#alternative responses to saying i love you

[xalphafox]

This makes it so incredibly difficult to feel like you should love them because they’re your parent(s) and they didn’t mean it and they say they love you, but they did hurt you in whatever form and made you feel unsafe and no one should ever feel like they have to forgive such a thing but sometimes they are so incredibly good at making you feel guilty for not brushing off years of abuse and having to look out for yourself in their presence. Further even to just acknowledge that they caused you pain.

If only they had intended to cause you harm, the question of it may have been your fault would’ve been so much easier to negate, the instances of abuse perhaps easier to predict and the case much more easily closed in labelling them a monster or a bad person - But having just one happy memory of them makes it so much more difficult to accept that what they call love is not good for you.

As irrational as it is, I sometimes feel like intention would absolve one of this false responsibility to neglect the pain in favour of the good things. It is perfectly normal after all not to love a monster, but a parent ‘trying their best’? To even just question one’s loyalty to them can make it feel as if the person in the wrong wasn’t them but oneself.

I find the first and hardest lesson will always be to learn that you deserve to feel loved and that sometimes you have to look out for yourself and your safety before anything else. Even worse, to stand by your decision and actions, knowing you might loose something you think you need. But once that subsides, I promise there is no greater strength in knowing that you looked out for yourself -despite, yes, you shouldn’t have had to, you deserve a safe and secure home- yet that is something no one can ever take from you. If you cannot trust the people closest to you to protect you, knowing you will never let yourself down in that regard is a small and yet insanely comforting mercy.

I wish this hard earned knowledge to come to everyone who needs it because the alternative can be all too painful and you always deserve better! < 3

I'm so tired of parents who didn't mean to

[dchuntress]

reposting from a reddit post i made

Hi everybody!

One thing I see happening commonly is that people are often confused about the two Helenas/Huntresses of DC, often confusing them both for each other or preferring one over another or stating the same person. I am no expert, but I do love these two characters deeply and I have read extensively of their comics, so I thought to share a polished version of a summary that I originally wrote for my friends! I hope this helps, and I am open to civil feedback as well as further queries.

// I am not citing any specific sources here, but I can back up what I'm saying if you ask about anything specifically. I am referring to comics, wiki summaries, and various blogs dedicated.

// This is a summary, there is obviously more to what I describe.

// I am using Earth 0 as a shorthand for whatever the main earth is.

// I am using the terms Pre-Crisis, Post-Crisis, New 52, and Current to describe the continuities. I am aware these have other names, but for the sake of understanding both Helenas, I think these terms would be apt to follow.

// English is not my first language, apologies in advance for any errors.

The name itself, Huntress:

The first person to hold this name was Paula Brooks, actually. She was originally written as a Golden Age villain by this name, before she later on got renamed Tigress.

Pre-crisis: (featuring: Helena Wayne)

In Earth 2, an alternate world parallel to the main timeline, Batman and Catwoman settle down, semi-retire, get married, and have a kid named Helena Wayne. Helena Wayne grows up to be the Huntress, a morally grey crossbow-wielding vigilante. (Fun fact: There is the implication that she was originally created in lieu of an Earth 2 Batgirl).

Helena Wayne originally led a relatively stable life and grew up to become a lawyer. However, Selina is killed in a series of tragic events where she was blackmailed and framed, and Helena became the Huntress, wanting to bring justice to whoever was responsible for her mom's demise, clear up her mom's name, and dedicate the rest of her life fighting for what's right and just, to helping the people of Gotham.

Helena Wayne initially kept her Huntress alias a secret from everybody, including Batman himself. she did not use her father's name, rather she proved herself a determined detective and hero to the Justice Society of America, and became a member there. For Helena Wayne, being a member of the JSA is very integral to her story. she was also a member of the Infinity, Inc. Despite her big name, she still continued to fight street-level crime in her hometown.

Helena Wayne was a prominent lawyer, but she was constantly in doubt about it, feeling that she was doing more as a vigilante than a lawyer. Still, she kept that job, using her advantages as a lawyer to gain evidence and whatnot for the cases she'd handle as Huntress.

Helena Wayne had also met various people from earth 0! This was usually a result of attending JSA/JLA collaborations.

Then a crisis event, Crisis on Infinite Earths, happens, ending the multiverse and Helena Wayne is killed off.

Post-Crisis: (Featuring Helena Bertinelli)

Enter Helena Bertinelli.

The Huntress was reimagined completely, she no longer was the daughter of BatCat. Rather, she was now born into a Mafia family — the most powerful one in Gotham.

Helena Bertinelli, despite being born into excessive wealth, led a capricious life in a dark and unforgiving world. One tragic day, her entire family is killed off brutally in front of her, while she ends up being the lone survivor. The reason for this varies depending on the origin story, but none of it brings her closure.

A young helena bertinelli trains day and night, to be ruthless, to turn her fury and grief into a weapon she can wield to fight back, to avenge her family's deaths and kill their killers, to kill the men who stole her childhood innocence.

She's scared, constantly. She fights despite the fears. She doesn't ever want to be a prey again. She wants to hunt down predators who destroy innocent lives and protect the people of Gotham from these horrors.

Another thing to take note is that Helena Bertinelli is devoutly Catholic*, having a complicated relationship with God, faith, and the institution of religion. This is especially prominent in this time of her comics.

*(In Last Rites, it is indicated that Helena Wayne was raised Catholic, having gone through confirmation. However, so far, I have yet to see Helena Wayne being religious, really, one exception being her wearing a cross when she was impersonating Helena Bertinelli in Crossbow At The Crossroads).

And also, Helena Bertinelli is a schoolteacher. The details of this change; often she's an English highschool teacher. Regardless, she cares deeply about her students and has a soft spot for children.

In this time, Helena Bertinelli prominently has been a member of the Birds Of Prey; she was also briefly a part of the Justice League and the Outsiders.

Initially, Helena Bertinelli wanted to try and be a part of the Bat clan. However, time and again, she and chiefly Batman clashed the most, mostly over their ideologies, despite also teaming up often.

No Man's Land is also another important arc for Helena Bertinelli; after a devastating earthquake, Gotham is basically disowned by the country, there's no law and order, and Bruce Wayne has disappeared. In his absence, Helena Bertinelli stood up as The Bat*, hoping to give people the hope they had with B around as well as keep rogues in line. However, despite Helena's great works for keeping Gotham safe and helping its people during this time, this ultimately does not end well for her: She does not get credited properly for her contributions, she does not get to keep the Batsuit she designed, and she goes back to being Huntress mainly.

*[Not Batgirl as people commonly say. She called herself The Bat, she told people that Batman was a woman. Batman called her Batgirl after he arrived.]

New 52: (Featuring Helena Wayne & Helena Bertinelli)

Earth 2 is back again, one of the 52 alternate realities of the new Multiverse, the focus is on Helena Wayne Again; Helena Bertinelli is originally presumed to be dead during this time.

Helena Wayne, here, was Robin from a young age under the training of Batman and Catwoman.

Her childhood best friend is earth 2's Supergirl, Kara. (Karen was also Helena Wayne's best friend in Pre Crisis).

After a battle with Darkseid's lackeys, Helena and Kara are displaced to Earth 2 at a very young age.

They both continue to survive, usually by cleverness, various crimes — identity fraud, deception, wiring money from this world's billionaire Bruce Wayne, and so on. on this world, they became Huntress and Power Girl, as other mantles were already taken. Power Girl was now called Karen Starr herein.

While Helena Wayne wanted to focus on settling down and fighting crime in this new world and moving on from the past, Karen was deeply passionate to return home. and ultimately, that happens.

At around the same time, after Helena Wayne has left, Helena Bertinelli resurfaces, this time, being revealed as a member of Spyral. It's also revealed that she had actually faked her death to join the spy organisation.

Currently: (Featuring Helena Bertinelli & Helena Wayne)

Both Helenae are Huntresses again, although they're pretty much collecting dust, not having been used much in comics as of now.

Helena Bertinelli is a solo vigilante in gotham, with a vague past of Spyral involvement. Mind controlling parasites had attacked Gotham, and she was affected; although she was entirely cured of the parasites, she gained a power as a side effect — Crime Vision; aka, if someone in a certain nearby is assaulting or harming of killing someone, Helena can see the assault happening through the eyes of the monster. Although it gave her a headstart on tracking down those predators and saving their victims, this ability understandably has had a huge impact on Helena Bertinelli's mental health, wanting the visions to stop, being constantly reminded of her bloodied past, and the blood in her veins crying for more blood.

Helena Wayne is currently said to be retconned from one of the possible future timelines of the main world, not a different planet. She's a member of the JSA; this is her New Golden Age verse.

[ If it's not clear, I don't like Spyral stuff for Helena Bertinelli and New Golden Age stuff for Helena Wayne at all LOL it makes no sense ]

Other:

Helena Wayne has been Batman and Batwoman respectively in Earth 2 Society and Elseworlds/last Rites comics. she was also Famine, under the control of Apokolips.

Helena Bertinelli was briefly a panther in Beast World Tour!

Personality wise, I don't know how to succinctly describe them, but here's what I'd say: in terms of philosophy, they're quite similar — they're both morally grey, strongly feminist, and often follow the "the ends justify the means" mindset. they're both very stubborn, resilient, intense, and determined. they're both very skilled, multitalented vigilantes. One difference I'd note is Helena Wayne presents as more emotionally stable, while Helena Bertinelli openly expressed her emotions more, not one to be cold or tame her intensity for other people. They're both strong and ardent personalities and they care so much about making the world a better place for other people.

More ways to differentiate them:

Helena Wayne has only collaborated with the Birds of Prey one time, in a Batgirl! Barbara Gordon comic. Other than that, it is Helena Bertinelli who's usually a Bird of Prey.

Karen Starr and Helena Bertinelli have interacted once; Karen was mourning Helena Wayne and so, she sought to find something within Helena Bertinelli. Helena Bertinelli was naturally confused why Karen was seeking her out, and ultimately, Karen realises that both Helenii are irreplaceable. Ultimately, Helena Wayne's best friend is Karen Starr.

Both Heleneese have variety in their arsenal and suits. However, in my opinion, Helena Wayne's stuff tends to lean more towards fancy tech sophistication, while Helena Bertinelli's style leans towards more old school.

Helena Bertinelli tends to wear crosses and have touches of gold on her suit; Helena Wayne does not on the other hand.

Helena Wayne's suit in Pre-Crisis has the same design for the most part, meant to symbolise a combination of the suits of Batman and Catwoman.

Helena Bertinelli was a victim of CSA (Huntress 1989 & Huntress: Year One), so her motivation for fighting for women and children are very personal.

For Helena Wayne, fighting for victims of domestic violence, trafficking, and so on is also personal in its own way, usually being motivated by her mother Catwoman's works.

Both Helenaes were born into wealth, yes, but ultimately, their privileges did not blind them from fighting for the safety of Gotham at a raw, deep level. While Helena Bertinelli chose not to accept her inheritance (Huntress 1989) and sold her childhood house (Batman: Family), Helena Wayne lost everything in the New 52 storyline. Even in Pre-Crisis, she worked for these causes.

Crossbow At The Crossroads is actually a Helena Wayne comic. She uses Helena Bertinelli's identity to dismantle a human trafficking ring in Italy.

Speaking of, it is absolutely crucial that Helena Bertinelli is Italian; her Sicilian heritage is integral to her characterisation.

Why I consider them different:

These two women are not replaceable or interchangeable. They are very distinct and different characters past the surface level similarities.

Helena Bertinelli has conflict with Batman; Helena Bertinelli is often criticised for her morally grey actions and use of lethal violence, while Helena Wayne usually isn't. However, that doesn't mean Helena Wayne is any less violent than her, she has a more nonchalant attitude to murder in my opinion.

Their parentages are very deliberate and important for them. Helena Wayne is the definite daughter of Batman and Catwoman in a different reality, representing a life where these two people can finally be happy and choose each other and slow down. Which is why I don't think it makes sense that Helena Wayne could be born in the mainverse, considering Batman and Catwoman have more tumultuous lives and personalities and relationships there. Earth 2's Gotham is shown to be less dangerous than Earth 0's.

It is ABSOLUTELY imperative that Helena Bertinelli is a fourth generation Italian and born into a crime family. Whether her mom fakes her death or not, whether her biological father is the very man who placed the hit or not, whether her father is loving or abusive, whether Sal is her cousin or bodyguard, it does not matter. Helena Bertinelli is tragically doomed from her birth and by blood, destined to be hurt and lose her family, to overcome the shadows and the cages of her survivor's guilt and desperately hold onto something called faith to rise and emerge as the Huntress.

BOTH of them are worthy of the Huntress mantle, in their own ways. BOTH of them deserve to tell their stories. Neither Helena is better or worse. The world won't end if there's two Huntresses, they don't need to compete and they don't need to replace each other. We can have MORE stories of promising young women.

Thank you for reading thus far. I have been working on bettering my understanding of them and writing this for a long, long time.

Love you, have a good day, take care. 🩵

[queereads-bracket]

Queer Historical Fiction Book Bracket: Round 1B

Book summaries and submitted endorsements below:

Outlawed by Anna North

Endorsement from submitter: "sapphic characters, significant trans character (nb iirc)"

In the year of our Lord 1894, I became an outlaw.

The day of her wedding, 17 year old Ada's life looks good; she loves her husband, and she loves working as an apprentice to her mother, a respected midwife. But after a year of marriage and no pregnancy, in a town where barren women are routinely hanged as witches, her survival depends on leaving behind everything she knows.

She joins up with the notorious Hole in the Wall Gang, a band of outlaws led by a preacher-turned-robber known to all as the Kid. Charismatic, grandiose, and mercurial, the Kid is determined to create a safe haven for outcast women. But to make this dream a reality, the Gang hatches a treacherous plan that may get them all killed. And Ada must decide whether she's willing to risk her life for the possibility of a new kind of future for them all.

Featuring an irresistibly no-nonsense, courageous, and determined heroine, Outlawed dusts off the myth of the old West and reignites the glimmering promise of the frontier with an entirely new set of feminist stakes. Anna North has crafted a pulse-racing, page-turning saga about the search for hope in the wake of death, and for truth in a climate of small-mindedness and fear.

Setting: Old West era, USA (1890s)

Historical fiction, Western, alternate history, dystopia, 1890s, adult

Mrs. Victoria buys a Brothel by Talhí Briones

Endorsement from submitter #1: "A sapphic western where women help women (bury the body of your abusive husband.)"

Endorsement from submitter #2: "This is a story about women who age, gossip, drink, love, and help you hide the body of your dead husband."

1865, United States— It took thirty years and a dislocated arm for Victoria to leave her abusive husband. Heartbroken, she has to choose her own life over the hope of ever seeing her son again. She escapes the manor in the dead of night, only bringing with her a white wedding dress.

She ends up in Swainsburg, a minuscule town in Wyoming, where she’s adopted by the local prostitutes. To save them from expulsion, she buys the building and learns that in these parts, entertainment is worth more than gold. It’s almost easy, even fun, to organize piano recitals and cancan shows for the cowboys of the area, but being a Madam comes with responsibilities and dangers she isn’t ready to face. Her husband, after all, has contacts everywhere.

It’s hard to navigate the delicate tensions between respectable ladies and whores, between white society and the ‘others.’ Her new friends are women who carved their place in this merciless life; people who, like her, ended up in Swainsburg when they got tired of running.

Victoria falls in love. She doesn’t notice, she can’t even imagine the possibility. The townfolk say the widow Díaz is strange. Natane is actually incredibly awkward, kind, and very lonely. Victoria has no name for this burning friendship, but the feeling grows and demands to be acknowledged.

This is a story about women who age, gossip, drink, love, and help you hide the body of your dead husband.

Setting: Western; 1865 Wyoming

Historical fiction, Western, 1860s, adult

[velvetwyrme]

I think you're poggers

🥺❣️!!!! THANKY ILY

[alexjcrowley]

Did you know Max Verstappen speaks four langauges? Dutch, English, German and FACTS

Hes so blunt, and hes so right.

When are his statements not absolute ✨️slays✨️

[tojiscrack]

ahhh you‘re not going crazy!!!! 😭😭 i did comment that before butttt i wasn’t sure if you were going to see it. i really wanted to show my appreciation regardless so i deleted the comment because i thought it would be weird if i sent it as anonymous message AND the comment… so sorry about that whoopsie😭 (i‘m not impatient i swear i just got shy or something help)

annddd thank you for the long answer, i actually really like to hear your ideas about the story so dw about it being too long!! i‘m already excited and waiting for updates (no pressure though, please take ur time and take care of urself) love u too!!

sorry for the late response ml, been so busy with school work but i’m backkk 😋

NOO DON’T BE SHYYY 😭 i just take a while coming around to comments because i’m so busy with life and school and whatever (can’t really say a social life ‘cause ibr, i don’t have one LMAO) 😗 even if it takes me years, i will ALWAYS respond to any comment or ask or whatever. i don’t put myself on this pedestal where i’m too good for you to respond, i hate authors like that 🫨 they remind me of editors on tiktok/instagram that think they’re celebrities (and even if you were a celebrity, i’d still spit on your shoes #blockout2024)

my long responses are just me getting excited people are invested and actually want to talk to me HAHAHA 😭 thank you sm for not pressuring me into updating (even tho you lowkey have every right to do so). it’s just heart warming when people let you know how much they actually appreciate what you write for them. i get butterflies in my stomach, you have no idea 😩

[sleepyangelkami]

more vi plss!! (and reader is a pillow princess)

SAY IT .vi

𝜗𝜚 WORD COUNT - 1.5K

VI (ARCANE) X FEM!READER

𝜗𝜚 SUMMARY - vi calls you exactly what you are, a pillow princess and in efforts to prove her wrong, you only end up proving her right. but that's fine, because that was all she wanted.

𝜗𝜚 WARNINGS - smut, dom!vi, sub!reader, pillow princess!reader, fingering (r.receiving), praise kink, dumbification, dirty talk, alternate universe, petnames, intended lower case, nothing i write is ever proofread 🩷

it started off as a joke.

a simple joke that left your girlfriends lips. you'd been laying on your stomach across the sitting room sofa, words mindlessly falling from both your lips as you flipped through a magazine. she sat man-spreading across the arm chair, controller in hand. you always said she loved her video games more than you, but she'd always deny.

then you heard it, the joke spewing from her lips with a smirk on her face. "yeah, okay, pillow princess."

instantly, your head snapped up from your magazine. your glittery pen that you'd been circling clothing with dropped from your pretty fingers. "i'm not a pillow princess."

vi seemed to sense your distress. she set the controller down as the game conveniently ended. "well, i'm not saying there's anything wrong with it." she leaned back against the armchair, resting her hands behind her head. "i love that you're a pillow princess, believe me."

you wouldn't believe how many times she'd gotten off just by thinking about it. you were so good for her, so responsive. she hardly had to touch you and you were falling apart. sure, she loved watching your head between her thighs as you whimpered into her but there was nothing more she loved than watching you, hearing you. all of it.

you seemed butt hurt by the joke.

but vi swiftly changed the conversation, noticing the furrow of your brow.

vi knew how sensitive you were, how easily you took everything to heart and she didn't want you over thinking this. and her tactics proved right, by five minutes later you were showing her a pretty top you'd spotted on the coloured pages.

you didn't think much of it at first. in fact, for the next while, you didn't think of it at all.

perhaps you had too much in your head to contain so much information, you told vi that was why you talked so much.

it wasn't until vi had you pinned down against the bed, making out with you, that the moment popped into your head again.

you almost shut it out on accident, then it clicked. vi was kissing you deeply, her hands dragged at your hips, pulling and kneading the skin while you passed heavy breaths through your lips, kissing her back just as hard.

and suddenly, you had this urge to prove her wrong.

vi felt you shift, letting you take the lead.

she felt you turn you both over, you landed in her lap and suddenly, she was the one against the bed. her brows shifted in amusement. "what's this, baby?"

you shifted your hair to one side of your head so it didn't get in the way, you weren't really used to things like this. "jus' trying to prove something." you mumbled before reaching down and kissing her lips.

don't get me wrong, vi loved the feeling of you kissing her, whatever way you sat, laid or stood, on top or not. but she couldn't seem to shake the amusement as your mouth left hers, leaving a trail of kisses against her neck. "this have something to do with that joke i made before?"

your lips stopped momentarily at her neck, eyes gazing up. "'m not a pillow princess."

vi didn't understand why you were so adamant about it.

there was no shame in it. on the contrary, she adored it.

"yeah?" her brow cocked and she was looking at you this way that had you nodding, suddenly unable to speak. "y'sure, sweetheart? cause if i remember correctly..." suddenly, you were being flipped over again, beneath her all over again. "you quite like sitting there all pretty 'n taking it."

you could feel her hands trail down past your waist, kneading your thighs in her hands. "v-vi, 'm trying to―" you were cut off by the breath being caught in your throat.

vi's hand had trailed up your skirt, her fingers dancing over your panties. "you're trying to what, sweet girl?" you felt her fingers rub against your clothed clit. "c'mon, use your words f'me."

"vi!" you whined, feeling her fingers against you. she wasn't being fair, you were supposed to take charge but how could you think about anything when she was touching you like that?

a soft laugh left the girls lips as she pushed your panties aside, fingers gentle against your swollen bud. "love it when you whine like that."

you could only look up at her with your tinted hot cheeks.

she began to press gentle kisses against the nape of your neck, fingers trailing down to your hole, she rounded her fingers against you, collecting the trail of your slick across her digits. she made a fake gasp noise. "'n look how wet you are already." she couldn't help but smirk. "good girl."

two single words that set you off every time.

a gasp left your lips as she slipped her two fingers inside you at once. you suddenly moaned with pleasure.

vi was like a drug. every time she touched you, you found yourself addicted, begging and chasing for her to praise you. you'd do anything to please her but luckily for you, that meant just sitting there and taking it. you truly did wish you could be less 'responsive' but vi wouldn't take it any other way. her favourite thing to do was turn you dumb with her mere fingers, maybe even her strap.

your eyes fluttered shut in pleasure, feeling her fingers pound against your sopping cunt. "please, vi." you moaned out. "please don't stop."

"yeah? wanna be my good girl again, huh?" nudging your face with her nose, littering kisses on your cheek.

you could only whimper out with a nod. vi had this way of making you feel like you were high on magic. you couldn't help but want her in every way.

"then say it, angel." fingers pumping in and out, embarrassing squelching sounds bounced off each wall of the bedroom. "say you're my pillow princess."

she was met with a mere whine of dissatisfaction from you.

she feigned sympathy with a coo. "awh, i know, baby. my poor girl, jus' so mean, aren't I?" but the girl didn't care much for your whining and whimpering, she'd get you to say it before you came. "but you gotta say it, yeah? don't want me to stop do you?"

you pursed your lips closed. "mm-mm. please don't stop." you practically panted out, you could almost feel frustration build in your water line. "nnghh― please, vi!"

"four words." is all she whispered back, her palm grazed against your clit every time her fingers pounded into your entrance. "know you can say it, pretty girl. jus' need me to make you all dumb, don't you, baby?"

a whimper of her name was the only thing that left your lips, eyes screwing shut.

"close, sweetheart? 's now or never, baby. say it or i'll stop."

the feeling was knotting in your stomach, ready to unravel. you didn't want to but you knew better than to cum without following orders.

so you forced the damned sentence to pass your lips. "'m your pillow princess."

and a coo only fell from the magenta haired girl. "awh, know you are, sweet girl. see? my good girl always listens, doesn't she? huh?" vi tended to ask you questions while knuckles deep in your pussy, she knew you couldn't utter a single word. "you jus' need me to make your poor pussy feel all good, don't you?"

a breathless, "uh-huh." was her answer. "'m close!"

"yeah? gonna be good f'me 'n say please?" of course, vi had to make you beg for it.

"please!" you practically squeaked out as your back arched against the bed.

a chuckle left her lips. "you can do better than that."

and you really, definitely could. but vi had made you all dumb, exactly her plan. "please let me cum, vi. please, need it so bad. please." you repeated the word please in little whispers, unable to hold back the knot in your stomach.

"you're such a good girl, 'course you can cum, baby." she felt your spongy walls suddenly tighten around her fingers. "that's it, sweetheart, cum all over vi's fingers, 's a good girl."

vi pumped her fingers in and out of you, letting you ride out your high like she always did until you were squirming away from her.

she leaned against the bed with a self-loving smirk on her face, hardly glancing your way. you laid next to her, chest falling and rising as you panted out breaths. a beat of silence passed until you spoke up. "vi?" turning your head to her.

"yes, my pillow princess?" she teased.

instantly, a frown fell on your face as you crossed your arms over your chest. she wasn't being fair. "i was gonna say something, now i'm not speaking to you."

"oh, come on." she lifted your face by her thumb to make you look at her again. "no pouting or else i'll have to shut you up all over again."

an idea suddenly fell flat on your head.

your pout deepened.

vi only climbed over you with the smuggest of smirks on her face. "you dirty little slut."

main masterlist/vi's masterlist

[fic-girlie]

Can you write something about Joel dealing with pregnant wife!reader who is constantly alternating between "you did this to me!" and "i ain't ever letting you near my pussy again" to horny/clingy/needy touch-starved status

I hate you

Pairing: jackson!Joel Miller x pregnant!wife!reader Summary: Pregnancy makes you push Joel away and pull him close, but he stays patient and loving through it all. Warnings: established relationship, explicit sexual content (+18), teasing, slight pregnancy and breeding kink, slight dirty talk, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, p in v sex, creampie, aftercare, cuddling, soft banter

The air in the house is thick with late-autumn heat and the scent of Joel’s soap from the shower he took half an hour ago—one you didn’t let him enjoy in peace because you’d been glaring at him from the bed like he’d betrayed you in a past life. You’ve been a walking contradiction for weeks now, your belly swollen, heavy and round with the child you made together, and your moods swinging with no warning from one extreme to the next. He doesn’t take it personally. Not really. You’re tired. Hot. Uncomfortable. And still, somehow, want him like your body might burn up if he doesn’t touch you right that second.

Right now, though, you’re glaring again. One hand is pressed dramatically to the top of your bump like a woman scorned. “You did this to me,” you hiss, and Joel’s just standing there in a soft, clinging t-shirt and those pajama pants that make you weak in the knees on a good day. But today’s not good. Today, everything hurts and you can’t get comfortable, and your husband—this smug, devastating, insufferably good man—is just… existing with that sleepy post-shower glow like he isn’t responsible for the fact that you haven’t seen your own feet in weeks.

Joel sighs through his nose and rubs a hand over his jaw. “We’re back to that again, huh?”

“You put this baby in me,” you growl, dramatic as ever, even as your voice warbles and betrays how close you are to tears. “You ruined me, Joel Miller.”

“You didn’t seem so ruined when you were bouncin’ on my cock back then,” he says, not even looking up from folding the towel in his hands. “You were beggin’ for it. So don’t go forgettin’ how loud you were moanin’ my name.”

“Don’t—don’t you talk to me like that.” You squirm on the bed, suddenly very aware of how wet you are just from the sound of his voice, that drawl that slides right through you. You shift your thighs, uselessly trying to ease the ache in your core.

“Darlin’,” he murmurs, and you hate that you melt instantly at the sound of it, soft and gravel-thick from sleep. “You want me to go or you want me to touch you? Gotta pick one.”

You roll onto your side and glare at him some more, but your bottom lip trembles. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“...I’m not lettin’ you near my pussy ever again. Not ever. Not after this.”

And Joel walks over, slow and steady, sinking down to his knees in front of the bed where you lie like a mess of hormones and need. His hand rests over your belly and rubs it with lazy affection. “Sweetheart, you’ve said that four times today. This mornin’ you were grindin’ on my thigh ‘cause you couldn’t fall back to sleep.”

You clench your jaw. “That was different. I was—needy.”

“You’re still needy,” he grins, sliding a hand up your bare thigh, “and I ain’t judgin’. You want your husband to fuck you full when you’re already stuffed with my baby? That’s fine by me. I’ll give you exactly what you need.”

Your head drops back with a moan, fingers curling in the sheets. Joel knows you. Too well. Knows your body like it’s his own, knows how to touch and tease and wreck you when you’re so heavy with him it feels like your whole body is just one long ache. You can’t help it—you reach for him, grab a fistful of his t-shirt and pull him forward like you’ll die if he doesn’t kiss you right now.

And he does. Joel kisses you slow, deep, coaxing your mouth open like he has all the time in the world. His tongue is warm and lazy in your mouth, and when he pulls back, he’s panting lightly and smiling against your jaw. “That what you needed, mama?”

You whimper and pull his hand between your legs. You’re soaked through the soft cotton of your sleep shorts, and when his fingers press there, thick and deliberate, you arch like a woman possessed. “Joel—please.”

He peels your shorts off with care, gentle even as your thighs tremble, even as your hands claw at him, trying to get him closer. The baby shifts inside you, pressing out against your belly, and Joel places a kiss right there, tender as anything, before hooking your legs over his broad shoulders and sinking down like a man starved.

“Oh, fuck,” you groan when his mouth touches you—wet and hot, tongue dragging from your dripping entrance all the way to your clit, slow and sinful. “I swear to God, I hate you—I hate you, Joel—”

But your thighs are tightening around his head and your hands are gripping the headboard like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. Joel doesn’t rush. He eats you like he’s savoring the taste, moaning low in his throat as his beard drags rough against your thighs. His tongue flicks and licks and circles your clit until your whole body is trembling, your belly tight with more than just the baby, and then—

“I’m gonna come,” you sob, hips jerking, and Joel groans against you.

“Come for me, baby. Just like that. Wanna feel you on my tongue.”

You do. Loud, long, gasping his name like a prayer and a curse all at once. Your body clenches and pulses, and Joel doesn’t stop, doesn’t let you come down. He kisses your thighs, strokes your belly, murmurs how good you taste, how sweet you are, how beautiful you look when you fall apart for him.

And when he finally climbs over you, his pants shoved down just enough for his cock to slide between your thighs, you look up at him with tears in your eyes and whisper, “I want you inside me.”

“You sure?” he asks, even though he’s already lining himself up, guiding the thick head of his cock through your slick folds. “You were just threatenin’ to cut me off for life.”

You whimper, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Don’t care. Just need you. Want you so bad, Joel—please—”

He pushes in slow. Careful. Deep. Your body welcomes him even now, stretching around him, drawing him in. It’s not the frenzied, rough kind of fucking you used to get before the baby. No. This is deep, slow, toe-curling intimacy. Joel holds your hand, kisses your neck, rocks into you like he’s trying to fill every inch of you. You moan and whimper and sob his name like he’s the only thing anchoring you to the earth.

And maybe he is.

“I got you, mama,” he murmurs into your hair. “I know it’s a lot. I know. But I’m right here. Gonna give you everything, always.”

You wrap your legs around his hips, belly pressing against his stomach, and cling to him like he’s the last safe thing in the world. Joel groans low in his throat as you squeeze around him, walls fluttering, thighs trembling. You can’t stop kissing him, licking into his mouth, dragging your nails down his back.

“Fuck, you feel so good, baby,” he pants, rutting into you with just enough pressure to make you cry out. “So tight around me, still takin’ me so good. My girl. My sweet girl.”

You come again with a high-pitched sob, body clenching around him like you never want to let go, and Joel lets himself follow, grinding deep as he spills inside you with a long, broken groan of your name.

Afterward, you’re a mess of sweat and tears and trembling limbs. Joel cleans you up, kisses your belly, kisses you. Holds you as close as your belly will allow. You’re so boneless and sated you can’t even speak—just make tiny contented noises as he pulls the blanket over both of you.

Joel doesn’t rush. He never does, not after. It’s like he knows exactly how raw you feel in the quiet that follows sex now—especially these days, when you’re carrying so much more than just his name. You’re full in every sense of the word. Full of him. Full of this life you made together. Full of nerves and hormones and aches and things you don’t always have the words for.

And Joel… Joel just knows.

He stays inside you for as long as your body allows, thick and warm, breathing deep against your cheek. One of his arms curls beneath your back while the other rests protectively over your swollen belly, palm splayed wide, fingers flexing gently as if to reassure himself the baby’s still safe in there.

“You good, baby?” he murmurs after a while, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “Still with me?”

Your only answer is a whimper, soft and dazed, and your nails curl against the warm skin of his shoulder. You’re still throbbing—soft, aftershocks fluttering through you like the echo of a wave that’s already crashed. You shift under him slightly and wince, overstimulated and spent and so full of him that it almost aches.

“Too much?” he asks gently, instantly lifting some of his weight off you. But he doesn’t leave. Doesn’t pull away. Just waits, watching your face like it’s the most important thing in the world.

You shake your head, eyes fluttering open lazily. “No. Don’t go. Just…” Your voice is wrecked, rasping, half-broken. “Too perfect. S’too much sometimes.”

Joel smiles, soft and boyish in a way you rarely get to see. He presses his lips to your forehead, lingering there for a moment before whispering, “Ain’t nothin’ too much for you. Not with me.”

And then he’s moving carefully, slow and patient, easing out of you with a groan and a soft apology when you hiss and flinch. His cum leaks out of you immediately, warm and sticky between your thighs, and he groans again—this time lower, rougher, voice thick with something primal as he watches it drip.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “Look at you.”

“Don’t—don’t look at it,” you moan, turning your face into the pillow. “That’s—gross, Joel.”

“Ain’t gross,” he says, wiping you up with the edge of his t-shirt, careful not to touch you too roughly. “It’s mine. That’s my girl. My baby. Can’t help wantin’ to look.”

You groan and swat at him blindly. “You’re disgusting.”

He chuckles, tossing the shirt onto the floor before slipping under the covers beside you. His arms come around you immediately, strong and steady, tugging your back against his chest. You feel every inch of him, bare and warm and still faintly trembling from what you’d just done. His chest is damp, breath still uneven, and you feel the scratch of his beard against your shoulder as he nudges your neckline aside and buries his face in your neck.

“I meant what I said,” he mumbles, voice already thick with post-sex sleep. “You’re still the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You make a sound—somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Even like this?”

Joel hums against your skin. “Especially like this. All soft and full and needy for me.” His hand finds your belly again, splayed wide like he’s guarding something precious. “Love knowin’ you want me even now. Love givin’ it to you when you’re so greedy for it.”

“I wasn’t greedy,” you mutter, cheeks burning.

“You were beggin’,” he grins, biting your shoulder lightly. “Said please so pretty. Clung to me like you were gonna break if I didn’t fuck you right.”

Your whole body flushes with heat again. “You’re an asshole.”

Joel just laughs, low and sleepy, one hand drifting from your belly to cup your breast, heavy and sore and extra sensitive. You shiver when his thumb brushes over your nipple. “Still got some fight in you, huh?”

“Barely,” you admit, voice muffled by the pillow.

You feel him smile against your skin again, feel his body relax fully behind you. His leg slides between yours, one of his palms rubbing slow circles into your belly like he’s done every night since you first started showing. It’s intimate in a way you never expected—a rhythm of soft breathing, his heartbeat steady against your back, your body warm and aching and wet from him. The ceiling fan turns lazily above you. The scent of sweat and sex and the tiniest hint of lavender detergent clings to the sheets. Outside, the cicadas drone low and slow.

It’s quiet for a while. You drift in and out, the pleasure of earlier still humming faintly in your nerves. Every now and then, Joel’s hand moves—thumb smoothing over your stomach, fingers brushing under your breast, like he needs to stay connected to you in every possible way.

When he finally speaks again, it’s low and hoarse.

“You really never gonna let me near your pussy again?”

You groan and roll your eyes. “Joel.”

“What?” he says, grinning into your neck. “Just need to know. If I gotta ration the memory of tonight for the rest of my life, I’d like a heads-up.”

You elbow him half-heartedly, but he just laughs, holding you tighter.

“You’re impossible,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, nosing your hair. “But you still let me love you.”

You’re quiet a moment. Then, softly: “Always.”

Joel kisses the back of your shoulder, then the nape of your neck. “Good. ‘Cause I ain’t ever stoppin’.”

[solrburst]

the nanny — joel miller

pairing: joel miller x nanny!reader

summary: Joel is desperate for a nanny for Ellie, and you're his last hope.

tags/warnings: dad!joel, age gap, mention of death, alternative universe/no cordyceps, unprotected sex, oral sex (f! receiving), joel is a flirt, dirty talk

author's note: i love seeing flirty!joel almost as i love dad!joel

word count: 12k

The sun beat down heavy on Austin's cracked pavement when you pulled out the taxi. You could hear the cicadas buzzing like some lazy warning in the trees. The house wasn’t anything special—single-story, flat-roofed, a tired porch with an ashtray full of cigarette butts and a half-drunk beer sweating on the railing.

Joel Miller opened the door before you even knocked.

He stood there, filling the doorway with the kind of broad-shouldered presence that made people pause without knowing why. Dark hair just starting to go silver at the temples, thick lines drawn deep around his eyes. He looked like someone who'd seen too much too young and learned to say very little about it.

“You’re the nanny?” he asked, one brow raised, voice low and sandpaper-rough.

You blinked once. “Unless you’re about to offer me a better job.”

A beat passed.

Then—something flickered in his eyes. Not quite a smile, but not not one either. He stepped aside and nodded. “Come on in.”

The house smelled like wood, sweat, and something faintly sweet—maybe cereal. You caught the faint rumble of a TV from down the hall, something animated and overly loud.

Joel shut the door behind you and scratched the back of his neck. “Look, just to get this out of the way... she’s a lot. Talks back. Doesn’t listen half the time. Last one didn’t even make it to lunch.”

You let your bag drop to the floor by the door and glanced up at him, your voice easy. “So she’s seven?”

He exhaled through his nose, maybe a chuckle buried in there somewhere. “Somethin’ like that. Sometimes she talks like she’s twenty.”

Just then, a blur of limbs and tangled hair skidded into the hallway.

“Is this another one?” Ellie stood with her arms crossed, surveying you like a bouncer outside a bar. “You look like you smell like soap and Pinterest boards.”

You raised a brow. “You look like you snuck a Sharpie snack and tried to hide it with your hair.”

She blinked. Then snorted. “Okay, that was pretty good.”

Joel glanced between the two of you. His hand landed on his hip like he was bracing himself for another trainwreck—but Ellie wasn’t running off. Wasn’t screaming. In fact, she was smirking.

He muttered to himself, “I’ll be damned.”

Tommy’s voice floated in from the front porch. “You ready or what?”

Joel grabbed his keys from the hook and looked at you one last time, almost reluctant.

“You sure you’re good with her?”

You shrugged. “I’ve babysat worse. One kid tried to throw a waffle iron at me.”

Ellie’s eyes lit up. “Did you throw it back?”

You gave her a conspiratorial grin. “Only metaphorically.”

Joel exhaled slow. Then nodded once.

“I’ll be back around five. If anything goes sideways... call me.”

You saluted lazily. “Got it, Captain.”

And then he was gone, the screen door clattering behind him as his boots disappeared down the porch steps. You turned back toward Ellie.

“So, what’s your plan, boss?”

She cocked her head. “I was gonna trap you in the laundry room, but now I kinda wanna see if you can beat me at Mario Kart.”

You grinned. “Loser makes the winner a snack.”

“You're on.”

And just like that, Ellie Miller had met her match.

The living room was dark except for the soft blue glow of the TV, set to some old cartoon playing on mute. Joel pushed the door open slow, bracing himself for the worst: broken dishes, yelling, or silence—that kind of silence. The kind that meant another nanny had packed up and left without saying goodbye.

His boots creaked against the floor as he stepped inside. "Ellie?"

No response. Not even the usual clatter of her throwing something across the room in rebellion.

He moved further in, already unhooking his keys from his belt loop, mentally rehearsing the apology he’d have to send to Tommy for wasting another referral.

But then he saw you.

You were curled up on the edge of the worn couch, feet tucked beneath you, the glow of the TV playing across your face. Calm. Like this was just a Tuesday. No blood. No chaos. No broken spirits.

Joel blinked, mouth parting slightly.

You turned when you heard him and offered a low, casual, “Hey.”

He squinted. “Hey? That’s it?”

You nodded, stretching your arms with a small yawn. “Kid’s knocked out cold. Upstairs. Brushed teeth, bedtime story, everything.”

He looked at you like you'd just told him aliens landed in the backyard.

"Wait—asleep? It's not even eight."

“Early start tomorrow. School.” You said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Joel stepped into the kitchen without a word and opened the fridge just to give his hands something to do. The beer he’d left from the morning was still in there. He cracked it open, trying not to stare too hard at you over the rim of the bottle.

“I figured I’d walk into a war zone,” he muttered. “You didn’t run. Didn’t call. Didn’t leave a note taped to the fridge sayin’ you were done.”

You shrugged, leaning back a little. “Why would I? She’s a smart kid. Sharp. Just needs someone who doesn’t treat her like she’s stupid or fragile.”

Joel tilted his head at you, unreadable. “She usually eats nannies alive.”

“She tried,” you said with a smirk. “Came at me full sass by 3 p.m. I hit back harder.”

He let out a small grunt—maybe a laugh, maybe surprise. He took another sip of beer and looked toward the dark hallway like he still couldn’t believe Ellie hadn’t set something on fire.

“She was real quiet,” he said slowly. “When her mom left. Wouldn’t talk. Wouldn’t eat. Now she don’t shut up.”

“She talks a lot,” you agreed, smiling. “But she listens, too. If you speak her language.”

Joel leaned against the counter, arms folded. His voice softened a little, the tension loosening just enough to show through. “What, and you speak ‘ellie’ now?”

You shrugged. “I speak ‘chaos.’ Comes in handy with kids.”

For a few long seconds, he just looked at you. That quiet, heavy stare he had—like he was trying to see ten layers deeper than your skin.

Then, finally:

“You’re comin’ back tomorrow?”

You raised a brow. “Wasn’t planning on quitting. Unless you were gonna.”

A corner of his mouth twitched.

“No,” he said. “I think we’ll survive.”

You pushed up off the couch, grabbing your bag as you headed for the door. “Good. 'Cause she already asked if we could build a pillow fort after school.”

Joel walked you to the porch. The cicadas were still out. The street was still quiet.

You paused at the top step and turned back to him, eyes catching his in the porchlight.

“You’ve got a good kid,” you said.

He didn’t respond right away. Just nodded, slow. “She’s got a good shot now.”

And then you were gone.

But for the first time in a long time, Joel Miller didn’t feel like things were falling apart.

They might just be starting to fall into place.

The door swung open just as Ellie was kicking off her scuffed sneakers in the entryway, her backpack half-zipped and already sliding off her shoulder.

“Is she here yet?” she shouted toward the kitchen, her voice bouncing off the walls. “Dad! Is she here yet?”

Joel, standing at the stove with a dish towel over one shoulder, didn’t bother looking up. “Does it look like she’s here? Use your eyes, not your mouth.”

“But my mouth is faster!”

“Yeah, and that’s the problem.”

Ellie dropped her bag with a thud, already heading toward the front windows to check the driveway—just as your car pulled up.

“There!” she yelled, triumphant, sprinting back through the house like a tornado in fast-forward. “She’s here she’s here she’s here—!”

Joel had just turned down the burner on the skillet when the door opened, and you stepped in with the same relaxed confidence you carried like armor.

“Hey,” you greeted, a touch winded from dodging Ellie, who’d practically launched herself at you before you were through the door. “Did I miss the homecoming parade?”

“She’s been askin’ about you since the bell rang,” Joel said, nodding toward the hyper blur bouncing in your shadow. “Didn’t even want her snack. Which is how I know the apocalypse is near.”

“I saved my appetite,” Ellie declared proudly. “Dad made grilled cheese with bacon. He never makes grilled cheese with bacon.”

You raised a brow. “Is this a bribe, Miller?”

Joel shot you a look over his shoulder. “She’s been unbearable. Figure I earned the right to butter her up before I hand her over.”

“Smart,” you said, dropping your bag on the same hook as yesterday. “She’s got that post-school chaos energy. You should see what she did to the car ride playlist yesterday. Ruined Stevie Nicks forever.”

“I did not!” Ellie cried, whirling on you with wide, offended eyes.

“She put it on 1.25 speed,” you deadpanned. “Stevie Nicks sounded like a chipmunk with anxiety.”

Joel snorted, smothering the sound with a fake cough as he plated up the sandwiches. “You want one?” he asked you. “I made extra.”

You blinked, surprised. “You cook for the nanny now?”

“I cook for people who save me from losin’ my damn mind.”

You grinned. “Flattering.”

“I wasn’t tryin’ to be.”

You pulled out a chair at the table while Ellie dropped into hers, legs swinging under the seat. She was already talking a mile a minute about her day—some story about her science teacher and a broken Bunsen burner, a joke she told in front of the whole class, how everyone laughed (even the mean kids). She spoke with that spark in her voice again, the one Joel hadn’t heard in years. Not since before.

And you just listened. Asked questions. Teased her right back. Like it was easy. Natural.

Joel set the plate in front of you, still watching from the kitchen with a strange look in his eyes. Half guarded, half... something else.

“Thanks,” you said, catching his gaze briefly before biting into the sandwich. “Damn. This is actually good.”

He raised a brow. “You sound surprised.”

“I’m used to burnt toast and expired yogurts when I nanny for dads. This is, like, actual food.”

Joel just grunted and took his seat, digging in with a quiet shake of his head.

Ellie beamed between the two of you like she’d planned this entire lunch herself.

“So,” she said through a mouthful of bread and bacon, “after we eat, can we finish the pillow fort? I brought extra blankets from my room.”

“Only if we build defenses this time,” you warned, chewing thoughtfully. “Last night’s fort couldn’t have survived a sneeze.”

“That was a test run!”

Joel sighed, but he didn’t sound tired—more like resigned. A man accepting his fate. “You break anything, you fix it. That includes her,” he added, nodding toward Ellie.

“I’m unbreakable,” she declared proudly.

You caught Joel’s eye across the table.

“Yeah,” you said. “She is.”

And for a few quiet seconds, the three of you just sat there—sharing grilled cheese, half-smiles, and the smallest taste of something like peace.

The sun hadn’t even dipped below the horizon when Joel’s truck rumbled into the driveway, tires crunching over gravel. He was early—rare. The job site shut down sooner than expected, and Tommy had waved him off with a smirk that said, go home, see what you’ve been missing.

He stepped inside, boots already loosening, and heard it before he saw it.

Laughter.

Ellie’s, loud and unfiltered, practically vibrating through the walls. And yours, tangled with it, low and warm like the hum of a fire.

The house smelled like popcorn and something vaguely fruity—maybe bubblegum shampoo?—and as Joel rounded the corner into the living room, he paused.

Ellie was wrapped in a blanket on the floor, holding a flashlight under her chin like a horror movie cliché, while you crouched beside her, waving a sock puppet dramatically through the air.

“So then,” you were saying, voice low and ominous, “the terrifying Sockzilla sniffed the room and said... ‘someone forgot to flush.’”

Ellie howled with laughter, collapsing backward onto a pile of pillows, kicking her feet.

Joel leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a slow smile creeping up without permission. You hadn’t noticed him yet. Neither of you had.

This wasn’t babysitting. Wasn’t even a job.

This was joy—something Ellie had stopped having for a long damn time.

“Sockzilla’s not wrong,” Joel said finally, his voice cutting through the laughter like gravel.

You looked up with a start, then grinned. “Hey. Didn’t hear you come in.”

“I noticed,” he said, stepping in. “Didn’t mean to interrupt the apocalypse.”

“You’re just jealous you missed chapter three: The Underwear Revolt.”

Ellie popped her head up from behind a pillow fort wall. “Dad, you’re early! Why?”

Joel shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Got lucky. Figured I’d beat the dinner rush.”

“You did,” you said, brushing popcorn off your knees. “I was just about to order pizza.”

Joel hesitated. For a half-second. Like the question had been sitting in his chest for a while now.

“You hungry?” he asked. “If you don’t got plans, I mean.”

You raised a brow. “You inviting me to stay?”

He shrugged, all rough edges and nonchalance. “Be a shame to kick you out before dinner. 'Specially after all the... sock trauma.”

Ellie was already nodding. “Yes, stay. Please. We’ll get the stuffed crust and everything.”

You looked between the two of them—the wide-eyed kid and the guarded man who, despite himself, was starting to open the door a little wider every day.

“Alright,” you said, settling back into the cushions. “But only if I get to pick the movie.”

Joel gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Long as it ain’t animated.”

Ellie gasped. “You love animated movies. Don’t lie.”

“That was one time—”

“You cried during Wall-E!”

“Everyone cries during Wall-E,” Joel muttered.

You just laughed. “Good to know I’m in excellent company.”

Joel shook his head, but the smile on his face lingered longer than it used to. He disappeared into the kitchen to grab plates, muttering something about “stuffed crust being a scam,” and Ellie launched into a detailed argument in its defense.

The sound of the tap running low and steady filled the space between you. The kitchen light hummed overhead, casting a soft golden glow across the sink. Joel leaned against the counter nearby, drying a plate with a towel he clearly didn’t intend to use efficiently.

Ellie had crashed hard—half-asleep on your shoulder during the last twenty minutes of the movie, mumbling something about “marrying a pizza slice” before you carried her upstairs with Joel trailing close behind, just in case.

Now the house was quiet again. The good kind.

You scrubbed at a stubborn streak of marinara on a plate, and he watched—hands busy, mouth quieter than usual.

Then, finally, his voice broke the silence.

“You ever think about teachin’?”

You blinked. “Teaching?”

Joel shrugged, rolling the dish towel and tossing it onto the counter. “You’re good with kids. Natural at it. Like you got this... translator chip in your head that turns all their nonsense into actual words.”

You laughed, rinsing the plate. “Is that a compliment?”

“It’s a rare one,” he said, voice dry. “Don’t waste it.”

You set the dish in the rack. “Honestly? I never planned on working with kids. Didn’t grow up thinking I’d be a nanny, that’s for sure.”

He watched you, brows slightly lifted. “Then how?”

You paused, thinking about how to phrase it. Your voice came softer now. “I had a little brother. Just a few years younger than me. Our mom was... not around much. And our dad was even less.”

Joel’s face didn’t shift, but something in his eyes tightened—quiet understanding. Shared terrain.

“So it was just the two of us most days,” you continued. “I’d cook, help with homework, break up tantrums... eventually you figure out what works. What doesn't. You learn when to joke and when to just sit next to 'em and let the storm pass.”

“Still sounds like teachin’,” he said quietly.

You smiled faintly. “Maybe. But I don’t like classrooms. I like people. One-on-one. The mess of it.”

Joel nodded, slowly. He reached past you to set a mug in the drying rack, his arm brushing yours—barely there, but it lingered just long enough to be noticed.

You didn’t move away.

He cleared his throat, voice lower now. “That brother of yours... where’s he now?”

Your hands stilled for just a second under the warm water. Then you shook your head, barely.

“Gone. Car accident. Years ago.”

Joel didn’t say sorry. He didn’t need to.

Just stood a little closer, like he was there instead. Holding the silence steady for you.

You glanced up at him—caught his eyes. Tired, thoughtful, always heavier than they let on. And for a moment, you saw it again—that thing underneath all his quiet. The grief. The grit. The fierce way he clung to the pieces that were left.

“You lost someone, too?” you asked.

He didn’t answer right away. Just nodded. Once.

Then: “Yeah. My other girl. Long time ago.”

Something settled between you—unsaid, but understood. Like a door had opened without either of you realizing it.

You reached for another plate.

“So,” you said softly, “two experts in surviving chaos walk into a kitchen…”

Joel gave a tired huff. “Sounds like the start of a bad joke.”

You grinned. “Might be. But so far, the punchline’s not half-bad.”

The last dish clinked into the drying rack, and you wiped your damp hands on a kitchen towel. The quiet had deepened into something different now—later, slower. Crickets outside the window. The kind of stillness that makes you notice things. Like how close Joel was standing. How neither of you had moved to say goodbye yet.

You glanced at the clock on the stove. “I should probably get going. It’s late.”

Joel shifted, like he’d been waiting for you to say it but didn’t love hearing it. His gaze flicked toward the hallway upstairs, then back to you.

“I’ll drive you,” he said simply.

You gave him a look. “I’m fine to wait for a taxi.”

“It’s late,” he repeated, like that settled it. “And Tommy’s swingin’ by in ten. I already texted him—he can keep an eye on Ellie till I’m back.”

You tilted your head. “So you planned this, huh?”

Joel just gave a small shrug. “Figured you might not argue.”

You didn’t.

The truck was warm from the afternoon heat, even with the windows cracked. The road stretched out in front of you in slow-moving darkness, the kind that hummed in your bones. Joel kept one hand on the wheel, the other draped loosely over the top of it, knuckles relaxed, thumb idly tapping against the worn leather.

Neither of you talked for the first few minutes.

Not because there was nothing to say—more like everything was sitting close to the surface, waiting to be picked at.

“You know,” you said finally, staring out the windshield, “this is the part where you usually find a way to ask more questions. Get to know me more. The classic ‘drive home’ move.”

Joel’s mouth pulled into a faint smirk. “That so?”

You nodded. “Yep. It’s the oldest trick in the book.”

He glanced at you sideways. “And you think I’m pullin’ tricks?”

You shrugged. “I think you don’t do anything without a reason.”

He didn’t respond to that right away. Just tapped his fingers against the wheel again, thoughtful.

Then: “Alright. What’s the book say I should ask?”

You grinned. “Favorite color. Deep childhood trauma. Last show you binge-watched. That kind of thing.”

Joel huffed under his breath. “Let’s skip the color.”

“Too intimate?”

He shot you a look. “You’re pushy.”

“And you’re avoiding.”

His smirk deepened, but he didn’t argue.

A beat passed. Then another.

“You really love her, don’t you?” he asked quietly, eyes still on the road.

You blinked. “Ellie?”

Joel nodded.

“Yeah,” you said. “She’s a good kid. Even when she’s being a pain in the ass.”

“She loves you, too. A lot.” His voice was soft now. Honest. “Didn’t think I’d see that again.”

You glanced over at him—at the weight behind that simple statement. He wasn’t just talking about Ellie.

“She needed someone,” you said. “Not a babysitter. Not a therapist.”

He didn’t say anything for a while. Just drove, the silence stretching and tightening like thread.

Then, as he pulled up in front of your place, he threw the truck in park but didn’t kill the engine.

You unbuckled your seatbelt, but didn’t move to open the door yet.

“Thanks for the ride,” you said.

“Yeah.” He looked at you for a second longer than he should’ve.

Then, low, a little hesitant: “You wantin’ to do dinner again sometime? When it’s not about Ellie?”

You paused, a beat of surprise flickering across your face.

He rubbed his thumb along the leather wheel, suddenly more focused on it than anything else. “Just figured... you already know where I live.”

You smiled. “Are you asking me out, Joel Miller?”

“Not if you’re gonna say no.”

You laughed under your breath. “I’ll think about it.”

Joel looked at you then—really looked. Quiet, steady, like he was filing away every part of your expression.

“I can wait.”

You opened the door, stepping out into the warm night air. But before you shut it, you leaned down again, one hand on the frame.

“Same time tomorrow?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Same time.”

You closed the door gently and walked up the path to your front door without looking back.

But Joel stayed parked for another minute longer than he had to.

Just in case you did.

You were halfway through a lazy Tuesday—hair still damp from a late shower, curled up on the couch with a book you’d been trying to finish for months—when your phone buzzed.

[Joel Miller: You free today?]

Three dots hovered. Disappeared. Hovered again.

Then:

[Joel Miller: I know I said take the week, but this kid’s gonna make me lose my fuckin’ mind.]

You grinned, already picturing him rubbing a hand down his face, sitting at the edge of the couch while Ellie bounced off the walls behind him like a Red Bull-fueled goblin.

Another message popped up:

[Joel Miller: I’ll pay you, obviously. Just for a few hours. I owe you double if you get her to eat something green.]

You laughed and quickly typed back:

YouHow desperate are we talking?

[Joel Miller: She built a catapult in the backyard. From my rake, a lawn chair, and duct tape. I think she’s trying to launch the neighbor’s dog.]

A beat passed. Then:

[Joel Miller: Please.]

You shook your head, already grabbing your bag.

When you pulled up, the front door was wide open, and Joel was standing just inside it, looking like he hadn’t slept in a week.

“Hey,” you called as you walked up the porch. “Still got all your limbs?”

He stepped aside to let you in, exhaling like someone who’d just been handed a lifeline. “Barely. I had to confiscate a slingshot made outta a bra and a curtain rod.”

You smirked. “Ellie’s going through her ‘evil genius’ phase. It’s healthy.”

“Healthy for who?”

Then, from upstairs: “Is that her?! Did you bring snacks?! I’m starving and Dad tried to feed me something called ‘quinoa’!”

Joel pinched the bridge of his nose. “That was a salad, for the record.”

“I’m suing!”

You covered your mouth to hide a laugh. “You really thought you didn’t need me for a whole week?”

Joel gave you a long, dry look. “I was cocky.”

You tossed your bag on the usual hook. “You were delusional.”

Ellie came thundering down the stairs, socked feet sliding on the hardwood as she nearly collided with the bannister. She saw you and lit up like a goddamn firework.

“THANK GOD. I’ve been stuck with the grumpiest man on earth for three days.”

“I heard that,” Joel muttered.

She ignored him, grabbing your hand like she hadn’t seen you in a month. “We have so much to catch up on. Did you see the finale of the space show? I cried for like an hour. Also I have a new joke. Also I drew something that looks exactlylike Joel if he were a potato.”

You raised a brow. “Sounds like we’ve got a full schedule.”

Joel watched the two of you move toward the couch like you’d never left, like this was just another day in your rhythm. You and Ellie falling into step, heads bent together, conspiratorial and effortless.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “You sure you don’t mind?”

You looked back at him over your shoulder.

“I do mind. But I like the paycheck. And the chaos.”

Joel’s lips twitched. “I’ll make you dinner again.”

“Deal,” you said without missing a beat.

And just like that, you were back—right where you were supposed to be.

The kitchen lights were dimmed low, just the warm underglow from the stove left on. You sat on one of the bar stools, elbows resting on the counter, a half-empty glass of water in front of you while Joel rinsed off the cutting board.

Ellie was upstairs with her headphones in, supposedly working on some drawing, but judging by how quiet it had gotten, you were 90% sure she’d passed out halfway through.

Joel reached for a towel and dried his hands slowly, glancing over at you.

“You always this patient with kids?” he asked, voice low and a little rough from the day.

You leaned your chin in your hand. “Only the weird ones.”

A smirk ghosted across his face. “So... all of ‘em?”

You shrugged, smiling. “Weird kids are the best kind. Smart enough to keep you on your toes. Emotional enough to make you question your sanity.”

Joel nodded, leaning his weight into the counter across from you, arms folded. “You ever get tired of it? Having to be the grown-up?”

You looked at him for a beat, something unreadable in your expression. Then:

“Sure. But then I hang out with Ellie and realize being a grown-up just means knowing when to pick your battles... and when to steal the last slice of pizza before a kid does.”

Joel gave a soft chuckle under his breath. He didn’t laugh often—not fully—but he was doing it more around you. You noticed. He knew you noticed.

“You took the last slice,” he said.

You raised an innocent brow. “I earned the last slice.”

“Could’ve split it.”

“That’s not how survival works, Miller.”

He looked at you then—really looked. Leaned just a little closer, elbows on the counter now, eyes darker in the low light.

“You always this mouthy after dinner?” he asked, a thread of something unmistakably flirtatious winding through the words.

You didn’t break eye contact. “You always this charming when you’re not pretending to be grumpy?”

His smirk deepened—but just slightly. Like he didn’t want to give too much away, not all at once.

“I’m not pretendin’.”

“Mm.” You took a slow sip from your glass. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Joel watched you for a moment longer, like he was weighing something behind his eyes. Something quiet and careful. You could feel it in the space between you, close but not crossing—yet.

“You got a ride home tonight?” he asked suddenly, casual but not really.

You gave him a slow smile. “Nope.”

“Good,” he said, pushing off the counter. “I don’t mind driving you.”

“I figured,” you said, your voice lighter now, teasing. “Since you texted me please earlier today.”

Joel paused mid-step, turning back with a dry laugh. “I was desperate.”

“You were cute.”

He shot you a look. “Don’t push it.”

You stood, grabbing your bag off the hook by the door. “No promises.”

As you stepped out into the night together, the space between you was quiet—but it buzzed with something new now. Something unspoken. And as Joel opened the truck door for you without saying a word, your fingers brushed his.

Neither of you pulled away.

The truck rumbled low beneath you as the tires rolled over the quiet neighborhood roads, streetlights blinking by in amber streaks. The windows were down just enough to let the night breeze in—soft and warm, thick with the smell of cut grass and sunburned pavement.

Joel’s left hand sat loose on the wheel, fingers tapping faintly to the beat of whatever old country song murmured low from the radio. His right hand rested near the gear shift, relaxed, steady.

You watched him from the passenger seat for a long moment, then turned back to the windshield.

“Can I ask you something?” you said, voice quieter than before. Less teasing. More... curious.

Joel didn’t look at you, but you saw the way his jaw tensed slightly. “You just did.”

You huffed. “Smartass.”

That earned you the faintest smirk.

A few more seconds passed before you asked it.

“Have you ever… tried to date anyone? Since Ellie, I mean.”

The question landed soft, but heavy. Not invasive. Just honest.

Joel didn’t answer right away. His hand flexed once on the wheel. Then he exhaled slow, eyes on the road ahead.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “A couple times.”

You didn’t rush him. Just waited.

“They didn’t stick,” he added, a little tighter now. “One of ‘em didn’t want a kid around. The other tried too hard to act like Ellie’s mom.”

You nodded slowly. “And Ellie?”

Joel’s eyes flicked to you, then back to the road. “She didn’t like ‘em. She never said it outright, but I could tell.”

You tilted your head. “How?”

“She got quiet. Moody. Didn’t talk to me for a few days after I had someone over once.” He gave a small, humorless laugh. “Think that was her way of votin’ someone off the island.”

You smiled faintly. “Smart kid.”

“Too smart,” Joel muttered, shaking his head. “She doesn’t trust easy. Doesn’t let people in quick. And when she does…”

He trailed off, his voice dropping quieter.

“When she does, she holds on tight. Doesn’t like change.”

You looked out the window, the dark sliding past like water. Then you spoke, soft but certain.

“She wouldn’t push me out.”

Joel’s hand paused mid-tap on the wheel.

You didn’t look at him. “I’m not trying to be her mom. I’m not trying to be anything, really. Except someone who actually sees her.”

Silence stretched between you—charged, thick, but not uncomfortable.

Then Joel said, “She does see you. More than you know.”

You turned your head. This time you caught him looking. Just a glance—but it lingered. A little too long.

“I think that’s what scares me,” he said.

You let that sit for a moment. Then, gently:

“You ever wonder if maybe... it doesn’t have to?”

Joel pulled into your driveway slowly, headlights washing over the front steps. The truck idled in the quiet, engine ticking softly.

He didn’t speak. Not yet.

Just sat there, fingers resting still on the wheel, like he was turning something over and over in his mind. Something fragile. Something real.

Then, low:

“Yeah. I wonder.”

Your hand brushed the door handle.

You didn’t move to open it yet.

Neither did he.

You watched him in the quiet.

His profile in the half-light—worn, strong, tired in the way only someone who’s carried too much can be. That little line between his brows when he was thinking too hard. The way his fingers stayed resting on the wheel like he hadn’t decided if he wanted to drive off yet—or stay.

Your mouth opened. Then closed.

Don’t say it, you told yourself.

You reached for the door handle, your voice low and a little softer than it had been in the truck all night.

“Thanks for the ride.”

Joel glanced over, eyes steady, unreadable. “Yeah. ‘Course.”

You hesitated a beat longer. Let the silence hold its breath.

Then you added, quieter—almost a whisper, but not timid.

“Before I say anything stupid.”

Joel’s gaze sharpened just a little. But he didn’t push. Didn’t ask. Just let you have your exit, same way he always did when you needed space.

You pushed the door open and stepped out, the warm night brushing your skin like a second thought. You didn’t look back, but you felt his eyes on you as you walked up the steps.

You reached the door, paused with your key in hand.

Then—just before you went inside—you turned back.

Joel was still sitting there in the truck. Still watching. Not driving off. Not letting go.

Then you slipped inside, the door clicking shut behind you, leaving the night quiet and the truck idling in your driveway—engine low, heart loud.

The bar wasn’t crowded, but it was loud enough to blur out the week behind you. Low music, dim lighting, the smell of cheap whiskey and warm bodies pressed too close to tables too small.

You were at the corner of the bar with a half-empty glass in front of you, one leg crossed over the other, the slow curve of a smile on your lips from some half-drunk joke your friend had just told. You weren’t really buzzed yet—but you were warm. Comfortable. Not thinking about work or tantrums or bedtime routines.

Which is exactly why the last voice you expected to hear behind you was his.

“Well, look at that,” Joel murmured, slow drawl just low enough to scrape across your skin. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

You turned, a flicker of something sharp and amused flashing through your eyes.

Joel stood there, casual as ever—but different. Not in a T-shirt stained with oil or dirt from the backyard. Not with a dish towel over his shoulder. No, tonight he was clean-shaven, sleeves rolled up, one hand tucked in his jeans pocket and the other resting on the edge of the bar.

Beside him was Tommy, already halfway through a beer, offering you a crooked, familiar grin.

“Hey,” he said. “Didn’t mean to crash the party.”

You shook your head slowly, eyes still on Joel. “Not crashing. Just unexpected.”

Joel raised a brow. “That good or bad?”

You leaned on your elbow, smirking faintly. “Guess I’ll let you know.”

Tommy snorted into his bottle and stepped away to give someone else a hug across the bar—leaving you and Joel standing just a little too close in the noise.

You tilted your head. “Where’s Ellie?”

“With Maria,” Joel said, sliding onto the stool beside you. “They’re doin’ some kind of sleepover thing. Face masks. Painted nails. That whole routine.”

You laughed. “Bet you’re relieved.”

Joel took a slow sip from the beer the bartender slid in front of him. “I am. She tried to paint my nails last weekend.”

“Should’ve let her.”

He looked at you then, over the rim of his glass, the corner of his mouth pulling up. “She said I’d look good in lavender.”

Your eyes narrowed just slightly, lips curling. “She’s not wrong.”

The music thumped low behind you, the chatter of the bar a comfortable hum around the edges. For a few seconds, it was quiet between you. Then:

“You look different,” he said.

You arched a brow. “Different how?”

Joel’s gaze dipped—just for a second. Over your bare shoulders. The dress you wouldn’t wear around Ellie. The slow confidence in your posture. The way you weren’t his nanny tonight.

“Just... different,” he said. Voice rough. Honest.

You leaned a little closer. “And you showed up to a bar instead of passing out in front of the TV with a beer and ESPN reruns. That’s new for a father.”

Joel chuckled, low. “Maria told us we needed a night out. She basically pushed us out the door.”

“Remind me to thank her.”

He looked at you again, longer this time. Like he was seeing the version of you that wasn’t just Ellie’s babysitter. Not just the calm in the storm.

The silence stretched—slow, charged.

You lifted your glass. “So what happens now? Do we pretend we don’t know each other that well, or do you ask me to dance and surprise the hell out of me?”

Joel didn’t smile—but he didn’t look away either.

“I don’t dance,” he said quietly.

You smirked. “Didn’t think you did.”

“But,” he added, tipping his beer toward yours, “I can buy you another drink.”

Your glasses clinked, quiet and deliberate.

And just like that, the rules shifted.

Tonight, you weren’t working.

The night was warm even inside the bar, and the music had shifted—something slow with a little twang, something with a beat that settled in your chest. You took another sip of your drink, then turned your body toward Joel, your legs crossed in his direction.

He was still watching the room like he didn’t quite trust it. Or like he was looking for an excuse to bolt before he said something he couldn’t take back.

So you leaned in closer, voice just loud enough to cut through the low thrum of the music.

“I think you’re lying.”

Joel’s eyes flicked to you, confused. “About what?”

“You do dance,” you said, grinning now. “You’re just too proud to admit it.”

He let out a small scoff. “I don’t.”

“You do,” you said, already sliding off the barstool. You held your hand out to him. “C’mon. It’s not a wedding. It’s not even a good song. Nobody’s watching.”

“I’m watchin’,” he muttered.

“Great,” you said, tugging him lightly. “Then you’ll have a front-row seat when I show everyone your two-step.”

Joel gave you that look—that tired, half-exasperated, half-amused look he usually reserved for Ellie when she roped him into something absurd.

But your hand was still out.

And his eyes lingered on it.

A beat passed.

Then he muttered something under his breath about peer pressure and stood, downing the last of his beer before sliding his hand into yours.

“Don’t expect twirls,” he warned.

“No promises,” you said, and led him out to the floor.

The bar wasn’t crowded, just a few couples swaying, the occasional off-beat shuffle. Nothing fancy. No one watching. Just you and Joel, the slow drawl of the guitar wrapping around the room.

He moved like he hadn’t done this in a long time—stiff at first, cautious—but his hand was steady at your waist, and the way he looked at you? Like there was no one else in the damn building.

You grinned up at him. “See? Not so bad.”

“Feels like middle school,” he muttered.

“I wouldn’t have danced with you in middle school,” you teased. “You would’ve been the kid standing against the wall with your arms crossed.”

He smirked. “I was that kid.”

“Exactly,” you said. “And now look at you. Livin’ the dream.”

The music played on, something slow and easy, and after a while his hand settled more naturally at your hip. You didn’t talk much. You didn’t need to.

Your chest nearly brushed his with every movement. Your fingers laced lightly with his. You felt his thumb draw the smallest circle over your side once. Just once. Like he didn’t mean to. Like maybe he did.

When the song ended, you didn’t move away right away. Neither did he.

You looked up at him, your voice softer now. “Told you I’d surprise you.”

Joel met your eyes—and for a moment, he didn’t say a damn thing.

Then, low:

“You always do.”

You left the dance floor still warm from the touch of his hand.

Joel trailed behind you, his fingers brushing the small of your back once before falling away. You made your way to the bar, ordered another drink—something colder this time, easier—and turned toward the front doors without a word.

He followed.

Outside, the air had dropped a few degrees. Still warm, but edged with something cooler. The kind of summer night that hinted at fall creeping closer. The street was quiet except for the neon bar sign buzzing above, and the distant hum of tires down the road.

You leaned against the brick wall just outside the door, drink in hand, eyes on the night sky. Joel came to a stop beside you, arms crossed loosely, his shoulder not quite touching yours.

“You do that often?” he asked after a few seconds.

You turned your head. “What?”

“Dance with strange men in bars.”

You smirked. “You’re not a stranger.”

He looked away, toward the parking lot. “Still.”

You took a slow sip of your drink, letting the quiet sit there for a moment.

“I don’t,” you said honestly. “It’s not really my thing.”

Joel glanced at you, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “But you did tonight.”

“Yeah,” you said. “I did.”

His gaze didn’t leave yours this time.

“Why?”

You didn’t look away. Not now.

“Because you looked like you needed someone to pull you out of your own damn head.”

Joel huffed under his breath. “Not the first time I’ve heard that.”

“Won’t be the last,” you said, softer now.

Another pause. He shifted his weight, arms still folded, but his stance had softened. Less closed off.

You tilted your head slightly. “You ever think about what’s next?”

Joel looked over at you. “For what?”

“For you,” you said. “Ellie’s not a baby. She’s got school, friends. One day she won’t need a sitter.”

He gave a low grunt. “She’ll always need someone.”

“She has someone,” you said gently. “She has you. But you? I’m not sure you let yourself need anyone.”

His jaw worked at that, like the words caught somewhere between his chest and throat. “Don’t think I got the luxury of needin’ much.”

You stared at him for a beat.

Then, voice quiet but firm: “You do.”

He turned his head toward you, slow. His eyes found yours again, darker now, more focused.

The silence between you was loud. Louder than the bar, louder than the music. And when he spoke again, his voice was low, rough:

“You scare the shit outta me, y’know that?”

You blinked. “Because I speak the truth?”

He shook his head slightly. “Because I don’t know what the hell to do with it.”

Your hand slid down the side of your drink, the condensation damp on your skin. You looked at him—really looked.

“I’m not askin’ you to do anything,” you said. “I just... want you to stop pretending like this is nothing.”

Joel didn’t respond. Not with words.

But he looked at you like he’d been holding his breath for weeks. And maybe now, for the first time, he finally let a little bit of it go.

Joel still hadn’t looked away.

That silence between you had sharpened—not awkward, not empty, just full. Too full. The kind that vibrated between two people standing a little too close, not touching but thinking about it, both of them feeling the heat and pretending it wasn’t there.

You exhaled slowly and set your drink on the little ledge behind you. The words sat heavy on your tongue, but they came out smooth, low, like you’d been holding them in your mouth for days.

“But...” you started, and Joel’s eyes flicked up from your mouth to your eyes in an instant. Alert. Waiting.

“If I could ask you to do something…” You let the space between each word linger.

His jaw tensed.

You tilted your head just slightly. Your voice dropped to barely more than a whisper.

“…it’d be to kiss me.”

The moment cracked wide open.

Joel didn’t speak. Didn’t ask if you were sure. Didn't smirk or joke to cover it.

He just moved.

A slow step forward—then another. And then his hand was at your jaw, calloused thumb brushing the side of your face with aching care. His other hand came to rest at your hip, grounding you like he thought you might vanish.

Your breath caught—but you didn’t pull away.

“Don’t start somethin’ you can’t finish,” he said, voice rough, eyes searching yours like this was some kind of line he couldn’t uncross.

You whispered back, steady and certain:

“Then finish it.”

Joel didn’t hesitate after that.

He kissed you like he’d wanted to for weeks—slow, deliberate, no rush, no panic. Just the weight of it. The truth of it. His mouth warm, the scrape of his stubble against your skin, his body pulling just slightly closer like he couldn’t help it anymore.

And when he finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, his forehead rested against yours. His hand didn’t leave your waist.

Neither of you spoke.

Because whatever this was—it wasn’t nothing.

And now, neither of you were pretending otherwise.

His forehead still rested against yours.

His thumb brushed your jaw, slow and warm.

And your heart? Your heart was making a damn scene in your chest.

You cleared your throat softly. “So... I guess that’s a yes, huh?”

Joel pulled back just enough to meet your eyes again—close, still too close—and gave the smallest smirk. “You asked.”

You nodded. “Right. Yeah. Technically. I’m very persuasive. It’s a gift.”

He raised an eyebrow, silent.

You tried to hold his gaze. Really, you did.

But your brain was suddenly short-circuiting, and before you could stop yourself, you were rambling—

“I mean, it’s good that you finally kissed me. I was worried I’d have to start making PowerPoints. Slide one: reasons Joel Miller is scared of his own feelings.”

He huffed a laugh. “You done?”

“Nope,” you said, suddenly aware your hands were still resting on his chest. “I’ve got a whole bit about emotional repression and denim.”

Joel blinked, caught halfway between a groan and a grin. “Jesus.”

“It’s not mean,” you insisted, your smile crooked and too wide now. “It’s... lovingly observational.”

Joel stepped in again, closer—too close—and the way he looked at you then, it shut your mouth right up.

“You always talk this much when you're nervous?”

You blinked.

“I’m not—” You stopped. Glanced away. “Okay, maybe a little.”

Joel tilted his head. “That’s cute.”

You raised a brow, mock-offended. “Cute? Don’t patronize me. I’m dangerously charming. Irresistible, even.”

He leaned in, his voice barely brushing the shell of your ear. “You’re somethin’, alright.”

Your breath hitched.

He pulled back, looking way too pleased with himself now.

“Shut up,” you muttered, trying to hide your grin as you stepped away, just enough to breathe again.

Joel smirked. “Didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah, well, stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m yours already.”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at you—quiet, steady.

And didn’t deny it.

Joel lingered by the bar long enough to finish his drink and pretend like he hadn’t just kissed you outside like it was something he’d been aching for. Which, well—he had.

Tommy leaned an elbow on the counter beside him, grinning like a man who knew something.

“You look like you just saw God,” he said.

Joel didn’t look over. “You drunk?”

“Not drunk enough to miss the fact that you disappeared for fifteen minutes and came back lookin’ like someone pressed ‘reset’ on your mood.”

Joel sighed into his glass. “Drop it.”

Tommy leaned in, low and smug. “You finally kissed her, huh?”

Joel shot him a glare. “Don’t.”

“Didn’t deny it,” Tommy sing-songed under his breath, grabbing his coat off the back of a chair. “Go ahead. Drive her home. I’ll pick up Ellie in the morning. Maria’s probably already got her tucked in with a facemask and a mug of hot cocoa.”

Joel stared at him. “You're enjoying this way too much.”

Tommy patted his shoulder as he passed. “Yeah. I am.”

The ride to your place was quieter this time—but not the awkward kind. It was weighted. Full of those glances that lasted a little too long. That barely-there smile at the corner of Joel’s mouth whenever you said something under your breath just to fill the air.

He parked outside your place, engine idling low.

You didn’t move right away.

You looked at him. “Wanna come in?”

He hesitated—just for a moment. His fingers drummed against the steering wheel once.

Then he turned off the ignition.

Your place was small—modest, lived-in. It smelled like coffee and linen and something faintly sweet, like citrus. There were books stacked in odd places. A few records on a shelf. One lamp in the corner of the living room casting soft amber light over everything.

Joel stepped in slowly, his boots quiet on the worn rug.

You kicked your shoes off by the door and shrugged off your jacket, voice easy. “It’s not much, but the roof doesn’t leak and the heat works, so I’m basically royalty.”

Joel gave a quiet chuckle, eyes roaming the room. “It’s nice.”

“You want water? Tea? Whiskey that tastes like regret?”

“Whiskey,” he said without missing a beat.

You poured two glasses—no ice, no hesitation—and handed him one. Your fingers brushed his again. This time, neither of you played it off.

You both sat down on the couch, a little too close, knees nearly brushing.

He looked around once more. “This feels like you.”

You tilted your head. “What does that mean?”

“Comfortable,” he said. “Warm. Kinda messy in a good way.”

You smirked. “So I’m a throw blanket with trust issues.”

Joel’s grin was subtle, but it stayed. He sipped the whiskey. “Maybe.”

For a long moment, you just sat like that. Close. Easy. Quiet.

Then you looked over at him, eyes a little softer.

“You could’ve said no, you know. To coming in.”

Joel met your gaze. Steady.

“I didn’t want to.”

Your place had gone quiet.

The whiskey sat mostly untouched now, the glasses forgotten on the coffee table. You were curled sideways on the couch, one leg tucked under you, facing him. Joel hadn’t moved much, but you could feel the shift—the way his attention had settled entirely on you, like the rest of the world had faded into background noise.

He hadn’t said anything in a while.

He didn’t need to.

Your voice came out soft, somewhere between playful and a whisper.

“You’re thinking too hard.”

Joel looked up, eyes catching yours. “No, I’m not.”

“Liar,” you said, smiling.

“I’m thinkin’ about how easy this feels,” he murmured. “And how that probably means it’s a bad idea.”

Your smile faded into something softer. “Feels easy because it is. Doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

He watched you for a beat—longer than he should’ve. The quiet between you changed again. Tighter. Warmer.

Then Joel said, low, like it was pulling itself out of his chest:

“C’mere.”

He didn’t reach for you first. Just waited.

So you moved.

Slowly, like a tide pushing forward—your legs uncrossing, your hand finding his shoulder for balance as you leaned into him, heart loud but steady.

And this time, when you kissed him, it was different.

No nervous laughter. No questions hanging in the air.

Just mouths meeting like they’d been circling the same answer for weeks.

Joel’s hand found the side of your face, rough and careful, the way someone might hold something precious without knowing how. His other slid around your waist, pulling you closer until your knees brushed his thigh and your chest pressed to his. You felt the low rumble in his throat when you deepened the kiss—part surprise, part surrender.

You shifted in his lap slightly, one hand finding the back of his neck, the other pressing against his chest, steadying yourself against the solid weight of him.

Joel kissed you like he’d forgotten how not to want you.

When he finally pulled back, it was only by a few inches—his breath warm on your lips, his hand still cradling the back of your neck like letting go wasn’t an option anymore.

You stayed like that, foreheads brushing, breaths mingling.

You whispered, “Told you you’d like lavender.”

Joel laughed under his breath—barely—but the sound was rougher now, lower.

And he kissed you again.

Slower.

Deeper.

Just want. And the start of something neither of you were going to keep pretending wasn’t there anymore.

The second kiss wasn’t shy.

Joel leaned in like he couldn’t wait anymore—like holding back had become unbearable. His hand slipped behind your neck, pulling you into him as his mouth met yours again, this time with no careful edges, no guarded tension.

Just need.

The taste of whiskey still lingered faint on his tongue, but it was overrun by something deeper—something that hummed in your chest when his mouth moved with yours, slow and sure. You let yourself melt into it, your fingers curling into the collar of his shirt, your knees brushing his thigh as you leaned in, chasing the warmth of him.

This wasn’t the kind of kiss that lived in hesitation. It was heat and breath and silence breaking open between you. His hand slid to your waist again, tugging you just a little closer, grounding himself in the feel of your body against his. You felt it in every inch of contact—how long he’d been holding this in.

You made a soft sound against his mouth without meaning to, and that was it—that was the moment something in him shifted.

Joel deepened the kiss, one hand tightening at your hip, the other threading into your hair as he tilted his head, breath catching as you moved with him. He kissed like a man who didn't get chances like this often—and wasn’t about to waste one now.

You pulled back only when the breathless ache hit your lungs, but even then, you didn’t move far. Your lips hovered over his, your forehead resting lightly against his.

“Joel,” you whispered, and his name in your voice sounded more like please than anything else.

His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, like he could still feel the kiss there.

“You alright?” he murmured.

You smiled, flushed and bright-eyed, trying to keep your voice steady. “Yeah. Just… checking reality still exists.”

Joel huffed, his voice low and worn. “Still here.”

You touched your fingers to the collar of his shirt, idly brushing the fabric. “That felt like something we don’t walk away from.”

His hand stayed at your waist, thumb moving slow against your side. “I wasn’t plannin’ on goin’ anywhere.”

And without a word, you leaned in and kissed him again—slower this time, less desperate. Like it was yours now.

Like he was.

And this time?

He didn’t stop.

You were still pressed close, bodies tangled on the couch in the low light of your living room, mouths only barely apart. Joel hadn’t let go of your waist—his thumb still stroking slow circles against your side like he couldn’t stop touching you even if he tried.

And you, trying to find somewhere to put all that heat swelling in your chest, fell back on instinct: the joke. Your voice came out soft, a little breathless, still smiling. “Y’know, I think this means I’m officially sleeping with my boss.”

Joel’s breath hitched—just the smallest pause in his exhale—and you watched his face shift, something flickering behind his eyes.

Then he huffed a laugh, low and rough.

“Is that what this is?” he murmured, voice thick.

You grinned. “Well, technically, you hired me.”

He leaned in again, forehead almost brushing yours.

“And technically,” he said, tilting his head just slightly, “you’re not on the clock.”

“Mm.” You smirked, heart hammering. “Guess this is off-the-record intimacy, then.”

Joel made a sound in his throat—something between a laugh and a groan—and then?

He kissed you again.

Deeper this time. More sure. More greedy.

Like that dumb joke had snapped the last thread holding back the part of him that just wanted. His mouth met yours with no hesitation now, open and warm and intentional, and he kissed you like he couldn’t help it—like you being smart-mouthed and flushed and half-laughing under him was the most irresistible thing in the goddamn world.

You gasped softly against his lips, and he took that sound like an invitation, kissing you harder, one hand in your hair, the other guiding you closer until your body was all but in his lap. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, pulling yourself in like the space between you had never existed at all.

He finally pulled back, just an inch, chest rising slow, his forehead against yours again.

“You keep talkin’ like that,” he rasped, “I’m not gonna stop.”

You smiled against his mouth, barely whispering, “That a threat or a promise?”

His mouth twitched.

And then he kissed you again.

Because of course he did.

He liked the way you teased him. Liked the way you said the wrong thing at the perfect time. Liked the way you didn’t try to make it smaller or simpler than it was.

And you?

You kissed him back like maybe, just maybe, you’d found someone who wanted all of you—bad jokes and all.

Your bodies moved through the small apartment like you’d been here a hundred times together, even though this was the first. Every touch was new and familiar all at once—slow kisses deepening with every breath, fingers finding skin like instinct.

Joel’s jacket hit the floor. Then yours.

He kissed you against the wall, hands bracing beside your head, your mouth parted under his as you laughed softly into it—nervous, breathless.

“Just so you know,” you murmured against his jaw, “I’m probably not some mind-blowing sex goddess. I mean, I could be, but there’s been very little peer review.”

Joel chuckled—low and warm, like gravel in his chest—and nipped gently at the corner of your mouth. “That right?”

You nodded, hands slipping under the hem of his shirt. “You, on the other hand, probably have war stories. Scars. Like... some kind of outlaw legend of Texas orgasms.”

That pulled a real laugh out of him. One that shook in his chest before he buried it against your neck.

Then he pulled back just enough to look at you, his voice rough, low, eyes darker than you’d ever seen them.

“Sweetheart,” he said, hands now at the hem of your shirt, sliding it up with slow, sure fingers, “you’re lucky if I last two seconds with you.”

Your breath caught, surprised—but your grin stayed.

He continued, words a little quieter now. Honest. Unapologetic.

“Truth is, I haven’t... gone this far with someone in a long time. Never let it get here. Not since Ellie came into the picture.”

Your voice softened. “Because of her?”

Joel nodded. “Because she didn’t like any of ‘em. Could feel it. Even when she didn’t say it. Also you can’t fuck someone in a house where a seven-year-old could walk in and ask why there's groaning on the couch.”

You snorted. “The ultimate mood killer.”

“Damn right,” he muttered, then leaned in, kissing you again—deeper this time, more urgent.

Your shirt came off. His followed.

Skin on skin now.

His hands were rough and reverent, moving slow over your sides like he was trying to memorize you. His lips trailed down your neck, his voice breaking a little as he added:

“Never gave myself the space to want like this. Not really.”

You stilled slightly, just for a breath. Your hands at his belt now, fingers fumbling—not from lack of skill but from wanting too much at once.

You looked up at him, eyes soft but steady.

“Then take it,” you whispered. “We’ve got time.”

Joel exhaled, voice low and tight.

“Yeah,” he said. “But I might still embarrass myself.”

You grinned, pulling him back down to your mouth. “It’s okay. I’ll write a glowing review anyway.”

He laughed against your lips.

And then there were no more jokes for a while—just heat, hands, and the sound of something breaking open between two people who had waited too long to let themselves want like this.

Joel’s mouth was on you again, breath hot against your neck as he backed you toward the bedroom��each step slow but heavy, weighted with the kind of want that’s been building too long to be gentle.

You were already bare from the waist up, his palms dragging over your skin like he needed to feel every inch or he’d lose his mind. The door clicked shut behind you, but neither of you stopped.

You tugged at his belt, breath ragged, but he caught your wrist before you could finish. Not to stop you—just to slow it.

“Not yet,” he said, voice hoarse.

Then he dropped to his knees in front of you.

Your back hit the bedroom wall as he pressed his mouth against your stomach, kissing lower—messy, open-mouthed, no restraint left. His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into your skin, thumbs sliding under the waistband of your underwear, pulling it down slow.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured against your skin.

“Yeah,” you breathed.

He looked up once, eyes dark and focused. “Hold onto me.”

You barely had time to respond—his mouth was already on you.

Hot, open, hungry.

His tongue slid between your folds without hesitation, slow at first—like he was learning you by taste alone—then deeper, rougher, wet sounds filling the room as he buried his mouth between your thighs.

You cried out, one hand flying to his hair, gripping hard. Joel groaned at that—deep, from his chest—and pressed in harder, like your reaction lit something inside him he hadn’t felt in years.

His tongue circled your clit, lips sucking just enough to make your thighs tremble, then flattened against it in long, firm strokes. He devoured you like a man starving, like he didn’t give a fuck about finesse—just making you come.

And then his fingers joined in.

Two—thick, rough, his—sliding into you with a practiced curl, pressing right into that spot that made your back arch off the wall.

“F-fuck, Joel—”

“Yeah,” he growled, voice muffled by your skin. “That’s it. Give it to me, baby.”

You whimpered, hips rocking against his mouth, your hand still tangled in his hair as he fucked you with his fingers—fast, deep—his tongue never letting up on your clit, his other hand pinning your hip so you couldn’t escape.

Not that you wanted to.

You felt your body tightening too fast—an ache that had been simmering for weeks boiling over all at once, and he felt it. Pulled you tighter against his mouth, groaned again when you gasped his name.

“Come on,” he growled, lips slick.

You shattered.

It ripped through you hard and fast, hips jerking against his mouth, your whole body seizing around his fingers, pulse thundering in your ears. Joel held you through it—never easing up, never looking away. Just taking it.

And when you finally slumped forward, gasping, he pulled back slowly, fingers still inside you, watching your body twitch around them.

“You okay?” he rasped, mouth wet, voice rougher than you’d ever heard it.

You stared down at him, fucked-out and trembling, then managed a breathless smile.

“You... really weren’t kidding about the two seconds thing, huh?”

He grinned, slow and dangerous.

“Didn’t even fuckin’ start yet.”

And then he stood—tall, hard, eyes burning—and started undoing his belt.

Joel's pants hit the floor with a heavy thud, his hands already back on you—gripping your thighs, lifting you effortlessly, guiding you backward until your knees hit the edge of the bed. You dropped onto the mattress, legs open, body still pulsing from the aftershocks of his mouth and fingers.

He moved over you like a storm—pressing your legs open wider, dragging the tip of his cock through your slick folds, hissing through his teeth at how wet you still were for him.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “Look at you.”

You moaned under him, fingers gripping the sheets.

“Joel—”

“I got you,” he breathed, one hand sliding up your thigh, his other fist wrapped tight around the base of his cock as he lined himself up.

Then he pushed in.

Not fast. Not all at once. Just the thick head breaching you, then the slow stretch of him sliding deeper.

You gasped—hips twitching, breath catching sharp in your throat.

“Wait,” you whispered, voice a little cracked. “Just—just a second.”

Joel stilled immediately.

You felt the tension in his arms, the way his muscles locked down like he was holding himself back with everything he had.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice tight. “You’re… tight as hell.”

You were full—so full—and not even all of him yet. He stayed buried halfway, his chest rising and falling hard as he leaned down over you, pressing soft kisses to your neck, your shoulder, your jaw.

“I’m not movin’,” he murmured against your skin, voice low and shaky. “Take your time. I’ll fuckin’ wait all night if I have to.”

His mouth dragged along your throat again—slow and hot—and he whispered between kisses, “You feel so good, baby. So fuckin’ good. Gonna lose my mind.”

You breathed him in—sweat and salt and something rawer—and let your hands slide up his back, nails grazing the hard lines of his shoulders. He held himself perfectly still inside you, but his lips never stopped—mouth on your pulse, then your jaw, your collarbone, whispering every filthy, reverent thing you never knew you wanted to hear.

You clenched around him, involuntarily, and he grunted—low and wrecked.

You smiled faintly, gasping, “You’re doing great for a guy who’s supposedly gonna last two seconds.”

Joel let out a strangled laugh, forehead pressed to yours.

“Say that again and I will come,” he growled.

You pulled his face back down to yours.

“Okay,” you whispered, voice hot against his mouth. “I’m ready now.”

And Joel pushed all the way in.

He bottomed out with a deep, shuddering groan—the sound ripped from his chest as your body took every thick inch of him, heat clenching tight around him.

“Fuck,” Joel hissed, voice ragged. “You feel—Jesus, you feel so fuckin’ good.”

You choked out a moan, legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his lower back like you wanted him even deeper.

“God, Joel—fuck me,” you gasped. “Hard. Don’t hold back.”

That was all it took.

His restraint snapped.

He gripped your hips with bruising force and pulled back—then slammed into you, rough and deep, the wet smack of skin on skin echoing through the small room.

You cried out, high and wrecked, arching up into him as his cock drove into you again and again, hard and unforgiving. He fucked you like he meant it—like it wasn’t just want, but need, years of it, buried under silence and control finally breaking loose.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he growled, mouth dragging against your ear. “You want it rough, baby? That what you’ve been thinkin’ about all night?”

You gasped out a laugh between moans, nails scraping down his back.

“I’ve been thinking about this every damn night,” you spat, eyes rolling. “That thick fuckin’ cock—stretching me open—you owning me.”

Joel let out a deep groan at that, hips slamming into you faster now, the rhythm brutal.

“You like gettin’ ruined, huh?” he muttered, breath hot on your throat. “Filthy little mouth but takin’ it so goddamn well. So fuckin’ perfect.”

“Yes,” you moaned. “Fuck—yes, Joel, fuck me. Make me come. Don’t you dare stop—”

He reached down between your bodies, fingers slipping over your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles, already knowing how to break you apart again.

“I’ll give you what you fuckin’ asked for,” he growled. “Gonna make you scream my name.”

And you did.

Your orgasm hit like fire—white-hot, sudden, unstoppable. You screamed for him as your body locked up around his cock, every nerve on fire, vision blinking out for a second like your brain couldn’t keep up.

Joel didn’t let up. If anything, the sound of your climax just pushed him over the edge.

“Fuck—gonna come,” he choked, fucking you through it, harder, faster, mouth open against your throat. “You’re so fuckin’ tight, I can’t—shit—baby—fuck—”

He slammed in deep one last time, his hips jerking against you as he came hard, spilling into you with a guttural growl, body shaking above yours.

It was raw—sweaty, breathless, every nerve buzzing.

He didn’t pull out right away.

He just stayed there—buried deep, panting, his weight braced on trembling arms, forehead against yours. His chest rose and fell against your breasts, hot skin slick with sweat.

“Holy fuck,” you breathed, laughing, wrecked. “Joel.”

He huffed, his voice a low rasp. “Don’t say my name like that unless you want round two.”

You smiled, wild and breathless.

“I do want round two.”

Joel kissed you—messy and hard—then whispered:

“Next time, I’m takin’ you apart slow. And you’re gonna beg.”

You’d let him.

Joel was still inside you, still breathing hard, still trying to recover—but you weren’t done. Not even close.

He was braced over you, chest against yours, lips brushing your jaw as he whispered some broken, half-lost Jesus Christ,like he couldn’t believe how good that had been. But your legs were still wrapped around his waist. Still holding him in. Tight.

You shifted under him, hips rolling up just slightly.

Joel groaned deep in his throat, already twitching inside you.

“The hell are you doin’?” he rasped, voice wrecked.

Your mouth brushed his ear, your voice low, hot, electric.

“Taking what I want.”

Then—you moved.

With one fast, strong shift of your thighs, you flipped him, using the leverage of his dazed body and your locked legs to roll him onto his back. He let out a grunt of surprise, arms falling open beside him as he hit the mattress.

You were already sitting up, straddling his hips, hands pressed to his chest, sweat-slick and flushed with that fucked-out glow. His cock was still inside you, already hardening again as you ground down, slow and deliberate.

Joel’s head fell back against the pillow with a growl, one hand dragging down his face.

“Fuck, woman—gonna kill me.”

You smirked, rocking your hips with dangerous purpose. “That’s the idea.”

His hands flew to your hips like instinct, trying to ground you—but you caught his wrists and pushed them back down to the mattress.

“No,” you said, breath hot. “I’m in control this time.”

Joel looked up at you—sweat-damp curls, lips parted, eyes blown wide with want—and nodded once, jaw tight.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Fuckin’ take it, then.”

And you did.

You started to ride him—slow at first, teasing, letting your body take him inch by inch again, grinding down in smooth, wet rolls that made his fingers twitch against the sheets.

“Look at you,” you murmured, rolling your hips deeper, nails dragging down his chest. “Big, bad Joel Miller—ruined underneath me.”

“Keep talkin’,” he growled, hips jerking up into you. “You know how fuckin’ filthy that mouth is?”

“I could stop,” you teased, breath heavy, leaning forward until your lips brushed his.

“You stop,” he hissed, “and I flip this fuckin’ bed.”

You moaned, loud, loving the way his voice cracked. The way he twitched inside you every time you clenched around him, teasing just enough to keep him right there—almost at the edge, but not quite.

You bounced harder, pace slamming down now, his cock thick and perfect, stretching you all over again, even better the second time.

Joel groaned, deep and wrecked. “Ride me, baby—fuck, that’s it. Take all of it.”

You leaned back, hands on his thighs, giving him the full view—your body slick with sweat, tits bouncing with every grind, lips parted, hair wild. His eyes were locked to the way you moved on him. The way you owned it.

“You love watching me fuck you like this,” you gasped.

“Yeah,” he snarled. “I do. Look at you. Fuckin’ perfect.”

You slammed down harder, faster—no rhythm now, just desperate, chasing that edge again.

Joel’s voice broke. “You gonna come again on my cock? Gonna soak me while you fuckin’ own me?”

“Yes,” you cried, hand flying to your clit, rubbing fast as you rode him, your body screaming for release.

Joel sat up at the last second, arms locking around your waist, slamming into you from beneath.

“Then come,” he snarled into your mouth. “Now.”

You screamed—his name, something filthy, something helpless—as your orgasm ripped through you again, harder this time, shaking, collapsing against his chest while your cunt milked him, spasming tight.

Joel swore loud, hands grabbing your ass, his hips jerking up into you as he came again—deep, hot, full—growling into your neck as you both clung to each other like the world might break if either of you let go.

You stayed like that. A tangled, gasping mess.

Until Joel leaned back, voice wrecked and satisfied and a little in awe.

“Well,” he rasped. “Remind me to piss you off more often.”

You grinned against his neck, body still trembling, utterly wrecked—and completely in control.

“Careful,” you whispered. “I’m just getting started.”

The room is still heavy with heat and breath when the silence cracks again—this time, your voice, a little raspy, a little smug, cutting through the aftermath like a blade laced with teasing.

You shift lazily on top of him, still straddling Joel’s lap, still warm and full of him. His chest is rising and falling beneath you, arms relaxed behind his head like a man utterly destroyed.

And you grin.

“Gotta say,” you murmur, dragging your fingers lightly over his chest, “you’re setting a dangerous precedent for how you treat your nanny.”

Joel huffs a laugh—dry and low, eyes still half-lidded, but that smirk returns. Slow. Dangerous.

“You know damn well this ain’t part of the job description.”

You lean down, your hair brushing his face, lips grazing his jaw.

“Really?” you murmur. “Because I’m feeling pretty compensated.”

Joel grabs your hips again, firm, but lazy. “You keep talkin’ like that, and I’m gonna add another round to your fuckin’ workload.”

You laugh into his neck, breathless. “Overtime?”

“Hell yeah,” he says, voice gravel. “But next time, I’m the one in charge again.”

You bite his shoulder, just enough to make him grunt.

“We’ll negotiate.”

He rolls you under him in one quick move, still grinning like a man who hasn’t smiled this much in years.

“You’re lucky I don’t put that in writing,” he mutters, kissing you again, slow now. “You’re the worst fuckin’ nanny I ever hired.”

You sigh dramatically against his mouth. “Well. You’re the best dad I’ve ever fucked.”

Joel chokes on a laugh and drops his forehead against your shoulder.

“Jesus Christ.”

And neither of you stop smiling.

[mallory524]

Oh oh, can I request a sort of alternate ending to the kidnapping headcanons with each of the Thunderbolts where, when they are about to break into the building reader is trapped in, reader appears behind them all bloody and bruised, making them jump and her saying, “Did you guys come to save me? Aww, that’s so sweet, I feel so loved right now!!”

(OMG YES This is sweet and fun I love it)

the thunderbolts come to save you, but you've already handled it yourself

tags- fem!reader, mostly just silly and fluffy, mentions of kidnapping, mentions of blood and fighting and minor injuries, some language

Yelena

Yelena knows that you’re tough, but she doesn’t expect you to be able to get yourself out of this one. The group gets to where you’re being held, and you’re just sitting on the ground, with your back up against the doorway. You look like hell, but you’re free. This is not what Yelena had imagined. She thought she’d have to free you herself and toss you over her shoulder or something. She couldn’t be more happy to see that she was wrong about your state. “Oh, hey, guys! This is awfully sweet of you to all come out here. This is a long ways away from the city,” you say as you manage to get back up on your feet. Yelena looks at you, amazed, and runs up to hug you and kiss your temple. Walker mutters to Ava, “At this point we could’ve just called her an Uber.”

Bucky

Bucky did not want to think about what could be happening to you. He’s seen a lot of pain and hurt in his day, so he knows firsthand how ugly these situations can get. Luckily, it never got as bad as it could’ve, because you actually broke yourself out. Bucky did not expect to find you already fighting off your captors on your own when he arrived with the whole team. Bucky wants to help, of course. He gets one punch in. You thank him, like you haven’t just knocked out every other person on your own. “I was just about to look for where they hid my phone so I could call you to give me a ride home, but it looks like I didn’t even need to call! You guys are the best,” you say, as if you’d just been stranded at the airport. Bucky’s never been so proud.

Ava

The fact that the search for you was dragging on for days was only making Ava’s nerves worse. Leaving you in danger for so long made her feel so horrible, and sometimes she’d wonder if it was possible that you’d escaped on your own. She figured it was too much to hope for, but it made her feel a little better. Besides, it wasn’t too far out of the realm of possibility. She’d imagine finally reaching your location, and the people who were supposed to be guarding you would all be just as clueless about your whereabouts as she was. She never considered that they’d all be unconscious on the ground when she got there. “Ava!!” she hears you yell from behind. She spins around and sees you jogging (with a slight limp) down the hall to reach her. She’s astonished. “Aww you guys! Thanks for coming. That means a lot.” After that remarkably chill response, Ava looks at you like you’ve never been so beautiful and cool in her eyes before, and that’s saying something.

John

John was terrified the whole time you were missing. All day long, he panicked and thought about all the horrible things that could be happening to you at any given moment. He didn't sleep, he didn't eat, he led the whole search, and he was ready to do whatever to took to get to you. You can only imagine his surprise when you run out and cut his destructive rampage short. He keeps standing there and looking at you because this is not computing. You're just standing there with your hands on your hips, your clothes all tattered, with bruises and cuts all over you. You're clearly exhausted, but you manage a little smirk. "Awww, Walker! Were you worried about me?" He just tosses his silly folded shield to the ground and pulls you into a tight hug. "Yeah, yeah, whatever." He doesn't even put up a fight when you reach out to affectionately ruffle his hair or pinch his cheek like a grandma. He's just so happy you're safe.

Alexei

When Alexei gets there and realizes you’ve already broken yourself out, he is so shocked. Then he thinks about it for a moment, and he doesn’t know why he’s even surprised. Of course you solved this on your own! You’re such a badass. You always have been. It’s one of the first things he noticed about you, and it’s what initially drew him to you. He feels like he should’ve had more faith in you, but now’s not the time for that. Now’s the time to celebrate the fact that you’re safe. He lets out a loud, jovial laugh and wraps his arms around you, telling you over and over again how proud he is of you while wiping some blood from your forehead. Somehow, you always manage to surprise him. Everyone is thrilled that you’re back, but Alexei is absolutely beaming with pride and relief for the rest of the night.

Bob

Part of why the team originally didn’t want Bob to go on the rescue mission, besides the Void stuff, was because they didn’t know what kind of state you’d be in. Bob’s very new to this line of work, and they know how much you mean to him, so they thought it might be too much for him to handle if he ended up having to see you seriously hurt. Luckily that didn’t happen. Before they have the chance to break the door down, you walk out from the other side of the building, waving your arms. “Hey! I’m right here!” Bob rushes to hug you, and it’s so tight that all your words are kind of muffled. “Guys I got the whole search party? This is actually really flattering.” Bob pulls away after a while and he’s immediately worried again when he sees the bruising all over you. You make a “You should see the other guy” joke, but everyone knows you’re not kidding. They really don’t want to see the other guy.

[thbbie]

༄ toji x f! reader

mmmhmn toji with out grown hair and week long stubble on his his handsome face because he doesn't usually shave when you arent around. who would he have complement his skin? who would he have to kiss or eat out? what would be the point of it? so when you come back a day earlier then planned and he still hasn't taken the time to clean himself up, he doesn't expect you to pounce on him on sight.

your hands steadying you by holding on to his face, your legs wrapped around his waist and cling to him like a koala to a tree. he can't help but chuckle at your behaviour "miss me?" with a horribly smug grin on his lips. his emerald eyes glinting in your own.

"fhuc- toji,shut your mouth for once please"

"i thought you liked my voi- mmmnph~"

tojis strong hands hold you up against him from where they rest at your butt. still kissing you, he starts towards the direction of the bedroom, you break the kiss, interrupting his path while offering him the alternative situation of him taking you on the floor beneath your feet. your glassy eyes telling him that here is fine, here is perfect.

oh his pretty thing is so needy today.

but he'll indulge you.

he always does.

toji lays down on the floor, dark strands splaying out beneath him, and a smug smirk on his lips. should've thought a little more hair on him would get you acting like a desperate little slut.

"cmere' take a seat beautiful"

he watches your expression shift, his smile only growing wider as you quickly throw aside your clothing, but before you could pull of your panties he intervenes, "your taking too long, keep them on i'll take care of it yea? just cmere pretty thing, sit down."

when you get close enough for him to reach you, he takes your wrist in his hand and guides you to stand over his face, perfect fucking view.

toji hums in approval, letting go of your wrist to hold you by the back of your thighs, pulling you down, just above his waiting face, holding your hips to keep you there.

"here's how this is gonna work, m' just gonna lay back, not gonna hold you, not gonna touch you. i need you to use me to get yourself off alright. show me how bad you want me and i'll see if a desperate thing like yourself deserves my help at all." with that, he releases you hips, "go on, ma. don't keep ol' toji waiting"

oh you don't need to be told twice, he'll run his mouth forever if you don't shut him up. you lower yourself on him, his face fitting against your cunt like two puzzle pieces. his nose snug against your cute clit and his lips pressing at your clothed entrance.

s-shit

rocking your hips against him, back and forth motions as you rub all over his face. "t-tojii, open your mouth. pl- fuckk right there. let me ride your tongue please toji." and who was he to deny a pretty girls polite request? he opens his mouth wide, sticking his tongue out for you.

the minutes drag on, your movements are getting sloppy, youre soo close but the burning in your legs is becoming to much, you can't keep going, "tojitoji please. i'm- ohh~ im close, i n-need your help baby. please."

he'd stayed true to his promise, not touching you, not guiding you, simply laying back and letting you use him for your pleasure and now, as you beg and plead for his help, still toji does nothing. to occupied with enjoying the lovely view and your please that play like music to his ears.

"t-t-tojiii~ pleaseplea- i mmmngh i need you. c-can't cum without you. need y-you to touch me"

you're getting annoyed, your sweet orgasim right there, his face rubbing against your core so deliciously, your hands grasping at his dark hair but you can't go on for any longer.

"tojii!! god, stop being so difficult ill aahhh~ ill do whatever you want, anything, just help m-"

anything, you say?

you don't get a response but tojis hands are back at your hips, pulling you off his face so your hovering again and he can hear your disappointment in the surprised 'toji!' that comes from your lips.

he pays you no mind, instead busing himself with effortlessly tearing off your underwear and pulling you down on his face with force. he's been desperate for a taste of you too, only he had managed to cont himself better up until now.

the torn flimsy fabric hangs pathetically off your his, tojis tongue slips inside you with ease and his nose numbing against your bare clit with every drag of your hips. his hands hold you, controlling the pace and helping you stay up right.

he pushes and pulls yoh over his face, switching between sucking and licking at you, occasionally bitting to get you to tug at his hair harder. he breaks for air once, when he pulls away to spit on your messy pussy and dives straight back in.

in a matter of minutes he makes you cum two times back to back.

when he knows your about to, toji takes your whole cunt in his mouth, drinking every drop from your high he could get, as if trying to suck your pussy dry.

the way he's panting, with his dark brows pulled together in a tight furrow, puffy lips shining with your essence, and his eyes glossy, you'd think he was the one getting the head of his life.

toji guides you to sit on his chest as you both catch your breaths. watching each other, faces flushed and sweaty. you both think at the same time, i'm the luckiest person alive.

bonus!!

you lean back on you hands, still sitting on his chest, a satisfied smile of someone who had their soul eaten through their pussy at your lips.

"tojii♡~ did you cum? just from having little ol' me use your face for a little?

his blush gets impossibly darker, but he doesn't deny your claim. one of your hands slips under the band of his sweat pants to touch him. an uncharacteristic moan is pulled from his throat when you do, fondling his sensitive dick in your hands "awww tojiii~~ you must really like me huh" as if you weren't begging and crying that you couldn't cum without his hands on you.

"shut it brat"

m.list <3

[tsuyalovebot]

watch you entertain.

pairing: xia yi zhou / caleb x reader (love and deepspace)

synopsis: caleb comes to a few conclusions when you give him a blowjob for the first time.

cw: NSFW and explicit sexual content, mdni. established relationship. mentions of intercourse. oral sex (blowjob). mentions of reader receiving oral sex. hair pulling. imaginative violence (not to reader). petnames (pretty, pipsqueak). mention of oral sex (receiving). he slaps his dick on your face (not sorry). mention of spanking and watching porn. caleb-typical warnings.

wc: 1.7k (drabble....ish????)

author's note: i can't defend myself since 90% of this is word vomit. i'm working on another caleb piece right now, but i needed to get this out of my system. think of it as a precursor piece, like an hors d'oeuvres. also, please disregard any typos. (— - —)|||

The first time Caleb felt your lips on his was magical. The second, third, fourth, and succeeding times were all but surreal.

He had all but convinced himself that your mouth, pressed to his in a flurry of tender touches or desirous cravings, was something he conjured up in the blurry moments of his delusions. You always manage to kiss them away, though.

Later on, you admitted that he was your first kiss.

"When I visited you after you moved out," you said. Hands wrung, your gaze averted downward as you were perched on his lap one evening.

He knows what you're talking about. Remembers its vividness with a startling clarity that would have embarrassed him otherwise, if you didn't share the same sentiments.

By now, you've already kissed and made out in the intimacy of his place beyond finite counting. Had sex with him on whatever surface the two of you could get your hands on. You've long since spoiled him with your presence, both physical and mental. There's a key tucked away in his headspace with your name engraved into the metal. Magnetic and the signification of a special place for you in his heart.

He spoiled you, and now, you spoil him. Neither of you complain about this mutually beneficial arrangement. Why would you?

Though, he can't say he's exactly pleased at the current moment.

"That's it, mmm. You're being so sweet today."

He's watching you, as he always is. You're on your knees before him—you insisted, said it added to the atmosphere despite his crows of indignance at the possibility of them bruising—and your mouth impossibly full of his cock.

You're bare before him, towel discarded on the coffee table with your body damp and he's barely presentable in his uniform. Disheveled and pants undone, he wasn't sure if he was exactly living up to the honorable nature of the clothes he donned. He tried to undress, but you'd been pawing at him the second he walked through the doorstep in nothing but one of the towels he bought you, so his resistance was doomed from the start.

His arms spread on the top of the couch, he tilts his head back and sighs slowly. Hot breath escapes him in time with his Adam's apple bobbing, swallowing a heavy moan that threatens to break free. It takes him a few moments before he peers at your kneeling form once more.

One of his hands cups your cheek, the cool leather swiping over your cheekbone and pushing some of your hair back. Rapt attention on you, whispering soft words of, "that's how you do it" and "a biiit wider, pipsqueak— yeah, like that" with so much appreciation in his tone. Because that's what he feels toward you right now; so much appreciation in his heart belongs to you.

Your tongue was doing sinful licks along the underside of his cock's curve, the girth hefty in your two hands, and your eyes stayed closed in a quiet pleasure. It's expertly done, and the creation of human response as you wrap those pretty pink lips around the tip of him and suckle on it, strings of your saliva leaving sticky wefts along the shaft.

Alternating between peppering his length in kisses and taking a couple inches into your mouth, he's fighting for his fucking life trying to not bust a nut. He's sort of ashamed to have dreamt of this moment for years. You would never let him live it down.

As if the deities couldn't get enough of his suffering, his mind had made the fatal mistake of noting the visible difference of the size of him and your hands and your mouth. It gets him going, that stark contrast and how gently you were treating him.

It's a sight reserved for his eyes alone. Something he wants to pocket and immortalize because it's his and only his. That's the only reason for the powerful plethora of emotions boiling over in his gut. Truly, the only reason.

That's what he tells himself as he observes you with a progressively darkening, clinical, dead-eyed stare that you weren't aware of. A little voice in him nagging at his conscience, spitting words of venom that feeds into the slowly, slowly expanding green-eyed monster rising onto its feet.

"I got a question for you, pretty," he says calmly, deceptively so. Making sure to sound as casual as possible, his gloved hand coming to stroke over your damp, silky hair. You really just couldn't wait to please him, immediately pawing at him when he arrived home and you were fresh out the bath.

You murmur something in reply, lips suctioned to his shaft. Those gorgeous eyes, ones that beheld him with such reverence and adoration in round shape flicker up to his. The vibrations and sight hit him like a freight train and he groans, low and deep. He lets the pleasure settle into his bones.

"You have to answer honestly, 'kay?" He croons down at you, assuring. His facial expression had finally relaxed from its initial, contemplative one. You're happy with this, he notes as you eagerly bob your head, careful to remain quiet.

Good. It'll make hearing your voice all the more worth it. When you said he was your first kiss, he was beyond ecstatic.

Hopefully, you can echo the same thing now.

With an easygoing air betraying that of his positively threatening smile, he asks, "Where'd you learn how to do this?"

There's a sick sense of pleasure in watching you process his words a second too lats. Because you're such an open book with him, aren't you? The way your eyes widen and your lips halt, as if your heart stopped even beating. Even if makes his own blackened heart speed up, its thudding resembling a rabbit's stomping.

Your blinks were a linguistic of their own, and he was the expert in unraveling the lexicology of your existence.

You don't answer fast enough. Or, you don't answer at all. Because now, you're staring him like a child chastised for having their hand in a candy jar—where they weren't supposed to be.

Unfortunately for you, that was more than telling for him.

Caleb doesn't speak. The air is several degrees colder now, like the air circulation was suddenlt cut off, and he drinks in the way anticipation tenses your muscles and your uneven breaths smooth over his skin when you pop your lips off his cock. Those sinful lips that he stole away as his were now glistening in a mix of your spittle and his pre-cum.

He could almost forgive you right now. But, you make the crucial mistake of looking away from him.

"Oh?" It's inquisitive—his tone, yet it has the power of a knife being drawn.

The hand on your head loses its comforting, encouraging air and instead becomes a weight.

A threat.

The visual that's formulating in his head isn't a pleasant one. An image of stained glass shards, blurry yet clear in the vision of you on your knees for another guy. The scattered light capturing your mouth wrapped around the faceless stranger, servicing him the same way you're handling Caleb, seeking that same, sickly sweet tang of validation.

Could it have been that Xavier guy he sees on your phone notifications from time to time? Or is it someone closer to you, from your Association? There's a chance someone else from your childhood reached out to you, maybe after his disappearance. Did they hold you in ways he's been craving to hold you for years?

That's not fair, now, is it? He's worn your hairtie around his wrist for years, disregarded countless scribbled love letters from bystanders, based his little trinkets around those apples you love so much, and spoiled you countless times in his misplaced desire for playing the role of your protector. It simply isn't fair that you sought gratification from a source that wasn't him—because for him, it was always you.

Is it too selfish of him to want your everything?

You don't say anything even as your mouth opens and closes. You're either searching for an excuse, weighing the costs of lying to him at the moment, or you're genuinely floundering for words at the sudden blankness in your head.

He hums again, and it's lower than before. Full of thought and contemplation as his amethyst eyes bore holes into your speechless state. It's full of disappointment and he sees the worry creep into your eyes like a leaking faucet.

Threading his gloved fingers into the tresses of your hair, its smooth leather massaging your scalp, his face softens.

"I guess I did say you should be honest, not fast," he murmurs, laughing to himself quietly.

His lips tilt into a boyish sort of grin, and it's so full of mirth and entertainment that it's easy to process as him diffusing the situation. It works like so, and you're soon tilting your head into his palm and seeking his touch.

In the distance, the kettle in the kitchen screeches like an alarm of what's to come.

Disconcertingly relaxed, his smile seems absolutely sarcastic. A bit sharp at the edges.

"I should make it easier to understand. Let me rephrase it, then."

He pulls your hair. It's one harsh motion and it jerks your head up. A gasp torn from your lips as they fall open, the slight sting shooting through your body with an charged breeze.

"Who did you learn this from?"

He's so used to tasting you before fucking; your sex and his tongue are practically best friends in his eyes. It never once occurred to him to have you suck him off.

He should've been suspicious the second you offered to begin with.

The blood drains from your face some more and he relishes the blank yet alert state your eyes reflect. He's sure your mind is in disarray right now. The feeling is mutual, though you're aware of that too, most likely.

"I have a right to know. I always said that you could come to me if you needed help with anything, right?" It's a rhetorical question. You both know that. You're doomed either way.

You make another breathless noise, and he wants to explore your vocality. Now, how would you sound gagging on him?

"Caleb—"

He shushes you softly and you quiet down in an instant.

"I don't need an answer that isn't related to my question, don't you agree?"

Another rhetorical question as he cocks his head, the gesture mocking.

"You're always tellin' me to be honest and share my thoughts with you. I'm bein' honest now. Everything should be mutual, so, answer my question. I might even go easy on you."

You're totally panicking now, aren't you?

His other hand wraps around the base of his cock and he slaps the shaft onto your cheek, then smearing his leaking tip over your glistening lips, a thoughtful smile playing on his own as if he were offering you candy.

"And depending on how you answer, I'm either taking you over my knee while you spell their name out, or you'll be showing me exactly what pornos you've been watching without my knowledge. So, what's it gonna be?"

[ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat]

juno - spencer reid x afab!reader

reader finds out how good spencer is with kids and can't keep the thoughts from pouring in

requested!

genre: fluff, smut wc: 2179 warnings: established relationship, daydreamer!reader, talk of pregnancy, p in v, unprotected sex(duh), brief breeding kink, i love yous, reader has hair?

my first time ever writing smut!!! keep your pitchforks to yourself please!!!

You've known for a long while of your boyfriend's affinity for the young souls out there. Perhaps he was one of them. Perhaps he was just an overgrown one of them. It was something spoken about early on, his love for kids. He mentioned that he's the godfather of his coworker's little boy and how he's always wanted one of his own. A boy or girl, it doesn't matter. As long as he got to raise one with the fatherly love he never quite received.

That was all fine and well to know until you actually got to see Spencer with a child. Babysitting Henry was supposed to be a way of letting JJ and Will have some fun for once. It turned out to be much more confusing. He was sweet, gentle, and spoke in a soft tone that drove you oddly insane. When he started doing card tricks, you thought your heart would explode.

That's why right now you're sitting in the car completely silent. You've never been one to shut up so it's no surprise that he knows something is off. It's not your fault that you're suddenly lost in an alternate reality in which you're in a large house with a small baby. Maybe two. It's not like you wanted to get started right away. Nonetheless, something about the idea was appealing.

"Are you okay?" Spencer asks softly, eyes narrowed.

Technically, yes, you're fine. Too many thoughts but fine.

"Yeah, of course," you hum. "You were really good with Henry today."

A bright smile breaks out on his lips as he lets out a breath that's just barely a laugh. "You think?" his brows furrow, glancing over at you almost nervously.

You nod, shoulders loosening. "I do." While fiddling with your necklace, you add, possibly with too much meaning, "you'll be a really good dad."

His face turns red and he focuses on the road. Before long, the thoughts swarming in that head of his refuse to stay inside and he speaks gently, "is that what you're thinking about?"

A topic you've talked about—your tendency to daydream. It's not a thing you've kept hidden. In fact, it's your favourite pastime. However, it's a little awkward to tell your boyfriend that you're imagining him getting you pregnant.

But you were never a good liar.

"Yeah," you admit, fingers still at the pendant on your chest, eyes watching the passing scenery and streetlights.

"And?"

To that, you're not sure there's any response that doesn't seem insane.

"And what?" you ask cautiously.

After a quick glance in your direction as if he's testing the waters, he clarifies, "are you opposed?"

"To what?"

"Kids."

Oh. Well, no, not in the least. The idea of raising a family with Spencer is thrilling and you believe it's something you do want. You've always liked kids and kids have always liked you but the thought of seriously settling down has never truly crossed your mind. Until now, you suppose.

You shake your head, eyes lingering on his jawline. "No. You know that," you mutter softly.

"I do... but we've never talked about it. Just because you like children doesn't mean you necessarily want them," Spencer says like it's the most simple thing.

"True." The singular word is almost impossible to hear. You add gently, "but, I do."

He nods, turning his head to look at you in a way slightly different than all the other times. You can't quite place it, though. What you do know is that it definitely caused some major butterflies in your stomach. Then again, that happens a lot. But when his right hand moves from the steering wheel to your thigh, you're sure that look meant something. Something good, you think.

You're even more sure when, the moment you get to his apartment, he kisses you deep, lips parting to make way for his tongue. It's not rough at all. Loving, mostly. Like he's ensuring that you know you're cared for. You smile wide, unable to stop the giggle from leaving. Pulling back with an equally lovesick smile, he laughs, "what?"

Hardly a second later, you place another peck to his still grinning lips before answering with a bright, "what's going on?"

His eyebrows raise. "Nothing... I don't know what you mean," he says in easily a whole octave higher than usual. Your eyes narrow as you search his eyes.

You beg dramatically, "tell me."

He sighs then runs his fingers through his hair, unsure if he wants to bring it up. "About what you said... in the car... you meant it?"

"What I said...? About kids?"

Spencer nods. "Yes."

"I meant it, yes." It's spoken hesitantly. You're not positive where this conversation is heading.

"I just... like the thought," he shrugs, leaving you to walk towards the bedroom.

Really confused and a little intrigued, you follow, watching him start to unbutton his cardigan. "The thought?" you hum, crossing your arms in an attempt at nonchalance.

"Of you... pregnant," he mumbles like he doesn't want you to hear, letting the piece of clothing fall to the ground before picking it up to put it in his laundry bin.

He didn't need to say it like that. He could've said the thought of starting a family, of having a child. You're not a profiler but the way he decided to word the sentence makes you think something bigger has been revealed. Freudian slip or intentional, he's not telling you everything that's on his mind.

"Pregnant. Really?" You picture it and, perhaps it's because you'll be the one carrying it, but all you seem to be able to picture is chubby ankles, morning sickness, and mood swings.

Simply, Spencer nods, eyes finally meeting yours. You smile up at him sweetly as his hands come to cup your face. "There's just—I don't know... something appealing about it. About being the one to..."

Now, you get it.

"Oh. Like—oh! So, that's what...?" you babble purely out of shock.

Who knew Spencer Reid had the fantasy of impregnating you floating around in his brain?

His hands drop to your shoulders, squeezing gently. "Does that make you uncomfortable? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—just forget—"

To his surprise, you cut off the soon-to-be-ramble with your lips on his. It takes a second for him to understand what's happening but he does, mouth moving against yours eagerly, his hands sliding up to your face. While smiling, you drag your hand down his neck and to his tie, tugging it loose. Once he clues in to where you want this to go, his fingers slip under your shirt, gripping your waist firmly. The tie comes off, dropping to the floor and, soon enough, your shirt's gone, too.

He takes a few steps to the bed before lowering you onto it carefully. As if handling glass, he glides his hand down your stomach, to the button of your jeans.

"Can these come off?" he pants against your lips.

Nodding desperately, you whisper, "yeah."

With a nod back, Spencer unbuttons the jeans and pulls them down your legs. His palms slide up your thighs as he presses another kiss to your mouth. "Go lay down?" he suggests softly.

You comply immediately, moving up on the bed and laying your head on the pillows to watch him undo his shirt one button at a time. Next, his belt comes off. And then his pants. When he's left in only boxers, he positions himself above you before kissing down your neck. Your back arches and he uses the opportunity to move his fingers to the clasp of your bra.

You aren't at all unfamiliar with his skill but, every time, it continues to catch you off guard how, in a few minutes, you're at his mercy, willing to do anything he asks of you. Then again, when are you not?

He tosses the bra aside to join the rest of the discarded clothes on his bedroom floor. His attention is, of course, then drawn to your chest, one of his hands grabbing at you while the other suddenly starts small circles over your underwear.

"Spencer, I don't need that," you mutter breathily. You don't really want his hand at the moment.

His head lifts from your neck, placing a sweet kiss to your cheek. Spencer asks quietly, "are you sure?"

There isn't much you're capable of doing at the moment so you nod. He takes the answer and hooks both index fingers into the waistband of your panties. His eyes fall directly to the newly revealed area the same way they always do, adoration spilling out of him at the sight of the collecting wetness. A small smile on your face, your hands drift down to take off his boxers.

With the last barriers removed, your lips connect again and his hand moves to line himself up with you. The kiss breaks when he looks down to watch himself push into you, a whimper leaving you and a shaky breath leaving him. He quickly bottoms out and you whine.

Softly, he murmurs, "you okay?"

"Yeah, just," you laugh, "...full."

Spencer breathily chuckles with you, nodding like he's trying to get himself together. "Right."

After a deep breath, his hips start slowly, letting both of you adjust to the feeling of each other again. No matter how many times you do this, you still always need a minute to get used to him. Your breaths come out in gentle pants and occasional whimpers until he speeds up and you can't contain yourself. Desperate moans of pleasure spill from your lips as he moves.

"Doing so good—feels so good," he mumbles, eyes now screwed shut.

"Really, really good," you nod eagerly, voice soft. Your hands paw at his back in search of anything to hold on to.

The sensation is almost too much you think you might burst. Although, when he starts to whimper, that's when you really lose it. The way he sounds and the way his face scrunches up, it's intoxicating. You need more of it.

You cry with want, "harder... please."

Like always, he attempts to give you everything you need and desire. He nods, hips quickening and lewd sounds coming from your bodies. A small gasp leaves you. Your legs wrap around his waist, allowing him to hit your deepest point. It's a feeling you'll never quite get used to. The moment he reaches that spot, it's never long after that it's over.

Letting out a gasp, you clench around him, causing his movements to falter and become more frantic. A breath quickly leaves him before he's asking, "inside, right?"

You whine, "mhm," dangerously close to slipping off that ledge. Your mind brings you to images of you pregnant, his baby growing inside you. This time not so scary. You imagine this moment in a very different time, when his release will signal a new start and not just an end.

His mouth finds your shoulder, pressing careful kisses to the skin. The hand not holding his body weight finds the sensitive point between your legs, eliciting a loud moan from you. Desperately, you cling to him, arms wrapping around him for any more contact. That familiar feeling builds deep in your gut and you whine, finding your eyes rolling back.

It happens quickly, the finish line getting closer and closer until it's gone and you're in another universe of pleasure. Your hips try to escape but Spencer doesn't let that happen. His hand moves from your center to your hip, holding you down with little force. The fog clears just in time to watch him reach that very same ecstasy. Lips parted against your shoulder, he whimpers, movements becoming even sloppier until they slow.

The odd warmth spills from you. His breaths come heavy as he relaxes against you and pats your head—an interesting choice of affection after sex but somehow suitable. When he pulls out, you sigh shakily, watching him go to the bathroom. Before long, he's back with a damp cloth. He opens your legs again, running the fabric over you with a tenderness you couldn't possibly describe.

He joins you after discarding the cloth. An elbow holds him up so he can look at you, looking so perfect, lips swelled and hair splayed delicately over the plush pillows. He's staring. Mind wandering, he pictures a world in which you're rounder and perhaps with a ring on your finger. You're deep into pregnancy, probably grumpy with him but he doesn't care because you're his. Only his, forever.

Again, not today, not now, but someday. When the funds are appropriate and you know it's the right choice. Not that he ever doubted.

Just above a whisper, he says, "so... that doesn't mean I want—"

"I know. I'm glad," you grin, still quite dazed but completely content.

A kiss is pressed to your forehead and he sighs. "I love you."

"I love you," you mutter back.

As previously stated, Spencer Reid is a man that's good with kids. You presume he's even better with you, though.

[flwrstqr]

HONEY, HONEY ⠀ ⟡​⠀ WHEN THEY WANT YOUR ATTENTION ───𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍

𝓲⠀⠀ ⦂ enhypen & fem!rea 𝑖𝑛 8OO fluff one shot head canon 警告 cursing, skinship, petnames, jealousy & click . . ( 𝓲ssue )

다니 ⠀⦂ ⠀this is dedicated to juni & annachu (> <) i know i alternated the title a bit & the prompt... but hope you guys enjoy xoxo. also thank you jenn for help on certain members 💌

LEE HEESEUNG

"baby, don’t you think you’ve talked about that guy enough?” heeseung pouts, arms wrapping around your waist as he buries his face into your neck. “i mean, sure, he helped you with your project, but did he hold your hand while you stressed over it? did he kiss your forehead and tell you you’re the smartest, prettiest person ever? no? exactly.” he leans back, eyes narrowing playfully. “i bet he doesn’t even make you laugh like i do. does he send you good morning texts? compliment your hair? tell you how much he adores you?" he intertwines your fingers, bringing them to his lips with a pout. "face it, angel, no one loves you like i do," he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss against your jaw. "so how about we focus on me now, hmm?"

PARK JAY

jay doesn’t say it—he never does—but you know. you feel it in the way his arm drapes over your shoulders, effortlessly pulling you against his warmth as he scrolls through his phone with his free hand. in the way he tucks your hair behind your ear, fingertips lingering for just a second too long. in the way he exhales softly, setting his phone down as if nothing else in the world matters except you. "let’s go out," he murmurs, voice low, but there’s no second-thinking. an expensive dinner, a shopping trip where he never lets you check the price tags, his hand resting on the small of your back, guiding you through every store. you don’t have to ask, don’t have to wonder—because when jay wants your attention, he gives you all of his first.

SIM JAKE

“baby, look at me,” jake whines, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, arms wrapped tight around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. “why aren’t you paying attention to me? i’m right here.” his lips graze your skin, warm and teasing, pressing soft kisses along your jaw. “you love me, don’t you? then love me properly,” he pouts, nudging his nose against your cheek, hands roaming your back in slow, lazy circles. when you hum in response, still distracted, he groans dramatically, placing his head onto your lap. “you’re so mean to me,” he sulks, his voice muffled. “just wanna be spoiled by my baby. is that too much to ask?” he lifts his head, eyes big and pleading. “one kiss, and i’ll forgive you.”

PARK SUNGHOON

sunghoon is shamelessly competitive when it comes to you, and it’s honestly hilarious. the moment another guy dares to make you smile, he’s swooping in. “your hair looks really nice today,” some guy says, and before you can even respond, sunghoon’s already cutting in, sliding an arm around your waist, pulling you closer. “nice? angel, you look like you just stepped out of a dream. actually, scratch that—you are the dream.” his voice is smooth, like he’s making sure you don’t even think about entertaining someone else’s compliment. when the other guy laughs, trying again with, “you have a really pretty smile,” sunghoon scoffs, tilting your chin up. “of course she does. it’s the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen, and, by the way, i’m the reason she's smiling.” he smirks, eyes flickering to you, desperate for confirmation. “right, baby?”

KIM SUNOO

sunoo is so dramatic when he wants your attention, and he makes sure you know it. he starts with a loud, exaggerated sigh, arms crossed as he leans against you. when you don’t react fast enough, another sigh—longer, heavier. finally, you glance at him, and there he is, bottom lip jutted out in the deepest pout, eyes wide and pleading. “baby…” he whines, nudging his head against your shoulder. “you’ve been ignoring me for so long.” (it’s been five minutes.) when you try to hold back a laugh, he only pouts harder, leaning in until his face is this close to yours. “don’t you feel bad? look at me,” he insists, tilting his head. “my lips are a bit lonely today.” and oh, he’s expecting it now, tilting his chin up ever so slightly, waiting for you to finally give in and kiss the pout away.

YANG JUNGWON

you barely register the way jungwon tugs at your wrist until you suddenly find yourself pulled onto his lap, his arms circling around your waist with ease. “baby—what are you doing?” you laugh, but he only hums, resting his chin on your shoulder like this is the most natural thing in the world. “you weren’t paying attention to me,” he mumbles, voice laced with the smallest pout.you huff, pretending to be annoyed, but the way your heart races betrays you. “you could’ve just asked, you know,” you murmur, but he shakes his head, squeezing you a little tighter. “this is better,” he grins, tilting his head up to meet your eyes. “now you have no choice but to focus on me.” and when he nuzzles into your neck, you know he’s already won.

NISHIMURA RIKI

“baby, pay attention to me,” riki whines, snatching your phone right out of your hands with that smirk. he holds it high above his head, effortlessly out of reach, and you groan, standing on your tiptoes to grab it. “oh? trying so hard, huh?” he teases, laughing as you struggle. determined, you lunge up, but just like every cliché romcom, your foot slips, and before you know it, you're crashing right into him—chest to chest, his arms instinctively wrapping around you. “woah, princess, if you wanted to be in my arms, you could’ve just asked,” he chuckles. you glare, cheeks burning, but he only tightens his hold, grinning down at you. “you’re cute when you’re flustered,” he muses, finally handing your phone back—only to boop your nose and whisper, “but i’m still the only thing you should be looking at.”

[bluemerakis]

────────── ᝰ bluemerakis ༝༚༝༚ ───

❝ memory foam ❞

─ ۶ৎ ─

pairing ୨୧ soldier boy x fem .ᐟ reader

synopsis ─ soldier boy teaches you how to roll a blunt and then makes you hold it between your lips while he fucks you into insanity. just filth honestly bc this man is filthy and i love it

warnings .ᐟ cussing, light misogyny throughout (i mean,, come on), v light dirty talk, masturbation f receiving, hair-pulling, grinding, edging/overstimulation, spanking, fingering, unprotected sex p in v. i feel like these warnings have y’all opening this fic with a therapist on speed dial. if i forgot anything pls lmk!

word count ~ 7.3k (this was supposed to be a drabble 😀)

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Lithe trails of smoke crept over the horizon of your laptop screen, which called your attention toward Ben’s seated figure at the small, rounded table near the kitchen. You reached to lower your laptop screen an inch—just enough to properly reveal the schemes unravelling beneath your boyfriend’s hunched over frame. You didn’t doubt that he was currently unravelling some recent haul of self-indulgent narcotics because as much as you loved your severely traumatised, addict boyfriend, he didn’t have any other tasteful way to pass time. Well, when he wasn’t ploughing you into the mattress and pummelling your senses into an otherworldly abyss of pleasure, of course.

Ben had slipped into the apartment an hour ago with that dubious, white plastic bag in clutch—no print to identify any luxurious takeaway you’d have killed to plunge into your gurgling stomach. You’d been tempted to ask about it then, but he’d entered with such a thick swathe of broodiness cramping his brows that you’d laid off the interrogation entirely. Though, just by stealing a single glance of the bag in its own, unassuming simplicity, it could have branded itself as some sketchy stash of drugs he’d picked up from one of his regular dealers on the way home.

You honed in on the man of the hour, your unflattering nosiness taking the cake on the mental debate of whether or not you should interfere with Ben’s activities. It was a debate that had never happened to begin with because meddling in anything and everything that he did was practically your brand—no questions asked. You’d once called it a loving obsession, but Ben had called it a hounding cock block on his highs. You’d been quick to rebrand your pestering of him as your own guilty addiction, and he hadn’t had much to say in response to that. He had his addictions, and you had yours—him. Oh, he so must’ve regretted accommodating you into his life.

Your boyfriend’s sharp features were currently kneaded into a focused frown, his head tilted down to where he emptied out the plastic packet onto the table. Your chin perked with sly interest, no further surprise to be unwrapped when you glimpsed a sprawl of paper and herbs. Drugs, as expected, but nothing nearly as hard as his usual indulgences. Your attention flickered up to the blunt currently clutched between his lips—the bane of your existence—before you lowered your focus back down to the table, where his busy hands alternated between segregating the devious mess and popping out his smoking stick to dispel a pull.

You didn’t need to squint hard to confidently label said herbs as weed—once the distinct scent left his lips to shroud the modest apartment and assault your sensitive nose, it was a dead giveaway. You’d never been much of a fan of smoking to begin with, and weed might’ve been the rankest pick of it all, but it’s something you’d gradually grown tolerant of. It’s not like you had much of a say in the matter, anyway, given that your boyfriend had his lips wrapped around a cig almost as often as he had them wrapped around you. It was a relationship that had existed long before yours, so who were you to complain, really?

Besides, this was his apartment, which meant that his guilty pleasures were anything but your business. And you doubted that your complaint would manage a graze of his ears before his cock would plug your lips to shut you the hell up about it. He didn’t much like when you had an attitude about his aforementioned hobbies.

“Ah, shit!” Ben exclaimed angrily around the blunt’s body—a muffled sound that banished smoke from his pursed lips. You watched as he tossed aside the plastic packet, seizing his tempter by the throat as he thudded his palm against the table. “Fuckin’ dickless prick sold me short,” he grumbled to nobody in particular, releasing the blunt for a disgruntled exhale before his lips took to it once more like his next, dire breath.

You plugged your lips at his temper tantrum, throttling a chuckle you knew would be severely misplaced during this fit of his. You couldn’t help it, though. Ben loved to pretend that he was ‘man enough’ to be unbothered by trivial things, but it never took much to get under his skin. The irony was so palpable that you could’ve poked and prodded at it with ridicule. “What’re you doing?” You called to him with an accentuated chirp to your tone—you’re curious, oblivious, not probing.

Ben’s eyes lifted from the table for a second to glance in your direction, where you sat comfortably cushioned against the headboard of his bed. His glare hovered for a few measly seconds, holding no adoration at this particular time. It made you utter a mental damn. At most, he’d give you a wink or a scheming narrowing of his eyes that spoke all sorts of dirty he’d have loved to work you through. But he merely turned back to the task at hand, freeing the blunt from his tightly-wrung lips.

Yeah, women are the moody ones, you remarked mentally. What a chuckle-fest.

The supe gave a hefty exhale, smoke streaming out in a slow gust that told you a somber story of a shit-filled day. His whole demeanour was off-put. A good girlfriend would’ve asked him about it, but a smarter one—like yourself—knew err on the side of caution. You’d long since learned not to pester him about his emotions because, to quote Ben: ‘only pussies hold hands and waste daylight wailin’ about this ‘nd that. Me? I ain’t strokin’ anybody’s cock with some me too bullshit. You gotta act the man and suck it up.’

Yeah, you weren’t going to open that can of worms again.

Without sparing you another glance, Ben jerked his head in your direction. “Get over here,” he demanded distractedly. “It’s ‘bout time I teach ya the hustle o’ this shit.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I’ll leave the lung cancer to you,” you poked light-heartedly, but you shifted your laptop aside to scamper across the mattress regardless. Unfortunately, you were the type to spend any given chance at your boyfriend’s side, and it didn’t matter how trivial the activity was—it was all about the quality time. Ben was overly tolerant of your clinginess, so much so that you almost thought he enjoyed the attention more than you did. But that wasn’t anything he’d ever admit to, were it true to begin with.

You ambled across the open-plan apartment towards his smoke-enveloped figure, and upon reaching the table, you pulled out the chair opposite him to take up his company. All the while, Ben’s attention remained fixed on his concoctions, never once straying from the table to acknowledge that you’d joined him.

“Why would I need to know how to do any of this, anyway? You know I don’t smoke,” you asked once you sat yourself down, hand swivelling through the air to disperse the suffocating haze of the weed, lingering under your nose like an intoxicating fart. You watched his free hand sort the dried and shredded weed into evenly-sized piles with one of your ancient loyalty cards—a card you’d lost a few weeks back. The bastard must’ve nicked it from your purse. And knowing him, he’d probably used it for plenty more than sorting weed.

“No,” he agreed, “but I do. Besides, it’s somethin’ every fine woman such as yourself oughta know. It’s not usually what women waste their time learnin’, but I’m sure I could have ya mastering this shit in no time. You’re a surprisingly quick learner,” he murmured busily, pausing only to secure the blunt between his lips once more.

You didn’t know whether to feel offended at that observation, or to accept it with the knowledge that Ben didn’t usually hand out compliments—even backhanded ones—outside of, well, being inside of you. You dismissed the thought with a flick of your eyes, but soon, you were drawn to his face once more. You could have grown jealous with the amount of time his lips spent wrapped around that paper-wrapped crap, but you’d long since laid off the visuals. He enjoyed your pouting way too much—always finding a way to ridicule you for it.

“Why the sudden insistence that I learn this crap?” You asked.

After a deep pull, Ben retrohaled the smoke off to the side, conscious not to direct it onto your intolerant senses. “Cause it sure hits the spot when your girl can slip you a win after the day’s been a fuckin’ ball-buster,” he mumbled.

“Or,” you countered, head tilting with a pretence of consideration as you watched him sort the piles of weed into small plastic bags. “Here’s a thought—and just humour me, would you? You could make yourself one,” you finished, hands coming forward to fold onto the table as your eyes flickered up to Ben expectantly.

He lifted his head to fix you with peeved eyes, the card’s rim stilling against the last herded pile of weed as his free hand plucked the stick from his lips. “The hell you think I been doin’ all this time?” He challenged pointedly. The blunt’s ignited end pulsed with heat—as if to emphasise his words. “Is it too much to ask that you fix me a goddamn escape after a long fuckin’ day?”

“It is in that tone, Mister,” you scoffed, leaning yourself across the table in an attempt to pluck the blunt from his fingers, but he was quick to catch you at the wrist. Your lip quirked at the force with which he restrained you, your eyes slurring up to his with a heavy, seductive whisk of your lashes.

Ben always caught the intention behind your every act of defiance. He enjoyed it, even, despite the permanent hint of dour in his expression. “Hands off my shit,” he warned, his pretty green eyes drilling into yours to emphasise his point. “Don’t make me fuck the nerve right outta you—you know better.”

You took your lower lip into an amused bite, enjoying the way you so easily seemed to rile him up. Yeah, your boyfriend was a Supe, but it was moments like this that made you feel like you held all the power—and you revelled in it. ‘Nobody controls me’, your ass. You had Ben wrapped around your finger. He knew it, too, he just wouldn’t admit it because what man wants to admit that he’s pussy-whipped? No, he’d rather bathe in denial by fucking you senseless each night, smothering your head into the sheets and coaxing his name from your foul lips so that he felt he had some semblance of control over the way you made him feel.

You succumbed to his possessive grasp, leaning your body further across the table as your head tilted in cheek. “Do I know better?” You absolutely did, and so did he. But part of the fun—part of what made this dynamic between the two of you so riveting, is that you pretended to act stupid, and Ben eagerly indulged it as an opportunity to condescend you and further inflate his toxic ego. And something more.

The supe’s lip quirked in amusement as he glared you down, but the sentiment didn’t reach high enough to mould his eyes into kindness. “Gonna play it like that, hm?” he murmured, bringing the blunt back to his lips before he leaned further into your proximity, his lips brushing against yours with the tease of a kiss. But he didn’t follow through with his unspoken promise. Instead, his lips parted only to huff the smoke directly into your face.

Your nose scrunched at the scent, your free hand lifting from the table to shoo away the smoke. “Ben!” You protested, but his grip on you didn’t budge until the intrusive fog thinned out into the rest of the room. You gave a light cough at being a forced second party to his smoking, and that’s when he finally released your wrist—more like discarded it in a careless toss. You retreated with a huff and sat yourself back down. “Dick!”

“Pussy,” he retorted through a shit-eating smirk, but he quickly came to realise that the amusement was wholly one-sided when he glimpsed your ruffled brows. There were very few times you could have convinced him that his actions weren’t funny. “Ah, come on,” he drawled, attention lowering back to the weed as he suckled on the smoking stick once more. “You know ya love it,” he mumbled.

“Oh, bite me,” you murmured lightly, crossing your arms as you watched him continue his work. You could have chosen to pout a little longer, but you’d have been naive to settle down with somebody like Ben and not expect him to pull a nasty stunt now and again. Besides, you did like him mean. The subtle glow that beamed briefly within the crook of your thighs was testament to that.

“You ever roll a blunt before?” Ben muttered, eyes downturned to where his hands began prepping an irregularly squared piece of paper. The question was sheer stupidity—so much so that you felt the the weight of the frown on your brows as you parted your lips to answer him with far too much eager spunk. But Ben pulled the cancer stick from his lips and interjected without missing a breath.

“Just pullin’ your leg—‘course ya haven’t. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the fuckin’ Mother Reverend of the Church of Holy Smokes.” At that jab, his eyes lifted to yours with a smugness that wound his lips thin.

You gave a dismissive roll of your eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” you hummed, your arms unfolding to rest your hands against the table. “You can keep shitting on me, Benjamin, but let’s not forget just how ancient you are. Once your light’s snuffed out, old man, maybe—just maybe, I’ll consider learning how to smoke, and it’ll be your ashes I probe in that damn ashtray.” Oh, how the roles would reverse.

Ben neglected the piece of paper he’d been gripping and straightened himself from the table. He leaned back into his chair with a gruff chuckle, his gaze raking you over with a light air of amusement. He plucked the blunt from his lips and hovered over the table as he gave a compliant cock of his head—a gesture that said, yeah, I could get behind that.

“Just make sure you put the tray somewhere I can get a good view of your ass,” he retorted with a brisk wink before he pressed the cigar’s inflamed nose into the ashtray loitering beside his hand. “And the tray better not be this ugly fuckin’ thing. Get me somethin’. . . quaint—none o’ this modern day lifeless shit and a half that’s got fuckin’ pussy power or some ball-less, feministic propo shit like that scribbled on the side.”

You narrowed your eyes mischievously. “Only you will demand everything your way even in death,” you chuckled, then you tilted your head inquisitively. “So you’re telling me that if I had to get my breasts casted with clay to make two matching bowls for your ashes, you’d have a problem with that? Is it too modern for you?”

Ben’s brows hoisted up a look of consideration, then his lips pursed with content acceptance. “Baby,” he drawled. “You do that and I’ll be back to fuck you in your dreams every. goddamn. night,” he promised.

“I guess that might help me not to forget you,” you retorted cheekily.

“Damn right,” he mumbled cockily. “Can’t forget a dick as givin’ as this one, anyway—and you’d be kiddin’ yourself otherwise. Little cock-slut like you? You were made to memorise every inch of my dick like a butt-print in a shitty velvet sofa.” He birthed a grin so condescending that it barely left room for you to breathe.

Smug, obscene asshole, you scoffed silently, but you couldn’t deny the truth behind his claim, and you had countless memories to serve as evidence. Ben knew that—it was the singular thing that warranted his sheer audacity to boast. For lack of better words, you flashed him the finger before bundling yourself back up, arms crossed against your chest as a ruffled gesture for him to continue his little project.

He made an amused noise halfway between a grunt and a chuckle before shifting in his seat and guiding his hands back to the concoction before him. “C‘mon, take a look,” he urged, plucking up some of the shredded weed between his fingers and gingerly placing it onto the squared paper. He took a moment to prod along the scattered herbs until a coherent line was formed atop the material. “This right here,” he said, prodding the paper, “s’called rollin’ paper. Gotta wrap it around the weed real nice and tight, like the foreskin of a sexually-abstained father of the church. Or some creakin’, ol’ geezer.”

“So like you, then?” You interjected, and you could’ve sworn you heard the snap of his neck as his eyes darted up to scorn you.

“Callin’ me old when you’re the one who can’t walk after one night in my bed is a li’l comical, don’tcha think?” He retorted, eyes lowering to where he rolled his thumb along the ball of his index finger to dislodge the clinging weed scraps. “Man,” he laughed in disbelief. “You got helluva mouth on ya.”

“Oh, so that’s what it’s called?” You chirped sarcastically, rubbing your lips together as though smearing some chapstick along the edges. You knew it was a stupid, bratty punch to throw, but you thought it worth it if it would coax any sort of reaction from Ben—and it did.

He glanced up at you from beneath hitched brows, pushing out a chuckle so forced, it could’ve starred the backtrack of some poorly made sitcom. But the faux amusement in his expression was dropped in an instant, his chin making an impatient jut in your direction—like the firm finger of a mother’s chide. “Shut the fuck up and pay attention.”

Your eyes widened in mock as you muttered a “yes, sir,” and turned your attention back to the table, your heading craning with far too much curiosity for your liking. Your eyes trailed every whisk and wander of his skilled fingers as he prepped another paper like the last. “Does it matter how much weed’s in a single blunt?”

Cautiously, Ben moved back to the first paper, his lips subconsciously jutting into a focused pout. It was something he did often without a notice, and you couldn’t help but savour the scene with a subtle grin. It was adorable, but for the sake of preserving the clueless tradition, you never said anything about it. You knew he’d find some way to get butt-hurt over you pointing it out, and then you’d be stuck with him forging some permanent, stoic expression to fend off the horrors of being called adorable.

He anchored the topmost corners of the rolling paper with his middle fingers before grabbing the bottom corners between his thumb and index finger, finally folding the square in half. “‘Bout a gram or two’ll do,” he finally replied. “But the paper’s already sized, so it’s just gotta be enough to fit in it. . .” he murmured busily, trailing off as he focused his attention onto carefully lifting the assembly from the table—determined not to spill any of the contents and further rob himself of the stock he’d been sold short on.

“Now,” Ben cleared his throat with utmost enthusiasm, his eyes momentarily lingering on the wrap before they flickered over to you with a scheme glinting in their green depths. Just what the hell was he up to now? “We gotta wet this baby real good, so why don’tcha stick out that tongue o’ yours for me, yeah? Lend an old man a helpin’ hand once in a while.”

He held the makeshift blunt tenderly between his thumbs and index fingers as he presented it in your direction with an annoyingly smug furnish to his handsome features.

Your eyes widened in surprise at his request. “You do it,” you told him through a chuckle, pressing your index finger against his nearest hand to gently nudge the dissembled blunt back in his direction. “You’re the pro of the fucking cancer sticks, so you show me how it’s done. Like you said.”

Ben cocked his head in slight disappointment, a smirk pitching up the corner of his lips as he withdrew the blunt with a light huff. “To think you’re usually all I can do it myself, Ben, I don’t need your help, Ben,” he mocked deeply, which caused your face to contort with a hint of offence.

“I don’t sound like th—“

“Yeah, you do,” he cut you short, the smirk on his lips playing into a full-blown grin as he drank in your affronted pout. “You and your fuckin’ feminist high,” he scoffed, bringing the paper up to his lips. “Now, stuff it and watch, ‘cause I’m only gonna show you once—and I expect ya to nail it off the fuckin’ bat.”

You hitched a brow at his subtle threat. “Or what?” You challenged.

He left that question unanswered—verbally, at least. But he fixed you with an intense glare as his tongue slipped past his lips to drag a slow, accentuated line along the edge of the paper, and you knew that to be answer enough. A promise—and hardly one of a good time when he was calling all the shots with the intent to punish you. Still, you felt your core jolt at that singular gesture, your thighs discreetly pressing together with the memory of that very movement that must’ve become etched into your folds by now. That teasing bastard, getting you all hot and bothered just for the sake of it.

When he reached the end of the jagged material, he drew the line back up one more time before his tongue retreated back to the concealment behind his lips. He lowered the concoction to the table, gaze still trained on you. Then, with a beckoning gesture of his chin, he said, “get over here.”

You obliged silently, quickly—guided by your arousal more than your own will, if you were being honest. Your chair screeched in protest as you pushed yourself up from your seat and slipped around the circumference of the table towards Ben’s seated frame. You’d barely reached his side when he freed a hand to eagerly outstretch and receive you, his large palm snaking along the small of your back to hook around your waist. He pulled you into his lap, legs spread in a wide v to comfortably accommodate your frame onto his.

As you settled yourself onto his lap, you made a point to dramatically shimmy your ass into the crook of his legs, causing him to grunt as you ground yourself against his prominent manhood. His free hand snaked over your thigh to settle at the tender, inner skin with a warning squeeze, his lips coming to press against your ear.

“Careful, baby,” he murmured lowly—a gruff sound that sent a jolt directly to your already-compromised core. And it was hard to ignore your arousal with the added stimulation of his stubbled jaw grating the sensitive skin of your cheek.

You turned your jaw partially, causing his soft lips to trace a seductive line along your cheekbone. “Always am,” you murmured in return, a cheeky grin beaming through as your gaze flickered down to his lips. Those darn lips. A taste you’d never get sick of, despite your tendency to grow bored of things rather quickly. Maybe you were no better than Ben—a shameless addict infatuated with the highs, only, your highs were being fondled by him.

For a moment, Ben entertained your play with a second of silence, and you were almost hopeful to feel his lips snag onto yours, but instead, they retreated from your jaw and left you in a state of hot disappointment.

“Pay attention,” he ordered, removing the hand he’d burrowed at your thigh to frame your jaw firmly. He turned your head forward and downwards, forcing your attention onto the makeshift blunt gripped in his other hand. His thumb trailed to your lips, kneading the tender skin aimlessly before slipping his hand from your jaw entirely. “Stick your tongue out.”

Obediently, you did as told, your tongue slipping through until you felt too ridiculous to go further.

“Atta girl,” he praised, your waist now straddled by both his arms as he held the corners of the makeshift blunt in his fingers and lifted it to your dangling tongue. “Now, I want you to lick it, just like I showed ya—and don’t crap out on showin’ it a good time, yeah?”

You gave a small nod and leaned your head down to meet the paper with your tongue, starting at the left corner. When the tip of your tongue made contact with the sheet, you could feel the cool, lingering trace of Ben’s saliva. It felt so primal, but you knew that he was enjoying every second of it—you lapping up his taste like an eager mutt, so you decided to give him one hell of a show.

You pressed your tongue against the paper more firmly now, and you began to drag a slow, sensual line toward the other corner, making sure to deliver a quick flick over Ben’s waiting thumbnail. He made a hald-amused, half-entertained noise, but waited patiently as you retraced the line back to the starting point.

Pulling back your tongue, you smacked your lips triumphantly. “All wet now,” you said.

“Bet you are,” he chuckled lazily, fingers moving to seal the paper and twist the ends into a reputable blunt. He brought the finished product up to your lips, urging the nozzle between them. “Be a good girl and hold onto that for me.”

You pulled your lips inward to deny the entrance of the blunt, turning your jaw to reject the offer. “No, thanks,” you said, but Ben wasn’t having it.

You felt his hand stroke up the curve of your thigh before forcing way beneath the hem of your shorts and underwear, where his fingers stroked a rough line through your folds. You gasped at the feel of his cool fingers playing at your hot core, and before you could process his foul play, his other hand was quick to push the fresh blunt between your parted lips.

“You talk too fuckin’ much,” he murmured against your ear, delivering a harsh squeeze to your clit. Your lips tightened around the blunt and you moaned into the smoking stick, eyes screwing shut as your head collapsed back into the crook of his neck. He pressed a hasty kiss to your temple, and you knew that it was more of a branding than a gesture of adoration. You were his to cherish, exploit and discard, all at once.

“What, you gonna tell me you didn’t see that comin’?” he chuckled lowly, the mocking sound vibrating against the crown of your head. “Been actin’ the brat this entire time, just hopin’ I’ll shut you the fuck up, huh? Yeah, I heard ya—loud and clear, baby.”

Your lips tightened around the blunt as Ben brutalised the pace of his fingers between your folds, vigorously toying with your clit like it were the worn strings of the guitar he couldn’t seem to master the tuning of. Your lips tightened around the blunt as his finger prodded at just the right spot, an explosion of pleasure slinging your thighs into a weakened and sprawled mess. All control over your body seemed to retreat as you slumped further into his strong frame, which cocooned you like it were your last hope at survival. Oh, you were done for, all right.

“You like that, huh?” Ben cooed into your ear, his free hand sliding beneath your tank to grab ahold of your breasts. He palmed both in a rough, careless motion, then settled on one with a teasing pinch to your nipple. The combined stimulation of his toying at both ends rendered you so speechless that you couldn’t even salvage a coherent moan, so you laid there in complete arrest, succumbing fully to your boyfriend’s mean ministrations. “What, nothin’ to say now? Not even a fuckin’ please or thank you? I know chivalry died when I was buried on ice, but I didn’t think the women had lost their manners, too.”

In all honesty, you could barely comprehend your boyfriend’s words through your numbed haze. Your vision slurred into darkness as your eyes fluttered closed, your saliva beginning to seep into the blunt’s contents as your lips clutched it like a lifeline. Ben released your breast, but the weaving of his fingers down below didn’t stutter. You felt his free fingers graze both your temples in sequence, where his knuckle pushed back the foremost strands of hair that had slipped the keep of your ears. Your heart fluttered an inch at what you thought to be an intimate gesture—which he gifted very few and far between. But knowing the type of man Ben was should have clipped your wings of hope and had you grounded from the get-go.

Suddenly, his hand trailed through your hair and fastened through as many strands as he could collect. Then, with a smooth roll of his wrist, he twined it into a harsh grip, your neck arching at an angle you couldn’t have achieved out of free-will. A weak protest slurred within your throat, which made Ben utter a sound half way between a low laugh and a scoff—the sound so demeaning it flushed your cheeks red. His exploitation hurt—but at the same time, it felt so good, so much so that your body did anything but pull away from his touch.

“Now this is a view I can get behind—you, all pretty and practically fallin’ apart on my fingers,” Ben murmured, his head lowering to your ear so that the sharp button of his nose nuzzled at your temple. “Fuck, I could take you right here, right now,” he continued sultrily. “You want that, sweetheart? Want me to give you exactly what you’ve been cravin’ all fuckin’ day? All you gotta do is ask. Nicely, you know, stroke my cock with your good-doer attitude. That achievable for a brat like you, hm?”

For all the questions asked, you couldn’t offer one damn answer—not with your lips plugged by Ben’s newest fix. You moved a hand to reach for the blunt, eager to pave way for the word that would lay your urges to rest for the night, but the hand he’d buried between your legs were quick to come up and seize your wrist in disapproval. A hot, disgruntled tut from Ben streamlined your ear, but all you could focus on was the sudden barrenness between your legs, a cold neglect left in the wake of his hand.

You weren’t afforded the opportunity to mourn that loss for long before he had both your palms pinned flat onto the table in front of you, the hand in your hair tugging further so that your upper body became suspended within a ruthless game of tug and war. Only, the two contestants—both his hands—were playing for the same team. Ben’s. The advantage was far from yours.

“Dirty stunt,” he hummed almost admirably, his nose tracing your jaw to place a single, devouring kiss over the arch of your neck. You felt the way his lips lapped at your skin in a large motion, like he craved to garner every inch of you in that single touch. He solidified that point with a harsh nibble, the sort that would pucker your skin for a good few minutes, before he brought himself back to your ear. “You don’t get to use your words for this, baby. Your right to an opinion has been worn out for the day, and quite frankly, I’ve had enough of all your fuckin’ chitchat. You wanna get fucked, you’re gonna show me just how much y’want it,” he husked with a dramatic pause, then added in a low murmur, “with your body. Got that?”

With your head practically immobilised by his grip, you echoed a muffled mhm. Your response seemed to be satisfactory enough because he relented his hold—just enough to relieve your pipes so that breathing came with a little more ease.

“Atta girl. It’s gets my dick salutin’ when you’re all obedient,” he praised. His claim was firmly backed by the bulge you felt growing beneath you. It pressed between your thighs like a brash beckoning, and it was enough to cause all the heat that had dissipated between your folds to re-emerge in full force. “Well? The hell you waitin’ for?” He asked in a tone a lot louder—and firmer—this time around.

You pushed out a clueless noise, which made Ben shift a thigh beneath you. Suddenly, the bulk of his leg was hoisted up between your own, the blunt force striking your core at just the right angle that sent a jolt up your body. You gasped a breathless sound into the blunt, your teeth burrowing into the softening paper, and your eyes screwed shut with the pleasure currently coursing your entire being.

“Get that body o’ yours movin’, or we can call it a disappointin’ night,” he instructed. God, you couldn’t come up short after all you’d endured thus far, so instinctually, your hips began to roll against his thigh at a jagged pace, seeking out the only stimulation you could manage in your stilted position. “Yeah, that’s it,” he cooed. “All yours for the takin’, if you’ll hold out long enough to see fuckin’ rainbows. A lot like bein’ on a high, ain’t it? Got my own li’l addict in the makin’.”

He was right. Actually, you thought this felt a whole lot greater than sniffing a line that would simultaneously have you losing your sanity for a few hours. Desperate whimpers began to stew in your chest, polished with so much passion that the sounds felt saturated, almost animated. And Ben, he was devouring every second of it. You couldn’t glimpse enough of his face to say that, but going off of everything you knew about him, and how mean he liked to get with you, you absolutely knew that you were something akin to his own personal heaven right about now. Oh, he’d forsake every personal belief to follow the religion that was you—your undoing.

Almost as though your body had grown frustrated with all the prolonged teasing, your high came on at a rapid pace that made you chest heave in desperation. You felt the arousal bundle into a tightly-knit ball, just yearning to be yanked at by the singular thread that would make it come undone. But the satisfaction was plucked out of reach within seconds when Ben released the grip on your hair to grab at your thigh, forcing your hips to still against his leg. And just like that, the fire within was snuffed out.

Your lips fell loose in exhaustion, the blunt you’d been so loyal to finally making an escape and toppling into your lap. “Ben,” you pushed out frailly, the disappointment heavy on your brows.

“The nerve o’ you,” Ben scoffed, utterly dismissive of your feeble protest. He released your thigh to dip into your lap, and shortly after, he pulled up with the blunt in clutch, wasting no time in pressing it back between your lips. You fumbled with the paper for a few seconds before you finally took it in, but you knew your boyfriend would have something to show for your disobedience. “Yeah, you are a brat,” he said, the hand pinning your wrists suddenly tightening as he pulled your arms to one side, his other hand hooking around your inner thigh.

In one large and effortless motion, he managed to sling you over his lap, releasing your wrists so that you were able to grasp the legs of his chair for support. You clutched the blunt between your lips a little tighter, fighting the villainous pull of gravity, and stifled a moan at the sudden spank that struck the curves of your ass. The aftermath of that contact had your body contracted with a mixture of shock and painful arousal, air blowing from your nostrils like harsh gusts.

“Fuckin’ quiverin’ already?” He chuckled, his large palm smoothing up the fabric of your shorts until you felt every inch of your ass dimple under the cool air of the room. You felt utterly exposed. “Baby, I’m just gettin’ started with you.”

Oh, you were so fucked.

His palm came down for another assault, this time louder than the last. The raw contact echoed through the apartment, narcissistically suffocating the whimper that rattled your chest. Tears began to hoard along the rims of your eyes, but you blinked enough to scatter the moisture. You didn’t need to give him another kick out of this—some lingering stubbornness wouldn’t allow it.

“Fuck, all that noise o’ yours is makin’ me lose count,” Ben scoffed. He rubbed soothing circles over your aching skin, which no doubt glowered an angry red that should have made your boyfriend feel some ounce of sympathy. But then the next words left his mouth, and you knew then that the Supe had no concept of remorse. “Guess I gotta start right at the beginning.”

You braved yourself against the rest of his spanks, your legs drawing together more and more with each touch—not from a place of pain, but from hot, embarrassing enjoyment. The slick within your folds was hard to ignore now, and it seemed to have snagged Ben’s attention because he let up on the harsh punishment, his fingers finding way beneath your shorts and drenched undies. You felt his fingers play at your slick, dragging a line all the way down to your yearning entrance.

“It’s a damn oil slick up in here,” he chuckled, his thumb teasing circles at your hypersensitive clit. “Whaddya say I give her some love, hm?” His finger dipped an inch into your entrance, as if offering a measly taste of his proposal. You rocked your hips back into him as a reply, urgently seeking out the length of his fingers. He gave a low chuckle, and to your shock, actually indulged your plea. Maybe it was your reward for finally playing by his rules.

You weren’t going to fucking question it.

Your back arched by instinct as you felt his fingers prowl into your entrance, your hands clutching the wooden legs of his chair as your eyes rolled into the back of your head. The full force of multiple of his fingers should have coaxed forward some fleeting sense of pain, but you’d been so incredibly aroused for so incredibly long that your entrance welcomed him in like an open-house party. He pumped into you as deep as he could, an appreciative grunt leaving his lips as he revelled in your velvety warmth. His other hand came to wrap around the front of your neck, offering some much needed support as your strength began to collapse with each pump of his fingers.

Your whimpers became more frequent and dishevelled as he picked up the pace, his fingers curling at just the right angle. Every. Fucking. Time. Ben knew how to do the job well—a tactic that had you coming back time and time again, begging for more.

“That’s it, baby, you’re doin’ so good f’me,” he husked out, his own voice slightly abraded by exertion. The subtle breathlessness woven through his words spurred you on even further, making you feel some type of special with the knowledge that he was giving you his all. Just to see you break. Just so that he could put you back together with cherishing kisses.

It only took a few more pumps of his fingers to have your eyes clenching in wait, your lips throttling the blunt as his fingers curled right into your blooming bundle of pleasure. And then he struck it head on, causing an explosion of colour to invade your vision. For a few seconds, you couldn’t comprehend anything beyond your own ragged breaths, your ears ringing with the overwhelming aftermath of your high. You felt your juices trickle from your entrance, and you heard the squelching as Ben slowly retreated from your entrance.

“Holy fuckin’ shit,” he chuckled with a minuscule, congratulatory pat to your ass. “That was one o’ your best runs yet. Think ya can handle one more round?” Ben murmured, releasing your neck to rub a soothing line down your back. You didn’t honestly think you could, and you felt the way every inch of your body ached in an answering protest, but something else tugged your chin into that subtle permission, and then the Supe had you hoisted up in his arms bridal style as he carried you to the bed.

He laid you onto the mattress rather gently, but the caution was instantly discarded as he flipped you over and tugged your hips sky-high. His fingers hooked under the hem of your shorts and undies, and he couldn’t have yanked them over the curves of your ass at a faster pace. Your garments were tossed to some other corner of the room, followed by the rustle of fabric as Ben freed his stoic erection. You heard him huff a breath of relief, and you glanced over your shoulder in time to see him whisk across his shaft with a hasty pump.

You met his eye patiently, making a point to pout around the blunt so that he couldn’t miss the visual image of your dedication to this wretched thing. It made him smirk with satisfaction, a hand coming forward to hook around your pelvis and tug you back an inch. You grunted at the rough yank, turning your head forward as you settled yourself into your folded arms. You felt his tip nestle between your ass before dipping down to glide with ease into your slicked entrance. Both his hands took up firm grip at your pelvis, his large palms fanning across your navel as he pummelled into you with a guttural noise.

“Fuck,” he spat, his length retreating only to return with a force more brutal than a last. His hands shifted across your ass, delivering a hard spank before they slunk up to the small of your back. There, he pushed your stomach into the mattress, and you burrowed further into the material with every possessive thrust of his hips. “You’re just the fuckin’ release I needed after this shitty day—and god, you never disappoint,” he breathed out.

You whimpered in response, pressing your forehead into the sheets as your fingers curled into the bedding. God, this man was overstimulating—he seemed to forget that your frail body was no match for his super-abled one. Or, he simply revelled in that fact. Either way, you were done for.

The blunt’s body quirked against your lips as you practically smothered it against the mattress, but you could hardly be arsed about that now. Ben’s figure came to hover over you, his clothed chest pressing into your back. His hands came up beside your head, frantically searching for yours, and once he found them, his fingers threaded between yours. He held you firmly as he spread your hands out in front of you, trapping you below him as he continued to drive you into the bed. The worn bed frame was creaking so loud that it was almost absurd, and you half expected one of the neighbours to blare a shut the hell up from the top of their lungs. But the only noises to be heard were the gruff moans spewing from Ben’s lips, and your own muffled whining.

The mattress wasn’t anything as fancy as memory foam, but you were sure that by now—with how brutalised Ben’s pace within you was—that the mattress would never forget. You supposed you both had that in common.

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a/n — i’m not gonna lie, i was starting to think this piece would NEVER see the light of day good gawd i think i have commitment issues. anyhoo, if you are a pro at making blunts, mind your business! 😭 i did a quick google search and rolled with it (pun unintended), so if something’s inaccurate you can blame google pls and ty LMAO. i’m just a non smoker girly trying to bring the drug-addled fantasies of loving soldier boy to life, as best as i possibly and very limitedly can. if this fic traumatised you im sorry (also you’re welcome). y’all know the drill, it’s 2 am—if there are typos; no there’s not.

this fic now has a complementary c.ai bot .ᐟ

thank you for reading! all likes, comments & reblogs are deeply appreciated ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི

tags — @gibson-g1rl @fallbhind @bohemianblasphemy @figthoughts

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other works — the boys masterlist

© bluemerakis — do not plagiarise or steal any of my works.

[kissandtellus]

hi hii, could u potentially write something with either zayne or caleb where mc is deep DEEP in subspace

love ur writing <3

Caleb and Zayne : Deep Sub-Space<3

Author note: Tysm for the submission. I let my brain go a little wild with this one! Also saw the last line of Zayne’s Drabble on TikTok and he’d SO be someone to say that!

Inbox is open for request! Please help cure my boredom while I’m sick🥹❤️

Oh, Caleb is eating this UP.

You’ve always been his girl. His sweet girl. When that little part of your mind bends and breaks, he’s right there to catch you so you don’t fall. He’s pressing sloppy and firm kisses over your throat and collarbone.

“That’s my girl. Oh, you look so pretty when you cry for me.” They weren’t tears of sadness or pain (even though your knees were next to your ears), they were tears of relief.

Being a talented Hunter, dealing with your heart issues and trying to be a responsible adult. It was far too much for his pretty girl.

His cock was stretching you beyond the limit your poor little pussy wanted. But he knew just what his Pipsqueak needed.

“C-Can’’t! Ca-leb-“

“Yes you can, baby, Caleb’s got’cha. My pretty girl~!”

His balls slapped against your ass with each deep stroke. His teeth found your earlobe. You were still talking, he needed you babbling for him.

And it didn’t take very long. A few strong thrust against your cervix and a trickle of drool dribbled down the corner of your mouth.

“There’s my little girl. Cum for me, let me make you feel good Pip.”

Zayne on the other hand, was a medical professional. And you know what they say, the doctor knows best.

His fingers are in your mouth, pressing down on your tongue as you drool over your chin.

“So dirty. What am I going to do with you?” It was almost not a question. He knew exactly what he wanted to do with you.

He didn’t have you bent over the back of the couch for no reason. It was supposed to be a normal date but you had caught an attitude when he tried to recommend a healthier alternative for your heart.

It only took one smart-mouth remark to have his tie wrapped around your neck and his cock moving ever so deeply inside.

You had lost the ability to speak a while ago. He could see how deep in subspace you were by the cloudy gaze in your eyes. If it was possible, you’d have little hearts for pupils.

Zayne grabbed your chin and turned your head just enough to spit into your mouth he had pulled open.

“I’m going to stuff you so full of my DNA, I will rewrite your ancestry.”