#and i know he feels so alone so so alone bc he knows his dad isnt proud of him and he probably thinks he mom isnt either | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

zarameraki · 1 year ago

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♡₊˚⚜️・₊✧ 𝘆𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘀𝘂𝗸𝘂𝗻𝗮'𝘀 𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗱, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗱'𝘀 𝗰𝗿𝗶𝗺𝗲 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 ♡₊˚⚜️・₊✧

: ̗̀➛ tropes: fem! reader 𖥔 mdni 𖥔 sukuna is a mafia kingpin 𖥔 teasing grumpy x sunshine 𖥔 pregnancy trope 𖥔 he'll burn the world for you 𖥔 "my wife" 𖥔 he's a great dad 𖥔 mentions of miscarriage 𖥔 mentions of physical and sexual assault 𖥔 mention of parental death 𖥔 major fluff 𖥔 sexual content 𖥔 alternate universe 𖥔 nsfw 𖥔 he loves eating you out 𖥔 anal play (yup.) 𖥔 last warning: mdni!

: ̗̀➛ words: 6.0k

: ̗̀➛ notes: no bc i love you all so much. it's insane how much you guys have supported my toji fanfic & and my nanami fanfic. i'll def be writing a part two to both of those masterpieces (yes i have self-confidence). as someone who's always imagined sukuna as a mafia leader, i decided to say fuck it and write it. please leave a comment, like, and reblog! thank you & ily. enjoy! (p.s. pregnancy trope>>>)

You never thought you'd be married to Sukuna Ryomen, let alone carrying his kid again. Yet, four years deep into this forced marital mess, thanks to your father owing a hefty debt to the kingpin of the underworld crime syndicate, here you were.

“Look at you, Mrs. Ryomen, radiant as ever!” chirped one of your husband’s associate's wives. You had studied a name list last night, but it all escaped your memory after you passed out from sheer exhaustion.

Sukuna wasn’t keeping a hawk's eye on you like he used to when you first stepped into the public eye. Gone were the days of his glares if you messed up a name. Never once had he laid a finger on you at home, despite your assumption that forgetfulness would earn you a beating.

“Thank you." You forced a smile at the woman, your patience waning as the mayor's birthday party stretched on. It was almost the end of the night, and your feet were protesting from traipsing around in flats. All you craved at that moment was your bed, pronto.

The woman and her husband attempted to capture Sukuna's lukewarm attention through political discussions and expressing gratitude for the illegal artillery shipments from your husband's syndicate. They made no effort to acknowledge your existence by his side.

Your hand rested on your belly, a mere eight months into your pregnancy—a new personal record. The first time you conceived, Sukuna demanded an heir, and you willingly agreed, knowing that the child would provide some distraction in the expansive estate that felt like a cage. Unfortunately, at the two-month mark, you experienced a miscarriage.

Feeling Sukuna's knuckles lightly tapping your back, you straightened your posture momentarily, only to slouch again almost instantly. It was futile. The discomfort of your swollen and cramped belly made it nearly impossible to maintain a poised demeanor in the midst of the party.

Disobeying Sukuna meant facing inevitable death, a fact well understood in his dangerous domain, and you had never dared to challenge that.

"Let's go," Sukuna said, cutting through the incessant chatter of the couple. He didn't grasp your hand, only your fragile wrist, a gesture you didn't mind. Yours was not a typical love; he, Sukuna Ryomen, a most feared monster in the criminal underworld, and you, a sacrificial lamb, a trophy collected three years ago, a means to his heir.

"I'm sorry," you whispered as you exited the venue, heading towards the limousine surrounded by fifteen armed guards under Sukuna's command. "I'm so sorry—"

"Get in the car." He held the door open for you, signaling his guards to disperse and take their positions in the Jeeps parked behind.

Silencing yourself, you cautiously settled into the back seat, and Sukuna joined you, slamming the door with force. His anger was discernible, and the memory of that night, losing your second unborn child to a kidnapping, plagued your dreams. You were uncertain if the nightmares were about Sukuna's wrath upon finding you or the horrors his enemies inflicted on you during your 48-hour captivity.

Sukuna noticed your struggle with the seatbelt and contorted his body toward you. Your fingers released their grip on the belt, allowing him to pull it taut and secure it snugly around your midsection. Click. He withdrew, distancing himself from your face that had been mere inches away.

“Tedious fucking party, anyway,” Sukuna grumbled, his left ankle casually perched on his right kneecap. He always adopted a specific posture, his elbow leaning against something, cheek resting on his knuckles, and his narrow eyes a rich brown that could almost pass for a deep shade of red. He exuded an unrelenting air of intimidation.

"I agree," you unintentionally voiced your thoughts, earning a sidelong glance from him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

His attention barely lingered on you as the car roared to life. You breathed a sigh of relief, stretching out your legs and leaning your head back against the seat's shoulder. Your palm absentmindedly traced circles on your belly. Goosebumps peppered your skin from the frigidness in the car, stirring an involuntary shudder.

"Turn on the heater," Sukuna ordered the driver in his smooth, languid baritone.

"Yes, sir."

As warmth gradually surrounded the backseat, you hummed a small "Thank you" and closed your eyes, enjoying a few moments of peace.

Disorientation clouded your senses, and you dispelled it by rubbing your eyes and using your knuckles to prop yourself against the headboard. A couple of contractions ripped through your gut, causing you to groan and hiss through gritted teeth.

The enormous room was devoid of Sukuna, its black silk sheets hinting at the luxury covering you. The fireplace casted a warm glow, and a soft, dim golden light spilled from the lamp onto the floor.

In the first year of your marriage and pregnancy, your bedroom was located three doors away. You were tended to by on-site nurses and doctors, surrounded by an entourage of maids for company. Days were spent aimlessly wandering the estate, occasionally crossing paths with one of Sukuna's mistresses, their curious smirks evident as they exited his room.

The second year brought a subtle shift. You still slept alone, but now there was a surprising addition of joining Sukuna for dinner. Positioned diagonally from him, an air of restrained silence hung above your head. Yet, between the utensils clattering and quiet chewing, Sukuna's glances toward you and your five-month-old belly revealed your anticipation for the impending arrival of your child.

One of your maids had been instructed to lure you into a private conversation in the back garden, and before you could react, a group of men clad in black drugged you and forcibly removed you from the cage, which in that cruel moment felt like a sanctuary.

Most details of the monstrosities forced upon you in that warehouse have been compressed by your mind—the merciless physical and sexual assault endured for hours. They callously bragged that raping Sukuna's Ryomen's wife was a personal victory, cackling like bloodthirsty hyenas as you bled from your legs. In the thick of your suffering, you lost your second child in a pool of your own sweat and feces.

When Sukuna discovered you, when he annihilated every man along with their bloodlines, you were left as a mere shell of a woman, practically lifeless. You've existed as a walking corpse for quite some time now. Following that dreadful night, you attempted every conceivable means to end your own life—drowning, leaping out of windows, creating a makeshift noose from bed sheets and tying them around balcony railings, teetering on the edge—but every attempt proved useless. Sukuna consistently interfered at the last minute, sweeping in and enveloping you in his arms as you wept until unconsciousness claimed you for days.

Therapy provided some relief, as did the medications. Sukuna heightened security measures tenfold, keeping only those workers who served during his father and grandfather's reigns. He moved your belongings into his bedroom, sleeping by your side with a gun beneath his pillow. There were times when you would doze off in the library while reading, only to wake up in his room.

Two years seemed like an eternity in the slow process of healing, both physically and mentally, from the torment that had befallen you. Stepping into the garden was a reminder of the progress you had made, yet the hope that blossomed in your womb now filled you with a different kind of fear.

You needed your baby. Even if it meant risking your own life during childbirth. The only thing that mattered was the precious life you carried within you, and as long as your baby took that first breath, you'd welcome death with open arms.

Sukuna's bedroom door creaked open, revealing his presence.

Mink-colored tendrils of hair obscured his eyes, disheveled from their usual spiked stance. The stark white of his dress shirt was marred by the unmistakable stains of someone else's blood, and a gun dangled casually from his grasp. In the subdued lighting, his facial markings, inked tattoos designed to mask the scars of his tormented childhood, appeared more ominous than ever.

Without acknowledging your ogling, he briskly entered his bathroom.

You slipped back under the covers, pulling the comforter up to your chin, soothing the sharp twinges in your belly. The rhythmic sounds of his shower served as a background melody. Sukuna took an eternity to freshen up, nearly two hours passing before the door finally creaked open. You had kept a close eye on it, lost in your own world and trying to ignore the persistent contractions. No complaints, though – you were at the eight-month mark, and this baby was determined to make its entrance into the world.

Draped in a sleek black silk robe, Sukuna strolled toward his side of the bed, his eyes locking onto yours. "Why are you still awake?" He tilted his head as if studying an unfamiliar creature. He always regarded you with a curious interest, unearthing some new revelations about you.

"Cramps," you whispered in the dimness, even though the first rays of morning sun began to seep through the curtains.

Sukuna strolled to his side of the bed, lifting the comforter to settle down. "Do you take any medication for it?"

You shook your head. "I don't want to take any risks."

"So you're just going to endure the night with a migraine?"

Your husband seemed oblivious to the concept of cramps. He hadn't bothered to educate himself about your pregnancy or even familiarize himself with basic menstrual cycle terminology. You hesitated to bring attention to his title and position, but he was, after all, born from a woman.

How could he not know?

"Answer me," Sukuna demanded, fixing you with a cold, indifferent gaze. How could two simple words carry such a heavy, intimidating weight? Your entire body shuddered, and you swore you felt your child kick in response to his attitude, causing you to clench your teeth.

"Cramps . . . are something women experience during their period and pregnancy. They're sharp, unpredictable pains in your gut and back," you explained, finding a position that eased the cramps and calmed your baby. "It's worse when you're pregnant—like someone attached a taser to your body without a switch to turn it off."

Sukuna's brow furrowed, and he seemed pissed off as if he held a vendetta against cramps. "Will it have any consequence on the baby?"

You were really trying to be patient. “The baby is the reason why.”

He ran his hands wearily down his face, casting a stern gaze at the ceiling, his breath quickening. "Is there any way to relieve the pain? Besides medication?"

“Well,” you said slowly, “when I first started menstruating, my mother used to place a warm rubber bottle on my stomach.” The recollection of nights spent groaning, tossing, and turning with your hand clutching your stomach brought a smile. After her passing in high school, you found yourself managing the household, dealing with your drug-addicted father, and taking care of yourself all on your own.

"Come here."

Startled, you shifted your focus to your husband, who raised the comforter like a makeshift tent with one arm. "You don't have to—"

"Come here."

With caution, you edged closer, lying flat and holding your breath. Sukuna propped himself up on one elbow, resting his temple on his knuckles while adjusting the blanket up to your neck. His left hand glided up your sweater and settled on your swollen belly.

An immediate sense of relaxation cocooned you, your eyes closing as warmth radiated from his palm onto your skin. The sensation passed through to your child, who quit kicking within seconds, seemingly recognizing their father's touch. It dawned on you that Sukuna hadn't touched you since you conceived, and you hadn't realized the volume of your misery and longing until this moment.

"Feeling better?"

"Mm-hmm." You nestled your face close to his neck. All you managed to whisper, your voice tinged with brokenness, was, "Please, don't let go."

Sukuna responded only with silence.

You'd woken up screaming bloody-mary.

The security team and maids hurried into the bedroom, their eyes widening at the sight of blood staining your clothes and darkening the black sheets. In a swift response, the doctor and her team of nurses rushed in while Uraume, Sukuna's trusted aide, calmly called for your husband from a corner of the room.

In the heat of your excruciating screams, five nurses attempted to guide your breathing and encourage you to follow a pattern. Guards carefully lifted you into a sitting position, and Uraume decisively cleared the room of all men. The doctor swiftly removed your sweatpants and panties, covering your lower region with a sheet, and instructing you to push.

Your body felt numb, your eyes rolling to the back of your head, and a black vignette closing in on your vision. Your head swayed left and right, on the verge of dropping if not for Uraume's unwavering support. Despite the intensity of your grip, they held steady, their only reaction being a stream of muttered curses amid the chaotic scene.

"I can't—Uraume—"

"You will, Mrs. Sukuna. You have come this far. Giving up now is not an option."

"I don't want to die," you whispered akin to a prayer.

"You won't," they softly replied. "He won't allow it."

Uraume, a silent figure from the past, now stood by your side, offering support and encouragement. The connection with them had been minimal, limited to the formalities of a marital contract signing. They had simply muttered, “He’s not half as evil as they say,” to you before packing up the papers and leaving you in the room with Sukuna.

The room buzzed with affirmations, reassuring you that they could see the baby's head and urging you to push with each breath.

The sound of the baby's cries stirred you awake.

You snapped to attention at the sweet, reassuring sound, realizing that your baby was close to arrival—alive and ready to face the world. Following two heartbreaking miscarriages and the pain endured as Sukuna's wife, the bearer of his lost children, you were finally on the cusp of welcoming motherhood.

"Two more pushes!" The doctor's voice cut through the air.

"AGH!" A guttural growl escaped your throat as you grappled with the harsh sensations. Your body trembled, and waves of fiery discomfort overflowed through your core as you exerted yourself to bring your baby into the world.

"Come on," Uraume whispered. "You can do this, Mrs. Ryomen."

You let out a powerful cry and strained with effort, bringing forth new life. The baby and you were crying at the exact wavelength, competing against who could be louder. The nurses and attendants, familiar faces from your previous pregnancies, clasped their hands in prayer for a safe delivery. Tears of relief streamed down your face as you pushed for your own well-being.

"Blanket!" the doctor urgently called out, prompting a nurse to rush over with a soft cream blanket. "Push!"

With a final, determined push, the weight lifted suddenly.

The slippery sensation of delivering the child and the immediate release of pressure left you slumping against Uraume's shoulder. As they laid you down, the doctor directed the staff to tend to you while the baby's cries filled the air.

The doctor approached through your hazy sight and gently laid your newborn on your chest. Overwhelmed with emotion, you showered your baby with kisses, tears of joy streaming down your face. Your little one was here. They were finally here.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Ryomen," the doctor announced as the cries of your newborn gradually faded into the background. "It's a girl."

You drifted into unconsciousness.

The soft cadence of Sukuna's voice filtered through the foggy boundaries of sleep, causing you to slowly come back to life.

“Why is this brat refusing to sleep?” you heard your husband grumbling.

With a laborious effort, you rubbed your eyes, summoning the strength to lift your head from the comfort of the pillow. The scene unfolded before you—Sukuna, the most feared criminal, pacing at the foot of his bed, cradling your crying newborn daughter in his arms, unsure of how to handle his little foe.

"What do you want? Food? You don’t have any teeth yet, little miscreant."

"Sukuna . . ." you whispered, a gentle plea for attention.

Your husband's gaze snapped in your direction, relief washing over his features as he realized you were conscious. "Thank fuck." Moving swiftly, he approached and took a seat at the edge of the bed.

His brown-reddish eyes lingered on the delicate scene unfolding before him—the intertwining of your index finger with your daughter's tiny, rattling fist. A calming magic seemed to stem from your touch, instantly soothing the cries to soft sniffles.

"Already playing favorites, I see," he remarked with a teasing tone, a wry smile on his lips.

"I have to feed her." Your voice was hoarse from the relentless screaming during the delivery. A series of deadly wheezes followed when you coughed, frightening your baby once more. Her cries started again, blending with the impatient curses of her father.

He gently placed her in the cradle, his strength used to prop you up against the headboard. The room carried the scent of coconut soap, your body freshly washed, the sheets beneath you brand-new. You were also dressed in a new set of panties and a nursing bra.

"Are you sure you have enough nutrients in your body to feed her?" Sukuna asked, holding your baby girl as you unclipped the front left cup. Rather than wasting your breath on a response, you focused on helping your daughter latch onto your nipple.

You winced once she caught it, then melted back as she started drinking. “I’m fine,” you finally answered. “Body . . . hurts.”

"No shit. You pushed an eight pound baby out of you." Despite the crude sarcasm in his tone, Sukuna tenderly caressed his knuckles over his daughter's cheek.

"Did you want . . . a girl?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I'm sorry," you mumbled, adjusting your baby onto your lap. "I assumed you'd prefer a boy as an heir."

"I'm not my father," he declared, putting an end to the conversation. "She's got your eyes."

Your daughter gazed up at you with a curiosity remarkably similar to yours. You smiled down at her, grateful she had made it. Grateful that Sukuna wasn't throwing a tantrum over the gender of your child but instead cupping the top of his baby girl's head and brushing his thumb across her forehead.

“You got a name for her?” Sukuna asked.

“Yes, but we can brainstorm if you don’t—”

“You carried the child, you birthed her, you will name her. Whatever it is, I agree.”

Something dead stirred inside your chest. Swallowing hard, you shared the chosen name, "Nobara."

He nodded in approval, and as he pronounced her name, Nobara responded with a wailing cry. "Her tantrums will be the fucking death of me." Sukuna took her into his arms again.

"Support the back of her head and rub her back. She needs to be burped," you advised.

He grunted but followed your instructions. Moments later, a tiny burp from Nobara made you chuckle, earning a slight eye roll and a hint of a smile from him.

"I'll take the next few weeks off to help you recover from the aftermath and the stitches," he announced, rising and walking towards his work desk, where he settled into a large leather chair, cradling your newborn.

You nodded appreciatively, easing yourself down.

"Oh, before I forget," Sukuna mentioned as you settled into bed, "I've arranged a new doctor for you."

“Did you fire the last one?”

“I fired at her, yes.”

Your eyes widened. "What? Why would you—? What?"

He shrugged, cradling the back of your newborn's head. "She suggested an additional stitch for you. Said it would make things 'tighter' down there for me."

Your face flushed. “So . . . you killed her?”

"Yes," he confirmed, his gaze fixed on you with those penetrating eyes, "I don't need a mere doctor questioning whether I'd still enjoy having sex with my wife after she gave birth to our child."

“But . . . you have mistresses. Don’t you?”

He lifted a brow. “I had mistresses up until . . . ”

Up until the kidnapping.

Sukuna never spoke of the crime after he’d saved you. Instead, he expressed his commitment through actions: sleeping beside you, teaching you how to handle a handgun, keeping a protective arm around your waist at social gatherings. Occasionally, you swore you felt him run his fingers through your hair as you slept.

"I wouldn't mind if you did," you admitted, a voice inside contradicting your words. "Given what my body has been through, I would find myself repulsive for pleasure, too. I understand if you feel disgusted."

Sukuna halted the gentle strokes on your daughter's back and straightened up. "What the fuck did you just say?"

An icy shiver ran through you, momentarily numbing the pain. "I-I just assumed—"

"You know, you make a lot of assumptions about me, wife. It gets under my fucking skin that you'd ever believe I could raise a hand on you. Day and night, every hour and minute, even now, in your presence, my mind is consumed with ways to kill the fear that's taken root in you.” He was infuriated yet vulnerable, with Nobara sleeping peacefully on his shoulder. “Everyone I’ve ever met has done nothing but fear me like I’m a curse on their soul, and while I’m flattered of the monster they’ve painted me out to be, I refuse to let my wife and daughter see me in that light. Do I make myself clear?"

You . . . nodded.

“And for your information, I had mistresses up until I married you.”

You took in a sharp breath, processing the confession. "But those women—"

"Spies," he clarified, his voice low and steady. "They operate undercover in my clubs, keeping an eye out for potential threats. I haven't fucked anyone since the day I put that ring on your finger." He offered a small, almost imperceptible apology to your baby for cursing.

"Oh."

All you ever heard were twisted stories about the Sukuna Ryomen, a young man who, against all odds, slaughtered his own father to ascend the throne of the underworld criminal realm. Whispers spoke of a chilling childhood, where a mother's desperate attempt to suffocate her son in his sleep. The scars etched into his skin, concealed beneath a tapestry of dark markings, bore witness to the brutal initiation rites inflicted by vengeful uncles. In his domain, everyone prayed to see him buried six feet under.

Which is why you felt sympathy for your husband. He was lonely. Too lonely. Despite all the riches and influence surrounding him, he was stuck in a fortress where danger lurked around every corner. He had no friends, no one he could truly confide in—except perhaps Uraume. Opening up about his emotions wasn't in his nature. He kept the tough exterior, convinced that being a monster, a curse, was the only path to earning respect and recognition.

But just now, when had cut himself open in front of you and bled a human color, he was Sukuna. Your husband. The one who just became a father. A man wrapped in a comfortable robe with his hair combed down and his skin clean of dirt and blood as he held his daughter, as he gazed at you like you two were the only people meant fighting for in his treacherous world.

Sukuna noticed your silence, tuned in to your steady breaths, and lowered his lashes. "You'll ask me to touch you. Not just for the sake of having another child but for your own pleasure. If I'm not around and you need me, you will call, and I'll rush home. If this little brat gives you any trouble, I'll handle it. Hell, maybe I'll let her in on a bit of the family business for a head start."

"No," you murmured, absorbing everything he'd just said. "Not now. I want her to enjoy a proper childhood."

"Is that a demand?" Sukuna tilted his head slightly, another method of asserting authority. Yet, after all he'd shared about dropping everything for you, about making love to you, the fear in you started to dissolve bit by bit.

"Yes," you affirmed. "It's a demand."

A small smirk played on Sukuna's lips as he rose from his spot, circled the bed, and settled down beside you, with Nobara resting peacefully on his chest. Summoning all your strength, you turned to run your fingers over your baby's soft cheek and tiny, parted lips.

“She sleeps like you, Mr. Ryomen.”

“Sukuna,” he corrected, his arm covering his eyes as he breathed with a slightly open mouth. “My wife will call me Sukuna.”

Teasingly, you asked, “Is that a demand, Sukuna?”

His arm shifted low, and his reddish-brown eyes softened, stealing your breath. “Only from my wife and daughter.”

You smiled, closing your eyes. “Goodnight, Sukuna.”

In response, he wrapped his strong arm around you, pulling you close to his side, his two girls snuggled against his body.

In the beginning, you knew you didn't belong in the hell Sukuna ruled. Your father's mistakes, pilfering drug shipments and peddling them locally, had sealed both his fate and yours. With thoughts of fleeing the disgrace your father brought upon your family, you had started packing, desperate to escape the clutches of your old man.

The following night, Sukuna and his henchmen barged into your cramped apartment, wreaking havoc on every piece of furniture. Rocking in the corner of your room, Sukuna casted his shadow over you like the God of Death, bathed in your father’s blood.

Crouching down to your eye level, he tipped your chin up, leaving a splotch of blood. He used the collar of your sweater to wipe it away. In a hushed confession, you revealed the hidden drugs under the sink and floorboards, along with your father's buyer list folded in the cereal boxes. Sukuna grinned and ordered his underlings to retrieve the concealed items. Then, the chilling question hung in the air: "Are you going to kill me, too?"

"I'm tempted," Sukuna replied, "but not to kill you." His gaze fixated on your left hand, and he raised it, studying your ring finger. "You will pay for your father's crimes with your life." He held your hand in front of your face. "You will take my last name." His smirk widened, revealing perfect teeth. "Isn't that the cruelest form of death, love?"

Unconsciousness claimed you then, but after seven years of marriage, enduring unimaginable hardships, and finally welcoming a baby into the world, your answer was clear. The true torment wasn't caused by the man you once perceived as a monster but rather by his enemies.

"How am I supposed to know if Mr. Munchkin wants more tea? He's a fucking stuffed toy. Can't talk, you know?"

"Sukuna," you warned, perched on the armrest while busy crocheting baby socks for your little one on the way.

Nobara, wielding a rubber, squeaky hammer, stood up from her seat, giving her father a bonk on the head each time he let out a curse. And you often heard the squeak of the hammer around the house.

Nobara's tiara was slightly askew, frustration evident in her curled lips and bared teeth. She was growing increasingly irritated with her father's lack of understanding about the rules of her tea party. "Mr. Munchkin wants tea, Papa. Give him tea! Give him tea! Give him—"

"Fine, I surrender. Here, you little bastard. Take the whole fu—damn pot." He shoved the plastic teapot towards Mr. Munchkin, a well-loved cat stuffed toy you had gifted Nobara on her last birthday. "Happy?"

"Cup," she insisted, pointing at the tea cup in front of Mr. Munchkin.

Sukuna sighed and poured the water from the kettle into the pink plastic cup.

"Me too," Nobara added, settling back in her kiddie chair. Sukuna had barely taken his seat before she had him on the floor. "Hurry!"

"May I pour for the other toys first, Your Highness?"

"Not toys. Friends."

Sukuna shot you a helpless glare, eliciting a chuckle from you. He filled the table with tea, and Nobara, holding her small cup, clinked it with her father's, followed by her collection of stuffed animals. Sukuna reluctantly mimicked the gesture. Instead of sipping the tea, he downed it like a shot.

“Papa!”

“Sukuna, come on.”

There wasn’t any winning with his girls.

Sukuna reluctantly poured himself another cup, sipping it with an air of royalty that mirrored a princess. Despite his resistance to the make-believe tea party, you couldn't ignore the genuine affection he showed toward his daughter. He would nod attentively when one of the stuffed animals "spoke," laughed along with Nobara, and even beautified himself with a glittering tiara, a feathered pink scarf, and deep purple-painted nails.

Sukuna was, without a doubt, a fantastic father. It came as no surprise that Nobara's first word was 'Brat.'

That night, you kissed your daughter goodnight and tucked her into her bed. Sukuna joked that he’d spent every last bit of his wealth decorating the brat’s room, filling it with the latest toys, and stacking her closet with whatever clothes she laid her finger or eyes on. She was truly the princess of her father’s heart.

"She's asleep," you informed him.

"I'll give her a kiss in a minute. Just need to finish this," Sukuna replied, pouring over his documents.

Letting out a sigh, you shuffled over, rolled back his chair, and settled onto his lap. He continued reading as you wrapped your arms around his neck, resting your cheek on his shoulder, peering at him through your lashes.

"I want you," you murmured.

Sukuna paused, lowering his gaze to meet your cheeky smile. "Later."

"It's late."

"I have to finish—" He halted as you began kissing his neck, moving up to his jaw and cheeks, tracing the contours of his face tattoos.

"Please, Sukuna," you whispered near his ear.

How could he refuse you anything when you appeared so stunning, radiating with the joy of expecting another child in your four-month-old belly?

“Take off your robe and get on the bed. Spread your legs for me.” He gave your ass a little smack as you happily skipped away, shedding your clothes and clearing the bed to settle in. With a grin, you opened your legs, propping yourself up on your elbows.

Sukuna stood up from his seat, loosening his robe as he did. He sighed, watching the moisture forming between your legs. Pregnancy seemed to heighten your lusts, and Sukuna was always ready to fulfill your needs.

“What pretty, wet cunt,” he whispered softly, leaning in to kiss your chest, trailing down to your stomach, your hips, your calling clit.

Over the years, you realized Sukuna enjoyed pleasuring you more than the opposite. He feasted on you like a starved man, whether it happened in the back of the limo, in a guest room during a party, or just minutes before a crucial meeting in his office. He insisted it was his way of relaxing, often pleading with you to spend a full hour on his face as he ate you out and drank every drop of your release. It had turned into a daily routine for him. And for you.

“Oh, Sukuna, yes, yes. Right there—ah!” Your back arched off the mattress when his tongue drove into your hole, flicking and exploring your clamping walls. His mouth was latched to your pussy, sucking it in, his cheeks hollowing rapidly. Your fingers tightened in his hair, hips voluntarily grating against his face, his sharp nose rubbing over your swollen clit.

Sukuna drew back as you came down with a muted cry behind your hand and lapped at the flow of your juices pouring out of you. His lips shone as he leaned over and gently kissed you, allowing you to taste yourself from his tongue. “If I don’t fuck you now, I will die.”

“Hurry, then.”

Sukuna pushed himself inside you, and that first wave of pleasure hit you so strongly that you sank your nails in his back and cried out heavenwards. He groaned and grunted, thrusts growing speed, his plump balls smacking against your ass. You loved that he fucked harder, faster, driving you to the brink of ruination.

After you'd healed from Nobara's birth, he would always make sure to get at least ten orgasms from you. From midnight to early morning, he'd fuck you in every possible position. But his favorite was always missionary, where he could have his eyes on you, writhing and whimpering beneath him, telling him it’s too much, he's too thick, all while using your heels to draw him in even closer.

Sukuna curled his arm around your waist and sat you up on his lap, thrusting up into you as you coiled yourself around his neck. “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. Your cunt was made for me, love. Your cunt was fucking made for me.” His hand threaded to the back of your head, grasping your hair and drawing your face back so you were looking him in the eyes without wavering, without bowing your head. He needed to know you didn’t fear him when he fucked you like this. It was an unspoken check-in, and when you smiled drunkenly, only then did he let you return to embracing him.

“Are you close?” you whispered.

“Not yet. I want to come in your ass.”

You shivered despite how scalding and sweaty your bodies were. “Do it.”

“Yeah?”

You nodded. “Please.”

Sukuna dragged you off his cock so you could get on all-fours, raising your ass up for him. He’s only ever been in your sacred spot a handful of times but never finished himself inside it. It appeared that tonight you were both a little extra spellbound.

Mounting himself behind you, Sukuna unfurled your ass and spit on his fingers, stroking the puckered hole. He gathered the creamy liquid dripping out of your pussy to lubricate the spot. His middle finger stretched you out, followed by his ring fingers, pushing in and out until he knew for sure you were prepared for him.

Sukuna’s steel-hard cock pushed into your tiny hole. The sight of it expanding to swallow his girthy size almost made him come right there and then. He started to move in sluggish movement, grabbing onto your waist. His hips cruised, brushing against your ass, making you impatient and push yourself back.

“Understood.” He chuckled and dug his nails into your skin, dragging out to the tip and shoving himself inside. Your face pressed into your pillows, crying and trembling as he abused your asshole non-stop. “You’re taking me so well, my love. Oh, fuck, fuck.” He rutted into you like a beast, claiming your body, rubbing your clit from the front, spanking your ass, brandishing you over and over again.

You both snapped in unison.

Sukuna sagged over your spine as he bucked in every last bit of his sloppy seed. His lips kissed your shoulder blades, holding you up by one arm. Gently, he pulled out, his cock growing floppy until you flipped onto your back, hair sticking to your sweaty, flushed face, belly slightly swollen, your tits larger in size, his release mingled with yours seeping out from your holes.

“Fuck, I love you,” he whispered, cupping your face like he didn’t just fuck your soul out of you. That smirk you’d come to love appeared on his lips. You reciprocated back, stretching out your arms so he could lean down and kiss you sweetly on the lips and cheeks and toss in a praise or two for what a good girl you were as he slid into you again, slower and more intimate with his game. “I fucking love you, Y/N.”

You smiled against his lips that continuously whispered the three beautiful words and said, “I love you, too, Sukuna,” before sealing it with a long, lasting kiss.

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nemesyaaa · 3 months ago

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sweet creature // truck driver!rafe x housewife!reader

summary : just a few mixed headcanons.

warnings : +18 content. minors dni. strong age gap. sweetheart x old man trope. smut. p in v. teasing. smoking. size difference. full nelson position bc big men lovers club here. hand fetish(sorry.). sleazy!rafe. squirting. loss of virginity. please, be aware of the warnings before reading.

author's note : muchas gracias a mi dulce @rafesangelita for giving me the idea bc i really loved to work on the concept of truck driver!rafe. shout out to crush by ethel cain too for give me the inspo of the story. <333

can't stop thinking about truck driver!rafe who's a proud working man. he's soooo bulky from charging alone some weighty goods on his eight wheelers everyday to deliveries driving for weeks and days. he's massive without forcing just because he's doing so hard with his hands on daily.

speaking of this, he's got such big sized hands. apparent thick veins on the back and calloused on the palms. large fingers with too much strength. easier for him to manhandle you or lift you up. they're very manly and rough. fat and round biceps with a strong size. he's tall and big, literally showing you without speaking who’s the man of the house, and who you belong to. you feel so secure every time he's around because you can be sure no one is touching you, no one is looking down at you, no one just dare to even glance at you. he doesn’t like to fight because he doesn't want you to think he's gonna hurt you one day, but if it's for you, he can do anything.

even if you don't like it, he's always smoking a bunch of cigarettes while he's driving and listening to some kind of old music. john denver or johnny cash are his favs.

he's always buying some new marlboro reds at the gas station with some gum when he's taking a break. if he's not smoking, he's chewing some gums until there is no flavor. he's just needs to get something in his mouth. just a bad habit.

he’s a loyal man that doesn't care about women hitting on him at the gas station. but sometimes, he's nostalgic because years ago , you were one of them. you were that pretty rebelious girl who's acting like she has no dad, no family and proudly flirting with him, doesn't give a fuck about getting away with a stranger. at first, you called him old man to joke. at contrary, he directly called you sweetheart, thinking that you're such a sweet thing.

both of you ended up in the motel. “ im curious of what you’ve got in your pants, old man. ” “ you're too young for that shit. ” “ huh, huh…don't you think it's more like you're too old for that shit, sir ? ” the smirk on his face at the moment was really something else. that fucking attitude of yours making him bite his lips.

the minute after, you were pinned down on the mattress, his whole body size over yours. “ repeat it. ” “ i said, you're too old to fuck, sir. ” “ isn’t a fucking virgin thing who doesn't even know anything about the word she's saying who's talking right now ? ” “ I'm not a virgin. ” you lied, rolling your eyes at the sight. “ i swear, I'm not ! ” he laughed softly. “ why are you lying, so eager to be a little slut ? that's why you ran away with strangers like me ?” it was the first time a man like that, and you were speechless. not in a bad way. it was just surprising. “ i think you're forgetting your manners. ” he said carefully, his blue gaze burning over yours.

“ if you want it, i will fuck you. but i need you to say it. clear and ‘oud. ” you turned your head away because there's no way you're gonna say such a thing to him. “ i will find someone else then. that receptionist girl was pre…” “ fuck me. ” you quickly said before repeating it slower and clearly. “ i want you to fuck me…” “ alright. spread those fucking legs for me, sweetheart…huh, look at you, being so wet for me…you really need me.” “ ugh, just touch me ! stop talking, old man. ” you gasped. “ remember that you asked for it. ”

“ yea, yea. ” he started to unbuckle his belt before taking off his pants. your mouth was gagging at his fat cock hanging between his heavy thighs. “ it’s not gonna suck itself. ” you gasped loudly, swallowing hard. “ i j-just don't know how to do it…show me please. ” “ fine. after all, it's my job as your eldest. ”

and that's how you consumed your first night with rafe.

truck driver!rafe who’s got such a pretty polaroid of you that stays and never leaves his truck. there is your lipstick stains on it and a sweet “ good luck ” written on the white space.

as a good housewife, you always prepare him some delicious meals to keep him fed even if he's away. you're always checking on your man' and loves when he's gaining more weight.

he's starting to get old, hitting his forties soon. he doesn't really care about his physic anymore but you still find him so attractive. when you met him, he was already a grown man so it didn't really change anything. he loves to wear a cap on his messy mullet, thinking that it makes him look cool. biggest tees with long sleeves lover. the fabric is not good enough to hide his muscular frame because his big size is so obvious. and he's wearing those blue jeans that fit his muddy boots.

he's not very hairy, but he's not the type to shave often like he used to when he was younger. he's fine with the apparent thick hair of his happy trail and mustache that makes him look like an 80's pornstar. when he's come home, shirtless and sweating, he's just serving you the best look to fuck.

you're obsessed with his scent after a long shift work. you don't care how strong he smells, you just want to hug him and never leave. while he's holding you tight, he's getting you locked on his hug, your face buried against his heavy and glistening chest. and you can't help but kiss his wet sweating tee.

even if he's tired, just knows this man gonna fuck you very hard, especially when you're so clingy to him. you can forget vanilla with truck driver!rafe, there's no way he's gonna be sweet on your fucking pussy, especially after you've been teasing him with dirty pictures of yourself while he was away and driving. also, he does need some stress relief so prepare to be dumb for at least one fucking day raw.

he's excited the moment he sees you. there is no more teasing. he's now in charge of everything and you better take everything he's gonna give you. this is not like he gives you other choices. at this moment, his favorite position to fuck you will be full nelson because you're trapped on his tight muscular hold, forced to bounce on the thickness of his dick. he's dicking you down so hard that you could hear the famous flap flap flap of his heavy balls slapping your skin.

“ don't fucking move. ” he treaths you with the raspy sound of his voice, while your body is bouncing at every of his thrusts. you're shaking loudly on his rocked abs, lips filled with drool and tears running down your heated cheeks. ” you're so fucking tight..! gonna give your pussy a big stretch…fuck ! ”

every back and forth is powerful enough to make your pussy throbs. the way his fleshy cock is moving and bruising your hole — going further and further to the point your stomach is filled with every inch of his shaft, the veiny lines of his dick pulsating inside your cunt and growing harder on your belly. all your whines and cries are nothing for the truck driver, nothing more than a sign to fuck you even faster and stronger. he still holding your twitching body against his toned chest, feeling every squirms of yours on his sweaty skin, and his hands grips at your back legs, while giving you the craziest thrusts. his hands feel so warm and huge on your lower tummy, fingers bruising at your belly while his length is striking to your spot each time. “ you're d-deep…fuck, rafe !! ah…it feels so good…” you cry out of emotions, tears bursting on your face again. “ yea, right ? fucking deep’. you really feel it inside you baby. ”

he's stretching your cunt so well that you can't stop screaming and quivering, feeling his sweat sticking to your body. his breathing is hard and heavy on the side of your cheeks, his jaw slacks but he keeps his mouth wide open loudly panting and getting deeper and stronger, lips tugging at your ears.

he's such a bully. i mean, his dick is. hitting and hitting your g-spot with any fucking breaks, always striking at it like a weapon. getting no mercy and pity on the way he's making you cry. he loves to see your face turning dumb, eyes wide shut, mouth leaking too much saliva, stupid babbles coming from your trembling lips. he's just pushing himself so deep inside your swollen core, breathy moans filling his lips as his cock hardly twitch between your walls, making your throbs even more. you can't even breathe without choking on yourself.

it's like he knows how to take all your energy with his thrusts. his cock won't leave your pussy alone, the veins still hard and bulged with pumping blood, and balls full even after your first orgasm. but not only he wanted you to come but to squirt too.

“ r-rafe, i feel it coming…nghh! ah stop. i c-ca…” “ just let it go, baby. can you do that for me ? ” and it happens just two seconds after, your stretched pussy opening bigger to splash a strong liquid over your folds and making a pool everywhere on yourself. you can't even process the situation that his dick is back into your walls again, merciless pounding your wetted hole. with the same fucked pace. you're such a shivering mess you can't feel anything except the length that's driving hard in your soaked insides. now that you're squirted, it's such a big wet place on your cunt. and he leads him to make you squirt another time. the sound of your pussy pumping his dick is so squishy and loud.

when he comes inside you, you can be sure it's gonna leak a lot from your slick. he's gonna fuck until his balls are empty, and your pussy gonna coats with so much of his sperm.

to be sure of his cock being dry, he's softly slapping at your lips with the tip, and making you clean it. he loves how sloppy you're sucking when you're tired, but he's a hard sucker for the look you give him when his dick weakly falls out of your mouth, and a stream of his sperm sticks at your lower lips.

and you're just off, laying your body back to the sheets.

you can't believe this man was soon forties. you simply can't believe it.

2K notes · View notes

whoevenisjavier · 12 days ago

Text

EROTICA

part 1 | part 2

pairing: no outbreak!joel x reader

The plan was to finish your thesis. You didn’t actually want to meet a neighbor with a past you can google and a history caught on tape. Or did you?

a/n: the adult content t-shit gave me ideas. btw, my first story here and I swear this is not a TED talk about morality. critical thinking? yes, bc the story needs it. moral lectures? absolutely not. porn? you'll see. this is just for fun — enjoy, i guess. the storys finished already, so I'll post the next chapter soon.

additional tags/warnings: 18+, mdni. reader is 26, joel is 50ish. no outbreak. joel is a dad. conversations about porn. inaccuracies about joel miller (I know his parents aren't chilean but bear with me). javier peña is there too. do I have to add anything else here? I don't know how to do these things.

wc: 9k

This time, your parents aren’t waiting for you at the bus terminal like they’ve done every year for the past three. It’s a good thing, a sign you’re standing on your own now, with your own car, but you still miss seeing their smiles through the fogged-up bus windows.

That moment always made you feel like you belonged somewhere.

Driving through the streets of Lake Placid on your way home feels like walking through your childhood memories. The stores look almost the same — sometimes with a fresh coat of paint — and the people, though not exactly familiar, are the daughters and grandsons of the adults you grew up around before moving to New York. Their faces carry just enough resemblance to make you do a double take.

When you park in your parents’ driveway and pick up your phone for the first time in two hours, there’s a message from your mother.

“We’re in the backyard having a welcome barbecue for the new neighbor! You can go up to your room and rest if you want some time alone or come eat. Can’t wait to see you. X.”

You smile as you step out of the Jeep, the door creaking behind you, and breathe in the cold, clean air rolling down from the mountains and the lake that wraps around the village where you were born. Your parents’ house sits above Mirror Lake Drive, right at the edge of the hill on the northeast side of the village, and from your bedroom window on the second floor, you can see the lake and the distant peaks of the High Peaks.

A far cry from the view outside your New York apartment: nothing but gray swallowed up by buildings. It’s the perfect setting to finally finish your thesis.

As you grab your two suitcases from the back seat, your eyes wander to the house next door, which had been empty for the past three years, mostly because the previous owners were asking too much for it.

Buying real estate in Lake Placid takes careful thought, since turning a profit is unlikely even with upgrades and expansions – the village is just too isolated. So if you’re buying here, it’s not for the money. It’s because you want a life far away from the city.

The house in question is a larger and more luxurious version of your parents’, made of gray stone, with cute white-framed windows, and for the first time in months, you see the lawn freshly trimmed and a new pickup truck parked in the driveway.

Probably the new family your mom mentioned.

The house is empty when you walk in, but you can hear laughter and voices drifting up from the backyard. You head the opposite way, climb the stairs to your room, drop your bags, take a shower, and spend a good while debating whether to sink into sheets that smell like home for the first time in ten months or go downstairs and find something to eat.

Hunger wins.

You throw on a warm sweater and go down. When you open the back doors, six pairs of eyes turn toward you, but it’s your mother’s squeal that makes you smile, followed by the tight hug she and your father give you.

“There’s our girl,” your father says to the others, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as he says your name. You give a small wave. “She always comes home for the holidays.”

The couple sitting together you recognize. They’ve been friends with your parents for years.

But you don’t know the woman who smiles sweetly at you, and you definitely don’t recognize the man, at least twenty-five years older than you, who keeps a neutral expression as he sips from a beer can. He doesn’t seem particularly friendly, but maybe that’s just the impression left by the slightly graying mustache and broad shoulders.

Two minutes later, you’re settled into a lounge chair with everyone in the backyard, a warm burger on your plate and a cold beer in your hand.

“I told Joel he’d have trouble with the house,” says the sweet-smiling woman to your parents, continuing the conversation they were having. “But he really wanted a place here, so I just supported him.”

“What kind of trouble are you having with the house?” your mom asks Joel — the mustached man, now officially identified.

“Nothing major,” Joel replies in a deep, firm, polite voice. “Had to redo the plumbing in two of the bathrooms and fix the heating in the kitchen sink, but it’s all fine now.”

“And are you liking it here?” you venture. You glance at the woman. “You and... your wife?”

Joel gives a faint smile.

“Tess isn’t my wife. And yeah, I’m liking it. It’s peaceful. Not too many teenagers. Feels like paradise.”

“What’s with the teenage hate?” you ask, half-joking, half-serious, silently filing away the Tess isn’t his wife detail.

“Fewer teenagers means fewer cell phones.”

Your response is a light laugh that earns a slight eyebrow raise from Joel, but you go back to your burger and let him be.

The conversation between the adults shifts to Fleetwood Mac, Lake Placid families, suggestions for places Joel should check out, and gossip about someone’s daughter who apparently got knocked up by the neighbor’s grandson, or something like that. You listen in, partly because you’re curious about the latest news (true or not) in the town you grew up in.

Your parents mention that you’re staying longer this time to get a change of scenery and finally work on your thesis, and that’s when the dreaded question comes. From Tess.

“And what’s your thesis about?”

Your mother holds back a laugh, because despite the seriousness of the topic, the initial reactions are always the same.

“I study anthropology,” you say. “My thesis is about the influence of pornography on male behavior over the years.”

That’s because the way men acted around you had always bothered you. When you were ten, wearing a cute chiffon skirt to the grocery store, they stared. When you were fifteen, walking home from school in your uniform, you heard disgusting things shouted at you on the street.

It wasn’t until you got older and realized that behavior like that isn’t natural (and why would it be, if women don’t do it?) that all your anger turned into the foundation for your research.

Tess raises her eyebrows and smiles slightly while the older couple gasps in surprise. Joel doesn’t react at all, except for rubbing the condensation on his beer can with his thumb.

“That’s a very interesting topic,” Tess comments, glancing at Joel, who briefly looks at her, then back at you. “Do you have any conclusions yet?”

“A few,” you say, though you already know the core of your research is the objectification of women’s bodies for the industry’s gain. “But I don’t want to bore you—”

“What’s your research method?” Joel cuts in before you can finish.

“Sorry?”

“Your research method. The system you’re using for the thesis.”

“Mixed methods,” you say, but you sense something more behind the question. Something slightly aggressive that you can’t fully pin down. “I did some fieldwork in New York.”

“Did you interview anyone from the industry?”

You shake your head.

“No one agreed. At least not the newer actors and actresses. The more established ones charged absurd fees just to answer ten questions.”

Joel says nothing, and the silence is broken when your father makes a joke about the topic. Everyone laughs—including you.

The barbecue lasts another hour at most before people start saying their goodbyes. Your mom wraps up two burgers for Joel, and he thanks her sincerely.

Then he turns to you and says:

“Good luck with the thesis, sweetheart.”

You nod, and you could swear you catch a faint smirk at the corner of his lips before he waves goodbye and walks off.

You run into Joel again at the market three blocks from home, standing in front of the fruit display, looking stuck between red grapes, green grapes, and oranges.

Joel’s voice comes suddenly from your left.

“What deep philosophical truth are you hoping those grapes will reveal to you?”

You startle, turning toward him with your hand over your heart as if that could slow it down. Joel raises one eyebrow as he begins placing seedless green grapes into a plastic bag.

He’s wearing worn jeans and a plaid flannel shirt over a white T-shirt. Thin-rimmed glasses rest on the strong bridge of his nose.

He smells like pine and something expensive—you guess it’s aftershave.

“Hi,” you say first, then quickly add, “I was trying to decide between grapes and oranges.”

“Grapes are sweeter this time of year.”

“But I like sour fruit.”

“Then go for the oranges.”

“But grapes are easier to eat. More practical.”

Joel gives you an impatient look, and you answer with a laugh. You grab a plastic bag and start selecting oranges.

After a short silence, while Joel ties off his grape bag and begins picking oranges too, you ask:

“Are you liking it here?”

Joel murmurs:

“There are some interesting things. Sarah likes it.”

“Your wife?” you ask quickly. Too quickly.

“My daughter. Just turned fifteen.”

Oh. Great. He’s a dad. You glance at his hand but see no ring. Joel notices.

“What’s with the marriage obsession?” he asks, although not rudely.

You shrug.

“I’m just curious. And you’d better brace yourself. The older ladies in Lake Placid are going to eat you alive with questions about your relationship status.”

“Really? Why do you think that?”

You freeze with your fingers wrapped around a particularly juicy orange. Without meaning to, you basically confessed that you think he’s a catch: attractive, polite, middle-aged, apparently wealthy, and tall. What other reason would the ladies have to shift their attention from their knitting?

You avoid his eyes.

“You bought the house that had been on the market for years. They’ll want to know who the buyer is,” you say, a half-truth.

He grunts, as if to say he doesn’t care about any of that, ties his orange bag, and places it in the cart. He glances at your basket, scanning the hygiene items (specifically the pads) and the chocolate bars.

“Did you drive here?” he asks.

You shake your head. He does too.

“Then let’s go. I’ll give you a ride home. It’s raining.”

His tone doesn’t invite objection and you don’t want to argue. Silently, and after grabbing a bag of green grapes too, you follow him through the market. He picks up a box of chocolate cereal, milk, kale, and oats, and then you both head to the checkout line.

You pay for your items first, so you end up waiting under the automatic doors, arms crossed beneath the blasting air conditioner.

People come in shaking umbrellas, mumbling about how unexpected the rain is or how cold the drops feel.

Older women walk in, spot Joel, and start whispering to each other with that smile every woman — no matter her age — immediately recognizes. The universal woman-smile.

He, seemingly unaware to all of it, pays with his card, grabs the bags with one hand, and walks over to you.

“Need help?” he asks, motioning toward your three bags.

You shake your head. He nods once and tilts his head toward the door, signaling for you to follow him across the crowded parking lot.

His pickup truck is parked near the exit—big and sturdy. You both get in at the same time. The inside smells good but feels stuffy from the rain, so he turns on the A/C and runs his hand through his graying hair to shake off the water.

“It rains a lot here,” he mutters as he starts the engine and buckles his seatbelt. You do the same. “Not sure I like this humidity.”

“Where were you living before?”

“Los Angeles.”

Your eyebrows rise. You can’t picture him with the stereotypical California vibe. It doesn’t fit.

So you ask the million-dollar question:

“What did you do there?”

The sound of the windshield wipers is your only response for a few seconds. Long enough for you to wonder if you crossed a line.

“A bit of everything,” he finally says, and you understand that he doesn’t want to talk about it. Yeah. You were being nosy.

Weird. Joel is weird, and everything about him makes you feel like you should think he’s an assassin, or a retired California mobster, anything that would kick your survival instincts into gear. You probably shouldn’t be sitting in a closed space with him like you’ve known him for years.

“Nothing illegal,” Joel adds when your silence starts to stretch.

That makes you laugh.

“Very reassuring.”

He smirks. At a red light, his fingers tap lightly on the leather steering wheel.

“How’s the thesis going?” he asks.

“Honestly? I haven’t opened the file since I got here.”

“Procrastinating?”

You hum in agreement, resting your head against the seat.

“I think I’m stuck.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“I need to watch some films to move forward.”

He freezes. Then he lets out a low chuckle. You defend yourself:

“I’m serious. I need to understand which narratives work best and why, and connect that to how they influence real-life behavior.”

“Makes sense,” Joel says.

“It does,” you reply, a little proud. You glance at him. The shape of his nose, the mustache, the gray-streaked beard. Then you add, “But it feels weird watching porn in my parents’ house, even if it’s for educational purposes.”

“Porn isn’t always for educational purposes?”

You gasp in horror.

“No!” you exclaim. “Porn is not educational. People don’t have sex like that in real life.”

“Hm…”

“You disagree?”

“I do,” he says plainly. “People do have sex like that.”

“I didn’t mean physically, Joel. Sex is easy: a good position, one thing inside the other, and done.” You catch yourself, because not all sex involves penetration, and something about Joel makes you think he wouldn’t mind sitting through a lecture on inclusivity if it came to that, but you add: “What I meant is that sex doesn’t happen like that. It’s not normal to open the door for the pizza guy and two seconds later be bent over the couch.”

“Says who?”

The frustrated growl that escapes you seems to amuse him. You know he’s teasing, and his grin proves it, but you can’t resist continuing.

“Not to mention the incest plots or the underage fantasies. Do you really think sex happens like that?”

His smile disappears instantly.

“You’re changing the subject.”

“No, I’m not. You can’t separate porn genres like some are less harmful than others, because even the ones that seem ‘harmless’ fuel the same industry that writes those sick scripts.”

“We’re here.”

He cuts you off with that simple phrase, and when you look out the window, you realize he’s right — you’re in front of your house. You turn your gaze back to him, and he meets it firmly, returning all the intensity you just threw his way.

You swallow and reach for your bags.

As if you hadn’t just delivered a monologue on the ethics of pornography, you simply say:

“Thanks for the ride.”

He doesn’t respond. You step out of the truck and walk to the door of your house, feeling like a kid who just got scolded, which is ridiculous. But even more ridiculous is the fact that Joel only drives away after he sees you walk safely inside, even though he literally lives next door.

You meet Sarah — Joel’s fifteen-year-old daughter — the next day.

After running along Mirror Lake Drive, you get home with your lungs burning and your body drenched in sweat, the elastic band of your pink sports bra stuck to your back. As you’re kicking off your sneakers at the door, you spot a pair of pink Converse, way smaller than anything anyone in your family would wear.

In the kitchen, there’s a skinny, unfamiliar girl sitting at the counter, two open books spread across the marble, her curly hair pulled up into two puffs.

She lifts her head, and her brown eyes hit you with a soft echo of familiarity.

“Hi,” you say, as if it’s totally normal to have a stranger in your house.

She waves back. Before you can ask “who are you?”, your mom walks into the kitchen and calls your name.

“This is Sarah, Joel’s daughter. Sarah, this is my daughter I was telling you about.”

Sarah gives you a shy little smile, and you smile back, a bit frozen by the fact that you’re standing face-to-face with Joel’s daughter. You’re not even sure why it freezes you.

“Joel had to spend the night out because he needed to go to New York, and he asked if Sarah could stay with us,” your mom explains.

“I’m old enough to stay alone, but my dad’s crazy,” Sarah chimes in, and you laugh.

You don’t think she’s old enough to stay alone, especially in a new town, but you don’t say that.

What you do say is:

“So, Sarah... what are you studying?”

Sarah needs help with her social studies homework, so after you shower and change into something comfortable, you sit down next to her and go over the assignments together. That’s when you realize she’s ridiculously smart and funny, slipping little jokes into the conversation, blending internet memes with historical facts, and talking to her turns out to be genuinely easy and fun.

Your mom serves dinner, you both eat, and then you settle onto the couch with your Kindles, each of you leaning against an end and your feet meeting in the middle of the cushions.

You’re in the third chapter of Ghost Radio when she calls you.

You peek over the top of your Kindle to let her know you’re listening.

“How old are you?” she asks.

“Twenty-six.”

She looks up at the ceiling as if doing mental math. Then, reaching some conclusion, she raises her eyebrows.

“Why?” you ask.

“No reason,” she shrugs, turning back to the book she was reading. Another question follows, this time without looking at you. “Are you dating anyone?”

“No. I ended my last relationship six months ago.”

“Was he older?”

“No,” you say with a laugh. “I mean, yes, but only by about three years. Why do you ask?”

Sarah wiggles her feet like she’s a little too excited about something.

“Just scientific curiosity,” she says, but her tone sounds more like a villain plotting something mischievous.

The next morning, Joel comes to pick her up at eight o’clock. You’re the one who opens the door since your parents left early to go to the farmers’ market to buy honey and vegetables.

He’s standing on the porch, wearing a thick leather jacket, jeans, and heavy boots. He looks exhausted, and the two-day beard growth makes him even more intimidating.

“Good morning,” you say.

Joel looks you up and down in your pajamas: heart-printed pants and a tank top. You realize too late that you’re not wearing a bra.

“Good morning,” he replies, lifting his eyes back to your face. “I’m here to get Sarah.”

“She’s finishing breakfast. Come in.”

Before he can protest, you turn on your heel and walk away, leaving him no choice but to step inside and follow you to the kitchen. You hear his slow, hesitant footsteps as he returns to the room filled with the smell of butter and coffee.

Sarah is sitting at the counter, devouring pancakes. Joel walks over, presses a kiss to the top of her head, and they exchange a few quiet words before he says something that makes her nod and hop down from the stool, leaving the kitchen.

You hear her going upstairs, probably to grab her things.

“How was the trip?” you ask, filling a mug with coffee and placing it in front of him on the marble.

Joel stares at the pink mug like it’s a threat but eventually wraps his big hands around it. You take a sip from your own cup and look at him over the rim, just the counter between you two.

“Good,” he says simply. He gestures toward the coffee. “Thanks. I needed that. Drove back and forth without stopping to rest.”

“Just thinking about it makes my back hurt.”

“I want my bed.”

You watch him over your cup, blowing on the surface of the coffee. You imagine him in the silence of his own house, in his bedroom, in his own bed. You wonder what color the walls are, what the sheets look like, and whether he sleeps clothed or not.

“Sarah’s really smart,” you say, pushing away the mental images.

That earns a small smile from him.

“She’s fantastic, my girl. But she’s cocky, so don’t tell her that.”

“She takes after someone.”

“I’m not cocky.”

“I’m joking,” you say lightly, offering peace because you don’t want to relive the animosity from the last time you saw him. “Is the coffee good?”

“Very.”

“Want to take some pancakes? Bet you’re hungry. I’ve eaten, Sarah’s eaten, and my parents always grab breakfast out when they leave early.”

Joel drums his fingers against the ceramic, looking like he’s fighting an internal battle, as if accepting food from you would be a terrible crime. Still, you take his silence as a yes and start stacking the remaining pancakes into a thermal container.

When you’re done, you walk around the counter and hand him the container with both hands.

“Here.”

Joel takes it with his left hand. With his right, he reaches out and gently pinches your chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he says quietly, and you freeze.

He walks past you, saying something to Sarah, who apparently has come back downstairs. Feeling a warm flutter deep in your belly, you turn and follow them to the living room. You hug Sarah goodbye, promise to send her books for her Kindle, and then walk them to the door.

You smile when Joel thanks you for looking after Sarah and asks you to pass his thanks to your parents as well.

You watch them cross the lawn between your gardens, and just before Joel enters his house, he turns to look back at you.

You could swear he deliberately and slowly sweeps his gaze over your body—from your feet to your head.

And then he goes inside.

And you have to mechanically force yourself to close the door.

That same night, you start watching the films.

As you work through your research, you put together a report listing the names of the ten most famous stars from each decade between 1970 and 2020, five male, five female.

You already have a pretty clear idea of what defined the main point of pornography in the ’70s: the start of structured scripts and absurd, fantastical narratives that, one way or another, tied a woman’s pleasure directly to a man’s. Like in Deep Throat, where they came up with a story about a woman whose clitoris is located at the back of her throat. You can already guess what the most "effective" method of stimulation would be.

Porno chic was created to make adult content more palatable to the general public, especially as debates about the legality and morality of filming started to gain traction during that decade.

Sitting on your bed with your laptop open in front of you and your tablet resting on your lap for notes, you watch the films at 1.5x speed while eating green grapes.

You knew you might get aroused watching them, because dopamine responses are inevitable, but apparently there's nothing about '70s pornography that even remotely stirs your body. It feels like you're watching a National Geographic documentary.

You can't push away what Linda Lovelace wrote in her autobiography about the most famous film of that time, the one that made millions of dollars: There was a gun pointed at my head the entire time, she said.

You swallow hard and return to your notes.

By the end of the first week of this stage of your thesis, you finish watching the films from the '90s. You note the radical shift in the female body ideal — all the actresses with breast implants — and the peculiar aesthetic of VHS tapes, since this was the era when films started being widely distributed in that format.

What stands out most, though, is the shift in perspective. Gonzo-style pornography centers the camera exclusively on the man, making him the sole focus, and by extension, reducing women to mere tools for male pleasure. The camera's focus on women's bodies is restricted almost entirely to their genitals, which explains a lot about the birth of violent pornography during that time.

If women exist solely for male pleasure, then it’s no problem if they’re violated, right?

And just like that, the normalization of male domination in pornography begins, which, of course, spills over into social behavior.

You shut the laptop in front of you and lie down on the bed, closing your eyes. You doubt even a sixteen-year-old boy has seen as much porn as you have in the past few days, and there’s still so much left to do.

You reach for your tablet and pull up the list of male stars from the 2000s.

Tyler Cross, Javier Peña, Max Thunder, Ryder Grey, and Clint Fury.

Is there someone in the industry whose only job is coming up with these ridiculous pseudonyms?

You get up, leaving everything behind, and head toward the kitchen to find something to eat. It's already past eleven at night, your parents are asleep, and the only light in the living room comes from the lamp. On tiptoe, you’re halfway to the kitchen when the doorbell rings.

You freeze like you're in the middle of a crime scene.

A doorbell ringing at eleven at night in Lake Placid? Something must be on fire.

When you open the door, it’s Joel standing there on your parents' porch, looking anxious.

“Hi,” he says. Another meeting where you're in pajamas and he's fully dressed. “It's dangerous to open the door in the middle of the night like that.”

“Great way to start a conversation. I'm calculating how many seconds it'll take me to get to the kitchen and grab a knife.”

You get a somewhat tense smile.

“I’m still not used to these small-town habits.”

“I get it. I would never open the door for anyone after eight p.m. in New York, but here it’s normal.”

He nods, then asks,

“Were you sleeping?”

You wrap your arms around yourself as a cold breeze sweeps by.

“No, I was studying. Is everything okay?”

“I need a favor,” he says bluntly. “Sarah’s asleep, and I have to head back to New York. Can you stay at the house tonight?”

“Is everything okay?” you repeat.

“My brother’s wife just went into labor. He asked me to be there. I should be back tomorrow night.”

Your eyes widen, and Joel nods as if to say, “Exactly, got it?” You hold up a finger to ask for a minute, then run upstairs to grab your slippers, your robe, and your phone. When you come back, Joel is still on a call but waits patiently until you close the door before leading you to his house.

He lets you step inside first, and even with the urgency of the situation, it feels a little like you’re a twenty-year-old girl walking into a guy’s house for the first time, especially when Joel shuts the door behind you, finishing up his call.

The house is warm, clearly lived in by a family. There’s a big rug in the living room, a brown leather couch, and pictures of Sarah hanging in the hallway: lifting a soccer trophy, carrying a skateboard, the two of them at the beach. A line of photos shows her growing up, from a baby all the way to now.

The last photo is of her at Jewtraw Park, right here in Lake Placid.

“You can sleep in my room if you want. If that’s too weird, the couch is really good too. I left some blankets and a pillow right there,” he says, pointing to the armchair. Then he adds, “Everything’s clean. The guest rooms aren’t ready yet.”

You roll your eyes.

“I know, Miller. Relax. I’ll manage.”

“Okay. Give me your number. I’ll text you so you have mine. And if you need anything, call me.”

You say your number, and he types it into his old, barely-hanging-on iPhone.

“Thanks,” Joel says, genuine. “Really.”

You smile and give his arm a quick rub without even thinking about it.

“No problem. Just let me know if you need anything.”

After showing you where Sarah’s room is, where the extra blankets are, and telling you about ten times you can eat whatever you want, he leaves. You quickly text your mom, explaining the situation and letting her know you’re staying at Joel’s, then settle down on the couch.

Little signs of Joel are scattered around the house. The reading glasses forgotten on the coffee table, the suede jacket hanging by the door, the boots by the entryway, the faint smell of the same lotion you caught on him at the store.

You feel a little like a criminal as you get up and start quietly wandering through the rooms.

The kitchen is beautiful and organized, but there are a few dishes left in the sink. Since you’re still awake, you start washing them.

You move on to the dining room, all wood furniture and a classic chandelier, and then to a small office off to the side. It feels almost too empty except for the bookshelves. Just a desk with a laptop sitting on it, making you think it doesn’t get much use.

You head upstairs.

Sarah’s door is closed, but you walk softly down the carpeted hallway to the room at the end.

You push the door open, heart pounding like you’re about to find a monster—or Joel sitting on the bed saying, “Snooping where you shouldn’t be?”

Instead, you find a huge bed neatly made with gray sheets, dark curtains, and matching desks on either side. There’s a closet and a door leading, you assume, to a bathroom.

It’s empty in the way you’d expect a fifty-year-old man’s bedroom to be.

You almost give in and crawl into his bed but force yourself back downstairs, turn off the main lights, and curl up on the couch, which really is pretty comfortable.

It takes a while to fall asleep in a strange house, but when you finally do, your dreams are filled with gray beards and gray sheets.

You wake in the middle of the night to the ping of your phone. You rub your eyes, still dazed from sleep, and grab the phone from the pillow beside you.

4:47 a.m.

It’s a text from an unknown number:

“Hi. Joel here. Sorry for the hour, I hope you’re sleeping. I just got to New York. Please let me know when Sarah wakes up. I’ll need to call her.”

A sleepy smile tugs at your lips at how formally he writes, no abbreviations at all. You save his contact as Miller.

You type back:

“hey. don’t worry. I’ll let you know. everything ok over there?”

“Why are you awake?”

You don’t tell him it was his text that woke you.

“New place… light sleeper.”

“I see.”

An “I see” with a period and everything. Then another message:

“Yes, everything’s fine. I’m in the waiting room, and Tommy’s with his wife. She’s been in labor for seven hours.”

You type: “ouch. hoping all goes well. lmk if u need sth”

“What kind of vocabulary is that?”

“don’t you have bigger things to worry about, grumpy?”

The impossible happens: Joel Miller sends you a smiling emoji.

You reply with one sticking its tongue out.

His next message comes in text again:

“Tell me about your thesis.

“you’re really curious about it.”

“It’s an interesting topic.”

“sure… men and their obsession with porn.”

“I’m not obsessed with porn. I don’t even remember the last time I watched it.”

Your fingers freeze over the keyboard—it sounds way too intimate.

You type back:

“last time I watched was this afternoon.”

You get a single question mark in response: “?”

You clarify:

“for my thesis. I’m at the stage where I have to watch films.”

“Oh. How are you doing that?”

“picking stars from each decade and watching two movies for each. starting with the 2000s tomorrow.”

Joel reads your message but doesn’t reply right away, which is odd. He had been responding immediately. You wonder if something’s happened at the hospital, if everything’s okay with his sister-in-law.

You stare at the screen until it goes black. Three minutes later, his reply pops up:

“Who are the stars from the 2000s?”

“looking for suggestions?”

“No.”

You open your report from iCloud and copy the list of male and female stars from the 2000s. You send it over.

He reads it. Another little pause.

“I see.”

Then another question:

“And how are you watching? Like a documentary?”

“yeah, pretty much. I put on the films, watch them critically, and take notes.”

“And they don’t affect you?”

“in what way?”

He reads the message but doesn’t answer. After ten minutes of staring at the ceiling, you take a deep breath and type courageously:

“are you asking if I get turned on?”

Again, no response.

Still, you type back:

“i do. it’s inevitable and natural. but only starting with the '90s films. the ones from the '70s and '80s were way too gross for that.”

This time, a reply comes.

“Gross?”

“yeah. the men were really disgusting. it’s obvious they had no idea how to have sex to actually please a woman.”

“I see.”

You picture Joel Miller, tall and broad-shouldered, sitting in a sterile hospital hallway, texting you about porn while waiting for his nephew to be born.

The thought makes you smile to yourself. You burrow deeper under the blanket and decide to be a little bolder.

“do you have a favorite genre of those movies?”

“To watch?”

You frown. What else would it be for?

“yeah”

“I don’t watch them.”

“okay, but if you were going to watch one today, what type would you choose? one with a storyline, straight to the point… what? help me out for the research.”

You almost chew on your lower lip as you watch the little “typing” bubble appear and disappear three times. Finally, he sends a simple response:

“No storyline, not a lot of talking. Something filmed in the morning, in bed, right after waking up.”

“morning sex?”

“Yes.”

Before you can stop yourself, your mind fills with images of Joel’s bed, the same gray sheets now rumpled and tossed aside. The cold morning light pouring through the window, the scent of him still on the fabric, the warmth of sleepy skin, the scratch of his beard against the sensitive part of your neck.

A big hand adjusting and lifting your leg into the right position, low, sleepy moans filling the space.

You snap your eyes open wide.

“got it,” you type back, heart racing.

“Do you have a favorite genre?”

“i hate porn,” you reply.

“Okay. But if you were going to watch one today, what would you pick?”

He’s throwing your own question back at you, meaning you can’t dodge it.

You type the whole answer at once but hesitate a dozen times before finally pressing send, knowing Joel will understand exactly what you mean and exactly what you like. It’s probably not right to tell your parents’ neighbor, who’s at least twenty years older, but you don’t take it back.

“in the car. an age gap where he looks a little older than her, slightly graying, and he’s desperate for her, desperate to do things to her in the backseat.”

“Things?”

“you know what I mean.”

“Say it clearly.”

“desperate to go down on her.”

And again, he responds:

“I see.”

Your cheeks burning, you turn off your phone screen.

But another message buzzes through:

“Good choice.”

You cross your legs and lock your phone again.

The next time you wake up, it’s to Sarah poking your cheek with an insistent little finger. She’s standing over you by the couch, looking at you like you’re a science experiment.

The sunlight pouring through the living room windows makes you wonder if it’s already past ten.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, still poking your cheek.

Yawning, you answer,

“You’re about to have a baby cousin.”

Sarah squeals.

Joel calls her twenty minutes later, right after you text him—carefully avoiding rereading the messages you sent each other during the night—that she’s awake.

Afterward, you eat breakfast together, and Sarah gets ready for school, where she’ll stay until six in the evening. You wait until the bus picks her up before going back to your house, crawling into bed, and sleeping a little more.

When you wake up again, it’s time to log onto a video call with your boss, even though you’re technically on vacation.

You help your mom with some work in the garden, bake muffins, and by late afternoon, you lock the door to your bedroom, find a cozy spot in bed and open your laptop again.

2000s.

Now all the actresses definitely have implants, bleached hair, heavy makeup, thin eyebrows, and elaborate hairstyles: exactly the fantasy for any guy with a DVD player and one hand free.

But it’s also the beginning of the internet era, meaning access to all of it is even easier than it ever was with VHS tapes.

Roleplay everywhere. Boss and secretary, student and teacher, best friend's mom, best friend's dad. A fantasy world that definitely fried a lot of men’s brain circuits.

You start with the male stars.

First up is Tyler Cross. He's a tall actor with spiky, gelled hair, a tribal tattoo on his left bicep, and a defined six-pack.

You watch a POV movie, new at the time, and another where he plays the older brother’s best friend. It’s set in a girl’s pink-walled bedroom, teddy bears thrown to the side, and it’s all absolutely disgusting.

You glance at the clock after finishing Tyler Cross’s films. 5:55 p.m. You figure you’ve got about fifteen minutes before Sarah gets home, so you decide to at least start Javier Peña’s movies.

You type his name into the search bar.

The results flood in. One of the first titles you see: No Overtime for the Babysitter: Daddy Comes Home Early!

You roll your eyes. Great, now they’re coming for babysitters’ labor rights too.

You click the movie. It takes a moment to load.

The cover stares back at you while the loading icon spins.

The actress is gorgeous, with breasts you immediately envy and long black hair. Her lips, glossy and slightly open, look like she’s mid-moan. She’s one of the first actresses you’ve seen who isn’t drowning under a pound of makeup.

The scene starts with her dusting some furniture in the living room.

She’s wearing a mini-skirt and a light blue crop top made of thin fabric that shows her stomach. Definitely very appropriate attire for her job.

The sound of a door unlocking fills the room, and then it swings open.

The actress sighs:

“Oh! Mr. Peña! You’re home early!”

The camera pans to Mr. Peña. You blink at the screen.

Javier Peña has that classic '80s kind of handsomeness. He’s tall, lean but broad-shouldered, his dark hair messy in a way that somehow suits him. The thick mustache above his tight lips and the long sideburns give him the look of an old-school movie star, and you have to double-check the release date of the film. 2002.

He’s wearing a button-down shirt and a loose tie, his gray blazer slung over his left shoulder. But it’s his brown eyes that catch you — because they’re familiar. It feels like you know them.

“The meeting was canceled,” Peña says, tossing the blazer onto the couch. “My daughter’s asleep? You can go now.”

The gasp that escapes your mouth is quickly muffled by your hand when Javier Peña’s voice fills your ears through the headphones, because you immediately realize where you know it from.

The voice is a little softer, younger, with more of an accent — but it’s the same voice.

Joel Miller’s voice.

“She is,” the actress says sweetly, crossing the room. Javier looks her up and down — from her bubblegum-pink painted toes to the way her chest strains against her top. “Are you sure, Mr. Peña? You seem really stressed out. Can’t I help you with something?”

You freeze where you are, heart hammering against your ribs. Holy shit.

“Help how?” Javier asks, raising an eyebrow, pretending to be disinterested.

She smiles, grabs his hand, and leads him to the couch, urging him to sit.

You’re almost ready for her to drop to her knees in front of him, because that would be the obvious next step, but that’s not what happens. The actress — Mila, her name — circles behind the couch, leaning over him to start unbuttoning his shirt.

“You’re so tense, Mr. Peña,” she says, pouting as she undoes each button. “Taking care of the house by yourself, your daughter…”

The shirt falls open, revealing a firm, broad chest.

“So responsible… No one to help you out…” She leans in and whispers against his ear: “No one to suck your cock.”

The shocked laugh that bursts out of you is immediately covered by your hand again.

Javier’s shirt falls completely open, and he takes Mila’s hand, guiding it straight to his pants, her long red nails vivid against the gray fabric.

“I’ve got you for that.”

“Mmm…” the actress moans, massaging him through the fabric. She runs her hands back up his shoulders. “That’s right. You do.”

She moves to kneel in front of him, but Javier clicks his tongue and says:

“Take off your clothes.”

You feel a pulse low in your stomach. The actress smiles and obeys.

Once she’s fully naked, she starts to kneel again, and Javier spreads his legs wider, tossing his shirt aside.

She massages him through his pants for a few more seconds before tugging the zipper down and pulling his pants down with both hands. He’s not wearing underwear, of course he isn’t, and suddenly, you’re staring straight at Joel Miller’s cock.

Large, hard, slightly veiny, every inch of it.

Javier shifts on the couch, gathers all of Mila’s soft hair into one hand, and with the other, guides himself to her mouth, and—

Someone knocks on your bedroom door and you nearly slap the laptop closed.

“Honey, I think Sarah’s getting home from school. Aren’t you going to greet her?” your mom asks.

“I am,” you say, but your voice comes out too soft. You clear your throat and try again: “I’m going, Mom. Just a second.”

“Okay!”

Your mom leaves you sitting there, staring at the wall with wide eyes and a racing heart, so much slick between your legs you have to stand up, clean yourself, and change panties before going downstairs to greet Sarah.

She gets home, you both go into Joel’s house, you make her a sandwich, and she heads upstairs to shower. You stay on autopilot, your head still completely full of Javier Peña... and Joel Miller.

Holy shit.

The man was a porn actor.

And apparently, a very successful one, because you distinctly remember seeing that his films topped the charts for years. Is he still doing it?

You rub your eyes and fight the urge to shove your fist in your mouth and scream.

The irony is almost too much. Fate is throwing a former porn star into your lap when it knows all too well the thesis you’re writing, and all your hatred for the industry.

You order pizza for you and Sarah. You eat while watching a cheesy teenage romance movie that keeps her glued to the TV. When she’s yawning hard, you ask if she has any homework (she doesn’t) and send her off to brush her teeth and get into bed.

She hugs you goodnight and heads upstairs. You hear her brushing her teeth, then the door to her room closing.

You take a deep breath. Pull your phone out of your pocket. You type in the search bar: Javier Peña. The image results flood the screen.

Joel Miller in a thousand different styles. At industry parties in clothes that scream early 2000s, at photoshoots with other actresses, even holding up a trophy that reads—

You lean in closer to make sure you’re not misreading it.

Longest Cumshot of 2006.

Wow. Congratulations.

The Google summary confirms it: Joel Miller, born in 1981 in Arlington, Texas, to Chilean parents. Porn actor, best known as Javier Peña. Joel Miller became an advocate for porn actresses’ rights, one of the main reasons he left the industry in 2010.

One of his last public appearances as Javier Peña was in 2016, co-hosting an adult film awards show alongside Tess Servopoulos, his former career agent. Since then, very little is known about Joel Miller, though several producers have tried to lure him back with massive paychecks, even for solo work.

You hear the key turning in the lock.

You lock your phone at record speed and sit up straight on the couch, eyes wide open. Joel will probably think that you’ve been doing cocaine on his coffee table.

He walks in, shrugging out of his coat, and looks at you.

“Hey,” he says, kicking off his boots. “Everything okay?”

You nod, then try to use words:

“Hey. Yeah.”

Joel gives you a strange look, glancing up the stairs.

“Sarah’s asleep?”

You nod again.

Oh, Mr. Peña. You must be so tired. Can I help you? My God. You’re the babysitter working overtime.

“Are you really okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Um… I…” you rub your hands over your thighs. “I’m just tired. That’s all. Is everything okay with your sister-in-law?”

“She’s fine. I’ve got a nephew now,” Joel murmurs, collapsing onto the couch across from you, legs spread, hands over his eyes. “And he’s so small. I almost didn’t have the nerve to hold him. I don’t even remember Sarah being that tiny.”

“Ha ha.”

At your awkward laugh, Joel drops his hands and studies you carefully, narrowing his eyes. He watches you for a moment, like he’s seeing right through you.

Joel says,

“You found out who Javier Peña is.”

You freeze, hands clenched in your lap. Joel rubs his temple with a heavy sigh and sits up straighter.

“Which one did you watch?”

You swallow hard.

“The babysitter one.”

“You’re gonna have to be a little more specific than that, sweetheart.”

“The film’s from 2002. I think the actress’s name was Mila? She was trying to comfort you about being a single dad.”

Joel raises both eyebrows.

“I know the one,” he says with a dry, humorless laugh. “Right. Here it is. I was Javier Peña for ten years. I guess I still am, when the paycheck’s good enough. I made porn movies. They’re out there.”

“Still are?”

“Not for films. Just for appearances or special gigs at awards shows.”

“Oh.”

He says your name firmly.

“That industry — it’s your thesis. You know those actors and actresses are real people. I’m one of them. Are you going to stop treating me like a normal person now?”

“It’s weird,” you say softly. “Sorry, Joel, but it’s weird seeing you like… that… and then coming here and seeing you being Sarah’s dad, being… Joel Miller.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t be mad at me.”

“I’m not,” he sighs, collapsing back onto the couch. “I’m way too tired to be mad, honestly. We can talk more about it later if you want. I’ll even help you with your thesis if you need. But not tonight.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks for staying with Sarah, seriously,” he says, shifting back into Dad mode. “Let me pay you.”

“No way,” you say quickly.

He opens his mouth to argue, but you cut him off:

“You said you’d help me with my thesis, right?”

He just looks at you. You explain,

“I’ll take that as payment.”

Slowly, he nods. And just like that, you have a deal.

That night, you head upstairs again and lock the door.

You open your laptop, type Javier Peña into the search bar, and scroll through the films. One title catches your eye: Neighbors: The Lust Lives Next Door.

The irony.

The title is ridiculous, sure, but the movie isn’t. He’s the married woman’s neighbor, and when her husband goes out of town, Javier shows up at the door asking if everything’s alright because he heard a noise and got worried.

He’s wearing tight jeans and a short-sleeve, light pink button-down shirt.

They head upstairs to check the bedroom.

She sits at the edge of the bed while Javier kneels down to look under it, but when he straightens up again, he sees the actress isn’t wearing any panties. Of course.

Two minutes later, Javier spreads her legs and goes down on her for a good while, his dark eyes locked on hers. And you could swear the moans are real. Either that, or she’s a damn good actress.

It’s when Javier starts whispering in her ear — loud enough to be picked up by the mic, but low enough to sound private — that your own fingers hover at the waistband of your pajama shorts.

He grips her thigh firmly, legs wide open, about to sink into her, both of them watching where they meet.

“Like this?” Javier asks.

She nods.

He licks his fingers and touches her clit. Her left leg trembles slightly.

“Sensitive? You’re not gonna come again for me?”

You swallow your shame and remind yourself that no one will ever know about this.

You slip your hand into your panties.

You close your eyes, listen to Javier whispering filthy things into the actress’s ear, and feel your pulse thudding in your ears and the slickness between your fingers.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller x you #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal #the last of us #joel miller imagine #joel miller fanfiction

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thepitlanepress · 4 months ago

Text

WE'RE FAMILY, ME AND YOU –

↳ oscar piastri + gf!reader

⌗ :: masterlist

⌗ :: a/n: osc being protectiveeee . also he is so fine in that pic. warnings for offhanded comments abt weight and shit like that (if anyone irl is like this towards you i'll personally fight them). idk if this is gonna be super good bc i think my brain stopped working near the end lol but other wise enjoyyy

"please don't hold my horrible family against me, oscar," you say when he pulls into the driveway of your childhood home, the warm lights blaring inside.

"baby, we've been dating for two years, and i've met your family before," oscar smiles picking you hand up and gently squeezing it.

"i know but seriously, they're going to be awful," you groan softly falling back in your seat. "i don't want to do this."

"we'll do it together okay?"

"okay."

the first comment came a few moments after you walked inside: "oh its so good to see you oscar!" your mother and grandmother both come rushing out to greet you.

"and my darling daughter," your mother smiles and gives you a small hug, before pulling back and eyeing you up and down. "you chose quite the dress wow, you can see everything. you'd would almost think it was too small."

you laugh along with the "joke" and only relax slightly when you feel oscar's hand slip into your own, reminding you he's there.

you continue on through the house as your grandma gives oscar a tour, even though he was here about two months ago and literally nothing has changed.

he's polite, and nods along with whatever nonsense spiel she's giving him about a vase that apparently was her great great grandmothers - when you know for a fact she bought it a week ago because she sent your sister an incessant amount of texts about it in the family group chat.

the one you're clearly not apart of.

when you make it to the lounge room, you instantly sit down on the couch pulling oscar down with you, wanting this night to be finished with already. your grandmother enters the room with a platter of snacks, smiling as she puts it down, "now don't eat too much of this sweetie or you won't have room for dinner, or anymore room in that dress."

you don't notice is but oscars demeanour changes then.

he pulls you closer to his side and has one arm tightly wrapped around your waist as he takes a few crackers slipping every second one to you. he leans down whispers in your ear. "eat, i know you haven't today, fuck what linda says."

you smile and slightly relax more into the conversation, especially when your grandad and dad enter the room. both are overjoyed you're here, instantly stealing your boyfriends focus and talking to him about racing and the latest car that your dad bought and wants to fix up.

you were having a slightly better time, well until:

"pumpkin, leave poor oscar alone, you're practically on top of him!" you mother fusses, and you internally flinch at that dumb nickname.

"i wouldn't mind if she were on top of me," oscar mutters and you choke slapping him on the chest as he smirks. it brings a smile to your face the first one of today.

your dad clearly having heard what was said becomes all red and flustered clearing his throat and announcing dinner is ready, while struggling to hide a smile.

–––

dinner is your least favorite moment of the night. from the comments, to the "mothers" purposely pushing plates away from you. oscar notices and instead puts food on his plate and then switches it with yours.

which leads to them tsk-ing about how he needs to eat more and let you choose what you eat.

and you do what any good daughter would do when your mother looks at you and nudges the salad in front of your plate and says, "make sure you eat your salad, pumpkin," you shove it down and paste a smile on your face.

oscar sees it.

"how is work lately, oscar?" your grandmother asks smiling at him, before nudging him in the side with her elbow, "you're doing better than, pumpkin over there i tell you."

shove it down.

oscars hand lands softly on your thigh, silent support in the only way he can right now. you smile softly at him and he winks at you a small smile appearing across his face.

"oh enough you, we don't need all this while eating dinner, well while we eat dinner, you don't really need to," your mother sniffs. you struggle to push this one down and excuse yourself from the table. "i'm sorry oscar, that she wasn't letting you breathe. she needs to learn to give you some space. so clingy that girl."

"i'm breathing perfectly fine," oscar answers entering the conversation his voice calm but strong. "and quite frankly mindy, i think you need to lay off with the comments, i'm fine, your daughters fine, we're all fine, so stop with the snarky comments and the petty bitchy notions. because quite frankly, thats how you're acting, like a bitch."

he shoots a look to your grandmother, "and you too linda, don't go around pretending you're all high and mighty with your "everyone is amazing and i love my family" act, when you can't even treat your own granddaughter right. you two should be ashamed of yourselves. do better. all of you- well except you darren and mike i like you guys."

with that he pushes his chair out and goes to find you, knocking on the bathroom door, but not hearing a response. "sweetheart? you in there?" after a few more moments of silence he enters the room - you're not in there obviously, the window is open and he can hear the car running outside.

he leaves the house without saying goodbye to anyone and just gets in the car with you puts it in reverse and leaves.

you're both quiet for a few moments before you whisper, "i'm sorry for running out."

"no," oscars voice is firm. "don't you ever apologise for that, those women are bitches in a snake skin and they do not deserve your time and attention." he pulls off on the side of the road, cars driving past the only sound that fills the space in the quiet. "don't you ever apologise for being a beautiful, perfect person. don't you ever apologise for being you. because you are perfect."

he takes your face gently in his hands and softly kisses your nose. "you are the most amazing human being ever and i'm glad my heart belongs to you, those pathetic women back there can't see your beauty or your talented-ness or your smarts - you're a race engineer for gods sake - and thats on them." he presses a kiss to both of your cheeks.

"you are my sweetheart, my gorgeous best friend, my everything. and i love you baby," he whispers kindly before pressing a soft kiss to your mouth. "we're a family me and you, we don't need those fuckers back there," he winks.

you giggle and whisper back, "i love you too."

a quiet moment falls over top of you both as you just rest your foreheads pressed against each other.

"takeout?"

"let's go."

2025 © thepitlanepress | please do not steal, use, translate or repost any of my works

– comments and reblogs appreciated

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fungateshortcakes · 5 months ago

Text

Tummy ache

Do I have kids? No. Do I want kids? Fuck no. Did I still write this because dad logan makes me feel a certain type of way? HELL YES

Pairing: Worst!Logan x single mom!Reader

Summary: It's late and your little daughter Laura won't stop crying and screaming, no matter what you do. You take her to your best friend Wade, who lives in the same apartment buildung. Will he and Logan be able to help you?

Wordcount: 3.4k

Warning/tags: english is not my first language, fluff, slight missunderstandings, Wade bc he needs a warning, implied sexual themes, friends to lovers, just cuteness, Laura doesn't exists as an adult like in the movie, rushed ending?, leave me alone I finished this at midnight

__________________________________

Logan was snoring on the couch in Wades apartment when loud, frantic knocks sounded on the door. He grumbled in annoyance as he turned, pulling a pillow over his head.

He heard Wade skip to the door in a pair of white underpants with hearts on them and a loose, grey wolverine fangirl shirt. "Must be the horse dildo I ordered" he spoke happily as if it was the most normal thing to say. Once Wade opened the door, the piercing shrieks of a baby crying echoed through the apartment.

You held your one year and a half old daughter in your arms, her face red as she cried into your shoulder. Wade noted that your hair was a mess and you seemed awfully tired. Well- it was late and on any other day, you and your daughter would already be sleeping. But there was clearly something that bothered her. She had been crying and screeching and in discomfort for an hour without you finding what caused it or how to fix it.

You tried feeding her, but she wouldn't open her mouth for the spoon. You tried reading to her, but she would always push away the books. You changed her diapers in case her sensitive skin was irritated by the dampness, but she hadn't peed. You didn't know why she was so distressed and nothing seemed to distract her from whatever it was that made her cry.

You were desperate. And while your best friend Wade wasn't really...fond of kids, which you couldn't blame him for, you still went to him for help. You never truly wanted kids yourself. But when the condom broke and your ex left you upon finding out you were pregnant, you were stuck with your baby. And now you wouldn't trade her for the world. Except in times where she was screaming with no appearant reason. "Hey Wade, I'm so sorry to bother you guys this late at night, but Laura, she won't stop crying. I've tried everything and I don't know what to do" you croaked, rocking the small child in your arms, shushing her to no avail.

Wade brought you inside so you wouldn't stay outside in the hallway any longer. No need for some neighbors to peek their head out of their doors to see what was going on.

In situations like these, Wade could be oddly serious and actually tried to help. He knew you were insecure because of your baby. You didn't want to be a nuisance or burden to anyone because you knew that your daughter could be a lot. Kids were high maintanance and you didn't want to make people feel like they were obligated to make room and drop everything once you arrived with your child. You couldn't expect from anyone that they were okay with you bringing your kid over. But Wade wanted you to know that even though he didn't like kids, you were his best friend and Laura had been nothing but a sweetheart so far. You were always welcome in his apartment.

Wade kicked Logan from the couch "Get your fat ass off the couch, the Lady needs a place to sit" he loudly said over Lauras crying. Logan groaned. You sat on the sofa and tried to take up as little space as possible. "Im sorry Logan, didn't want to disturb your sleep." you apologized meekly. "I can..I can move to the chair here" you muttered, pointing to an uncomfortable-looking wooden chair that replaced an armchair, which had recently been thrown out of the apartment due to mysterious stains and various rips and cuts in the fabric.

You had met Logan a few times since he lived with Wade and Althea. And you would be a liar if you said he didn't catch your eye. He was tall, broad and very handsome, pretty much right up you alley. But there was no way he was looking for a chaotic single mother that barely had her life together and struggled to raise an unplanned child because her ex left her. Yeah, no. You were miserable. Logan didn't need any of that.

Adding to that, he always seemed to avoid you when Laura was near. You just thought he didn't like kids, which was totally fair. Truthfully, Logan liked kids and had always wanted some of his own, but it just...never happened. With him being the worst wolverine and all.

Then why did he avoid you and your baby?

Simply said, he didn't want to scare her. Most kids looked at him like he was some sort of big, bad monster. Some ran away, some started crying, others hid from him behind their parents when he walked by. He wasn't good with children either because they never let him close enough before getting scared. He was afraid that Laura would react the same way like all children did. He didn't want you to back away once you realised that Laura didn't approve of him.

He couldn't bear only seeing you from afar.

As you were about to stand up from the couch, Logan stopped you. "No, its fine. Stay on the couch. I can move" he replied and you felt another pang as he moved away from you again.

Wade leaned over the couch, looking down at Laura who was still wailing uncontrollably. You sighed deeply, a throbbing ache behind your eyes. "Why won't you stop crying? What's wrong, sweetheart?" you nearly sobbed as well. You were so tired of this, so tired of this sound. You felt so helpless and stupid. "Maybe she wants some food? We have some left-over pizza, I can grind that stuff up into a slurry for her or something" Wade suggested.

You softly shook your head. "She doesn't want to eat, I tried. I also tried to read her a bedtime story, but she just push me away. I also changed her diapers but nothing helped" you rasped, ready to just fall asleep on the spot.

Wade reached down to get your crying daughter out of your arms. "How about you get some sleep while Wolvie and I take care of Laura? Maybe we'll find out what's rubbing her the wrong way." Wade said, cooing to your crying baby. You fell onto the couch, closing your eyes. "I can't just sleep when she is crying" you mumbled, clearly deadly tired.

"We'll take care of her. You go sleep" Logan drawled and his deep voice soothed you even more, made you even more sleepy. It was so easy to let your body betray your mind and you hated it. "Okay..." you whispered, too tired to argue. And before you could snuggle into the couch cushions, you felt two strong arms slip under your body and lifting you up as if you weighted nothing. You were so tired, you couldn't even gasp or protest as Logan brought you into Wades room, your senses enveloped with his scent.

He carefully lowered you down onto the matress, covering you up with a blanket. "Sleep tight, love. We'll take great care of your little one, so you don't have to worry about a thing" he drawled softly and only after closing the door behind him did he hope that you hadn't catched his slip-up, that he had called you love.

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~

In had been another two hours of constant crying and screaming. The kid must be exhausted from all the crying, but she still didn't stop. If you asked Logan, it became even worse.

"God, can you shut up for a minute? I am trying everything here!" Wade stressed, bouncing Laura in his arms and patting her back. "Don't tell your mom I said that" he whispered right after. Laura wailed and pushed herself away from Wade with her tiny hands, which were surprisingly really strong. She squirmed in his grasp, desperate to be set down.

"This is how you thank me? I've worked my ass off the past hour to get everything to your liking and now you push me away?" he grumbled, but set her down with a loud 'ouch!' after she started to scratch him.

Her tiny feet waddled against the livingroom floor as fat tears rolled down her chubby cheeks. She had a tummy ache, but she couldn't communicate that with anyone. There were a few words she knew and could say- cat, dog, mama. But she didn't have the words to say that something was hurting.

Logan sat on the couch and watched her as she stood a few feet away from him with her red face, screaming together the whole neighborhood. He sighed deeply, the sound making his ears ring. Then, out of nowhere, she waddled over to him.

"No, no, bub. Not a good idea. Get back to uncle Wade" he told her, scooting up the couch a bit more. He could have just stood up and walk away- why didn’t he? Laura stood between his legs now, demanding uppies from him as she cried. Logan shook his head, ready to call Wade from the kitchen, when Laura began screetching, stretching herself to Logan, standing on her small tip toes.

With a huff, he picked her up, his big and warm hands eveloping her small body. He leaned back against the couch with her on his lap. To his surpise, she quieted down. "You okay now, bub?" he asked her, jumping as she snuggled herself against his chest. Due to his mutation, Logan was always very warm. His whole body was like a heater and that warmth soothed Lauras tummy ache, unbeknownst to him.

The apartment was quiet now, only a few hiccups and sighs coming from Laura as she let her stomach ache be washed away by Logans cozy warm body. He didn't know what to do! One minute he was tortured by her screams and now she was napping on him. On him! Out of all people, she chose to rest on him.

"Is she dead!?" It was now Wades turn to yell as he came stumbling into the kitchen because it suddenly went all quiet. Logan didn't answer him nor did he move a muscle, too scared to wake your baby up.

"What the fuck" Wade blurted out upon seeing something he had never thought he would ever witness in his entire life. Logan shushed him, making Wade frown. He came closer, his face next to Lauras sleeping one "You little cheating slut" he sharply whispered, earning himself a shove from Logan. "Seriously, did you knock her out? Why is she sleeping all of a sudden?" Wade asked with crossed arms.

"I don't know. She wanted me to pick her up, so I did. Then she stopped crying and fell asleep" Logan explained, a warm feeling spreading in his chest as he watched the slow rise and fall of Lauras breath, her tiny hand tightly holding onto his shirt.

"Wow" Wade said. "You're the baby whisperer" Logan shot him a glare.

Wade went on a rant about how everything would have been easier if Logan took Laura from the start before finally falling asleep draped over the chair, leaving Logan alone with his thoughts. For a moment, Logan thought about bringing Laura to you so she could sleep with her mom. But as he tried to peel her off of him, she started fuzzing and whimpering until she was laying back on his chest.

He sighed deeply. Well, gotta make the best of the situation, huh? With a grunt, he made himself comfortable on the couch and fell asleep with a broad hand securily holding Laura on top of him.

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~

You woke up well rested. Weird. You haven't slept this good since Laura had been born.

Laura!

You jumped awake, stumbling over some stuff in Wades room before you reached the door. It was quiet as you opened it and you were met with the sight of Logan, the fucking Wolverine, sound asleep with your daughter cuddled up on him as if he was some kind of big teddy.

Your heart soared in your chest, your stomach did flips and summer saults. And your pussy throbbed. Couldn't help it, seeing him with your baby did something to your ovaries. It was...so cute. You wanted nothing more than to snuggle up with them, trace patterns onto his pecks while Laura would squeak out an adorable smile-

"Mama" Laura squealed suddenly, flashing you a smile with her few teeth. "Hey there, baby" you cooed to her, kneeling down next to the couch to be eye-level with her. She smiled brightly, whatever it was that had bothered her yesterday completely forgotten. "You seem happy using uncle Logan as a pillow" you said to her, kissing her chubby cheek.

Logan started waking up, only registering Laura at first. "You slept well, bub?" he muttered with a deep sleep laced voice, gently rubbing Lauras small head with his large hand that easily fitted around the back of her head.

"Yes, I did. Thank you for asking" you giggled softly, amused by the way Logan nearly jumped out of his skin upon noticing that you were there too, witnessing how he went soft for your daughter. An embarrassed blush krept onto his face and he cleared his throat, sitting up and avoiding your gaze. "Sorry, she...she only stopped crying when she sat on my lap"

You smiled softly at him. "Seems like she really likes you, then." and I like you too, you wanted to add, but didn't. "She is usually not that touchy with people she barely met" you said and hearing your reassurance- the fact that Laura seemed to like him- it warmed his heart. But he would never admit that.

"Well, I guess I'm flattered" Logan replied with the hint of a smile, his gaze soft as you lost yourself in his eyes, Lauras babbling fading into the background. For a moment, you let yourself think about what could have been. This baby, it could have been Logans and yours. She could have been born because two people truly loved each other. Did Logan love you? You doubted it. But when he looked at you like that, you allowed yourself to be fooled.

"I don't know how you manage to fuck each other just with your eyes, but get a room. There are children present" Wade suddenly said outraged, covering Mary Puppins eyes.

You picked up Laura from Logans lap, holding her against your hip to bring distance between you, Logan and Wades teasing. Logan cleared his throat, clearly disappointed.

"I am so, so thankful that you guys helped me. I don't know what you did or what was wrong with her, but she seems all better now. Is there anything I can do to show my gratitude? you asked, gently bouncing Laura in your arms.

Logan shook his head "No need, bub" he grumbled in his deep voice. He would have done this a thousand times if it meant he could hold your baby in his arms as if it was his. "Make that creamy ass mac and cheese and my life is yours. That stuff tastes and sounds better than any pussy" Wade chimes in, making you laugh. You promised to invite both of them over for dinner sometimes this week and they happily agreed. Laura squeaked out a cute "bye!" before you went back to your own apartment again.

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~

Ever since that day, visits to either Wades or your apartment became more frequent and Laura couldn't be happier seeing Logan pretty much every day. She would stick to his leg from the minute she saw him and to the last second before he left. It was adorable and made you fall even deeper in love with someone you could never have.

Wade made it his mission to steal Laura away from you and Logan. Partly because he wanted you to spend more time alone, and to teach her some words since he was her 'uncle' after all.

Laura sat on his lap, staring down at Wades phone. He looked over her head. He had a picture open that showed you, Laura, Logan and Wade. "And who is that?" he pointed to you, earning a delighted squeal from Laura as she pointed to your smiling face on the picture as well "Mama!" she babbled. Wade cheered her on, applauding her. "That's right, and that is Dada. Dada" he pointed to Logan. Laura recognized him, smiling brightly and giggling, but she didn't say anything. "Can you say that? Dada?" Wade asked in the best baby voice he could muster. But still, Laura wouldn't say anything. "Come on, say Dada. Da-da" Wade tried one last time, but Laura unwrapped himself from his arms to go and play with some toys scrattered on the floor. He huffed in frustration. It was easier to teach kids swear words than this.

Two days later, the day for the dinner came and someone rang your doorbell. You left Laura to play on her playmat and went over to the door, opening it a slit before realising that it was Logan. You fixed your hair with flushed cheeks, you hadn't expected him to come this early, you had just started the dinner preperations. "Oh, hey Logan. What are you doing here? Dinner was planned in two hours" you said, gingerly letting him into your apartment which you hadn't had the time to tidy up yet. Logan wasn't the guy to judge, but you still felt insecure.

"I thought I'd help you with the cooking and all. Look after Laura so you can work in peace" he said, knowing that he was just here to spend more time with you and Laura alone to give him the feeling of having his own little domestic family that he will never actually experience.

You smiled at him "That's very nice of you, but Laura is actually being very umcomplicated today" speaking of which, you showed him that your kid was silently playing with her toys. Upon noticing you and Logan, she squealed and stood up slowly, trying to keep her balance, before she waddled up to him excitedly. "There's my little pumpkin" he drawled, bending down to pick her up swiftly.

"Dada!" she giggled, making you an Logan stop in your tracks. "Did you hear that?" he asked you, looking over at you with a shocked expression. You frowned. You had never taught her to say that. "Sweetheart, who is that?" You asked the little girl, tapping Logans arm, just to be sure you hadn't heard her incorrectly. "Dada" she squeaks again, playing with his coarse beard.

You both looked at each other in disbelieve and for a second, you feared Logan woulf shove Laura into your arms and leave. "Look, I'm sorry. I don't know where she got that from" you tried to apologize, but the rejection from Logan never came.

He held her lovingly to his chest, giving her forhead a kiss. It made your heart pound faster. "No, it's okay" he reassured you, his large hand enveloping the back of Lauras head. "I...I could be her dad. If you want me to be" his question struck you like lightning, it was like a damn marriage proposal.

A marriage proposal you would never say no to. He looked at you with hopeful eyes, waiting for your answer and worrying he had overstepped.

"Yes. Be the father she never had. And please be the love I always wanted" you whispered, leaning up to kiss him. The kiss was soft, your lips brushing against the other and it was nothing you had ever felt before. You had kissed your ex- but never did it feel like this. So right. His free hand snaked around your waist, deepening the kiss until Laura decided to pull at your shiny necklace.

You smiled at her, taking her into your arms. "Do you want to play with daddy while I make mac and cheese?" you asked your daughter and minutes later, Logan had brought her playmat and some toys into the kitchen to sit beside her on the ground to watch and entertain her. It was like nothing had changed. Little did you know, Logan had accepted the little girl as his daughter way before today, even if you guys had never confessed.

And as you stole glances down to Logan, who was already looking at you with these half lidded bedroom eyes, you knew that after dinner, Logan and you would be trying for Lauras sibling.

_______________________________

I really hoped you liked this, I feel like I've rusted a bit. Still got a lot of smut ideas and fics open that I need to finish. Wish me luck☹ if you saw any grammatical mistakes, no you didn't. Leave me alone im tired

Btw, thanks to @buck-star for motivation me to finally finish this <33

#logan howlett x reader #x men #hugh jackman #logan x reader #wolverine x reader #x reader #logan howlett #logan wolverine #marvel #wolverine #deadpool and wolverine #worst wolverine #worst wolverine x reader #mcu #logan howlett fluff #fluff #oneshot

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dxckgrxsonx · 9 months ago

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hi you have broken my brain and i am now irrevocably obsessed with jason todd (and especially the way you write him 🥹💕) thank you so much :’))))

thinking so hard about wet soapy jason in the shower and the fact that neither of you would ever be able to shower alone bc as soon as one of you realized your love was in the shower you’d HAVE to join <3

i love how sweet this is.

everytime you grab your towel or switch on the shower Jason appears in your line of sight, shirt already halfway off, an excited little smile on his handsome face.

he’s already telling you—rambling really—that he’s washing your hair first and he needs to condition his because he didn’t have time before and he wants to use the fruity shower gel you love because he likes the way it smells and you both have just this sigh of relief when you press together because of course you feel right at home under eachothers palms.

it doesn’t matter where he is, the second you switch on the water he’s there. you pick up your towel in his general vicinity and his head snaps up, watching you until you head into the bathroom and he’s immediately trailing at your heels.

or, you get home, hear the shower running and before you even enter the bathroom your pants are hanging from one leg. Jason thinks it’s hilarious when you fumble your way into the shower with him, hands already reaching out to touch his soapy skin, all warm and soft and safe.

you both write stupid little messages and make silly drawings on the mirror when it gets all steamy and more often than not it’s a simple ‘I love you’ or ‘let’s fuck later’ with a horrible picture of two stick people laying on top of each other, (you tried your best, okay?).

you know that joke about dads and knowing when you touch/go near the thermostat?? yeah. that. but it’s Jason and his shower sensing ability.

he’s out on patrol, you start the shower and all of a sudden you get a text message from him saying ‘don’t you dare shower without me.’

#cradling the thoughts of showering with Jason in my hands #love this sosososo much #I love it when Jason is soft and loving #and gets all things soft and loving in return #he deserves it #also!! thank you so much my love #🥰🥰🥰#jason todd x reader #ella writes

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shrimpybbq · 7 months ago

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season 4 pt1 with rafe, high school gf and their son!

rafe and high school gf who spread his dad’s ashes together. they’re on rafe’s boat together as he spreads the ashes, her arms wrapped around his waist comfortingly. he wouldn’t want anyone else to be with him for this moment

rafe is pretty content with hiring a babysitter to look after the kids when he wants to spend some time alone with his girl, and when he decides to compete at the enduro, he deems the day kid-free. no one would think the couple had two kids and a house together as they stood together on the beach, her hands brushing tenderly against the nape of rafe’s neck as he sat on his bike.

“You’ve got this baby, you know that? It’ll be a piece of cake,” she said, her voice quiet. This was a moment between the two of them, and no one else needed to hear. Rafe still disliked sharing intimate moments in public brazenly, but he still needed reassurance and love.

He nodded, bringing her closer to him as he placed a quick kiss against her lips. “I’m gonna win this for you, baby.”

rafe absolutely adores when he gets to bring his smokin’ hot wife out with him to the events on figure 8. he loves to let his girl get dressed up and all pretty (for him), knowing she sometimes felt frumpy after looking after their kids all day. they’re at the club when rafe starts yelling at a random girl, enraged by her comment about his dad. his wife now having to drag him away with the help of topper, her hands soothing over his chest to try and distract him. it had been really hard for him since his dad died, and he swore he’d only survived bc of his wife and kids.

the couple are at the club they frequent together when hollis speaks to rafe, who after their conversation was no longer paying attention to the older woman, instead focusing on the girl he suddenly tucked under his arm

“And who is this?”

“This is my wife,” Rafe said with a smirk, his arm wrapping around his girls shoulders, placing a quick kiss to the top of her head. At that, the older woman’s smile dropped minutely, quickly excusing herself.

“Who was she, baby?” His wife asked, watching as Rafe turned the business card over in his hand.

“Uhh.. the biggest realtor/cougar on the island.”

“Oh ok, sounds like just your type, huh?”

“Baby, nonono, why would I want a cougar when I have the hottest milf standing in front of me?”

Rafe shielded himself from her playful swats as she came closer, his arms wrapping around his wife’s frame easily and lifting her off the ground.

“Come on baby, you know you’re the only one I want.”

rafe talks about his business deals with his wife often, her lounging on the pool chair as he vents his frustrations. he felt she was the only person he could tell everything to, and she would provide him with advice and solutions that actually helped, not just telling him what he wanted to hear

their son is resting on the other pool chair, exhausted after playing in the pool for hours with his mother and father, whilst their daughter rested on her mother’s chest, sleeping after being fed

rafe feels all of his frustrations slip away when he’s with his children - their innocence and happiness making him feel much lighter

girl dad rafe! he loves charlie but there’s something about his little girl who looks so much like her mother, who adores him and always outstretches her chubby little fingers towards him, that makes rafe’s heart melt

he spoils his little girl more than he should, buying her all the little dresses and shoes and accessories a baby could ever need

rafe who asks his wife to teach him to braid so he can practice for when she’s older!!!!!

girl dad rafe training charlie to be protective over his sister and make sure he’s always by her side

rafe had been addicted to coke, and while he’d managed to give it up, he had replaced the coke with alcohol. high school gf notices and does her best to reduce his intake, but truthfully, after seeing how difficult is was for rafe to stop the coke, she knew that this was probably the best she would get for a while. still, he doesn’t escape without a raised eyebrow when he goes to get another drink from the fridge

topper who knows never to talk bad about rafe’s girl - EVER. he made that mistake once and lived to regret it, having to lie to his parents that he fell from his bike. topper actually likes her now, and he gave himself the title of uncle topper to the cameron kids

as a husband, rafe is so handsy in public. he doesn’t care what people think about him anymore, so he lets himself squeeze and touch as much as he wants

beach time bby! i feel like honestly, rafe doesn’t like bringing his kids around the drunken kooks. they’re rowdy and rude, and rafe is trying to be better

so instead, he loves to take the family down to their private stretch of beach adjacent to the house, and relax and play with the kids. it’s so peaceful to him, and he truly feels content with his life in those moments. he’s got his hot as shit wife in a little bikini with their daughter tucked in her side, and little charlie is climbing all over rafe as he tries to get his father to throw him in the water again

oh he 100% helps his wife pick out her bikini that day, tying the tie for her, his hands roaming a little too much as she giggles in front of him

she had told him once that she felt insecure after having their children, her body a little different than it used to be. truth be told, rafe loved it. every time he looked at her body naked, fucked her or held her in his arms, he was reminded that she brought their children into the world. she gave him purpose and love

(he also likes that her tits are bigger from breastfeeding and loves to squeeze them whenever he can)

rafe is such a good dad bc he puts everything he has into being there for his children. they’re his entire world and everyone can see it

still, he needs frequent reassurance that he is nothing like the father his dad was, instead, he cares and nurtures his children

rafe discusses his plans to make amends with sarah with his wife, and she gives him strategies to try and talk to her (not that he tends to take them), but she also misses sarah

charlie who still asks for his aunty every now and then, making his mothers heart break. sarah hasn’t even met their daughter yet :(

when he makes the decision to do the deal with hollis, he does it for his family. he wants to look after them, and this deal would do that for them.

but when she hits on him, sensually touching his hand, he makes his priorities clear to the woman as he scoffs, pulling away from her

“I’m married…. And you know that - you even met her. I’m doing this deal for her, and for our family, so….”

rafe has problems but that man is so loyal, he actually couldn’t ever imagine wanting anyone else. he fought so hard and went through so much to keep his high school gf by his side and now he feels that she is the only person in the world who understands him fully. in his mind, it’s them against the world

click here for pre-season 1 rafe, gf & their unborn son

click here for season 1 rafe, gf & their son

click here for season 2 rafe, gf & their son

click here for season 3 rafe, gf & their son

click here for the 18 month gap before season 4 rafe, gf & their son

1K notes · View notes

yuansie · 11 days ago

Text

(1) even when there was rain, sunshine came

pairing. caleb x fem! childhood friend! non mc! reader (x childhood bsf! zayne)

synopsis. caleb planted a seed in your heart when you were both young, nurturing it without meaning to until it sprouted and blossomed. it shouldn't have grown this much, not when you knew you could never have him.

genres/aus. angst, fluff, f2l, unrequited love, childhood f2l

warnings. slight ooc caleb (i have not read homecoming or wtv that chapter is called BC BLUESTACKS DOES NOT WANT ME TO FINISH LONG AWAITED REVELRY OR WTV THAT CHAPTER IS CALLED IM STUCK ON CH12...), NOT canon compliant oops (no higher being placing a curse on zayne, no experimentation done on mc and caleb bc josephine is a good person this time BYEEEE), reader has neglectful parent(s) in the beginning kind of, mentions/descriptions of crying, mc is female (she doesn't have a name in here either). if there's anything i'm missing, please let me know!

rating. sfw but make it lowk very angsty but fluffy ish at the same time.

wc. 8.2 k

a/n. live love laugh angst (but with a happy ending) and live love laugh not proof reading and SORRY FOR NOT UPLOADING THIS EARLIERRR uni sucks booty fr !! also, i've come to the decision that i will just make this into a mini series, having about 5-10 chapters maximum !! the ideas keep coming, and i'd like to take a different approach to this prompt/world i've build for this nonmc! reader in an actual caleb series much like my rafayel one! also decided to make it into a mini series bc i cant keep writing and expanding on this and leave yall hanging for longer IOEOIFJAWEOI

YOU’RE EIGHT YEARS OLD WHEN YOU MEET CALEB. it was in the last days of summer, right before the leaves began turning red and yellow and orange. you remember your dad telling you that an older lady moved into the house across from yours, that there two kids living with her: a girl younger than you and a boy your age though a couple months older. he said something about the girl having a special condition but the words went through your ear and out the other because you didn’t care about them; you knew you wouldn’t talk to them anyways.

then, your dad left to go to work and you were all alone.

you were always alone, and you felt that loneliness every second, acutely aware at how it bleeds into your soul and makes you so, so sad. it’s what makes you head to the park two houses down the street and sit at the big, oak tree there. your favorite thing to do is climb it and sit on one of the bigger branches around its middle, feeling as if you could reach the sky and escape these heavy feelings. you blame your dad for making you like this: for making you think that the heavens can help you escape your heavy feelings. he told you once, on a night where he was in charge of tucking you in while your mom worked late at the hospital, that he loves the sky and how it makes him feel like all of his worries are nothing but a speck of dust. he made you think that one day, you could reach the sky and feel what he felt. if you reached out enough, you would be free.

but today you had no energy to do that.

as soon as you reached the oak tree, you sat down and rested your back against the trunk. your eyes watered instantaneously, cold tears dripping down your cheek and to the tip of your chin as you tucked your knees into your chest, your arms holding them in place so they could keep your weeping heart warm. you were so lost in your overflowing sorrow that you didn’t notice a boy running to the tree, not even when he stood three steps away from you.

“why are you crying?”

you snapped your head upwards.

the boy looked surprised, his purple eyes as large as the moon as he stared at you. his back was to the sun, covering him in a golden glow. he didn't say anything as he knelt down, his brows furrowed.

you hiccuped and looked away, angrily staring at your house from where you sat. “go away, stranger.” you see the older boy that lives next door when you avert your gaze from your home. it’s zayne—you recall your mom telling you that you used to have playdates together when you were younger. obviously, you don’t anymore. you don't even speak to one another—perhaps, he thinks being friends with a girl two years younger than him is not worth his time.

you don’t blame him for thinking that; after all, your own parents probably think the same.

before your mind spirals into the inky void that tells you bad things, the boy speaks up. “my name is caleb! now i’m not a stranger, right?” you glance at him from the corner of your eye. caleb grins at you, his smile as bright as the sun. it’s too blinding, you decide, and drop your gaze to the ground. “i guess not…” you mumble.

“so that means we’re friends!” caleb laughs when you quickly look at him again, surprise evident in your features. “now you can tell me why you’re sad!”

you wrack through your brain to come up with an excuse and end up stuttering out, “b-but you don’t know my name!”

“you’re y/n, right?” he laughs again when your jaw drops in comical way, gasping for air in between his next words. “ha! g-gran… talked t-to your… parents!” caleb wheezes, tears in his eyes. “y-your parents told us about you!” once he calms down, caleb lets out a sigh as he sits next to you, nudging your shoulder. “c’mon, you can tell me why you’re so sad now.”

you look back at your house, frowning at how lonely it looked. “i… i don’t think my parents love me.”

“what?”

“i mean,” you rest your head on your knees, your voice now muffled. “they’re never home and they never spend time with me.”

your dad is often away, being the colonel and all, which means he’s gone for months at a time. it wasn’t always like that, but things changed when that forsaken tunnel appeared above the city. your dad was one of the first to answer the call, to fly in the sky to protect the world from wanderers. so it isn’t his fault and neither is it your mom’s that they’re never there. she’s a doctor, a colleague of your next door neighbor's parents.

it is not your fault they are both needed by more people and by more important matters.

caleb’s about to say something when a girl calls out his name, running until she stands in front of you two. you don’t pay attention to her, and instead keep your eyes focused on your house. you wish your parents were home more, that they’d spend more time with you. the girl ends up leaving after she speaks to caleb, who watches her go with a careful eye.

“sorry about that,” he says, scratching his cheek. “gran sent her to tell me it’s time for lunch, but don’t worry! i’ll stay here with you until your parents are back!”

you blink at him, feeling your eyes start to burn. “you’ll stay?”

“mhm!” he smiles, and this time you actually don’t turn away. caleb laughs softly, leaning forwards to wipe away at the tears that fall from your wide eyes. “why are you crying again?”

you didn’t even notice that you had stopped in the first place. “i-i don’t know.” you do know.

it's the first time someone ever stayed with you in a long time.

caleb, surprisingly, calmed you down in a matter of seconds. he stayed with you until the sun began to set, when the blue sky became tinted by orange and pink. he made time go by fast, making you smile and laugh until your cheeks and stomach hurt. and he was surprisingly attentive, noticing immediately the way you perked up when you saw your mom’s car drive down the road and stop in front of your home.

“you ready to go now?” caleb stood up and stuck his hand out, waiting for you to grab it.

“your hand is warm,” you mumble, gripping tightly onto his hand as you lead the way back to your house.

he giggles and nudges your shoulder. “my hand is warm?”

“mhm.” it’s very warm, akin to the blankets you wrap yourself with during the cold days of winter.

and just like that you were at your front door, shyly waving goodbye before going inside. the doorbell rang shortly afterwards, yet before you could open the door, your mom had already done so. you left and headed up the stairs and into your room, telling yourself you’ll eat something after your mom retires for the night.

but that never happens.

because the strangest thing happened afterwards: your mom came up to your room and talked to you, apologizing for making you feel lonely and abandoned.

you know it was caleb’s doing: why else would your mom be like this?

without meaning to, caleb planted a seed in your heart that day.

when you’re ten, you realize that you’ve changed the slightest bit. you’re a little more outspoken, a little more confident in yourself; and your world that was once monochrome is now full of color, full of warmth and life.

you have memories where you’re laughing until your stomach hurts, where you’re learning to love apple and bake apple pies to perfection, where you’re learning to do cartwheels with the little girl while his laughter echoes in the air. it’s all thanks to caleb—he reached out to you, deciding to integrate you into his world. you’re forever thankful that he decided to talk to you two years ago, thankful that he spoke to your parents about your feelings because otherwise you would be stuck in the dark.

caleb has brought light and warmth into your life, and now you are never cold and lonely. he even sticks to you like glue at school, never leaving you alone for a second in the classroom because somehow you always manage to be in the same class as him. sometimes you grow tired of having to keep up with the energetic boy, sometimes the fatigue wearing your bones down and rendering you useless. caleb seems to know when that happens, or maybe he doesn’t. what matters is that he seems to time his golden smile; it is a smile so radiant that it melts away what weighs you down.

and always being with him has made you adopt some of his habits, his attentiveness being the one that shines through the most. it’s what makes you notice your next door neighbor. days of careful glances makes you learn that he’s always reading on the porch of his house or he’ll do the same inside by the window, that he’s never with any other kids his age and that he’s never at the park.

maybe you should talk to him and—

“y/n~” caleb nudges your shoulder. you jerk in surprise and wobble on the tree branch you both sit on, gripping tightly onto the wood while you lean forwards from your lack of balance. the boy yelps and takes a firm hold of your arm, stabilizing you. “you scared me!”

you huff, glaring at him. “you scared me! i could've fallen just now, dimwit.”

he pouts, “but that's your fault! you weren't listening to me.”

“yes i was!”

“oh yeah?” caleb raises an eyebrow. “then what was i saying?” he snickers when you don't reply, gently nudging your shoulders this time because he learns from his mistakes, you know! “see? i was right. you keep staring over there.” he gestures in the general direction of where you keep staring. his finger touches the green leaves of the tree, the tips fading into a yellow color.

autumn is coming. not yet, but it will be there in due time.

you decide to tease him a little. “pft, you’re pointing at the leaves.”

his lips curl into a frown. “you know what i—”

“caleb!”

the eight year old girl comes running up to the tree, huffing as she points up at your best friend. “i-it’s time for dinner!” she tilts her head over at you, beaming. “gran said you can come, sis!”

caleb looks at you, “you coming?”

you smile at the girl before shaking your head, moving towards the tree trunk. “i need to do something,” you grunt, shimmying down whereas he just jumps off the branch and lands with a thud. the girls gasps and you gape at him with wide eyes once your feet hit the ground, “are you okay?”

“a-okay!” he grins, standing up proudly as if he didn’t just scare the living daylight out of you. caleb flexes a boney arm, “i’m strong, after all!”

“yeah, okay hercules.” you chortle, rolling your eyes. “i’ll see you around.”

you watch as he and she wave goodbye at you, caleb hooking their arms together as they disappear into their house afterwards. you notice that there's a tightness in your chest when you see them hold hands or hook their arms together—it happens sometimes, not always. like right now: your chest tightens a little, feeling heavy. you chalk it up to wanting to do that with caleb one day and go your merry way.

your mom is startled when she opens the front door just as you reach out for the doorknob. she holds a container with cake inside. “goodness,” she chuckles, leaning down to press a kiss against your cheek. “you scared me.”

“are you going next door again?” you move to the side so your mom can walk out.

she hums, “i am! i left some—”

“can i come this time?” you usually don't go to the dinners your mom has with zayne’s family every friday, always heading to hers and caleb’s house instead despite your mom’s best efforts in convincing you to join her. you always had an inkling that she wanted you to spend time with the older boy next door.

your mom beams at you so wide that you’re taken aback as she drags you to the li’s front door. did it really mean that much to her that you want to join this time? well, you’re on a mission to get close to zayne so that he can have friends too.

speaking of the devil, the door opens immediately after your mom presses the doorbell, revealing the older boy. his eyes widen the slightest bit when he sees you, though he quickly regains composure, his features relaxing. with a small smile, he greets your mom. “hello, mrs l/n.” he directs his gaze at you next, “hi y/n.”

you blink in surprise. “…hi zayne.” you didn’t expect him to remember you because you don't particularly remember much about him.

he steps aside just as his mom appears from behind, momentary shock melting into a warm smile. “y/n! i’m so happy to see you! will she be joining us?” her eyes flit up to your mom, who nods excitedly.

you’re ushered inside and into a seat not even a second after being welcomed in. “we always have a plate and cutlery out in case you stop by,” mrs li says. a lump forms in your throat and it’s hard to swallow. you feel awful, knowing that every time you chose to stay with caleb, the li family had hope that you’d stop by and eat with them.

still, you somehow manage to smile at the older lady. “i’ll make sure to come with my mom from now on.”

“really?”

you nod. “of course,” holding out your pinkie, mrs li laughs and hooks her own with yours. “i promise.”

mrs li heads into the kitchen with your mom, leaving you and zayne alone at the dining table. he sits in the chair next to you and you fidget in your seat, not sure how to break the stifling silence. what would caleb do in this moment? he’d probably say something stupid or just go ahead and ask to be friends… that’s something only he could do easily, but for you? that’s a challenge.

“you look worried.” zayne says, looking at you from the corner of his eye.

you frown and play with your fingers, “was it that noticeable?”

zayne hums as the two moms come back with pots of food while chatting about your dad. “you aren't doing a good job at being subtle.”

his comment makes you huff through your nose, the corners of your lips curling upwards. caleb says that to you all the time, claiming that you make it is easy for him to read you.

“smiling suits you.”

you stop breathing and stare at the boy with raven hair, slowly blinking while the moms plate the food and continue talking. zayne glances at you again and then looks at his plate, eyebrows furrowed as he picks up a fork and pokes at the carrots, nudging them into a corner. “did i say something wrong?” he mumbles.

he didn't say anything wrong… it’s just that no one has said that to you. not even after your change, even if it was a small one.

not even caleb.

you shake your head, “no.” coughing, your eyes shift to his hands, seeing how he stabs the last carrot on his plate and places it in the corner along with the rest. “you… you still don’t like carrots?” you vaguely recall a memory from when you were about five: you and zayne were eating a plate of oranges when he suddenly spat it out and a chewed piece of carrot was then laying on the table. his mom had cut small pieces of carrot inside his bowl alone with the oranges, trying to trick him into eating them.

zayne’s hazel eyes widen. “you remember?”

with a snort, you answer, “you spit out the carrots every time your mom tried tricking you into eating them. that’s pretty hard to forget, if you’re asking me.”

his ears flush the lightest shade of pink, making you giggle as your fingers wrap around his plate, rotating it. with your other hand, you grab your fork and take his carrots.

“…thank you.”

“i should be thanking you,” you hum, “i love carrots.”

whereas you and caleb are polar opposites and only have a thing in common, you and zayne are not. you’re so alike: reserved and quiet, both sticking to what you deem is the vicinity of your personal bubble. it was easy to befriend him again; by the end of what remained of summer, you had introduced him to caleb and her. it did take a month and a half of convincing, of relentless pleading that convinced zayne to follow you to the park where she and caleb were playing as usual.

caleb and zayne didn't get along well right off the bat, and they always argued. it took you aback in the beginning, not used to seeing caleb argue so… pettishly with someone. much less with zayne. zayne baffles you every time he mutters under his breath about how caleb is ‘so annoying’ because all he does is talk about dinosaurs or is ‘a child’ during friday dinners at his house. well, he is a child, so he’s not wrong there. but with that logic, he should also be calling you a child and yet he doesn’t.

zayne does, however, get along well with her.

you see it in zayne’s attentiveness to the young girl, you see it in the way his voice softens when he speaks to her, and you see it in the way he hangs onto her every word as if it were something sacred.

you also see it in the way his ears sometimes turn the lightest shade of pink when he speaks to her.

when you think about it, they’re both alike in that way.

the sun is in the sky, bright and warm like the boy next to you.

“he’s trying to steal her from me,” grumbles caleb. he swings his legs back and forth while the two of you sit on a tree branch, zayne and the girl sitting underneath on the other side of the tree. she’s teaching him how to braid a crown of flowers, and you can see the small curl of his lips. he’s smiling a shy sort of smile only reserved for her.

“he can’t steal her from you because she isn’t an object.” you tear your eyes away from them and focus on the brooding boy beside you, taking note of how he pinches his brows together and pouts, mumbling something under his breath. while the branches and its leaves provide good shade from the sweltering heat, there is still sunlight that peeks through gaps, and golden specks manage to coat caleb’s figure. “that means you can’t have her either, cal.”

your words have him turning to you quickly, his eyes wide. “i can’t have her?”

“of course not!” your silent admiration of seconds ago dissipates as you scoff, flicking his forehead. he yelps as you continue, “she’s a person! you can’t have people; that’s weird.”

“but that monster is stealing my best friend!”

you frown, blinking once. “zayne isn’t a monster.” but caleb sure seems like one at the moment, you think. a monster of green envy.

“yes he is!”

“zayne is not a monster.” you repeat, irritation beginning to bubble in your chest because caleb wouldn't be saying such things if he didn't have this weird rivalry going on with zayne. “don’t say that about him.”

“why are you defending him anyways?” caleb narrows his eyes at you. “you’re supposed to be my friend—”

friend. best friend. you realize he hasn't ever really called you his best friend because she’s his best friend while you think he's yours. if he doesn't think that of you, then you can’t think that of him… right?

you both whip your heads to the ground, clambering down the tree as zayne calls out both yours and caleb’s name. if his voice hadn’t betrayed the frantic feeling swirling in it, maybe you wouldn’t have this overwhelming sense of dread. when you both round the tree trunk, you see that his face is pale, and he’s holding onto her. she’s trembling, her face paler than zayne’s as if all the color had been drained from her features, and she’s heaving and trembling uncontrollably. the sight makes your stomach drop to the ground as caleb dashes forwards, dropping to his knees while yelling about getting granny josephine to them. you honestly don't remember running to their house, asking josephine to help the little girl—it’s all a blur. all you can remember is how the two boys finally had something in common other than their care for the younger girl: their expression.

they were both horrified.

and you wonder if you looked like them.

your eleventh autumn was just like any other, but this time it was different because of him.

you decided to stay the night after having dinner at zayne’s so he could help you study for your science test on monday. caleb would have been the one helping you, being in the same classes and all, but he was helping her study. while you do love and care about her, you care more about your grades because surely the tests in middle school are harder than the ones in elementary, right?

you’ve been inside zayne’s room before. more often than not, after dinner, you’d end up in there with him while talking about everything and nothing. sometimes you’d both be quiet, content with just being next to each other while reading a book on his bed, and sometimes you both would talk about current hobbies and interests.

“where will you sleep?” zayne’s voice comes from near his bed while you head towards his desk.

“in your bed, duh.” your eyes skim over the surface, chuckling at how tidy it is… until your eyes fall on a haphazardly hidden pieces of paper underneath zayne’s stack of notebooks. weird, you think. zayne likes keeping notebooks, books, and papers separate from each other.

“why would you sleep in bed with me?” he asks.

“we used to sleep in the same bed when we were children.” which is true: your moms have a photo book with evidence in it from your younger days together. “i don’t see why we can’t if we’re still children.”

you hear him huff through his nose. he’s probably pinching it right now. “you’re eleven and i’m thirteen. you’re a child and i’m a teenager.”

“didn’t you say that teenagers are fourteen-year-olds and up the other day?” your fingers wrap around one of the notebook’s spine, carefully lifting it and whatver notebooks are on top and pull the pieces of papers out.

your eyes scan the contents of one of the pages, highlighted words aiding in your understanding of what it is that you’re reading. medical school… majors… he’s looking at colleges.

“well, yes.”

you turn around and hide the papers behind you. “so that means we can share the same bed, right?”

zayne sighs, shaking his head while his lips curl upwards just the slightest bit. “you win this round, miss know-it-all.”

you grin at him and bring the papers out. “you sure i’m a know-it-all?”

the older boy stares at the papers you wave in the air, staying silent as if trying to find the words to explain something to you. you raise your eyebrows. “staying silent makes you look like you were hiding something from me.”

“well… i am. was, i was.” zayne corrects himself and sits down at the edge of his bed, patting the space next to him. you take a seat and eye him. “i’ve been trying to tell you this past summer that… well…” he sighs. “i skipped grades.”

“oh—” you gasp, eyes widening to the size of saucers. “so this means…”

majors.

medical school.

he’s grad—

he exhales slowly. “i’m graduating from high school this year.”

you feel the world go still. you hear your breathing. you feel cold. suddenly, you feel deep and heavy dread wash over you.

after this year, zayne will leave.

your best friend is leaving you.

“why are you crying?” zayne panics, clumsily wiping the tears you didn’t know were falling down your cheeks. the pad of his thumb is a little rough against your skin, but his touch is soft. he’s trying to be gentle, and it makes you feel more gloomy.

“i don’t know,” you mumble, hiccupping as you look down at your hands, watching the tears he doesn’t manage to wipe away fall onto them. “it’s just…” do you tell him? that you don’t want him to leave you alone? sure, caleb is a great friend but you’ve come to realize, since the incident last summer, that she will always be his top priority and—

majors. medical school… her.

“you’re doing this for her, aren’t you?” your voice is quiet.

you love her, you do. she’s like a little sister, and you obviously care for her like they do. but they care more, they love her more. you don’t quite understand the intensity of their love for her. and despite their burning ardor in wanting to be there for her and how it always ends up making you invisible, you can’t bring yourself to ever hate her. she’s innocent, just living her life while the two boys flock to her. she didn’t ask for their attention or love, it’s just that she’s so easy to love.

“…don’t tell her.” zayne’s hands fall from your cheeks and grab onto your hands. his touch is cold, unlike caleb, but it doesn’t make you flinch away from him. you let him take your hands into his, holding them carefully. “please.”

you huff through your nose. “if that’s what you want,” you answer. “it isn’t my place to tell them, anyways.”

it’s quiet, peaceful almost if you weren’t so caught up in the sinking feeling your chest. your heart just sinks and continues to sink in black ink, growing heavy. zayne’s voice timidly calls out your name. “you’re still crying. there’s more to it, isn’t there?”

“i don’t want you to leave.” because if he leaves, you’re afraid that you’ll have to admit the ugly truth you know, deep down, about caleb. it’s a truth that is so clear to everyone, a truth that you see every single time they’re in their own world. a world that pushes you and zayne out like the waves when they leave shore and retreat back into the ocean.

the older buy chuckles, and you look at him through your wet lashes, noting how his hazel eyes flicker with quiet care in them. “i’m not leaving yet.”

“keyword being yet,” you mumble, gripping onto his hands now. “…i’m being dramatic, aren’t i?”

zayne opens his mouth to say something, but you cut him off. “i should be happy that you’re doing something so cool. i mean, skipping basically all of high school and graduating super early? that’s so cool… and i’m here crying like a baby over it.”

“but your reaction is reasonable,” zayne says. “i’d be upset, too, if my best friend told me all of sudden they’d be leaving at the end of the school year.”

best friend. not just friend.

“i’m your best friend?”

“naturally.” zayne responds quickly. “you know me better than anyone, just as i know you better than anyone.”

just like that, your tears stop falling and the sun peeks out from the cloudy sky inside you.

the rest of the night goes smoothly: zayne helped you study for your science test, which you both found boring after an hour because all of the questions were easy, and you spent the rest of your time talking with him. you wanted to know of his plans, what he’s thinking, about what he wants to do after graduating. you both fell asleep in the midst of your conversation, though you wake up at three in the morning because you felt weird. your own body was telling you that you forgot to do your night routine. so when you wake up, all blurry-eyed and dazed, the first thing you can see is your sleeping best friend. after a couple of blinks, your vision clears up and you’re aware that you’re close to him. in fact, you’re close enough to see and count his dark eyelashes. you pout, no way he has prettier eyelashes than i do. the thought goes away as quickly as it had formed in your mind, replaced by the icky realization that you fell asleep without brushing your teeth. so you sit up, gently waking zayne so he could do the same. when he stirs awake and stares at you with squinting eyes, he knows what you mean when all you do is wordlessly point at your mouth despite the sleepy haze of his mind. and just like that, you both silently head to the bathroom and brush your teeth next to each other, quickly going back to his bed and falling asleep once more.

when morning came, you both find yourselves staring at his mom with confusion as she giggles and repeatedly asks how you both slept during breakfast. you think she must have seen something while you both slept, though you decide to let your suspicions go when you bid the li family goodbye and head next door to your house.

mom will probably tell me about it later tonight, you think just as you shove your house keys into the lock. you push the door open and kick your shoes off your feet, sliding them to the side and slipping into your slippers when you step inside. you hear someone running down the street, and right when you’re about to close the door, you hear your name being called out.

“i didn’t see you at all yesterday!” caleb runs up to you, a bright grin plastered on his lips. with his back to the sun, he looks as if he's bathed in gold. “pips missed you, you know? what were you up to that—what’s that?”

you blink once and suddenly he’s in your bubble, burning fingers gingerly touching your eye. you close it on instinct, and he runs his thumb over your eyelid. you can see yourself reflected in his eyes from this close. his warmth seeps into your skin, and you have the urge to lean into his touch. your heart lurches and skips a beat, feeling excited and calm at the same time.

“what’s what?” you cough, taking a step back.

he frowns, his thumb now under your bottom lashes. “your eyes are red and puffy. are you sick or something? you feel oddly hot.”

oh, that’s right. you cried yesterday, and you feel as if your heart is ready to jump out of your chest and into his arms where it wishes it could be.

“i’m fine. it’s just that i watched a sad movie after dinner with zayne,” you sigh, gently pushing his fingers away from your eyes. zayne’s words echo in your head, a quiet reminder that you can't tell caleb because he’d tell her right afterwards.

caleb huffs through his nose, his lips curling into an amused smile. he shakes his head once, his purple irises reflecting the warmth he radiates. “you do cry a lot while watching movies, don’t you?” he leans back and tilts his head at you. “alright.”

you furrow your eyebrows. “alright… what?”

“even though you’re clearly hiding something from me, i believe you.” caleb pinches your cheek, the amusement in his lips softening. “i’ll see you later?”

“yeah…” you say, dazed, but shake your head quickly. “wait, what are we doing?”

caleb laughs, the hand pinching your cheek now covering his mouth, “don’t tell me you forgot that we’re supposed to study for the science test on monday?”

“about that…” you look away from him. “zayne helped me study for it last night.”

his silence has you taking a quick glance at him. caleb seems shocked and his eyebrow twitches, though it disappears and is replaced by something you can’t quite describe. a forced smile of sorts? “he helped you study?” he asks. “then what’s your verdict? will the test be easy or hard?”

you scratch your cheek, thinking. “well… even though he helped me study for a bit, i say the test is going to be very easy.”

“guess that means i won’t study.” caleb shrugs and ruffles your hair, a real smile on his lips now. “talk to you later, short stuff.”

“i am not that short, cal!” ever since he’s grown an exact inch taller than you, he acts like you're a midget now.

you watch as he waves goodbye, walking backwards for a couple steps with a laugh before twisting around and heading down the street. he’s probably heading to the small dessert shop nearby to pick up some of her favorite doughnuts—it’s what he does every saturday morning.

your twelfth autumn marks your first one without zayne.

he left at the end of summer, right as the tips of the green-yellow leaves on your favorite tree began turning a slight orange, barely noticeable. his disappearance had gone unnoticed until yesterday, half way into the fall quarter and midway into october. you’re in the middle of reading a book, one of your dad’s that he let you borrow, on his bed laying on your stomach while caleb helps her do her homework at his desk. he has a singular picture on it that he puts down whenever you're over, but you never ask why he does that.

“where is zayne?” she wondered aloud, tapping her pencil against her chin. “i haven’t seen him around lately.”

“huh,” caleb clicks his tongue in thought. “now that you mention it, neither have i.”

both their eyes land on you, though you don’t bother looking up. with practiced ease, you reply. “i haven’t seen him around.”

“but you go to his house every friday? and he’s your best friend? surely you know something.” she leans forwards in her chair, trying to get a better look at you.

“i go every friday because i made a promise to his mom,” you retort, finally looking up. with a shrug, you continue, “his mom hasn’t said anything about his whereabouts, so i’m just as clueless as you bunch.”

the girl drops it, a smile now on her lips. “your dad is coming home soon, right?”

you blink in surprise. “you remember?” you mentioned it in passing, it was when she and you were watching caleb during basketball tryouts. you told her that your dad would be coming back soon from the fleet, how you were excited to finally see him after so long.

caleb huffs a laugh through his nose, “of course she remembers, short stuff.”

you grimace, rolling onto your side and reach out to grab something in your vicinity, which happens to be a pen on his bedside, and fling it towards him. “you are literally just a couple inches taller than me, cal.” he’s actually a whole head taller than you now, and caleb's growing into his features. his cheeks have started losing their softness, his eyes a little sharper now. he has a natural, boyish charm, something that makes everyone notice him at school.

he loudly laughs, the pen stopping right in front of him before he swats it away. it lands with a clatter against the floor, somewhere in his room. with a huff, you lay on your back. “better work on that aim, short stuff~” he sings, getting up from his desk and heading over to his bed. you look up at him, your lips pursed as he pinches your cheek, purple eyes warm with mirth. his hair falls over his eyes, making its color look deeper. “how else are you going to get into the aerospace academy with me?”

you raise your brows, “you're acting as if you're already in.”

“well—”

the girl hums. “so you both want to leave me.”

just like that, caleb is back at her side and you’re all alone. “i would never leave you, pips.”

“pinkie promise?”

you watch from the corner of your eye how he wears a soft smile as they wrap their pinkies, his touch lingering.

you aren't stupid; in fact, you pride yourself in being so smart and attentive. so, you know that the tightness in your chest is because of caleb, because of the feelings you harbor for him. you aren't stupid, so you already know that caleb can never be yours, that he can never feel that way for you.

because he is hers.

with a sigh, you close your eyes and will yourself to calm your aching heart. you should be used to the ache that settles in your chest when this happens, but here you are.

later that day, right as the sun begins to set, you bid her and granny josephine goodbye. the taste of her apple pie from dinner lingers in your mouth.

“you don’t have to walk me home, cal.” you say, chuckling as you bump shoulders with him. instead of walking across the street, you walk down the sidewalk.

he hums, following you, “just let me be a good friend, short stuff.”

“you just love rubbing it in, don’t you?” you grumble, stepping into the park. your feet take you to the tree until you’re in front of it. you look behind you, raising an eyebrow at caleb. “i’ll stay here for a few minutes, so you can leave if you want.”

“i’ll stay.” at his confirmation, he moves past you, a faint scent of apples lingering in the air along with the sweet, woody smell from the oak tree as he scales up the trunk with ease. “your turn!”

“yeah, yeah.” you huff, rolling your eyes as you climb the tree and make it to the branch caleb chose to sit at. you breathe in and out slowly.

“the tunnel makes the sky look ugly.”

you snort, slightly baffled at the sudden proclamation from the boy. “where did that come from?”

“what?” caleb shrugs with a laugh, shoulders shaking slightly. “it does make it look ugly. like, really ugly.”

your quiet giggles get louder, and you throw your head back. “that is the first time i have ever heard anyone say that.” you wheeze, your laughter so strong you wobble on the branch. caleb wraps an arm around you to keep you from falling, his touch making you still instantly.

“you need to be careful,” he says. “one of these days you’re going to end up falling and i’ll fall with you.”

“if i ever fall, it’ll be because of you.” you cough and attempt to shimmy away from him, though his grip slightly tightens, preventing you from getting away.

the brunette absentmindedly taps on your arm with a finger. “i’d never let you fall… you know that.”

he’s saying that because you're his friend, and he is fiercely protective of those he cares about: the people in his inner circle. you are a part of it, you know that, and yet your heart cannot help but to stupidly flutter at the illusion of a hidden meaning behind his words.

“…it’s getting late.” which is true—the oranges and pinks of the sunset are now bleeding into a purple hue. “i should get going now.” you don't wait for him to say anything; you just climb down the trees as quickly and possible and book it to your home.

caleb is not far behind you.

stepping on the first step of your house’s porch, you stop and turn around. you’re eye to eye with caleb.

caleb wears a boyish grin on his lips, something that makes your stomach flip. “i have something for you.”

“oh? and what would that be?” the corners of your lips turn upwards.

“how about you close your eyes?” you shut your eyes, hearing intently to the boy shuffling. you feel a warmth brush against your cheek, trailing over to the back your neck. “give me a second.”

you hold your breath. caleb’s fingers work nimbly, and something cold hangs around your neck. there’s silence for a beat; he’s still close enough for you to hear his breathing until he leans away. “open your eyes.”

they flutter open at his command, and flitter down to see a necklace. there is a cloud with a wispy appearance right at the bottom, and small translucent beads hang from it in white and blue. the chain around your neck is decorated with solid white and blue beads.

“do you like it?” caleb scratches his neck, eyes carefully watching your reaction.

your voice comes out quiet, shy. “i do.”

you hear the smile in his voice. “i’ve been trying to give it to you since your birthday.”

“what?” looking up from the necklace, you blink at him repeatedly. “but my birthday—”

“i know.” he laughs softly, shaking his head. “i’ve had it since last year, and… i just didn’t know how to give it to you. i thought now would be a good time.”

i thought now would be a good time.

his words echo in your mind, and you take a deep breath. you also have something you want to give him: it’s sitting in the drawer of your desk, in a small box. “do you… do you want to come inside?”

you’ve never invited anyone inside your house, inside the walls that is your safe space. zayne is the only one who has stepped foot inside, who has made it up the stairs and into your room on more than one occasion. caleb used to bug you about that when you two first met, into the early months of your friendship. he thought it was weird that you were always over at his home while he had never gone inside yours. his complaints stopped when you introduced zayne to them—probably because he didn’t want to be around him despite the desire he had to discover what lays hidden in your home. you like to think that he finally decided to wait until you were ready to show him what’s inside.

caleb’s eyes are wide with surprise. “you want me to go inside?”

“i also have something for you.”

despite the poor lighting of the porch lamp, caleb is still akin to gold. he smiles and you turn around to unlock the front door, your heart thumping loudly in your chest. when you open the door and hold it open for him, caleb is all too quick to walk inside, following you up the stairs into your room after you shut the door. his eyes scan the inside of your room as soon as you turn on the lights, shuffling over to your desk as he stands by the doorframe. the color of your walls are a light blue, strings attached to the ceiling with paper clouds hanging at the end. he realizes there’s glow-in-the-dark stickers on the ceiling after squinting. there’s a book shelf in the corner of your room, right besides your desk. the top shelf has a few trinkets: a small airplane, a blimp, a cap.

he assumes it's your dad’s cap, the one that goes with his uniform.

the second shelf has a couple of books, a stuffed animal in the form of a snowman, and a picture: the last one you took with your parents. last summer, you and your family took a trip to verona. in the picture, your dad has you hoisted onto his shoulders, an arm on your legs to keep you steady while the other is wrapped around your mom. everyone wears a smile, yet yours is the brightest one out of the three. caleb’s chest swells with pride, knowing he did the right thing all those years ago when he found you crying at the big oak tree.

the third shelf has a picture, one where it’s you and him. he remembers when, where and who took the picture. it was on your last day of school, your fifth grade promotion ceremony, and your mom took it. again, your smile is the brightest one. though, upon further inspection, he realizes your picture is different from the one he has on his desk. you’ve decorated it with small stickers, ones of golden and purple swirls that sit on the frame.

then there’s more books. another picture frame—is that zayne? you and zayne as children… oh, well you look at that? another picture frame of you and zayne. a recent picture, it seems, decorated in the same manner as his. he’s not sure when or where or who took this picture—

“think fast!”

caleb blinks and the flying box stills in front of him, floating in the air before it can hit his chest. “uh… why?”

“gotta be on your toes if you want to be in the aerospace academy with me.”

he laughs. “look at you, already acting as if you’re in.”

you shrug. “you do the same.”

“touché.” his eyes look down at the box. with a hum, he grabs and opens it, blinking once. inside sits a necklace, one with a small, silver sun on it with a purple gem in the middle. “…a sun?”

“you remind me of the sun.” you mumble. “you’re warm like it, too.”

caleb beams so wide his cheeks start to hurt, and there's faint blush on his cheeks that spreads to the tips of his ears. “i’m like the sun?”

“mhm.”

“funny… because i got you a cloud because sometimes you’re calm and happy, sometimes you’re gray and gloomy, and there are times when you’re like a storm.”

you stare at him, wide-eyed, and he continues. “tell me when you feel like there’s a storm in you.” he gets closer to you so that he can tap on the necklace that hangs around your neck. “so i can shine the sun on you... i will never hurt you with my warmth.”

it’s a silent promise that he’ll be there for you.

“and if you do?”

“then you can hit me!”

his fingers twitch, his foot taking a step forwards. but there’s a knock on your door before it’s pushed open. both you and caleb watch, confused.

your mom has a night shift and wouldn’t be back until morning.

caleb doesn't see a thing before you’re already leaping forwards into the arms of a man in a black uniform, his cap falling onto the ground. he recognizes the man as the one that holds you on his shoulders in the picture on your bookshelf.

your dad, the colonel of the farspace fleet.

caleb smiles to himself, his hold on the tiny box in his hands slightly tightening. he will be there for you, whenever you're sad or happy or mad.

he will be there.

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