting at his admiration and interest.

2. Bucky strategically positioned himself at events where you were present, making sure to catch your eye without being too obvious.

3. He orchestrated chance encounters, bumping into you at coffee shops or restaurants, always ready with a charming smile and a casual conversation starter.

4. He even went as far as anonymously sending you a gifts or helpful tips related to your work, trying to show his support and understanding of your profession.

But you didn't give any reaction; you consistently ignored him.

Bucky didn't mind your game of "playing hard to get." He was confident that in the end, you couldn't resist him.

However, his confidence wavered when you finally spoke to him, your words cutting through the air like icy daggers. "In 2022, Bobby Smith died because of a gunshot. He was my fiancé."

Bucky's face drained of color, his body going rigid with shock. The revelation hit him like a sledgehammer, the weight of guilt crashing down upon him. His mind raced as he realized the implication: Bobby Smith's death was because of him.

After the revelation, would Bucky give up his pursuit, or would he persist despite the overwhelming guilt?

[letsgetrowdy43]

Greens and grins—

Jack Hughes x Fem!Reader

Request filled for @deerwdy-0: 🐞 - "You smiled! I saw it, so no denying it." - Jack Hughes

Warnings/notes: I know nothing about golf, so please be kind if anything is wrong or incorrect!!

End of summer celebration!!

Jack had never been more determined to make someone love golf than he was at this moment. His girlfriend, however, seemed equally determined to hate every second of it.

The suffocating heat, the longevity of the day, the insanely short skirt, all compiling factors that added up to the girl's worst nightmare. An entire day on the course was quite literally the last thing she wanted to do on one of the only Saturdays both she and her boyfriend had off together.

But for him, she would attempt to put her distaste aside.

They stood at the edge of the course, Jack adjusting his grip on the club while his girlfriend stood beside him, arms crossed, looking thoroughly unimpressed. She tapped her foot, eyes narrowed at the expanse of grass before them, Jack turned to her and showed her his practice swing with a smile at was met a look of unsureness.

“I promise, once you get the hang of it, you’re going to love it,” Jack said, his voice full of optimism as he made his way in front of her and pressed a kiss to her temple. She rolled her eyes, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips, “I highly doubt that.” Jack grinned, “Oh, come on, just give it a chance.”

He gently nudged her elbow with his, “you’ve barely hit two balls, and one of them actually went straight.” She huffed, lifting the club like it was a foreign object, “Yeah, well, that was pure luck. I don’t get the appeal of hitting a tiny ball across a giant lawn for hours.”

Jack wrapped his hand around her torso and brought her over to the tee, helping to ostition her self infront of the ball, hands on her hips as he fixed her stance. She cheekily smiled at the feeling of her ass pressed against him, his arms encircling her to fix her hold on the club before doinga few practcie swings with her.

He shook his head, laughing softly as she groaned out of annoyance after missing the ball. “It’s about the skill, the strategy, the focus…” Jack trailed off when he saw her skeptical expression as she turned to him.

“Okay, maybe that sounds boring, but I swear, it’s fun. Plus, look at how cute you look today!” She readjusted the skirt that was riding up a little too high, then back at Jack who was staring at her ass with a grin before he jumped at the feeling of a gentle smack against his chest. As he laughed at her fake scowl he once again repositioned her stance before pressing a kiss to her shoulder and taking a step back as she swung and missed, “Flattery gets you nowhere perv.”

Jack smirked, stepping up behind her and placing his hands over hers on the club, “Let me help you, and please just listen for me,” he murmured, guiding her stance, “relax your grip, aim for the ball, and just… swing.” With his hands gently adjusting her grip, she tried again, this time managing a decent hit that sent the ball flying a reasonable distance of the green.

“There you go!” Jack cheered, his face lighting up as he turned to her, clearly proud, “that’s what I’m talking about.” She shot him an exasperated look, “I still hate it.”

But then she laughed, a short burst of sound that she immediately tried to suppress, and Jack pounced.

“You smiled! I saw it, so no denying it,” he teased, stepping in front of her, blocking her view of the green as he wrapped her up in his arms and twirlled her around cheering at her little grin. “No, I didn’t,” she protested, though her lips were still twitching upwards at his actions as he placed her downand pressed a pletora of kisses to her fake pout. “Oh, yes, you did,” Jack grinned, hands holding the sides of her face as leaned down just enough so their faces were inches apart. “You can’t lie to me. I know a smile when I see one.”

She shoved him lightly, but Jack grabbed her waist, pulling her into his chest as she laughed again, unable to hold back the smile this time as her arms returned the hold.

“Fine,” she admitted, “but it wasn’t the golf. It was your ridiculous enthusiasm.” “I’ll take that as a win,” Jack said, kissing the top of her head as jumping up and down with her, “one step closer to getting you to love golf as much as I do.”

She raised an eyebrow and grounded her self on her feet to stop his cheers, “don’t push it.”

He laughed, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as they started toward the cart, a grin on his face as he grabbed his beer and placed her cooler in her hands before pressing a gentle kiss to her lips.

“Okay, but by the end of today, I bet you’ll at least tolerate it.” “We’ll see,” she said, but this time, there was no hiding the smile on her face as she leaned into him and finsihing off the drink in her hand.

“I need a new drink,” she mumbled, tipping the can upside down to show it was empty. “I’ll get you as many drinks as you like, baby,” he murmured, brushing his lips against her temple, "just say the word."

He pulled her into his lap on the cart and took off in the direction of the green, where the bar chart girl magically seemed to be passing by, a mischievous glint in his eye as the engine revved beneath them.

-

-

-

[l4ndonorizz]

BET - lando norris x reader

pairing: lando norris x reader

warnings: suggestive talking maybe?

song: april27 - prayer1

summary: Lando is very competitive and will take the prize even if he doesn't win

wc: 1.3k

Lando leaned on his golf club, eyes fixed on the ball in front of him. The sun was shining, casting a warm glow over the course, but what should have been a relaxing day was instead buzzing with tension. You and Lando, as always, were ridiculously competitive. Maybe a little too much.

„So,” Carlos said, resting beside you with a grin, clearly amused by the brewing competition between you and Lando. „Wanna bet on who’s winning this one?”

You shot a playful look at Lando, who frowned, pretending to be offended. „I mean, it’s obvious. My ball’s going to be closer to the hole than his.”

Lando raised an eyebrow, smirking in that cocky way that made your stomach flutter. „You? Closer than me? In another lifetime, baby.”

Max, standing by the golf cart, chuckled, shaking his head. „You two are the worst,” he said, giving Carlos a knowing glance, who simply nodded in agreement.

Lando adjusted his stance, gripping his club tightly as he prepared to swing. With a calm breath, he hit the ball, sending it soaring through the air before it landed neatly near the hole. He shot you a smug look, leaning in close to whisper, „You’re not beating that.”

You crossed your arms and laughed, pretending not to be fazed by his teasing. „Just watch.”

Carlos and Max were now full-on laughing. „They’re like kids,” Carlos said, shaking his head, amusement clear in his eyes as he watched you prepare for your shot.

Lando’s competitive streak had always been a problem, but today, it seemed worse than usual. Maybe it was the sun, or maybe it was the way he looked so damn good in that black tank top—tanned, fit, his muscles flexing every time he swung the club. You found yourself watching him more than you should, and it was distracting. The way his toned arms moved, the way he smirked when he knew he was winning—it was driving you crazy, and not just in the game.

You stepped up, lined up your shot, and with a smooth swing, sent the ball flying. It landed a little closer to the hole than Lando’s, and you couldn’t help but grin smugly.

„Better luck next time, Norris,” you teased, raising an eyebrow as you turned to him.

Lando’s jaw clenched slightly, the competitive fire burning in his eyes. „Alright, alright,” he muttered, clearly not enjoying being beaten. „How about we raise the stakes then?”

You tilted your head, intrigued. „What do you have in mind?”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only you could hear. „If I win the next hole, you owe me something… personal.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his tone, the weight of the suggestion hanging in the air between you. But you weren’t about to back down. „And if I win?” you asked, smirking.

Lando’s eyes darkened with playful mischief. „Then I’ll do whatever you want.”

Carlos and Max, oblivious to the tension, laughed loudly in the background. „This is going to be good,” Carlos said, clearly entertained by the whole situation.

The next few holes were tense, with you and Lando both trying to outdo each other. Every swing felt like it carried higher stakes, every glance between the two of you crackling with more than just competition. Max and Carlos laughed on the sidelines, but you and Lando were locked in your own little world, focused solely on each other.

Finally, it came down to the last hole. You were tied, and your next shot would determine the winner. You could feel Lando’s gaze on you as you lined up your swing, his smirk still in place but his eyes serious now. He didn’t want to lose, and neither did you.

You took your swing, the ball landing perfectly, just a few feet from the hole. It was nearly flawless.

Carlos whistled. „Damn, that’s going to be hard to beat.”

Lando stepped up, lining up his shot carefully. His usual confidence seemed a little shaken. The ball soared through the air, but when it landed, it wasn’t quite as close as yours.

Max clapped Lando on the back, laughing. „Tough break, mate.”

Grinning, you turned to Lando, feeling a little smug. „Looks like you’re all mine,” you teased, the satisfaction evident in your voice.

Lando’s eyes darkened, a look that sent a shiver down your spine. „Don’t get too comfortable, it was just one hole.“

„Don’t be mean, cabrón. It was a fair win,“ Carlos shouted at him, at which Lando straightened up and gave her a slightly more pleasant look.

„So are we wrapping this up? It’s quite hot already…“ Max complained when he got behind the wheel of a golf cart.

"Yeah, let's call it a day," Carlos agreed, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "Before someone melts out here."

You shot Lando a sideways glance, your grin still in place, enjoying the small victory. His competitive streak was something you were more than familiar with, but today, it seemed to push him even further. The look in his eyes told you that losing, even in something as simple as golf, wasn’t sitting well with him.

As the group gathered their things, Lando stayed silent, his eyes never leaving you. That same intense gaze from earlier hadn’t softened—it had only deepened. You felt a slight pang of nerves, knowing he wouldn’t let this slide so easily.

Once everyone was settled in the golf cart, Max drove back toward the clubhouse with Carlos making jokes to lighten the mood, but your attention remained on Lando. He sat beside you, quiet, his leg brushing against yours, making it impossible to ignore the tension that lingered between you two.

"That win of yours... It’s not over," Lando muttered, low enough for only you to hear.

You raised an eyebrow, your lips twitching into a smirk. "You think you can change the outcome now?"

His hand slid over your thigh under the pretense of readjusting himself, his fingers lingering a little longer than necessary. "Oh, I plan on making sure you don’t feel too victorious for long."

You felt a rush of heat at his words, the teasing edge in his voice sending shivers down your spine. The bet had been innocent enough, but there was nothing innocent about the way Lando was looking at you now. You knew that the real competition was just beginning.

By the time Max parked the cart and everyone was unloading their gear, the air felt thicker—charged with unspoken promises. As you all headed inside, Carlos and Max distracted by a conversation about their plans for the evening, you felt Lando's hand brush yours, tugging you gently to the side.

Without warning, he pressed you against the side of the building, out of sight from the others. His face hovered close to yours, his breath warm against your skin. "You might’ve won today, but tonight," he whispered, voice dropping to a dangerous low, "I’m taking my win back."

Your pulse quickened, the playful banter from earlier gone, replaced by something much more intense. His hands slipped down to your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make your knees weaken.

"And what exactly does that mean?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, a mixture of excitement and nerves tightening your chest.

Lando smirked, leaning in so close that his lips brushed against your ear. "You'll see."

With that, he pulled away, giving you one last dark look before rejoining Max and Carlos, who were blissfully unaware of the shift in energy between you two. You watched him walk away, heart pounding in your chest, knowing that tonight was going to be anything but relaxing.

This competition wasn’t over—not by a long shot.

[theguywithaplan]

List of Games Turning Twenty (20) Years Old in 2025

Advance Wars: Dual Strike

Advent Rising (they started planning the trilogy before the first game was out lmao)

Age of Empires III

Animal Crossing: Wild World (the DS one)

Arc the Lad: End of Darkness

Area 51 (the FPS that was low-key kinda creepy)

Banjo Pilot (the Banjo-Kazooie racing game on GBA).

Battalion Wars (the spin-off of Advance Wars).

Battlefield 2

Brothers in Arms: Road to Hill 30

Brothers in Arms: Earned in Blood (yep, they released two mainline games in one year).

Burnout Revenge (this cleared Burnout 3, and I will fight you on that).

Call of Cthulhu: Dark Corners of the Earth

Call of Duty 2

Castlevania: Dawn of Sorrow (go play the Castlevania Dominus collection. It has this game and a few others and it's GREAT).

Castlevania: Curse of Darkness

Civilization IV

Cold Fear (answering the age old question: what if Resident Evil 4 was on a boat and not as good?)

Condemned: Criminal Origins (a launch title for the Xbox 360 and a pretty solid horror game).

Conker: Live & Reloaded (maybe a controversial opinion, but this is WAY better than the original).

Crash Tag Team Racing

Dead or Alive 4 (aka, the one with not Master Chief in it).

Destroy All Humans!

Devil Kings (all the sequels would be under it's non-translated title: Sengoku Basara).

Devil May Cry 3: Dante's Awakening (let's rock, baybeeeeee)

Donkey Kong: Jungle Beat

Dragon Ball Z: Sagas (I saw a stream of this game a few months back, and oh my god, this looks so shitty/funny).

Dragon Quest VIII: Journey of the Cursed King

Dynasty Warriors 5 (who's excited for Origins???)

Far Cry Instincts (a console version of the PC exclusive original game)

Fatal Frame III: The Tormented

F.E.A.R. (if you haven't played this before, change that. it's fantastic)

Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones

Fire Emblem: Path of Radiance (the one with Ike the Bisexual in it).

Forza Motorsport (the very first one).

Gauntlet: Seven Sorrows

Geist (the rare M-rated Nintendo game).

The Getaway: Black Monday

God of War (the very first one).

Gran Turismo 4 (one of the few PS2 games that could be played in HD, along with... Jackass: The Game...)

Guild Wars

Guitar Hero (the very first one).

Haunting Ground (a very rare PS2 horror game from Capcom).

Hot Shots Golf: Open Tee

The Incredible Hulk: Ultimate Destruction

The Incredibles: Rise of the Underminer (since the second movie came out, this game is now considered non-canon).

Indigo Prophecy/Fahrenheit (the second game from known hack/fraud David Cage).

Jade Empire (the last game that BioWare made before they got acquired by EA).

Jak X: Combat Racing

Judge Dredd: Dredd vs. Death (there was a for real-ass Judge Dredd game on the GameCube).

Kameo: Elements of Power (another Xbox 360 launch title, this one made by a post-acquisition Rare. It's pretty fun).

Killer7 (from the greatest to ever do it, Suda51)

Peter Jackson's King Kong: The Official Game of the Movie (you guys think it's based on the movie or what...?)

Kirby: Canvas Curse (a really fun DS game that only used the stylus)

Klonoa 2: Dream Champ Tournament (i think klonoa would get along really well with sonic)

The Legend of Zelda: The Minish Cap (the one where Link gets really small)

Lego Star Wars: The Video Game

Lunar: Dragon Song (one of the worst RPGs I've ever played. Don't play it).

Mario & Luigi: Partners in Time (the one with the Baby Mario Bros.)

Mario Kart DS (the first one with online play).

Mario Party Advance

Mario Party 7 (my personal favorite)

Mario Superstar Baseball (we didn't get a Mario Baseball game on the Switch. Because they're saving it for the Switch 2).

Mario Tennis: Power Tour (so many Mario games...)

Dance Dance Revolution: Mario Mix

Marvel Nemesis: Rise of the Imperfects

The Matrix Online (an official continuation from the movies)

The Matrix: Path of Neo

Medal of Honor: European Assault

MediEvil: Resurrection

Mega Man Battle Network 5 (the only one in the series to have a DS version)

Mega Man Zero 4

Mercenaries: Playground of Destruction

Metal Gear Acid (a launch title for the PSP, and a card game set in the Metal Gear universe. It works better than you might think).

Meteos (a puzzle game made by Masahiro Sakurai, the Smash Bros. guy)

Metroid Prime Pinball

Mortal Kombat: Shaolin Monks

Myst V: End of Ages (the final Myst game)

Need for Speed: Most Wanted (did you know that this game outsold the entire Halo series?)

Neopets: The Darkest Faerie (is Neopets still a thing?)

Nicktoons Unite! (a crossover between Spongebob, Fairly Oddparents, Jimmy Neutron, and Danny Phantom).

The Nightmare Before Christmas: Oogie's Revenge (an honest to god sequel to the movie that plays like Devil May Cry).

Ninja Gaiden Black

Nintendogs

Oddworld: Stranger's Wrath

Pac-Man World 3

Perfect Dark Zero (yet another Xbox 360 launch title, also made by Rare, and a sequel to one of the best FPS games ever made. It was fine).

Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney (it had been out in Japan for a few years, but us Yankees got this four years after it came out).

Pokemon Dash (a Pokemon racing game. It was not very good).

Pokemon Emerald Version (I sunk like 500 hours into this game).

Pokemon XD: Gale of Darkness (a sequel to Pokemon Colosseum where you could capture other people's Pokemon).

Prince of Persia: The Two Thrones

Psychonauts

The Punisher

Quake 4

Ratchet: Deadlocked

Resident Evil 4

Serious Sam 2

Shadow of the Colossus (one of the best games ever made. Play it if you haven't yet).

Shadow the Hedgehog (pretty good to be a sonic fan right now).

Shin Megami Tensei: Digital Devil Saga (parts 1 and 2).

Sly 3: Honor Among Thieves

Sonic Rush

SoulCalibur III (RIP, SoulCalibur. Tekken is just too powerful.)

Splinter Cell: Chaos Theory (RIP, Splinter Cell. Ubisoft just sucks too much to make you anymore).

Spyro: Shadow Legacy

Star Fox Assault

Star Wars: Republic Commando

Star Wars: Battlefront II (this game's story mode is permanently etched into my brain).

Stubbs the Zombie in "Rebel Without a Pulse" (presenting it to you with no context. Look it up. It's hilarious).

Super Mario Strikers

Super Monkey Ball Deluxe

Tak: The Great Juju Challenge

Tekken 5

TimeSplitters: Future Perfect (RIP, TimeSplitters. Embracer Group killed you before you could come back).

Trace Memory (got remade in 2024 as Another Code)

Twisted Metal: Head-On (another PSP launch title)

Ultimate Spider-Man (you could play as Venom in this one)

WarioWare: Touched!

WarioWare: Twisted!

We Love Katamari

Wild Arms: Alter Code F (a remake of the first game)

Xenosaga Episode II

X-Men Legends II: Rise of Apocalypse

[letstalkaboutfandomsbaby]

╔══•.·.☆.·.♥︎.·.☆.·.•══╗

buff guy

╚══•.·.☆.·.♥︎.·.☆.·.•══╝

ʚ Part 11 ɞ

❥ CW: chubby fem reader x buff guy, fluff, smut, fingering, breast play, dirty talk

❥ A/N: thank you guys for being so patient with me! I know this chapter is a little short but i hope the smut makes up for the wait :)

"I'm gonna beat your ass," you say with a smile.

"Oh, you are?" Mohammed asks, arching a brow and returning your smile.

"Hell yeah. Gonna get all hole-in-ones."

"I'd like to see that."

"Don't sass me!" you scold, measuring the putter, checking to see if the size you picked would work for you.

"I'm not sassing. I mean it. I want you to win." You blow a raspberry.

"Reverse psychology won't work on me, buster. You better get ready to be beat!"

He chuckles, grabbing the longest putter, briefly measuring it before going to the golf balls.

"What color do you want?" he asks. You hum.

"Get my favorite." He glances at you, then back at the golf balls. You watch curiously out of the corner of your eye, quietly hoping he gets it right.

When he chooses your favorite color, you squeal and clap your hands.

"You got it! Good job!" He turns to you and bows.

"Thank you, thank you." You giggle, taking the ball from him. He steps aside, motioning towards the other golf balls available.

"Now you gotta pick my favorite."

Your face falls. You glance over the various colors, unsure. You step forward, hand outstretched and pointing to the different colors, trying to decide. You stare at the golf balls for a good thirty seconds before Mohammed snickers, wrapping an arm around you.

"Babe," he leans down towards your ear, "I don't have a favorite color."

You huff, pulling away and playfully punching his arm.

"You turd! I was feeling like the worst girlfriend ever! I was about to start crying!"

"No, no, don't cry. I just wanted to mess with you a little."

"Meanie! Big ole meanie! I'm gonna break up with you!"

"Nooo, don't do that, you're so sexy." You punch him again and he just keeps laughing. He grabs your hand, pulling you into his chest and hugging you tight, despite your protests. You squirm, but eventually give up, letting him hold you close and kiss the crown of your head.

"You're a poop head," you grunt.

"You're a cutie-patootie." He lets you go, grabbing a random color from the array of golf balls and smiling at you. "You ready, cutie-pie?"

"Who do you think came up with mini golf?"

Guy shrugs, testing his shot slowly before hitting the golf ball, watching it slide along the course, nearing the hole before it slowed beside it.

"I think you're cheating," you say, making him laugh.

"How am I cheating?"

"I don't know. I just feel it. Can feel it in my gut."

"Oh, yeah? Got that gut feeling that I'm cheating at mini golf?"

"Hell yeah," you reply, bending over to place the ball before standing up and aiming. "Ain't no way you're getting this score and playing fair."

He stays quiet as you hit the ball, the two of you watching it bounce off the edge before gliding towards the hole, still further than his was from it.

"See? You're cheating." He hums.

"Maybe you just suck at mini golf."

You gasp, your hand flying to your chest.

"How dare you? How dare? That was the worst thing you could've ever said to me. You are a cruel, cruel man."

He snickers, walking towards you just to kiss your cheek, then walking over to where his golf ball was. You huffed, following him, watching him hit the ball into the hole before bending over and taking it out.

"I like how comfortable you are with me now," he says, stepping off of the course so that you could finish your shot.

"You do?" you ask, aiming your shot.

"Yeah. It's nice being close to you like this. It makes me happy." You hum, making your shot, cursing when you miss.

"You're trying to distract me so you can win, aren't you?"

"What? No, I would never." You blow a raspberry and make another shot, getting the ball in the hole. You bend over to pick it up, turning to Mohammed who quickly looks back up at your face. You blink.

"Were you staring at my ass?" He clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Maybe." You bark out a laugh, snorting.

"You're such a goob. C'mon, let's go, bubby."

"What's the score?" you ask, nearing the end of the mini golf course.

"I thought you were keeping track."

"What?! You expected me to remember all those numbers?" Guy shrugs.

"You were the one who kept saying the scores for each hole."

"Because I thought you were keeping track."

He laughs, slowing down and leaning over, hands resting on his knees. He takes a deep breath when he's done and stands back up.

"We both thought the other person was keeping score. How ridiculous."

The thought makes you laugh as well, nudging his arm.

"Well, it doesn't matter anyways. Are you having fun?"

"I'm having a lot of fun," Mohammed says, reaching for you. You get closer, letting him wrap an arm around your shoulders and bring you in for a kiss. You share a few pecks before you push him away, smiling.

"Don't think that just because we're not keeping score that you're gonna win."

"Isn't the whole point of winning a game, keeping score?"

"Yeah, but I'm still gonna win." He scoffs.

"Oh yeah? And what do you get if you win?" You hum, wrapping your arm around his.

"If I win, you buy me ice cream."

"And if I win?" You hum again.

"If you win, you still buy me ice cream, because you love me." He barks out a laugh before leaning down to kiss your cheek.

"You're silly. I love you."

"I love you too, Guy."

"Pick your flavor," he says, an arm around your waist.

"What size can I get?"

"Whatever size you want."

You smile, choosing a flavor and asking for the size you want, watching as the teen scoops the ice cream into a bowl for you. You take your bowl and grab a spoon as Mohammed steps forward.

"I'll have a small mint chocolate chip please."

"Just a small?" you ask. He nods.

"Yeah, I don't want a lot of ice cream today. Just not in the mood for a big bowl."

"Got it," you nod. He gets his ice cream and pays for the both of you before following you to a table outdoors. You sit together and enjoy your ice cream.

"Did you have fun today?" he asks.

"Mm-hm! Lots of fun."

"Good. I like when you have fun. Did you want to do anything else?"

You shrug.

"I don't know. Do you want to do anything else?" He sighs.

"I don't want our date to end here." You tap his foot with your own, smiling at him when he looks at you.

"You can always come back to my place to hang out. We could watch a movie." He scoffs.

"That always goes well, doesn't it?" You giggle as he shakes his head. "It feels like 'watch a movie' is code for 'making out'."

"Well, maybe it is. It could be, if you want it to be." He stares at you before looking back at his ice cream.

"I wouldn't mind making out with you."

"Then it's settled." You take a small bite of ice cream, licking your lips. "You'll stay with me at my place and we can make out. Maybe do some more stuff, if you're interested." He huffs.

"I'd be crazy if I wasn't."

"What movie do you want to watch?" you ask, flipping through movies with your remote.

"You mean, 'what movie do you want to put on in the background while we fool around'?" You snicker and nod.

"Sure, if you want to phrase it like that." He hums.

"Maybe something boring, so we don't get distracted."

"Good idea."

You turn on a classic movie, one you had seen a dozen times, before plopping on the couch beside him, smiling mischievously.

"You ready?" you ask as the movie starts.

"As ready as I'll ever be."

The two of you turn your hips towards each other so you can face the other better, wrapping your arms around each other, lips colliding in the middle. You both are excited as you kiss each other, lips parting almost immediately to introduce your tongues. They swirl and clash, twirling around each other, slimy and wet. It made you quickly aroused, your hands moving from his shoulders to his neck, your fingers scratching at the base of his scalp. He shivers under your touch, letting out a small groan against you. You giggle, pulling away with a smile.

"Did I tell you how pretty you look in this dress?" he asked. You smile wider.

"You did, but I certainly won't stop you from saying it again." He huffs.

"Sorry, it's just... you just look so fucking cute and sexy in it. Cutely sexy. Is that a thing?"

"It can be, if you want it to be."

"That's the best way to describe you: cutely sexy. You do it so easily too, like you could wear anything and I'd always think you were cute and sexy in it."

"Aww, aren't you sweet?" His hands move down your back, settling on your waist where he pulls you closer.

"Makes me wanna eat you up." You arch your brow.

"Oh? You wanna eat me up, huh?" He nods and you smirk. "Tell me how."

He takes a deep breath.

"Well, you know I find you attractive. I want you all the time. I want to hold you, kiss you, touch you."

"Where do you want to touch me?" you ask, you voice getting softer.

"Everywhere. Anywhere you'll let me. I want to touch you and hear you laugh. Your laugh drives me wild. Makes me crazy." You giggle and he nods towards you. "That. Just like that. It makes my heart beat so fast."

"You're so cute," you tell him, leaning forward to leave a few pecks on his lips. You pull away again, smiling when he tries to follow. "You know, we can do more than just kissing."

"I know. And trust me, I want to. I just want you to be ready."

"I've been ready, Guy. I've been ready for a couple dates now." He arches his brow.

"You're sure?"

"Yes." He hums.

"I still wanna go slow, though. I don't wanna come on too strong." You roll your eyes.

"Fine, but don't act like I'm holding you back. The only one holding you back is you."

"I got it."

You sigh, pressing your forehead against his.

"Are you only willing to kiss me right now?"

"What more do you want to do?" You take a breath.

"I want you to touch me." His eyes soften.

"Where?"

You glance down, then back up at him, giving him doe eyes.

"My tits. I want you to touch my tits."

"Yeah?" he breathes, his hands trailing up your stomach, an inch away from your chest. You arch into his hands, sighing.

"Yeah... Would you?"

"You really want me to?"

"Yes, please."

He huffs, his lip quirking as his eyes scan your face. He licks over his lips, clearing his throat before sliding his hands up higher, cupping your breasts. You inhale sharply, biting your lower lip.

"You've got nice breasts, you know?" he says.

"Yeah? You like em?"

"I do." He stares at your chest as he gives them a gentle squeeze. "I think about touching them a lot."

"You do? Is it like the way you imagined?"

"Honestly? I imagine you without a bra on."

You grab his hands and remove them from you, sitting up and reaching behind you. You find the clip of your bra through your dress, undoing it and shimmying off the straps, pulling it out, leaving you in your dress with no bra. He watches you drop it to the floor before staring at your chest.

"I can see your nipples through your dress."

You glance down, seeing the buds perked up, standing at attention.

"Yeah... you can."

"Can I touch them?"

"Of course."

He reaches up again, hesitating before pressing his palms to your breasts, sighing.

"They're so much better without a bra," he mutters, squeezing them in his hands. You can hear your breaths coming out harder, shakily going in and out of your lungs.

"Your hands feel good," you remark, letting out a sigh when he squeezes them with his fingers, watching them bulge between his fingertips.

"You like my hands?" he asks, glancing at you.

"Mm-hm. They're so big and strong. I really like them on me." He scoffs, smiling softly.

"You're gonna make me go crazy." His thumbs graze over your nipples, and your back arches into his touch. "You like that?"

"Mm-hm. Can you keep touching me like that?"

"Of course."

His thumbs and forefingers find your nipples, pinching them lightly, making you inhale sharply. You let out a soft whine as he does it again, harder this time, rolling his thumbs over your nipples.

"You're so fucking pretty," he mumbles, moving faster, alternating between squeezing your breasts and pinching your nipples. You bite your lip and moan, squeezing your thighs together, rocking yourself into his hands greedily. "Can I touch them bare? Like, without your dress on?"

"Oh my gosh, yes, please."

He pulls at your dress sleeves, tugging them down with the front of your dress, releasing your breasts with a slight bounce. He grunts when he sees them, grabbing them quickly, cupping them together.

"So fucking pretty," he mumbles, brushing his thumbs over your nipples, pressing the peaks into your breasts and watching them bounce out. "You've got such nice tits. I love squeezing them." He glances up at you. "Can I suck on them?"

"Oh my god, please."

He huffs with a smile, leaning down towards your chest and taking your right nipple into his mouth. He moans into your breast, swirling his tongue around the stiff bud, making you keen at the sensation. He sucks it lovingly, looking up at you past his hooded lids, watching your reaction. He slobbers over your nipple, slurping it back up with each suck before he pulls away completely, leaving you cold. He moves to your left breast, taking that nipple in his mouth and sucking it hard.

"O-Oh my god—" Your voice cracks when he squeezes your breasts and sucks your nipple roughly, adding his teeth to nibble on you lightly. You squeal, jolting into his mouth, your body shaking. You're eager for more, for him to continue, but he pulls away, making you whine.

"Why'd you stop?" you pout. He stares at you, panting. Suddenly, he grabs your hips, moving backward on your couch and tugging you along with him, making you fall back on the couch with a gasp. "W-What're you doing?"

"I thought you were ready." he asks, arching his brow, hands resting on your bare knees. "I thought you wanted more."

"I... I do..."

"Then be a good girl for me."

His hands slide up your thighs, lifting your flimsy dress in the process. He continues until he reaches your hips, pulling your dress up to your lower stomach. He groans when he sees you beneath him.

"You're wearing those panties," he says, his fingers tracing the elastic band of the panties he bought for you. "You were expecting this."

"I-I was hoping..." He scoffs, smirking.

"Dirty girl." He pulls the waist band of your panties, tugging them away from your body before letting it go, letting it snap against your skin and make you jolt. He chuckles at you. "Naughty."

"Don't tease me," you pout. He hums, brushing his knuckle against your mound, trailing it down in between your legs, over your covered lips.

"Bet this pussy is so wet for me." He looks up at you, smirking. "Should we check?" You nod hurriedly and he chuckles again, moving his hands to either side of your hip. He hooks his fingers under your panties, pulling them down over your hips and thighs, tugging them off your legs and tossing them to the floor.

"Open your legs for me." You do as he says, spreading your legs. He hums. "You trimmed?"

"I... yeah..."

"You really wanted this, didn't you?"

"Y-Yeah..." He clicks his tongue, smirking.

"Dirty, dirty girl." His hands slide up your inner thighs, reaching your core. "I like hair too, by the way. You don't have to trim for me if you don't want to."

"N-Noted."

You hiss when his thumbs pull your pussy lips apart. He whistles low.

"You are wet. I can fucking see it from here."

"Don't tease me!"

"You signed up for this. You wanted this. Don't complain now."

"I-I'm not, I—"

He shushes you with a thumb to your clit, making you squeak.

"Let me focus." His thumbs rolls your clit around, making you fall back to the couch, arching your back. "What a cute little clit you have. Such a pretty pussy."

"Please touch me."

"Patience, princess. Have some patience."

His middle and ring finger move down to your entrance, collecting your slick before moving back up to your clit. He rolls it around with his fingers, occasionally capturing it between his fingertips and giving it the gentlest pinch. His touch makes you keen, throwing your head back and biting your lip to keep quiet.

"Don't do that." His free hand moves up to squeeze your breast, toying with your nipple. "I wanna hear the pretty noises you make."

His fingers move down to your entrance, teasing it, pushing his fingertips inside before pulling them back out.

"Please," you breathe, reaching out for him. "I want it."

"You want what?"

"I... I want your fingers inside me..."

"So what do you say?" You swallow, your chest rising and falling.

"P-Please? Please finger me?" He smiles, but his eyes are wicked.

"Good girl."

He pushes two fingers inside you, making you gasp. His fingers were big, bigger than yours, filling you up so nicely with the slightest stretch. You moaned as he pushed them in completely, reaching his knuckles. He pumps them once, twice, creating a steady pace inside you. Your hips begin to move on their own, curling up and down, back arching.

"Such a pretty thing," he mutters, pinching your nipple and making you keen. "Taking my fingers so well. Does it feel good?" You hum.

"Can... Can you touch my clit too? Please?"

"Of course. How could I forget?"

He releases your breast, bringing his hand to his mouth and spitting on his thumb. He brings said hand down to your cunt, his soaked thumb pressing into your clit, rolling it and adding pressure. You moan louder, whining when he curls the fingers inside you.

"So wet," he mumbles, pumping his fingers faster. "So fucking wet. Is this really all because of me?" You nod quickly, unable to speak as he hits your sweet spot over and over. "Really? That's amazing."

"G-Guy—"

"Uh-uh, no. You're not calling me that nickname when I fuck you with me fingers. You either say my name or nothing at all." His thumb rolls your clit faster and you feel your eyes water.

"M-Mohammed! Mo!"

"Atta girl. That's what I like to hear." He moves both hands faster now, the fingers pumping inside and hitting your squishy spot while his thumb flicks your clit, making you shake. Your breasts bounced as you twitched, your legs clenching and threatening to close, but you didn't dare stop him from what he was doing. You were close, so close.

"I can feel you getting tighter." He leans over you, staring down at you. "You wanna cum?"

"Yes, yes! Please, Mo, I-I wanna cum!"

"You beg so pretty for me. I wanna watch you fall apart."

His fingers move almost aggressively now, fucking you with such fervor that your brain goes fuzzy. You can feel your peak get closer, your body tensing up. You focus on the pleasure, how it builds, intensifying when his thumb puts more pressure on your clit. You moan wantonly, grasping at your dress as your back arches. You feel yourself climbing, getting closer and closer before you gasp, curling in on yourself when your orgasm hits you. It's intense, more intense than you usually cum with your fingers, and it feels good. You moan as he keeps toying with you, pushing you through your orgasm, prolonging it. He eventually slows down to a steady pump, barely flicking your clit as you start to come down from your high.

"Oh my god, oh my god—" you gasp.

"I know, baby, I know. Just breathe for me." You gulp for air as he stills his hands, watching your chest heave with each breath. When your breathing slows, he pulls his fingers out of you, bringing them to his mouth and sucking them clean.

"You taste divine," he says when he pulls his fingers from his mouth. You huff, sitting up on your elbows and staring at him.

"Who are you and what the hell did you do with my boyfriend?"

He snorts, covering his mouth with his fist as he laughs.

"Was it too much?"

"What was that? You've never acted that dominant before!"

"Did you not like it? If you don't like it in the moment, you should tell me—"

"No, no, I liked it a lot. It's just... you're so quiet and put together... I always imagined you'd be the same in bed." He shrugs.

"I don't know how to explain it. I'm just most comfortable in intimate situations when I act like that."

"I'm certainly not complaining, it's just... just wow."

He rubs his hand soothingly over your thigh. You put your hand over his.

"Would you like a hand job or blow job?" He sputters.

"Neither. I'm good." You pout.

"What? But I wanna return the favor."

"I know, baby, I understand, but I'm more than satisfied. Making you feel good makes me feel good, you know?" You huff, pouting harder.

"But I wanna make you cum too."

"And you will one day." He leans forward to kiss your cheek. You whine unhappily.

"But I want your cock!"

"Don't whine." He sits up on his haunches, smiling down at you. "You'll have me one day, however you want. I wanna make it special, though. I want to take you to a nice dinner, maybe a movie, and then get a fancy hotel." You blink up at him, jutting out your bottom lip.

"Then can we go all the way?"

"Of course, love. That's the plan." He reaches forward and pulls up your dress, covering your breasts. "But for now, I just want to help you relax after making you feel good. Will you let me?"

You pout ever harder, crossing your arms.

"Fine, but I'm gonna be mad at you the rest of the night."

"Aw, come on. Don't be mad at me, beautiful. You'll get wrinkles."

"Then I'm gonna be covered in wrinkles forever and ever and you're just gonna have to deal with it!"

He laughs hard, and the sound makes your stomach twist happily, forcing a smile out of you.

[moonrise0111]

Nekoma plays Mini Golf

Kuroo: genuinely loves the game and is the absolute WORST at it. Everyone is usually confused because he talks about how much he loves to play but when they go he is SO BAD. He takes forever to line up his shot and then misses by miles. He loves every moment.

Kenma: gets bored of the boring holes and prefers the ones where timing and thinking are involved, like the windmill or drawbridge type. Beats Kuroo every time which he takes no pride in because Kuroo is somehow that bad.

Yaku: doesn’t find mini golf very entertaining. How is hitting a tiny ball with a stick into a hole in the ground enjoyable? He doesn’t know. But he goes whenever Kuroo gets really excited about it because he’s a good friend and all that. He’ll watch Kenma play games when things get boring and they always go for ice cream afterwards so he’s here for that.

Kai: really likes the more intricate courses with running water or moving pieces. He likes to go every so often but prefers playing normal golf. His friends call him a dad for it.

Tora: takes the entire event very seriously and is the only one trying to keep an updated score card for the entire party of people going. He’s pretty good but he’s no Shouhei.

Fukunaga: is a literal mini golf beast to no one’s surprise. He gets several holes in one and tries to talk to the frogs sitting at the edge of a pond while he’s at it. They respond?? Somehow? Because of course they do.

Lev: has issues playing because the places usually don’t have clubs tall enough for him so he has to bend down a lot to even hit the ball. By the end of the course he just swings the club with one hand and normally ends up with a score of 5-8 on the last few.

Inuoka: is honestly pretty good at mini golf. He makes shocking accurate sound effects whenever he hits the ball or when the ball goes in. Loves courses with themes, like pirate or jungle themed ones.

Shibayama: is absolutely horrible on the first half and nails the second half. Every. Single. Time. He doesn’t understand what happens to him the second he makes it to hole 10. It’s like playing with two different golfers.

Teshiro: generally does “eh” for most of the course but someone manages to consistently get a hole in one on one of those “Win a free game for 1 person!” shots. He saved them for years and brought the entire team out for a free game of mini golf. Kuroo lost by about 47 strokes that time (shut up Kenma that’s good for my standards here) and bought him ice cream.

[motherofagony]

A HEART FOR EATING // vol. 2

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: post outbreak!joel x f!reader setting: jackson, wy (think tlou pt. 2 minus the golfing) rating: mature, 18+, minors dni word count: 8.7k series summary: a vicious raider attack robs you of human connection and lights a fire of destruction in your life in jackson. joel's fixated on you, and your lives tangle. revenge becomes a needful thing. chapter summary: you take care of joel after a patrol injury, but you suspect there's more to it than he's telling you. the atmosphere shifts as you and joel grow (begrudgingly) closer. content warnings + tags: age gap (we'll say 15-20 years), protective!joel, brief masturbation (f!reader), praise kink for two seconds, blood, bodily injuries, needles (reader gives joel stitches), dissociation/triggers, alcohol, angst, sexual tension intensifies, The First Kiss™, soft!joel vol. 1 // vol. 2 series playlist a/n: we're picking up speed, folks. world-building is my weakness, so i hope you enjoy this nonetheless. honorable mention goes to the readers in the trenches, waiting patiently for joel to [redacted] reader senseless until she [redacted] all over his [redacted]. thank you for the love on the series so far. taglist: @ghostwritesthings, @widowssbite, @p3rkerr, @eternallyvenus, @punkshort if anyone would like to be added/removed to the taglist (or if i missed anyone), please send me a DM!

You’ve always hated flying.

In the great before, the stone ages of family vacations and things to look forward to, fears were singular and planes were yours.

Your family never had a lot of money, not really, but on the special occasion of a death in the family, you’d find yourself trapped to a seat in a metal tube. Going nowhere but up. Sitting through safety instructions that came from smiling, lipsticked mouths that were only hypotheticals until they weren’t.

It’s like a rollercoaster, your dad would say, amused in the way only a dad can be and sleeping through damn near anything in the same fashion. It did nothing to calm the knocking of your knees, to quell the flip of your stomach as you climbed higher and higher until you couldn’t see anything but cotton ball clouds.

It was always unnatural to you that something so heavy could float, that you were supposed to go on doing human things and drinking your ginger ale and munching your pre-packaged snack option. As if you weren’t being hurled into the sky with no one walking you through it.

As if the plummet onto tarmac meant no harm, just completely normal erratic braking that felt a lot like the moments before a crash.

There was no control — it was in someone else’s hands that you never saw. And as you fell, you were supposed to say thank you, that’s exactly what I paid for.

This is your version of the oxygen mask. This is you putting yours on before you help Joel.

You’re on your knees digging through your med bag, thumbing through bandages, checking for a quick count of gloves, antibiotics, wash cloths. You fumble with the zipper, fighting with the tremor that starts in your forearms and liquifies into your wrists. There isn’t much in the way of supplies unless you ransack what’s kept in storage, but there’s no time, and you’re not sure of what you’re about to walk into.

Waiting any moment for a scream, or the blast of a gun when they realize Joel’s not Joel anymore.

And it isn’t really a big possibility in the grand scheme of things, if you consider that he would’ve likely turned on the route home. But it’s still there, tickling the back of your head, nudging your navel uncomfortably. Nothing’s impossible.

You of all people know that.

You linger in your living room, giving a final sweep. Worst case, you can run back for what’s forgotten, but something about the idea of abandoning a vulnerable Joel – if only for a minute – doesn’t settle right in your stomach.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re shoving a bottle of whiskey into the bag, the only anesthetic on hand. And if you’re being honest with yourself, you need to score back some points.

The steps leading up to Joel’s house are sturdy, and you imagine it’s because of the pride he takes in what’s his. Before this, his house was just another skeleton of roof, foundation, windows, and siding.

The kind of houses you pass by every day that are rife with familiarity but you don’t know what it’s like to see the people inside eat dinner, brush their teeth. Fight. Fuck.

Fresh paint from only two seasons ago, reinforced porch posts. A swing. It’s weird to see permanence in this day and age, but his intention to anchor himself and grow roots here flutters meaningfully inside you.

It’s always been a sacred thing to you, you don’t know why. A place you’d never dreamed of entering, but dreamed about what it would smell like. A pair of boots haphazard by the front door, small piles of organized chaos, of collected tangibles. A you never know if you’ll need this in one corner, a saving that for a rainy day shelved in another.

So when you raise your hand to knock, you feel like an intruder, an unwelcome invasion of privacy. And you don’t know why you knock at all, you nearly think better of it given the circumstances, but you’re testing the atmosphere, hoping for voices inside instead of a struggle.

Ellie’s swinging the door open, relief smoothing out the lines in her forehead when she sees you. Her presence seems to answer any unspoken questions you had about Joel being infected, and you don’t voice them to her when you can see unrest in her antsy legs.

“Hey. Sorry for the wait. He alright?”

Her teeth are worrying her lip, probably more traumatized by the sight of him than anything. A few strands of hair have freed themselves from her lazy half-bun at the base of her neck, caught in the crossfire when she ran her hands through it, you think.

“Yeah,” Ellie breathes, committing to it. “Yeah, he’s okay. Bleeding stopped, nothing seems broken. Just needs stitches, I think.”

It sounds more to convince herself than anything else. There’s a foreign fragility to her, and you hate it.

“He tell you what happened?”

The question strikes a nerve. Ellie’s shaking her bowed head, scoffing in a half-laugh that doesn’t touch her eyes. Her hand wraps around her knuckles, cracking slowly in an effort to alleviate the tension that’s reached a fever pitch inside her.

“He won’t tell me, says it doesn’t matter. He shouldn’t have gone alone anyway, he was bein’ a dick. ‘I wanna think, kiddo - need t’clear my head,’” she mocks in a gruff, rolling pitch, the perfect dosage of Texas.

It levels you, potent. Are you the thing Joel needed to clear his head of?

You’re weirdly longing for it, but being flicked away like a bug, peeled away layer by layer from him isn’t something you want.

There’s hope that you’re contagious. That you’re haunting him and lurking in the darkest corners of his mind like an apparition like he has yours. And maybe there’s hope after all, something left to salvage.

But you play dumb, furrow your brow a little too expertly.

Ellie’s measuring you, and there’s a glimpse of worry but she hides it in a way that you wouldn’t know what you were looking for if you hadn’t already found it.

“Anything you wanna tell me about the other night? He was pissed when he left,” she tacks on quietly.

You go a little slack-jawed. You don’t even know how to put it into words, and you couldn’t tell her what it meant even if you tried.

What’s there to even say?

“You know what, none of my business,” she says, her hands lifting in tired surrender when you don’t answer, ignoring your near-sputter. “But you’re not off the hook, just make sure the old man doesn’t croak. And tell him he scared the shit outta me.”

You exhale and hope it doesn’t read too much as relief. You’ll have to answer to her later, but at least you might have an answer to give.

“Handful of salt in the wound, rub in circular motions – got it. Tell Tommy I’ll catch up later.”

Your shoulders scrape affectionately as you nudge past each other, and you cast a wide look at the periphery of Joel Miller’s house. The feeling of unwelcome disappears, and if anything, you’re being tugged further inside. Imagining what it’s like to be a fixture, an adornment in his weird little life.

Nooks that you assumed would be messy are neat, coiffed even. There’s that unavoidable smudge of secondhand all over the furniture – mottled ever so slightly, aged uneven in places that only an apocalypse can do. But it’s an otherwise tidy existence. Another surprise from Joel that you’d never pick up on if you only witnessed him nursing a drink at the bar.

An oak bookshelf props itself at the bottom of the stairs and it rivals your own, dust gathering in thin lines where he’s repeatedly shelved this, reread that. There are paintings hung decisively on most of the walls, breathtaking rural landscapes of wherever.

You’re lugging the bag upstairs, counting your breaths with each step. The whiskey rattles mutely against the first aid tin, and it’s a toss-up now of who you really brought it for.

The landing mirrors the ground level, a purposeful littering of tchotchkes. Doors line the second floor, some closed, some ajar but not inviting, and you realize you have no idea which one you’re looking for. You sway uninvited by the bannister until you hear the unmistakable hiss of breath between clenched teeth, then a soft moan as his weight shifts.

And you’re stepping inside a room – his bedroom – warmed in the soft beginnings of sunset. Joel’s sprawled asymmetrically on his bed, eyes pinched shut, delirious with blood loss but already looking substantially less like a corpse. A damp rag settles just above his brow, and the handiwork of Ellie.

There’s an unrecognizable hurt in him, wounded in ways that he shouldn’t be capable of.

He doesn’t give any indication that he knows you’re here until he’s rasping out something weak disguised as stern.

“I ain’t bit. Shut the door behind you.”

Your mouth goes dry.

“How did you –?”

Joel just huffs in response, as indignant as his body lets him be.

“You see anyone else here? They might as well’ve jumped out the window, as fast as they dumped me ‘n left. I ain’t stupid.”

You accept that and drop the pretense, pursing your lips with a nod. He doesn’t seem that offended, knows it’s just the nature of the beast.

You move over to his bedside, unpacking the bag quickly on a side table, looping your metaphorical stethoscope around your neck and switching gears into a mode that’s strictly doctoral.

Yet, there’s still that hum beneath your skin, the fizzle of unfinished business. It’s thick in the space between you, in the way he flicks his gaze at you lazily. You’ll let him foster the anger, giving it a home. You can be the martyr he says you are.

This new lens feels calmer, almost professional. Your nerves are still firing rapidly, and your composure is forced, but it’s better than nothing.

You drag a chair from the corner up to Joel’s bed, not letting your eyes wander too far into the depths of the space. You don’t have time to dissect the idiosyncrasies of his life. Not yet.

He still hasn’t opened his eyes, but you get the sense that he’s tracking your every move. His limbs are concrete, the tendons in his forearms so tense and coiled like any and every movement is forbidden.

“Joel.”

He grunts, a pained translation. Still no effort to move.

“I need to take a look at you,” you say patiently, bargaining like you would with a kid. “Wanna tell me what hurts?”

Another grunt, softer this time. He motions vaguely, weakly to his head, then the left flank of his abdomen.

You already know what you’ll find under the rag on his head, and it bodes well that the bleeding looks to have stopped. His stomach wound, on the other hand, was enough to bleed through two layers.

“Alright. Lemme see.”

A muted whimper echoes in his throat, so uncharacteristically that it tugs on your heart. Still statuesque, unmoving.

Your fingers are deft, careful as they unbutton the first, second, third buttons of his flannel. Joel’s stock-still, and his breath comes in sharp, slow waves through his nose. Your own breath kind of sits in the back of your throat, and you pretend with a hurried exhale that you weren’t just holding it.

Your fingers reach his navel on the last button, and you’re gently tucking each panel of his shirt under him on either side, focusing too hard on not touching him. It feels like something is somersaulting low in your stomach.

You can’t even dare yourself to look at his chest, his stomach. The patch of hair leading down to the band of his pants.

Get it together. That’s not what this is.

An angry gash looks up at you, thankfully clotted with dried patches of blood. It’s about two delicate fingers long, a nasty slice. It looks clean, abrupt in shape but suspiciously manmade. Not too deep, but not superficial enough to heal without some assistance.

And thank god, not nearly as bad as you thought it would be.

Joel’s looking at you now through heavy lids, wary of you, but something like fear touches the corners of his eyes. You fight to stay medical, methodical in your diagnosis. No emotion slips out, nothing allowed in.

You sit back calmly, letting loose a sigh. Not letting yourself bathe in the intimacy of the moment, in the way he’s staring.

“You need stitches,” you announce simply.

“Like hell.”

“Joel.”

He’s scowling, a hurt animal pissed at its own vulnerability. Silence passes like a ship between you, and for a moment, you think he’ll really fight you on this. He can’t hide anything when he’s like this, the weighing of his options evident in the tick of his jaw, the pathetic pinch just in the center of his brows.

“Fine,” he grits out. “Make it quick.”

This fucker.

You’re rolling your eyes, unceremoniously tugging the rag from his forehead. The cloth is red but not soaked, just twinged pink around the edges. Joel curses, just an octave above unintelligible.

His hand is shooting to the cut near his hairline and you’re smacking it away before he can pollute it.

“Lay still, fuck’s sake,” you chastise. “An infection’ll put you out longer than a few days. Unless you have a puzzle you been meaning to get around to?”

The faux-threat calms him immediately, and the shift in restraint doesn’t go unchecked. He doesn’t say another word, but you catch a glare and a twitch of his mouth.

You make quick work of cleaning him up, squeezing rubbing alcohol on a clean towel and scrubbing patient circles through the mess of dried blood. Joel releases sharp noises you can only describe as growls when you get too close to the border of his cuts.

It’s primal, a dog asserting dominance with his leg caught in a trap.

You try to lose the attitude, and it’s difficult when your patient hates you, doesn’t hate you, won’t clarify either way.

There’s a hint of purple that’s developing like fresh film on the mountains of his knuckles that doesn’t go unnoticed. Places on the most taut peaks of flesh where his skin has split, marred with scrapes that look like indents of teeth. And in the right light, there’s a discoloration of something in the same family splayed on his ribs.

And that… you know that when you see it. Even if everything else can be explained away.

“You wanna talk about it?” you say quietly.

There’s an intermission where he doesn’t respond. Too long to be the truth, too short to come up with a lie. And you know he’s been waiting for this question, might’ve already thought of a story.

“Got clumsy,” Joel recites. “Tripped on some stairs that were caving in, hit my head.”

“Bullshit.” And it’s a statement, not an insult. It doesn’t cover why he has a certified stab wound in his side.

Another stretch of silence, lack of defensiveness, makes it clear that he knows you know. But he doesn’t elaborate, and for whatever reason, you don’t push it.

And maybe it’s enough to acknowledge this sort of thing for now. You can stow it away, let it keep you up at night. Draw parallels where there possibly aren’t any. If he’d run into a human thing, he’d be much worse off, right?

Just like you were.

You take care in lining up the supplies to stitch in neat order beside you, mulling over each step in your mind. Stalling, maybe.

You pull the whiskey bottle out of your bag by the neck and nudge Joel with the cap.

“Something to take the edge off.”

He kind of hesitates, but there’s a tenderness. Recognizing it as an act of mercy, a peace offering.

There’s nothing said, but he takes the bait, spinning off the top and swallowing a messy mouthful. A drip escapes through the corner of his mouth and slips into his beard.

You can feel the taste of it blossoming on your tongue.

He grunts his thanks and keeps a steady grip on the neck of the bottle, and the network of veins in his forearm unwind.

You clamp the needle, laced through with something thicker than thread but not quite medical grade. Joel exhales a shaky whine when you pierce the skin, and his fist grips the sheets when you twist clockwise to push the needle through to the other side.

“You’re doing great,” you murmur.

The needle weaves over the cut, greeting the other side. You pull it through and up, and his lower lip trembles, sweat beading his forehead.

“First one done,” you say, praising him but also yourself.

Joel’s still clenching the linens on the bed, ignoring you and hiding out in his own mind somewhere.

You don’t tell him that you’ve only ever practiced on fruit, that your suture knowledge comes exclusively from the one medical text you have and endless hours of TV you grew up on.

Silence envelopes you again, heavier than before if possible. The pressure waxes and wanes like nighttime waves, licking the shore between you. And it’s not angry, just something… else.

“Some house you got,” you note casually as a distraction, like you’re commenting on the weather. It comes off relaxed enough, though any conversation between you feels like flossing a crowded mouth.

His eyes sharpen, and you think it’s in excruciation, but there’s a twinge of apprehension. You straighten for a moment, hands fixed mid-stitch, and roll your eyes.

“Okay, cool it, Home Alone, I’m not casing the place.”

Joel takes a turn rolling his eyes. You swear that you see his mouth twitch again, but you hang your head, dabbing a cloth where pinpricks of blood form.

You try again.

“I like your paintings.”

You dare to look up, and his mouth is in a tight line.

“You like my paintings.” he repeats dully, not a question. Joel’s as cynical as you, and he thinks it’s a jab, not sincere.

“You’re not gonna make this easy on me, are you?”

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it.”

Now’s as good a time as any. You sigh at that.

“Look, the other night wasn’t my finest moment. It didn’t need to go that way,” you mutter, leaning on the concentration of sewing up Joel’s skin. Otherwise, you might feel too strongly, dissect your word choice with an uncomfortable linger. “Sorry. I know you were trying to help.”

He goes rigid as your second stitch meets a third. The bottle tips to his lips again, and you wonder if it’s an act of liquid courage. You boldly hope so.

“Nah, I shoulda kept my mouth shut. Been thinkin’ I needed to apologize anyway,” he admits, and you know he’s happy you made the first move. You can already feel him loosen, but maybe it’s the alcohol. “You ain’t a martyr, y’know.”

Oh.

The needle hooks into the final sliver of skin, your handiwork tightening into a neat line. You sit back, wiping your brow with the ungloved section of your wrist. It’s a treaty, a handshake at the very least.

“Actually, I think you hit the nail on the head with that one,” you smirk, olive branch fully hanging between your teeth now. “Keeping up the charade is so exhausting.”

Joel presses out a pained half-laugh, and you feel something crumbling between you.

You tie off the last stitch, trimming the excess thread off the knot. The clamp clatters into the tray, and you give it a final once-over before peeling a large rectangle of bandage from your kit and pressing it gently over the wound.

“All done,” you quip, peeling your gloves off. “Didn’t even have to amputate.”

“Not too bad,” he grunts.

“I’ll add it to your tab.”

While you’re riding the high of approval, you stand and move to the foot of the bed. Joel’s boots are still on, laced messily.

And for some reason, you don’t even ask permission, you just start untying, tipping them off and lining them next to one another on the hardwood.

He doesn’t say a word. Out of confusion, maybe.

You scoot your chair and makeshift flatlay along with you, positioning yourself at Joel’s head. That look is back, a side-stare that steals your breath.

That look that knows you could absolutely ruin him, and he’d either thank you or kill you.

The pads of your fingers brush back the hair from his forehead, still slightly matted with blood. It’s a surface cut, but crescent-shaped and easily hidden by a curl of brown, peppered with grey. Butterfly closure it is.

No signs of a concussion show themselves. At least there’s that.

“You might have a scar,” you murmur. Being this close to Joel makes you feel like you’re wearing two layers too many.

And he hasn’t broken the stare, not even minutely.

“Add it to the collection,” he says lowly, not an ounce of self-pity.

Your eyes flash to the scar near his temple. You’re exercising full-on restraint not to ask him about it. But it’s not the time, something you could try to pry out of him later. And knowing there’ll be a later makes you relax your shoulders, unclench your jaw.

He’s nice enough to pretend not to notice, or he’s in too much pain to mention it.

You dab the damp rag around the border of his cut again, mopping up any excess. You reach for the isopropyl.

“You might wanna take another swig,” you warn. And he obeys, down the hatch and white-knuckling through it.

“Good boy,” you’re murmuring automatically, and it just slips out.

Your mouth falls open just so, and Joel’s coughing, clearing his throat against the burn of whiskey. You’re pleading with the universe that his cough was close enough, loud enough to cover the words, but his face has turned a shade of red that’s probably rivaling the heat that reaches your ears.

Good boy? Jesus Christ.

If there was ever a heightened moment of being fucking touch-starved, it’s this.

You make haste with the disinfectant and place the closures over the cut. The bloodied towels and scraps from the DIY surgery are cleaned up, tied neatly into a plastic bag. And now, this is the part where you run and never face him again.

You’re already making plans to board up your windows, maybe have Ellie deliver your meals solely through a slot in the door.

But Joel’s pain is overriding everything, and he’s sunken even further back into the pillow, his head lolling to prop on his shoulder. He’s whispering a weak thanks that’s incoherent at best. You tug the blanket up and over him.

You grab a glass from downstairs, fill it to the brim with water and bring it to him. He groans at the sight, petulant.

“I’m not leaving until you finish this.”

His lifts his arm for it, scowling. “Gimme the damn thing.”

Satisfied, you hand it over and watch him drink it down, his throat bobbing in a hearty gulp. Your gaze can’t help but snag on it.

You have got to get the fuck out of here.

You come back with a refilled glass and sit it on his bedside table, close enough within reach. The medical bag is packed up and ready, sagging slightly in areas where you’ve emptied it. It knocks against your already-knocking knees, and you’re grateful to use its weight as an excuse for how blurred you feel.

“I need to talk to Tommy. You gonna be alright for a bit?”

His eyes are closed again, on the outskirts of rest, but his mouth pulls up in the ghost of smile.

“Ain’t goin’ nowhere, sweetheart.”

And you hope he means it.

—

You track down an unsettled Tommy, finding him pacing in the back of the general store. He’s restocking some shelves but not quite – there’s an gross pairing of tinned fish and fresh eggs sitting on a display that’s unappetizing at best.

“He’s okay. No bite,” you add lowly, acutely aware of how many pairs of ears are in the store. “But he needs to be monitored.”

Tommy slackens, rubbing his eyes that are full of exhaustion and bruised with worry. Index finger and thumb stroking the respective tails of his mustache one, two, three times as the gravity of that strikes him.

He loops you into an embrace, and it’s kind, full of ease. The smell of firewood and smoke tickles your nose. His worry evaporates then, and honestly, so does yours.

“He doin’ alright?”

You chew on that for a moment and nod. There are complications, but nothing to do with Joel’s health.

“He was pissed about the stitches, but I didn’t have a choice. Cut was pretty deep.”

“So… he tell you what happened, then?”

There’s that question again. You feel like you should have an answer, but if he wouldn’t clue in Ellie, you sure as hell wouldn’t be.

Like squeezing blood from a stone, your dad used to say.

“No,” you lie instinctively. You don’t know why.

But it isn’t really. Not if you don’t know the full truth yourself. There’s just something about Joel’s omission that makes you feel entitled to find out first.

“He said he fell down some stairs,” you amend, “just didn’t say where or how.”

Tommy offers you the same look that Ellie gave you – a raised brow coupled with a touch of disbelief.

“If you say so.”

You shrug, playing it as cool as’ll come natural to you. “You know Joel. Doesn’t want to make a fuss.”

He chuckles, shaking his head and rolling out his shoulders that you know have been holding tension. He believes that, at least.

“Sounds like you know him, too.”

—

A few days come and go.

Ellie takes on a lot of the recovery, but she doesn’t like messing with stitches — creeps me the fuck out that you did that without puking all over him, she claims — and she’s eager to substitute for the patrol routes while Joel’s down and out. You offer to step in, with a totally normal and selfless motive.

If she thinks anything else of it, you’d be the last to know.

Your new itinerary consists of changing Joel’s bandages, cleaning up through his hissed breaths and every goddamn it. Twice a day, morning and night and sometimes in closer intervals, but never approaching the cusp of any boundary.

Joel’s fiercely independent, swatting your hands when you try to help. Donning a clean flannel in the space between your lunchtime visit and your nightcap, despite you telling him that he shouldn’t be pushing his mobility.

That said, he’s marginally better about following doctor’s orders, drinking the water you leave on his nightstand but neglecting the pills that would stop him from coiling in on himself like a ready spring. And he doesn’t say it but you know it’s because he thinks it’d be a waste.

You trade regular formalities at first, each of you standing behind your respective walls, daring the other to toe a bit closer.

Joel doesn’t ask, but you bring him some short stories to pass the time and he devours them. You didn’t think much of it other than just straying past the point of being nice, but your heart sings a bit at how he leaves his shell at your coaxing.

You learn Bradbury is his favorite, but when he finishes The Most Dangerous Game, it’s the most he’s ever spoken to you in one sitting, astounded at the perfectly tied bow of an ending, asking you questions that only the author could answer. But it’s a marvel to witness, something you think about when you’re cleaning stables or washing dishes.

He’s unraveling for you, a loose thread tugged too hard on your favorite sweater. He talks of the places in the paintings, sometimes abruptly, like he isn’t sure what his cue is or if he has one.

Mentions of pre-Jackson when there was so much uncertainty and isolation, but it was coupled with those types of watercolor skies that you couldn’t paint if you tried.

These little pieces of him that make him whole – it’s like you’re both in on the same secret. And Joel isn’t doing it to lighten the tension, to be nice; that isn’t his brand of politeness. He just revels in the holy act of confession with you as his witness.

You come to learn that his room is modest, different from the rest of his house. Clues of hobbies sprawled on his desk – leatherworking tools and hand drawn blueprints that you can’t get a good look at with just a sidelong glance.

There’s a dusty stereo tucked at the back towards the wall, and you picture a content Joel, sketching new plans for a porch swing or some small addition while old bluesy country croons from the speakers.

You like this daydream, placing him in something lighthearted where his only worry is that he’s losing daylight on yardwork.

The two of you talk about little bits of everything and nothing. Reminiscing about sending snail mail, discussing what you think places like Italy look like now. How close you came to crossing an ocean in another life.

Tonight, you have a night terror that clings to you like wet denim. Stop-motion, nonsensical. Your head ricocheting into concrete, hitting your temple just so. Flashes of the people that used to be your parents, your friends.

And just as the life drains from you, blood seeping onto the floor and into spidering cracks, you wake up a flailing mess.

You practice your routine, twisting on knobs of lamps and plugging in the twinkling lights hanging around the perimeter of the living room. You press your cheek to the floor, checking under your bed for monsters for good measure.

Bleary-eyed, you’re climbing back under the covers, pulling them snug up to your chin.

There’s a neediness crawling its way through your organs with a one-way ticket south. The juxtaposition of fear mingles with an otherness, and it anchors itself to Joel.

You never cared for a protector, still don’t, but the eagerness that sprouts from him to defend your honor — and for nothing in return — magnetizes you on a cellular level.

Your fingers are dipping into the band of your already-damp underwear, taking inventory of what the thought of him does to you. Body on auto-pilot. A pool of dripping neediness, so slick that you’re coating your clit in excess and rubbing in tight circles.

He doesn’t even have to touch you, and it’s pathetic.

Images of Joel’s beard scratching your thighs swirls behind your eyelids, your hand gliding between the glistening of your folds. Fingers crook inside you, dipping into the last knuckle, and you’re choking on a gasp, already on the edge.

You wish they were more calloused, thicker, with length that can hit the spot that’s desperately out of reach.

You wish they were Joel’s.

It takes only a minute, some curling and pumping of your wrist to make it quick in case it’ll only ever be a fantasy. The wet noises of your arousal are nothing short of obscene, and you’re coming loudly, sharply on a string of moans.

In some ways, you think, you have already died.

And fuck. It’s so poetic it makes you sick.

—

On the fourth day, Maria sends you to Joel’s with some stew — two hearty containers that're meant for the both of you.

She’s been taking her shift at his place, carrying over containers of this and that to keep him fed. You wonder how often she takes on that role anyway, sans injury. You don’t peg Joel as the type to eat three square meals a day of his own accord.

Tell Joel I can’t make it tonight. Gotta do inventory.

She makes no room for elaboration, so you don’t ask. But you thank her with a hug, and you could swear that she’s giving you a conspiratorial smirk.

When you knock on Joel’s bedroom, he gives a new, warm invitation, coated in subtle hospitality. It’s a far stretch from the unaffected what? you might’ve received a week ago.

You place the stew down on the bedside table, along with some bowls and spoons you plucked from his kitchen. He just looks up at you from his bed, uncertainty reaching the lines of his forehead.

“It’s all Maria,” you explain and he hums, catching up.

“Explains a lot,” he mutters.

You eat quietly for a little over ten minutes. Joel’s flannel today boasts a rich navy, buttoned up to the top but not far enough to hide the sprinkling of hair that peeks through.

He catches you staring and pins you with a dark glance.

“You afraid of the dark or somethin’?”

Joel’s ask cuts through the air, and your spoon stops mid-route to your open mouth. It’s so out of the blue that it stuns you momentarily.

“Sorry?”

“You turn the lights on at night.”

What you thought to be private moments of fear were actually on display for all to see.

For Joel to see.

And the memory of your thighs trapping your hand as you came over and over again on your fingers… you’re grateful to at least have had some decorum to draw your bedroom curtains.

“Um.” You dig for a way to say nope, I’m actually just a pussy and I see things that aren’t there. Also, I was touching myself thinking about you last night. “No, just nightmares.”

Every inch of your skin feels like it’s searing. A bead of sweat makes a slow descent down your spine to your tailbone. You laugh lightly to deflect.

Joel’s mouth thins into a tight line.

“It’s nothing,” you promise.

“Ain’t nothin’,” he snaps. His brows are knitted in fury, misdirected. But you get it.

Your stomach is rumbling, but you’ve effectively lost whatever appetite you had. The bowl finds a space on the side table, and you’re pulling your knees to your chest protectively, thumbing at the fray on the cuff of your jeans.

You don’t mean to scowl, but you can’t help it. You can’t even meet his eyes.

Joel’s sighing, his own bowl discarded on the nightstand, grazing the lip of yours.

“Look, it’s not my business,” he starts, choosing his words carefully, “but that kinda shit worries me.”

When you do look up, he’s rubbing his beard with rigid fingers. You should feel nice and fuzzy that he cares enough to point it out, but it’s just embarrassment instead.

That, on top of everything else, you can’t even get through the night without waking up in a cold sweat.

“I know how it looks,” you say in surrender, “but I swear I’m fine.”

You can imagine what it would feel like to really mean it; it’s just on the tip of your tongue. There is a defiance there, it’s just struggling to find a way out.

“You sure about that?”

You let your feet touch the floor, straightening out your legs and busying yourself with smoothing the creases in your pants.

“You worry about everyone else like this?” you muse, hoping to redirect.

Joel’s scratching the back of his neck, eyes fixed anywhere else.

“Always worried about you.”

If you were any farther away, you wouldn’t have heard him.

Outside, kids are yelling, playing tag. You watch in jealousy, can almost hear the crunch of their boots and their tiny, inconsequential conversations. It takes you longer than intended to give a response, and he waits, patiently. Just trickles a look from the crown of your head to your hands to your face. Searching for a reaction.

“You’re about ten months late, Miller.” And you’re smiling briefly. You mean it as playful, but it’s colored with sadness.

His eyes glaze, and the wheels are turning, wondering if that also means too late.

“Didn’t want you to think I was takin’ advantage of the situation. And I thought Max —” Joel bites down on the name.

“Fuck Max,” you spit in disgust. “That was never a thing.”

You don’t have to make eye contact to see that he’s pleased by that. He hums in the back of his throat. Resists a shit-eating grin. From the looks of Joel connecting the dots, you don’t need say much else.

“Yeah, well. We all failed you,” he insists. “I failed you.”

It sets an incredulous spark in some hidden part of you. Nails cut into your palm, your fists balling harshly. Everyone else? Sure, you’d give him that. Jackson spit you out, with the exception of a select few.

But Joel?

“You saved me.”

“Not good enough,” he says under his breath.

—

The next day, you let yourself inside, already learning the language of Joel’s house when you press a little extra weight against the door to seal it shut when it sticks.

It’s quiet, on the cusp of 8, and you wouldn’t be surprised if Joel’s on the brink of sleep.

The sun’s long settled over the mountain, so there’s not much in the way of guidance.

It’s dark, but you expected it to be. You draw the curtains one by one, moving blindly from room to room yet knowing exactly where your feet are. It strikes you as odd, a visitor keeping pace with an unfamiliar house.

But if Joel’s anything, it’s predictable. Unfussy in the way he keeps out of the way, even in his own space. Takes pride in it, sure, but lives in a way that demands nothing but cherishes everything, even the absence of something.

Meaning there’s nothing too unexpected, too risky in its placement. He doesn’t take up too much room in the event that it’s gone tomorrow.

When your hands fumble for the switch of the living room lamp, the bulb springs to life and bathes a wary Joel in light. Sitting on the couch, slouched with residual soreness, but waiting.

For you.

“Jesus, fuck — what the fuck, Joel —”

“You’re late.”

“— sitting in the fucking dark like a lunatic —”

He puts a hand up to stop you, as if to press your mute button.

“I didn’t fall down any stairs.”

Your hands have risen to your chest in the shock of him there, and you’re gripping your shirt in the way he had almost a week ago. You don’t miss that little detail, so much so that you struggle to piece together what he’s saying.

It punches you abnormal; you kept so busy with leaving the subject alone that it slipped your mind that he lied.

“Sit down.”

You’re obedient and you don’t know why. You find a seat across from him, pulling up a stool that’s meant for feet, not your ass. Something crackles beside you, and the embers of a dying fire glow and warm to the left of you.

Your leg crosses over your knee, creating a 45-degree angle that you rest your elbows on. “Yeah, I gathered as much, thanks. You’re a terrible liar.”

Joel’s just eyeing you. And it’s not in a way that sizes you up, more of a calculation of what to say next. What to give away. There’s a beat of this, then another, then another.

“I thought ‘bed rest’ was pretty self-explanatory.”

You’re growing impatient, filling the room just to do it. You both know what happened, and maybe that’s what’s needling at you. That you’re the one person who’d understand the most, but the one person he doesn’t want to know.

It feels wretched and seething, knowing something but not enough.

“I’m gonna need you to cut to the part where you tell me what happened, Joel.”

At that, Joel drags in a breath and leans deeper into the couch. His gaze has moved to somewhere far off, burning into the drawn curtains like he can see outside, can see directly into the window of your kitchen. And with sudden clarity, you realize that he could — it’s a clean diagonal stare.

Are you afraid of the dark?

How many times has he sat in this very spot, taking in the show, watching you make tea, watching you read, watching you stutter and shake with sobs? Witnessing the onslaught of a nightmare?

Touching yourself? Watching you undress?

You aren’t the voyeuristic type, just uncaring to the point of defenseless. But Joel keeping an eye on you in this way is the coup de grâce that does you in. There’s no question now of whether he cares.

“I took Mountain View, headed for the outpost. Not much up that way lately, maybe one or two infected every once ‘n a while,” he says, and it’s unsettling that he’s talking in a way that could be to anyone or no one at all. “Thought I’d stop at the pharmacy on the way up, check that off, too. ‘Cept I wasn’t the only one with that idea.”

He pauses only to crack his knuckles for effect. Fingertips splay on his spread knees, and what seemed so fragile earlier, watercolors of bruises stretching from ligament to tendon, seems threatening now.

“One was lootin’ in the back, didn’t hear me come in. I thought he mighta been alone ‘til his friend followed me in,” he pauses, lost in thought. “Got into it with him.”

As if on cue, the gory split-skin of his hands flexes. Offensive wounds.

You were right, but you wish you weren’t.

“His friend came up from the back, ‘n they took turns for a minute. Long enough for me to get a good look. I ended up takin’ out the shorter one, other one was gone before I could get up.”

Joel doesn’t lift his head, just his eyes. The skin around them crinkles in sinister shapes, lids disappeared, lashes nearly touching brow. You know it’s not anger directed at you, but it’s shrinking you back down into an armchair, your fingers digging and clawing at the fabric without recognizing it.

“Know what’s funny about that?”

You don’t think you can answer with the desert that runs through your mouth. And whatever it is, it’s anything but.

“Not a lot of activity along the outposts this way, unless it’s infected. Everyone else comes straight through to Jackson. The logs say we’ve only run into two groups of raiders in the last five years along the patrol route,” another pause for emphasis. “And one of them was ten months ago.”

Something catches in your chest.

And then there’s a dam that breaks, pure relief. Relief that Joel’s seen the thing you’ve been pointing and screaming at while everyone else shrugs their shoulders and squints.

Then — panic.

Ice sneaks into your veins. The tips of your fingers run numb. It strikes you that you’re standing, that the foot stool is tipped on its side.

He doesn’t move, but there’s a contained rage in his eyes and his voice. A temper bubbling now that you’ve confirmed what he suspected.

“He have any tattoos?” Joel asks roughly.

There’s a flash of stars, hand-poked, bordering on downright sloppy.

“Who?” You say dumbly, but it’s obvious what he’s referring to. He’s seen it, too, and he’s seen it this week.

“You know who.”

You do.

You could draw it from memory if he asked.

Your weight becomes too much for your legs, and you collapse back down, this time into a chair that supports your amoeba-like state as everything in you turns to jelly.

“They’re getting closer. We were in Teton, so if they made it this far —” you jumble out, not sure if it’s just meaningless vomit to his ears. By his solemn nod, it isn’t.

He’s up and out of his seat with a wince that’s not as severe as before, his eyes careful on you, on your hands that you’re gripping together tightly to keep them still.

The isolation of his side is evident in the way he closes the space between you, but he masks the grimace as best he can. There’s a reprimand in you somewhere that he should be resting, lying down at least, but you know it’s pointless.

“Hey.”

He’s kneeling as much as his flank will allow, a pain in his eyes that isn’t for himself. Those fingertips scale the cliff of your jaw, ghosting as if he’s afraid to overstep. They’re prodding you to meet his eyes, and when you do, he drops his hand like he’s been burned.

It connects fiercely to a memory that you try to hold in your hands. A snowy, reminiscent one that slips through like a ribbon of smoke.

“Ain’t gotta worry about him. I’ll take care of it.”

You laugh, a real one that’s stained with sarcasm.

“What does that mean?”

Joel softens now, and the shift startles you. He thinks for a beat before answering.

“Whatever you need it to mean.”

It feels incomprehensible that anyone would willingly put themselves in danger for you, even adjacently, but then who noticed you were missing that day? Who led the pack, found you bleeding out?

The weather was violent, incoherent — a lost cause, a needle in the proverbial haystack. He already toed the line of a dangerous, potentially fruitless rescue mission.

And you never even thanked him.

“Why?” You ask it for the second time in as much as a week. It’s disjointed in conversation, but he knows that you need this answer.

“You remember how you were before?”

And for a split-second, you try.

There are glimpses, a rickety reel of kids tugging on your pant leg as they beg you to join them during recess, a glittering spray of laughter with Ellie as empty beer cans and discarded guitars litter her living room floor.

Of your friends’ faces on too many relaxed, sunny patrols, sometimes forcing them into a detour into the abandoned record store through Alpine so you can see what’s left.

Dinner in warm houses like Tommy and Maria’s, so full to the brim of love and potatoes and mead that you stumble on down to your house with cheeks burning and tuck yourself in with all of the lights off.

Visions of Joel that are fleeting, taped in frames on a film strip, but friendly exchanges.

But it’s a faceless narration. The accident wiped clean of any room for interpretation. Any visitation with these memories. You can place yourself in them, but can’t for the life of you feel tethered to her.

Frustrated, eyes watering, you shake your head.

“That’s why.”

Now he’s holding your jaw like he would some fragile thing, slotting his thumb just under the pulse thrumming in your neck, feeling the echo of it in his hand. There’s a silence, as if he’s straining to hear, to know the sound and syllables of your livelihood. You wish he’d press harder, bring you to the precipice of pleasure and death.

If only to know what it feels to be glass in Joel Miller’s hands, to be given the taste of death after he’d given you the gift of life all those months ago.

Your heart is hammering against your ribs. You know he can feel the adrenaline in your pulse point.

“Joel,” it falls out as a whisper, and you hate how good his name feels in your mouth.

He’s looking at you with empathy, thumbing through the pages of every agony you’ve succumbed to. It’s new and buzzing, knowing that there’s nothing you’d ever have to explain to Joel. No reasoning or fine print for how you are, he just knows. And he stays anyway.

A tear tracks a salty line down your face and it meets the pad of his thumb, an easy swipe.

And there’s a surge low in your throat, seesawing with satisfaction and the tell-tale lump of more tears if you lean in hard enough. Joel never shows his hand, the last to fold, but it feels a lot like you’re the prize he was waiting to throw cards down for.

So, you lean. Concave cheek into his calloused hand, tears without sobs leaking between his fingers down into his sleeve. The weight of only the world — your world, plural and shared — pushing you into him. The cataclysmic release that you’ve been aching for.

Your head is against his chest, cheek pressed against flannel because he’s guided you there. And it’s nice, you think, nice that he’s being a gentleman about the whole thing.

A gentleman just finger-combing through your hair, tucking it behind your ear.

It’s serene, and you’d happily make a home there and fall asleep if it wasn’t for the hammering of your heartbeat. You know he can feel it, and your quickened breath is the cherry on top.

Joel levels your faces, and his fingers are deja vu on the braille of each ridged cheekbone. He’s waiting on a cue, a line to be given to him from offstage, but you see flames licking through each darkened iris.

Something keeps holding him back, keeps holding you back. He’s too careful, afraid of cutting his hands on you. And in exploring every facet of that, it’s because he doesn’t want to bleed on you, not because the sharpest parts of you could hurt him.

You keep telling yourself it’s foreign and you’re strangers to one another.

But is it? Are you?

As if he’s reading your mind, Joel closes the distance in one fell swoop, and he kisses you.

It’s clumsy at first, in the way that clumsy is when you’re learning each other’s mouths. You taste the dregs of whiskey, of something wanton, and every unspoken word that’s ever misted between you. Years of forming smile lines and the prickle of his unkempt beard against your chin, taste the stories of every scar.

You’re tangling with him, lips pressing urgently against Joel. His tongue’s expert but gentle when he dips it inside your mouth, and you’re swapping breathless sighs. You can only imagine what he’s tasting of you, what flavor he’s been dreaming of.

His hands are still at either side of your face, thumbs pressing sweetly into the bony part of your jaw. Joel’s stilling the unrest in you that’s put its bags down and refused to leave. It quiets, tips a hat and walks out, leaving a welcome calm in place.

There’s a chasteness, but you know he’s just as desperate and hungry as you are. Wanting to claim, to devour each other entirely. And it’s not lost on you that he’s on his knees, hands clasping your face in prayer like you’re some communion he’s drinking from.

He engulfs you, and you’re moving together, fitting together like you were poured from the same mold. Joel’s fingers have moved to thread through your hair, one of his hands cradling the back of your head and tugging just barely.

Enough that magma pools in between your hips.

But he slows, letting loose a low groan into the heat of your mouth. It’s helpless, like he’s accepted he can’t swim and has submerged his head underwater.

And when you finally break apart, Joel’s pupils are dilated, on the cusp of black. Your collective breaths are uneven. He looks at you in awe.

“Been wantin’ to do that for a long, long time,” he’s saying, but you can barely hear him. Not when your heart is catching up with the rest of you, roaring above everything else. His thumb skates over your bottom lip, and the instinct to unhinge your jaw for him shouldn’t be there, but it is.

Maybe this sort of suffering is worth it, if it’s Joel you’re suffering for.

If you weren’t in trouble before, you sure as fuck are now.

[hoshigray]

https://www.tumblr.com/hoshigray/725915919672573952/sit-down-for-this-one-alright-how-bout-a-gigolo

your fic with toji i love it sm 🫶🫶🫶 BUT how would he react if reader tried someone elses services cs her friends told her to try it out…

noonie, you're so real for this bc damn, why the hell didn't i think of that :OOO lol hope you like this, hon~~ spin-off of this → ☆;

cw: gigolo! Toji x fem! reader - smut so minors DNI - dumbification - toji being jealous/possessive bc duh - cunnilingus (f! receiving) - clitoral play (biting/grazing + pinching) - degradation (toji calling you a whore and slut) - scratching (f! receiving) - impact play; pussy slaps - prone bone + full nelson position - pet names (baby, mama, princess) - new playboy may or may not be Gojo *shrugs* ;) - just Toji fucking you dumb, lol - mention of drool and tears. wc: 1.6k

What should've happened today was Toji enjoying a night to himself because tonight he's seeing a client he hadn't seen in a long while. Nothing wrong with spending an afternoon with an old acquaintance, specifically when it entails a good night of getting his dick wet for a thick sum of cash. Besides, he planned on seeing you afterward — his little sweet thing — stopping by your place and spending the night.

It's funny, isn't it? He met you because of this little hustle of his, and here he is fawning over you like some dumb schoolboy. It makes him feel a bit of a wimp, catching feelings for a customer? That's rookie moves. But he couldn't care less; long as he gets to see your darling smile and fuck the ever-loving shit out of you once per week, all is good in the books.

Seeing and swooping you off your feet later tonight is what was supposed to happen. That's all he was thinking about exiting the hotel room after his client left and paid for his services as promised. So, why the hell were you the first person he saw out of the room? Your face utterly petrified when you turn to see him with another man's arm dropped over your shoulders. A familiar man — another playboy who seemed elated to be around with you. Toji could assume the worst from what he was seeing. Oh, hell no.

What happened today was meant to be kept between two people — you and this new playboy. It came out of fucking nowhere when your friends crowding you about this "new guy in town," elucidating how handsome and pretty the guy is and how great he was in bed ("I'm telling you, Y/n, you really outta try him out!" "No, for real though. Like, here's a pic of him we took right after he ate me out! Don't you think he has the most gorgeous eyes~?"). You had to admit the young man was charming, but that didn't necessarily mean you wanted to do anything explicit with him. So, why did your friends schedule a night with him for you!?? Still puzzled over the fact, you can't seem to answer.

Regardless, you did have sex with another guy today — another Gioglo at that. It wasn't anything serious between you two, just casual sex for money. Plus, it was a pleasure to hang out with him, as the guy seemed fun to be around! Even with his dark shades on, the brightest thing was his dashing smile. However, a deep part of yourself felt guilt over the charade because you haven't had services with anyone else other than Toji. Sure, you and the older man aren't in a labeled relationship outside of an escort and his client. But still, he's the only man you've been intimate with. He's the only one who knows your body more than you, what you like, and how to turn you on. You were his favorite after all.

To be in the hold of another man just felt wrong...That's why your eyes go wider than golf balls when you unexpectedly bump into him when leaving your hotel room with your new one-night stand. Oh, fucking shit...

It all happened relatively quick. One moment, Toji snatches your wrist and pulls you off the young playboy, having you follow his storming march to the hotel room he just left. The next moment, you're gasping for dear life with Toji propping you against a wall, his head buried between your legs dangled on his shoulders, and his mouth ravishing your soaked folds.

"Ahhh!!Ahhhh!! Toji, too fast, please st—Ohooo!!!"

"Shut the fuck up," he says coldly, giving your clitoris a light bite before giving it a slow lick. You jerk and shiver at the tease. "Stay still, or I'm droppin' ya."

Toji smacks on your chasm, a scream leaving your lips, and you just know the others next door heard. And a pinch to your clit results in incoherent babbles, drool pooling in your mouth drips down your chin.

It doesn't stop there. All your clothes discarded to the floor, he has you pinned on the bed by your shoulders, your legs trapped between his, and his pelvis hammering down on you. Forced wails erupt from your throat with every hash rut to the ass, your slit clamping onto him with every graze to your sweet spots. You grip the sheets from his vigorous pace, tears coursing down your hot face and staining the cream cotton pillowcase.

"...Ahhhaaa!!Nnmmph!! Ohhhhfuckingshiiiiit!!" It isn't the first you've had Toji drill his cock into you with a harsh cadence. Yet, with how each fierce and snappy thrust turns your mind to mush, being pinned to the mattress as your breath gets snatched away, you knew long before that what Toji was doing to you was different than all the other times you've had sex. A lot more aggressive — a lot more deadly.

And the older man doesn't falter at all, nope. If anything, your cries only fuel his drive even more, a grin lifting his scar on the right of his lip. "Hmm, what's wrong, baby? Not fast 'nough for ya?" You open your mouth, but your words are comprised of euphoric wails. Ticked, Toji smacks your ass, and a yelp escapes your sore body. He comes down to your ear while grinding his hips on your ass, choked shrieks are muffled by the pillow. "Hey, I'm talkin'. Hmm? You thinkin' bout that other fucker's dick inside ya, huh? He fuck ya real hard like this?"

"N-Nmmm....Noooo, I—OhhhhJesusssss...."

"You what?" A sharp thrust to your chasm prompts you to howl and your eyes roll back, too fucked out of your mind to know how loud you are. "Heh, y're lookin' real stupid right now. I bet you can't think a fuckin' thing with my dick in—Mmmm! fuck....Grippin' on me hard, actin' like a real whore, princess." More abrupts hits to your ass as his nails dig to your bare shoulders; the pain coincide with the pleasure you're experiencing has you seeing stars.

He fucks you like this for what feels like an hour, your ass and pussy hot from the constant contact of his pelvis and balls smacking deep into you. The feeling of his dick being practically the only thing rotting your mind.

But you don't get rest just yet, though. Towards the end, the sun is completely down, the city lights are displayed from the hotel window, and your ecstatic moans still fill the room. Your back is to his chest, your legs pulled back to your chest by his arms and forcing you in a headlock, while his intense ruts return and his cock churns your spongey insides. Here is where you've given up restraining yourself, letting Toji use your body as his plaything, tears and drool painting your face into a gorgeous mess.

"....Ohhoooo, Ahhhoooo—Hmmmm," your brain is too long gone to think proper sentences, your mouth sprouting out nonsense. It all humors the man beneath you, his gruff chuckles vibrating your back balanced on his chest. "Soooo deeep — sosodeeeep..."

"Feelin' good there, mama?" You only respond with a euphoric hum, another snicker from the older man. "Too fucked outta're mind to answer me. Lettin' another man touch this pussy; you take dick from everybody, huh. What a fuckin' slut..." He pushes his length upward to your hole. Come leaking from you, and a white ring around the base of his dick is evidence of your session. "Hnngh! But I made ya like that..."

"....Fuuuuck, Tojiiiii, don't stooop!!" You cry out to him with gritted teeth, your haze only worsening with his cock brushing up on your G- spot precisely. "Ohhhhhh, right there, right thereeee!!"

"Mmmph—Ohhhh shit," the way your cunt contracts around him almost makes him give in to another orgasm, biting on your shoulder to compose himself. "....Shit, shit, shit, so fuckin' tight, baby...."

The hot air and thick musk of your buddies get to your head, your head ringing and pounding. Screams grow higher with every stroke, and the cold shivers crawl up your spine. It's almost here. "Toji, Tojiii, I'm gonna cumm—hic—sooocloseee!!"

Toji sneers once more. "Yeah, you are. Cumming is all y'r pretty, dumb brain can think about." And with that, his pace increases speed, drilling your walls with his veiny girth. It all electrifies your nerves, your breathing off the rails, and your climax slapping you hard with the deep thrusts he gives you.

With a cloudy mind and a mindless smile, your slit flutters on Toji's length beautifully. Too enraptured with the blissful sensation to worry about the spit streaming down your puffy lips. And it doesn't take long for Toji to be under the same spell as you, his rhythm falling back with the spill of his load inside you. His brows trenched while pumping into you, his balls pulsing with your velvet walls.

Heaving bodies soon fall into a tranquil state, your breathing finding its way into a steady flow. Finally, Toji permits your body and mind to relax from his relentless hold, releasing your body from the full nelson and gently sliding your tired body next to his.

He wipes the saliva from your mouth with the back of his hand, his hooded jade eyes never leaving your fatigued ones. "Hehe, sorry 'bout that, baby. You just feel too good to share."

You purr into his touch, his hand cupping your cheek. "Too good that you'd break my ass?" He barks an exhausted laugh at your remark, a tired giggle fleeing your lips.

"For you, I'd break anyone else that thinks they can have you." Toji kisses your temple.

"And my ass?"

"...Only if I'm the one breakin' it." You playfully hit his abs, and another laugh leaves the older man before you two sleep in each other's warmth.

want more like this? plz send me more thirsts ♡

[annwrites]

⸻ married at mount airy. part two. ⸻

· pairing: billy hargrove x cultmember!reader · type: part of a series · summary: billy is forced out of the life he's familiar with & thrust into one he never asked for. just as he feels at his breaking point, someone comes along & grounds him with but a touch of her hand. · tags: angst · tw: religion, brainwashing, parental abuse, suicidal ideation, depression, misogyny · word count: 5.6k

He’s never felt so helpless in all his life.

Not even when he was little and watched his worthless excuse of a father beat his mother to a pulp as she cowered on the floor, begging him to stop. But she wasn’t begging for herself. No. It was always for him.

The little five-year-old version of himself who would watch teary-eyed and terrified from a dark corner, trembling, mumbling for his dad to stop. Just please stop.

He feels returned to that state now as he watches his Camaro being loaded onto the back of a trailer to be hauled away to a dealership.

The only thing he had left. The only part of himself which remained untouched by his father’s wrath and unyielding control. His ticket out of this soul-sucking fucking life stolen away from him in an instant.

All because he never got the goddamn thing transferred into his name. And because his father is enough of a clueless idiot to let himself be brainwashed by some cultish whore.

When Billy pulls into the driveway, it’s late. He’s been picking up extra hours at the shop, trying to save up for when he turns eighteen in a few months so that he can get the hell out of here.

He’d leave now, but he doesn’t have enough to live off of. Not yet. And, maybe it’s cowardly to admit, but the thought of being destitute with only his car to live in admittedly scares him. So, he survives—endures his father and this strange new woman who just suddenly walked into their life—as best he can. He just tries to stay out of his old man’s way.

But since meeting this broad—Rebecca—at the local farmer’s market, it’s like his father’s internal pendulum has swung from one extreme to the other. So, what? Billy’s own mother hadn’t been enough to make his father want to be a decent man, but this woman—some stranger he doesn’t share a fucking child with—is enough to make him find some common decency within himself after all these years; almost two decades?

And the worst part is that she’s nice to even him. Worse because he doesn’t want to like her. But her disposition makes the act of disliking her difficult to achieve.

He can’t understand what it is, specifically, that his dad seems to appreciate about her so much.

Maybe she can suck a golf ball through a garden hose. Maybe it’s because she’s younger than him. Who knows?

He’s heard them going at it in his dad’s bedroom once or twice now, and suffice to say that he always seems in a far chipper mood come the next morning.

But he’s not happy for him. No. It makes him fuckin’ sick.

Billy exits his car, takes one last drag from his cigarette, then flicks it onto the asphalt before grinding it out with the heel of his boot. He then reluctantly makes his way to the front door.

Billy toes off his boots and hangs up his leather jacket before heading in the direction of his room to grab a change of clothes so he can take a quick shower to wash the grease and dirt off himself.

He’s beat, as well as hungry.

Eating in the shower… There’s an idea.

It’s as he makes to pass by the living room that a female voice calls out to him, causing him to stop, roll his eyes, but nevertheless wait.

“Yeah?”

Rebecca swings around the corner and greets him with a smile. “You hungry? I could make you something to eat while you shower.”

He shifts on his feet and glances behind her to the living room where his dad is leaned back in a recliner, watching TV. He then meets her eyes again. “Uh, sure. I guess.”

She nods, then makes to step past him. “Grilled cheese? Or, oh! I could throw one of those frozen pizzas in the oven, maybe with jalapeños on top?”

He shrugs. “Pizza sounds good.”

Billy often wonders where the fuck this lady came from.

She’s talked about it before. Some place called Mount Airy? He’s never heard of it. Sounds like some off-the-grid shit, if Billy’s being honest.

She also talks about God a lot. But not in the way you might think, like she’s some Jehovah’s Witness that’s trying to convert him and his dad, but just more in an idle chit-chatty kind of way.

He hates the fact that she makes religion and Mount-whatever-or-other sound even the least bit appealing. A refuge from all the daily shit Billy has to trudge through just to make a buck? Yeah, right. He believes in the old saying: if it sounds too good to be true, then it probably is.

But his dad seems far more easily swayed, and that gives Billy cause to worry.

Neil sighs heavily, then slams the refrigerator door closed. “You’re seeing things that aren’t there, Billy. Rebecca’s been a welcome change around here.”

He pops the top off the beer bottle in his grip, then tosses it into the trash. “You know what your problem is, boy? You think the only ‘good’ woman who ever lived was your worthless mother. But she walked out on us, didn’t she? Left you behind and never looked back. I say good riddance. But Rebecca’s different. And you’re going to give her the respect she’s owed. I won’t have you making her feel unwelcome around here, and, by extension, driving her away.”

He pushes past Billy to head to his recliner.

Meanwhile, Billy stays still and quiet while fighting back the stinging tears which brim in his eyes.

Worthless.

Left him behind.

Good riddance.

What did he ever do to deserve so much fucking hate from the very man he came from? The only family he has left, even if the term ‘family’ is doing some heavy fucking lifting.

He never asked to be forced into this world; this life. It’s like his father means to continually punish him for being born. That’s the way it feels sometimes, at least.

He misses his mom, even if he knows that he’s right. It tastes like rancid vinegar to acknowledge—agree with. She chose to leave without him. He doesn’t blame her for walking away. Never could he do that. He’s glad that she saved herself. He just…wishes she’d bothered with considering saving him, too.

The thing Billy has been fearing for weeks has now begun: his dad is talking about moving them to Mount Airy.

Rebecca has him coiled so tightly around her finger that there’s next to no getting through to him. Not even when Billy pleads with him—as his son, not a combatant, as he usually is toward him—to please just let them remain here where they are. They’re getting by just fine. They can’t just…sell everything and go. Fucking disappear.

He even threw in Neil’s face one afternoon, once his mounting frustration had reached its limit, that he can leave on his own. He and his fucking Jezebel can get lost—good riddance, just as he’d said about his mom—he’ll stay here and figure things out for himself. One way or another.

Even if he’d been secretly hoping and praying that this ultimatum would be enough to make his father see sense. To finally force him to snap out of it and question what he’s been thinking about getting himself into.

He wanted him to choose him. His son, his child, his boy.

He should’ve known better.

Why doesn’t he ever know better?

His dad had retorted with the fact that, because Billy is only seventeen and still a minor, he’s still under his dad’s jurisdiction, so to speak. And then he’d said something that frightened him: he’s doing this to save Billy’s immortal soul.

That Billy has been heading down a dangerous path, what with how angry and rebellious he’s been for as long as Neil can remember. That he’s been destroying his body with alcohol and cigarettes. That’s he’s been having relations with God knows who.

He wanted to throw it in his face that he’s one to talk, but once his dad began his tirade, he shut down immediately out of fear. He acquiesced, just as he always does.

He kept piling it on with no sign of stopping: what of all the traffic tickets, the fact that he had barely graduated high school due to poor grades, getting written up and regularly visiting the principal’s office, to which Neil always had to come and bail him out of trouble, the undesirables he still keeps company with?

“I’ve let it go on for far too long, and it ends here. Now, boy. This will be a fresh start for the both of us. Rebecca has brought us an opportunity to change our lives—ourselves—for the better. And I’ll be damned—literally—if I’m going to tell her no. I already talked to a realtor, and the house, as of yesterday, is up for sale.”

Billy chokes back a quiet sob and watches as his father seems to consider something.

And then he says it.

And Billy’s world cleaves in two.

“I’m selling ours cars, too. We won’t need them anymore where we’re going.”

His heart jumps into his throat and his stomach twists itself into a painful knot. “What? Dad, no, please. I’m b-begging you. I’ll—fuck—I’ll do whatever you w-want. Just not—not my Camaro. Please. I’m sorry. I’ll do better, just—”

“It’s in my name. I can do with it as I see fit.”

“It’s my fucking car! I’m not going to just lie down and let you do this! I’m the one who’s busted my ass to fix it up, and keep it running, and—”

It turns violent then.

He wonders if his dad’s darling Rebecca would still see him in whatever delusional light that she does if she knew: who he is, what he does; his true nature.

He’s not a good man.

But neither is Billy. After all, he’s the one who raised him. So that must mean that he takes after his example.

So, he hits him back.

It’s all gone.

The house, his car, most of their furniture. Even Billy’s record collection.

Everything that remains is crammed into the back of an unfamiliar van Rebecca brought down from the mountain.

He doesn’t want to get inside. This doesn’t feel real.

This can’t be fucking happening.

But, as she tugs him along into the backseat, it settles into place within him: the futility of fighting. Where has it ever gotten him before?

Here. Right here. Where it was always going to lead. This is where he was always going to end up.

It’s where he’s always been: directly under his father’s oppressive thumb, subject to his every whim—violent or otherwise.

He’s always felt somehow estranged from his dad. But now…as he stares at the back of his head, which is leaned back against a headrest, as he holds hands with this brainwashing slut, he sees only a stranger. And Billy finally realizes that he’s entirely alone.

He has no one and nothing left in all the fucking world.

Maybe it’s always been that way. He just couldn’t see it for the mirage it was: the illusion of free choice, small acts of freedom, his personal belongings that he thought were his.

It’s never been about him.

Nothing will ever be.

He closes his eyes then, and prays.

Prays for an eighteen-wheeler to come from his side.

And that he’ll feel no pain when it does.

He’s on the edge of sleep when the van rolls to a stop and the engine is switched off.

“We’re home,” calls a feminine voice.

Mom?

Slowly, he pries his eyes open, gazes out the window to his right, and he takes in what he’s able to through the darkness.

It’d been dusk when they left home, but now it’s entirely night.

There’s faint string lights strung overhead atop wooden poles, and, as Billy exits the van and the cool night air washes over him, he studies the houses which surround them. Some resemble log cabins, while others are comprised of clapboards.

The clapboard houses are painted various colors. Some difficult to discern in the low lighting, but he thinks his eye catches various shades of blue, and white, and maybe even a dark green house. And in windows here and there, there are electric candles. Battery-powered, he assumes, as the wicks don’t flicker and wane.

It’d be stupid to leave a lit flame going overnight while the household is asleep, anyway.

Isn’t there some old wives’ tale or other about candles in windows? They’re meant to symbolize that the home is welcome to weary travelers, right? Maybe these people just have them because they look nice. He somehow gets the feeling about this place that they don’t take in outsiders very often.

He wonders what makes he and his dad so different, then, to be here now.

Do any of those who reside within these domiciles even know they’re here? Had they been aware they were coming? He hopes to God so, because if they’re sent back the way they came, they’ll have nothing to go back to.

He’s admits, then, as he stares up at a glittering night sky while feeling devoid of any sense of safety and security he once had, that he’s scared.

He’s broken from spiraling thoughts of being homeless and on the streets by Rebecca beckoning he and his dad to follow her inside her house which lies before them.

Rebecca lives in one of the clapboard houses, which is painted a color that reminds Billy of a clear summer sky.

Plants and wind-chimes hang from stained wooden beams overhead, and before her front door is a mat which says ‘welcome’.

He feels the very opposite.

He feels like he could crawl out of his fucking skin.

Once Rebecca has unlocked the front entrance, Billy and his dad enter behind her.

She switches on a couple of lamps to provide a healthy amount of ambient lighting, and Billy proceeds to look around.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d assume this place is a hippy commune. Then again, he supposes that he doesn’t. Know better, that is. But from what he understands, hippies are all about free love, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll. Not God and distrust of the federal government.

He’d prefer the former.

But with the abode before him, Rebecca certainly seems far closer to a beatnik than an evangelist.

Plants, fuzzy rugs, macrame, tapestries, ceramics and pottery, and abstract paintings litter the space.

She even has a small fireplace at the head of the living room, which lies to their right, with a kitchen to their immediate left. Not that it’s lit, but a small bundle of logs rests to the side of it, contained within a designated holder.

Rebecca takes one of Neil’s hands between both of hers, and she beams up at him. “So, what do you think?”

His dad turns—his back now facing toward Billy—and he cups her face between each of his hands. “It’s perfect.”

It’s when they begin to kiss that Billy looks away.

He’d expected to be forced to take the couch for the night. Instead, she’d already—surprisingly—had a room prepared for him. One right across the hall from what is now not only her bedroom, but his dad’s as well. They’d had to haul inside the disassembled pieces of his bedframe, and then his mattress once it was put back together, but he now has a bed to sleep on, at least.

Everything else, minus he and Neil’s respective bags of clothes and toiletries, are to be left go for the night so everyone can get some rest after a long day.

Rebecca had said that tomorrow they’ll unpack everything else that’s left in the van, and by the afternoon, they’ll both be fully moved in, and home at last.

Her words, not his.

This place doesn’t feel like home.

It can’t be. Out of spite—if nothing else—it can’t. Not for Billy.

So, now he lies awake, staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling, ignoring the tears which slip from his tired eyes, only to soak into the pillow beneath his weary head.

He has half-a-mind to go outside, steal the van, and disappear. But he knows that’s no good. They’ll just report it missing.

And, yes, they may distrust the government—he’s gleaned as much from Rebecca’s constant insistence to his father of how they want to keep all the world’s people shackled to their ways of living and institutions through taxation, laws, regulations, and social constructs—but he knows his father will walk his ass down to the sheriff’s station—on foot if he has to—to try and get his son back if no one else bothers to.

He does doubt that possibility, however, even in the least.

He acts like he can barely fucking stand him, and yet here he now is atop this bullshit mountain, all because his dad had to practically drag him along to it against his own will.

He doesn’t pretend to understand the man anymore than he tries to understand him.

Some things are just so broken that they can’t be fixed. Billy learned that lesson a long time ago.

He rolls onto his side, then rolls onto his other but a few moments later.

Eventually, he tosses his pillow across the room out of irritation, then promptly goes to retrieve it, desperate for sleep since he’s fucking exhausted.

He can’t remember the last time he felt well-rested.

He begins to let his mind wander then. He wonders after the auto-shop and if they’ll miss him. He hopes they’ve already found his replacement. It was a good place to work, and he hates to think of them short-handed.

And, since he’s already on the train-of-thought of automobiles, he starts to think of his own with a lump in his throat. His dad knew how much that Camaro had meant to him. That it—even if it sounds ridiculous—felt like a part of him. It was something he was really proud of, because of how much work he’d done on it. Some of said work even his dad had helped him with initially.

He’d been a surprisingly good teacher.

Billy thinks those were the only times in all his life that he liked his dad: when he was helping him work on his car.

Those fleeting moments were the only occasions that he managed to forget—for even a second—about his true nature.

And then he would immediately fill with guilt at knowing that even briefly, he looked up to or admired him. It felt like a betrayal to his mother when he did.

He wishes she were here now... Holding him. Or that they were on that beach in California, catching a seven foot wave one last time. Because he didn’t know that’s what it would turn out to be that day…the last time.

Because, the next morning when he woke up, his dad was on a tear with no end in sight. All because she’d disappeared without a trace. She’d not so much as left them a note.

He likes to imagine—even if it’s only a pleasant lie that he feeds himself—that she snuck into his room before going out that door to kiss his forehead and whisper that she loved him one final time.

He’s not sure if she ever did, though.

If she had, they’d be together now.

Wouldn’t they?

Billy knows his first order of business will be to hang up some blackout curtains, because it feels like no more did he manage to fall asleep that the morning sun began to pour through the window to his right.

With a groan, he turns onto his stomach and holds a pillow over his head, but he knows it’s no good: he can’t sleep with his face shoved into a mattress. He’s fucking up now.

He could cry or scream from how pissed off he feels due to lack of sleep, but he tampers down the urge to do either. It doesn’t help that they have a long day ahead of bringing in furniture pieces, putting them back together, then figuring out where it all needs to go.

He hopes that, at the very least, they can stay here at the house today. He is not fucking up for introductions and touring the grounds to his new prison yard.

As if any of that is up to him. It feels like nothing is anymore. Like what he wants or thinks or feels is of no consequence.

Eventually, he sits up and seats himself on the edge of his bed before hanging his head between his shoulders and yawning. He’d give anything for another couple hours of sleep. One would think with how bone-tired he is, it’d take nothing to pass back out, but his body feels too wired. Too anxious.

He’s always had problems with that: anxiety. Smoking helped. Even if he knows that they say it actually makes it worse.

But now he’s been forced to go cold turkey with little to no notice. No time to so much as wean himself off of them—cigarettes.

Maybe that’s why his leg won’t stop bouncing.

He’d love nothing more than one last puff from a Camel. But that won’t be happening. No, they’re all about ‘clean living’ here, or whatever it is that they fucking believe in.

He sighs.

He’d actually wanted to quit for awhile, truth be told. Plenty of women hate the smell, and much more the taste of it. He always hated when they’d cringe away after he slipped them some tongue and they proceeded to recoil in disgust.

Chewing mints did little to minimize the damage.

And the cost was beginning to add up in terms of his actual bank account. Money that could’ve otherwise gone toward his car or getting the hell out of dodge.

Eventually, he rises, grabs a lone wooden chair shoved in the corner of his room—he’s not sure that he likes thinking about this space as that yet: his—and he settles it before the bedroom window.

He rests an elbow atop the windowsill, then his chin atop his fist so he can watch idly as the morning sun begins to creep over the horizon. And then a sudden movement catches the corner of his eye from across the way.

He focuses as best he can—his vision is still a bit blurry from sleep—and then is when he sees that it’s a girl. One who looks about the same age as he.

She’s clad in only a thin, white nightgown, and he watches as she pushes open her own bedroom window to let a morning breeze in.

Her head of long hair tumbles down well past her shoulders, stopping at her mid-back, and his eyes flit around nervously, worried he’ll be caught red-handed like some perverted peeping tom looking in on her. That’d be one sure-fire way to get his ass kicked out of this place, he’s sure.

But he can’t tear his eyes away.

She gathers her gown between her hands before climbing up onto a window seat, and then the top half of her disappears from his vision as she leans back and out of the way.

She’s not used to having a neighbor just across from her bedroom window, is she? She has no idea that she’s being watched.

He knows it doesn’t matter, but he wonders about her, even slightly. Has she always lived here? How old is she? What’s her name? She looks young, but is she married? Does she have kids? Why’s she up so early? Did she have a hard time sleeping last night, too? Maybe she was also forced out of the only home she’s ever known and up the mountain some time recently, too.

He doubts it.

Billy just likes the idea of having someone else to suffer with, he supposes.

He wouldn’t feel so achingly alone then if he did.

Finally, he sighs and presses his forehead against the wall to the side of the window and he closes his eyes, wishing his head would shut the fuck up.

It’s half the damn problem as to why he slept like shit: racing thoughts.

He pops an eye open and looks across the expanse of lush green yard that’s dotted with wild flowers and birds pecking at the ground—looking for a fat worm to feast upon for their morning breakfast—between Rebecca’s house and this strange girl’s. Not that she’s strange, per se, just a stranger to him. He can only see the eastern side of her two-story house, which she seems to reside on the ground floor of, but it’s also comprised of clapboards like Rebecca’s. It’s painted white, and appears to be quite clean, at least from a somewhat negligible distance.

Their house had been in need of a good power-washing for awhile, but Billy supposes that will be someone else’s problem now.

The shutters are a pleasant shade of dark blue, and outside her window is a planter box with a colorful arrangement of flowers planted within its soil. There’s also a little white—porcelain, perhaps?—figurine stuck in it. It looks like a miniature angel from where he sits.

She’s probably a religious nutjob like all the rest of them up here, he thinks acidically.

There’s breakfast, at least.

Neil had offered to help Rebecca with it, but she’d insisted he let her tend to it, as domestic pursuits are apparently a woman’s domain here.

Billy snorted quietly at that, with derision, which had caught him a side-eye glare from his dad. As if he could give two shits what he thinks right now.

He’s running on fumes, and is typically not to be trifled with when he’s so low on energy.

He’s liable to explode at any given moment if someone dares step on his internal tripwire.

Part of him hopes to God ones of them does so he can finally let them both have it after weeks on-end of bottling his shit up for their benefit.

But, to his mild chagrin, neither of them test his boundaries as they dine on bacon, sausage, eggs, pastries, and the like. But none were allowed to eat until not only was grace said, but Neil also took the first bite. Apparently it’s the patriarch’s right to lead his household, including at mealtimes.

This place is so ass-fucking-backwards. Who gives a shit who eats first? And patriarch? He and Rebecca aren’t married, incase her dumbass has forgotten that important little tidbit. If you ask Billy, wouldn’t that mean they’ve been living in sin? Isn’t sex supposed to be kept sequestered strictly to the marriage bed, otherwise it’s considered defiled, or something?

As if he cares, he thinks, as he takes a sip of coffee.

Billy glances across the table to the woman in question as she dabs at her lips with a napkin before settling it once more in her lap.

She gives them each a smile, and he just knows he’s not going to like whatever is about to come out of her mouth.

“I wanted to wait until this morning to let the both of you know, but after breakfast, the Prophet intends to convene Mount Airy’s congregation, so as to welcome the two of you to it.”

Billy’s fork slips from his hand and clatters onto the floor. “I’m sorry, did you just say prophet?” he asks with disbelief.

She gives him a smile and a nod. “I did. His Christian name is Aaron Triche. But he is to be referred to as either ‘Prophet’, or ‘Prophet Aaron’.”

Billy sneers, then jerks his head in the direction of his dad, sure that he must see it now. He has to.

But instead of finding a look of concern or alarm upon his features, his dad just keeps eating and sipping at his orange juice like everything that just came out of her mouth isn’t absolutely fucking batshit.

“Dad,” he says while turning fully toward him. “What—why aren’t you doing anything? Do you hear her? Prophet? Are you fucking kid—”

Neil slams a fist down upon the tabletop, and to her credit, Rebecca actually jumps when he does so.

“That’s enough. From now on, you will watch the language that leaves your mouth. I’m tired of hearing every other word that you speak being one of vulgarity. As for what Rebecca said, I expect you to give things a chance here instead of jumping to the worst possible conclusion. If people couldn’t convene with God, then how was the Bible written? Hm? He chooses who He does, and that’s not for us to question.”

Billy stares at his father with wide eyes and a slack jaw, at a complete loss for words.

He’s lost it. He’s completely fucking gone round the bend.

And when he looks at Rebecca, all he finds upon her own face is a look of satisfaction as she gazes upon his father with approval.

Billy stands—his chair loudly scraping against the hardwood floors beneath it as he does—and heads back in the direction of his bedroom, ignoring his father calling after him to come back and finish eating the meal Rebecca prepared for them.

He slams the door behind him.

He’s expected to dress in his Sunday best, apparently.

He just throws on a clean pair of jeans, and a dark blue button-up shirt. He doesn’t bother with much else. Not even cologne.

Rebecca had told him that once the gathering is over, he can come back home and rest, since he looks like he could use it. That she and his dad will see to unpacking the rest of the van, and they’ll tend to his things last so he can hopefully have some time to sleep.

He wanted to throw in her face that she’s the reason he’s so fucking worn down in the first place. But he had known that if he did, it would only earn him his father’s ire. And she’d been so nice about it that it made it difficult to so much as give her a dirty look.

He feels like she’s playing head games with him.

Of course she is. Otherwise, he and his dad wouldn’t be here. Wouldn’t have given up their lives for God and indoctrination.

He wants to wrap his goddamn hands around his neck and wring the life from him. How dare he speak about his mother like that? He wants to call him out in front of everyone here for the fraud he is. The liar, the manipulator. But he’s sorely outnumbered. Even if he tried—screamed at this brainwashed flock of sheep until he’s blue in the face—it wouldn’t do any good. They’re set in their ways. Their beliefs. Their manners of living.

It would take something extraordinary to return them to reality. But, even then, he’s sure that some are so far gone that there’s no coming back.

How pathetic it is that so many people would rather live with their heads stuck firmly in the sand than face the truth of things.

How can he be the only one here to see it? Does the man before him—this prophet—even believe the things he says? Rebecca had said that Mount Airy and its commune have been around since longer than she’s even been alive. That apparently Aaron’s father, Benjamin, had been prophet before him. So, is this guy at the pulpit just the same as everyone that’s sitting in a pew? It really is the blind leading the fucking blind, isn’t it?

Billy tells himself, as his father forces him onto his feet, and as the mewling masses gather around them to welcome them to this new hell, that it’s almost over. Soon enough, these people will have had their fill of the excitement of this morning’s sermon, and then Billy can return to his room and lock himself away for the remainder of the day.

He doesn’t feel well. He feels sick, and like his bowels have turned to water.

He’s about to lose it. He’s so fucking close to doing so.

If one more person touches him, so help him God.

He can’t do it.

Too much.

It’s all too much.

He can’t—

Soft, warm hands take one of Billy’s between them, and, in an instant, he snaps back to reality and his mind suddenly quiets.

And when he looks, he sees. Sees who is to blame. Rather—thank.

You.

The girl from the window across the way from his own.

The one with the planter box that has an angel in it.

You’re so…beautiful. Pretty. You feel nice. And you smell like clean air and wildflowers and summer rain.

He doesn’t want you to let go of him.

Help him, please. Take him out of here. Hide him away somewhere they can never find him. Can’t you see it in his eyes? How lost he feels?

“Be welcome, Billy,” you say softly with a gentle, affectionate smile.

All he can do in return is stare.

You stand on tiptoes then, and he rests his free hand against your waist to catch you incase you lose your footing as you press a fleeting kiss to his cheek—a kiss that makes him forget how to fucking breathe.

“You’re home,” you tell him in a reassuring and comforting way.

You seem so sure of it.

He could never be—no, will never be.