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jose996c · 29 days ago

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A Flame in the Cold

Summery: In a post-apocalyptic world, you’ve always kept your distance—tough, independent, and untouched. As a patrol scout in Jackson, you’ve never allowed yourself to be vulnerable. But when a storm traps you and Joel Miller in a cabin during a routine patrol, everything changes, and the walls you’ve both built begin to crack.

Warnings: Virginity, first time, post apocalypse, fluff, age-gap (reader is in her 30's), romance, smut, unprotected PIV, one shot, fingering, oral sex (f!receiving).

Paring: Joel Miller x f!reader

Word count: 4k

It’s been months like this. You and him. Patrol partners. The steady kind of quiet that grows into comfort. Or something close to it.

“Gonna be a storm,” he mutters, more to the trees than to you.

You glance at the sky. “You always say that.”

“‘Cause I’m always right.”

You snort, but there’s warmth under it. The kind that only comes from repetition — same trail, same partner, same rhythm. You’ve come to rely on it more than you should.

And maybe he has too.

You catch him watching you sometimes when he thinks you’re not looking. His gaze lingers too long when you roll up your sleeves, stretch your neck, wipe sweat from your brow. He always looks away first — jaw tight, hands flexing like he’s holding something back.

You pretend not to notice. But it’s harder now, this time, like you’re both waiting for something to shift.

The wind picks up fast — sharp and biting — and the sky darkens in a way that does feel different.

Joel stops at the ridge, eyes scanning the trees. “Cabin’s not far. We’ll wait it out.”

You nod. You know the place. Been there before. It’s small and cold and drafty, but it’s better than being caught in whiteout hell.

The snow comes down harder as you walk, stinging your face, settling on your hair. Joel’s shoulder brushes yours as you move in step, and neither of you pulls away. The cabin is a beacon in the white, a promise of warmth and shelter.

Inside, it’s not much better. The fireplace is cold, the room stale with the scent of unused space. But there’s a pile of firewood in the corner, a relic from before the world went to hell. Joel’s eyes light up with something like hope, and he says, “Looks like we can keep warm tonight.”

You help him get a fire going, the sound of crackling wood and the smell of smoke bringing a semblance of life to the cabin. The warmth spreads out, chasing the cold from your fingertips and toes. You sit across from each other, the flickering light playing over your faces.

You peel off your gloves, rubbing your hands together, feeling the heat seep into your skin. His eyes follow the movement, and you realize you’re shaking. He notices. “You cold?”

“A little,” you admit, looking away, focusing on the fire.

“You should warm up,” Joel says gruffly, his eyes not leaving your shivering hands. He reaches into his pack and pulls out a flask, uncaps it, and takes a swig. “Here.” He holds it out to you.

You look at it, then at him. The whiskey glints in the firelight, and the warmth of his hand is almost as inviting as the liquid inside. You take it and let the amber fire slide down your throat. It burns, but in a good way. The kind that thaws the ice you didn’t realize was there.

“Thanks,” you murmur, handing it back.

He takes a swig, and for a moment, you let the quiet settle around you, the whiskey warming your chest. The storm outside seems to crescendo with every beat of your heart.

After a while, the silence grows thick, and your mind drifts to places you’ve been avoiding. You shift in your seat, restless, your fingers absently tracing the edge of your mug. There’s something about tonight, the storm, the fire, the way the cabin is small and intimate. You’ve never really allowed yourself to acknowledge it before, but the feeling — the need — is undeniable now.

You glance at Joel, watching the fire with that far-off look in his eyes, his body still and rigid in that way he always gets when he’s lost in thought. You wonder if he’s thinking about it too. About how things have been different lately. About the way the tension between you has been growing, thicker with every shared patrol, every passing glance.

Your breath hitches. You need to say it. You can’t keep pretending this silence is all there is.

“Joel,” you say softly. His head turns toward you almost immediately, his expression guarded, but his eyes are sharper than usual. “I’m tired of being… alone.”

He stays quiet, watching you as if waiting for you to explain.

“I’ve never…” You pause, words stuck in your throat, but the warmth from the whiskey helps to loosen you up, helps to give you the courage you need. “I’ve never been with anyone. And I don’t want to keep pretending like I’m okay with it anymore.”

There’s a long silence. You see his jaw tighten, his hands flex slightly as if he’s holding something back. He doesn’t say anything right away, just watches you, and you can’t read him, not completely. But the air between you is heavy, charged. You can feel it now, more than ever. The space between you feels too small, the flickering firelight casting shadows that make everything seem too close, too real.

“I mean...” you continue, your voice a little shakier now, “I just—I don’t want to be like this anymore. Alone. I’ve been holding onto this for so long, and maybe it’s just the storm or... or maybe it’s just me, but I can’t keep pretending like it’s not there.”

Joel’s eyes soften slightly, his posture stiffening, like he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, he looks down at his hands, the flask still gripped between his fingers. His expression is conflicted, but you can see the desire there too, hidden behind that mask of control. And that’s what makes your heart race even harder — you can see it in the way he’s looking at you, like he’s trying to decide if he can let go.

You can’t keep holding back. Not anymore.

“I’m not asking for anything to change,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. “I’m just... telling you how I feel. I want to be with someone. You.”

Joel’s gaze flickers with something you can’t quite name. The flicker of recognition, of longing, that matches what you’ve been feeling all this time.

His voice is low when he speaks, rougher than before, but there’s no denying the desire there. “Are you sure? 'Cause once we step over this line, there ain't no going back.”

You nod, feeling the heat rush through you. You’re sure. You’re tired of being cautious, of keeping the wall between you both. You want this — you want him.

“I’m sure,” you whisper, stepping closer to him. Your heart is pounding in your chest, but there’s a calmness that settles over you as you close the distance between you. “I’ve been sure for a long time.”

Joel watches you, his eyes dark and full of something raw, something real. Slowly, he reaches for you, his hand warm against your cheek as he pulls you in. You don’t fight it. You let him, your lips meeting his in a kiss that starts slow, hesitant, but quickly deepens. It’s the first kiss you’ve had in years, and it’s everything you never knew you needed. It’s gentle but firm, a promise of warmth in a cold world.

The whiskey has left a sweet, smoky taste on your tongue, and you can feel his breath, feel his need, his hesitation. You want to tell him it’s okay, that you’re ready, but the words are lost in the kiss. Instead, you let your hands find his shoulders, gripping tight, as if to say you’re not going anywhere.

The kiss deepens, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, holding you closer. It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before, this desperation wrapped in tenderness, this fierce protection wrapped in desire. Joel’s other hand rests on your waist, his thumb tracing small circles that make you shiver. It’s not just the fire warming you now.

You pull away slightly, catching your breath. “I want this, Joel,” you murmur.

He searches your eyes, looking for the truth in your words, and when he finds it, his own eyes flicker with something that resembles relief. He leans in again, kissing you more urgently now, his hand sliding down to your hip, tugging you closer. The heat from his body is a stark contrast to the chill outside, and you find yourself craving more of it, more of him.

The fire crackles in the background, a gentle soundtrack to the storm outside. You let the warmth of his kiss spread through your body, let the whiskey warm your blood. His hands are steady, sure, as they explore you, as if he’s been waiting for this moment too. You realize you’re trembling, not just from the cold anymore, but from the anticipation, from the fear of what comes next.

Joel’s hands slide up your arms, leaving a trail of heat. His thumbs trace the line of your jaw, tilting your face up to his. His eyes are a storm of their own, full of unspoken things, full of questions. You nod, the smallest movement, but enough to tell him yes. Yes, you want this. Yes, you’re ready.

He takes your hand, leading you to the only bed in the cabin. It’s small and looks like it'll fall apart any moment, but for now it’ll have to do. You sit down, your heart racing, your breath coming in quick pants. He takes off his coat, then yours, laying them out like a barrier against the cold floorboards. He’s trying to be gentle, but his eyes are hungry.

When you move to unbuckle his belt, his hand stops you, his grip firm but gentle. “We don’t have to rush,” he says, his voice gruff. “It’s your first time. We’ll take it slow, make it good for you.”

Surprise flits through your eyes, and he sighs, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You don’t know much, do you?” His voice is softer now, and it makes your heart ache.

“What do you mean?” you ask, a blush creeping up your cheeks.

“Let me show you,” Joel says, his voice a gentle rumble in the quiet room.

He sits beside you, his hands moving to your hips, his eyes never leaving yours. With a gentle nudge, he urges you to lay down, and you do, feeling the mattress dip under your weight. You watch as he unbuckles your boots setting them aside with care. Then, his calloused hands skate up your legs, unbuttoning your pants with a deliberate slowness that makes you squirm.

"Relax," Joel murmurs, his breath warm against your neck. He eases your pants off, leaving you in just your shirt, bra, and underwear. You're so cold you can feel your teeth chatter, but the heat from his body is a comfort. He leans over you, his hands framing your face, and kisses you again, deep and slow, until your tremors subside, and you melt into him.

His hands slide down your body, his eyes never leaving yours. You're hyperaware of every touch, every movement. His thumb traces the line of your panties, and with a gentle tug, Joel pulls your underwear down, exposing you to the warmth of the cabin. His eyes darken as he takes in the sight of you, and for a moment, you feel self-conscious. But then his mouth is on yours again, reassuring, as his hand moves between your legs. He’s so gentle, his fingers exploring, pressing, until you’re gasping into his mouth.

You feel his breath on your skin as he kisses his way down, his eyes never leaving yours, like he’s asking for permission with every touch. And when his mouth finally meets your core, you realize what he meant. Your eyes roll back in your head as pleasure blooms through you, and you grip the blanket tightly.

The storm outside is a distant roar now, the only sounds in the cabin are the crackle of the fire and the soft noises you make as Joel’s mouth and hands work in harmony. You’ve never felt this before — the intensity, the connection, the feeling of being cherished in this way.

His tongue is warm, insistent, and you can’t help but arch into him. You’re not sure if it’s the whiskey or the warmth or the sheer need that’s building, but your body responds in a way that’s both new and exhilarating. His fingers slide in, filling you up, and your hips jerk in response.

He keeps going, his touch sure, his eyes on yours, and you find yourself letting go of all the fears and the worries. You trust him. You trust this moment. And when you finally do, when you finally let yourself feel, it’s like a dam breaking — a shock of pleasure that leaves you breathless and trembling.

Joel’s eyes are soft as he watches you come down from the high, his fingers still inside you, stroking gently. He kisses your thighs, his stubble a delicious abrasion on your sensitive skin. You feel boneless, like you could melt into the bed and never get back up again.

For a moment, he just holds you, giving you time to breathe, to process. The storm outside is a distant rumble, the only competition to the thunder of your racing heart. You're pulled out of your post orgasm bliss, when you feel Joel pulling away - You’re not ready for this to end. You want more of him — all of him.

You reach for him, your hand curling around the back of his neck, and you pull him up to kiss you. The kiss is hungry, demanding. It’s like you’re saying with your body what you can’t with words: you’re ready. You want him.

Joel seems to understand. He kisses you back, deep and slow, before he pulls away, his eyes searching yours. He reaches for the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms, letting him pull it off. The chilly air kisses your bare skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat in Joel’s gaze. He runs his hands over your torso, his thumbs circling your breasts before he leans in to kiss them.

You gasp at the sensation, your body responding to his touch like it’s been starved for it. His mouth is hot, his tongue teasing your nipples until they peak, and your back arches off the bed. His hands slide up your body, holding you in place as he worships you with his mouth, and you realize you’ve never felt so alive.

As he kisses his way up your torso, you can feel his arousal pressing against you, and the urgency in his touch is a mirror of what you’re feeling. You want to explore him, to feel the hard planes of his body against your softness. You want to know what it’s like to have him inside you, to feel the weight of him above you, the safety of his arms around you.

You reach for him, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, eager to touch him, to feel his skin against yours. Joel pauses, his eyes meeting yours, and there’s something in his gaze that makes you pause — a question, a silent request for consent. You nod, your cheeks flushing with a mix of nerves and desire. He helps you, his movements careful as he slides the shirt off his shoulders, revealing the muscular expanse of his chest. The sight of him like this, vulnerable and open, sends a jolt of excitement through you.

His hands are trembling as he undoes your bra, his eyes never leaving yours. The cold air of the cabin is a stark contrast to the heat of your skin as it meets his, and you can feel your heart pounding in your ears. He kisses you again, his tongue delving into your mouth with a new urgency that matches the storm outside. His hands explore your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your sensitive nipples, and you moan into his mouth.

You’re both shivering now, not from the cold but from the anticipation. Joel pulls back, his eyes searching yours, and you can see the war raging in them. He’s fighting himself, trying to be gentle, to be the kind of man you deserve. But the fire between you is too strong to be contained. You reach up, your hands fisting in his shirt, and you pull him back down, your mouth hungry for his.

You kiss him like you’re trying to devour him, and he responds in kind. His hands are everywhere, memorizing the curve of your hips, the softness of your skin, the dip of your waist. You’re a canvas of sensation, and he’s the artist, painting you with his touch. His mouth trails down your neck, leaving a wake of fire in its path. You feel him undo his belt, the sound of it hitting the floor like a gunshot in the quiet room.

Joel’s hand slides down your stomach, and you lift your hips, urging him closer. He pauses, his breath hot against your ear. “Are you sure about this?” His voice is a whispered thunder, full of his own need and hesitation.

“Yes,” you breathe, the word a desperate plea. You can feel your body begging for him, for this connection that you’ve been craving.

Joel’s eyes search yours for one last moment of certainty before his hand slides down, his fingertips brushing against the wetness that’s pooled between your legs.

He groans, low and needy, as he positions himself, his cock pressing against your entrance. You feel a mix of excitement and fear, the reality of what’s about to happen crashing over you like a wave. He’s so much larger than you expected, and you tense up, unsure if you can handle it. But he notices, his hand coming up to stroke your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear that’s slipped down your face.

“It’s okay, baby,” he whispers, his voice a soothing rumble. “We’ll go slow. I’ll take care of you.”

With a nod, you give him the okay, your eyes fluttering shut as you focus on the feeling of him against you. Joel’s hands are everywhere, holding you, soothing you, as he pushes in inch by agonizing inch. You feel stretched, filled, and the pain is sharp, but it’s not unwelcome.

He whispers sweet nothings into your ear, his voice a balm that eases the ache as he pushes further, his cock breaching your untouched depths. You grip the blankets, your body taut with tension, and when he’s buried to the hilt, he stills, giving you a moment to adjust to the feeling.

Then, he starts to move, his hips rocking in a slow, steady rhythm that you instinctively match. Your bodies find a harmony that’s been years in the making, a dance of trust and desire that unfolds in the flickering firelight. His eyes never leave yours, searching for any sign of pain, any reason to stop, but all he finds is an all-consuming need that mirrors his own.

You gasp as he fills you, the sensation overwhelming in its intensity. Each thrust is a promise, each withdrawal a sweet agony that makes you ache for more. You feel him everywhere, his heat seeping into your bones, his strength a comfort against the harshness of the world outside. And with every movement, the pain fades, replaced by a blossoming pleasure that makes your toes curl and your back arch.

Joel’s eyes never leave yours, his expression a mix of concentration and wonder. His strokes are deep, but measured, each one pushing you closer to the edge of something you’ve never felt before. You can feel your walls tighten around him, your body learning the rhythm of this new dance, this claiming that feels both primal and sacred.

As he moves, his hand slowly making it's way down, his thumb finding your clit and starting to rub it in slow, deliberate circles. It’s a gentle pressure, a sweet torment that builds alongside the ache of his cock moving inside you. You whimper, your eyes fluttering shut, as the sensations coil in your belly.

The cabin walls seem to close in around you, the only world that exists is the warmth of the fire, the sound of the storm, and the feeling of Joel’s body against yours. His hand on your clit is a steady beat, a reminder of the pleasure that’s growing, swelling with every stroke. You start to move with him, your hips rising to meet his, your body finding a rhythm that feels as old as time itself.

Joel’s breathing changes, gets heavier, and you know he’s close. His eyes are dark with lust, his mouth open in a silent groan, his body taut with the effort to hold back. You can feel the tension in his muscles, the way he’s fighting to keep it slow, to make sure you’re okay.

And then he’s not holding back anymore. His movements become more urgent, his hips snapping into you with a force that steals your breath. His hand on your clit moves faster, and you feel yourself teetering on the edge of something so big, so intense, it feels like it could swallow you whole.

Joel’s sounds are guttural, almost animalistic, a stark contrast to the tender whispers from before. His breathing is ragged, his face a mask of concentration and passion. His eyes are locked on yours, watching you, making sure you’re still with him, making sure you’re still okay.

You are more than okay. The sensations are overwhelming, but it’s a good kind of overwhelming, a kind that you never knew existed. Your body responds to his touch, his movements, like it’s been waiting for this all along. You feel yourself building up, climbing higher and higher, the pressure inside you growing, demanding release.

“Come for me, baby,” Joel murmurs, his voice thick with need. And it’s like the words are a key, unlocking something deep within you. Your body responds, your muscles tightening around him as pleasure crashes over you like a wave. Your back arching off the bed, your nails digging into his back. The world narrows to just the two of you, the storm outside a distant memory.

You come with a cry that’s muffled by his mouth, the taste of him on your tongue. He groans, his hips stuttering, and you feel his warmth fill you, his release a counterpoint to the cold outside. Your bodies are slick with sweat and passion, the fire casting flickering shadows across your skin.

Joel holds you tightly, his breath hot against your neck as he slows, his cock still buried deep inside you. His arms are like steel bands around your waist, his heart hammering against your chest. You can feel the tremors in his body, the aftershocks of his release.

For a moment, you both just lie there, breathing hard, the storm outside forgotten. Then, with a shiver, you realize how cold the room has become. Joel must sense it too, because he pulls back, his eyes searching yours. “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice rough with concern.

You nod, still feeling the aftershocks of pleasure coursing through your veins. He reaches over, grabbing the discarded blanket and draping it over both of you, tucking you into his side. His arms come around you, holding you close, and you snuggle into him, feeling more alive than you have in years.

Dividers by @strangergraphics

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pseudowho · 11 months ago

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"So, you go against the hairs...that's right...and then with the hairs..."

"...is-- is this right?"

"Mmm. Now, clean your blade..."

You pretended to tidy the bedroom, sneaking glances up to Kento, and Yuuji, stood shirtless at the bathroom sink. Both had thickly lathered faces, and sharp razors, examining their faces in the mirror with absolute precision.

Sshhhhick. Swshswshswsh. Shhhhick-ck-ck. Swshswshswsh.

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Peach fuzz.

"...and so anyway, I said to Fushiguro, shadows are great but sometimes you gotta just hit a guy..."

Kento listened, quiet, his mind always calculating several threads while mentoring Yuuji; yet, he was distracted. The old school corridor bathed in orange evening light, setting Yuuji's hair aflame, to coral in rocks. With Yuuji's nattering profile illuminated, the edges of his cheeks blurred from their usual sharp relief.

Fuzzy.

"...like, Kugisaki gets it, but she's like, just a bit feral and..."

Kento wondered if Yuuji had noticed. Kento recalled he only noticed, when his grandfather brushed his jaw with one clawed-over old hand, softly mocking Kento's furry scowl in lilting Danish. Kento's eyes lowered to the floor, counting his own steps and thinking in one, two, three and thoughtful on four, five, six.

"...Gojo's great but it's hard to learn from a guy who's that far out of my league, y'know? So--"

"Itadori-kun."

Kento had stopped, straightening his glasses, looking out onto suburban skyline. Yuuji stopped with him, inquisitive. A train rattled through, distant, splitting through the sunset. Kento looked back to Yuuji.

"It's important to look tidy, at work. Professional."

Yuuji raised his eyebrows, elbows rounded as he held his arms out, looking down at himself. He shot Kento a bashful smile, rubbing the back of his head.

Fuzzy peach.

"...ah-- yeah...guess I've always been a bit scruffy, huh? My grandad used to tell me I'd never get a job with hair like this."

Kento hummed. He stepped forwards, and raised one long-fingered, broad hand to gently grasp Yuuji's jaw, tilting it back and forth in the amber glow. Yuuji's bottom lip drew up, his eyes wide in surprise.

"...Nanamin?"

"Has anyone taught you how to shave, Yuuji?"

Yuuji blushed, his eyes flicking away from Kento in a mortified little scowl, his jaw still clasped. Kento released him, clearing his throat and checking his watch.

"I think we're finished up, here. Do you have any evening plans, Itadori-kun?"

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"If you need to go over an area again, get more shaving foam-- not that much-- and repeat the steps..."

"...this is...tricky..."

"With regular practice, you can improve any skill, Itadori-kun. Unless you'd like a beard, which still needs management, you'll be shaving every few days, or more."

"...you always...look so tidy..." swshswshswsh.

"It takes effort." Shhhick. Swsh.

"Yeah right. I bet you wake up like that. Tie and all."

A deep, rumbling laugh. Yuuji's foamy, surprised face, looking so boyish.

You slid past the bathroom. You pulled your phone out, surreptitiously clicking a photo. Kento and Yuuji, leaning over the sink while Kento steadfastly instructed him, became your new phone background, and stayed as such for a full year.

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"Took a lot of portions to send him to bed with a full tummy."

Kento chuckled at you, his hair mussed and soft. Legs crossed in bed, with a book on his lap, he read to the sound of soft snores in the guest bedroom next door. The lamplight, low and warm, illuminated Kento's face in the gloom.

Stubbly.

You reached a hand out, brushing across his jaw, feeling its sandpaper rasp across your fingers.

"I think you were so busy teaching Yuuji," you whispered, scratching Kento's chin as he crumpled his lower lip up, "that you missed some patches yourself. C'mere."

You stood, walking to the bathroom and sitting on the counter, grabbing a razor and shaving foam. Kento's eyes twinkled at you, feigning annoyance. He walked to you at the sink, looking straight into the bones of you. He grasped your thighs, pushing them apart before settling between them, chuckling again as you lathered his face.

Shhhhick. Swshswshswsh. Shhhick-ck-ck. Swshswshswsh.

You felt a growing pressure between your legs as you focused on shaving Kento's jaw. Kento fidgeted, pyjamas tight and tenting. You bit your lip, smirking.

"...Mr.Nanami. I am trying to concentrate."

"Mmm, so am I, but it's...hard."

"Yes. I can feel that."

Another deep rumble of a laugh. Kento grasped your thighs tighter, pressing forwards into you. You gasped, taking the razor from his face as Kento nuzzled shaving foam into your giggling neck.

"Don't stop." He whispered, a crooked smile on his lathered face. "Concentrate, please, Mrs.Nanami."

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thewulf · 4 months ago

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When the Laughter Stops || Jake "Hangman" Seresin

Summary: Request - I was wondering if you could do one with Jake Seresin where him and the reader are co workers (but they liked each other a lot and are idiots) and she flirts with him a lot, like constantly and he mostly just laughs it off but flirt back sometimes, but she suddenly stops one day and is very quiet and he's worried... Read Rest Here

A/N: Gosh I just love Jake. I really hope they make another TG movie with our boy in it <3 Thank you for the request @stuffingbuttsandshit

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Female Reader

Word Count: 3.3k+

T/W : Violation (Not Jake), Talk of Weapons, Talk of break in

Mornings at North Island always started the same way.

Your headset was already on, comms running smooth as you relayed flight data to Mav and the rest of the squadron. You had everything under control because that’s what you did. You were the best at what you did. And you knew it. You didn’t spend years at the Academy and across the country to be mediocre at your job. You were good and you knew it.

Jake Seresin knew it too.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” came the familiar, honey-dipped drawl over your shoulder before he even stepped into the control room. You grinned into your headset. He was right on schedule as always.

You didn’t turn around immediately instead letting the anticipation hang for a second longer before glancing over your shoulder. He was leaning against your desk, arms crossed over his chest, watching you with that insufferably handsome smirk that was as much a part of him as his damn callsign.

“Hangman,” you greeted, flashing him an easy smile. “Looking as sharp as ever. It must really be exhausting carrying around that much charm all the time.”

His smirk deepened as he took you in. “It is, actually darlin’. But I manage.”

You made a show of giving him a once-over. That green flight suit zipped halfway, dog tags resting against the fabric of his undershirt and that confidence oozing from every pore. Annoyingly attractive, you noted. Not that you’d ever admit it out loud. But damn, the man was hot as hell.

“Good thing I’m here to keep you humble,” you teased while tapping your earpiece as the radio crackled.

Jake leaned in slightly, just enough that you caught the faint scent of his aftershave. The scent curled through the air: rich sandalwood, and cedar laced with smoky vetiver and that deep warmth of amber and musk. Dark, refined, and impossible to forget. Just like man who wore it. And who was currently staring a hole in the side of your head.

“Oh, sweetheart, you don’t wanna do that. What would you flirt with if I wasn’t around?” He gave you a devious smirk as his eyes traced your face.

You arched a brow, lips curling. “Oh, I’d manage.”

He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head like you were something impossible. “Damn shame sweetheart.” This was the rhythm. The effortless push and pull. The game neither of you called by name but both played with unmatched skill.

“Seresin, you done harassing my officer?” Maverick’s voice cut in from across the room with nothing but amusement lacing in his tone.

Jake straightened slightly but didn’t look away from you. “Just making sure my sweetheart starts her day right, Mav.”

You shot Mav an eyeroll before turning back to Jake. “Aw, how sweet of you Jake.” You cooed at him.

Jake hummed, tilting his head. “Sweet’s not usually what they call me, darlin’.”

The way he said it, low and teasing, sent a thrill up your spine. But you didn’t let it show. Instead, you reached for the mission brief on your desk, casually brushing your fingers against his arm as you passed it to him.

“Guess I’m just special then,” you said with an easy grin.

His eyes flickered with something. Something unreadable. Something dangerous. But the moment passed as quickly as it had come.

“Guess you are,” he murmured. His voice softer this time.

And just like that, he was gone, heading out to brief with the others, leaving behind the faintest trace of his presence. You exhaled, shaking your head to yourself. Yeah. This was the rhythm. At least, it had been. Until everything changed.

Until last night.

Until you woke up to the sound of your front door creaking open.

Until you reached for the bedside drawer, heart pounding, breath shallow, fingers closing around the cold metal of the weapon you kept there. The weapon you dreaded ever having to use.

Until you saw him. A dark figure standing at the foot of your bed, a knife glinting faintly in the sliver of moonlight filtering through your curtains.

Your body had moved on instinct, years of training kicking in before fear could fully take hold. The moment you pointed your weapon at him, he hesitated just long enough for you to move. You sprang from the bed, voice sharp and unyielding, ordering him to back off. And then just as quickly as he had come he was gone. Like a wraith in the night.

The cops arrived minutes later but it didn’t matter. He was already long gone, leaving behind nothing but an overturned chair, a shattered sense of security, and the lingering imprint of fear in your bones.

You barely slept after that, sitting with your back to the wall, weapon still gripped tightly in your hands until the sun started to rise.

And now you were here, at work, trying to pretend like nothing had changed. But Jake knew you too well. So, when he walked into the control room, expecting your usual teasing grin, expecting the flirtation that had become second nature between you. He immediately noticed the difference. You were at your desk, headset on, posture stiff, eyes trained on the monitors like they held the secrets of the universe. No smirk, no playful roll of your eyes when he approached. No wink. No greeting.

And that was the first sign that something was very, very wrong.

Jake frowned, slowing his stride. He leaned against your desk, arms crossing over his chest in the same lazy way he always did, waiting for you to acknowledge him. Nothing.

He tilted his head. “Morning, sweetheart,” he drawled, watching for a reaction.

Your fingers stilled on the keyboard, just for a second, but then you resumed typing like you hadn’t heard him. His frown deepened. Okay. Maybe you were just busy. Maybe Mav had you swamped with flight schedules or logistics nightmares. Maybe.

But then he really looked at you.

Your usual fire, the effortless confidence that made your job look easy was gone. In its place was something tight, something controlled. He followed the subtle tension in your shoulders. The way your jaw stayed clenched even as you kept working. Something wasoff.

“You sick or somethin’?” Jake asked, lowering his voice, trying to meet your gaze.

You finally looked at him but the second your eyes met his you blinked quickly and dropped them again. “I’m fine,” you said too flatly. Too rehearsed. With no emotion in the usual boisterous voice of yours.

Jake’s stomach twisted. Bullshit. You weren’t fine. He knew fine, and this wasn’t it. But what he didn’t know was why. For the first time since meeting you, Jake felt the shift. The invisible wall you’d put up overnight, cutting him out without warning. And he hatedit. Where there should’ve been fire, there was only silence.

Jake tried to ignore it at first. Maybe you were just having an off day. Maybe you were tired. Maybe whatever had drained the light from your eyes would pass on its own.

But as the day dragged on, he knew that wasn’t the case. You barely spoke, sticking to clipped, professional responses when you had to interact with him or anyone else. You kept your head down, shoulders drawn in. It was so unlike you. It made his skin itch.

Then, when someone brushed past you in the hallway. Just a casual, harmless pass. You flinched. It was small, barely noticeable, but Jake saw it. And that was all it took. His blood ran cold. He knew that reaction. Had seen it before. And it sent every instinct he had into overdrive.

The rest of the day, he didn’t leave you alone. Not in a way that would spook you, but he made sure he was always nearby, always watching. You barely acknowledged him and that was the final crack in his patience. By the time your shift ended, he was donewaiting.

You had just stepped outside the hangar when he caught up to you. He moved fast enough that you had no choice but to stop. "Sweetheart," he said. And this time his voice wasn’t teasing, wasn’t lazy or smug. It was quiet. Steady. Serious.

You hesitated, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. “Jake, I—”

“Something’s wrong,” he cut in. His green eyes searching your face. “And I need you to tell me what it is.”

Your breath faltered. You didn’t answer right away but the way your gaze darted away. The way your lips pressed together like you were afraid to speak made his stomach twist. He softened, stepping closer, his voice dropping even lower. “Hey. It’s me, alright? Just me. You can tell me.”

You swallowed hard. And then finally your walls started to crack. “I—” You exhaled shakily, like forcing the words out might break you. “Someone broke into my house last night.”

Jake went still.

Your voice was barely above a whisper as you continued. “I woke up and he was just there. He had a knife… I think he would have tried to grab me. But I fought back, I scared him off but…” You sucked in a breath. Shaking your head unbelieving that this had even happened to you. “He ran before the cops got there. They haven’t found him. They won’t find him most likely.”

Jake’s fists clenched. His entire body went rigid. His jaw locking so hard it ached. Jesus Christ. The thought of you alone, terrified, fighting off some bastard in the middle of the night made his vision go red. He wanted to break something. No, he wanted to findthe bastard who did this. But right now, none of that mattered. Right now, you mattered.

Carefully he reached for you. His fingers grazing your wrist before he slid his hand fully over yours. His grip was firm, grounding. Warm.

“Jesus, darlin’,” he murmured. His voice tight, lethal with restrained fury but when he looked at you again all he let you see was the concern. The unwavering steadiness. “You’re safe now, okay? I promise you, you’re safe.” And for the first time all day, your body eased just a little. Just enough.

You weren’t sure who moved first. One second, you were standing there, raw and exposed with your confession hanging in the air between you. The next, Jake’s arms were around you, solid and steady, pulling you against his chest. And you let him. The moment his warmth surrounded you, the breath you had been holding all day broke free in a shaky exhale. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his flight suit, gripping tight, grounding yourself in him. Breathing in the woody scent that always seemed to coat him.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just held you. And God, you hadn’t realized how much you needed it until now. “I’ve got you,” he murmured. His voice a low, steady rumble against your ear. “You’re safe. No one’s scaring you again, I swear it.” You knew his words weren’t empty promises, weren’t meaningless reassurances. They were a vow.

Jake pulled back just enough to look at you, one hand lifting to cup the side of your face. His thumb brushing lightly along your cheek. “You’re not staying at your place alone tonight.” He said with such conviction.

You blinked up at him. “Jake—”

“Not a chance, sweetheart.” The smirk was there, but softer, missing its usual cocky edge. He tilted his head. “You really think I’m gonna walk away after what you just told me? Not a chance darlin’.” Your resolve wavered. You should tell him you’ll be fine. That you don’t need him hovering. But the idea of being alone in that house, of walking through those doors and feeling that fear claw at you again…

You swallowed hard and nodded. “I have a guest room,” you murmured. “You can take the guest room.”

Jake’s smirk deepened. “Whatever you say, darlin’. I’ll sleep on the porch if you want.” You smiled softly. Jake had a way of doing that for you. Charming bastard he was.

Jake didn’t waste a second when he got to your home. The second you stepped inside he was already moving. He checked the locks, testing the windows, making sure every single point of entry was secure. You stood off to the side watching as he knelt by your front door, brows furrowed in concentration as he worked to reinforce the deadbolt.

“You know,” you said while crossing your arms, “I could’ve called a locksmith for that.”

He glanced up, flashing you that signature Jake Seresin smirk. “Yeah, but then I wouldn’t get to prove to you that I’m useful outside the cockpit.” You rolled your eyes but for the first time all day there was the tiniest tug of amusement behind it. And Jake saw it. Reveled in it.

After he was satisfied that your place was Fort Knox-level secure, he finally let you settle. The tension still lingered, though thin, stretched tight under your skin. He noticed it in the way your shoulders stayed rigid. In the way your fingers curled slightly like you were bracing yourself for something.

So, he did the only thing he knew how to do.

He made you laugh.

You weren’t sure when the tension finally started to ease but at some point you found yourself curled up on the couch half-listening as Jake recounted some absurd training exercise where Phoenix had absolutely wrecked him in a dogfight.

“—I swear to God, I had her, I had her, and then at the last second, she pulls this insane move out of nowhere. Next thing I know, she’s behind me, cackling like a damn supervillain and I’m dead in the water.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “I bet she lovedthat.”

“Oh, she hasn’t shut up about it since,” Jake admitted, shaking his head in exasperation. “I’ll never live it down. Worst part is, Mav saw the whole thing. Didn’t even bother hiding the smug look.”

You let out a small laugh and Jake stilled. It was quiet, barely there, but it was real. His smirk softened, something shifting behind his eyes. For the first time ever, he really looked at you. Not just as the woman who sparred with him, who kept up with his banter, who never let him get the last word. But as you. The woman who had been terrified last night. The woman who had been shakentoday. The woman he never wanted to see rattled like that again.

You felt the shift too because your smile faded slightly. Your gaze flickering over his face like you were searching for something. Your voice was quiet when you spoke. “Thanks, Jake.”

His throat bobbed. The muscles in his jaw flexing like he was holding something back. He should’ve said something. Should’ve teased. Should’ve smirked and drawn out the moment. Should’ve eased you back into the comfort of your usual game. But he didn’t. Because this wasn’t the game anymore.

His hand lifted before he could stop himself. His fingers brushing along the side of your face. His thumb grazing your cheek so lightly, so gently, like he was afraid you might disappear if he wasn’t careful.

Your breath caught but you didn’t move away. Didn’t say a word. Couldn’t say a word. And then your eyes flicked down to his mouth just for a second, but long enough. Long enough for him to see it. To feelit.

His pulse kicked hard against his ribs, a slow, building pressure coiling in his chest, in his gut. Jesus. You wanted this. You wanted him. Just as much as he wanted you.

Something cracked wide open between you in that moment. Something unspoken but undeniable. Something that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long it was a wonder it hadn’t boiled over sooner.

Jake’s breath was warm against your skin as he leaned in, his nose barely brushing yours. Giving you the chance to back away if you wanted. He could feel the way you inhaled sharply. The way your fingers curled slightly into the fabric of your hoodie like you were holding yourself back.

His thumb traced the edge of your jaw. His voice dropping to something barely above a whisper. “Don’t thank me, darlin’.”

And without thinking, without second-guessing, without giving either of you a chance to step back. He kissed you. It was slow, like he had all the time in the world to memorize the way your lips felt against his. It was lingering, like he wasn’t sure if this was the first or the last time he’d get to do this. It wasn’t playful. Wasn’t teasing. It was real.

When he pulled back, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t awkward, wasn’t tense. It was heavy with something unspoken. With something waiting to be acknowledged. But instead of speaking Jake just gave you one last lingering look before pressing a softer barely-there kiss to your forehead. A silent promise. A quiet reassurance.

“Get some sleep sweetheart,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

The scent of fresh coffee pulled you from sleep. For a moment, you lay there, disoriented, blinking against the soft morning light filtering through your curtains. Your brain slowly caught up. You hadn’t made coffee. And there was only one other person in your house who would.

Jake.

You pushed back the covers and padded toward the kitchen. The wood floor cool against your bare feet. And there he was.

Jake Seresin stood at your stove pouring coffee into two mugs like he’d done it a hundred times before. His flight suit jacket was still draped over a chair, but he’d changed into the sweatpants you’d tossed at him last night. The fabric hanging low on his hips in a way that was far too distracting this early in the morning. His hair was still messy, slightly sleep-ruffled, and for some reason that made your stomach do something ridiculous.

He looked comfortable here. In your space. Like he belonged. And you liked it. Liked the way it looked. Liked the way he looked. God help you.

At the sound of your footsteps he turned, flashing you a grin. “Mornin’, sweetheart.” He held out a mug. “Figured you might need this.”

You crossed your arms but took it anyway, inhaling deeply before your first sip. Perfect. Of course, he makes perfect coffee, too. “Didn’t take you for a domestic type, Seresin,” you muttered, lifting an eyebrow. Trying your best to look annoyed but you were anything but that.

Jake smirked while leaning a hip against the counter. “You saying you expected me to sneak out before sunrise?”

You hummed, taking another sip. “Wouldn’t have been the first time a Navy pilot bailed on me.”

His smirk faltered just slightly. Just enough to make your lips twitch. “Not my style, sweetheart,” he said, shaking his head. Then after a beat he nudged your elbow. “You slept okay?”

The teasing had softened and the warmth in his voice caught you off guard. You hesitated, fingers curling around your mug, but the truth easily came this time.

“Yeah,” you admitted. “I did. I slept more than okay.” Because knowing he was just a room over made it easy to relax. Jake studied you for a second. His green eyes sharp, thoughtful, like he was making sure you meant it.

Satisfied, he clinked his mug against yours, smirk returning full force. “Good. ‘Cause I make a damn good bodyguard. But I make an even better breakfast. What’s it gonna be, sweetheart? Eggs or pancakes?”

You blinked. “You’re making breakfast too?”

Jake gave you a slow, lazy grin. “Oh, darlin’, you think I’m lettin’ you start your day without a full meal andmy charming company? Hate to break it to you, but you’re really bad at getting rid of me.”

You scoffed while shaking your head. “Unbelievable.”

“Charming,” he corrected, winking.

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips was impossible to fight, “Pancakes. I like my breakfasts sweet.”

He gave you that devilish grin, “Noted darlin’.”

And just like that. That something between you and Jake Seresin shifted. For good.

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lokisgoodgirl · 6 months ago

Text

Mine, Utterly [Loki x Reader]

A link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: After making Prince Loki a little jealous, he lays down the law on the eve of an important occasion. (w/c 2.1k) Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Smut. Minors DNI. Dirty talk, language.

Your hands hit the mattress and grasped at the silken sheets, as if that would save you.

“My Prince,” you gasped, breaths scorching against your lungs as he ripped the chiffon around your thighs.

All you’d done was smile at the guard. Okay, maybe flirt a little…just enough to rouse the jealousy Loki had suggested with a mischievous shine in his eyes before taking his place on the Royal banqueting dais.

A palm landed on your exposed ass cheek. Crying out, you shot a glance over your shoulder. Prince Loki stood, storms in his darkened eyes, the leather belt that had been slung across his chest now dangling from a fist. "You dare to make a god jealous?"

Your stomach dropped. What if it was a test; what if he was joking? But for all his antics, the Prince wasn’t known for his humour when it came to matters of the heart—or the flesh. He didn’t share, and as that thought sank in, the knuckles on the fist whitened. You inhaled sharply, grip tightening on the sheets.

Something struck your ass again, but this time it gripped. Loki’s back was pressed to yours. The emeralds studded into the intricately constructed doublet pinched through the thin fabric of your bodice as he whispered, “Perhaps I wasn’t clear that when you are mine, you are mine; utterly.”

His knuckles trailed down your bicep, those fingers that had been wet with your cum too many times to count in palace corridors and dark corners dancing across your skin. Those digits had fastened around your wrist and torn you away from the feasting hall, his obligations forgotten, and whisked you in an explosion of green light to the candlelit expanse of your own bedroom.

Now, Loki’s cock pressed through the layers of leather and velvet covering it right into the swell of your ass. It was a familiar feeling—but he’d always resisted. Only his fingers, his tongue, his words—that was the only relief he gave you over past months since your arrival at court. Never his pleasure—never his cock.

Norns, how you wanted to fuck him; wanted to ride him until his own name scattered on the wind like ash, feel him slam into your cunt until his brilliant mind was a blur of lines like wine spilled on parchment. You wondered how your name sounded on his lips when he came: staggered, gasping, choking for mercy.

His nose drew a line up your neck, inhaling at the pulse point like a hound. “You are mine, aren’t you?” he murmured.

In answer, your hand slid up his temple and knotted into Loki’s hair. A growl built in his throat, swelling your confidence in time with the heat throbbing between your legs. “No more, and no less, than you are mine, Loki Odinson.”

His teeth sank into your shoulder, just enough to make you squirm against his cock. He spun you around, tipping your over the edge of the mattress while he towered in a silhouette of black and forest green pulsating in amber flickers.

His fingers made quick work of the laces at his groin and then, his legendary, iron cock was in his hand. It was even more perfect that you’d dreamed. A well of saliva rose indelicately beneath your tongue. Loki stroked it, back and forth, as you watched: hypnotised.

“Tonight, I will show you what it is to be mine,” he said, low and thicker than molasses on a winter’s eve. “After that, I’m afraid you will be ruined for all others…” A devilish smirk lit at the corners of his mouth. Your heart pounded as you sat up on the bed, trying frantically to untangle the dress sprawled around your hips. Loki’s knees hit the mattress.

"Allow me," he said, before ripping the dress from your body in one, swift movement.

Your eyes widened as it fluttered to the floor. Only the corset remained. "My Prince…I," you said, attempting to keep the game fluid; but Loki pressed a finger to your lips with a hush. It was still warm from the friction of his cock.

"We have talked long enough, you and I. I would very much like to fuck you…" His eyebrows rose. "I will, fuck you. I will have you; utterly."

As the final syllable melted, so did his clothes. The emerald encrusted doublet was first, then the sigils of his station, then the boots and—oh, gods—the leather trousers.

Your chest tightened at the sight of him: carved like marble, the tremor of his muscle beneath taut skin as he rested back on his heels, thighs spread, enough to make you howl. Loki’s chin dipped to his chest, unbound hair falling around his milky shoulders like hot tar over battlements. His cheekbones flashed in pulsing candlelight as he said with a touch of malice, "I will not be kept waiting. Not anymore," but his eyes glinted.

You crawled the space between you and hoisted onto his lap. With your arms around his neck, your bare cunt pressed against the throb of his flesh, you couldn’t imagine it ever not being thus. And then, you kissed him; one sliding into the next like spring into summer, like night into day.

Loki’s kisses were a medley of ravenous restraint; morphing like his magic between complete desperation and tenderness. His hands cupped your ass, scooting you further up his lap. The tip of his cock rubbed against your slit.

"I want to consume you," he whispered, lips wet from your kisses. "And you will never be anothers."

"Never." A ragged moan ripped the air as you sank onto his length. Loki’s groan of pleasure was everything you’d dreamt of—a primal flash beneath the regal façade you wanted to tear at with your bare hands. His chin tipped back, nailing you with his dilated stare as his hips pushed up.

"Loki," you gasped, clutching at his back muscle. He was huge. The Prince bottomed out, teeth clenching.

"You’ve no idea how much I craved this little cunt," he panted as your hands fisted in his hair. "How many times I’ve wanted to pin you against the wall and fuck you until all thoughts of other men were shaken from your mind forever."

The squelch of your pussy jammed with his cock punctuated every word. "How you’ve teased me, played with me; ruined me—all for the want of the Valhalla I knew would be between your legs."

Loki’s head fell back with broken cry of anguish as you clench around the root of his cock, dragging up before slamming down onto the meat of his thighs.

“Fuck, kvinne…now I find myself tricked…” he said, breathless. The god’s head rose, strands of sex damp hair plastered across his brow. "I want you more than ever."

His eyes narrowed, and then his lips collided to yours, tongue demanding entry with the sureness of a tide on the shore. His nails dug into the curve of your waist, guiding your hips. Every gyration made new sparks burst to life, sizzling from your clit to the deepest parts of your body and mind that had never been so alive.

“I will never be sated,” Loki growled, thrusting faster, “Never…never.” With a rumble, he flipped you onto your back. Loki’s lips worked down the hard sinews of your neck, sucking against supple skin, palming your breasts upward. He was possessed. Loki’s name was a chant in your throat, the absence of his cock inside you becoming unbearable.

"Fuck me," you whined, and Loki looked up from where he’d been distracted with your nipple between his teeth.

“Ruined for all others,” confirmed Loki, smirking. He crawled over your body, settling his legs on either side and drawing the leaking head of himself through your sopping folds. “Beg for it.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Beg…my pretty, pretty whore.” Loki’s lips grazed across your cheek like wind through barley; a short, trembling sigh flooding your ear.

“Maybe you’re my whore, Odinson. Did you consider that?”

His thick cock twitched against your heat as he stared down at you with your perfectly styled hair mussed, your thighs spread, your lips bitten and stinging, before he whispered, “I consider everything.” Dark curls hung down either side of his jaw, framing the angle of his jawline as he licked his lips and settled into a cage around your head. The muscles of his forearms twitched with the effort of not fucking you into the mattress. The words bubbled in your throat, spilling forth before you could second guess them. “Well, if you’re my whore, then satisfy me.”

“Tell me you’re mine.” Those words shaped his tongue like summer storms. “And you will have everything you desire; always.”

You scraped hair back from his face, the beat of his heat thumping through his skin. His hips dragged against your clit, making your knees tighten around his ribs. “I’m yours,” you whispered, “Utterly.” Loki’s cock squeezed inside, and his face twisted in relief absolute. One of his hands flew to the ornate headboard; whacks of ancient wood against stone sounding with every thrust. His pubic hair dragged against your swollen clit, moans mingling with the fragrance of sweat and sex that clung to your bodies and rose like steam.

The god knew your body like you thought only you did, and every grip of his hands, shift of his hips, work of his mouth—you couldn’t catch your breath. His lust was the chop of waves, drowning you on the undertow of his strength, and scent and the hair brushing your lips as he fucked you. You never had a chance. Need scorched up your skin as climax broke. It flooded through your body, Loki’s name a rattle in your throat as his exhales of pleasure pounded in your ear. He hissed as fingernails dragged down the wide expanse of his back, the slide of his cock primal and wet, balls smacking against cum-slick skin.

The prince’s thrusts slowed, rocking you through the final threads of orgasm stringing you together. You gaped at him, heavy eyed and open mouthed as his torso rose between your legs, his palms splayed on your thighs, his abdomen flexing with every glacial, devastating thrust.

Loki’s head fell back, his black curls a sheet down the faint flush of pale skin.

The veins in his neck hardened, jaw clenched to the ceiling as deep lines settled on his brow. Your breath hitched.

Every glide of his cock was met by the gluttonous squelch of your cum. Loki rocked on his heels, guiding himself over the edge inside your perfect cunt.

“Gods,” he choked to the murals above the bed. And then, he came.

His face screwed up as the wave hit was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen. Loki’s groan trembled through your skin, beneath your flesh and vibrating your bones. His fingers tightened, and you knew that tomorrow your gown would hide the evidence of obsession marked in blue and purple shadows of devotion.

Devotion, you thought lazily as he gasped out the syllabled of your name and collapsed on your chest; meeting your lips with open mouthed enthusiasm.

Somewhere, a bell tolled. Loki sighed, slipping himself out of you with a mutter of irritation. He clicked his fingers, and the elaborate garb assembled on him like a blossom of ink. His lip curled. “The next time I see you, it will be in white.”

“Mmm…” “And yet they will have no clue what a fantastically depraved wretch for me that my intended is.” “I think they might know that already if the maids who caught you pleasuring me in the kitchens last week weren’t mute—and besides, perhaps they’ll just think my intended is a bad influence.”

“Gods, I hope so,” Loki murmured against your skin before biting your cheek softly, melting into a kiss. “Until tomorrow, then.” Loki drew away, his eyes serious but a small smile playing at his lips. “When you’re my wife, you shall never be rid of me.” “Gods, I hope so,” you echoed, and in the space of a heartbeat, Loki vanished.

Tags in comments! 🤗

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cherryyluvs · 2 months ago

Note

Hey, I really loved your mark bar fanfic I was wondering if you could write one where it takes place in the university but instead of a bar it’s a party and Mark can’t help it but get jealous and possessive of you. And if you don’t mind, can you probably make it smutty? I’m so down bad for that man. 😊🫣

Ask and you shall receive 😏🔥 Jealous Mark at a party? Oh, it’s about to get real messyyy ,

Never written smut before so this is my first time. Understandable if you dont like this. ill rewrite it😘😛

CONTENT WARNINGS + afab reader, smut, mature language, explicit adult content

Lewd Lovers’

The pounding music vibrating the walls and floor. People were everywhere, packed into every corner of the house. Laughing, talking, the scent of alcohol mixed with sweat.

And the faint smell of cigarette smoke in the air.

You’d excused yourself from william and amber.

“I shouldn't even be here” You think to yourself while stepping away for a second. Going down the dark hallway towards the quieter side of the house.

Just to breathe.

Just to think

And before you even realized Mark was already there.

“When did he get here?”

He grabbed your wrist as you passed by, you barely had time to turn around before he pulled you into the shadows. Down the hallway and into a dark corner beneath the staircase

“Mark–”

He was already pinning you against the wall, one hand to the side of your waist. His gaze was sharp and focused on you and only you.

You noticed him checking you out,

The way that deep V-neck provided a perfect view of your breasts, and that stupid mini skirt showing off your legs.

“What are you doing? You whispered in shock.

“Can’t stand seeing those pricks eye-fucking you out there” Mark snarled, his eyes staring into yours.

“Every dumbfuck in that room thinks they’ve got shot with you.”

You let out a shaky breath, heart beating fast. As Mark’s fingers dug into your hips.

“Mark you know–” you paused, feeling the hard bulge of his cock against his jeans, the heat of it seeping into your thighs.

Mark couldn't help it.. But the need to touch you, to fill you, to claim you as his.

“I cant fucking standing it anymore.” he groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck, slowly placing sloppy kisses on your neck.

His teeth then start nipping at your lower lip, his other hand gripping your jaw. Tilting your head back to deepen the kiss as his knee pressed more in between your legs.

You pull back from the kiss breathing heavily.

“Mark.. someone could see us”

But Mark didn't seem to care and focused on claiming your mouth and body.

Mark slid his hand under your skirt, his fingers touching your inner thigh. Slowly going up until he felt the damp fabric of your panties. Pushing them aside and going into your slick folds.

“You’re so wet for me already” he coos into your ear. His fingers rubbing along your slit before circling your sensitive clit. He pushed in two fingers knuckle deep into your pretty pussy.

Pumping them in and out at a slow and steady rhythm.

Teasing till you were trembling with the need of more. He could feel your slick walls fluttering around his fingers.

“Mark–!”

“That's it, baby. Let me hear how much you want it” His thumb pressing circles against your throbbing clit.

Mark captured your pink glossy lips, swallowing your moans and whimpers.

The risk of being caught only heightened his arousal, showing everyone who you belonged to.

Mark’s finger plunged deeper, stretching and hitting that magical spot inside of you, your walls clenching around his finger. Drawing him in further

“Fuck you’re dripping so much” he groaned against your lips.

“Such a little needy thing aren't you ?”

“Bet you've been thinking about my cock all day, imagining how good it would feel splitting you open.”

He pumped his fingers harder, faster , you threw your head back and saw stars from how good it felt. The wet sloppy sound of your pussy and lewd moans filled the air, his palm grinded against your clit with each thrust.

With a low groan , Mark removes his fingers from your wet swollen cunt. Ignoring your whine of protest he quickly undid his jeans.

“I'm gonna make you mine, right here where anyone could catch us.”

The sight of you - cheeks flushed , lips swollen from his kisses.. Makes him go feral.

Putting your legs around his hip. His cock sprang out of his boxer, bright pink tip with pre-cum leaking.

“Beg for it, baby. I wanna hear those pretty lips tell me how desperate you are for my cock”

“Mark, I–... I'm yours.” your breath hitches as you slowly feel him push his tip inside.

He began to push forward slowly, letting you adjust to his size as he sank deeper inch by inch.

“Ah! Fuck, Mark.” Whimpering as you clutched onto him, wrapping your legs around his waist tighter.

“Nngh~", so tight... Like this sweet little pussy was made just for my cock.” The feeling of your velvety walls clenching around him was indescribable. Growing tighter by the second as your climax approached.

The sound of your moans roused Mark, urging him to increase his pace. his hips slamming against yours, cock hitting deeper and deeper into you, The obscene slap of skin on skin, the way your pussy shaped his cock. Mingling with your moans and cries of ecstasy.

Mark could feel your walls start to quiver and spasm around his cock, And you could feel his cock pulsing and twitching as both you and his orgasm finally overtook, your cries muffled from under his hand.

Slowly, Mark pulled out of you, watching with a smug grin as a trickle of his cum followed, dribbling down your inner thigh. <333

#invincible #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson #n/s/f/w #smut #jealousmark #FIRST TIME WRTITING SMUT #love this man #what a guy #invincible x reader #invincible season 3

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faint-taste-of-almonds · 4 months ago

Text

I like the idea of there being something a little sharper about Zaunites.

Jayce often turns around to find Viktor much closer than he had thought, even being able to hear the tapping of his cane. During late nights in the lab, his amber eyes burn violently in the blue glow of the hexgems. On the rare occasion he blinks, Jayce can swear they appear reflective, like a cat’s. Just tricks of the light and the mind.

Mel’s skin rises the first time Jayce brings Viktor to a Council meeting. They’ve met before, of course, but there’s something immovable in his grip when she shakes his hand, touching him for the first time. Viktor smiles ingenuinely, almost mockingly, at something Salo says, and his teeth are a tad sharp. Mel has grown up around war, around danger, but it had always come for her head on. In Piltover, it came in the form of ruining reputations or profits. She wonders how thoroughly Viktor could ruin someone before they even realized he was there. She dreams of wolves and foxes that night, and from a tree, the ember-bright eyes of a lynx watches, waiting for the other predators to tear each other apart.

Vi likes to climb. Caitlyn knows this, though she supposes she didn’t really think about it. It’s almost beautiful to watch, really — the agile switches, the power thrumming beneath Vi’s skin like she might burst from it. Vi maneuvers through the rooftops of Zaun as easily as breathing. Sometimes, Caitlyn’s own breath will catch when the jump looks too far, too much, then Vi’s hand will catch the ledge without fail and she can huff a laugh. She ignores how many distances Vi has crossed that shouldn’t be crossable. Like a cat, a Zaunite will always land on their feet.

Ekko seems to move quite strangely, Heimerdinger thinks. Though, he’s never truly paid close attention to human movements, the boy seems to traverse without the normal effect of gravity, as if he simply never dismounted his hoverboard. It was far too smooth, far too even — it took a considerable time for Heimerdinger to put his finger on it. As they discover the sickness of the tree, the pattern changes. Ekko glitches sometimes, staying in one place for too long before seemingly being sling-shot through space, appearing somewhere else without having gotten there. A mystery for later, he supposes.

Silco feels like a condensation of all Zaun’s noxious gases, perhaps with a vein of Shimmer added for realism. Marcus feels like his lungs are clouding just from being around him, getting the urge to cough out the pollution. Silco is the grimy cracks, the perpetually-wet streets, the sunken ribs and track marks of every body slumped on every street. His voice curls around Marcus like a snake, squeezing tighter and tighter until the fear and the threats are the only things left in his brain. Yet, Silco sits calmly, always far too still. Sometimes his scar appears to splinter in front of Marcus’s eyes. When he tucks his daughter in a night, he wonders about what kind of monster might slip, unheard, through the cracks of her window.

There’s always been Something in the air in Zaun. The water too. Really, can one be surprised at the consequences?

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solxamber · 2 months ago

Note

Ruggie, Romantic, 'Shoot another shot, try to stop the feeling' - Good Luck Babe, Chappell Roan

Good Luck, Babe! || Ruggie Bucchi

𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭

𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠: Good Luck, Babe! by Chappell Roan

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 800

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: Angst with a happy ending

Ruggie’s good at pretending things don’t get to him.

He’s got a sharp tongue, a quick grin, a way of brushing things off like nothing sticks. That’s how he’s always been—scrappy, slippery, never holding on too tight.

But when he loves, he loves.

And that’s why this—you—hurts like hell.

You’re across the room, laughing too loud at something someone else said. Some nobody with an easy smile and hands that land where Ruggie’s should be.

He tips his glass back and drinks.

Yeah. Maybe if he drinks enough, he won’t feel the way his heart clenches every time your eyes skim over him like he’s just another face in the crowd.

It shouldn’t hurt like this. He knew what this was.

You were never his to keep.

You never called him yours, never let the nights you spent tangled up together mean anything more. And he let you. Played along, acted like it was all just a good time, because he figured that was better than nothing.

Better than losing you completely.

But watching you now, seeing you throw yourself into someone else’s arms like it’s nothing, like you don’t feel the same hollow ache he does—

It makes him want to break something.

Instead, he takes another drink.

The bartender glances at him, like they’ve seen this a hundred times before. Like they know the story by heart. Some poor bastard drinking his way through heartbreak, hoping liquor will do what common sense couldn’t.

“Another?”

Ruggie exhales slowly, tapping his fingers against the bar.

What’s one more?

One more drink. One more excuse. One more second pretending he’s not stupidly, hopelessly in love with someone who won’t ever let themselves love him back.

The bartender sets a fresh glass in front of him.

Ruggie picks it up, rolling it between his fingers. His reflection stares back at him in the amber liquid—eyes too tired, lips pressed into something too tight to be a smirk.

You used to tease him about his bad habits. "You drink like it’s gonna fix something."

He used to laugh.

Now, he just takes another sip and lets the bitter taste sit on his tongue.

"One more, and then I’m done."

But he knows it’s a lie.

Because no matter how many shots he takes, no matter how many times he tells himself to let you go—

It’s still you. Always you.

The bar is too loud, the air too thick, and he feels like he’s suffocating. The next sip tastes like regret, but that’s never stopped him before. He grips the glass tighter, mutters something under his breath, and wonders how long it’ll take before the ache in his chest turns numb.

Then—

"Ruggie?"

Your voice.

He barely has time to register it before you’re slipping onto the stool beside him, brows furrowed, eyes sharp with something that looks a hell of a lot like concern.

“What’s happening?”

He scoffs. “Nothin’.”

You don’t buy it.

You glance at the half-empty glass in his hand, then at the others he’s already worked through. Your lips press together, and Ruggie knows he’s in trouble—not in the fun, reckless way he usually is, but in the you’re about to make me say things I don’t wanna say way.

You tilt your head, studying him.

He looks away.

"You drink like you hate your liver," you mutter. "Since when do you do that?"

Since you.

Since tonight.

Since the moment he realized this whole thing—you and him—was never gonna be more than stolen moments and cheap thrills.

He sets the glass down. “Ain’t nothin’ to worry about.”

"Ruggie."

It’s not the usual playful tone you use when you tease him. It’s softer, closer, and gods, it makes something inside him snap.

The words spill out before he can stop them.

“I love you.”

Silence.

Ruggie exhales sharply, runs a hand through his hair like that’ll somehow fix this colossal mistake. He laughs, but it sounds hollow. “There. You happy? Ya got me.”

Then, you laugh.

And—okay, that’s not the reaction he was expecting.

He gapes as you shake your head, something exasperated and fond in your eyes. Then, before he can ask what the hell is so funny, you’re grabbing his wrist, tugging him off the stool.

“Alright, that’s enough of this,” you say, dragging him toward the exit.

“Hey—what—? Where are we—?”

“Home.”

“Home?”

"Yeah. Because who else, if not you?"

The words hit him harder than any drink ever could. He stumbles a bit, blinking at you like he’s not sure if he’s hallucinating.

You glance at him, smile curling at the edges of your lips. “You idiot. I love you too.”

The world spins a little. Not from the alcohol, not from the exhaustion, but from that. From you.

And suddenly, for the first time all night, Ruggie doesn’t feel like he needs another drink.

Masterlist ; Valentine's Event

#ˋ°•*⁀➷ valentine's event #twst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #ruggie bucchi x reader #ruggie x reader #twst ruggie #ruggie bucchi #ruggie

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le-fruit-de-la-passion · 3 months ago

Note

Viktor with 98, 71 (public), 17 (breasts, ass and thighs) and 44 please

What happens underwater... - Viktor x Reader

Summary: There’s nothing quite as relaxing as a nice, quiet morning at the spa; but Viktor really enjoys making things more challenging for you.

Pairing: Viktor x Reader

Word Count: 2.6K

Warning: Explicit (PwP)

Tags: Cockwarming, Exhibitionism, Public Sex, Jacuzzi Sex, Lap Sex, Dom/Sub dynamics, Viktor Has a Big Cock, Curvy!Reader

Collection: ❤️🌹Peach’s Arcane Valentine's Day 2025❤️🌹

Notes: First work of my personal Arcane Valentine's Day Event for 2025! I definitely went way overboard for a one-shot that was supposed to be around 1K max (and it will absolutely happen again 🤡), but I’ve been dreaming of writing a jacuzzi fic for Viktor for SO long, I knew exactly what I wanted to write for this. Anyway, enjoy, sweethearts 💕!!

“Ahh…” you moan wantonly when your legs enter the warm water, feeling the tension in your muscles vanish with the clouds of steam.

“Careful,” Viktor smirks, already seated in the large whirlpool. He's settled in quite comfortably, lithe arms resting on the cool, faux marble edge. “We would not want other visitors to think we are doing anything… inappropriate here.”

You throw him a mocking glare, making it a point to let out an even louder moan of satisfaction once your body is fully submerged in water, closing your eyes. It's heavenly: the closed room is equipped with low, dim lights, creating the illusion of being surrounded by dozens of candles. The smell of eucalyptus in the air is calming and familiar, filling your nostrils with a comforting herbal scent. Even the gentle wiring sound of the bubbling water jets is pleasant—a low, rhythmic rumble that echoes through you, dissolving the tension in every muscle.

“And that's why I booked a Tuesday morning spot,” you reply with a deep inhale, letting the perfume of the essential oils tickle your nose. Your eyes flutter open slowly, a lazy grin spreading across your lips as you glance over at him “There’s no one else here. Just us.”

The way his amber eyes twinkle with amusement leaves no doubt; he understands the implication very clearly.

Neither quite walking nor swimming, you drift towards him, the water guiding your movements until your legs brush softly against his. Leaning forward, you kiss him softly, leisurely, and he responds in kind, without any urge or signs of hurry. Had you known that a simple visit to the spa was all it took to dissolve his relentless need to be productive, you would have brought him here the day you met.

You pull away, just enough to let your breath ghost over his face, cocking your head impishly.

“Is there any space left for me to sit?” you wonder out loud with a playful grin.

He hums, pretending to be deep in thought as he looks around the completely empty room.

“I am not quite sure we can accommodate you. I will discuss with the rest of my large group of hydrotherapy enthusiasts, and we will come back to you with an answer in…” he pauses to look at an imaginary watch on his wrist, glancing up mockingly, “… five to ten business days.”

You snort, splashing him with some water to retaliate, and he laughs as he raises an arm to protect his face. It’s a contagious sound, that laugh—the kind that makes you feel light and bubbly, and that leaves you with a craving for more. You can't help kissing him again, this time messier, your tongues caught in a languid and drowsy battle of dominance.

Viktor always tastes sweet, the usual, intimate flavour of his morning sweet milk and jam toast lingering in his mouth. He’s addictive, and you’re insatiable. The thought that you want to indulge in him like dessert, to devour him, is roaring in the back of your mind persistently; but the warmth surrounding both of your bodies is making you too lethargic to quicken the pace. Instead, you opt for making the kiss more wet, pressing your chest against his.

He sighs in approval against your lips. Few things can weaken Viktor's steely focus, especially when he’s working, but your breasts are certainly one of them. He’s coy about it, but he never misses an opportunity to touch them, to rest his head on them after a hard day, to knead them with his fingers to feel their weight and hear you cry for him. The curves of your body never fail to unravel him.

He's slightly breathless when you pull away, his face tinted a pretty shade of red, highlighting just a hint of pale freckles on his cheeks. You'd make a sly remark about it, and the adorable boyish look they give him, but he'd blame it on the heat—prideful as he is.

“Would you look at that,” he comments, voice almost a sigh, eyes sparkling with hypnotic wit. “It would appear a special spot has opened up for you, right here.”

He nods casually to his lap, abandoning any pretence of innocence, and you don't hesitate for a second. You settle onto his thighs, your legs tucking snugly behind his back, locking you in place with effortless intimacy. Viktor has always revelled in the weightlessness of water, in how effortlessly his limbs move in its embrace. More than that, he loves how it lets him hold you in ways he never could on solid ground—the full weight of your body resting on his, your ass seated comfortably against his crotch.

“Lucky me,” you smile as you wrap your arms around him, the tip of your fingers tracing the sharp shapes of his back expertly. The valleys of faded scars, the slight hint of pedicle screws underneath his skin, the star-like clusters of moles—it’s all so familiar to you, a work of art you’ve studied with your touch dozens, no, hundreds of times. His hands find your waist with the same practiced ease, beckoning you closer.

It's so rare to have him like this, so wholly yours, without the weight of looming deadlines and the relentless pressure for success he places on himself. You want to enjoy this moment to its full extent, savour each second, sink into him like the notion of time itself has dissolved in these temperate waters.

But the need to enjoy him and his body to their full extent is greater; you start lightly grinding against him, letting the tidal motion of the jets bring you back and fort.

“I… am beginning to feel like you may not have brought me here out of the purest of intentions,” he smirks, voice low, his hands smoothly gliding under the fabric of your swimsuit. He squeezes the fat of your ass almost punishingly, sinking into your skin. “I thought this was meant to help my joint pain.”

“You're one to talk,” you raise an eyebrow challengingly. You grind down against him once, hard—and he immediately curses under his breath.

He loves to pretend that nothing ever gets to him, that he’s untouchable beneath his carefully crafted composure. But you know better. You know him. And right now, his body can’t keep up with the pretense that he’s unaffected: his already half-hard cock is poking you insistently under his swim trunks, and he’s not petty enough to try and deny it.

“And since when can't you multi-task?” you grin with satisfaction.

He scoffs, like he’s almost insulted, but the smile tugging on his lips sings a different tune.

“You are incorrigible,” he reprimands you, his fingers digging assertively into your supple flesh; you can tell you’ll find dark bruises there in the shapes of his digits tomorrow. A familiar pull, deep in your lower stomach, begins to make itself known, and you whine pitifully to encourage him to press harder.

“But…” he adds nonchalantly, “I did come here to relax, and I intend to do just that.”

He releases his grip on your cheeks, and you let out an indignant moan of protest. Yes, it's pathetic and shameless, but no one else is here to hear how easily you’re always ready to beg for him. And Viktor loves hearing you beg.

He tuts at your eagerness, one hand coming up to hold your chin, touch gentle, but firm, dominant, golden stare burning into you.

“I have never said you could not help me relax.”

Thank fucking God—because if the heat of the scalding vapour hadn’t made you implode soon, the cruel lack of his length inside you would have finished the job. Could anyone blame you? There’s hardly any other place in the world more steeped in romance and sensuality than a jacuzzi, the air thick with warmth and electricity. And with how Viktor's sharp gaze never draws far from your generously revealing bikini top, you know he wants you just as much as you want him.

The cherry on top? There's no one else here to prevent him from fucking you utterly stupid right inside the whirlpool.

You slide the bottom of your swimsuit to the side with little ceremony, giving his roaming hand easier access under the water. The first finger feels intimate and cozy as it pushes in, and you'd hump it with abandon if it wasn't for Viktor's other hand holding your thigh down decidedly. He seems to find your squirming amusing, toying with your walls as he observes every little tremor that goes through your body.

“Viktor…c'mon on…” you complain. You know he can feel the oily texture of lube inside you, that he can easily tell you've prepared yourself specifically for this, but the teasing has always been his favourite part, and he doesn't seem willing to part ways with it now.

“Why the hurry? Are we not allowed to stay here for another two hours?” he asks, irony laced in his voice as the long finger curves inside you with precision, and hits a peculiarly sensitive spot. You pressed your lips closed, refusing to give him more ammunition.

“So you can fuck me for the next two hours, that’s why,” you argue, biting, and he raises his free hand in surrender, the cockiness evident in his features.

“Well, who am I to deny you?

His finger vanishes almost instantly, leaving you with a vague, aching emptiness, but the promise of what you truly want coming next. His expectant gaze and deliberate stillness make it clear—he’s waiting for you to do all the heavy lifting while he simply enjoys the moment, in total control, without ever moving a muscle.

And you do just that, without a word of protest, because there’s nothing you wouldn’t do for him when he looks at you with those honeyed eyes and that syrupy smile. Maneuvering quickly, you lower your thong with one hand and bring his cock out of his swimming shorts with the other, stroking his length with a firm grip as you align it with your warmth. He hums, pleased, his eyes fluttering close, and you take it as a sign to forgo any additional foreplay.

You moan in unison when he finally enters you, the stretch pleasantly different underwater than above, like the warmth makes you looser and easier to penetrate. When he’s fully inside you, the thickness of your ass flushed against his bony hips, there isn’t a single doubt in your mind this is a place you were always meant to be. In this city, in this spa, in this whirlpool, sitting on this man’s lap and filled with his cock.

Fuck, you want him. You really, really want him.

With a shaky breath, you place your hands on the solid edge behind him, ready to start bouncing up and down his length with abandon, when suddenly the sharp sound of knocking echoes through the room.

The both of you freeze, Viktor’s eyes shooting open.

A second knock. A third.

“Hello?” comes a man’s voice from the other side of the door. You gape at the thankfully still-closed entrance, your breath caught in your throat. Panic spikes through you as you whip your gaze to Viktor—only to find him utterly unfazed, his expression unreadable, as if the thought of being caught like this is of no concern to him at all.

Before you get a chance to move off him, Viktor’s hands grip your thighs, pointedly holding them down against him. You look at him with a mixture of confusion and apprehension, but his eyes hold yours challengingly, dark and lustful.

“Stay on my lap,” he whispers, voice deep.

“Viktor-” you begin, but he kisses the rest of the sentence away.

“Relax,” he shushes you, the word comforting, but his tone nothing short of a clear order. A steady hand guides your head into the crook of his neck, shielding your face from view. His voice dips lower, quiet but firm. “Don't move until I say you can.”

There’s no time left for debate; you close your eyes and bury your face deep against Viktor as you hear the door to the room slide open.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” resonates the loud voice of an older man from the entryway, the raspiness of cigarette smoke audible in his speech. “I didn’t think there’d be anyone this early, I can come back later.”

Viktor must sense how you've stiffened against him at the mere sound of the man’s voice, his fingers massaging the fat of your thighs reassuringly. You're paralyzed with fear, but you exactly deny the electric feeling that’s coursing through your body as you clench tightly around Viktor's cock, and chances are, he’s very aware of it. You can hear the smirk in his tone when he speaks up.

“No, no, there is no need for that,” Viktor replies smoothly, his tone as effortlessly composed as ever. “My jacuzzi partner has fallen quite deeply asleep. I would enjoy some light conversation.”

Oh, you piece of shit. You curse him mentally, your heart pounding in your throat. He’s effectively cut off any chance of escape, trapping you in this cruel, maddening game. The dim lighting, the bubbling jets, the shifting water—there’s almost no way the stranger could see anything beneath the surface. Almost. And that’s exactly the thrill Viktor is playing with.

It’s not about certainty; it’s about the maybe—the razor-thin chance that you could get caught if you so much as shift, if you make even the faintest sound. And that knowledge, the unbearable tension of it, is exactly what he’s savouring. You feel him throb against your walls, clearly pleased with the way the situation is unfolding as you hear the stranger’s footsteps draw closer to the whirlpool. You hear the faint splash of movement, then feel it—the ripple of the water shifting around you as the man steps in. Your breath stills, every nerve in your body on high alert, yet Viktor stays maddeningly still, as if he’s about to engage in a friendly little chat and not balls deep inside you right underneath the surface.

He's effortlessly turned you into a glorified cockwarmer, a pretty cocksleeve who can do nothing, but take him silently as he begins casually chatting with the older man. He’s a fucking evil genius.

“Nothin’ better to relax than this, that’s what I always say,” the stranger boasts. “I can stay hours without moving a muscle.”

Viktor hums, thoughtful, his grip just a little firmer, as if you needed any more reminders that he’s completely in control of you right now. “Actually, that sounds like a nice idea,” he muses, his voice smooth, lazy. “I think I will try doing that myself.”

You can’t see the expression on his face, but really you don’t need to. You can feel the amusement radiating from him, the twitching of his rock-hard cock deeply nestled into you. And as the stranger settles in, oblivious, you realize that Viktor has absolutely no intention of letting you move anytime soon.

🌸 Taglist Darlings 🌸: @soniiyi , @mischievous-piltovan, , @luv-urself-first, @girlidkthinkofsmth , @starflesh-moth , @raynoway , @just1cefor4ll , @lovebugintardis

Tip a Coffee ☕: ko-fi.com/lefruitdelapassion

#viktor x reader #viktor x reader smut #arcane viktor x reader smut #arcane viktor x reader #viktor arcane #arcane viktor #arcane smut #arcane #viktor arcane x reader #valentines day #Arcane Valentine's Day 2025 #viktor x you #my asks #mine #my requests #my writing

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mead-iocre · 7 months ago

Text

La Castanyada | Alexia Putellas x Reader

synopsis: alexia invites you to meet her extended family

warnings: it's a longgggg one

wc: 7.2k words

The late autumn sunlight filters through the mildly tinted windows, casting shadows that danced across your face. You welcome it, deciding to savour whatever little warmth is left before the arrival of the cold in the upcoming months. The only sound coming from inside the car was the mild buzz of the engine, and the low hum of Alexia’s favourite radio station reporting the latest sports news. The car smells of herbarium berries thanks to the overpriced car perfume you purchased a few months ago. Cool notes of fresh-picked blackcurrant berries mingle with flowery rose accents prick your nose. You mentally remind yourself to buy another car diffuser, but maybe not one tagged with a fancy label like this one.

You gaze out the window to a serene scene of fallen leaves and autumnal charm. You had never been so far away from the city before. The journey was worth it though, full of new sights and sounds; with patchwork of amber and rust-coloured trees, charming villages, and vineyards against backdrops of evergreen pines. As you drive further, you past towns surrounded by vibrant landscape of rolling hills and dense forest. Living in the city for so long made you realise just how you missed being around the natural wonders of the world. The car stops at a red light and you glance over at the rusted cobbled pavement, watching as a gust of wind sends a pile of leaves to swirl and dance in the air.

The realisation that you were nearing your destination made your palms sweat and your heart race. Alexia was taking you to meet the rest of her clan. Today, you will officially be meeting her extended family. Alexia’s grandparents had invited everyone to stay at their estate, a home that Alexia had told you countless of stories about. Stories of mornings that start with churros on the breakfast table; Sunday lunches on a long oak table, beautifully set with fine china and crystal glasses; and playing hide and seek with her cousins around the family vineyard until the sun set.

A warm palm clasping your knee startles you out of your daydreams. When you turn your head, warm hazel eyes meet yours. “Cómo te sientes? You okay, amor?”

You hum, nodding your head, placing your hand above hers. She slows down as the car approaches traffic, using the opportunity to focus her attention back to you. You watch the way her eyes study your face, probably looking for any sign that you might be holding back from saying what you were really feeling. She entwines your fingers together before tugging it towards her lips to place a kiss on the back of your hand.

“Are you…ansioso?-- nervous?” She asks, focusing her attention back on the road now that the stoplight has turned green. She keeps one hand on the steering wheel, her other hand entwined with your own.

“Maybe a little bit” You admit. You had met Alexia’s mother and her younger sister, Alba before and that went well. In fact, it went so well it turned into regular visits from her mother and weekly brunches with her sister. But this time it was different, not only was Alexia's mother and sister not due to arrive until tomorrow, you were going to be meeting her grandparents. She spoke so highly about them all the time. Her voice would soften and her eyes would glimmer every time she recalled stories about her childhood growing up in her grandparent’s home. If they didn’t like you, you fear Alexia might just leave you.

“Meeting your whole family, it’s a lot. What if they don't like me?”

Alexia shot you an incredulous look, as if the mere thought was unfathomable. “Impossible.” She proclaimed, so confident, so assured. “They’re going to love you. Besides, mi abuela has already seen your picture a hundred times. She thinks you're ‘muy guapa’.”

Your cheeks flushed. “Yeah, but a picture is different from meeting in person.”

She lifted your entwined hands, giving the back of your hand another kiss. “Mi amor, pictures do not do you justice. They’re not expecting perfection. Just be yourself. They are not scary, I promise.”

That helped, slightly. You sighed, looking out the window as the olive trees and vineyards passed by. “I just hope my Spanish doesn’t embarrass me…”

“Your Spanish is great!” Alexia exclaimed, squeezing your hand. Along with weekly Spanish online classes with a tutor, you encouraged Alexia to speak to you in spanish regularly so you can pick up the language quicker. “But if you want to speak English, that is fine too. I will help you. No te preocupes”

You wrap your other hand around her arm, picking at the soft cashmere coat she was wearing with your fingers. You had bought her this coat, convinced she would look really good in it as soon as you saw it in the store. You were right.

"What if I mess it up?"

“You cannot ‘mess it up’” The last bit was said accompanied by finger quotations. She briefly detangles her fingers from yours to make finger quotes in the air, before promptly entwining them again. Alexia’s voice was soft, but full of conviction. Her hazel eyes were earnest, almost pleading with you to trust her word. “Just be yourself. You will be fine.”

You wanted to believe her. You really did. But the nerves didn’t go away. Instead, they settled deeper, twisting into a tight ball in your stomach. You had never met your partner’s family before, not like this. This wasn’t just dinner with their parents. This was Alexia’s whole extended family, in a different country, in a language that you weren't fluent in.

Looking out of the window, you tried to focus on anything but your growing anxiety. You caught a glimpse of an older couple seated outside a cafe, a group of children chasing a ball down the narrow street and a man leaning against his bicycle, deep in conversation with a shopkeeper outside of a flower store. The scene was peaceful, unhurried, like time itself had slowed down for everyone else but you.

“I’m just… worried,” You finally admitted, your voice small and slightly shaky. You hated feeling this way, not being in control, not knowing what could happen next. “I don’t want to let you down.”

All of a sudden, Alexia swerved and pulled the car to a stop by a street lined with rows of charming little shops. She turned fully to face you, her eyes soft and understanding. “Amor, look at me.”

Rather reluctantly, you met her gaze.

“You could never let me down. Eres mi todo and my family knows, ” Alexia's words were steady, filled with the kind of reassurance that you desperately needed. “And if anyone has a problem with that, they will have to fight me.”

You chuckled weakly, the tension in her chest loosening just a little. “I hope you’re right.”

“I am.” She smiled, reaching out to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. “Te quiero mucho. And that’s all that matters.”

Her eyes scan your face, probably sensing your lingering doubts. She cups your face, her palm warm against your cheek. She brings your face closer to hers. “Eres perfecta,”

Pretty hazel eyes meet yours, all love and affection. She leans in to kiss you, her lips soft and plump against yours. Pulling away slightly, just a breath of distance between the two of you, before she murmurs. Her voice low and hushed , “You know what that means, Si?”

You hum, your eyes fluttering closed, still partly consumed by her kiss. Of course you knew what that phrase means, it was one of the first Spanish phrases she ever translated for you. You tilt your head towards her, leaning into her space, greedy for another kiss.

“Mmhmm. Perfect.” She mumbles in english, her tone is teasing, enunciating the word with perfect pronunciation. Although it is slightly jumbled by your lips being pressed against hers again. She smiles against your lips, no doubt feeling your desperation. Your yearning.

Her hand tilts your face to the side, fingers pressingly lightly against your neck, urging you to succumb to her lead completely. Like all she wants you to do is just close your eyes, kiss her back, and she will handle the rest.

Eventually she starts to pull away, but not before she leaves a teasing bite to your bottom lip, a cocky smile perched on her lips at the sight of the dazed look on your face. You open your eyes half heartedly, your gaze immediately zeroing in on her plump bottom lip still wet from your kiss. “Later” She promises.

And Alexia always keeps her promises.

She tucks your hair behind your ear and squeezes your knee as she leans back into her seat. Both of her hands back on the wheel. “Vale. We’ve still have some driving to do.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The countryside was a picturesque scene of rolling hills, vineyards that span miles and miles, and tall, slender cypress trees. The leaves had begun their slow descent, carpeting the roads and pavements in hues of amber, crimson, and goldenrod, creating a soft crunch beneath the tires. The scent of earth and woodsmoke wafts in through the slightly cracked window. You noticed it earlier, but it’s a lot stronger now. As the car navigates the winding roads, you catch glimpses of traditional stone houses, with their windows framed with charming flower pots that still hold the last few blooms of summer.

As you wound deeper into the heart of Catalonia, the landscape became more secluded. The occasional farmhouse dotted the hillsides, their red-tiled roofs peeking through the autumn foliage, and their silhouettes softened by the setting sun.

And then, as the car rounded the final bend, the mediaeval town of Peratallada came into view. Peratallada with its ancient stone walls and narrow cobblestone streets. The town was full of charm, its streets flanked by ivy-clad beige and gold stone, the weathered facades only adding to it's history.

Eventually, Alexia slowed the car down, allowing you to take in the new surroundings. You take out your phone, snapping a few pictures of the pretty sights. The cobblestone streets were narrow, twisting through archways and past old stone fountains. Vines clung to the walls, leaves now tinged with the colours of autumn, while small terracotta pots with trailing ivy and late-blooming flowers adorned the windowsills of homeowners. Every corner and alley seemed to hold a secret passage—a hidden courtyard, a glimpse of a garden, and even a cosy café where a few villagers sat outside, sipping wine and chatting quietly.

The smell of roasting chestnuts filled the air, carried by the breeze from vendors setting up stalls in the main square for the evening’s festivities. The town was quiet, peaceful, but you can see preparations are being made for the upcoming La Castanyada festival.

As you leave the narrow streets behind, the road opens up, leading you deeper into the countryside. The car continues to meander through the occasional quaint shop-fronts and cobblestone paths until the road begins to slope upward. You sit straighter in your seat.

The soft crunch of gravel under the tires announced your approach to Alexia's family estate, hidden behind tall stone walls and ancient oaks. Gradually, the estate came into view, as the road curved around a hillside, revealing tall gates surrounding the property. You had never seen anything like it.

Your eyebrows rose in surprise as the large dark, wooden gates swung open automatically just as the car pulled up. The car drives through and you spot what looks to be some sort of wooden sign announcing the estate's name, beautifully carved in dark wood. It was like Disneyland.

You knew Alexia came from a well off family, but you were definitely not expecting a family-that-has-a-fancy-sign-outside-of-their-gated-estate kind of rich.

Alexia turns to you, biting her bottom lip. Her eyes were bright with excitement, she was practically buzzing in her seat. This was the most excited and awake you have seen her in the last hour of the drive.

She points to your window. “This is my family's vineyard”

You lean forward and sure enough there was a vineyard. The estate was perched high on a hill, offering a panormaic view of the property. The vineyard itself looked like something out of a painting, the grapevines, heavy with the last of the season’s fruit, stood in neat rows, aligned against the backdrop of rolling hills. Beyond the vineyards, the estate was flanked by tall trees offering privacy from the rest of the world.

“Wow, this place is beautiful,” You were in complete awe at the scenery.

Alexia's cheeks flushed with warmth. She quickly removed her green cap, brushing out her hair. “My grandparents have lived here for years."

The car continued to drive on. Soon enough an impressive structure came into view. The house--mansion(?) itself was breathtaking— a lavish stone manor with its ivy-covered walls, grand arched windows, and terracotta roofs. Even though Alexia had prepared you for her grandparents’ “big house”, nothing compared to the real thing.

“We’re here,” Alexia said softly, pulling the car to a stop at the front of the estate. She shut off the engine and unbuckled her seatbelt. She then turned to you and did the same, unbuckling your seatbelt for you out of habit.

As you both stepped out of the car, the cool autumn air enveloped you completely, crisp but not biting. You just stared for a moment, your breath catching as you took it all in. The courtyard was paved with smooth stones, lined with tall, iron lanterns leading towards the grand entrance of the house. The doors, massive and intricately carved, stood closed. Almost intimidatingly.

“This is your grandparents' place?” You asked, still in awe. Who did you know had multiple 2ft tall cast stone vases lined up by the entrance of their homes. No one-- at least until now.

“It’s home.” She took your hand, guiding you toward the entrance.

You felt a flutter of nerves in your belly. You had been excited about the trip initially, but now that they were here, the reality of it all weighed on her.

Would they like you? Would they understand your broken Spanish?

Before Alexia could reach for the doorbell, one of the doors opened.

Alexia’s grandmother, Abuela Carmen, was the first to greet you at the door, her face lighting up with a warm smile. Her silver hair was pulled into a loose bun, and her dark eyes twinkled as she wrapped her granddaughter in a tight embrace before turning to you.

“And you must be Alexia's girl,” she said in English, her accent thick yet soft. She took your hands in hers, giving them a gentle squeeze. You introduced yourself and she repeated your name back to you with such fondness, as if she had known you your whole life. “Welcome to our home.”

“Thank you. Gracias" You replied, your nerves easing as Alexia's grandmother pulled you in for a hug. Alexia was about to say something about the luggage in the trunk, but her grandmother just flapped her hands away dismissively, instead ushering you both further inside her home.

The house was as grand inside as it was outside. The foyer welcomed you inside, its walls lined with decor and tall paintings. Towards the end of the foyer you could see an expansive living room that you swear is bigger than your entire apartment. A large fireplace dominated the room, its flames reflecting against dark wood beams. Terracotta tiles stretched across the floor, complemented nicely by the intricately patterned rugs.

The walls were painted in soft, creamy tones, adorned with vibrant mosaic tiles. Large arched windows lined the walls, with the wooden shutters thrown open to let in the last rays of the setting sun, bathing the room in a golden glow. The windows framed picturesque views of the vineyard and rolling hills beyond. You were still in awe.

Exposed wooden beams crisscrossed the high ceilings, while wrought-iron chandeliers hung gracefully, the warm light casting shadows across the room. Plush sofas and armchairs upholstered in rich fabrics, blend with the dark wooden tables and cabinets. The sofas were lightly dented and the rugs weren't perfectly brushed out. You could tell that each piece in this room was meticulously chosen with the purpose of making this house a home.

"Show our guest around the sala, Alexia. Then come to the kitchen for some merienda after" Abuela Carmela practically orders her granddaughter. With you, she just sends you a quick wink before nudging the both of you away as she saunters over to where you assume the kitchen is. It’s hard to tell with a house as big as this.

Alexia leads you through the main hall, where a large stone fireplace crackled with a burning fire. Above the mantel, an intricately carved wooden mantelpiece held an array of family photos, a reflection of the generations that had lived and loved in this house.

“We gather in this house every year,” Alexia said, her voice filled with affection. "It's my favourite time of year. It's the only time I get to see all of my family in one place".

Alexia waves you over, closer. You stand on your tiptoes as she points out herself and her sister in the photos, whispering stories of her childhood for every single one. The smile that lights up her face as she tells her stories is infectious, like she was experiencing every happy memory all over again. Stories of bike rides around the town, muddy boots around the vineyard, and summers spent sunbathing at Poseidon Calella beach.

She leads you into the next room, your hand in hers the entire time. The dining room was an expansive room with a long, polished wooden table perfectly set for the occasion.

"Wow. This is the fanciest table setting I have ever seen..." The table was adorned with what looked like hand-painted ceramic plates and bowls, surrounded by intricate silver cutlery and crystal glasses that sparkled in the candlelight. The centrepiece was a beautiful arrangement of autumn leaves, chestnuts, and candles.

"Oh no, this is not where we will be eating," Alexia tugs your hand, leading you around the fancy dinner table and towards a set of French glass doors framed by lush cerulean curtains. She points outside.

"There is where we will be eating"

An expansive terrace has been transformed into a breathtaking outdoor dining space. Under the pergola draped with twinkling lights, a long wooden table stood as the focal point of the evening’s festivities. From where you were standing, you could see hints of colourful glassware, candles, ornate table centrepieces, and neatly folded napkins.

You turn to face Alexia, playfully mouthing a "holy shit" -- one of the first English phrases she picked up quickly-- to which she just rolls her eyes at you. But you can see the corner of her mouth tugging upwards.

"Vale. Let's go to the kitchen. My abuela is probably waiting"

As Alexia led you into the kitchen, you marvelled at the sights before you. The kitchen was any chef’s dream. The floor was laid with terracotta tiles which were noticeably worn smooth by generations of footsteps. You could tell the family spent a lot of time inside this part of their home.

Stone countertops, big windows, wooden cabinets, and a large farmhouse sink. Stainless steel pots and pans hung from a wrought-iron rack above the island, and the glass cabinets were filled with an array of colourful ceramics. Alexia’s stories of how her grandma would cook her infamous Gazpacho whenever she was sick filled your head at the sight of a large, stone fireplace by the corner.

There was a smaller table, placed near the fireplace, looking to be made from reclaimed barn wood. It was surrounded by mismatched chairs, their cushions upholstered in colourful, patterned fabrics. The table was set with a simpler table setting compared to the one in the dining room and the terrace. You could imagine the family using this smaller table whenever they are rushing in the morning and only need to stop for a quick breakfast before school or work.

Alexia's grandmother was busy at the stove, stirring a pot of something that smelled divine. She greeted you both with a warm smile. “Ah, there you are! Just in time to help,” she said, clapping her hands.

Alexia's grandfather, Abuelo Miguel, appeared carrying a tray piled high with steaming chestnuts. His face, weathered with age, split into a grin as he saw Alexia. “Ah, mi nieta,” he said, his deep voice warm with affection. He set the tray down before giving Alexia a big hug. The kind of hug only a beloved grandfather can give.

Then, turning to you, he gave you a welcoming nod and extended his hand. “And you must be the woman we have all heard so much about.”

Taking his welcome, you smiled back– albeit a bit awkwardly, but the wrinkles around his eyes as he smiled at you put your nerves at ease.

"Vale. Keep doing what you were doing" He gestured playfully to the controlled mess around the kitchen, making you all laugh. There were dishes and casseroles everywhere, stuff cooking on the stove and oven. No counter space was left unused.

“Chestnuts are always the centrepiece,” Alexia whispered to you, pointing about the growing pile on the kitchen island. “Traditions say they were eaten back in the day to keep warm during the colder months. These days, we eat them to remember the souls of the departed.”

You watched as Alexia's grandparents moved with an easy grace, tending to the chestnuts roasting in the open hearth. Abuela Carmen was masterful, her wrinkled hands moving deftly as she placed a fresh batch of chestnuts into the iron skillet over the flames. She gave them a gentle toss, and the warm, nutty scent wafted through the air. You swear your stomach grumbled at the smells alone.

You and Alexia got stuck in, plating dishes and gathering the cutlery. Abuela Carmen called you over to watch and observe her roast the chestnuts and Abuelo Miguel showed you how to make authentic Sangria. As the final preparations were completed, you and Alexia helped carry the food out to the terrace. After a few back and fourths, you make your last trip to the terrace carrying a pitcher of the Sangria that you had made. You place it in the corner of the table, stepping back to admire the setting.

The table was made from rich, dark wood. It was long enough to accommodate the entire extended family, with matching sturdy chairs situated on each side. The natural grain of the wood is complemented by a table runner that runs down its length—a delicate fabric adorned with intricate patterns in shades of gold, dark blue, and deep red.

"Barcelona colours. You see?" Alexia points out with a wink as she passes you to put down a platter of cured meats. You roll your eyes at her. You can take the woman out of Barcelona, but you can’t take Barcelona out of the woman.

Each place setting thoughtfully arranged, with ceramic plates, polished silver cutlery, and neatly folded deep burgundy linen napkins held together with rustic twine and a sprig of fresh rosemary. Above each plate were crystal glasses ready to be filled with the finest wines-- to which Alexia pointed out to you that there were separate glasses for red and white wine. You did not know that beforehand.

An arrangement of autumn leaves in hues of gold, orange, and crimson was interspersed with clusters of chestnuts, pomegranates, and small gourds. Among the foliage, candles in glass holders flickered softly, their flames bouncing off of wine glasses. Along the table were small bowls filled with olives, marinated in garlic and herbs, and plates of freshly baked bread, still warm from the oven. Ceramic bowls filled with olive oil and balsamic vinegar sat within easy reach.

Personalised name cards, handwritten on small pieces of parchment, were placed at each setting. You round the table, eyeing each name card, and pausing when you see one addressed to you. Yours was next to Alexia's, handwritten in beautiful calligraphy just like the rest of the family.

Soon your ears pick up on the muted sound of gravel crunching under tires. One by one, cars pulled up to the grand estate, and the echoes of greetings pierced through the silence. You take a deep breath, looking down at your outfit to make sure you didn't have any balsamic stains on your cardigan or any suspicious crumbs on your trousers.

The first to arrive were Alexia's uncle Javier and his wife, Elena, along with their three children. Javier, a tall man with a warm smile, embraced you with a hug. Maria, a graceful woman with kind eyes, kissed you on both cheeks, her greeting rolling off her tongue easily. She had a nice voice, you thought to yourself, but that could just be the nerves forcing you to focus on anything but your growing anxiety.

The children, two boys and a girl, darted past their parents, racing each other to check out the table and all the colourful decorations.

“Alexia, it’s been too long!” Javier exclaimed, shrugging off his blazer and draping it over his chair. He turns to you. “And I'm glad you finally brought your girl home. Welcome to the family, hija.”

Next came Tia Isabel, Elena’s great-aunt, a sprightly woman in her seventies. She arrived with her husband, Roberto, and their son, Carlos. Isabel, wearing a vibrant yellow shawl greeted everyone with enthusiastic hugs and kisses-- including you. In fact, you swear she gave you an extra tight squeeze when she came to hug you.

Soon after a car pulled up with Alexia's cousins, Maritza and Sofia. Their partners trail behind them with their bags and bottles of wine. Maritza comes strutting onto the terrace, her high-heel shoes click clacking, announcing her arrival. She greets you, complimenting your cardigan, and practically steals you away from Alexia to chat. She leads you to the table, sneakily swapping the name card to your left with her own so you can sit together and talk more.

Meanwhile Sofia, who Alexia mentioned is an artist, carried a canvas bag filled with small gifts she had made for the family. After yelling her greetings to everyone, she goes straight to the table and starts picking out wrapped objects from her bag, placing them by the corresponding name card. Everyone immediately goes to open their presents, revealing handmade pottery. There were mugs, bowls, and small plates, each glazed in vibrant colours and decorated with unique patterns and designs. She takes out the last one and walks over to you, holding it out. "This one's for you. Alexia said you love the colour pink and anything with cherries on it"

You stand up, thanking her and unwrap your present. You start to apologise for not having brought anything for her in exchange, but she just waves your apologies away, urging you to focus on unwrapping your gift instead. Underneath the wrapping paper revealed a ceramic white mug with red cherries all over, sweet and dainty. Perfect for your daily cups of coffee. "Wow. This is beautiful. Thank you, Sofia"

Sofia smiles proudly, accepting the shouts of praise directed at her from the rest of the family as well. She bows exaggeratedly before she threatens everyone that they must use their gifts or else.

As the last few family members continued to arrive, the atmosphere grew even more festive. From your view from above, the courtyard was abuzz with activity—children playing tag around the lanterns, and adults catching up, their hands already occupied with their beverage of choice or nibbling on some tapas.

Soon enough Abuela Carmen called everyone to come to the table. It was time to eat. Everyone gathered around, their faces lit by the warm, golden light. The terrace offered a breathtaking view of the vineyard below, the rows of vines now bathed in the silvery light of the moon.

“Come, come, sit,” Abuela Carmen urged, gesturing for you to take your seat. You take your place, feeling Alexia slide into her seat right next to you. She takes her napkin, unfolds it, and lays it across her lap. You follow suit. “I hope this is enough food for your first La Castanyada.”

Alexia chuckles from beside you. She gestures at the feast before you. "It's more than enough, Abuela. Te lo juro"

"Muy bien. Good. I want your first La Castanyada to be perfect" Aubela Carmen looks down at you fondly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear when a light breeze blows by. She gives your shoulder one last squeeze before she walks over to her own place by the head of the table.

You had heard of the Catalan tradition before. Alexia had not only explained it to you countless times before, but you also took the liberty in doing some research before coming. According to your research, La Castanyada is a celebration held in late autumn to honour the dead. The tradition is rooted in the whole family coming together to enjoy seasonal treats like roasted chestnuts and tiny almond cakes.

Between courses, music filled the air. Abuelo Miguel strummed his guitar, leading the family in traditional Catalan songs. Alexia's cousins joined in with their singing, encouraging everyone else to clap and sing. Even the children took turns dancing and performing.

The table was a feast for the gods. At the center of the table, a large platter showcased roasted vegetables fresh from the estate’s garden. Beside it sat a carved wooden bowl overflowing with mixed greens—arugula, radicchio, and delicate frisée—tossed lightly in a vinaigrette of lemon, olive oil, and herbs.

A large paella pan sat ready at one end of the table, brimming with golden saffron-infused rice. It was piled on with prawns, mussels, and pieces of chicken, with slices of chorizo nestled among the rice. Fresh sprigs of parsley were scattered over the top, and lemon wedges lined the edges. Next to the paella, a warm loaf of crusty artisan bread sat on a wooden board. Nearby was a selection of spreads and dips; including a rich, roasted red pepper romesco, and creamy whipped feta with herbs.

Right in front of your plate sat a dish of patatas bravas. The fried potato cubes were smothered in a spicy tomato sauce and drizzled with a swirl of garlicky aioli. Plates of jamón ibérico were carefully fanned out beside it, the thin, ruby-red slices almost translucent. The seafood continued with grilled octopus, charred lightly at the edges and served on a bed of roasted chickpeas and fennel, dressed in a lemon and caper sauce.

Abuela Carmela lifted her glass, her eyes sparkling with affection as she looked around at her family. “To La Castanyada,” she began, her voice warm and steady. “To our loved ones, present and remembered, and to the blessings of family.”

Everyone echoed her toast, glasses clinking, blending with the crackle of the fire nearby. With that, the meal began. You picked up one of the roasted chestnuts, still warm from the cazuela. You took a tentative bite, and immediately, a soft sweetness spread over your tongue. The texture was velvety, almost creamy. You did not know chestnuts could taste like this.

Alexia watched you chew, your face screwed up in thought. When you turned to her with a big smile on your face, she subconsciously released the breath she was holding. While you were busy scooping another mouthful of the chestnuts, Alexia secretly raised a thumbs up at her abuela. Abuela Carmen replied back with a quick wink and a satisfied smile.

When the large pan of paella, Alexia used the serving spoon to scoop a generous serving of the rice, with prawns and chorizo, and placed it on your plate for you. She then served herself before passing it down the table.

You pile your fork with the paella, bringing the fork to your mouth. Immediately, the layers of flavour bloomed in your mouth: the smoky paprika from the chorizo, the sweetness of the prawn, and the aromatic saffron that tinted the rice. You chew some more before tucking into your plate again. Gathering another spoonful of paella into your mouth, you were practically dancing in your sea. In the middle of chewing, you turn to Alexia with wide eyes.

She thumbs away the little bit of sauce on the corner of your lip, patiently waiting for you to finish chewing.

You swallow, licking your lips afterwards. “Delicioso”

“Si?” Alexia asks, with raised eyebrows, as if she can’t see the pure elation painted all over your face.

You hum in reply, nodding– practically humming a melody as you eat another forkful. “Si!”

Alexia laughs at you, endearingly, unable to resist the urge to love on you. She wraps an arm around your shoulder, pulling you close to her, and starts raining kisses on your cheek. You blush profusely at her blatant display of affection in front of her family but everyone just continuous on eating, but you can see a few secret smiles on their faces.

“Oye, Carlos! pass the paella, por favor” Alexia calls out. When the plate reaches her, she scoops a serving directly onto your plate.

“We cook this every year,” She says, leaning close to your ear. “It’s part of the tradition. You’ll have to learn the recipe if you want to stick around.”

You look at her and smile, your heart swelling at the thought of being part of these yearly rituals. Glancing around the table, you tried to take in the sight of the rest of Alexia's family and their happy faces. Everyone sat around this large table, passing around dishes and stories. The evening air was filled with the sounds of laughter, clinking glasses, and the low crackle of the fire. Not a bad deal at all.

From the distance, just across the vineyard, you could see a faint warm glow illuminating, perhaps from where other houses were participating in the celebrations as well.

The evening slipped into a comfortable rhythm. The conversation flowed, mostly in Spanish with Alexia translating when needed, but even when you didn’t understand every word, you never felt left out. Everyone made sure to try and speak English, especially when they were referring to you. Your heart warmed at their efforts.

Javier, ever the storyteller, was in the middle of recounting a story from his travels. His hands moved expressively as he spoke, his voice booming with laughter. You listened intently as you followed his tale.

All of a sudden a hand gently tapped yours that was resting on top of the table.

“So,” Tia Isabel, who was sitting in front of you, asked. She eagerly leaned forward in her seat, her plate pushed aside and she was nursing her glass of red wine. ��Tell us, how did you and Alexia meet?”

You smiled, glancing over at the woman with the pretty hazel eyes sitting right next to you. “We met through the club,” You explained. “I work for the club doing all the social media stuff."

Maritza pipes up from beside you. "Oh. Are you the one--uhh how do you say-- filming the videos?"

You turn to her and nod. Maritza looked a lot like Alexia's sister, Alba. If you did not know any better, you would've assumed Alexia had been hiding a third sister from you. "Si. I make and create content for the team's social media."

You catch from your peripheral as your girlfriend suddenly seems very interested in your conversation. She stretches an arm, resting it on the back of your chair.

"So the blindfolded pizza challenge was your idea?"

You nod, feeling your cheeks heat up. That video was one of your favourite pieces of content you had ever created, and it was an instant hit with the fans. On the other hand, it was Alexia’s least favourite.

Sofia clasps her hands together, practically bouncing in her chair. "I love that video!"

Alexia interjects. "I still can't believe she made me eat olives. I hate olives"

Chuckling at the visible shudder she let out, you smile when you recall the shock on everyone's faces when Alexia blindly picked out the one paper that had olives on it. The rules of the game state that the players must take turns blindly pulling out little slips of paper with a food item on it. They must then put the food item onto their pizza, and bake it. To make it fun, aside from the typical pizza toppings, food options include gummy worms, mustard, anchovies and– unfortunately for Alexia– olives.

So Alexia had no choice but to begrudgingly place a couple olives on her pizza. You will never get over the sight of the Barcelona captain with tears welling in her eyes at the end of the video. Afterwards, she gave you the silent treatment the entire evening.

As the conversation continued to flow, Abuela Carmen stood up, her chair scraping against the tiled floor, catching everyone’s attention. “I hope everyone has room for postres-- dessert,?” she announced with a smile. She motioned for Elena and Sofia, who brought out trays of panellets and sweet potatoes.

Everyone ooooh'd and ahhh'd' as the trays were placed on the table. You watched in awe as the beautifully arranged treats were revealed. Panellets, the traditional marzipan sweets, were decorated with pine nuts, coconut, and almonds. Their sweet aroma mingled with the scent of the roasted sweet potatoes.

Abuela Carmen handed you a small dessert plate. “You must try these, preciosa. Quickly. Before the rest of the family eats them all.”

You graciously took a piece of the panellet, its delicate sweetness melting in your mouth. “Esto es delicioso, Abuela Carmen!”

Abuela Carmen beamed, patting your hand. The crinkles by her eyes deepened until her eyes smiled like crescent moons. “I’m glad you like them”

She turns to the table, quickly grabbing the last bit of the panellets, much to the apparent surprise of the entire family. She places the last piece on your plate. “This is for you.”

The table is stunned for a moment, but they all nod in agreement. That is until Maritza breaks the silence by calling for another toast– this time, to you. You wave your hand around, covering your face in embarrassment but it only fuels everyone to continue teasing you out of affection. Alexia is beaming by your side. It’s sort of a known thing in their culture that people usually offer the last piece of any cake or desert to the people they care about. Her Abuela offering the last piece to you is already a sign of fondness.

Despite your embarrassment over the attention, you gladly accept the last piece of desert and enjoyed every last bite.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Eventually, the family gathered their drinks and began to move from the terrace to the courtyard. The space was softly illuminated by string lights and a large stone fireplace. Vintage wrought-iron lanterns hung at intervals along the pergola’s length. Arranged in clusters around the fireplace, there were plush, low-slung lounge chairs and sofas, upholstered in fabrics of earthy tones.

The warmth from the fire pit mingled with the cool autumn breeze. You were almost tempted to excuse yourself to fetch your coat, so when Alexia silently handed you a big wool throw for you to share, you practically let out a big sigh in relief. "no puedo imaginar la vida sin ti, mi corazon. i love you so much"

Your lover just laughs, throwing her head back freely, before bending down to meet your lips for a kiss. You feel her smiling against your lips as she whispers "stop picking up your Spanish from telenovelas, amor"

She kisses you once more before asking you to scoot over.

She took her seat beside you, your shoulders touching, legs cocooned under the throw blanket. There was something magical about this moment right now. Something comforting about the way the stars seemed to glow brighter, the way the fire crackled in the distance, and the warmth of Alexia's hand in yours.

“I am really happy you are here,” she leaned in to whisper, pressing a soft kiss to your temple afterwards.

You smiled, your heart swelling with a deep sense of contentment and belly full of the hearty meal. “Me too, baby.”

As everyone continued to sip their beverage of choice, Abuelo Miguel began to tell stories—tales from his childhood, stories of La Castanyada celebrations that stretched back generations. His voice carried the weight of the years. You could see the flicker of memories in his eyes as he recounted how, when he was a young boy, they would light bonfires in the town square, gathering with chestnuts and special wine specially reserved for the occasion.

Alexia nudge you with her shoulder, her eyes doing that thing where she studies your face intently, silently trying to read your mind. When she likes what she sees, she smiles. “It’s beautiful, si?”

You gaze right back at her, appreciating the way the glow of the fire highlights her face; the sharpness of her jawline, the twinkle in her eyes, and the slight wetness on her plump bottom lip. “Very beautiful,” you whispered back to her.

As the evening wore on, more chestnuts were passed around. Everyone ate them with sticky fingers and washed them down with small glasses of sweet moscatel wine. Talks shifted to quieter conversations as the night settled, the stars brighter against the dark sky.

At one point, Abuela Carmen stood and began to sing a melodic song, her voice warm, the notes hanging in the cool air like a lullaby. Abuelo Miguel joined in, his deep baritone harmonising with hers, creating a moment so tender that you almost felt as if you were intruding on something too intimate.

Alexia shifted closer to you, tugging the blanket higher so it covers you from the neck down. The air was slightly chilly now. She throws an arm around your shoulder, tucking you to her side, letting you rest against her. “I grew up with these songs,” she said softly against your ear. “Every year, we sing them.”

You laid your her head on her shoulder, taking a good look around the courtyard, taking in the scene—the glow of the lanterns, the warmth of the fire, the faces of the people who had welcomed you so easily, and the sound of Alexia's steady heartbeat beneath your ear.

“I think I could get used to this,” You whispered to the woman beside you, surprising even yourself with the hint of emotion in your voice.

Alexia smiled, brushing a strand of hair away from your eyes. She cupped your chin, tilting it up slightly, and leaned down to press a kiss to your lips. “Qué bien, because you are part of it from now on.”

fall is such a romantic season.

i hope your autumn has started off as beautifully as mine. think of me whenever you see leaves dancing in the wind x

・❥・- kisses, butter

read more of the Butter's Meadio-cre Mayhem (the Spooky Season collection) here

*This work is my original creation. Please don’t copy, share, or translate it without asking for my permission first. Thanks for respecting that!

#alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas #alexia putellas fanfic #woso x reader #woso #woso community #woso fanfics #woso imagine #alexia putellas one shot #alexia putellas imagine #barca femeni #fc barca femeni #my fics

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sc0tters · 3 months ago

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Comforts and Kisses | Will Smith & Macklin Celebrini

summary: when the sharks lose another game there is only one person Macklin and Will want to see, you.

request: yes/no

warnings: throuple, minor to minimal swearing

word count: 1.09k

authors note: hello loves! this is our first attempt at a throuple that had nothing to do with a threesome and I have to say that I actually really enjoyed this little piece, so if you saw my post I am tempted to turn this into a drabble series so let me know if it is something you guys want because it would be driven by what you guys want to see. this is apart of the one shot wonder event which still has space for requests if you are interested!

The boys were feeling rough after the loss.

You already knew they were coming straight to yours after the game after you couldn’t make it, needing to get course work done. They always felt like they didn’t do as well when you weren’t in the crowd. Nevertheless, they understood that your studies took priority “baby?” Macklin called out as he opened the door to your apartment “living room!” You got up, not entirely sure where your boys wanted to go. Sometimes they’d arrive, desperate for a shower, sometimes it was dinner, and other times it was just wanting to hold you.

Their footsteps were heavy against your floorboards “shouldn’t have left your door unlocked.” Will clicked his tongue, seeing you in one of his hoodies “didn’t know if you guys had your keys.” You explained that Macklin was notorious for forgetting his key at yours.

But whatever potential argument was about to start, was cut off when you saw how the younger boy’s cheeks were tear-stained “sweet boy.” You sighed, opening your arms for Macklin to walk straight into them.

He instantly melted into your touch “we played like shit today.” His words made you frown when your fingers ran through his hair “you tried.” You shook your head “you both did.” Will didn’t often need to be comforted by you but that didn’t mean that he didn’t like to be acknowledged.

Your way with words often made Macklin feel better “yeah maybe you should tell your dad about that.” Your dad was the coach of the team so Will sometimes took his anger out on you “yeah I’ll make sure to bring it up during family dinner and I’ll even tell him that I’m fucking two of his players.” You scoffed, hating how the blonde would let his feelings about your dad choose how he reacted to you sometimes.

Will felt his lips push into a thin line “please don’t fight.” Macklin pleaded, running his fingers along you the waistband of your shoulders “not tonight.” His words were soft while he kissed your collarbone.

You both felt bad looking at the younger boy “you’re right.” You ran your fingers along his cheek before pulled him into a kiss. Macklin felt your tongue run along his lower lip before you pulled away.

His cheeks were red, making you smile “I am sorry.” You apologised to Will, watching him rake his fingers through his hair “me too.” He motioned to you to come closer to him.

Will couldn’t help but sigh “it has been a rough week.” The boys had lost three games on the bounce so they were looking forward to a few days off “how can I help you?” Will loved how caring you always were and he made that known as he kissed your forehead.

A smile formed in Macklin’s face seeing you two okay again “I honestly just want to forget about the last few days.” Will’s confession came as you pressed a peck against his lips, assuming that he meant sex “you wanna pick a movie for us Mack?” The offer made his teammate’s eyes light up.

Will squeezed your hand “maybe later for that, Mack has been talking about a cuddle all day.” Your cheeks turned red feeling the older boy kiss your earlobe as he whispered his words to you.

Macklin sat on the couch with the remote in his hand as he stared at the screen “don’t go sitting anywhere that isn’t right here baby.” He patted the side of the couch next to him as it was your usual spot “you coming with us?” It was a two-seater couch but they often found themselves sat resting against you as you’d play with their hair.

Will nodded, sending you a smile when he sat down before he pulled you into his lap “fast and furious baby?” You asked watching Macklin press play “you okay with that?” He never wanted to disappoint you so he was constantly double-checking.

You softly smiled tapping your chest “c’mere.” Macklin didn’t need to be told twice as he rested his head on your shoulder “thank you.” He kissed your neck, not entirely sure how else to please you in that moment.

Will mimicked his teammates actions as he too begun to nip at your neck “fuck.” You caught your lower lip between your teeth as you arched your back against the couch “you good?” Will reached, watching Macklin lean up to your lips.

The younger boy teased you, letting his lips dance over yours “thought I was meant to be making you both feel better?” You breathed wanting to pull Macklin closer to you.

And the younger boy wasn’t going to stop you from that as his lips grazed yours “you being here makes us feel better sweet girl.” Will cooed seeing how his words made you smile “shush it’s getting to a good part!” Macklin grumbled, shooting the both of you a glare before he rested his head back on your shoulder.

The boy brought your hand into his hair, emphasising what he wanted from you “bossy.” Will mouthed making you smile as you kissed the younger boys head. The blonde ran his fingers over your thigh, he knew he should have been watching the movie but still feeling a little irritated, he loved how you looked in his hoodie.

His eyes staring at you made your thighs press together “such a pretty girl.” The blonde boy mumbled resting his head on your other shoulder, opting to behave for the night as his hand sat on your stomach. Softly, he pushed your hoodie up to reveal your skin. He knew your stomach was sensitive and he played into that when he looked up at you.

Macklin was just watching the movie, occasionally turning his head to kiss you “stop it.” You warned Will after he had been the one to turn you down earlier “I just wanna feel what my hoodie has got to feel all day.” Will whispered into your ear with a smirk.

His calloused fingers were rough against your soft skin “don’t remember telling you to take it.” It had been in his own closet, so you took it when you were over having out with them “looks so much better on me, though, don’t it?” You winked blowing him a kiss before Macklin sucked at his teeth.

The brunette reached up to grab your jaw with two of his fingers “watch it doll.” He ordered wanting you both to shut up because at least then you focus on playing with his hair.

#ambers one shot wonder #will smith imagines #will smith blurbs #will smith hockey #macklin celebrini imagines #macklin celebrini blurbs #macklin celebrini x reader #macklin celebrini imagine #will smith imagine #will smith x reader #nhl blrubs #nhl fics #hockey blurbs #hockey imagines #hockey oneshots #nhl oneshots

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kurooangel · 3 months ago

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angst. sorry hehe, but this is what you get while I finish smutty, long shot w older bf kuroo.

݁ ˖ . ݁୨ৎ ๋࣭ ⭑ when tetsuro opened the door of your shared apartment and saw his mother, he absolutely froze. all his muscles tensed up. her warm smile was shocking — he hasn't seen her since almost 20 years ago, and he didn't want to see her either. she is the woman who left him and his father and never looked back. "hello, tetsuro! I saw your father at he told me you're engaged" her sweet tone distracting him. he was... confused. a weird feeling was settling down in his chest, and a knot started forming in his throat.

"tetsu, who is it?" you approach him, still wearing your pyjamas — which was one of his large shirts and your warm, hello kitty's pants — and your gaze look at both of them. you could recognise those amber eyes a million times. you never pushed him to tell you about his mother, it happened a few times when he was relaxed, late night, after watching a movie or showering with you. his eyes always turned glossy when he mentions her, and even if he says he doesn't need his mother and never did, you know he wonders how it would've felt like having her in his life. having her cheering him at his volleyball matches when he was in nekoma. watching his graduation. or simply, watch him. care for him.

after the tense silence, you smile politely. "hello, uhm... I'm (name), and-" before you can continue speaking, your fiance takes your hand hardly. you glance at kuroo to see him tense, uneasy. "and we are busy preparing the wedding, since tetsu proposed two months ago, so I'm afraid we don't have time. it's been a pleasure to meet you, ma'am, have a good day!" you close the door and cup his face with your free hand.

"I love you" you hear his barely audible mutter and smile fondly. "I love you, too" you peck him, your soft lips grazing against his. "do you wanna talk about it?" you care his cheekbone with your thumb, and he shakes his head. with a nod, you pull him into a tight hug, and that's what breaks him completely. tears start running down his face as he buries his head on your neck. all the tears he's been keeping since he was only a kid are out, while he pours his heart out being held by you. because after all, kuroo knows he can have a family now. with you, of course.

#haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #kurooangel #kuroo testuro #kuroo tetsuro x reader #haikyuu kuroo #hq #kuroo x reader #kuroo x you #kuroo tetsurou #kuroo angst #kuroo

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macfrog · 1 year ago

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san angelo | one shot

what happens when joel miller meets his star-crossed lover?

big love to @mrsmando and @5oh5 for cheering me on with this one, and @bageldaddy for being my eyes, my ears, and - only sometimes - my brain.

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader summary: it's the summer of two thousand eight. after two weeks following his little brother cross-country on the back of a harley, joel follows him through the doors of a dive bar - where fate delivers him to you. warnings: story is inserted into canon, so cordyceps outbreak happens, sarah dies (off-page), joel dissociates, doomed love, lots of mention of fate, alcohol consumption, reader is a smoker, cursing, drunken one-night stand, oral sex, unprotected piv, joel's cock is massive, a lot of angst, a lot of fluff, a lil smut to tie it all together. enjoy! word count: 9.8k

moodboard | main masterlist | playlist [in case you wanna vibe in sad] | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🤍

Palm lines.

It’s the first thing he thinks as soon as she stops moving in his arms. The second her little whimpers cease, the moment her chest stops heaving and her eyes glaze over. Suddenly, Joel’s little girl weighs more than he can bear.

Palm lines. And he has no fucking idea why.

He closes his eyes and there you are. The whir of the ceiling fan, the tinkling of bracelets loose on your wrist. You have sorta earth hands, you told him. Or, well – they could be water, if you look at ‘em this way. I don’t really know. I’m still learning.

You told him that air hands were long, spindly. And Sarah was always a lanky kid – tallest on the soccer team, head and shoulders above the other girls by the third grade. Her hands, he thinks, must be air. They must be.

Her fingers are still twisted around his right now. Lifeless, slippery with the blood still wet and quickly cooling.

Joel cradles her, squeezing so hard that he wonders whether he might be able to fuse their bodies together. Lock them in some white-knuckle grip so that he never has to let go of her – never has to leave this hill covered in dirt and blood.

His palms are ruined; a maroon river carving its way down his heart line, dirt deep in the groove of his life line. Why does he even fucking remember what they’re called?

Why the fuck are you what he’s thinking about, right now?

“Tommy,” he says, opening his eyes again. “We gotta…we gotta get to…”

She’s limp, draped over his thighs as though she’s nothing more than a stretch of crimson curtain. He looks down at her and begs her to come back, begs her to open her eyes and look up at him again.

But the night is passing and she’s still not breathing. Dawn is breaking and Joel’s daughter is dead.

He sucks in a shattered breath. “…to San Angelo, Tommy.”

The younger Miller stuffs his gun into the back of his jeans and paces over, soles coated thick in shit and grass. “I hear you, Joel.”

“You ain’t listenin’ to me, I –”

“I’m listenin’ fine, Joel.” Tommy hooks his hands under his niece’s arms. “Now, help me lift her. We can’t…” his voice strains, fighting the death grip his brother has on the girl, “…we can’t leave her here.”

Joel’s frozen to the spot; sinking further and further into the earth. Staring at his open hands, the stains like rust on his palms. He says to San Angelo again, and Tommy snaps.

“Jesus, Joel, enough! I’ve heard enough goddamn it! I see your hands, now – we gotta fuckin’ bury Sarah.”

Your fate line, your nail tickled, and Joel held his hand steady, It can change, if something big is coming.

Somethin’ big? he asked. A little younger, a lot more naïve. Still a healthy dose of belief in the world, an echo of the god-fearing faith that raised him.

His hand felt so light, cradled in two of yours. He half hoped he’d never have to let go – just lie there with you forever. Your legs tangled with his, the sheets disturbed; the room injected with amber from the streetlights outside.

You nodded. A big shift, or something.

And he scoffed. He actually scoffed, right there and then. Incredulous. The hell kinda big shift is comin’ our way? he asked, laughing.

You just smiled back, shrugging. You were so fucking casual, that whole night. It would’ve unnerved him, if he hadn’t been so swept off by the sparkle in your eye, the glowing cherry of your cigarette.

Guess we just gotta wait ‘n see.

It’s August thirtieth, two thousand eight.

Almost five thousand miles on the back of a Harley, and Joel just wants to go home.

He arches his aching back, palms flat against the crests of his hips, and blinks in the light from the food mart in front of him. Twenty-six, he thinks to himself, only twenty-fuckin’-six.

It’s ninety degrees out. An uncomfortable heat, for a man who feels ten years older than he really is. For a man who hasn’t had a decent shower in almost two weeks. For a man who’s spent the last six hours tailing the brake lights of his little brother’s bike.

The sweat gathers sticky between his shoulder blades, prickles along the nape of his neck. There’s dust spattered down his bare arms and buried in the grooves of his knuckles.

He’s tired. He’s tired, he’s dirty, and goddamn, he wishes he was back home.

He holds a hand up to shield his eyes from the sun, the yellow sky melting to a purple haze. Squinting, he follows the soar of two swallows overhead, looping through the sky, until he’s rubbing the image from his eyes with the back of his wrist.

He’s gotta remember to call Sarah before she goes to bed.

The door opens with the tinkle of a brass bell older and rustier than Joel feels. A swaggering figure splits the glow from the store in two – a figure with a pack of Marlboros in one hand and an already half-empty bottle of water in the other.

Tommy holds them both out to Joel, who swipes the water with a scowl.

“Ain’t killed you yet, brother,” Tommy scoffs, stuffing the cigarettes into his back pocket. He swings a frayed-denim leg over the seat of his Harley.

Joel drains the bottle, panting as he crushes the plastic in one fist. “Damn near tryin’,” he mutters, tossing it in the trash. He runs his tongue across his bottom lip.

“Where are we?” Tommy asks. He glances over his shoulder, staring from the cracked roads to the telephone wires overhead. A Syclone pulls into the lot; a dehydrated squeal as it rolls to a halt.

“San Angelo,” Joel says. “Only a few more hours to go.” He settles on his own bike, pulling his leather jacket over his shoulders. “We passed a Super 8 coming into town, if you feel like restin’ up. Or – we leave now, be home around midnight.”

Tommy chuckles. “What’s the rush? We ain’t gotta be anywhere anytime soon.”

And Joel agrees – for the most part.

His mom is watching Sarah while they’re gone, and he reckons she’s hardly missing him. Too smart for her own good, Joel’s realizing: plotting and scheming her way into staying up past her bedtime, drinking Pepsi at dinner, watching Curtis and Viper – and swearing that her dad lets her do it all, too.

But, still. He misses his kid.

It’s the most they’ve ever been apart – time or distance. The longest he hasn’t had her climbing up his back or hanging off his arm. The least he’s been called Dad since he was eighteen years old.

He just…misses his kid.

He sighs, drumming his fingers on the body of the bike. “Tommy, I gotta get back home to Sarah.”

“Look,” Tommy says, and Joel knows that the argument is lost already, “By the time we got back, she’d be asleep anyways. Let’s leave in the morning – first thing, I swear – and we’ll be home in time for breakfast. Deal?”

They stare at one another, a stand-off in the parking lot. Both waiting for the other to break. The swallows gather on the roof of the store, basking in the weak wash of flickering fluorescents.

“Come on, brother,” Tommy pleads, “It’s one more night.” He lifts his helmet, punching it over his mop of shaggy hair, and kicks the bike to life.

Joel growls to himself, watching it drift over to the side of the road.

He considers heading to the Super 8 alone, grabbing a room only to shower and get some food, then hitting the road and leaving his little brother in the dust. Waiting for him to stumble through the door tomorrow morning – tired, groggy, probably hungover – while Joel, fresh as a daisy, drizzles syrup over Sarah’s pancakes and pours her orange juice.

He’s a pragmatic man. He’s a grown-up. Scares away the ghosts and ghouls and monsters of his daughter’s nightmares. Shushes her back to sleep in the crook of his arm, tiptoes as lightly as he can out of her room so as not to wake her.

Things like God, like the universe, things like horoscopes and laws of attraction…for the most part, Joel can do without them. Has done his whole life.

But then – the glow of indigo overhead, and the mysterious shadows lurking behind the buildings. The birdsong tittering in his ears, the twinkle of the sun in Tommy’s helmet – something distant in the dusty sphere.

Something, someone, winking at him from far away.

Something a little heavier than the breeze nudges at his spine, and Joel’s arms lift – fitting his own helmet over his head. He swings the heel of his boot into his kickstand and revs the bike, Harley roaring as it joins Tommy’s out on the boulevard.

Murphy’s is a small, green bar on the corner of an intersection. All peeled paint lettering and buzzing fluorescents – the y burnt out and pulsing.

Joel doesn’t think Tommy picked it for any reason other than the huge Lone Star mural on the side of the goddamn building, the way he tosses his thumb to it as they park up. A squint smirk on his face, muttering something like ‘s good to be home, big brother, as they hook helmets over handlebars.

Tommy leads Joel inside, their boots tacky on the wooden floor. Walls paneled by aged frames and sun-bleached photographs; air hanging thick with a smell like vinegar. The babble of slurred conversation is pierced by the sharp crack of pool balls breaking.

Metal-plate belt buckles snaked through strained jeans; low eyes which shift to size-up the two strangers. They all turn back to their fingerprinted glasses when Joel and Tommy settle into an empty booth.

It feels hotter in here than it is outside, stuffier. A thick humidity which clings to Joel’s bones, humming like the string lights draped from beams above his head.

Tommy reclines between the creaking leather cushion and the wall. He pokes at a yellowing poster of some Western, hums to himself, and then looks across the table.

Joel’s eyes loop once around the room before they meet his brother’s. “What?” he asks.

“First round is yours, old man.”

“Oh, is it, now?” He cocks an eyebrow. “Thought this was your idea?”

A weedy grin stretches across Tommy’s lips. He needs to fucking shave, Joel thinks. Whiskers poking from around his small mouth like pine needles. “’s my birthday trip,” he reasons.

And can Joel argue with that? Does he have the fucking energy? Will it get him out of here and back to Austin any quicker?

“Goddamn it,” he grumbles. He pushes himself to his feet, heels of his palms against the tacky wood.

He wanders over to the bar, tugging on the front of his tee to unstick it from his damp chest. Slots in beside an ivory cowboy hat with a pair of jeaned legs. The man fixes his bolo tie and watches Joel’s hand as he flags the bartender down.

And then he feels it.

You.

Then he feels you.

First, the weight of you – crashing some into his back. He shunts forward from the suddenness of it, knocking his ribs against the bar, and lifts a hand to brace himself on the ledge.

And then – heat, like an iron. Like every hair and freckle on your skin is branded into his the second you come into contact with him. A feeling like the roll of a wave against his spine, a hand hooked around his forearm when he begins to turn.

“Shit,” you hiss, steadying yourself on the curve of his shoulder. You glance down at your feet, clicking between your black boots. “I’m sorry, that was…that was my bad.”

“’s alright,” Joel says instantly. He holds his arm still until you let go and he sidesteps – though only a little. He watches, dumbstruck, as you rest your elbows on the bar and lean forward. His eyes linger on your back, trailing the crisscross straps wrapped tight over your spine.

You squint up at the menu pinned above shelves of crystal bottles. Your eyes move back and forth across the chalkboard, slowly descending until they’re meeting his in the speckled mirror opposite – a sweet smile growing on your lips.

It runs like whiskey through Joel’s veins: warm and dangerous.

And the way his head spins, the way the world blurs for a moment into one swipe of color around you; the way your cooing laugh echoes between his ears long after he’s heard it –

Joel’s already intoxicated.

He’s still staring when you pull back and motion to the bar. “You can go first, by the way,” you say, waving a hand. “I wasn’t cuttin’ in line. Just trying to read the drinks.”

“I’ll wait,” he replies, remembering how to be polite, how to be charming. Old cogs long out of use jerking to life inside him again. “Can’t read any of ‘em, either, anyways.”

It draws from you that same little laugh, a puff of air from your nostrils. You nod, biting your bottom lip.

He’s quickly forgetting why he’s stood in this room, why he’s in this city. He’d probably forget his own fucking name if you asked him right now what it was.

“’nother drink, darlin’?” a low voice interrupts, and you’re turning away.

Joel’s eyes follow you – a moth chasing something golden and radiant – as you face the wiggle of a snow-white mustache poking from beneath the brim of that ivory cowboy hat.

You shake your head, lifting two fingers with a bill slipped between them. “I’m good, thanks, George. Maybe next round.” You wave to the kid behind the bar – some name that Joel’s too fucking mindless to hear. Too distracted by the glint in your eye, the sparkle of your crescent moon earrings in the light.

If only he knew this feeling. If only he could put a name to it. As familiar as the sun and yet, brand new like dawn. His stomach swirls in a fleet of butterflies – as though he’s fifteen again, bumping elbows with his high school crush.

You nudge him, thumb pointing in the direction of the bartender.

Joel shakes his head. “Ladies first,” he says, heart skipping when you hold his stare.

“Nuh-uh,” you shake your head, “Told you I ain’t jumping in.”

He asks the guy for two beers, barely taking his eyes off you. “Alright,” he leans in, lowering his voice, “Then let me buy you a drink. Make up for gettin’ in your way just then.”

You prop your chin on your knuckles, grinning as you push your twenty around the wooden bar top, dodging pooled rings of alcohol like it’s an arcade game. “I don’t do that,” you say, eyes tracing the slick trail left by the bill.

“Do what?”

“Accept drinks from strange men in bars.”

His tongue presses against the back of his teeth, the taste of humor honey-sweet. “Yeah? ‘n how long have you known…” he nods to the – what is he, sixty? Sixty-five? – year-old on your right, “…George?”

Your gaze lifts, eyes wide. Apparently as impressed by Joel’s confidence as he is himself. “We’re actually in a very serious relationship. Marriage proposal imminent.”

“Damn,” he mutters as the bartender reappears with two Coors, “And here I thought I had half a chance.”

You hum to yourself, studying him. Looking from his jaw across the span of his shoulders, his wide-knuckled hands and then back to his lips. Curious and wary, judging the strange animal stood before you.

And he knows he’s weathered from the weeks on the road, and all the years before that. Dirt under his nails and the light sheen of sun on his forehead. The flecks of gray through his thick, brown beard.

You take a deep breath, eyes twinkling, and tell him, “I’m here with my friend.”

“Ain’t that lucky?” Joel glances at Tommy. “I’m here with my brother.”

You look across to the dirty blond, sat tilting a glass candle in his hand. “He single?”

Joel nods. “Is she?”

You nod.

“Alright. You wanna come sit with us?”

Your smirk answers his question. You take the beers, rings clinking off the glass. “Rum,” you call over your shoulder, wandering off, “I drink rum.”

Joel’s gaze lowers to the sway of your hips. “Rum it is,” he says, turning back to the bar.

“So…a cross-country bike trip, and you wound up in San Angelo?”

You’re on your fourth drink, the first one Joel hasn’t paid for – and he only allowed it because it’s a Diet Coke (and maybe you got to the bar first, held his wrists with one hand so he couldn’t stop you from slapping your own money down).

“Yep,” Joel replies, pinching the lime from his drink and dropping it onto a napkin. “Just passin’ through. Shower, sleep, then head on home.”

“Where’s that, then? Home?”

“Austin.”

“Austin,” you pout, “Nice.”

Joel smirks, licking citrus from his fingertips. “Is it?”

“I’ve never been to Austin,” Brooke chirps, fiddling with the umbrella in her piña colada. She twirls the paper canopy and glances up to Tommy.

He snaps out of his slack-jawed gaze when he realizes what she’s implying. “Oh – yeah, well…” his head wobbles as he stutters, “…you two ever come down that way, we’d be happy to, uh…show ya ‘round, huh, Joel?”

Joel doesn’t reply, staring back at his brother with the same amused expression you are.

You’ve been an inch apart all evening – doused in the dive bar darkness, the shrouded conversations and muffled TV static. The tip of your nose and curve of your shoulders lit only by the luminous signs dotting the walls.

Tommy and Brooke are already deep in conversation again about the best car Tommy ever owned. Joel watches as your eyes flit between the pair, entertained by the way they trip over each other’s sentences. Your cheeks lift when Brooke lays a hand over Tommy’s, and he squeezes her fingers back.

Where did you come from? Joel’s thinking. He takes a swig of his whiskey, feeling your eyes on him. As he lowers his glass, you lift yours. When he turns in his seat towards you, you’re already facing him, back against the wainscotting. He smiles, and so do you.

Every movement feels choreographed, some merry dance only you two know. You’re in your own little world.

Where did you come from, again, and where have you been my entire fucking life?

“So, what about you?” Joel asks instead, swallowing – all warm-bellied and brave. “You grow up here?”

You shake your head, taking another sip. “Nope. Just liked it enough to hang up my coat for a few months. I grew up in Phoenix.”

“You travel a lot?”

“I’ve been around. This is the longest I’ve stayed in one place since I was a kid.”

He thinks of home: of Austin and its silver-snake river, burnt-orange jerseys and the pleated bunting lining Sixth Street. He thinks of late nights on lawn chairs, nursing a beer and shooting the shit with his brother. Keeping their voices lower than the buzz of the cicadas, looking more at the dusky sky than at each other.

“You don’t ever get tired of it?” Joel asks. “Of moving around so much?”

You scoff, breath clouding the inside of your glass. “Three weeks on a motorcycle starting to get to you, huh?”

He breathes a laugh, loose again. The cicadas fade from his ears.

Your head tilts in a shrug. “I don’t know. I guess the universe keeps on surprising me.”

Joel doesn’t do this. At least, he hasn’t done this since he was a teenager – crate of beer under his arm and a chest full of courage. He’s long forgotten the feeling of heat blooming in his cheeks, the twitch of his heart anytime you look at him.

But fuck, if there isn’t something about you. Something in the way you move, the way you look at him. Something in the way you play with your straw, knocking ice cubes around and chewing on the plastic once you’ve drained the glass.

Something – though it’s a little too early and Joel’s a little too tipsy to tell just what. He tries to remember that he’s pragmatic. A grown-up. He chases away the monsters in his daughter’s –

“Oh, shit,” Joel says suddenly, scrambling to pull his cell from his pocket. It’s nine thirty. He was supposed to – “I forgot…”

A miserable tone from his Motorola cuts him short. The screen flashes an empty battery before fading to black. He jams a thumb into the keypad a couple more times, cursing at the winking symbol.

“Someone you gotta call?” you ask.

He meets your eye and winces. “Yeah, I’m…I said I’d call an hour ago.”

“You wanna use mine?” You twist around, fishing in your purse for your own. “We can go outside.”

“No, no, it’s…it’s alright, I’m sure she won’t mind, she –”

You shake your head. “Shut up. Come on, let’s go. I could use some fresh air, anyways. Be back in a minute,” you tell Brooke – who nods and turns straight back to Tommy.

Joel extends his hand to help you out of the booth, then follows you to the door. The cool air tugs every nerve in his body to attention, pin-sharp when he steps out of that lazy heat. Under the emerald glow of the Murphy’s sign, he settles his glass on a window ledge. “Next round’s on me, alright?”

You roll your eyes, pushing the phone against his chest. “Just call, Joel.”

One last apologetic glance, and then he’s dialing. He makes to wander along the curb, the tone already pulsing in his ear, when he notices –

“You ain’t brought a jacket?”

You’re sitting on the ledge, clutching your elbows. Swatting midges from the light you’re bathed in, charms on your bracelets jingling. “Hm?”

He tuts. “A jacket. Here.” He shrugs his own off, sitting it around your frame. It’s warm from the bar and from Joel’s body heat, and you sink into it – letting the dark leather drown you as you rummage through your purse again.

“Nice,” Joel’s eyes narrow, “Fresh air.”

You hum into your hands, flicking your lighter. The cigarette trembles when you murmur, “We all got our skeletons, I guess.”

He turns on his heel when a familiar voice picks up.

“Hey, hey, M–Yeah, sorry it’s late…Yeah, we got held up. My phone died, so I’m using…Is she still–? Can I–? Oh, Sarah. Hi, baby.”

His little girl begins chattering down the line immediately, telling Joel everything she’s been up to since they last spoke this morning.

“…and then, Emily thought I was one of the Armadillos – I don’t even know how, ‘cause they play in red, remember Dad? – but she did, and she slide tackled me so bad that Coach Thomson had to sub in Akari for me so I could ice my ankle. Grandma was kinda mad about it, but she took me to Burger King after to cheer me up, and…”

Joel wanders back and forth, smiling to himself and scuffing the heel of his boot along the concrete – barely able to squeeze more than two words between her chirping. It’s all, Yeah, baby? and Wow, sweetheart; all uhuhs and mhms until she finally quietens, excitement plateauing again.

“Alright, well. You know what time it is, right?”

“Yeah,” Sarah groans. She knows it all too well.

Bedtime.

“…But you didn’t call when you said you would, Daddy, and it’s Saturday, it’s –”

“I know, baby, I know. I’m sorry. Just…somethin’ came up. But I’ll see you tomorrow, right? We’ll be back before you know it.”

“Where’s Uncle Tommy? Can I talk to him?”

Joel turns to face the bar. “He, uh…I’m not with him right now, sweetheart. I’ll tell him you asked after him, though.”

Sarah concedes, and then begins asking questions Joel knows she’s only asking to stay on the line a little longer – to stay awake a little later. But still, he answers each one – humoring her and, at the same time, letting himself listen to her voice just a little more before he has to let her go.

He thinks of scooping her up in the morning; thinks of being slumped on the couch after dinner with her head on his stomach – fast asleep with whatever movie she chose droning on in the background.

Despite the thousands of miles and close to two weeks between them – she makes him feel closer to home. She always does.

When Sarah asks where he is, he glances your way. Clocks your flat expression, the half-burnt cigarette hanging from your fingers.

You flick ash to the ground. Eyes unreadable beneath low brows, a tiny crease between them that Joel’s only just seeing for the first time.

“Uh…” he clears his throat, “…just a little – a little north of you, baby. Home first thing, I promise.”

He tells her he loves her and she says it back, and he tells her to sleep well and she says that back, too. And then he’s hanging up – Alright, see you soon, bye, Sarah, bye-bye, byebyebye – and pressing his thumb into the red button.

He wanders back over to you – ears flat like a guilty dog, though he isn’t quite sure why. He mumbles a quiet thanks as he passes the phone back, then stuffs his hands in his pockets.

You lean back, ankles crossed, studying him. Swirling what’s left of the cigarette in your fingers – the smoke lifting like a winding snake to the dark sky. “So,” you pout, “What are you doing flirting with me, if you got a wife and kid back home?”

His jaw ticks, a hand coming up to scratch his beard. “I don’t have a wife,” he says.

You stare blankly, filter back against your lips. “Okay, then – a girlfriend. Does she know you’re out tonight with us?”

He shakes his head. “No wife, no girlfriend. I don’t have an anything.”

“But you have a kid.”

Joel nods once, tongue in his cheek. “Uhuh.”

And then the penny seems to drop. A small oh; your jaw slack and eyes wide. The cigarette smolders between your fingers. “Fuck,” you whisper, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“No, hey,” Joel steps closer, “You didn’t know. It’s alright.”

He straightens the jacket on your shoulders. When you finally look at each other again, you snort.

“Sorry,” you repeat, shaking your head. “Is she okay? Your daughter – is she…?”

“Sarah,” Joel says. “She’s…she’s fine. Thanks.”

You look down, stubbing your cigarette against the brick. Voice quiet, you ask, “Her mom’s not around anymore?”

Relief settles in his chest: you’re softening to him again.

Joel slots onto the ledge at your side. Shoulder to shoulder. He reaches behind and lifts his drink. “Not since she was a year old.”

Your mouth pulls in a wince. “Jesus. That’s rough.”

He doesn’t reply. He doesn’t have to – you’re not asking him to explain – and he doesn’t want to, either.

You’re not stupid – you’ve seen enough of the world to hear what he’s really saying. The darkest, dustiest corners of it – all the places no one ever wants to look.

You don’t seem disturbed, barely even moved by the reality that…well, shit happens. People leave, families break; a two-car driveway is suddenly taken up by just a pick-up truck and a little pink bike with tassels.

He figures you get it. You don’t need to know how can that be? – you just…know that it can.

“So, uh…” you look up at him again, “…my apartment is, like, five minutes away if you wanna…you know. You can charge your phone, can shower – if it’s bugging you that much.”

Joel’s eyebrows lift. “Oh, really?”

You simper, eyes thin. “Really.”

“Charge my phone ‘n shower?” He stands, palm flat against the wall above your head, and leans in. His face is inches from yours.

You look up, mirroring his expression. “Yes,” your voice curls in a half-truth, “What’s the big deal?”

“What a goddamn line,” Joel says, smirking. “How long you been sittin’ on that one for?”

His blood thrums faster, harder, louder in his veins when you stand up, hands on your hips.

“It’s not a line, I’m serious –”

“I didn’t take you as the type, baby, I really didn’t – but if that’s how you wanna play this, then –”

He feels you before he sees you moving, like he’s stood at that bar all over again. Your hands on his jaw, your chest pressed to his. Your lips – soft as satin, with a tinge of sweet rum and smoke – against his.

Joel barely misses a beat. He closes his eyes and lifts a hand to the back of your head, kissing you back. It’s dizzying, the taste and feel of you so close; the wet of your tongue on his. The little scratches of your nails in his beard, the moans caught in your throat.

Dizzying – and fucking perfect.

You break apart and lean in to each other, catching your breath. Joel’s hands slip beneath the heavy leather of his jacket onto your waist.

“Unless…” you whisper, pulling away from him, “…you don’t want to. In which case, I’ll just…” You twirl back towards the door, batting your eyelashes.

Joel smiles. He catches your wrist and reels you back into his body. “I want to,” he breathes, kissing you again. “I want to.”

“Let’s go.”

You make it to your apartment door, fumbling with your keys – and Joel’s hands are glued to your waist.

You miss the lock over and over as he kisses your neck, grazing the skin with his teeth. Anything to satiate the hunger quickly taking over, the tightening in his jeans.

He pulls you against his hips – rough denim grinding into the curve of your ass. He can smell your flowery perfume, a strange melding of peony and menthol sharp in his nostrils.

It’s the hungriest he’s ever felt, he thinks – a starved animal pinning his prey to her flecked apartment door. He pauses, bottom lip damp against your neck; breathing a liquor-laced laugh over your skin.

You jam the key into the lock. The door finally shunts open and you spill inside, dragging Joel with you.

Your place is dark. Angled strips of streetlight thrown high up the bare walls and across the ceiling, splintered by tilted shades. The spill of a blanket draped over an empty couch; a pair of sneakers left on the rug. Joel’s knees brush by a houseplant guarding the door – heavy leaves which pfft when they sway out of his way.

It’s half-decorated. Temporary. Caught somewhere between home and away. Little fragments pieced together into something the shape of home: a mosaic vase that scatters light across the surface of the coffee table; a beaded curtain pinned around the closet doorway.

Like you’re a little magpie, collecting trinkets of silver and gold until your nest feels like yours. Bags dropped long enough to keep a Monstera plant alive, not to put nails in the wall for the frames propped against the skirting board.

You shrug Joel’s jacket off, dropping it over the back of the couch. When you spin back around to him, he lifts your chin with two fingers and presses his lips to yours. You lead him down the hallway, tumbling into your room.

He follows you over to your bed, collapsing onto a tousled mess of sheets with his hips between yours. The hem of your dress rides up your thighs, bunching around your hips and revealing a flash of pink lace underneath.

The world around him seems to sober up for a second, sharpens into focus. It begins to seep in: the realization that he has you – some girl he met no more than two hours ago in a bar – pinned to your mattress. A slick gathering in your underwear and a weight building in his.

Right now, he should be sinking into squealing bedsprings in a Super 8. Bathing in the flicker of a television set twenty years too old. He should be showered and rested – ready to head home at sunrise, if not sooner.

But then something led him to you, and – well.

There’s no fucking helping him now, is there?

Joel’s fingers hook around your panties. He pulls down, leaving a trail of kisses along your bare leg, until that same pink lace is dripping from your ankle.

His eyes flash up to yours, love-drunk and sparkling. He pushes your knees apart, watching your velvet folds open for him, and – oh, he thinks, staring at the glistening arousal smeared around your cunt. Such a slick little mess for him already.

“Goddamn, darlin’,�� he licks his lips, “She’s so pretty.”

You hum, hands lowering. Your fingers separate, spreading your pussy for him. Your middle finger swirls around your clit, dips along your seam. And the n, silky and shining, you lift your hand again and slip your fingers into your mouth.

“Tastes even better than she looks,” you murmur, dappling your fingertip along your bottom lip.

Joel growls. He pushes down on your thighs, ignoring your little yelp, and drags the tip of his tongue through your slit.

“Oh, shit,” you gasp, back arching. Your fingers knot in his hair, twisting and tightening. “Shitshitshit.”

“Mhm,” he hums against you, tongue pushing inside.

Fuck, you’re just so perfect: so soft and warm and fucking dripping for him. He laps at your sweet center, wet already spreading all over his mouth and beard.

A dampness blooms in his boxers. He’s throbbing, fucking aching the longer he goes untouched. He grinds against the mattress, denim rough against his solid erection.

He lifts his chin, panting – satisfied by the way you squirm under the weight of him. “You like that, huh?” he asks, a sodden kiss to your mound. “Fuckin’ love it.”

He spits a thick bead of saliva, watching it dribble down your folds to your ass. His tongue swipes it back up, circling your clit, all slippery and swollen.

“Fuck, Joel,” you moan, tugging on his hair. Your legs spasm, hips lifting.

He loves the sound of his name when you say it. Broken in two, a lilt to it as it rolls from your tongue and down his spine. Like it’s yours as much as it is his, now.

He sucks hard on your clit, his tongue flicking. And he can tell you’re close; can feel your hips starting to lose rhythm, see your back desperately arching higher and higher.

Joel groans, pushing up to hover over you. He cups between your legs, dabbing two thick fingers at your entrance, and pushes in.

Your pussy draws him in knuckle-deep. Your chest lifts, the loose neckline of your dress exposing more and more. You grab your breast, pinching your nipple – a roll of pebbled flesh between your fingertips.

He lowers his lips to your ear – watching as you toy with yourself. “Come on, baby,” he grits his teeth, “Give me one. Let me feel this pretty cunt.”

Your head rolls back into the pillow; a high sob as your orgasm crests. Clamping tight around him; a warm flood down his fingers.

Joel kisses you as you come. You look so pretty, he thinks, with ecstasy behind your eyes and his fingers between your legs.

Christ, he wants to be inside you so badly. Wants to feel your cunt do all this around his cock instead.

The blood rushes between his hips.

His fingers slip in and out, bringing you back around. Joel’s lips are on your neck, murmuring, “Good girl, that’s my girl,” as you resurface.

Your eyes open again – glossy, glazed with the aftershock of your high. “Fuck,” you breathe, playing with the hem of his shirt.

He pulls his fingers out and sucks them clean. Whips the tee over his head in one motion; another kiss tucked under your chin as you peel your dress from your body. He tosses it to the floor.

Still dazed, your body still trembling, you ask, “Do you have a condom?” All dreamy and distant, your hands trailing along his belt.

Joel pauses. Tilts his head, frowning. “I’m on a road trip with my brother, baby – the hell would I bring condoms for?”

You roll your eyes, sighing. It’s the cutest thing Joel thinks he’s ever seen. You thread the belt through the loops of his jeans. “In case you meet a really cool girl at a bar and wanna take her home, maybe?”

He lifts his eyebrows, impressed. He slips his salty tongue over yours again.

You moan at the taste. “It’s just I’m…I’m all out.”

His belt drops to the floor; buckle clinking against hardwood.

“Well, shit,” Joel whispers.

It’s not exactly a scenario he predicted, setting off from Austin. Meeting you wasn’t on the bucket list for the trip. It’s another three, four, probably five things to add to the list of shit he doesn’t do, shouldn’t do, wouldn’t fucking do if it hadn’t been for you.

No, Joel thinks, groaning as you palm the solid shape of him – he didn’t bring a goddamn condom. Jesus, the most he has in his pockets right now is fifteen bucks and a stick of gum.

You unzip his pants, shrugging the denim loose. “We can just do it…without,” you offer.

Joel stares down at you. “You sure?”

You nod, biting your lip. “Just pull out, right?”

“Just pull out…” he echoes. Your hands are cold on his heated skin, but he’s not about to fucking stop you.

You tug his underwear down with his jeans, following the darkening hair from his navel down. Another quiet pull out passes your lips – your voice dissolving when you spot the thick base of his dick.

Joel’s shaft springs free, heavy against the inside of his thigh.

“Holy shit.” You push yourself up on your elbows, eyes flooding black.

His tongue runs along the bottom of his teeth. He thrusts forward into your hand, a glassy drop of precome dribbling from his slit.

Your thumb swipes across his flushed tip, fingers wrapping around his width. You roll his balls in your other palm, massaging and squeezing just the right amount.

“Easy, easy,” Joel whispers. Too much, too soon. He can’t come yet, not until he feels your fluttering cunt around his cock.

Instead, you reach up – snaking an arm around his neck. You pull him back down, his naked body flush against yours, and hike a knee over his hip.

He grinds into you, his cock nudging between your legs. They fall apart for him – pliant and keen, like petals unfolding. He covers himself in your slick, his tip catching below your clit.

“Pl-ease,” you whine, scratching at his shoulders.

Joel nips at your damp neck. “Please, what?” he taunts.

Your breath is hot against his cheek – a stifling request which curls up in the shell of his ear. “F-fuck me.”

And his hips roll into yours.

“Jesus f…” your face buries into his chest, “…you’re…you’re so fucking big, Joel, I can’t –”

He nudges between your walls, groaning into your skin. You’re even tighter around his cock, even cozier. “I know,” he pants, “I know. Take it, baby, know you can take it.”

You stretch around him, opening up the deeper he pushes. “Fuckfuckfuck,” you pant, the thick hair at his base finally brushing against your clit. “Fuck, Joel.”

“Look at me,” he taps your jaw, “Hey. Look at me. Breathe.”

You exhale, hot and shaky across his lips.

“Good, that’s good.” Joel nods. He holds you by the waist, lets you adjust to his size.

He pulls back, your cunt clamping around him. Halfway out, and then in again. Feeling you open up, inch by inch, until he builds a steady rhythm.

“Jesus, baby, she’s so…” he moans, “…she’s so goddamn tight.”

You drape an arm over his shoulders, a hissing pain where your nails dig into his skin. Yelping each time he bottoms out, your leaking cunt wrapped snug around him. “So – goddamn – big,” you whine, a ruined smile on your lips.

He slams his body into yours again, watching the way your tits bounce. Nipples hard, skin tacky and shining with sweat. Your pussy pinches, and he starts to unravel.

Fuck the road trip, Joel thinks, fuck all of it. This is where he should be: in the middle of your bed, burrowed deep between your legs. This is the only place he wants to fucking be, right now.

So he fucks you harder; the headboard hammering against the wall. A fistful of the pillow, his knuckles whitening. He guides his cock when he slips out – a filthy sound as your clutch sucks him back in.

“Fuck,” he growls, gripping your hips so hard he worries he might bruise you. His thrusts become sloppy – quick and desperate.

“So close,” you gasp. You’re squeezing him so tight that he sees stars. “I’m gonna – I’m…”

Perfect, Joel thinks, watching you bloom. You’re so fucking perfect.

He coaxes you through it. Slows enough to feel you come around his cock, your warmth as it gushes all over him. “That’s it, baby, I got you. Shit, you’re gonna make me come.”

He pulls out just in time to coat your stomach; a throaty groan as he comes. He pumps his shaft, covering from your sternum to the plush of your tummy. It dribbles down your waist, spurts between your breasts.

He collapses over you, pressing his forehead to yours. His dick, soaked and softening, smears the ejaculate across your skin.

You giggle, leaving sticky kisses along his beard.

“You okay?” he asks, breathless.

You nod, and his tongue dabs at the inside of your lips. You taste like sex and sweat – sweet and salt.

Joel shifts to the edge of the bed. He feels you follow, your lips featherlight on the curve of his shoulder.

You make to stand – going to clean yourself up, he reckons, your tummy dripping with his semen – and he locks a hand around your bare thigh.

“Stay,” he says, voice low and rough – sex still smoldering. “Let me get you a towel.”

You smile, resting your chin on his shoulder. Your fingers link around the other side of his waist. “I’ll get it. Just relax.”

And for a minute or two, you stay like that. Hooked onto one another, tired eyes closing over, breathing in rhythm. Your cheek on his shoulder, your knee brushing against his tummy.

It’s simple; quiet and still. Joel feels like half a person – the other half tracing her chipped nails along his bare thigh. Eyelashes fluttering, teeth holding back a grin that she thinks might give her away.

Eventually, you move. Shimmy yourself down the mattress, swipe a crinkled tee from the ottoman – and slink off to the bathroom.

Joel lies back against the headboard, body sticky hot. He watches the shadow of your figure stretch across the open door. His eyes drift upwards to the looping ceiling fan – only half as dizzying as the sound of your humming in the next room.

And just when he starts to think he might be fucking missing you, you reappear in the doorway. Leant against the frame, some worn band tee hanging from your shoulders. Arms crossed; smiling back at him.

A rush of words floods to the tip of his tongue. You look beautiful. Your makeup’s smudged, chains of your necklace twisted; your shirt is frayed and splotched with faded stains – and you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on.

He holds his arms out and you prance over.

You crawl over his figure, kissing your way up to his lips, and then turn in his lap. Cradled against his broad chest, your head nuzzling into the dark threads of hair between his pecs. You clasp one of his hands in two of yours.

“Offer’s still there for a shower, if you want it,” you whisper, kissing the pads of his fingers.

Joel tilts his head, mumbling against your temple, “Will you be in there with me?”

You answer something shaped like a tease, just as sharp with wit – but he’s too busy watching your nails trace his open palm. Too distracted by the sweet scent of your skin: a fresh burst of fruit, singed with the edge of tobacco.

“What do you do for work?” you ask.

He makes some sort of sleepy sound – a grunt, a hm? into your skull. “Oh, uh – I’m a contractor,” he says.

Your chin lifts. “That why your palms are all…?” Your thumb strokes light as lace against his worn skin.

“Probably,” Joel admits. He draws shapes on your thigh with his free hand.

“Do you sand the wood with your bare hands, or somethin’?”

Joel scoffs. “Alright, alright. You liked my hands plenty, twenty minutes ago.”

Your cheeks lift, a low hum caught in your throat. You angle your head to let his lips trail along your shoulder, pressing into the hinge of your jaw. A dark nail following the landscape of Joel’s skin – each score and divot, the callused pads at the bottom of each finger.

“You have sorta…earth hands, I think.”

It sits in the air for a few seconds before Joel turns to you. “What?”

“Earth hands. Or, well – I guess they could be water, if you look at ‘em this way.” You open up his hand, fingers stretched. “I don’t really know. I’m still learning.”

He looks down at you. Feels the now-steady pulse of your heart on his sternum. “Learnin’…hands?”

You snort. “Palm reading, Joel.”

His brows draw tight. He licks the inside of his whiskey-stained cheek. “You’re into all that hippie sh…stuff?”

You knock your knuckles against his chest, still staring at his hands. The hills and their valleys, the ravine-like lines; the worn skin and hatch marks.

“Let’s see…Your heart line,” you whisper – more to yourself than Joel, but he’s listening all the same. “It’s pretty deep, which means the relationships you’ve had have been…important. But it’s kinda…it tails off right here, see? It’s broken. So…I guess they didn’t end too good.”

Joel raises an eyebrow – playful, encouraging your timid smile. Keep figuring me out, he thinks, stoking the curious flame behind your eyes. “Alright,” he says, “Now tell me something you didn’t already know about me.”

You gawk, holding his wrist up. “You don’t see that? The way it breaks up? I’m not bullshitting you, Joel, it’s –”

“Naw, I see it,” he nods, squinting a little at his palm, “Just – tell me more. What’s all these other lines mean?”

“Well,” you adjust between his hips, “you got your life line right here. Short, which means –”

“Don’t tell me that part.”

“No,” you roll your eyes, “It just means you’re independent. You never needed much from anyone. And it runs past this mount – these are called mounts – right here. Venus: all to do with love and sexuality.”

Joel holds your open palm next to his, comparing them. He takes less than a second’s look, lines his lips to your ear and says, “Seem like a pretty good match to me.”

You wriggle when he tickles your ribcage, trying to twist out of his grasp. You’re laughing again – the same laugh he’s been hearing all damn night. The same giggle that’s had his stomach somersaulting since he first heard it.

The room seems to light with it, this glow he feels from you – as if you’re the sun. Spent and still half-drunk; lazing with a stranger in the middle of her bed. Tracing the lines and scars on his palm, telling him how logical and grounded he’s supposed to be.

As if the world orbits around you – everything you touch turning to molten gold. And for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, Joel looks at you and wonders: Where the hell did you come from?

You hold your hand against his, folding your fingers perfectly together. The evidence of your night flaking from Joel’s knuckles; sweat still simmering on the nape of his neck.

He hasn’t done this for years. Hasn’t felt this gentle aftermath. It’s usually a rush, a hastened zip and clink of his pants. An awkward dance, plucking clothes from the bedroom floor and pacing back to his truck.

It’s never like this. Talking and laughing, holding and kissing. Questions about his parents and yours; his biggest dream as a kid, or the time you broke your arm falling out of a tree.

He tells you stories about growing up with Tommy; tells you Sarah’s favorite flavor of cake. He tells you about the time they tried to make it for a school bake sale, forgot to turn the oven off, and almost burned the damn kitchen down.

You snicker and tell him that never would’ve happened if you were there.

Yeah, well, Joel smiles, I wish you were.

He notices you’re drifting off, despite your slurred protests and your weak grip on his wrist. He pulls you under the covers, curving his body around yours, praying that the quickening drum of his heartbeat won’t wake you.

His nose nuzzles into the curve of your skull, his hands link in front of your tummy. And he wonders whether his body was made with yours in mind.

He glances out at the sky – light starting to bleed from the horizon – and wills the turn of the sun to slow. Only a little; just let him stay here a little while longer.

Just a little while.

Dawn forces her way in eventually – more unwelcome than ever before.

There’s a throb between his temples which swells to life when the light floods past his pupils. “Jesus Christ,” he grumbles, face turning back into the pillow. He gives you a gentle squeeze and then pushes up from the mattress.

You roll to the middle of the bed, still sound asleep. The sun spills golden all over the valleys and crests of your body. The bedsheets carve pathways up to your hips, dipping at your waist.

Last night, there was something so mystical about you – so otherworldly. Joel felt himself drawn towards you like a compass needle shooting north, the second he felt your weight crash against his spine.

A figure behind a cloud of smoke, like the mountaintops disappearing into a thick mist. And now, blood drained of alcohol, you’re just you.

Your shirt is twisted around your shoulders. Your lips puffy, mumbling to yourself in your doze. Makeup smudged like chalk under your eyes, and still – just as beautiful. Just as radiant as you were ten hours ago.

Joel rubs his eyes, sitting on the edge of the bed. He blinks down at his bare feet, the morning sharpening into focus. As he lifts his phone from the nightstand, the cable drops – hitting the wooden floor with a snap.

He pauses, shoulders hunched. Hears you stir over his shoulder, and turns around.

The earth of your body shifts beneath cotton hills, clouds of sleep clearing from behind your eyes. “Hey,” you whisper, voice pretty and broken.

A little bird in the palm of his hand – that magpie curled up in her nest of gems and trinkets.

“Hey.” He leans down and kisses your cheek. “Sorry, darlin’, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You wrap your arms around his wrist, tugging. “Are…are you…leaving?”

Joel feels a pang in his chest, and he doesn’t know why. He takes a deep breath. Your scent fills his lungs and steadies his heart. “I…” he sniffs, “…I gotta go home, baby.”

You give a slow and heavy nod. “S-Sarah…”

He strokes your head with his thumb. “Yeah. Shh, go back to sleep. It’s still early.”

He glances at his phone – it’s just after six. He knows Tommy will be waiting for him, parked outside the Super 8 and wondering where the hell Joel is. He knows Sarah will be, too – sat by the living room window, listening for the rumble of their bikes.

And still, he thinks – How do I fucking leave you? Leave this?

He shouldn’t even be entertaining the thought. He has a kid waiting for him back home; soccer practice, packed lunches, homework and bedtime stories. He has work to do, bills to pay, a roof to keep over their heads. It’s all waiting in Austin, two hundred miles away.

As though you can see the question flipping in his mind, you pull him closer. A weak finger in the palm of his hand, drawing circles. Your bleary gaze meets his, and you whisper, “In the next life.”

Joel smiles. Twelve hours ago, he’d have laughed at the idea of it. Now, he’s not so sure. He kisses your knuckles, muttering, “Promise.”

Another wave of sleep washes over you, and you’re gone again.

Joel pushes himself from the bed, reaching for his clothes. His back twinges as he stretches, pulling his T-shirt over his shoulders. He steps into his jeans; pinches his belt between two fingers and lifts it from the floor.

He leans over and tilts your shades the opposite way, dulling your bedroom. He unplugs the charger, neatly winds the cord, and sits it on your nightstand. He fixes his side of the sheets: folds them over the mattress, tucks them in at your back.

With a deep breath, he makes for the door.

His jaw turns, eyes still low. Your dress is in a heap at the foot of the bed; a tube of lip gloss lying next to it. He looks up, following the landscape of sheets – the slope from your ankle to your hip. Your hunched shoulders, your cheek smushed into the pillow.

If he looks too long, he’ll never leave.

The image burns golden into his eyes. He hopes for half a heartbeat that you’ll wake again and pull him back into bed. Kiss him all over, whisper something sharp and sweet in his ear. Touch him and graze him and wrap yourself around him – anchoring him right here and now.

But you don’t.

And Joel slips out of the room.

Jackson stirs to life over his shoulder.

A white lump in the snow-covered valley, the settlement seems so far away now. Tommy sets off up ahead, leading the way to the outpost. The blizzard is picking up – it almost swallows the silhouette of him whole.

Joel had tried to warn him: the weather would be too bad to see five feet in front of them, never mind any infected. But Tommy argued with the same determination that dragged the pair of them into that dive bar thirty years ago, and Joel didn’t have half the energy nor the will to argue back.

He’s thinking about you. He always is.

Your searing gaze over the rim of your glass; the weight of you against his chest. The tickling of your nail on his palm, severing each line and changing him forever. You and your palm lines.

You were just learning to read them. Joel didn’t know a thing about any of it, and he told you so. You took his hand in yours and said, Here. Let me see.

He runs a thumb down his fate line, swaying in time with his horse. And he shakes his head with a little smile – he still remembers which one is fate and which is heart.

He still remembers all of it. He has earth hands. All salt and soil and solid as stone. His earth hands have gotten him this far, right? Twenty-five years and he’s still here. Gray and grown; stiff joints and sewn-up scars.

His head line has channeled more strangers’ blood than Joel can count. Mounts that’ve stopped breath in the throat of any man who crossed him. He doesn’t think you’d recognize his hands anymore, if your fingertips traced over them again. Broken and bruised and bloody.

And he doesn’t think he’d want you to – doesn’t want you to meet the shadow of the man you knew back then. He’d prefer you remember that same brown-eyed, soft-touched stranger with enough charm and naivety to survive anything. No need for bone-breaking fists or bloodstained hands.

Where are you, he wonders?

The answer knots deep in his stomach: the same old rope twisting into the same old shape. A fist of anger, of guilt. Some terrible cocktail of both, spilling poison through his veins.

He’s terrified to wonder what might’ve happened if he had ever made it back there. What he might’ve found in your apartment – what he might not.

Where would you have gone, that day? Would you have fled, or would you have stayed?

You were smart, he knows that much. He saw the cogs of your mind turning right in front of him, standing opposite each other in that bar. Barely thirty seconds in and he could’ve sworn you had him all figured out.

But – oh, Jesus, you were kind. Open and willing to help a stranger with a dead phone and a tired smile. Would that kindness still glow as bright against the flicker of a world on fire?

A lone hawk swoops down before him, shooting straight between the pines. Joel slips his glove back over his freezing hand.

He thinks about you every day. Every fucking day, and it never eases. Never loosens. It keeps him up some nights – the truth he’s too afraid to look square in the face.

You live now in the back of his mind like a little ghost. His little ghost – still floating around that dusty city; the warm light of life and innocence still bright in your eyes.

Tommy glances over his shoulder. He gestures ahead as if to say, Would you take a look at this goddamn storm?

And Yeah, Joel thinks, I’m lookin’, brother.

All he wants is to go home. Jackson, Austin, the bedroom of your apartment in San Angelo. Just let me go back.

He blinks, and the snow melts to cracked asphalt under a lilac sunset. Tommy’s holding handlebars instead of reins. The horses’ hot puffs of breath darken to clouds of smoke, choking from the exhaust pipes of the Harleys.

You’re somewhere on the other side of town, waiting for him in the faint glow of a jukebox. Sipping what’s left of your rum and Coke, fishing a twenty from your purse for the next round.

Just let me go back home.

He tugs on his horse’s reins and pulls off after his brother.

#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #the last of us #tlou #tlou fic #joel miller smut #joel miller one shot #fic: san angelo

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