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pedgito · 7 months ago

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𝐃𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘 𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐘 | Joel Miller x reader

summary | you've got an issue and joel's willing to solve it. after all, what are neighbors for?

author's note | this was a prompt from a meet-weird thing i saw ages ago that was originally supposed to be javi, but jo (@undercoverpena) gave me the beautiful idea of making it joel and it spurred this monster.

content warning | established friendship, caught during sex, does the apocalypse having working appliances? probably not, but for the sake of this fic distend belief i beg. oral (eating out from the back), unprotected piv, subtly cocky!joel miller, he's a good ass neighbor, okay?, unbeta'd.

word count — 5.6k

Joel’s fixed this damn machine seven times, convincing himself every time that it was the last time. Shocker, it wasn’t. This time didn’t even last a month. He’s desperate now.

He would usually haul the load all the way to the communal laundry house closer to the group of joined townhomes that housed most of the younger adults—the spry and bright-faced ones who sprung up at the mention of patrol or work, any prospect of toting a gun around with any sense of leadership. They were eager, he couldn’t say the same for himself.

He was old, weathered—years of routine he had created to get the job done and get the hell home.

And truthfully, as he tapped the wrench against the metal machine, chin tucked into his palm as he scratched at his beard, he almost complied with the idea that he would just have to tough it out. Scrounging for parts was nearly impossible—dumb luck, really. In the past several years they’ve picked this town clean, bone-dry.

He’s elbow deep inside the barrel of the dryer when he hears the knock at his door, bumping his head against the rim of it as he exits and cursing under his breath as he pushes to stand, joints creaking and popping in disapproval.

He can smell you before he sees you, the familiar scent of fresh-baked goods following you everywhere—Joel couldn’t feel guilt for being one of the folks addicted to your cooking.

Grains had been hard to come by since the epidemic hit, everything was tainted on a global level. It took years and years of Jackson growing its own stock of wheat for things like pie or a nice, gooey cinnamon roll to even be plausible anymore. But, they were managing well so far.

“Saved ‘em for you and Ellie,” You tell him, a small plate of still hot brownies covered with parchment paper, dawning that trademark smile that Joel has come to love, tapping his fingers against the door frame as he passes the plate off to a quickly approaching Ellie.

“Girl’s got the nose of a basset hound,” Joel looks on in amused bewilderment as Ellie throws a mouth-stuffed thanks over her shoulder, “sorry ‘bout her.”

You wave her off whole-heartedly, taking in his sweaty appearance and casual attire. You were used to him in jeans and thick flannels, not a graphic tee and pair of sleep pants. He’s almost always dressed like he had to run at a moment's notice, you weren’t even sure he owned anything different until now.

“Everything good?” You question him, a small laugh escaping your throat.

“Damn washer and dryer is out again,” Joel explains, throwing a hand vaguely over his shoulder.

“Both of them this time?” You ask, “Damn.”

“I can fix ‘em, just a matter of finding the right parts,” Joel tells you, “ looks like I’m gonna have to hand wash again.”

Joel was a friend. You helped friends. It seemed like a no-brainer really, opening your mouth without thinking it through, the kindness tumbling out despite yourself.

“Oh, you’re welcome to load yours up at mine,” You offer and Joel looks immediately apprehensive, the southern charm and well-mannered tone gearing to creep up on you.

“Now, I don’t mean to make you feel like you have to—”

“Joel, I wouldn’t offer it if I didn’t feel comfortable with it,” You remind him, “seriously—anytime, just try and bring your own detergent—and for the love of god, empty your pockets before you put ‘em in.”

Joel chuckles tiredly at that, rolling his eyes as he nods in agreement.

“Got it, of course, sweetheart.”

“I leave an extra key under the rug, so if I’m ever not home just come in,” Given that Joel was Tommy’s brother, you knew he wouldn’t be up to any trouble, “sound good?”

“Yep. Anytime—just make myself at home.” Joel confirms and you nod with an even wider smile, waving a pleasant goodbye as you trailed down the stairs and made your way to the house you inhabited next door.

Right, anytime.

Unfortunately, Joel took that a little too literally.

Joel managed to scrounge up the courage a day later, tumbling into his house on tired legs after a lengthy patrol up at the cabin lookout, scooping the basket up in his arms and heading out his front door, taking the short walk to your house.

The lights were off, but that wasn’t unusual. Joel knew you liked to stay late nights in the town’s mess hall, often working on prep for the following morning to make the load a little lighter and sleep in a while longer, so when he fishes under the doormat for the key he thinks nothing of it.

And as the door swings open, it is still fairly quiet. Though, he can hear your own dryer running upstairs. He’s got the layout down too, having shared more than a few nightcaps with you. Friend to friend and nothing more, even if you had always felt a little more strongly toward being affectionate. A hug or a kiss on the cheek from time to time, he never pushed you away. Joel never seemed like the type of man who openly showed affection, even toward a friend. But, he was good, reliable–most of the time.

He reaches the stairs with trepidation as the sounds grow louder and part of him wonders if by some uncanny coincidence your dryer might be growling and rumbling on its own final leg.

The moment his hand reaches that doorknob and turns he realizes he’s made a mistake.

He’s caught you at a…bad time. Head thrown back with your mouth hung wide, whatever noise you’re making was mostly drowned out by the nagging sound of the dryer as it tore through the spin cycle but he hears the tailend of it, a soft moan of pleasure from the man who’s buried inside of you right now, both of you naked from the waist down but your breasts on full display with your shirt tucked under your neck.

“Benny?” Joel asks, slightly amused.

You lift your head at the sound and spot him, your feet nearly slipping out from under you as you scramble to push Benny away, who perks with an even more perplexed, “Joel?”

“Goddamn it, Joel,” You curse behind gritted teeth, furiously readjusting yourself, pulling your sweats back on and over your ass and your shirt down, “What are you doing here?”

Joel looks down at the basket still clinging to his hip before back up at you, wordlessly.

You sigh through your nose with a tight lipped frown, cheeks puffing out as you brushed your fingers through your hair and down—Benny was still scrambling to redress behind you, unable to pull his gaze away from Joel.

“Benny?” Joel mouths at you quietly, eyebrows raised curiously.

You walk toward the now open door slowly as Benny buttons his pants and you shoot Joel daggers with your stern gaze.

Cut it out.

Joel smirks slightly, cheek dimpling with the action as he side-steps Benny, who leans around you and kisses your cheek—it was a kind gesture but given the situation, in horrible taste. You force a polite smile and once Benny is a far enough distance you hit Joel firmly in the arm as he passes by you and into the laundry room.

You walk Benny to the door with a million thoughts racing through your head, offering a distracted goodbye before you’re locking the door and racing back upstairs with determined footsteps and Joel has already loaded his clothes in the washer, turning the knob to set the load size and time.

“Benny?” He echoes his earlier questions, “Really?”

“What? Are you judging me?”

“No—just, that kid’s had quite an obsession with you for some time now. Just…surprised is all.”

Your lips pull together in a disapproving but nonchalant frown, taking his words for the bullshit they are.

“When I said anytime that did not extend to the middle of the night, Joel.”

“You’re usually still at work,” He supplies—and really, he’s not wrong, “M’sorry. I mean that.”

“Well, now I’ve gotta deal with the fact you’ve seen me naked,” You cross your arms over your chest and lean against the doorframe and Joel’s eyes track you for a moment, smiling with amusement at the thought.

“What? You want a fair trade?” Joel teases, “‘Cause, darlin’. I don’t mind—but it was an accident. Besides, ain’t nothin’ I haven’t seen before.”

He means it in a broader sense, but you can’t help the eye roll it induces.

“No, no,” You chew at your bottom lip, watching Joel place the empty basket on top of the washer, “I can finish that up if you want to get some sleep. I know you had a long patrol today.”

“Oh, did you?”

He’s teasing you.

“Don’t push it, old man,” Joel shakes his head at that jab and chuckles, “Ellie clued me in when she picked up some sandwiches for her and Dina earlier.

He’s not going to pass on the offer, though. He nods, rubbing a hand over his tired face.

“Jesus—just…Benny?” Joel reiterates again, “Didn’t think the kid had it in ‘em.”

“Out,” You say with an over-pronunciation as you drag his slow and progressive steps further out of your laundry room and into the hall, “or you’re off my dessert list for a month, Miller.”

Joel smiles at you knowingly, “You wouldn’t dare,” He retorts, knowing you too well.

You wouldn’t make him suffer like that. Or Ellie, who wouldn’t hesitate to murder Joel if he robbed her of that pleasure. Not literally…but, she would carry a few choice words for him.

“Seriously, though, thank you,” He nods, leaning down to press a kiss into the crown of your head—an often familiar gesture when you parted after a long night of nonsensical talk and a couple glasses of wine or whiskey, depending on how hard the day had been, “I appreciate it, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, yeah—”

“And I do apologize for…not knocking and showin’ up at such a weird time.”

You shrug, “You’re forgiven. Just…don’t give Benny a hard time. He’s a good guy.”

“You’ve got my word, darlin’.”

Joel was determined to be on his best behavior, clearly.

It takes Joel a couple weeks to find the parts he needs and luckily there are no more run-ins on your midnight sex-scapades, still feeling the embarrassment from the first one. Joel doesn’t even seem to remember it after a couple days, thankfully. He was bypassing it for your own benefit, truthfully. And you knew that.

Selfishly, you're glad to have your appliances back to yourself.

They’re good, solid, reliable—until they aren’t.

Your washer shits itself mid-load and you can hear it from downstairs. A loud screeching noise before an even louder pop that has you groaning loudly because you know. You can feel it.

You can’t even bring yourself to go check, peering through the window of your kitchen and catching a fresh pot of coffee in the house across from yours, a man coming into view and his stark white shirt contrasting the black coffee cup in his hands. He catches you out of the corner of his eye and looks at you with a quizzical amusement, smile tugging at his face.

Joel was always up before the sun rose, so with the sun just creeping into the sky you’re sure that’s his third or fourth cup of coffee. He reaches over his sink and fiddles with the latch on his window before heaving it up, watching as you struggled to do that same but eventually managed.

“You run outta coffee again?” He asks, sipping at the bitter, black coffee in his mug.

“No,” You reply quickly, slightly exasperated as you chew at your bottom lip, debating how to pop the question and feeling nervous under Joel’s intense gaze, curiously wondering if he’s still picturing you naked. He’s never explicitly mentioned it since, but you have caught him in the act.

Wandering eyes, gazes catching when your back is turned for half a second as you bend down or move in a way that exposes too much skin.

“My washer broke,” You cut to the chase and Joel chuckles at how comical it is, in hindsight.

Was this karma? It was definitely karma.

You’ve never asked Joel for anything—despite your often bouts of kindness toward him you never expected anything in return, not even a favor.

“Doors open,” Joel nods toward his front door out of view, an invitation like you offered him.

You didn’t even hesitate, pushing the window close and bounding up the stairs.

You’re already loading your things into his washer before he appears around the corner, peeking his head in, coffee cup still in hand as he takes a few more steps and leans against the wall beside the washing machine and your eyes glance at him briefly before you continue moving the clothes, watching him watch you from behind the rim of his mug.

“I can start them and come back,” You tell him, “so I won’t be lingering around here all day.”

“No Benny?”

You stand up as you close the washer, deadpan stare pointed in his direction.

“You can be such a nosy neighbor, you know that?”

Joel shrugs, a smug smile covered behind his sip of coffee.

“It was just a few times. Besides he’s…too much for me.”

You turn the dial to start the load and it rumbles to life with a simple press of a button.

“You wanna talk about it?”

It wasn’t completely unnatural for you two—you knew quite a bit about Joel now: his life before, his work, his daughter…all things that come with trust and time. He’s waited patiently for you and you’ve given him peeks into your life, but nothing like this.

“It’s a long story, Joel.”

“Got time,” He smiles slightly, “I’ll go grab you a cup of coffee—sit down.”

You look around briefly, not a chair in sight. So, you raise yourself up just enough that you can slide your ass over the top of the washer, bare feet dangling off the floor and you wait, the subtle and quiet shake from the beginning of the load process keeping the awkward silence at bay.

Joel turns the corner a few minutes later with your cup, made up just to your liking and you nod with a gentle smile, taking the cup from his hand and allowing yourself a few generous sips.

“So—that night, you caught us,” You can laugh at the instances now, so you do in a soft, clipped manner, “it wasn’t the first—it had been a month by that point and he just caught me by surprise, showed up that night and things just got a little out of hand.”

Joel’s eyebrows raise in interest but he urges you to continue, leaning against the wall in front of you now, resting his mug on the shelf just above his head as he crosses his arms over his chest.

“He’s a good guy, don’t get me wrong—but I don’t do serious…I can’t, now with how things are. And I know a lot of people think the opposite, seize the moment and all that shit,” You sigh, a deep and heavy sound that expands and releases from your chest, “he was already talking about moving in, the idea of us having kids—so that night I just tried to distract him.”

“With sex? Seems a little…counter-productive, don’t you think?”

“Don’t judge me, Joel,” You warn him but it’s edged with a playfulness that Joel recognizes. You didn’t have a mean, deceptive bone in your body and Joel knew that from the first conversation he had with you.

“I needed him to shut up,” You groan at the thought of the conversation as it replays in your mind, “I’m trying to wash my clothes, he’s talking to me about babies. I do not want kids, Joel. Ever. At least none that are biologically mine. Who would want to bring a kid into this world?”

Well…Tommy. The thought comes to you after the words have already left your mouth and your heart sinks into your stomach, looking at Joel apologetically.

“Sweetheart, don’t even try to apologize. Ain’t nothing wrong with it.”

“It makes me sound horrible, I know but—”

“I’ve done my time—it’s none of my business how others choose to live. Besides, I’m pushing sixty, I don’t have to worry about all that…sorry, I’m not trying to be crude here.”

You nod knowingly with a smirk tugging at your lips, taking another sip of coffee before handing the mug off for him to place it next to his own, ready to slide off of the washer before Joel interjects with another question that catches you off guard.

“He treat you right, at least?”

You tilt your head with that same knowing smirk, pushing Joel away at his hip with your foot as he leans up from his position against the wall—Joel’s never flirted, always promptly skirted around the issue and went about it more gentlemanly. He’s not abrasive and straightforward like most of the men in Jackson, but damn did he know how to make you feel special.

Undivided attention, constant subtle compliments, giving up some much-needed sleep for a simple late night drink with you—part of you was too terrified to make your own move and make it clear just how badly you wanted just a small taste of him.

You’ve heard whispering, minimal talk from a few of the women in town. Joel didn’t often make his rounds but when he did, he left an impression. And you had every right to be jealous, because with him standing in front of you now—you knew it would be easy to say no and he would fix you right up, finally crossing that line that he’s been carefully dancing around for a few years.

“He’s a bit…timid,” You shrug, “and he doesn’t really…”

The air lingers and the side of Joel’s mouth pulls up—you don’t have to say it.

“Joel, don’t do that,” You shove at his shoulder as he approaches you, his hands pressing into the contraption you’re on, curled around the metal, “—he’s just…eager, but not in a good way.”

There’s a glint in Joel’s eye that leads you to believe he’s not thinking about Benny’s less than experienced sex life, feeling the sudden jitteriness from the coffee as your chest rises with a deep, shaky breath and Joel eyes the time over your shoulder.

Forty-five minutes and some change, plus the time to dry because Joel already knows you aren’t going to trouble yourself with walking the damp laundry through this cold, muggy weather.

“So, no then?” Joel asks.

He could have treated you better, sure. But, he wasn’t the worst.

But, the way Joel is staring at you knows makes everything and everyone dull in comparison.

You shake your head in agreement, chewing at the inside of your bottom lip as your hands fall to your lap, his hands ncreasingly closer to the tights covering your legs, suddenly feeling his thumb graze your hip. You both glance down at the action and your breathing halts, watching as his right hand slowly engulfs your thigh, fingers digging into the soft material and dimpling your skin underneath, his thumb only a few centimeters from dipping into the inside of your thigh.

They part on their own, welcoming Joel in wordlessly and his left hand echoes the other. His face is level with your own, staring down at your lips briefly before meeting your eyes and you’ve seen that look before—the adoration when he thought you weren’t watching, secretly you had become good at catching those glances, but Joel wasn’t trying to hide it now.

And it quickly dawns on you in the moment—he was jealous. Of Benny. Or really, any man that had come before him. But, he was using him as the scapegoat.

Honestly, you couldn’t even care.

“You want someone to treat you right?” He speaks softly and if you weren’t so close you wouldn’t have heard him, “I got you, sweetheart. I swear.”

He’s not looking at you anymore, eyes dragging down the bridge of your nose to your lips again. But, you are looking at him, flooded with that tricky feeling that creeps up on you when you want things you know you shouldn’t.

“Joel, I told you—I don’t do serious,” And you hold your breath for the response, wondering if that would send this moment crumbling to dust, but Joel doesn’t miss a step.

“Good for you,” Joel dotes, “neither do I.”

Then he’s on you, the press of his lips in a heated kiss sends you tumbling back, caught by the warm slide of his palm over your back to pull you in, throwing your arms over his shoulders as he pulls back briefly, just enough for you to open your mouth to speak, but his tongue finds its way inside and the words fade away.

Just friendly, my ass—you think.

If you had known he kissed like this—you would’ve jumped at the opportunity months ago; a night spent drinking too many glasses of wine and laughing over some movie far before your time, but not his.

He was so entranced, giving you all the details, but you couldn’t help giggling over it, too touchy to be considered friendly.

You’d both cut it short quickly when Ellie popped in halfway through the movie, and beyond that, it never grew.

Until now.

“Sweet,” Joel notes with a subtle smile, his hand dwarfing the size of your neck as his fingers wrapped around the column of your throat, holding you firmly in place as he maneuvered you toward and away from the kiss as he pleased, swallowing every tiny moan that escaped your lips when his other hand squeezed at your thigh just a little too hard.

“All that sugar,” In your coffee, the taste lingering on your lips and he licks around them teasingly, pulling away briefly to look at you, your eyebrows raising in question as the gears turn in his head, “—you still with me?”

“I’m just wonderin’ if you’re okay with this,” Joel speaks candidly, his eyes trained on his thumb as it rubs against the middle of your throat, traveling up under your chin and tipping your head up slightly, watching as you swallowed, “before I take this further, jus’ need to know.”

You nod jerkily, not even a second of hesitation.

“You would have known the moment you kissed me, Joel.”

In turn, Joel nods slowly before he speaks, stealing the air from your chest.

“Alright then, pull these down for me,” He tugs gently at the material clinging to your thighs before both of his hands find the spot behind your knees and tug until your feet hit the floor, “and push that pretty little ass out for me.”

The absurdity of this language on his tongue makes you giggle but abide in an instant, struggling slightly as the material bunches at your ankles and Joel helps you the rest of the way, tossing your pants aside before he’s kneeling despite how his body protests, too eager to give you a taste of the pleasure you deserve and he’s grabbing the cheeks of your ass and squeezing them between his hands before he’s leaning up to bite playful at the soft flesh.

He groans quietly against your skin, the press of his aquiline nose against your ass as his fingers fold around the string of your underwear and pull, dropping them down to your ankles and off and then his tongue is flat against the seam of your cunt, gasping as you fall forward and your own fingers clawing against nothing.

“Joel!” You squeak out as his fingers dig hard into your ass, forcing you up on your tiptoes as devours, licking into your cunt as it quivers around his tongue.

Your hand pressed against the wall in front of you to keep your chest from hitting the washer, feeling your pussy tighten around the finger that enters alongside his expert tongue, a soft groan erupting out of him from behind you. That smug motherfucker was attempting a teasing huh under his breath as he busied himself with the task of eating you out from the back and you couldn’t even think straight.

‘C’mon, baby,” He coos between his alternating licks and slurps of the heady slick that dripped from your cunt, “come all over my mouth, let me taste that sugar.”

It’s absurd, the way he’s speaking to you now. Your eyes squeeze shut as his thumb finds your clit amongst the chaos of his tongue and fingers, face heating up at how noisy your cunt sounded over the dull shake of the washer and Joel’s satisfied moans, occasionally massaging at the back of your thigh when your legs shake with the creeping feeling of your impending orgasm.

“Oh,” You squeal, reaching behind you to dig your fingers into his hair, panting out in desperation, “—fuck, don’t stop! Joel, right—right there,” and then glance you take back at him, his eyes peeking open from his position below, on his knees and dutiful to you and you alone, well…

It sends you tumbling over the edge as his thumb rubs over your clit quickly, soothing you through the aftermath as he laps up the mess you’ve made all over yourself, dragging his tongue along the inside of your thigh because if you knew anything about Joel, he didn’t waste a meal.

And you were just about the finest he’s tasted.

You clear your throat as you rest your feet flat on the floor, feeling the faint quake in your legs as Joel rises slowly, forcing you to swallow down a giggle as he winces and he can see it on your face.

“Worth it,” He excuses himself, “don’t look at me like that.”

“No old man jokes?” You sound sad and Joel can’t believe it.

He shakes his head.

But, the smile that breaks out on your face quickly diminishes any comeback he has.

You begin to push him away with a hand gripped in his shirt, carefully avoiding the obvious bulge in his sweats as you reach for your tights, ready to redress and drop to your own knees as a favor but his fingers are wrapping around your wrist, pulling your attention back to him.

“I meant it,” Joel tells you, tilting his head to catch your gaze.

You smile wide and tilt your head to mirror him, “I think you proved your point—Benny is a pathetic man who doesn’t know how to make me come, blah blah…”

“My job ain’t done if you’re still thinkin’ about him, darlin’.”

His eyebrows raise in challenge.

Okay, you’re game.

Wordlessly you allow the hands at your hip that guide you toward the front of the joined appliances, his fingers sliding under your top until you get the hint to pull it off, your breasts bouncing free from the shirt—the few bras you had were already in the wash, big deal.

Joel chuckles and stops for a moment, admiring the sight of your breasts for the second time that month, albeit more openly this time. He reaches forward and rubs his thumb along your nipple, watching the nub harden under his touch and you bite at your bottom lip, eye fluttering closed at how sensitive they were to touch, something other men never took the time to notice.

“You like that?” Joel asks with a creeping grin.

You nod, watching as he squeezed your tits in his hands, showing your nipples ample attention as he circled them with his thumb before leaning down slightly and swiping his tongue over the hardened nubs, sucking your breast into his mouth and his eyes peer up, gauging your reaction which quickly developed from a soft giggle to a loud moan.

“Clothes,” You breath out, “off—if you still have a point to prove.”

A point that you wanted proven. Hard.

Joel pulls away and yanks his shirt over his head, allowing you an unobscured view of the mix of muscled shoulders and his softened stomach, running your hand over the patch of hair at the center of his chest and down, right along his hips until his own fingers hook around the fabric and pull his sweats and boxers down in one motion, his cock catching against the edge of his waistband before it bobs back up toward his stomach.

You find yourself smiling despite yourself, forgetting for a moment that Joel was standing there and watching you, feeling your mouth water at the sight of him hard and leaking at how just getting a small taste of you had turned him on that much, precum leaking slowly from the tip and he wraps his hand around himself, other hand tapping at your chin to drag your attention back up to his face, reminding you he was still there.

“Got somethin’ on your mind, sweetheart?”

You shake your head furiously, “No, no—no, nothing. Just, uh—”

“I’ll start slow,” He tells you and with the size of him, thick and girthy in ways you’ve only imagined or pictured in your head, it’s daunting, “are you still alright with all of this?”

Your face softens and you nod, appreciating the repeated check-ins, the need for confirmation, but it pulls at your heart as you wonder why he feels the need to ask so much. As if he was fearful you would change your mind on a dime—Joel was fine with that, but he was more worried about the change in dynamic. Thankfully, you were determined for that not to be the case.

“I’m pretty tough,” You shrug, a playful smile gracing your face.

Joel nods absently as his fingers drag along your waist before catching behind your knee and pulling it up over his hip, both of your eyes dragging down to his cock as he tugged at himself a few times, his brow furrowed as he spread your lips apart with the head, dipping his hips down slightly to catch against your hole before he pushes in slow, one solid stroke that steals the sound from your throat and transfers to his own. Joel groans out softly as he pushes into you, his hands gravitating toward your face and wrapping around the sides of your neck, tilting your head back to mouth at your skin, his tongue dragging along your collarbone before sucking and nipping gently at your skin.

“Don’t I know it,” Joel responds after a while, “find something to hold onto.”

Your soft giggle of excitement shoots down to your core and your fingers wrap around the edges of the washer and Joel pulls back swiftly before he’s snapping his hips back into you before repeating the process several times, the jolt of the machine hitting the concrete wall behind you drowned out by your loud moans, quickly swallowed up by Joel’s lips as he pulls your mouth to his, breathing into it with every sharp snap of his hips.

“Harder,” You beg, biting at his bottom lip as he groans, using his fingers intertwined into the hair at the nape of your neck now to pull your head back and he pulls his hips back quick, bottoming himself out inside of you so forcefully you feel like your legs might give out, his cock rubbing against your already too sensitive g-spot and continuously finding a way to bring you closer and closer to the edge, “fuck—yes, yes. Joel, oh my god—”

“Yeah,” Joel goads you, his eyes drawn closed as he tries to keep his own orgasm at bay, “give it to me, baby—wanna watch you make a mess on my cock, alright?”

Easy, you laugh airily and feel the instinctive squeeze of your walls around Joel’s cock as he pulls your face to his, foreheads pressed against each other as he angles his hips back and slams into you one last time before you come undone, head falling back in a similar position to how he caught you a few weeks ago, this time for him.

Your grab for his shoulders suddenly, blunt fingernails digging into his skin and he takes a few harsh breaths through his nose before he’s pulling out, hand grasping his cock as he jerked himself a few seconds before he comes in thick, short spurts against your stomach, squeezing at the head of his cock as he drags it through the mess he’s made.

His expression is nothing short of mesmerizing, mouth hung open just enough that his tongue can drag over his bottom lip before his teeth are taking its place, eyes drawn to your skin.

Wordlessly, he pulls away on his own pair of shaky legs as he reaches for his wrinkled, worn shirt and brings it to your stomach, cleaning up the mess with a faint smile on his face.

“You know, I think it might take me a bit to fix my washer,” You tease, “so—I might be over here bothering you for a while.”

Joel peers up at you, his head still tucked down as he wiped at your stomach.

“Fine with me.”

Then he’s peering over your shoulder, watching as the washer time inched toward zero, dinging behind you. You turn around, letting your leg fall from his hip finally, ass brush against him in the process and Joel can’t help the way his eyes refuse to leave the sight of it.

Only feeling slightly guilty when you catch him this time, not giving him the pass you usually do.

“We’ve still got about an hour left if I dry them here,” You tell him, “anything else you wanna prove?”

Joel’s tongue pokes at the inside of his cheek, eyes dragging up toward the upper level of his house before flicking back toward you, a smile plastered on your face.

“I can think of a few things.”

divider creds: @/cafekitsune

#joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us #tlou #tlou fanfic #the last of us fanfic #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #joel miller x f!reader #my writing

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comatosebunny09 · 1 month ago

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merry christmas, mr. sylus [ fin ]

— summary: the one where you nearly tear your hair out, trying to find the perfect christmas gift for your office crush. — cw: fluff, romance, jealousy, feelings of inadequacy, reader is not mc, ceo verse, modern au, aged-up characters, mutual pining, misunderstanding trope, mild language, silliness, angst — notes: the finale for this. edit: i lied. this is the finale for this series. thank you for reading! — now playing: swan serenade - piano house

You spend the remainder of the party avoiding your boss like the plague. But running into him is inevitable. You work directly for the man, after all.

As the staff trickles out, taking with them their drunken merriment, you’re left to pick up the pieces of your wounded heart and the party’s aftermath.

You shove Solo cups and decorative paper plates into a trash bin. Snatch off tablecloths and roll the karaoke machine into the broom closet. Wipe off tables, tear down garland. You do everything you can to stay busy, your self-loathing an ever-present rain cloud hanging overhead.

What were you expecting? For Mr. Sylus to fall to his knees for you? For him to sever whatever bond he has with Ms. Hunter for you? You snort at yourself as a wet film of heat slides over your eyes, impairing your vision. You feel ridiculous. Sick to your stomach.

The trash bin slips from your fingers, thudding dully on the carpeted floor. In an attempt to collect yourself, you prop your hands on the edge of a table, releasing a shaky sigh. You blink away the new commination of tears. You’d been doing good so far, having given yourself a lengthy pep-talk in the bathroom earlier. Something to get you through what remained of the night without wearing your anguish on your sleeves.

So what if he doesn’t view you in the same light as you view him? This isn’t the first time you’ve faced rejection, and it most certainly won’t be the last. It doesn’t make this iteration hurt any less. You’re his secretary, for God’s sake. Not a friend nor a potential love interest. The quips and laughter you exchange daily are nothing more than him being polite. The model gentleman, maintaining the peace between himself and the person responsible for organizing his life.

You are so swept up in the turmoil of your mind that you hardly register your name being called. Someone beckons to you again, this time more assertive, though not scolding. You whip your head around to the source of the sound, homing in on a familiar shock of white.

Tamping down the emotions swelling in your chest, you straighten, fixing your sweater, and a superficial smile takes up residence on your face.

“Yes, sir?”

He studies you for a beat from the slab of space permitted by his half-opened door, long fingers wrapped around the oakwood like spindly spider limbs. He gives you a once over, his brows slightly wrinkled. His lips quiver, gaze pensive like he wants to say something. Something other than what next comes out.

“Would you mind assisting me with something?” he asks, his tone deceptively impassive.

Your stomach lurches, the feeling akin to cresting over the slope of a roller coaster. You swallow, pushing your disappointment to the back burner. What did you expect him to say? Sorry? Like he even knows you’re upset. Like he knows why you’re upset.

Like he cares.

You nod curtly, wiping your sweaty palms on your jeans. “Of course, sir.”

You move to your desk, your nerves exploding like solar flares beneath your skin while Sylus slinks back into his office. He promptly reappears, thrusting a thick stack of envelopes of varying sizes and colors towards you. Your vision blurs and adjusts as you glance between him and the envelopes.

“Christmas cards,” he answers flatly with a shrug. “I could use some help opening and drafting up responses to them all.”

“Oh.” Try to sound more disappointed, why don’t you?

Your fingers graze the clutch of his hand when you reach for the cards. And the worn, warm glide of his skin beneath your fingertips makes you stiffen. You wonder what it would feel like to purposely hold his hand. To commit the feel of his palm to memory. But you banish such thoughts, bowing your head and ducking away.

“Sorry,” you pinch out, moving to the chaise sofa against the wall by his office door.

He’s wordless as he plops down beside you, releasing a weighted sigh. He drapes his arm along the back of the seat. You try vainly to ignore his slender fingers near your shoulder, drumming against the polished leather.

You lapse into a rigid silence, your shoulders and jaw set. You find your resolve trickling away, the warmth he exudes beside you making you feel dizzy and shameless. He even has the audacity to smell good, that unmistakable mixture of birch wood, pressed clothing, and his natural musk, conspiring together to overhaul your senses.

You wonder if he would be offended if you just… leaned a little this way and—forget it. The bubbly’s getting to you. You’re not testing your luck tonight. You worked your ass off to secure this job, enduring tireless screenings and background checks. Worked even harder to gain his trust. No sense in allowing your feelings to compromise your position.

Besides, you know where you stand with him. Or don’t stand. The spectacle before with the darling Ms. Hunter was all the confirmation you needed. The words you never stood a chance resound in your head like a struck gong. You scoff, tearing into a crimson envelope, dispelling the cacophony in your head.

“This one is from Mrs. Carter over in HR,” you say, waving the card around. You don your usual playful mask, praying your hurt doesn’t show through the fissures. He acknowledges you with a gruff sound, immersed in a card of his own. You take that as your cue to continue.

Feigning nonchalance, you flip the card open. You clear your throat, repositioning yourself on the sticky, squeaky sofa, crossing your legs, and leaning towards the opposite chair arm. You rattle off the card’s contents aloud. A generic greeting, hollow praise, a bidding for a successful new year.

“Send her a gift card,” he answers dismissively. You scoff, tucking the card between your thigh and the chair’s arm. Is it just you, or is he being unbearably cold? You’re the one with the wounded pride here.

You occupy yourself with another letter, trying to quell the new swell of emotions burbling in your chest. You’ve reread the same line repeatedly, the cursive scrawl embedded into the cardstock blurring and bending. It’s exceedingly difficult to focus with him so close. And you find yourself stealing little glimpses of him in your peripheral.

He looks even better beneath the incandescent lights like this, like a Roman sculpture bred from patient hands. His cheeks are mottled red, probably from throwing back one too many glasses of champagne. Delicate, alabaster strands fall from their usual coiffure, sweeping over set brows and hollow cheeks. Dark lashes dust over warm ivory skin, scarlet irises dancing beneath as he reads over another Christmas card. You watch his Adam’s apple bob when he swallows. Find yourself, too, swallowing against the dry, scratchy feeling in your throat.

You tug in the neckline of your sweater. It’s itchy and thick, and the heater’s turned up in the building to combat the cold outside. You’re uncomfortable because of the temperature and not because your boss is so unbearably close.

With a sigh, you peel yourself from the lounge. You venture to your desk in search of a letter opener. If you’re going to spend the rest of your night working, you might as well make the task a little less daunting. Rifling through your drawers, you happen upon the biggest one. And your breath catches, grip white-knuckled on the brass knob when you catch sight of it. Inside lies your present—his present—the intricate foil wrapping gleaming condescendingly.

Something pulls in your chest. Your hand shakes. Your lips pull into a taut line, embarrassment spuming like a hot geyser into your face. You’re about to slam the drawer shut, but a streak of warm skin stains your peripheral vision. And as horror descends onto your features, he snatches up the contents of your drawer faster than you can process things.

“What’s this now?” your boss asks, intrigue mixed with amusement hanging in the boughs of his voice.

Wide-eyed and mortified, you look at him. Your flight or fight instincts kick in, pushing you towards the latter. He dons a wolfish grin as you swipe at the box in his hand, and he holds it just out of reach. Damn him for being so absurdly tall!

“Sir!” you clip, swiping at the gift like an enraged feline. He doesn’t relent, instead spurred by your reaction, and the contents of the box shift about as he continues his childish game of keep away. Your chest slides against him each time you strain on tippy-toe. And you try to ignore how pleasant he feels, warm and hard-bodied against you.

Spinning out of reach, your boss chuckles at your expense. He seems to enjoy this, watching you hop after him like a field mouse, trying vainly to swipe the object from his hand.

“You think I didn’t notice you fretting over this all night?” he teases once you’ve stopped—at least for now—your cheeks puffing out, nostrils flaring.

“Mr. Sylus, I—”

“And you weren’t even going to give it to me.” He clicks his tongue, feigning hurt. “What have I done to warrant such cruelty?”

Reality slowly seeps in. He’s one step closer to opening your gift and discovering how much of a useless spazz you are. Switching tactics, you hold out a placating hand, stepping towards him like he’s holding a charged explosive.

“Sir, I need that back!”

His mouth forms a pensive line as his gaze shifts between you and the box clutched in his fingers. “Why? It’s mine, isn’t it? It has my name on it.” He squints at the meticulous scrawl of your penmanship, and when you make a surprise lunge toward the box when you think he’s distracted, he swings his arm out of reach, baiting you like a bull.

He laughs low, a mirthful crease to his eyes. You’d take time to appreciate it if you weren’t fighting for your life.

“What’s got you so worked up? What could possibly be in here that you’re willing to bite my head off to get it back?”

You swallow thickly, chest heaving as you watch Sylus drop onto your leather rolling chair, cross-legged and smiling like the cat who caught the canary. He shakes the box near his ear, its contents rattling about.

“Sir, don’t.” But it’s too late. The sound of paper ripping is jarring in the stillness of your office space.

You’re stiff as stone, mouth hinged open, terror screwing up your features. Eventually, you concede to your fate, hands falling listlessly at your sides whilst your boss uncovers what lurks beneath the pretty foil paper you’d spent so much time wrapping his present in. You pour yourself onto the chaise lounge, your shoulders touching your ears, feeling like a child waiting with their parents at the principal’s office. You sneak little glances at his hands, each tear making you wince like a scrape against your heart.

Sylus quirks a quizzical brow at you, looking between the matte grey box he uncovered in his hand and you. You don’t contest him, too busy trying to remember how to breathe. He takes your cue, slowly peeling the lid off the box. He reaches inside to procure yet another box, slightly smaller than the one it’s nested in, neatly wrapped in paper similar to what he just tore off.

Giving you a perturbed look, Sylus repeats the previous process. And again, he’s faced with matte gray. He carries on like this, peeling back a lid, finding another box nested inside, and tearing through wrapping paper for another three iterations.

“How long does this go on?” he prods, faced with another box. “And how many trees did you kill to pull this off?”

You press the tips of your index fingers together, pursing your lips as you look elsewhere. “You’re almost there.” You’re half-grateful he decided to be shit about it. You don’t feel as bad for nesting his gift away like matryoshka dolls. He deserves to feel the same distress he subjected you to mere minutes ago.

Vexation rolls off him in waves when he reaches yet another box, and he fixes you with a look that bodes danger. There aren’t too many times you’ve witnessed him this annoyed. He’s normally like this when his afternoon nap is interrupted by anyone but you or he’s dealing with a particularly ornery client.

You stand from the couch with a nervous titter in your throat, snatching up the discarded red bow and ribbons you adorned his gift with and tacking it onto the crown of your head. You do a little jig, something to dispel the tension, wordlessly cheering him on.

Sylus rolls his eyes with a resigned sigh. A ghostly smile rounds his lips thereafter, and you could swear you see something like fondness shining in his eyes at your antics. It disappears as quickly as it came, replaced by a determined pinch between his brows.

You continue swaying your hips from side to side and pumping your fists in the air, the bow's ribbons falling comically over your eyes and water-falling off your shoulders.

Finally, finally, Sylus exposes a matte, black box that’s the size of his palm. Wrapping paper lies like carnage at his feet, bent-up cardboard boxes piled atop your desk. You sigh in relief, though it’s short-lived, as he opens the final barrier between him and his gift.

He studies the contents of this new box, eerily quiet. You swallow as he reaches inside, producing something garish and pink from within. “What the hell is this?” he queries, waving the plastic novelty revolver around.

You snort, the flatness of his tone catching you off guard. “A gun,” you answer as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Sylus scoffs. “Clearly. But what is it for?”

Flourishing your arms, you plaster on a grin. “For you to put me down in case you no longer find any use for me!”

Looking between the pink revolver and you, he crooks his finger around the trigger, huffing a disbelieving laugh. “You want me to ‘Old Yeller’ you?”

“If that’s what it comes down to.” And what comedic timing he has, pulling the trigger, a banner with Bang printed in bright Comic Sans popping out, complimented by a flurry of rainbow paper confetti.

Silence lapses between you as the confetti flutters to the floor. You caution a look at your boss, and he shakes his head, his lips crooked into a smirk, though the knit of his brows reveals his disappointment.

“You can also use it during your meetings when someone pisses you off,” you warily add, shifting your weight between your feet. He doesn’t honor you with a response, instead setting the revolver on your desk with a definitive clack. He studies something in the distance, seemingly ignoring you.

If you weren’t already feeling silly before, you most certainly do now. You figured something unconventional would suit your boss. Something to define your work relationship, the pair of you often trading morbid and esoteric jokes to make the day's hustle a little less daunting. It seemed like a good idea when it caught your eye in the mall. In retrospect, maybe it wasn’t a good buy after all. Especially when compared to Ms. Hunter's gift, and the recollection makes something cold wash over your innards.

You press the tips of your index fingers together, gaze cast on the floor. You’ve screwed up, and you’ll probably lose your job over this. Either that or your working relationship will turn to shit. You’d honestly rather be relieved of your position when considering the latter option. Turning to leave, to pick up the jagged shards of your pride and finish tidying up, you gasp when you feel a warm presence behind you, the fine hairs littering your body standing at attention.

You turn to acknowledge him, wincing away, expecting to be struck. Mr. Sylus has never raised a hand at you before, only lightly flicking your forehead or tapping your nose when he felt playful that day. You realize how ridiculous you must look and sound, but you steel yourself against the worst possible outcome regardless.

A hit never comes. You’re instead greeted with the hard press of a body against yours. With arms loosely winding about your middle and a chin finding the crook of your shoulder. His scent is overwhelming. The heat he exudes is dizzying, wit-pilfering.

Wide-eyed, with your hands opening and closing awkwardly at your sides, you stiffen as you grapple with the notion that your boss is hugging you. Mr. Sylus. Hugging you. No matter how many times you turn the words over in your mind, you can’t process them. You didn’t even know he was capable of such an act.

“Thank you,” he intones, his voice a pleasant vibration in your body. He rubs over the notches of your spine, nuzzling into you further like you’re his security blanket. Once your common sense returns, an affectionate smile touches your lips.

You clumsily return his hug, unsure of the proper conduct in this situation. But you throw caution to the wind, full-on embracing him, your eyes twinkling with tears. “Of course, sir,” you murmur, swallowing against the swell of emotions in your throat.

The hug ends much too soon for your liking. Sylus peels away, his hands clasping your arms. You tilt your head quizzically as he studies you, the bow's ribbons brushing off your shoulder. You must be quite the doe-eyed sight. His eyes darken as his gaze falls to your lips, his own mouth slightly parting. He looks as if he’s wrestling with something in his mind. Turning it over, at war with himself. He seems to win whatever battle is taking place behind his eyes, for he slowly pans in, his lashes bowing.

And maybe you’re swept up in the moment, too, his hug having buried your defenses in the sand. You don’t fight him, only awkwardly shifting when your lips meet before relaxing beneath the slight chap of his lips.

Beneath the ethereal twinkle of the fairy lights you hadn’t yet snatched down, through the stillness of the investment firm’s tenth floor, and with your pulse thundering in your throat, Mr. Sylus kisses you. A full press of lips, his grip on your arms tightening the barest as if to keep you rooted to the spot. Not that you would run, feeling weightless, like navigating a dream.

As quickly as reality floats onto your shoulders like a wispy shawl, he pulls back, wild-eyed and panting. And it’s as if you’re the greatest sin he was never meant to indulge in. He releases you before tearing a shaky hand through his tresses, pushing out a weighted exhale.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, stepping away from you before you can think, each hurried thump of his loafers across the floor like a strike to your racing heart.

You strain your ears for every bit of sound until the elevator around the corner pings, and you hear him step inside, the doors swishing shut. And you’re left to the swell of static and impenetrable silence, staring after the faint afterimage left by his tall visage.

You turn towards the ceiling high-window, dazed. Touch your lips with shaky fingers, the sensitive skin still tingling with the remnants of your kiss. Flecks of white streak the violet canvas beyond the window, the first snowfall fluttering in gossamer patterns towards the ground.

You got what you wanted. What you’d maybe consider the greatest Christmas gift you've ever received. But as a bitter smile tugs at your lips, your eyesight glossing over with a warm film, and you clutch your chest, your thoughts seep in.

Why does it feel like it’s not what he wanted?

#sylus x reader #sylus x you #christmas fic #holiday fic #sylus #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #lnds sylus #l&ds sylus #sylus qin #modern au #ceo au #sylus love and deepspace

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carbonfiction · 1 month ago

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A little suprise

Summary: After another cosy Christmas morning shared together, it’s time for the gifts. Little things thoughtfully bought, wrapped and passed over. This year however, theres something else. Something you've meticulously managed to keep hidden for a little while now.

Master list. Words: 1.2k

Warnings: tw mentions of pregnancy/pregnancy announcement. (Chosen to tw this simply bc im aware of how tough it can be for those struggling with conception/fertility ect, especially this time time of year. i want you to know my heart is with you, your time will come🫶) Lumberjack Logan is a sweetheart, mostly just a nice lil finding-out-he’s-gonna-be-a-dad Logan fluff with a smiiiiige of swearing. Lo calls reader “momma”

The parasites in me yearned for origins dad Logan, so I had to write origins dad Logan. Or in other words, its Christmas and I desperately can’t stop thinking about that large man with a teeeeny tiny baby.. Tadaaaaaa <33 merry Christmas loves!

Christmas morning was always peaceful in the howlett household. It would begin with sleep laced kisses, limbs tangled together as you hold each other close. It's hours before either of you actually leave the bed, too warm and content with eachothers presence to even consider it.

But when you do the first place you go, after the bathroom of course, is to the kitchen. Logan begins breakfast- or nearer brunch by then. While you make sure the coffee machine is switched on and freshly brewing the hot liquid into your usual cups- a cheesy wedding present from a friend, mugs that read 'Mr' and 'Mrs'.

Then, once dinner is roasting slowly in the oven for later, come the gifts. All soundtracked by a movie playing in the background. Little things wrapped and passed over- for you comes a cosy pair of pajamas with matching socks that you'd pointed out a while back, along with a little hamper full of your favorite treats; a perfect mix of sweet and savory to snack on when the mood takes you; or when wrapped up tighter watching a movie.

While you gift him a fresh collection of cigars and workboots that offer a little extra comfort to those long days he spends at the yard on his feet.

But.. Theres also something else. Something you've meticulously managed to keep hidden for a little while now.

You steady yourself with an anxious exhale before you tap logan on the knee. "Theres one last one.." you say with a smile, quickly retreating to the bedroom and coming back to stand infront of him with a neatly wrapped box in hand.

Logans brow rises, a crease then wedging between them as he looks over the gift and its carefully tied bow. "Thought we agreed on a couple things each?" he murmers.

Hes right, you had agreed that, both having felt like each others company was all you really needed..

"Well, its a Surprise..” you trail, urging him to open it as nuterally as you could. Anxiety festering deep in your chest, part of you unsure just how this would go down.

Its silent as his fingers pluck and pull at the ribbon, deftly untieing it until its left in a pile besides him on the couch. Next is the lid, decorative tissue paper also following as his eyes rake over the unveiled contense.

"Sweetheart?.." logan questions in a whisper, fingers gently lifting out a pair of tiny booties and a matching flannel shirt; Both purposely mirroring items he owned. "what.. what’s all this?”

Logan feels his heart hammer in his chest, mouth going dry. are you telling him what he thinks you are?

“What’s it look like Logan?" you giggle softly, a hint of nerves in your eyes as you look down at him. You grasp an ultrasound photo and the positive test from the pocket of your sweats then, placing them in his hands over the little shirt.

You watch as his eyes widen to the size of dinner plates, crease flying away from his brows as he takes in the words written on the test; illuminated by the soft glow of the tree lights. 'Positive'

“You-" he starts, words trembling dryly from his tongue. "you’re really pregnant?”

Tears begin to sting at your waterline as he looks up, your gazes meeting as you nod, bottom lip bitten tight between your teeth. "yeah, ‘m really pregnant.. gonna be a dad lo”

Sure, you'd had conversations in the past about this situation, had both agreed kids would be something you'd like to share one day, but you never actively began trying. Never fucked for the sake of conception. It had just.. happened.

A birthday celebration mixing with a slip up in taking your birth control- an accident you weren't sure you felt guilty for at this point, not with the look clouding over logans features.

Features soon shared by the little you or him growing inside you.

You wobble forward as Logans arms engulf your waist, pulling you toward him with the enthusiasm of a child receiving a toy they'd wanted forever.

Tears begin to stream down your cheeks, landing wetly on your fingers as they find home in the soft tufts of his hair.

“I’m gonna be a dad.." he murmers incredulous and full of wonder as his forehead presses into the fabric of your shirt. You dont know if hes talking to you or himself, but its just quiet enough for you to hear it through your now hiccuped sobs.

“Are you happy?” you sniffle, still slightly unsure. He feels you pull at his hair until his gaze meets you, chin resting gently on your ribs.

“shit sweetheart, yeah" he smiles and its bright on his face as he stands to hold you properly. Logans lips press against yours, the kiss filled with unspoken emotions as the addictive taste of him hits your tongue.

He holds you tightly at the waist for a few moments and its with trembling fingers he pulls back. His head dipping to look you in the eyes, touch twice as gentle when his hands come up from your sides to gently cup your cheeks. Calloused thumbs swiping at the tears that still fall "course I'm happy, are you?"

"Yeah. Yeah Im happy" you assure, teary eyes brightening. "beyond happy even"

A grin lights logans expression as he looks down, glittering as bright as the Christmas lights surrounding you.

"You know, I was.." he starts, clearing his throat as it crackles with emotion. "God i was just thinkin what a pretty momma you’ll make but.. you already are a momma huh.." one of his hands move again, deft fingers creeping under your shirt now until his large palm sits gently against the small swell of your stomach. Your heart skipping at the feel of the cool metal of his wedding band. "growing our kid in there..”

“Well, it’s technically sill early d-“ you go to say, but he cuts you off. “Your glowing already you know that sweetheart?"

His lips find yours again, fingers still cupping your jaw as his next words press against your mouth in a soft coo. "My beautiful girl.. Our baby's gorgeous momma"

Your arms wrap around his neck, swaying gently as love drunk grins adorn both your faces. The room filled with a new kind of excitement. A memory made you know both of you will remember forever. “i Love you Logan...” you affirm, hushed.

"Love you more sweetheart, like you wouldnt believe." he honeys back softly, stroking his thumb over your belly again "Giving me the damn world here"

Its silent then for a while after, appart from the crackle of the fire. Post dinner you both rest full, wrapped up in each others arms on the couch. you lying curled onto his chest.

Your fingers alternate drawing shapes and drumming on his left pectoral, wide grins still adorning your faces as you peek over at the test, photo, boots and flannel still sitting on the coffee table.

You hum softly then, breaking the silence with a simple whisper of his name. "Logan?"

He responds just as quiet, hand still not having left its new home on your tummy. "Yeah sweet girl?"

"Once i get huge.." you start with a teasing glint making logan cock a brow as he listens. "Im reserving the right to be carried around the house.."

That makes Logan chuckle, the louder rumble shaking beneath where you lay as you too break into a fit of giggles.

He shakes his head, lips kissing your hair softly as he speaks, still deeply amused. “Whatever you want momma, whatever you want."

Is this my best work? Fuck no, fluff is my kryptonite. But Was it a sweet thought? Yeaaa..

#logan howlett #wolverine #logan fluff #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett fluff #wolverine fluff #wolverine x reader #Wolverine x reader fluff #origins logan howlett #lumberjack logan #logan x reader #wolverine origins #logan wolverine

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skeltnwrites · 5 months ago

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The Shape of Family ‧₊˚❀༉

As a single dad, Steve’s world revolves around school drop-offs, bedtime rituals, and tee-ball practices—and he's struggling to keep up. But you're always there, happily lending a hand when he needs it most. / masterlist

part one - you find out your work crush is a dad and offer to watch his mischievous little girl so he can get some work done 5.2k

a/n - penelope is a little shit and i love her dearly, general warnings/tags here

── .✦

“Hey, sorry to bother you, Steve. I just had a quick question– but before I forget, there’s this little girl in the lobby knocking stuff over. Do you know if her parents are here?”

“Fuck– sorry. One sec.”

He brushes past you with an urgency that is typical of Steve. As the community outreach coordinator, he’s naturally a busy man. You haven’t known him long– just the couple of months since you became a volunteer for the local rec center– but it’s clear he’s dedicated to his work. Always zipping from one end of the building to the other, juggling class setups, organizing meetings, or hunting down the next thing that needs fixing. He tends to add more to his plate than he can carry, at least according to another staff member, which is why you’ve been assigned to help him.

You strain to match his long strides and nearly take out a trash can when he turns a corner unexpectedly. But you can’t lose him now– someone is always nearby to steal him for paperwork or performance reviews and all you have is a quick question.

The lobby unfortunately looks like a tornado blew through the front doors. Cabinets are thrown open, papers are scattered like leaves across the floor, and a chair has been toppled over. And said tornado has her cheek pressed to the vending machine glass, an arm twisted inside the dispenser box to reach for a loose pack of Skittles. The scene is almost amusing until you remember you’ll likely be the one to clean it up.

“Penelope!” Steve scolds, not loud but stern enough to surprise you. He’s consistently an embodiment of gentleness– always accommodating and rarely assertive. And while he’s still gentle with her, his tone carries a weight and firmness that’s a stark departure from his usual demeanor.

The girl, Penelope, retracts her arm and spins around to face Steve. And if it wasn’t for the shit-eating grin pinned to her face, you might’ve felt bad for getting her in trouble.

Steve’s hands snap to his hips. “I asked you to wait in my office.”

She shrugs, “Need a snack.”

Steve huffs and rakes a hand through his hair– a habit when he’s stressed, which is most of the time it seems. By the end of the day, his hairspray will have been combed out and Steve will argue with the strands that curl over his forehead.

“You can have one after you clean this up and if you stay in my office.”

“Candy?”

“No, no candy. There’s snacks in your lunchbox.” He bends to scoop up a few pamphlets to hand to her. “Or I have pretzels. Do you want that?”

She pinches a page between her nails, weighing her options.

Steve pries tiny fingers off, “Don’t rip those. Put ‘em away please.”

And she listens for maybe the first time ever, it seems, cramming a stack of them back on the shelf.

You gather your own stack of handouts and press them into Steve’s sleeve. He recoils a step, his eyes widening before rapidly shutting in a moment of realization. “Sorry! You had a question- I’m sorry.”

Penelope abandons her organizing to plant herself at Steve’s left like a sidekick– anything to get out of cleaning up. She gazes at you with a familiar pair of almond eyes and then it clicks. Her hair is the same shade of brown and her jaw, though softer, is square shaped like Steve’s. The resemblance is indisputable.

You redirect your stare to answer Steve. “Um, yeah– I just needed to borrow the storage closet key to grab some more chairs.”

“Oh, of course.” He pats the front pocket of his jeans. “Keys are in my office– I hope.”

Steve marches past you once again, a new mission in mind, tugging Penelope by the wrist and toeing a cabinet shut on the way out. Penelope’s poor little legs must be tired if he always walks this fast.

“I don’t want pretzels,” she eventually decides.

“Then you can have what’s in your lunchbox.” He glances over his shoulder to confirm you’re in tow, “This is my daughter, Penelope, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Penelope.” You wave, not that she sees.

A braid sits high on her head, swinging like a horse's tail with each hurried step. Her faded denim overalls ride up slightly, exposing just enough ankle to show off the bubblegum pink Converse on her feet. She’s a cute little thing, button-eyed and puffy-cheeked like a cabbage patch kid.

Steve nudges her with his hip, “Say hi.”

She throws you an impartial glance. “Hi.”

When Steve’s office is in sight, Penelope wriggles away from his hold to sprint down the hall. On her tip-toes, she flicks on the light, letting the door slam in Steve’s face. You catch him rolling his eyes as he stops the door with his foot for you. Penelope is clambering onto his chair like it’s a race and pushing off the desk to spin as soon as she’s seated. Steve steers her out of the way to search the drawers, passing you a set of keys when he finds them.

“Just bring ‘em back, please. Dottie found them in lost and found last week.”

“Thanks, I will,” you promise, eyes falling over Penelope again.

It’s your cue to leave, but your feet remain anchored to the floor. Your mind is buzzing with questions that neither of you have the time to discuss. The rational part of you knows you should exit before you let your curiosity win. Yet, you find yourself lingering in the doorway, stalling just long enough for Steve to lift an eyebrow in silent inquiry.

And before you can rule whether or not it's a good idea, you blurt out, “I can keep an eye on her if you want?”

Penelope peaks over the back of the chair, perched on her knees so she can see.

Steve shakes his head, “No, it’s okay. You’ve got stuff to do. And Penelope is going to be a better listener for the rest of the day, right?” He ruffles her hair, earning him a glare.

You bite back a smile. It’s a funny thing, seeing that frown and furrowed brows that resemble Steve’s so clearly because you can’t imagine him making that face at anyone ever. It’s cute, even if it’s meant to be mean, but you would never tell her as much.

“I really don’t mind. She could help me tape the flyers up– If she wants something to do?” You direct the last part at Penelope. To a kid, being trapped in their dad’s dusty old office is probably boredom purgatory.

Penelope blinks at you and then Steve for permission.

“You want to?” He asks.

She nods, then adds, “Snack too?”

“Yes, honey.” He sighs, faint but deflated, burdened by the guilt of not feeding her sooner. Steve fishes her backpack out from under his desk. A vivid shade of pink with a Barbie patch sewn to the front. Her tin lunchbox is similarly themed and only harbors a bag of fruit snacks.

“Fruit snacks or pretzels?”

Penelope’s features pinch in a way that says neither but she snatches the fruit snacks anyway. Decidedly dismissed or over the conversation, she hops off the chair and sees herself out.

You can’t help the smile that finds your lips as you turn back to Steve.

He chuckles, “It’s been a day. Bring her back if she doesn’t listen. Good luck.”

Penelope leans against the wall outside, popping a gummy in her mouth lazily.

“We’re gonna make a pitstop at the supply closet and then you can help me with the flyers.”

She doesn’t say anything, but she follows as you start walking, and that’s all you need from her. She’s strangely silent for a kid, especially Steve’s kid. Conversation seems to come easy to him, he likes to talk, which is one of the reasons you still can’t believe you didn’t know he had a child. On your first day as a volunteer, he’d crammed that he was on the swim team in high school, that he's from Indiana, and that he prefers the warmer months all in one conversation– the guy is an open book.

And you’re quiet too because you’re focused on recalling where they put that damned supply closet. The rec center halls all sort of look the same still, bleeding into one jumbled image of wood paneling and old carpet in your mind. The building is practically a maze; constructed in the fifties, it still carries its historic charm—stubborn doors, leaky faucets, and all—issues the city claims they 'can’t afford' to fix.

Penelope must get tired of going in circles because eventually she tugs on your sleeve and points down the opposite hall you were planning on going. When she leads you right up to the door you beam at her. For a second, she forgets to be brooding and smiles back.

“You’re a smart little cookie, Penelope. How’d you know it was here?” You ask, unlocking the door.

She shrugs nonchalantly, “I just know things.”

You laugh loud enough to draw eyes from a nearby meeting and determine Penelope is the funniest kid you’ve ever met.

She holds the door open at your request, munching on her fruit snacks as you maneuver a stack of chairs into the hall. You make it back to the classroom without her directions, not to toot your own horn. She tosses her empty wrapper in the trash as you unstack the chairs.

“Here,” you pass her a roll of tape. “Rip some pieces off for me?”

She nods, ambling over to the wall with you.

“So, Penelope, how old are you?” You ask, pressing a flyer against the wallpaper.

She debates, flipping fingers up and down on her free hand before concluding, “Four.”

“Ohh, very cool. You’re almost ready to go to school with the big kids, huh?”

“Yes, at the big school. I’m in pre-school.”

“Mhmm. Do you like preschool?”

She hums no and strains to tear off a piece.

“Here, like this,” you demonstrate, pulling in the proper direction. She copies you, ripping a neat line. The corners of her lips raise as she views her handiwork.

“You don’t like school?” You ask, peering down.

She hands you the slice of tape. “Only sometimes.”

“Why only sometimes?”

She shrugs and heaves a hefty sigh for such little lungs. She’s too small to be sighing like that, you think, and she definitely acquired it from Steve.

“I only like work sometimes too,” you admit.

Her eyes chase yours– all innocently wide and filled with disbelief. She rips off another square of tape, “Are your friends not nice?”

You consider her question, answering truthfully, “Well, maybe sometimes, I guess.”

“Meg was not a kind friend today.” Her tone is hilariously chastizing for a child. Kids are just like mini adults sometimes– collecting random phrases and mannerisms like trading cards.

“No? Why’s that?”

“She wouldn’t share. Daddy always says sharing is caring.”

“That’s true. Did you tell your teacher?”

Penelope shakes her head, tilting on her heels.

“Why not?”

“Meg told the teacher on me because I wasn’t being a kind friend either.”

“Oh. Why weren’t you being a kind friend?”

“Because I wanted to play with the dolls too,” she mumbles, upset wavering in her voice. To a child, these seemingly trivial matters really do feel like the end of the world, so you can’t help but empathize, even as you wish your worries were confined to sharing toys.

You crouch in front of Penelope, “We still should be kind, hmm? Even when our friends don’t want to share?”

Penelope’s unconvinced, picking at her nail like the dirt underneath is a more important issue. But you’re at the end of your stack of cardstock and it maybe isn’t your place to have this conversation anyway.

You get her set up at a table with printer paper and a box of crayons from the closet. She dumps them out immediately, spraying rainbow across her paper so she can find the “bestest” colors.

“I can share,” she declares, sliding her extra sheet over to your end of the table.

“That’s very sweet of you. Thank you.” You catch a crayon before it rolls onto the floor. “What should I draw?”

“I’m coloring my family.”

“That’s nice. I think I’ll draw a dinosaur.”

“A dinosaur?” She cocks her head and giggles, bubbly and pure in the way that kids laugh. Your heart aches with happiness. “That’s silly!”

“What? Why’s that silly?”

She cackles like this is the funniest idea anyone’s ever had. “They just are!”

“Hmm. Should I draw a serious dinosaur then?”

“All dinosaurs are silly– Trevor says so.”

“What! Why does he think that?”

Her words fuse into one smear of a sound as she shrugs, “I dunno.”

“Well, my dinosaur is very serious. See?”

She presses into your arm to examine your quick sketch. “That’s not a dinosaur!”

“It is! You can’t tell?”

She nibbles on her lip, smile growing as she shakes her head.

You pull the paper closer, as if a better angle might somehow improve it. “Hmm, I guess it does look a bit like an alien, doesn’t it?”

Penelope giggles and nods enthusiastically before returning to her work. Her crayon moves methodically across the paper, lips pressed together in concentration. After a long spell of silence, she kindly requests, “Can you draw a house?”

“Of course,” you reply, “On my paper or yours?”

“Mine,” she says, her pointer finger tapping the corner of her sheet with emphasis.

The drawing is a riot of color, blending bold strokes of crayon to create two people and an animal. The taller, presumably Steve, is painted with orange and yellow hues– true to the the warmth he represents. Penelope, doused in cooler tones, carries their floppy-eared pet– a bunny or a dog, maybe?

“Wow, Penelope! This is amazing!” You genuinely mean it; despite her young age, her talent shines through in little details like eyelashes and a set of heart-shaped earrings. “Is this you and Daddy?”

“Yes, and Cinderella!” she adds proudly.

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” you say, admiring her work. “Is Cinderella your pet?”

She bobs her head animatedly.

“Wow, she looks like a very pretty… animal in your drawing.”

“She is a very pretty cat,” Penelope affirms and you are relieved not to have guessed incorrectly. She stares at you for a long moment. “Is Cinderella family?”

“Well, does she live with you?”

Penelope scrunches her nose and tips her head, “Sort of?”

“She sort of lives with you?”

“Yeah. She lives outside mostly but sometimes I let her inside.” Her pitch fluctuates as she talks, the words lilting in a strange, almost sing-song cadence that kids do.

“Ohh,” you smile. “Do you feed Cinderella?”

“Yes, Daddy buys her food in a can and it’s really stinky!”

Penelope joins you when you laugh. Not because you are but because stinky things are just funny at her age.

“Do you love Cinderella?” You ask.

“Yes– except when she bites me.” She sobers quickly, forehead wrinkling.

“Oh,” you chuckle, “Well, I think she’s family then.”

“I think so too,” she states seriously, swapping a blue crayon for a green.

“What color should the house be?” You claw through the rainbow spread.

“White!”

“Well, the paper’s already white but how ‘bout I outline the house in black so you know where it is?”

“I guess so. There’s two windows and the door is red– Oh, and there are lots of flowers outside.”

You nod, sketching her vision into existence. “Is this your house?”

“Yes, and Daddy’s. And sometimes Cinderella’s.”

“Just you three? Is that your whole family?” Admittedly, it’s a self-indulgent question. You’re curious about Penelope’s mom. And you noticed Steve doesn’t wear a ring, checked multiple times in the last few weeks even. But that doesn’t refute the possibility he might be seeing someone.

“Yes, Daddy and Cinderella is my family. Daddy says families come in all shapes and sizes.”

You’re glowing with a fondness that’s impossible to hide– because everything about her is adorable– her chubby cheeks, her tinkling little laugh, even her attitude, though Steve would probably disagree with the latter. She’s different than Steve in a lot of ways: grumpier and more aloof, but, at her age, it’s cute. And still, she feels like his carbon copy. An echo of everything you’ve come to like about him.

Him being a dad makes perfect sense in retrospect. To have overlooked such an important part of his life seems silly. A tenderness radiates from Steve, the kind only a parent could possess. He’s full of love– too much not to share. He pours lots into his work: late nights at the center, taking on more than he can chew, always with a smile. And the rest? It must go to Penelope.

“Your dad is very right about that.”

She smirks confidently, holding up her artwork, “I’m going to give this to him.”

“I bet he’ll love it so much, Penelope!”

And his dad senses must be tingling at the mention of his name because his face appears in the door’s slim window not even a minute later. His lips curve into a grin as he realizes he’s been caught spying.

The door clicks and Penelope turns. “Hi, Daddy.”

“Hi, baby,” Steve strolls over to the opposite side of the table, “Are you being a good listener?” His attention flicks around the room, searching for any signs of misbehavior.

Penelope shimmies up tall in her seat and nods until he meets her pleased gaze.

Steve must believe the girl because he doesn’t press further, but you praise her anyway, “Very good. Penelope’s been an amazing helper this afternoon.”

“Is that right?” He orbits the table to stand behind her. “What are you drawing, Nell?”

She flips over her paper, clapping the front against the table. “It’s a surprise!”

“Oh, sorry!” He paces back, redirecting his attention to you. “I didn’t see it.”

Penelope twists around to confirm his eyes are elsewhere before proceeding to squeeze in a final set of details– grass blades and sun rays. “Here,” she thrusts the page into his hands. “For you.”

“For me?” His face lights up like a Christmas tree before he’s even seen it. She could hand him a pebble, and he’d treasure it like a gem. And when his eyes do fan across the drawing, he melts.

“This is so lovely!” He coos. “Where did you get all this talent from? This belongs in a museum, Nell!” He keeps his heart from bursting with a steady palm to his chest. And with his free hand, he flashes it at you just long enough to catch a glimpse before he reels it in to study some more. “And you got Cinderella’s stripes too. Wow.”

He squats behind Penelope’s chair, throwing an arm around her middle, “Thank you for this. And thank you for being a good listener. That makes my heart very happy.”

She slumps into his chest, peering up at the reflection of her own features. “Is it time to go?”

His eyes leap to the clock hung on the opposite wall. “Couple more hours, babe.”

Penelope huffs.

“I’m gonna hang this in my office. I love it so so much!” He sows a couple of kisses on her temple, straining to stand with achy knees. “You wanna come hang out with me or stay here?”

She looks at you like you might object. “Here.”

If Steve’s offended, he doesn’t show it. He’s still grinning like the Cheshire cat, high on the parenting win that is receiving willing affection from your child. “That okay?” He asks you.

“Of course. I’ll put her to work,” you reassure.

“Good, keep her busy. It keeps her out of trouble.” He raises the drawing for another look. “I’ll be in my office, doing paperwork, yay.”

You snicker, as he retraces the path he came. “Have fun with that boss!”

Just before the door slams shut, he yells back, equally playful, “I told you to stop calling me that!”

Penelope doodles some more, gifting you a vibrant rendition of the night sky– a collection of stars and circles and swirls. You’re so grateful you tell her it’ll go on your fridge, and it does as soon as you’re home. She sorts through toys and equipment in the gym closet and even holds your dustpan when you sweep. Her role as your helper is taken very seriously.

The two hours pass faster than you expect. Time flies when you're having fun, as Steve would say. All his little phrases and cheesy jokes suddenly make sense in the context of him being a dad.

She takes your hand on the way to Steve’s office, escorting you when you pretend not to know which direction it’s in. It’s as comforting as it is validating; winning the kindness and attention of four-year-olds, especially this one, is difficult. You knock on the wood frame even though the door’s propped open.

Steve peaks up through a rare pair of reading glasses. Round, wireframes that match the golden shade his hair assumes when it catches the light. They highlight his eyes—warm and gentle as a summer breeze. But he swipes them off his nose, folding them with practiced care.

A smile mends his frown as Penelope climbs into his lap. “Hi, sweetheart.”

She wiggles into a comfortable position, nudging his chest until he reclines further to make space. “Hi.”

“Are you having fun?” Steve cradles her shin to keep her from slipping. “What have you been up to?”

“Cleaning.” Her tone is casual, dismissive even, like it’s nothing to fuss over; but her eyes are fixed on him, waiting for a reaction.

Steve gasps, “No way! You were cleaning? I don’t know if I believe it.”

“I was!” Penelope whines, tickled with glee.

“Hmm, is this true?” He arches an eyebrow at you.

You nod, delighted to play along. “It is. Penelope here is excellent at handling a dustpan. She even organized the dodgeballs by color.”

“Really? Because you never-ever want to clean at home.”

“I do!” She squeals, bending backward over the arm of his chair.

“Yeah right.” He blows a raspberry on her belly where her shirt has pinched up.

She shrieks, squirming and kicking her heels into his thigh. Steve’s dad reflexes must clock in because he blocks her knee just before it drives into his cheek. And he takes it as a sign to ease up before someone gets hurt– craning back up and scooping Penelope into a baby cradle against his chest. Her legs are long and lanky, dangling over his arms like uncooked spaghetti.

“Do we need to invite them over every time you make a mess in your room? Will that solve the problem?” He teases, squishing her arms against his shirt so she can’t escape and peppering kisses from temple to temple.

Eventually, Penelope comes to terms that no amount of writhing will succeed against his strength. She slackens in his embrace, surrendering to the terrible thing that is unconditional love.

“Oh, here are your keys!” They rattle against the desk where you drop them.

Steve nods into Penelope's crown, poking her side. “Can you say ‘thank you for hanging out with me?’”

Anticipating another round of tickles, she grins before parroting, “Thank you for hanging out with me.”

“Thank you for helping me clean!”

Her eyes sweep back over to Steve, “Can we go home yet?”

His fingers tap rhythmically on the desk, a small sigh escaping as he glances at the paperwork drowning his workspace. “We’ll leave as soon as I’m finished.” He pecks the top of her head. “Promise.”

She rolls her eyes, moaning, “Daddy, come on it’s taking, like, a million years!”

“A million? Surely not.”

“It is!” She elongates the sound until it’s less word and more noise.

His shoulders droop, tension slipping from his frame as he agrees, “Okay. I’m ready to go too.”

You don’t blame him for giving in so easily, Penelope’s puppy eyes are powerful. Her chunky little hands smoosh his cheeks– molding and kneading like it’s play-doh, “Is that why your face looks so sleepy?”

A hearty laugh bursts from his throat, “Yes, that’s why my face looks so sleepy.” He pats her arms, “Come on. Up.”

Penelope scoots off his knees, gripping his wrist for balance. Steve ducks under the desk for his backpack and shoves the stack of paperwork inside.

“Hey, I meant to ask you, is the new schedule working okay for you?” He asks you, always so thoughtful.

You nod earnestly. “Yeah, actually, I like doing Fridays better I think.”

“Yeah, Fridays are fun. Fitness Friday has been a big hit with the high school's soccer team.” He slings his bag over his shoulder and lifts Penelope’s by the strap.

“Oh, good! Did the new jump ropes come in?” Conversations like this, as mundane as they are, are fleeting– the next interruption always around the corner– so you savor it while you have him.

“Mmmm, not yet. I think they’re coming next week– shipping delays or something.”

You turn to leave but stop in your tracks, attention stolen by Penelope’s drawing. As promised, it’s hung up– a few pieces of scotch tape secure it to the wall across from his desk.

“I’m gonna get a frame for it,” Steve passes you with a toothy smile, flicking off the light.

Penelope chimes in before you can respond, “Can I play jump rope?”

“I don't know if you know how, babe. I can teach you.”

“I can! I did at school!”

“You did? I didn’t know that.” Steve waves to a passing coworker. “Maybe we’ll buy one for home too then.”

Penelope nods, hopping the last stretch to the front door.

“Any fun plans this weekend?” Steve asks you outside, bumping the back of Penelope’s hand until she takes his. The parking lot is almost empty at this time of day, but a few stragglers remain inside after hours.

“If you think laundry is fun, then sure.”

“Oh, I know all about that, trust me.” He nods at Penelope, “This one goes through more clothes in a week than I do in a month.”

Steve approaches a BMW, only a few spots over from your car. An older model, but well taken care of. It’s a nice shade of burgundy with a stick-figure family on the back windshield. It feels so him.

You hum a happy sound. “What about you? Any plans?”

“Besides laundry? Well, we’re actually going kayaking at Red Fleet tomorrow,” he unlocks the passenger door, tucking the backpacks in the footwell.

“Oh, fun! Are you excited?” You ask Penelope.

“I’m gonna look for frogs.”

She wrenches the handle a few times before her door flies open. Steve intercepts mid-swing to prevent her from denting the neighboring truck at the expense of his fingers.

“Ow– shit,” he grimaces, shaking his wrist. He visibly swallows any other swears when he sees Penelope gawking, “Nell, I’ve told you to be gentle with the door.”

“You said we can’t say that word,” she points out, climbing into her car seat.

You scrub your mouth, not so inconspicuously erasing your smile.

“I– yes,” he nods, “You’re right. We shouldn’t say that word. I just–”

“Even when we’re frustrated; that’s what you said!”

Steve takes a deep breath through his nose, choking down his several feelings. She’s right, he did say that, to hopefully stop her from swearing at preschool, but the profanity policing is comical coming from a four-year-old. And he can’t be laughing right now– he has parenting to do– but he’s on the verge of breaking when he catches sight of your face.

Steve collects himself as he buckles her in. “Yes, Penelope. I shouldn’t have said it. I’m sorry.”

She pats his head, “It’s okay. We all do mistakes.”

Steve softens. The irritation evaporates instantly, replaced by a surge of satisfaction. This is one of those rare moments where he can so clearly recognize the lessons he’s instilled taking shape.

He lets himself chuckle then, “We do. We all make mistakes and that’s okay.”

She nods as he tightens her straps, “Like when I spilled my juice this morning.”

“Exactly.” He triple-checks that all her limbs are safely out of the door’s reach before shutting it.

He faces you, scratching his cheek– rosy and round with joy. “How much you wanna bet she swears at me tomorrow?”

“Hey, I don’t doubt it!” Your elation mirrors his.

“If she can’t find any frogs at the park I can almost guarantee it.”

“Better help her look then.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’d invite you but it’s reservation-based. And I’d be surprised if there’s any spots open still… But we can sneak you in if you really want to go.” It’s meant to be a joke, but something in the way he holds your gaze suggests a level of seriousness.

“No, that’s okay,” you grin. “The pile of laundry on my bed awaits.”

“Well, maybe next time.”

You try not to read into it. Steve’s a friendly guy, he probably invites his coworkers out to things all the time.

You nod, idling at the hood of his beamer.

“I really appreciate you watching her today. You’re a lifesaver, truly,” he shakes his head, peeking at Penelope through the window. “She’s been a handful lately– I mean, I had to pick her up early today because she bit another kid, can you believe that?”

“She’s a kid,” you shrug, “All kids do that at some point.”

“I don’t know,” he pinches the bridge of his nose, “I’m honestly at my witts end. This is her third warning and if she gets kicked out of school— I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“From what I saw today, she’s a really good kid, Steve. I can’t imagine they’d do that.”

“I’ve just been so busy, you know, sometimes I wonder if she acts out because of that– and it’s just me so I can’t–” he pauses, wiping his face, “God– I’m sorry, you’re… I’m just dumping all of this on you when you’re trying to leave.”

“No! It’s okay, I don’t mind, really.”

“It’s– Well, it’s a lot and I,” he’s cut short by Penelope knocking on the glass, impatience strewn across her features.

He throws up his pointer finger to tell her one second. “We can talk next week. You’ll be here Friday?”

“Yep. I will see you then,” you nod, backing up a step so he can cross over to the driver’s side.

“Okay, thanks again,” he says, opening his door.

You wave goodbye, “Of course. Have fun kayaking!”

“You too!” He yells, then mumbles, “Shit.”

“Dad!” Penelope’s voice scolds.

A warmth simmers in your chest as you walk away– a fizzy feeling that had been bottled up and crammed into a forgotten corner of your body. But as soon as you’re settling into the privacy of your car, it boils over into this rush of giddy exhilaration, electrifying every inch of your skin. Giggles cut through the silence as your smile stretches wider, completely untamable. There’s no stopping this, not when you’re already fantasizing about a next time with Steve.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington #stranger things fic #stranger things #dad steve harrington #coworker steve harrington

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laghuudyog91 · 1 year ago

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cornerstoreclown · 3 months ago

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Mornings with Art? I think it’s a cute scene to imagine Art eating while reader comes in (all sleepy and groggy and out of it cause they just woke up), wordlessly kisses him on the cheek, and makes her breakfast

Writing this before bed. So if there’s errors, I’ll get ‘em tomorrow. For now here’s some domestic shit. I did add dialogue though, I hope that’s okay! I was trying to think of how to go about it without words but then I just went wherever my head led me.

F!Reader x Art

———————————

Ever since he’d come home one particularly bad night due to a victim that just so happened to be carrying a firearm, he’d been taking it easy on himself. A few bullet wounds here and there, which you helped him patch up with the standard bandages and gauze, but for the most part he took his injuries in stride, opting to lay low and keep indoors for however long he decided. Dying was hard when you were a supernatural force, which you knew he very well was. You let him borrow the spare room to work on whatever gadgets and gizmos he wanted to create for his next escapade–for whatever that might actually entail.

As long as you’re not at the end of his knife, gun, mace–whatever weapon he decides to use, you’re fine with it. Though you know one day you might end up with one of those weapons lodged in your back or in your skull, you pray that it never happens. The first mistake would be to get comfortable around this man and let your guard down, which you never did.

However, it’s moments like this, when he’s sitting at the kitchen table when you head downstairs for breakfast that really make you want to do otherwise. Especially right now.

Art was sitting right at the kitchen table, eating frozen pizza from last nights dinner, and he’s doing it rather politely, you note. One slice on a paper plate, napkin nearby, and another slice being daintily held with both hands as he quietly and gently chews each bite he takes.

You have to remind yourself he killed someone last month and ate a rat last week. But it doesn’t stop you from tiredly smiling as you watch him through your unkempt hair that obscures part of your vision.

He merely regards you with a look, still munching away.

Fatigue whispers in your ear and urges you back to your warm and comfy bed. But whether you’re burdened by school, work, or both, there’s no rest to be had.

“Hey,” You yawn tiredly, walking your way to the coffee machine. It was either that or tea this morning. Art was a tea kind of guy, so you put on the electric kettle for him.

He resumes eating, almost finishing his first slice. He’s now got one leg crossed over the other as he assesses you in your oversized t-shirt, munching away on the crust. He has an aura of sassiness to him this morning with that body language.

“Yeah, yeah, I look rough, I know. Not all of us are divas when we wake up,” You lean against the counter, folding your arms across your chest. “And pizza? For breakfast? Come on.”

Art just responds in kind with fluffing up his imaginary hair and then flipping it over his shoulder. Bad hair day? Couldn’t be him!

“You got any plans for today, or are you just gonna go back to crafting shit in my spare room?”

Art shrugs his shoulders as he reaches for the second pizza slice, this time ripping off parts of the cold sauced and cheesed up flatbread to pop in his mouth in a very prim manner. He’s been very into letting his whims lead his decisions as of late.

“Gotcha.” You remark, not sure where to continue the conversation immediately, but you don’t need to worry about that as your coffee has finished brewing and the electric kettle has heat up the water. You sweeten your coffee to taste, as well as Art’s tea in a timely manner. He liked his drinks sweet. Anything bitter was an immediate no. With the remaining hot water in the kettle, you use it to make yourself instant oatmeal.

You plant a kiss to his cheek which he allows as you put his drink down near him. You take your seat on the other side of the table where your oatmeal waits, coffee mug in hand, watching him eat. Silence passes between the two of you until you finally voice what you’ve been thinking for the past few minutes.

“Can you rip me off a piece?”

#art the clown #art the clown x reader #art the clown x you #cornerstore musings #cornerstore asks #x reader

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asvrengineering · 1 year ago

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Paper plate making machine

A paper plate making machine is a mechanical device used to manufacture paper plates. These machines are designed to efficiently and rapidly produce disposable plates from raw materials such as paper pulp or other eco-friendly materials. The process typically involves the following steps:

Material Feeding: The raw material, usually paper pulp or a similar material is fed into the machine. The machine may also use pre-cut paper sheets or rolls.

Molding: The material is molded into the shape of a plate using a mold or a die. The size and shape of the plates can be adjusted based on the specifications of the machine.

Heating: The molded material is subjected to heat to dry and solidify it. This step is crucial to ensure that the plates are rigid and have the desired form.

Cutting and Shaping: Once the material has solidified, the machine cuts the plates into the desired size and shape. Some machines can produce different sizes or shapes based on the mold used.

Quality Control: Some machines may include quality control mechanisms to inspect the plates for defects or inconsistencies. This can involve visual inspections or automated sensors.

Stacking and Packaging: The finished plates are then stacked and may go through a packaging process. This can include counting, bundling, and wrapping the plates for transportation.

Paper plate making machines can vary in terms of production capacity, automation level, and the types of plates they can produce. Some machines are small and manually operated, while others are large and fully automated for mass production.

When considering a paper plate making machine, factors to take into account include the machine's production capacity, power consumption, and ease of operation, maintenance requirements, and the cost of raw materials. Additionally, it's essential to ensure that the machine complies with safety and environmental standards.

If you're interested in purchasing or learning more about specific paper plate making machines, you may want to contact manufacturers or suppliers in the industry for the latest information on available models and specifications.

Hydraulic paper plate making machine

A hydraulic paper plate making machine is a type of paper plate making machine that utilizes hydraulic pressure to carry out various processes involved in the production of paper plates. These machines are designed to provide efficient and reliable performance in manufacturing disposable plates. Here's a general overview of how a hydraulic paper plate making machine typically works:

Material Loading: The raw material, which is usually paper pulp or other eco-friendly materials, is loaded into the machine. This can be in the form of pre-cut paper sheets, rolls, or other suitable forms.

Hydraulic Pressing: The hydraulic system is employed to apply pressure on the raw material, forcing it into a mold or a die. This pressure helps in shaping the material into the desired form of the paper plate.

Heating: In some models, the hydraulic press may be combined with a heating element. The hydraulic pressure, along with heat, aids in the drying and solidification of the material. This ensures that the plates have the necessary strength and rigidity.

Cutting and Shaping: Once the material has solidified, the machine uses hydraulic power to cut and shape the plates. The mold or die determines the final size and design of the paper plates.

Quality Control: Some hydraulic paper plate making machines may include quality control features to inspect the plates for defects or inconsistencies. This can involve manual inspections or automated sensors.

Stacking and Packaging: After the plates are formed and cut, they are stacked and may go through a packaging process. This step involves counting, bundling, and wrapping the plates for storage or transportation.

Hydraulic paper plate making machines are known for their ability to provide high-pressure force, which can be advantageous in achieving precise and consistent results during the plate-making process. These machines are often chosen for their durability, reliability, and the ability to handle a variety of plate sizes and shapes.

When considering a hydraulic paper plate making machine, it's essential to take into account factors such as production capacity, power consumption, ease of operation, maintenance requirements, and compliance with safety standards. Additionally, you may want to explore the specific features and capabilities offered by different models in the market to find the one that best meets your production needs.

All in one paper plate making machine

An "all-in-one" paper plate making machine typically refers to a machine that combines multiple functionalities and processes within a single unit. These machines are designed to streamline the paper plate manufacturing process, providing efficiency and convenience. The specific features of an all-in-one paper plate making machine can vary based on the manufacturer and model, but here are some common functionalities that such a machine may incorporate:

Material Feeding: These machines often have a mechanism for loading the raw material, which could be paper pulp or other eco-friendly materials. The material may come in the form of pre-cut sheets, rolls, or other suitable forms.

Molding: The machine includes a molding or pressing mechanism that shapes the raw material into the form of paper plates. This could involve a hydraulic press or another method to achieve the desired shape and size.

Heating: Some all-in-one machines may have a heating element to aid in the drying and solidification of the material, ensuring that the plates have the necessary strength.

Cutting and Shaping: Integrated cutting and shaping mechanisms are typically part of the machine to cut the formed material into the final shape of the paper plates. The machine may offer flexibility in adjusting plate sizes and shapes.

Quality Control: These machines may include features for quality control, such as visual inspection systems or sensors to detect defects in the plates during or after the manufacturing process.

Stacking and Packaging: After the plates are formed and cut, the machine may have provisions for stacking and packaging the finished products. This can include counting, bundling, and wrapping the plates for storage or transportation.

Automation: Many all-in-one machines are designed with a high level of automation, reducing the need for manual intervention and increasing overall production efficiency.

When considering an all-in-one paper plate making machine, it's crucial to assess factors such as production capacity, power consumption, ease of operation, maintenance requirements, and compliance with safety standards. Additionally, specific features and customization options can vary, so it's important to review the specifications provided by the manufacturer to ensure that the machine meets your production needs.

If you are interested in purchasing an all-in-one paper plate making machine, you may want to contact manufacturers or suppliers in the industry to inquire about available models and obtain detailed information on their features and capabilities.

Fully automatic paper plate making machine

A fully automatic paper plate making machine is a sophisticated piece of equipment designed to efficiently produce paper plates with minimal human intervention. These machines are equipped with automated mechanisms for various stages of the paper plate manufacturing process. Here are the key features and processes typically associated with a fully automatic paper plate making machine:

Material Feeding:

The machine is designed to automatically feed the raw material, which can be paper pulp or other eco-friendly materials.

The material may come in the form of pre-cut sheets, rolls, or another suitable format.

Molding:

The machine includes an automated molding or pressing mechanism that shapes the raw material into the form of paper plates.

This process may involve a hydraulic press or another automated method to achieve precise and consistent plate shapes.

Heating:

Some fully automatic machines have integrated heating elements to assist in the drying and solidification of the material, ensuring the plates have the required strength.

Cutting and Shaping:

The machine is equipped with an automated cutting and shaping system that accurately cuts the formed material into the final shape of the paper plates.

It may offer flexibility in adjusting plate sizes and shapes based on programming or settings.

Quality Control:

Fully automatic paper plate making machines often include built-in quality control features.

This can involve visual inspection systems, sensors, or other mechanisms to detect and reject defective plates during or after the manufacturing process.

Stacking and Packaging:

After the plates are formed and cut, the machine automatically handles the stacking and packaging of the finished products.

This may include counting, bundling, and wrapping the plates for storage or transportation.

Automation:

These machines are designed for a high level of automation, reducing the need for manual intervention.

Automation can include material feeding, molding, cutting, stacking, and packaging processes.

Control Panel:

Fully automatic machines typically come with a user-friendly control panel where operators can set parameters, monitor the production process, and make adjustments as needed.

When considering a fully automatic paper plate making machine, it's important to assess factors such as production capacity, power consumption, ease of operation, maintenance requirements, and compliance with safety standards. Additionally, inquire about customization options and features offered by different models to ensure the machine meets your specific production requirements. If you are interested in purchasing such a machine, contacting manufacturers or suppliers in the industry for detailed specifications and pricing would be advisable.

#automatic paper plate making machine #Fully automatic paper plate making machine #all in one paper plate making machine #dona plate making machine

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norsesuggestions · 1 year ago

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I imagne this protest like this:

Employer:

"Your lunch break is over, back to work"

Worker:

"Oh no, my hands, full of molten lead suddenly slipped and i poured it all over your punch clock, instanstly destroying it. So how you can tell that my break is over now, huh?"

(I imagne the real events of this happened when the boss was NOT looking at the punch clock, so no one could be picked out as the one who did it.

But, it is much more hilerious to imagne someone just pouring utterly toxic molten lead over the punch clock, while holding eye contact with the boss)

(The lead btw was used in the procces of printing back then. In the pre computer era. And yes, they did just have it around so one could without trouble do this in at least 1970s sweden. Very not safe for the workers. But that is another story)

Gotta love the 1970s printing press factories workers unions reactions to punch clocks (=stämpelklocka):

This tidbit about the punch clock is from a blogpost about some of printers unions of the worlds reactions when the introduction of computer technology put them all under the fear to lose their jobs.

Quoted below is a text about new ways introduced in the printing presses to make the workers work faster, and via that, have an excuse to fire them for being "too slow":

"MTM is a method of breaking down work processes into standardized sub-moments in order to be able to streamline and rationalize work efforts and personnel as much as possible.

The factory workers were rightly afraid that this would lead to every second if their work day being controlled.

The printing press workers response to mtm was, among other things, to pour lead into the employers punch clock (stämpelklocka)."

Lol my grandpa was a printing press factory worker during the 1970s. I wonder if he poured led into the punch clock (stämpelklocka) at some point haha 😂

(Grandpa was very involved in that factories workers union, so it is not impossible)

Source of qoute, quickly translated to english by me:

Link

#20th century oh changing times #arbetsklasshistoria #maternal grandpa worked at bonniers printing press in stockholm #that printed dagens nyheter and expressen among things #when the computers came they did in fact all lose their jobs #that being said the computer technology was in so many ways superiour #but one could ofcourse have treated it much better and given the workers the oppurtinty #to educate themselves in how to use the computer printing presses #more than one did #grandpa did the work to by hand #cut lines in the printing presses plates to inform the machine #of the news papers layout #he did not design the layout #he instead needed by hand tell the machine how every page was soppused look #by inscribing the already decided look of the page on the plates #this work was obsvoiusly not needed with computer technology so he lost his job #as many others at the factory #that being said that understanble one switched to computers there #this was in the 1980s i think...

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rhiannonsknife · 2 months ago

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── ❆ DAY 19: the gazette’s annual christmas party with rhiannon lewis

— summary: hooking up with one of your coworkers after the gazette’s christmas party.

— warnings: coworkers to lovers. alcohol/drinking. fem!reader. nsfw content. mdni. this might be my longest rhiannon fic so far. also i didn’t beta read.

the office party is in full swing by the time you arrive, the scent of cheap punch and questionable appetizers filling the air. you’ve barely stepped inside when you start to regret coming: the decorations look like they were thrown together by someone who hates christmas: half-hearted tinsel draped over cubicles, a lopsided tree in the corner, and a sad-looking banner reading merry holidays in comic sans.

grabbing a drink to make the night bearable, you glance around, your eyes drifting over your coworkers. most of them are already several drinks deep, laughing too loudly or shouting over the blaring music. seems like you’ll have to do something to catch up.

that’s when you see her: rhiannon lewis. sweetpea, as you’ve heard some of the others call her. not that anyone ever says it with much kindness. she’s standing off to the side near the sad excuse for a buffet, picking at the edge of a paper plate, looking as uncomfortable as you feel.

she’s not overdressed like the others. while everyone else is wearing horrendous holiday sweaters or sparkly party dresses, rhiannon’s in a simple black button-up and jeans. her hair falls in loose waves.

you’ve worked with her for months, seen her around the office, but she’s always been quiet. your other colleagues never seem to notice her much, in spite of her obvious potential; you’ve seen how hardworking she is and how she’s not met with half the respect she deserves.

fueled by the warm buzz of cheap booze and a flicker of impulsive confidence, you grab another drink from the table for good measure and make your way over.

“hey,” you blurt out before you can overthink it. rhiannon glances up, her brows furrowing slightly as she takes in the sight of you, looking like she hadn’t expected to be approached at all.

“you’re rhiannon, right? junior reporter?”

“yeah..?” she says simply, her voice wary. she’s looking skeptical.

“i’m…uh, i’m from editorial” you shuffle awkwardly. “i just- god, these parties are brutal, huh? i mean, who thought a karaoke machine was a good idea?”

for a moment, she doesn’t respond, and you almost regret interrupting her clearly intentional solitude. but then, the corner of her mouth quirks up. just slightly, but enough to make your heart skip. you can’t remember seeing her smile before, even just slightly.

“yeah,” rhiannon says, her voice laced with dry humor. “it’s tragic, really. but i guess they’re trying.”

you latch onto that tiny smile like it’s the only lifeline in the room. “trying is generous,” you reply, letting out a nervous laugh. “honestly, i wasn’t even planning on staying long, but…well, here i am” you glance at her plate, desperate to keep the conversation going. “how’s the buffet? any good?”

she huffs a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “i wouldn’t risk it”

there’s a long pause, and you can’t tell if you’re making a fool of yourself or if she’s just slow to warm up. either way, she doesn’t walk away, doesn’t tell you to leave, so you take it as a win and grin at her.

“well,” you say, raising your cup in a mock toast, “here’s to surviving the night, i guess”

rhiannon’s smile lingers this time, a flicker of something softer passing across her face. “i’ll drink to that,” she murmurs, clinking her cup against yours before taking a sip.

“you know” you start after forcing the lukewarm liquor down your throat, grimacing slightly. “i didn’t think you’d be here tonight. thought you’d be the type to, i don’t know, skip out on all this festive stuff”

rhiannon quirks a brow at you, her lips twitching in something that could almost pass as amusement: it’s not quite a smile, but it’s close. that’s an improvement. “what makes you think I’m not wishing i had?” she asks, seemingly warming up to you as well.

“fair point” you chuckle. “fair point”

suddenly, this party doesn’t seem all that unbearable anymore.

later that night, after a few shared drinks and some awkward-but-fun chatter about work, the gazette’s terrible christmas playlists, and your colleagues, you and rhiannon find yourselves tucked away in a quieter corner. the music isn’t quite as loud here, and the muffled laughter of the party fade into the background. it’s not exactly private, but it feels removed enough to let the conversation flow easier.

with another round in hand, your confidence starts to build. you’re still toeing the line between friendly and bold, but the buzz in your system makes it feel less risky.

“so, rhiannon,” you start, leaning a little closer, “what’s your favorite part of this delightfully tacky soirée? the off-key carols or the soggy finger sandwiches?”

she snorts softly and takes a sip of her drink. “definitely the carols. nothing gets me into the holiday spirit like hearing jeff butcher jingle bell rock for the third time tonight”

you laugh, nudging her lightly. “poor jeff. he’s trying his best out there. he’s got…enthusiasm, at least”

“sure,” she deadpans, tilting her glass in another mock toast. “to enthusiasm.” her lips close around the edge of her cup, but this time, her eyes linger on you for a moment longer than they did before.

you nod, leaning your elbow on the nearest desk. “you’re like…the only person here who doesn’t look like they want to die from secondhand embarrassment every time jeff hits a high note”

“i’ve accepted my fate” rhiannon replies with a shrug, her tone so dry it pulls another laugh from you.

“come on!” you press, motioning vaguely around the room. “entertain me. there’s gotta be something you find redeemable about all this. cookies? the lights? the…joy of corporate holiday bonding?”

she raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “you mean the joy of awkward small talk and secondhand embarrassment? truly riveting”

“well, i think the lights are nice” you counter, glancing up at the string of multicolored lights casting a warm glow over the room. “kind of makes everyone look- i dunno…festive” without knowing why you blurt an additional: “especially you”

the words slip out before you can stop them, and you freeze for half a second, gauging her reaction. rhiannon blinks, a little caught off guard, but instead of brushing it off, she quirks an eyebrow. “festive?” she echoes, her lips curving into a skeptical grin. “what, do i look like a christmas ornament to you?”

yeah, right, maybe festive wasn’t the best way of putting it.

you laugh awkwardly, rubbing the back of your neck. “okay, maybe not the best word choice”

she scoffs lightly, but the flicker of a smile remains. “you’re really trying hard to sell this whole thing, huh?”

“only because it’s true,” you shoot back. “don’t tell me i’m the first person to tell you that you look amazing tonight”

rhiannon’s gaze drops briefly, almost self-consciously, as she glances down at herself. “it’s just a blouse,” she mutters.

“yeah, but it’s you in the blouse,” you say smoothly, leaning in just a little closer. the confidence, or maybe the alcohol, makes the words come easier than they would sober. you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been waiting for an opportunity to finally approach her, though maybe doing it tipsy isn’t the smartest move.

rhiannon pauses, her drink halfway to her lips. her eyes meet yours again, a flicker of surprise behind them. “you’re laying it on a little thick,” she says finally, but there’s no sharpness in her voice.

“am i?” you tilt your head, playing innocent. “and here i was, thinking it was just the right amount of festive cheer. the season of giving, and all that”

“and i’m guessing you’re real generous with that, huh?”

“only with the right people,” you reply, the words slipping out easier than they should. you’re either deep enough into the buzz to believe rhiannon’s teasing is genuine interest or maybe she actually is flirting back. you can’t tell yet, but you’re too far gone to back out now.

“so? what’s next?” she asks.

“well, i’d offer you another drink…?”

rhiannon’s laugh is quiet but genuine, her head shaking slightly. “you’re more ridiculous than i thought you would be” she mutters. the way her gaze flicks down to your lips for the briefest moment before snapping back to your eyes momentarily distracts you from what she’s said.

“what?” you chuckle finally.

for a heartbeat, rhiannon looks like she’s been caught red handed. your mind is too foggy to put two and two together at this point.

“nothing” she shakes it off, keeping herself together by drowning her cup.

you really must’ve done something right, because time passes and somehow rhiannon lingers close. the evening turns out a lot more fun than you had anticipated, all thanks to her unexpected presence. between long conversations with her somewhere in your more or less secluded corner even the never-ending off-key karaoke and cheap liquor don’t seem so bad with her by your side.

at some point, after another off-tune rendition of ‘merry christmas everyone’ rhiannon eyes you critically. “you’re looking kind of…wobbly,” she notes. “you sure you’re okay to get home?”

“are you volunteering?” you reply, trying for flirty but landing somewhere closer to hopeful.

she doesn’t answer right away. instead, she looks you over, her gaze lingering before she sighs. “come on. i’ll take you!”

you follow her out of the party without hesitation, stepping into the crisp winter air. the chill feels sharper than you expected, cutting through the haze of the alcohol and helping you think a little more clearly. snow is falling lightly now, already settling in a thin, untouched layer on the ground.

rhiannon keeps glancing back to make sure you’re still steady on your feet.

it’s only after a few blocks that something strikes you as odd. you glance around, squinting against the snowflakes. “wait, this isn’t the right way. my place is-“ you point vaguely in the opposite direction, your voice trailing off in confusion.

“don’t worry about it,” rhiannon cuts in smoothly, her hand brushing yours to guide you across an icy patch of sidewalk. “the walk to your place would’ve taken too long anyway”

you blink at her, your alcohol-hazed brain catching up a moment too late. “how do you…?”

she doesn’t let you finish the question. “lucky guess,” she says quickly, her tone dismissive as she shrugs. there’s something in the way she avoids your eyes that makes you wonder if there’s more to it.

by the time you reach her building, your curiosity is drowned out by the warmth of her hand on your arm as she steadies you. you’re about to thank her, maybe even joke about your terrible sense of direction, when she hesitates just before unlocking the door.

her breath fogs in the cold air as she turns to you, her eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them. “you really didn’t have to stay and…i don’t know. talk to me. you’re not like the rest of them”

“neither are you,” you say, stepping a little closer.

rhiannon lets out a small laugh, one that sounds almost disbelieving. “you’re drunk”

“not that drunk,” you reply firmly, your breath curling in the space between you. it’s true: for all the cheap liquor you’ve had, you’re thinking crystal clear.

her jaw tightens like she’s debating something, her eyes flickering briefly to the snow-covered ground before meeting yours again. “you’re too good for…this,” she murmurs, almost like she’s talking to herself.

for a moment, neither of you moves, the world narrowing down to the space between your bodies and the sound of your breathing in the cold. then, so suddenly it makes your heart skip, rhiannon leans in.

her lips press to yours, warm and surprisingly soft, and the rest of the world falls away. the kiss is hesitant at first, but when your hands find her coat and hers rise to cradle your face, she deepens it with a quiet intensity that makes your knees weak.

when you pull apart, your breath mingling in the cold air, your forehead brushes hers. rhiannon hesitates again, then, softly, she whispers, “you should come inside. it’s freezing out here.”

there’s a nervous edge to her voice, as if she’s actually worried you could turn the invitation down. you nod, letting her lead you inside, your heart still racing from the kiss as the door closes behind you.

the door creaks open, and you follow her inside, shivering as the warmth of her house wraps around you. a small dog barks once from a worn dog bed in the corner before bounding over, tail wagging wildly and interrupting the two of you.

“tink, stop,” rhiannon laughs. she scoops the little dog up with one arm, cradling it like a fidgety child.

“hi tink” you greet, reaching out to scratch her head.

rhiannon smiles as tink sniffs your fingers, deciding you’re acceptable. “she’s all bark, no bite.”

you laugh softly, but your attention shifts as you glance around the room. the lack of christmas decorations is glaring, especially compared to the obnoxiously festive lights and wreaths you’ve seen strung up in other windows tonight. no tree, no stockings, no hint that the holiday is mere days away, save for a half-empty bottle of eggnog left on the counter.

“you’re really not a…christmas person, huh?” you ask, glancing back at her.

she shrugs, setting tink down before running a hand through her hair. “it’s just another day, i suppose”

your gaze shifts again, curiously taking in her space before landing on a small pile of clothes draped over a chair by the couch. one shirt is smeared with a dark, reddish stain. you hesitate before pointing to it. “what happened there?”

rhiannon follows your outstretched finger and her expression tightens for just a second before she snatches the shirt up, tossing it into a nearby hamper. “nothing. just so illed some…wine!”

you nod slowly. you don’t press it, not now. instead, you let your eyes drift over the rest of the house. it’s nice, though a bit big for just one person to live in.

“it’s cozy,” you offer, trying to keep the mood light.

rhiannon snorts softly, kicking off her boots by the door. “it’s my childhood home” she explains as she joins you in the living room.

she gestures toward the couch. “you wanna…uh- sit? i’d offer you something festive, but…” she shrugs, nodding toward the eggnog.“i’m good,” you say with a soft laugh, moving to sit down. “i think i’ve had enough for today, anyway” the couch is worn but surprisingly comfortable, and tink hops up beside you immediately, curling into your side.

rhiannon hesitates for a moment before sitting beside you, closer than you expected. the room feels smaller now, quieter, the weight of the earlier kiss still lingering between you.

“you’re really okay with being here?” she asks suddenly.

you glance over, meeting her gaze. “of course i am. why wouldn’t i be?”

rhiannon exhales a shaky breath, her fingers twitching as though she’s not sure whether to reach for you or pull away entirely. “just…not used to this. people sticking around, i mean.”

you smile, your hand finding hers on the cushion between you two. “well, get used to it. i’m not going anywhere”

for a moment, rhiannon just looks at you, taking in every detail her eyes can reach from where she’s sitting. then, slowly, she leans in again, brushing her lips against yours in a kiss that’s softer this time, slower. you gladly let her and it’s not long before she’s sliding into your lap…

you’re stumbling down rhiannon’s hall before you know it. once the gentle kiss on the couch had turned into a full blown make-put session, you’re all over each other. whether this is a good idea or not, to hook up with one of your coworkers, neither of you cares to consider.

rhiannon, without letting go of your face once, guides you up the stairs to where the bedroom is. you’re moving uncoordinated, bumping into furniture and corners on your way upstairs. neither of you minds.

the mattress bounces when you drop your weight onto the bed and rhiannon is quick to follow. for all her awkward fumbling earlier, she’s surprisingly smooth as she crawls up your body and settles in on top of you, straddling your hips.

you settle your hands on the small of her back and you look up at her in breathless amazement. rhiannon really is beautiful, even more when she’s got you pinned down onto the mattress.

her fingers eagerly roam your body, mapping out every inch of skin she can reach through the layers of clothing you’re still wearing. this isn’t enough for you. the buttons of her blouse come loose first, right before she pushes up your sweater and you unzip her skirt with a quick pull.

“is this okay?” she asks between every item that comes off, her hands pausing patiently until she’s got your approval.

once you’re both undressed to the underwear, you take a moment to lean your head back into her plush pillows and admire her. she’s in a mismatched pair of underwear; a plain black bra and white panties, but rhiannon makes it work. still, she ducks her head shyly when she notices your staring.

“no” you quickly apologize, shaking your head and nudging hers back up so she’s looking down at you. “no, you’re beautiful”

you’re back to kissing each other before you know it. now that only your underwear is separating your bodies, you can’t help but grind against her from beneath, relishing in the sharp breaths rhiannon inhales at the pressure of your center against her own. you can feel how wet she is already, even through the thin fabric, and groan against her mouth.

“what do you want?” you ask when she’s practically humping your leg in search for friction. rhiannon head is tilted back and she’s panting heavily already.

“can i-” she bites her lip, then says it anyway. “i wanna ride you”

you furrow your brows, but her glance towards her bedside table is explanation enough.

“is that okay?”

you don’t have to be asked twice, instantly scrambling towards it. you don’t have to search for long. in the top drawer, you find what rhiannon must be referring to: a strap and, a bit lower, a bottle of lube. you take out both for good measure and turn around to find rhiannon watching you expectantly.

you’re back by her side in an instant, though when you try to climb up her body, she’s quick to toss you around and flip you over so she’s on top all over again. rhiannon is much stronger than anticipated but it’s not like you’re complaining when she glares down at you from above, her eyes wide and eager.

you’ve never been on this side of things before, but she makes it easy: whereas you’re unsure where to put your hands, rhiannon seems more confident in securing the toy to your abdomen.

she's so gentle and patient with you, kissing the buckles of the harness in ways the at have you sucking in your breath, then whispering words of encouragement to you as she secures them in place.

you want to hide your face in the soft pillows, but when rhiannon is done and settles on top of you, it’s impossible to look away. like this, you can clearly feel the spot where she has soaked through the panties.

“still okay?” she breathes once she's straddling your thighs, open mouth ghosting along your jaw slowly. the strap is resting against her belly like this. you nod, "yes", and even with both eyes fluttering closed you can sense the soft smile that curls up her lips against your skin.

“good” rhiannon hums as she places a featherlight kiss to the side of your neck. before you can say anything else, you suddenly feel her fingers against your bottom lip and your eyes fly open.

“open up” her voice instructs. rhiannon is holding out two of her fingers, her eyes studying every single move you make. she doesn’t have to tell you what to do; you part your lips obediently and the two digits sink into your mouth. rhiannon’s jaw goes slack whilst she watches them disappear past your lips.

“look at me” she says when your lashes flutter shut. she won’t have you looking away from her when you gently suck her fingers into your mouth. rhiannon’s mouth hangs open and she involuntarily grinds against the silicone toy as she watches you through hooded eyes. her fingers feel surprisingly good in your mouth, a firm pressure sitting on your tongue.

rhiannon makes sure they're both nice and wet before she withdraws them. a string of your spit connects them to your mouth as she brings her hand down, all the way down, until she wraps them around the toy that's strapped to your body.

the side of her nose brushes yours playfully when she leans in, smiling softly against your mouth as she pumps her fist along the length of it, using your spit to lube it up. she presses a quick kiss to your lips before she removes her hand from around the silicone shaft and sits up on her knees.

“i'm gonna-” she reaches around the strap and lines it up with her entrance, quickly pushing the fabric of her panties to the side. you haven't had the chance to feel her yourself yet, but you're almost certain she's soaked. “sit now. okay?”

all you can do is manage a soft whimper of “mhm” and a nod.

rhiannon takes this as enough of an answer and lowers her weight onto the strap, slowly letting it slide into herself. she sighs as she goes lower and her lashes flutter when she takes it in as far as it’ll go, until her body sits flush on yours. she takes a moment to adjust to the new sensation before she looks down at you.

she smiles breathlessly, then, and cups your face in her hands.

she wiggles her hips from left to right slightly, trying to find the perfect angle on top of you. all you can do is watch, look at her like she asked you to, stunned by the sight above you. you can hardly believe that this is the same woman everyone else at the gazette is purposely ignoring. you can hardly believe you are the one who gets to see this side of her.

her arm comes down to rest her palm against the headboard behind you. you yourself are still unsure where to put your own hands; too many places to choose from, a seemingly endless amount of skin exposed to you just like that.

"you're so beautiful" you finally manage, running your hands up her side. rhiannon full-body shivers. she runs her free hand over your rosy cheeks, letting you adjust to the new situation, the new position you’re now in, as well.

“can i move?” she finally whispers.

“yes!” you reply immediately, sounding just a little too eager for your own liking. “yes”

“here” rhiannon offers helpfully as she lifts your hand to her hips. “hold me like this and-”

she lifts herself, the muscles in her thighs flexing, just to drop her weight back down onto the strap, your legs nestling against hers.

“oh!” she moans. her head falls back and her lashes flutter when the strap strokes against her g-spot. instinctively, you tighten your grip on rhiannon’s body to hold her against you.

she arches her back beautifully, raises her hips, right before thrusting them back down. she does this, again and again, until she’s built a steady rhythm, all while still watching you like a hawk. not once does rhiannon allow your gaze to drop anywhere else that’s not her eyes. she instantly pulls your chin back up, still bouncing on the strap as she sharply reminds you: “look at me”

except for those occasional, hissed reminders, rhiannon is vocal. “oh my god” she chants every time her skin slaps against yours. “that’s so good, right there”

the longer you go on like this, the more confident you become in yourself. and with her constant moans of pleasure, you start taking matters into your own hands as well: shyly lifting your hips from the mattress to fuck the strap deeper into her.

rhiannon cries out when you find the exact angle that she’d been looking for. her cunt practically throbs around you and you’re sure you can feel bits of her arousal dripping against your skin.

even like this, she still musters up enough self control to reach for your cheeks and hold you in place.

“fuck” rhiannon moans and you watch how her eyes roll back in her head. her bangs are stuck to the thin layer of sweat on her forehead, and her bra is doing nothing to stop the way her chest moves each time she rocks herself against you. “fuck, look at me” even though she’s the one doing most of the physical exercise, you’re panting as well. you can hear it each time the strap sinks into her, without looking at all; her cunt squelching obscenely.

“god” rhiannon moans, amongst other things like sharp cries of your name and short ‘ah, ah, ah’ sounds.

your own body is pulsing at this point, aching to be touched, aching for any sort of relief while you’re watching her move like this. you’re pretty sure you’re leaving a stain on her sheets. even though you can’t find it in you to be embarrassed or even slightly sorry, you’re still able to feel how you’re leaking through your underwear. you regret keeping it on already: with more freedom without the extra layer, you’re sure you could get some friction from the harness against your clit.

“you’re- god- so good” rhiannon’s praise snaps you back to reality. she’s grunting, both in exhaustion and pleasure. you can sense her pace faltering. her thighs start to tremble and her hips stutter. she’s getting close.

without breaking the eye contact rhiannon seems so desperate for, you reach between her legs. an audible gasp falls from your lips when you get a feel of the sheer amount of wetness that awaits you there; smeared all over her inner thighs.

“holy shit rhiannon-” you manage.

“touch me” she urges, her fingers closing around your wrist to hold you there. “i’m so close. please touch me”

you instantly do as you’re told and bring two of your fingers up against her stiff clit, rubbing it in circular motions and matching the pace of rhiannon’s body. she whines and lets her head fall back mindlessly. you can still feel her gaze on you, though. she’s no longer riding you, either, just desperately rocks back and forth on the strap, chasing her height.

“i’m gonna come” rhiannon finally moans. “you’re- you’re gonna make me come! look at me”

you nod, unable to tear your gaze away even if you wanted to, and press your fingers against her harder so she can grind against them however she pleases.

she manages another breathless gasps of your name, before she cries out: “fuck! god, i’m gonna- i’m cumming fuck!”

rhiannon cums with a loud shout of your name. you’re grateful her house is so far off from any large neighborhoods, grateful that she’s taken you to her place. in your apartment, your neighbors definitely would’ve heard.

her eyes press shut tightly, for the very first time, and her body goes slack after a long moment where it’s trembling with unreleased tension. you’re vaguely aware of her release gushing over your thighs, forcing the strap almost all the way out, but even without rhiannon’s reminder, you won’t look away from the sight above you.

you’ve spent enough time watching her in the office, but you’ve never seen rhiannon so beautiful. her face is contorting in pleasure and her jaw is slack, her legs tremble around yours until she moment where she finally stills her hips. she keeps grinding against it softly, until she truly can’t take any more. then, and only then, she drops forward against you and you wrap your arms around her shaking form.

“fuck” she mumbles against your neck after a minute of catching her breath.

you run your fingers through her hair gently. “you okay?”

rhiannon huffs, lifting her head from your skin reluctantly. “i’m good” she assures, nodding weakly. “so, so good. are you? was this- was it okay?”

“okay?” you repeat in disbelief. “rhiannon this was-“

for a general lack of a better word, all you do is pull her in. you can feel the rumble of her chuckle go through her chest as it presses against your own torso.

“come here” she murmurs, lifting her weight to meet you halfway, ready to return the favor.

#˙ ❆ ̟ !! ─ christmas works #rhiannon lewis #rhiannon lewis x reader #rhiannon lewis x female reader #rhiannon lewis x you #sweetpea

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selarina · 1 year ago

Text

Synopsis: You're mad at Gojo, and he spirals.

Warnings: Mention of a fire

Getou doesn’t feel like hanging out today, but he shows up anyway — it’s routine after all, and he doesn’t want to deal with a whiny Gojo Satoru, especially since he doesn’t have you to split the burden with today.

Summoning a deep breath and exhaling slowly, Getou walks into the threshold of Satoru's house.

He looks around the house and nothing. No one.

But something felt out of place. Satoru always seems to sense when Getou walks in, and he would be out the door just as quickly as he walked in, he’d be out at this new restaurant, or this new arcade Gojo wanted to check out. But today, he's met with silence.

"Satoru?" Getou called out, his voice echoing through the cavernous house, only to be greeted by the eerie emptiness.

A tinge of panic brushes its touch against Getou's hand. "Satoru, where are you?" he called out once more.

Some rumbling and soft sounds of several thuds emanate from above him. Without hesitation, Getou ascends the stairs, driven by an insidious sense of unease.

Upon entering the library upstairs, he was met with an odd sight.

An assortment of books lay scattered across the floor, each laying at different stages of unraveling — while most of them are closed, some of them lay open — some open on the last page, some halfway through, and some open to the first page.

Then, amidst this chaos on the floor, Getou spots the white blur of hair through his peripheral vision. He turns, finding Satoru, who seems to be very intently jotting down something in a black notebook, seemingly oblivious to his presence in the room.

“Satoru, I called for you?”

Satoru looks up, caught off guard — something must be truly wrong.

“Suguru! Today’s no good. I’m busy,” he replied, his eyes immediately flitting back down to his notebook.

Getou thinks he should thread this lightly, he’s all too familiar with the boy’s ability to brush things off entirely too quickly. His eyes roved the scene — going over the balls of discarded papers, the books, and the plate of lunch that seemed to be untouched.

"Uh," Getou began, inching closer to the boy with his hands in his pockets. He's weaving his steps across the slew of books — careful to not step on any of them. "What are you up to?"

No response at all, it’s like Suguru isn’t even here.

Suguru bends down, picking up the nearest book on the floor — an austere hardbound volume with golden lettering, bearing the title "Time Travel in Einstein's Universe." His fingers gently placed it down, only to lift another book, paper this time — it read "How to Build a Time Machine: The Real Science of Time Travel."

Standing upright, still holding the book, Getou asks, "Satoru, why are you reading about time travel? No, better question — how come you’re… reading?”

"I'm trying to time travel," Gojo replied with an unsettling nonchalance, as though he was merely discussing matters of the weather.

A few beats pass, mainly because Suguru was deciding between a simple “Why?” and a more emphatic “What the hell?”

But because Suguru is Suguru, and he’s been equipped with the art of patience, he oppted for a measured, “I don’t think you can do that.” He makes sure to punctuate his sentence with a faint chuckle.

"I need to," Satoru asserts, standing up as his eyes scan the floor for another book.

"Pretty sure no one can change time," Getou countered. "Not even us."

"We could," Satoru insisted, his voice unwavering. "Maybe—if we tried hard enough." His gaze then locks into Getou's, his conviction unwavering. “We are the strongest after all.”

Getou decides to indulge this because he’s just far too curious. "All right," he began cautiously. "Why do you need to time travel anyway?"

"You know how my partner is upset with me?" Satoru asked.

"Yeah," Getou replied, a weariness permeating his voice — he vividly recalls Satoru's relentless whining on the subject from the previous night. He eventually got the boy to shut up, only for him to start all over today morning — it’s part of the reason he didn’t feel like hanging out today, but you’ll never catch him saying this out loud.

"Well, if I reversed time," Gojo continued with an unnerving grin, "then they'd never be upset with what I did. Problem solved!"

Getou feels the sudden urge to chew on a notebook to satiate his frustration. “Are you serious?” he asks.

“Deadly.”

"Satoru," he snatched the notebook from Satoru's table—the very notebook the latter had been intently writing in. His eyes find themselves looking at a plethora of mathematic equations he doesn’t understand. He sighs, looking up at the man.

“Do you know anything that can help? Help me, please,” Satoru implored, his head bobbing fervently.

Getou thinks that this is surely the height of insanity. Surely, someone needs to lock Gojo Satoru up.

Speechless, Getou succumbs to laughter — like a total madman.

He dials it down as he notices Satoru’s escalating exasperation with him. He spoke again, “You’re an idiot. How about you actually apologize to them instead of doing… whatever this is.”

He tosses the notebook back to Satoru, who catches it with a swift, outstretched hand.

—

“Please, stop!” He rushes behind you, as Getou trails right behind him. “Stop avoiding me please or I’ll die.”

“Wow, you really are like those high-maintenance plants,” you quip as you come to a stop, finally turning to lay your eyes on the boy.

"I'm not..." He totally is.

“Glad to see you’re not too torn up about our fight since you’re out here at an arcade,” you say, sarcasm dripping to the floor beneath you, just a few more missteps, and Gojo could slip and fall everlastingly.

“No! I was very upset. Ask Getou,” he points to the man, who simply nods in tandem. He starts again, "Can we please please just talk this out? I'm really sorry."

"Oh? Are you?" you questioned, skepticism etched into your features. "Is that why you ghosted me for a whole week?"

"I got scared," he admits. "I thought you'd leave me."

“I considered that,” you reply, arms crossed.

His eyes widen, and you think he looks like a kicked puppy. But this was a serious matter, and you suppressed the urge to ruffle his hair.

"See—now I want to run away, so you never will," he whimpered. "But I won't, because I'm genuinely sorry, I mean it."

You stared at him, the genuineness in his eyes catching your weary gaze. You had been tired all week. Finally, you relented.

"Fine," you sigh. "Let's talk it out."

"Okay! Thank you baby!" he says, an immediate smile spreading across his face.

"See? I told you it's not a big deal—" Getou began, his smile mirroring Satoru's. However, he falls silent when he noticed your changing expression.

“Not a big deal?” You exclaim, clearing seething with a bubbling anger. It’s seemingly a harmless sentence but something in you must have broken down at the sound of that.

"I-I mean, it's not a big deal because I'll fix it, and everything will be fine," Satoru's voice stammers through.

"It's not all going to be just fine, Satoru. You burned down my house," you stated.

“I burned down your kitchen,” he corrects you.

“Wow, I’m sorry I don’t know why I was making such a big deal. It’s only my kitchen!” You start to chuckle, a deranged sense of amusement escaping your lips as you turn to Getou, “Do you hear that Suguru? It’s only my kitchen, he says.”

Suguru gulps, not wanting to be more involved in this than he was. He turns his head away, only now noticing that everyone’s watching the scene unfold like it’s their favorite telenovela. “Guys, maybe let’s not do this here.”

"Yeah, I was done here anyway," you declared, shooting a final glare at Satoru before making a swift exit.

Satoru immediately chased after you, throwing himself out the arcade's door.

“Baby, please!” He finally comes to grip your arm, stopping you in your tracks. You look up at him, and he notices you carry no malice really — just a weariness that shows in your tired tired eyes, he feels the urge to take you home, so he can run his hands over your eyes and put you to sleep. So he can finally sleep beside you himself.

“I’m sorry, Getou’s an idiot. It is a big deal. I never should have done that. It was obviously an accident but I was just trying to be nice, and obviously… that didn’t work out as I planned. And of course, I’ll fix the kitchen, I’ll pay for everything — even add in upgrades if you want. And before you say anything… this is on me. I should pay,” he says.

"I was going to make you pay anyway. What were you even trying to do in my kitchen?"

"Well," he began with a sheepish look on his face, almost ashamed. "It was our anniversary, and wanted to make you something."

“Why would you do that? You can barely boil rice,” you sigh, your eyes coming up to soothe your forehead.

“I-I don’t know. You mentioned how your ex-boyfriend made your food all the time when you guys were together so I thought you’d like that.”

“Yeah, well. Osamu was a chef, and you’re the opposite of that,” you replied, your arms encircling his in a soothing grip.

He sighed, gazing out at the street — his eyes staring down at the passing cars before speaking once more, “It’s not just that.”

"What then?" you inquired.

“I’m not good at this,” he confesses.

You maintained your steady gaze, urging him to continue.

“At this — Romance,” he clarifies. “I can’t do it so I’m always looking and copying others. I only leave you notes because you do that. I only give you keychains because Getou does that with his boyfriend. I only knew I had to invite you to work when Nanami mentioned it. I just—”

You hummed softly, encouraging him to continue.

“I don’t know how to love. It’s part of the reason why I even tried to cook. You’re so good at loving me, I can’t ever pay you back for it.”

“Satoru, you’re good at it too,” you say. “Just not in the ways I am, or Getou, or Nanami. You’re good at it in your own way. It’s about how you know when to order in when I’m feeling tired. It’s about how you pick out the stones I like for the keychains. It’s about how you showed up all the way to my Switzerland work trip when I was on the verge of a fucking mental breakdown. It’s about how you always draw something hideous when you leave notes knowing I’ll find it funny when I’m back from work. It’s about you trying in the first place,” you say.

"The drawings are supposed to be cute," he mumbled.

“I know you think that,” you chuckled softly. “And besides, I only leave notes because my mother did that for my father. We all learn from someone.”

A moment of silence enveloped you both, broken only by your gradual approach. “You can teach me, and I can teach you. If you let me.”

He sighed, enfolding you in a tight hug.

“Also, as much I appreciate the effort now, I hope you know you’re banned from my kitchen,” you mumble across his chest.

“Okay, I’ll learn how to cook though,” he says. “For you.”

“Okay,” you say.

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