#another art that was sitting on my desk for too long

[iheartinkonpaper]

i'll be like one of your girls (or your homies)

Everybody loves you, baby

“Hey, blondie.” 

Somehow, in the span of four months, Art had managed to forget just how big Patrick Zweig was. 

Sure, he was tall, but Art was, too.  Sure, his body was incredibly toned and bulky from years upon years of intense conditioning and tennis playing but Art’s, though more lean, was toned, too. Sure, he had big hands, a big, gorgeous, face, and, based on what glimpses of skin he’d accidentally caught in the locker room and what he’d barely felt during that feverish night in the hotel room back in June, a big– no. Why was his mind going there?

You should trademark your face

But the biggest thing about him was his presence. How the energy shifted, became heavier, hotter, more, when he was in a room. How he held court without even really trying, permanently at ease and entrancing crowds of people in his little Patrick spell by flashing his sweet little Patrick smile and saying even sweeter little Patrick words.

Linin’ down the block to be around you

“Hello? Earth to Art!”

Art blinked. Patrick had been standing in his dorm doorway for god knows how long at this point, laden down with heavy bags full of clothes and tennis gear. It had been four months– by far the longest it had ever been– since the pair had last seen each other. Art hadn’t been able to sleep last night, tossing and turning at the thought of seeing his best friend after so long. 

All day, he had been thinking about how he would greet him. How he’d run into his arms like they were an old married couple and Patrick would ruffle his hair like they were best friends and everything would be okay again because they were something in between. And now that the moment was here, he had frozen.

“Well?” Patrick had an eyebrow raised, clearly confused and a little glimmer of something in his eyes. Could it be apprehension? Anger? Hurt?

But, baby, I’m in first place

Art turned off his brain and finally stepped forward and pulled his best friend in for a hug. Now Patrick was everywhere. His arms were wrapped around Art’s back, one hand smoothing it up and down his spine in a way that made his brain short circuit. His smell, a smell that Art could only describe as The Patrick Smell, overwhelmed his senses. His curls brushed up against the side of his jaw. His nose pressed gently up against his shoulder as he tucked his head there. 

“Finally,” Patrick murmured into Art’s neck, causing his face to go hot in a blush that he prayed he wouldn’t see. “There’s my Art.”

“Missed you so much,” Art managed to choke out despite his pounding heartbeat and increasingly muddled brain. 

What was going on? He was hugging his best friend. They were the touchiest pair of best friends either of them knew; there was always an arm slung around a shoulder, a hand on a thigh, a leg tossed over another leg. That was just the way they were. 

Patrick, much to Art's embarrassment, was the first to pull away, striding into Art's tiny little shoebox dorm and surveying it, picking up and putting down trinkets, looking at the posters on the walls and the papers on the desk. 

"Man, I can't believe we're no longer roommates," Patrick muttered, sitting down on Art’s tiny twin bed, looking him in the eye and leaving him with no choice but to nod along. Art walked over and joined him, careful to leave a few feet of space in between them. Patrick’s brow furrowed slightly at this, but he quickly wiped the expression away. Art was mollified. He knows something is wrong with me. 

Face card, no cash, no credit

"Yeah me neither," He said, because it was true. It was crazy. "It's weird that your face isn't the first thing I see every morning."

Patrick laughed and grinned, raising his eyebrows. 

“Oh yeah? Whose face are you seeing instead?”

Art felt himself turn pink again under Patrick’s gaze.

“Um, no, I, I haven’t really, um, slept with, or I guess I should say, um, hooked up, since–”

“Dude, that’s not what I meant,” Patrick interrupted, laughing in that easy, lighthearted, Patrick way–much to Art’s horror. “I meant if you have a roommate or anything, but I’m all for hearing about my little Artie’s romantic conquests.”

“I don’t have one,” Art whispered, studying his hands under the heat of Patrick’s scrutinizing gaze.

“Don’t have what? A roommate or a romantic conquest?”

“Both. They never gave me a roommate at the beginning of the year and I haven’t… had sex at all,” Art replied in a tone that he fought to keep cool and casual, daring to look up and meet Patrick’s gaze. Clearly, he was slightly shocked, but there was something relaxed and assured about that shock. Something relieved. 

“Dude, no way you haven’t gotten laid at least once this year. Girls aren’t throwing themselves at you from every direction?”

Art felt his face turn warm again and Patrick grinned. 

“Aw, don’t go all shy on me, Donaldson. You know girls love a pretty face like yours. And you’re tall and you’ve got muscles and you’re smart and actually, like, sweet. What’s not for them to like?”

Yes God, don’t speak, you said it

Art flushed again, and this time, he could tell by the quirk in his eyebrow that Patrick noticed.

“No, Patrick. I’ve had plenty of offers, trust me.” Calm, cool, collected. Calm, cool, collected.

“Oh yeah? Why don’t you take them?” 

Look at you

“Not interested.” Calm, cool, collected. Definitive. 

Patrick’s lip curled a tiny bit and narrowed his eyes in a way that made Art feel like a petri dish under a microscope. 

“Sure you aren’t.”

Art was hot, hot, hot, all over. His mind was a jumbled mess of half-baked excuses and wild stories that he could use to distract Patrick and, god, Patrick, Patrick and his face and his eyes and his hair and his hands and–

“That’s it, Donaldson. You’re thinking too loudly. Relax. It’s just me.”

Art smiled weakly.  That was the problem. It was just him.

Patrick’s eyes lit up. 

“Hey, let me tell you about this insane hookup I had a couple weeks back,” Patrick grinned, flopping back on Art’s bed.

Art flopped back with him, staring at the ceiling and praying to God that he would make it through this alive. Sure, he’d listened to Patrick’s sex stories in extensive detail countless times, but that was before. 

Skip the application, interview 

“So we were on a date at this new restaurant in New York. Shit, I can’t remember the name, but it was so fucking good, Artie. Had these sweet potato fries–I know you love those– that almost made me orgasm before we even got back to my hotel room, I swear. Anyway, we get back to the hotel and get in the elevator, and he–”

Art felt his heart freeze in his chest. 

“He?” He squeaked out, pushing himself upright. 

Patrick looked at him like a deer in headlights. Helpless, Art watched, for the first and what he hoped was the last time in his life, Patrick’s walls go up before his very eyes. He sat up so that he was sitting face to face with Art, so close that they could feel each other breathing. 

“No, Patrick, Patrick, I’m-I’m not homophobic or anything I swear, I just…didn’t know.”

Art could barely breathe. Could barely think. Could barely anything. 

Patrick’s face relaxed a little, but Art could tell he was still nervous.

“Well, that’s me. I’m bisexual. Bring out the rainbow flags” Patrick cracked a small smile. 

“What made you realize it?” Art whispered, daring to look at him. 

He looked shaken, a little relieved, and, suddenly, a little… embarrassed? 

Sweet like Maribou 

Patrick was silent, and bowed his head down to his lap. This caught Art off guard. Patrick was never like this. 

“You don’t need to tell me if you don’t want to,” Art quickly reassured him. His heart felt like it was going to beat right out of his chest and run away. He knew it was now or never. Knew now that Patrick wouldn’t judge him for what he was about to say because he was the exact same way. 

Still, he felt like he was going to throw up when he said, “It’s just… I think I might like guys too.”

It was so silent you could hear a pin drop. Patrick looked up, meeting Art’s eyes with an overwhelming cocktail of emotions in his own. 

He took a deep breath, then mirrored Art’s question from a minute ago. 

“What made you realize it?” 

Art felt the same way that he did when he was strapped into the drop tower at the amusement park near his childhood home, waiting for his seat to plummet down, down, taking his stomach and his breath along with it. 

“You.” He whispered. 

“Art,” Patrick breathed raggedly, eyes now wild and alive and searching Art’s for any sign of deception. “Art, I swear to fucking God, if this is some sick, fucking, joke because now you know I’m bisexual-”

“Patrick. I mean it.”

Maybe it was his tone, quiet and firm. Maybe it was the crack in his voice. But there was a shift in Patrick’s gaze that told Art that he knew he was telling the truth. 

“Patrick, I can’t be around you normally anymore, I-”

A slow, cocky, smile, spread on Patrick’s face. 

“Oh yeah?”

Art squirmed under his gaze. 

“Yeah,” He continued, voice breathy and quiet. “I don’t really know when this started, or why it started, but you’re just so pretty, you know, your face and everything. and it just makes me so mad because I can’t look away, and when you talk, I feel like you’re hypnotizing me or something because it’s all I can focus on, no matter how stupid whatever you’re saying is, and when you touch me, fuck, Patrick, when you touch me, I feel like I’m on fire. “

Look at you 

Art was breathing heavily. Patrick was grinning like he’d just won a billion dollars and slowly, hesitantly, reached out and cupped Art’s jaw. His eyes went wide and he let out the tiniest, most pathetic, little whimper at the contact that Patrick would be playing on repeat in his head every night for the rest of his life. 

“Seems like you have some pretty big feelings, honey.”

Art turned tomato red at the pet name and Patrick’s cheshire cat grin only grew wider. 

“What are you gonna do about them?”

Art’s body went on autopilot and he leaned in and pressed his lips to Patrick’s.

Give me a call if you ever get lonely 

They were kissing. What Art had imagined every day for the past few weeks (months, honestly) was finally happening. 

And god was it better than any half-formed horny fantasy he could conjure up in the middle of Econ 101.  Now Patrick was really everywhere, his hands moving from his jaw to smooth up and down his torso, his curls brushing Art’s forehead, his strong thighs pressing against Art’s, and, best of all, his lips on Art’s. Art wanted, no, needed, more. 

To Art’s dismay, Patrick pulled back after a few seconds with a concerned look on your face.

“You didn't move a muscle. What’s wrong?”

Now it was Art’s turn to be the deer in headlights. He felt so good that he could barely even process what Patrick just said. Patrick seemed to realize this and laughed, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe how fucking lucky he was.

“Aww, I’ve barely kissed you and you’ve already gone dumb, huh?”

In any other circumstance, Art would be embarrassed. Instead, he nodded.

“Fuck, Patrick, need you so bad, please,” Art whined, too far gone to care about how ridiculous he knew he looked and sounded. 

Who was Patrick to deny such a pretty beggar?

Torturously slowly and languidly, Patrick pressed his lips back to Art’s. It was probably the most delicate Patrick’s ever been, Art vaguely thought as Patrick’s hands smoothed up and down his waist and they gasped into each other’s mouths. Now Patrick’s fingers were knotted in his hair, and he slipped his tongue into Art’s mouth and tugged on his curls gently at the same time. Art moaned, his brain short-circuiting. 

“I know. It feels good, doesn’t it, Artie?” Patrick pulled away to breathlessly whisper against Art’s lips, laughing quietly when Art only whined in response.

I’ll be like one of your girls or your homies

Patrick pushed Art backwards, not breaking the kiss, so that they were both laying down, slotting his hips between Art’s.

They both groaned at the contact, a breathless ‘fucking shit’ slipping out of Patrick as their clothed crotches pressed together. 

“Please, Patrick,” Art gasped, closing his eyes and pressing his hips into Patrick’s desperately, hands clawing at his back. He barely even knew what he was asking for.

“You feel so good, Art,” Patrick moaned as he pulled away from Art’s mouth to kiss along his jaw. “So good for me.”

Art let out a sound like he was a girl in a bad porn video.

“You liked that, didn’t you?” Patrick laughed weakly, his voice shot. “Always knew you’d be into that shit.”

His smugness was short lived as Art, trance seemingly broken, pushed up against him and flipped them over so that now he was on top.

“Shut up, Patrick,” Art whispered, grinding his hips into Patrick’s with increasing fervor, soft pants and whines escaping his lips.

“Fuck, Art, you’re so–” he broke off in a groan as Art bit his lip gently–” needy. Me kissing you wasn’t enough, huh? Just had to get on top and take what you need from me, didn’t you? You’re such a slut, Art.”

Say what you want, and I’ll keep it a secret

Art gasped at the word, moaning as his neck dropped into the crevice between Patrick’s neck and shoulder. 

“I’m–I’m not a slut.”

“Oh yeah? Then why are you grinding on your best friend, fuck, like you’re one?”

“I’m–” 

Art broke off in a moan so loud Patrick was sure people in England could hear it, sticky whiteness shooting out and making a mess of his boxers. 

“There we go, Artie. That’s it. Let it all out.” Patrick murmured as he rubbed his back up and down as he shuddered and whined, cheeks pink and lips parted in pleasure. 

Art looked straight out of a renaissance painting, all messy curls, pouty, swollen lips, big, glassy eyes, and flushed cheeks. It was that very thought that sent Patrick over the edge, a quiet groan leaving him as he too made a mess of his boxers.

“Well.” Patrick was first to speak after a few minutes of silence aside from their labored breathing. “I learned a lot today.”

Art turned pink again and Patrick laughed, ruffling his hair.

“I wanna shower. I always shower after…sex,” Art muttered. “I’m all–”

“Can I come with?”

You get the key to my heart, and I need it

[la-brielle]

"I'd take a knife to my chest if you were the one who held it" .

alt versions undercut

separated em for funzies

[fear-is-truth]

# BEING BRUCE WAYNE’S ❝SUGAR BABY❞ AND FALLING IN LOVE WITH HIM — HCs

warnings — slowburn. brief mentions of sex synopsis — being a broke college student that caught the attention of none other than bruce wayne a/n — this is the fluffy slowburn sfw version… the 18+ one is still in the works

──⟢  fear-is-truth — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

it started when you were a broke college student in your early twenties, juggling classes, part-time jobs, and an unrelenting mountain of bills. bruce wayne, freshly thirty, was already a household name—gotham’s elusive billionaire, playboy, and philanthropist.

you first crossed paths at a charity gala, where you were working as a server, weaving through the crowd with a tray of champagne flutes. you’d only seen bruce wayne in tabloids before, so when you caught him leaning against a marble pillar, watching you, you simply froze.

“you seem a little… distracted,” his eyes flicked to the tray you balanced expertly. “nervous, or just tired of all this nonsense?” you gave him a polite, slightly weary smile. “neither. just trying to get through the night without spilling on anyone important. still got a paper to finish.”

his lips twitched in amusement, but he didn’t press further. at the end of the night, though, you found an obscene tip tucked beneath his empty glass—crisp hundred bills folded neatly, more money than you’d made all week.

weeks later, he appeared again—this time at a hole-in-the-wall café near campus where you worked part-time. it wasn’t his scene; he stuck out like a sore thumb in his tailored black coat, looking utterly out of place among the students.

he didn’t say much that first visit, just ordered black coffee and left another ridiculous tip. but he came back. again and again. sometimes he’d stay long enough for a brief conversation, other times he’d sit quietly in a corner, newspaper in hand. it wasn’t just the tips that stuck to you—it was the way he listened. bruce never made you feel small or dismissed your struggles, like so many others did.

when he first offered to help you financially, he did it with tact that left you room to preserve your pride. “you’re working too hard,” he said one evening. “let me take some of the weight off—just until things settle. consider it an investment in your future.” there was a sincerity in his voice that made it sound like a practical solution rather than a handout.

accepting his help wasn’t easy. you’d been so accustomed to clawing your way through life that the idea of someone else shouldering your burden felt unnatural. after days of hesitation, you finally agreed—but only on the condition that you’d pay him back one day. bruce had only nodded, though there was the faintest hint of a smirk, like he knew you never would.

he never made you feel indebted, though. if anything, he treated it like helping you was a privilege.

when your ancient car finally gave up, bruce didn’t even wait for you to ask for help. within the week, a sleek, brand-new model was delivered to your apartment, the keys tucked into an envelope with a simple note: you need something reliable. you tried to thank him, but he just waved it off. “just focus on getting where you need to go.”

your decrepit laptop, with its constant crashing and refusal to load anything on time, was next. one day, you came home to find a pristine, state-of-the-art model sitting on your desk, already set up and ready to use. you didn’t even have to ask.

bruce never demanded anything in return. the closest he came to asking for favours were the occasional lunches or dinners where he’d pick your brain about your studies, your ambitions, your dreams. he always seemed genuinely interested, never letting the conversation veer into anything too personal unless you led it there.

you realized over time that it wasn’t just the money, the gifts, or even the way he treated you like an equal—it was the steady presence he provided. bruce wasn’t there to fix your life or control it; he just wanted to make it a little easier. and somehow, that made all the difference.

when you stayed up late working on papers, bruce would sometimes settle on the couch nearby, a novel in his hands. he never intruded, but his quiet presence was a reminder that you weren’t alone. on particularly rough nights, he’d bring you a cup of tea without saying a word, setting it gently beside you before returning to his book.

on your birthday, he surprised you with a bouquet of your favourite flowers—something you’d mentioned in passing months ago—and a beautifully wrapped box containing a classic hermès birkin. the card attached to it read simply, “something to carry all those books in.”

his gifts were always thoughtful, never ostentatious in a way that would make you feel uneasy. designer coats, shoes, and bags—each impeccably tailored to your taste, yet discreet. the labels were always tucked away, hidden in folds and linings. they were things you could wear without being worried you’d get mugged. nothing about them screamed, “i have a sugar daddy.”

bruce never tried to “buy” your affection. you didn’t owe him anything—not in the transactional way most would expect. he just wanted to see you comfortable, to help you in ways that went beyond financial support. and, over time, you realized you cared for him too—not for what he could give you, but for who he was.

he had an uncanny ability to remember the smallest details about you. the way you took your coffee. the name of the professor whose lectures you dreaded. how the sound of rain on a window always calmed you. those little moments of attentiveness.

at first, bruce kept you at arm’s length emotionally, cautious about pulling you deeper into his complicated world. but as the months went by, as your late-night talks stretched into early mornings, it became clear that bruce didn’t see this as a favour or an obligation. he cared for you in a way that went far beyond surface-level kindness.

when you went through a bad breakup, he didn’t try to fix it or console you with empty platitudes. instead, he just wrapped his arms around you, letting you cry into his chest.

it wasn’t long before the line between benefactor and friend blurred entirely. he was no longer just footing your bills or buying you thoughtful gifts—bruce got greedy. he didn’t just want to take care of you financially; he wanted all of you.

one night, you were venting about your professors, frustration pouring out in a messy jumble of words. bruce listened intently, brow furrowed as he leaned back in his chair, giving you his undivided attention.

“you’re too nice to me,” you blurted, the words slipping out like a spew of vomit. before doubt could creep in, you leaned forward and kissed him. it was a kiss that changed everything—as you half expected him to gently push you away, his hand came up to cradle your face, deepening it.

the kiss led to one thing, then another, and before you knew it, you were tangled together in his sheets, lost in his kisses, his touch, his quiet attention to your every reaction. bruce wasn’t just passionate; he was thorough in a way that unraveled you completely—it was hands down the best sex you’d ever had.

when you woke up the next morning, still tangled in his arms, a wave of uncertainty hit you. maybe it was nerves or overthinking, but you couldn’t stop wondering if you’d crossed a line you shouldn’t have. sensing your unease, bruce kissed your shoulder, his lips warm and soft against your skin. “i hope you know this changes nothing… we’re fine.”

and just like that, you became his official “sugar baby.” not that the dynamic between you two changed drastically—it simply gave bruce an excuse to really spoil you.

the secrecy was part of the thrill, but also a necessity. bruce wasn’t ready to let the world know, and truthfully, you weren’t either. the thought of being reduced to a tabloid headline or a shallow label like “sugar baby” or “sugar daddy” felt like a betrayal of the genuine connection you’d built.

he started sending you to your favourite spa on weekends, claiming you deserved a break from all the stress. when you protested that it was too much, he just shrugged. “self-care is important,” he said, as though it was the simplest thing in the world.

your closet, which had been a collection of fast fashion and thrifted pieces, was slowly replaced with the row, max mara, burberry, and dior.

your jewelry collection grew as well. delicate van cleef & arpels bracelets, tiffany & co. pendants, and diamond-stud earrings from cartier found their way into your life. he gifted you a dainty rolex, understated yet stunning, with a cheeky note: “don’t be late to class.”

despite all of this, bruce was careful to ensure it never looked like you were “living large.” you stayed in your same modest apartment, though it was clear his influence was woven into the details: a state-of-the-art security system, upgrades to your furniture and appliances that made life a little easier.

dinners became a regular occurrence, whether it was a reservation at gotham’s most exclusive restaurant or an extravagant meal in his penthouse.

when you graduated, bruce was there, blending into the crowd in a simple black coat, inconspicuous among the sea of families and friends. you didn’t spot him at first—he wasn’t the type to draw attention when he didn’t want to—but when your eyes finally landed on his, he gave you the smallest of nods. after the ceremony, he approached you quietly, slipping a small velvet box into your hand. you opened it to reveal a key.

“what’s this for?” you asked, already overwhelmed, fingers trembling slightly. “your new apartment,” he replied simply. then, after a pause, “unless… you’d rather move in with me.”

from then on, everything changed. bruce wasn’t just your benefactor; he was your best friend, your confidant, and eventually, your lover.

[gutsby]

Abstaining Game

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: The only thing worse than an anti-sex retreat is an anti-sex retreat with your former fuckbuddy and dad’s best friend. Especially when sharing one cabin.

Warnings: 18+. IF HE AIN’T GRAYIN’ I AIN’T STAYIN’ 🗣️ [Age gap]. Unprotected p-in-v. Forced proximity. Joel making you fuck just his middle finger when he’s mad. Daddy kink. Overstimulation. First-time squirting. Angst.

Translations: ‘Don’t piss down my back & tell me it’s raining’ is a fun Southern phrase for, ‘Cut the bullshit’ or ‘Don’t lie.’

Sequel to Waiting Game & Hating Game (last rhyme I swear)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

October 26, 2024

Dear Joel,

Roses are red,

We’re a couple of sluts,

Abstinence camp is awful,

I miss you rearranging my guts.

You were just about to put your pen back down to paper and add the finishing touch, signing an equally lascivious farewell, when the letter was snatched out of your hands. A tyrant in khaki capris and an artichoke-colored polo eyed over your words with a pointed look and frowned.

“Letters to the boyfriend have to be G-rated,” Marlene said, crumpling the thing in her fist before chucking it.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you returned shortly. Then, “That was actually meant for my dad’s friend.”

You sat tight a moment as the dots came to connect in the woman’s parochial and prudish mind—waiting for the wince of disgust to twitch at the corners of her eyes when she put two and two together. Once it did, you grinned. Even when she plucked the pen out of your hand and told you to sit outside, if you can’t participate in this one simple activity, you smiled bigger and strolled at a comfortable pace out the canteen door.

Anti-sex ‘summer camp’ wasn’t bad at all when you didn’t give a fuck what your counselors told you to do.

It was ridiculous, really. Absurd. Tommy Miller catching you sucking his brother’s dick under the table at your father’s birthday dinner, losing his shit with you both, then threatening to tell your dad everything if you didn’t agree to this stupid retreat and stop seeing each other. You’d barely been trapped in the shithole for twenty-four hours, and you already knew this angle wouldn’t work.

What many of your fellow campers affectionately called the ‘Firefly Fuck-Free Zone’ or the ‘Federal Dickriding Response Agency’ (F.E.D.R.A.) was in fact a secluded enclave south of Austin where khaki-clad monsters forced you to reckon with your sexual urges like one might treat a mutated strain of the Cordyceps fungus. You weren’t meant to keep them for long, and if you did, someone like Marlene would surely shame you for it.

Frankly, Tommy was dumb as shit if he thought this anti-boinking boot camp would have an effect on either one of you—Joel wouldn’t ever bang you again after what happened that night, but it wouldn’t be because of some arts and crafts bullshit he did out on a FEDRA ranch.

He just didn’t want your dad to find out and kill him.

That was a fair concern to have. You didn’t blame him.

Presently, you kicked your feet up on the porch outside the cafeteria, where the rest of the group was finishing up letters to their loved ones—this latest activity was meant to be ‘making amends’ to the people in your life—and you tipped your head back to survey the landscape.

Nothing but sweetgrass and gently rolling hills as far as the eye could see. Somewhere across the plains there was another cluster of cabins, though you couldn’t quite see it, and someplace within that minuscule cluster, you knew there was a middle-aged man. Dark grey eyebrows furrowed in concentration and chest heaving gently. Likely hunched over an old oak desk about five sizes too small for his frame as he gripped a pen and scribbled:

Dear Tommy,

Fuck you, you fucking fuck.

Sincerely,

Joel

You grinned again just thinking about it.

If anyone had a reason to be ticked off and terrified, it was Joel. And you, you guessed. You still hadn’t gotten your period—but that wasn’t due for another few days.

For now, you’d settled on worrying yourself over what would happen after the retreat had ended; what would you and Joel do once you went back to school? What would become of his life back in Austin with a supremely pissed off brother and a best friend who didn’t know his kid had been fooling around with a man twice her age?

Silently, you thanked your lucky stars Joel’s part of the camp was kept separate from yours, because you didn’t think you’d be able to keep a straight face if you saw him.

The whole thing was sickening, if not slightly funny.

You slipped Joel’s old pack of American Spirits out of your boot and fished in your back pocket for a lighter.

Then you crammed both back when you heard a boom:

“LAKESIDE GUIDED MEDITATION STARTS IN FIVE.”

The tinny intercom rang a deafening pitch in your ears. You clamped a palm over the left side of your head and winced, having forgotten this exercise in mindfulness was supposed to be the last event to wrap up your day. You just wanted to slink back up to your cabin and sleep. Or eat. Or slip your fingers between your aching legs and indulge in some much-needed Joel Miller reminiscing.

Then you recalled how masturbation was also off limits to all would-be sexaholic campers—if there was any time to sneak off and get busy by yourself while your counselors were otherwise occupied, now would be it.

Just as you cast a glance over your shoulder to see if a stealthy exit was even possible, a voice trilled overhead.

“On your feet, skank.”

You looked back fast, and damn did Tess look smug.

Your bunkmate crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the doorframe, seeming to feel your thoughts before they’d even been fully processed.

“If you skip meditation, I think Marlene’s gonna take you behind the rec and shoot you in the head,” she added.

“How kind.”

“Yeah? Certain death?”

“Better than the dick deprivation,” you grumbled, only half-kidding as you dragged yourself back to your feet.

Theresa Servopoulos was no avid fan of penis herself—she much preferred women when she had her pick of it—but she grinned all the same and clapped a comforting hand over your shoulder before the two of you started walking down the mess hall’s front steps. Then she only laughed a little bit when you almost ate shit treading down the winding rocky trail to the lake and cursed your present lack of intercourse for causing your clumsiness.

“You realize it’s only been, like…a day, right?” she said.

“Might as well be a million,” you muttered, “I feel like I’m never getting laid again.”

“Oh?”

Tess gripped your elbow when a root protruding from the path nearly sent you flying again. She tried not to smile.

“Well…my fake brother’s mad at me for going behind his back and fucking his brother,” you explained, coolly.

Stupidly.

“Wait—you fucked your brother?!”

That stopped Tess in her tracks. The two of you were approaching the cusp of a clearing, just feet away from where the forest gave way to the shoreline of the lake. Folks were already congregating at the water’s edge.

“Any day now, ladies,” Marlene called through cupped hands. Tess was still regarding you with eyes the size of saucers as you traipsed across the way to that voice.

“Not my brother,” you hissed.

“You said your brother’s brother. That makes this guy your brother, too,” Tess whispered—still far too loud.

“Not my actual brother, he’s just— fuck—”

Suddenly, two scraps of red fabric were catapulted in your direction. Tess caught one. You caught the other.

“Tie ‘em over your eyes.” Marlene ordered.

“The fuck?” you mumbled, but ventured nothing more as you were ushered to join the group sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of you. Everyone else was tying bandanas around their eyes like all of this was normal.

“Another trust exercise,” Tess’s voice was low as you dropped your asses one after the other on the sand. Speaking like a seasoned veteran of the anti-sex retreat, she helped you get yours on and shot you one last ‘You-better-not-have-actually-fucked-your-sibling’ look before letting you help her secure her blindfold, too.

Just as Marlene began describing in great detail what this blind, guided meditation in self-love and elemental trust was meant to look like, your friend opted to give voice to her concerns the second the opportunity arose.

Still seated side-by-side, still blind, Tess leaned over.

“Please tell me you’re not here for bangin’ your brother.”

You had to stifle a laugh.

“I am not.”

“Then explain, Cersei!”

Just then, a throat cleared behind you. Evidently another camp counselor at your rear was telling you, wordlessly, to shut the fuck up and listen to the instructions. You and Tess just scooted closer and lowered your voices.

“So this guy, Tommy…he’s been like a big brother to me for years. Worked with my dad and always had my back for the wild shit I did back in high school,” you began.

“Uh-huh.”

“His big brother, Joel, is like…old as shit, but wildly hot.”

“Dangerous combo.”

“And Joel’s my dad’s best friend. Drove me back from college over fall break when he was visiting Boston, we took a little motel detour on the road trip home, and bam—” You snapped your fingers for effect, “We fuck, right?”

“Right.”

“—imagine you’re standing at the edge of a waterfall—”

Marlene couldn’t be serious with this hippy dippy shit. You tuned out the rest of what she said and continued:

“It’s incredible. But the condom busts open at the end—”

“Oh shit.”

“—deep breath in…and release…and again, we—”

“Freak the fuck out, right? I’m poppin’ Plan B like candy.”

“As you should.”

“—hold that breath in right there—”

“A week later, me and Joel hook up at my dad’s birthday party. Only we fuck up, ‘cause Tommy catches us, and—”

This time, the counselor who’d cleared their throat to shut you up took to nudging you both in the back with the toe of their shoe. You straightened up, tilted your head back, and scowled at them through your blindfold.

“Do you mind?” you said, turning in place but unable to see anything behind you. You imagined whoever had just butted in on your conversation was probably frowning. They said nothing in return, just huffed like a child.

“Anyway.” You pivoted back to Tess, “Tommy flips his lid, tells us he’s gonna snitch on us to my dad if we keep fucking around like that, and then he…sends us here.”

You heard your friend fight back a chuckle beside you.

“And abstinence camp is supposed to cure you of this awful disease? Wanting to fuck daddy’s best friend?”

Oddly, you wanted to giggle too. You weren’t sure what was so funny, or why Tess’s tone made you want to say something equally out of pocket and lewd, but then you were leaning over before you could even think twice:

“That old man’s dick is like a fuckin’ drug, dude.”

You wished you could’ve seen her face when you said it. But you didn’t need to catch a single glimpse to know she was grinning big and dumb when she whispered,

“Prehistoric cock must’ve been pretty nice, huh?”

You choked. She snorted. You returned, next, shortly,

“Best senior citizen schlong I’ve had in my life.”

You weren’t sure which one of you burst out laughing first. Maybe Tess. Probably you. Either way, both of your sides were splitting in seconds, as the ridiculous and just marginally offensive descriptors for Joel’s dick trembled at the tips of your tongues. You felt like a teenager again, telling your friend your filthiest desires for the DILF-next-door—except this time, you’d actually fucked him. Small perks to seeking out middle-aged men in your twenties. You had to clamp your hand over your mouth to rein in the peals of laughter as Tess wheezed quietly beside you.

Then you felt hands.

Two palms under your armpits, yanking you up.

You stumbled back, graceless and still staving off half a laugh as your back struck the counselor’s chest.

“Just…take her back up.” You heard a female’s voice to your left, low and not sounding particularly amused.

Take you where? Was this the part where Marlene dragged you behind the rec and shot you in the head?

About damn time.

Whoever had grabbed you grunted in acknowledgment. You swayed in their arms, trying to regain better footing, but the grip tightened up in a second and thrust you sideways. You staggered, cursing your captor.

“Fucker,” you hissed.

Fucker said nothing.

Their hands slipped from your pits to one of your wrists, leading you away from the lake in long strides. You were moving so fast you scarcely had the chance to pull the blindfold back, so you just kept walking. Marching.

“Can you slow the fuck down, please?”

You imagined the face of the person leading you forward might’ve twisted in a scowl. Their lips didn’t stir, though.

In a matter of minutes, your feet were crunching on the flat, gravelly terrain you knew to lay under the cabins. This person was leading you back. Likely to throw you off to your room in the next several moments—but not before ripping you a new one for disrupting the peace back down at the lake. You weren’t stoked to hear it.

“Alright, just—” You tripped as you were led up the rickety steps, cursing again, “—just leave me right here.”

A set of knuckles at your spine thrust you forward.

“No? Okay. Fine. Whatever.”

You shook your head as you entered the cabin and heard footsteps follow you in. It occurred to you then that now was probably a good time to take off the blindfold.

Before you could, though, it was ripped off for you.

“Pack your shit.”

Dude.

You spun on your heels.

“DUDE!”

Your eyes moved up the very khaki shorts you despised, the puke-colored polo, the neatly embroidered camp logo, and a nametag strangely labeled ‘Lucien Flores.’ Everything in the ensemble screamed ‘camp counselor.’ But the face above it—it wasn’t one of their own at all.

It was far too lax. Fresh with an easy, shit-eating grin.

“Sweetheart—”

He started to speak, only to get the wind knocked out of his chest when you threw your arms around him.

The barrage of kisses came without you ever really intending to place them at all. You were just so stunned, practically overcome with joy to see Joel Miller in all his ruggedly handsome glory, then confused. What was he doing here, and why was he dressed head-to-toe as a counselor? And why were you so into that on him?

You doubted you could even ask the questions, and he was barely more able to answer the longer you stayed latched to his neck, kissing him everywhere your mouth could get to. You’d just stood on tip-toes to press your lips to his when you realized he wasn’t reaching back.

His hands hung limply at his sides. Still, he smiled.

“Abstinence camp ain’t taught ya much, has it?”

You parted your lips to drag your teeth along the grey-spattered scruff on his cheek—biting but not quite. Begging him to kiss you back, grab your ass, anything to quell this anguish twisting low in your stomach at the lack of contact. Joel didn’t seem keen on answering to it.

“I’ve learned plenty, Miller,” you panted against his jaw, before moving below it to sink into the skin of his neck, “Lemme show you all the stuff FEDRA told us not to do.”

Yes, you sounded desperate. No, you didn’t really care. You were much too busy fiddling with the front of Joel’s shorts to concern yourself with anything but his cock. It made it all the more gut-wrenchingly horrific and disconcerting when you felt his hands push yours away.

“No,” Joel said, simply. Then, nodding to your luggage at the foot of your bunk, “Pack your stuff, sweets. C’mon.”

He was seriously trying to break you out?

You admired the cojones on the man, but you wanted to fuck real quick to get it out of your system. Needed it.

“Joel, I—” You swallowed thickly, shaking your head.

What your mouth couldn’t finish, your eyes said clear as day: I want you to take me right here. Quick and dirty. But, again, Joel seemed completely impervious to your pleas. Almost callous in the face of such a desperate request made from your eyes to his. He moved over toward your suitcase when you didn’t want to budge.

Luckily for you, you’d never unpacked. All that was left were the clothes on your back and a water bottle on the nightstand. Joel grabbed the latter and turned around to snag the suitcase on his way to the door, when he was met with you. Obstructing his path and frowning a little.

“Joel?” You raised a brow.

“Mm?”

The man in front of you straightened up, rolling a nonexistent kink from his neck before regarding you.

His gaze was alarmingly sedate.

“Y’know, you’ve got quite the knack for makin’ shit difficult—”

“Just a quickie, Miller—”

“I ain’t fuckin’ you here!”

The sudden boom of his voice should’ve startled you. But then a broad, warm palm came to rest on your shoulder, and Joel’s expression dropped immediately. There was still a tightness to it, somewhere deep within, and you couldn’t quite work out why he seemed so…off.

Then you caught sight of something steely in his gaze.

It just might’ve clicked if Joel didn’t reach for your face and elucidate things for you himself, eyes narrowing.

“I know my old man dick is like a fuckin’ drug and all…”

Shit.

Cheeks squished between his two big hands, you had only to stare. And blink. And silently regret being so loud when you were talking to Tess before. It didn’t look good.

“Joel—”

“No, no, my senile brain must be mistaken—it was actually that prehistoric cock that did it for ya.”

Your face heated with shame. You blinked again.

But just as you tried to shake your head between Joel’s hands, he pressed his palms tighter and drew you closer.

“Senior. citizen. schlong?” he intoned, painfully slow.

“Joel, I just—”

“Need to fuck someone your own age, it sounds like.”

The man in front of you released your face just as fast as he’d grabbed it, and when he stepped back, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of desperation. That wasn’t what you’d meant! It sounded so puerile and cruel coming out of his lips like this, but you had to tell him it was a joke.

“It was a joke.”

No time to mince words now.

“Real fuckin’ comedic genius,” Joel snorted.

He rolled his eyes and tried to sidestep you, but you mirrored the movement. When your hands flew to his chest to keep him from moving, please, just listen to me, Joel, he pretended not to hear it, or feel it, against him.

“Alright. Enough,” he muttered, “‘S’time to go home.”

“No!”

“No?”

“No.”

For the first time, you saw Joel’s nostrils flare. You pressed into his sternum again, hoping to hold him in place so you could explain yourself, but it seemed he wasn’t planning on staying stationary. Joel dropped to your bunk—or Tess’s, technically—and situated himself comfortably on the bed before shooting you a look. You barely had had a moment’s time to contemplate your next move when he yanked you onto the cot with him.

Joel didn’t try to kiss you. He didn’t attempt to remove one article of clothing from your body or his. He just sat there, staring, while you straddled his hips staring back.

“If you wanna fuck me so bad, go right ahead,” he said, motioning indistinctly in front of him, “Be my guest.”

When you stilled, he added, “That is all y’want, right?”

With your palms laying flat on his chest and a head full of conflicting thoughts—you did want to bang him, obviously, but not before you’d gotten a chance to set things straight, not when he was looking at you like this—you chewed your bottom lip. Certainly you couldn’t continue while Joel still believed you were embarrassed by his age, his lips downturned and humorless as ever.

“C’mon,” he tried again, a touch more venom laced in his words as he spoke, “Show me how much ya want it.”

You needed time to think.

“Why are you…dressed like this?” you said, stalling.

But Joel wouldn’t be kind enough to give you that time.

“Stole the uniform so I could sneak out and over here and get you out. Are we gonna fuck now or what?”

His hands moved over your own to guide them to his lower half, just above where your clothed core was touching his. Your fingers moved mechanically, almost reluctantly, to undo the button and zip of his shorts.

Was that a flash of hurt you saw in his eyes?

You’d never been good at this communication bullshit. Neither had Joel. The two of you would probably just have sex now to hash out your feelings, as was par for the course for a pair of emotionally stunted individuals. It still pained you to see him look at you like that, though.

“Tess and me were just kidding, baby.”

You palmed the bulge in his boxers and heard him grunt. When you nudged his cock out of the fabric to stroke him, his eyes fluttered shut and he sucked in a breath.

“I would never say those things to hurt you,” you added.

“Didn’t hurt me none,” Joel returned instantly. Then, feeling you flick the pad of your thumb over the head of his cock, he exhaled and held his face firm in place. Like he didn’t want you to see the effect you had on him.

You let go of his cock to take off your socks and shoes. Then your top. Then your shorts. Then you slid down his body a little, unsure if this was the time to be trying something new. Or even doing this kind of stuff at all.

At first, you just sort of lowered yourself to Joel’s groin, his dick resting comfortably between your tits. Then you started to move, and your hands were cupping either side of your breasts to push inward on his member. Before you even fully knew what you were doing, you were squeezing Joel’s dick with the soft, supple flesh and stroking him gently. Gaze glued to him all the while.

His eyes cracked open to catch you watching him. Evidently, Joel couldn’t contain all of his reactions, because he audibly groaned when you got going.

Sliding your tits up and down his shaft, feeling him pulse between them. Sensing a warmth pool in your own lower half but being too focused, and slightly ashamed, to act. You just wanted to make Joel feel good, even if your words weren’t able to do the trick with apologizing.

“Come here,” you beckoned him with just one finger as you slid off the bed, to the floor. Joel sat up, and you kneeled obediently between his legs. The two of you shared a tense, sexless look for a second before you lowered yourself back down and resumed the position.

This time, Joel could—and did—stir his hips to create some friction between your tits. His brow pinched inward with a muted concentration, and you wanted to say it looked handsome on him, that you were sorry for saying those stupid things to Tess and making him doubt your affection for him, but you kept your mouth shut. You had to remind yourself that emotions had no place between two needy, unfeeling people who just wanted to fuck.

Maybe that was how it should’ve been from the start.

But watching Joel’s face twist and contort in pleasure nearly wiped the thought clean out of your brain forever.

You felt many things for him, whether you liked it or not.

You really wished you hadn’t said the things you’d said.

Joel braced his hands at the edge of the bed on either side of him, hips working a steady pace to fuck your tits. He was staring mostly at the spot where the head of his cock was poking up through your cleavage with each thrust, entranced by the sight, and in a second, a full-throated moan was fighting its way out of his chest. He spit in his hand and paused to smear the stuff on his shaft, on your tits. Spit again and rubbed even harder.

Seeing him so cold and detached, you wanted to apologize again. Maybe beg him to say something kind.

Instead, you mumbled, “I love it when you fuck my tits.”

Joel scarcely acknowledged the remark, just letting you work yourself over him, meet his shallow thrusts, look sweet and wait patiently for him to cum all over you. When it seemed he might be ready to do it, though, Joel withdrew from you the next second and moved back on the bed. He pulled you into his lap, straddling again, but this time situated over the side of the bed—him sitting up, you perched on the flat, sturdy expanse of his thighs facing him. In the space between your bodies, Joel slid a quiet and almost careless hand to your heat, flicking the sheer fabric of your panties to the side in one go.

The moment his fingers made contact, you flinched.

It wasn’t that you were opposed to his touch, you just felt unfairly balanced in this situation. Joel appeared so stoic; you, a complete and utter wreck. Fighting fifteen different emotions at once and feeling unusually vulnerable spread open to him now, you almost didn’t register what he was doing—or what his hand might find.

Joel’s groan brought you back, though. When he rubbed his knuckles over the seam of your cunt and practically choked out twice his lung’s capacity, you had to look.

Aloof as he tried to be, the man’s desire was painted all over his expression. And his crotch. And his hand.

Well, actually, that last bit of arousal was yours.

“Fuckin’ soakin’ me, sweetie,” Joel breathed.

You perked up at the term of endearment. Watching one glistening fist of his make its way back and forth against your body, smearing sticky wet pleasure all over your mound and your folds, you found yourself gnawing your lip once more, this time for entirely different reasons.

Joel seemed to soften—even if only for a glaring carnal need, you didn’t care. You sank into this gentler touch.

“Khakis kinda suit you, Miller,” you said, off-handed.

Really, Joel looked almost as comical as he was sexy in that camp counselor getup: tan shorts stretched tight over even tanner legs, polyester top sitting pretty on wide, hulking shoulders, that silly stitched logo for the camp emblazoned over his left pec, and, of course, the nametag that didn’t belong to him but to Lucien. The whole thing was so alien to his lumberjack-chic demeanor that he nearly seemed boyish. Endearing. Some spearmint-scented hottie you might’ve had a crush on at camp years ago. You couldn’t help but smile.

Joel tried not to hold your gaze for too long.

“Don’t go pissin’ down my back and tell me it’s rainin’.”

When he slid one finger to your entrance, you tensed again, but smiled just the same and let out a breath. You felt him prod at the warm, wet skin and thumb at your clit, and something told you that he’d wanted to grin too.

“I’m serious,” you said, “Scout’s hon—ohfuckfuckfuck.”

Joel pushed one finger inside you. In spite of the ease with which he slipped between your walls, that gentle sensation made it wonderfully snug. He gripped your hip and started moving his single digit in and out, and in spite of yourself, you squirmed a bit. Joel never failed to call you out for doing that; today would be no different.

“Easy, sweet pea,” he hummed when you jumped again.

But you couldn’t help it. Your hands quickly anchored themselves to Joel’s shoulders, your legs spread wider, and your hips started stirring—bucking, really—against each teasing touch. It was still just one thick finger of his.

You glanced down and saw that it was his middle finger, in particular. The double meaning wasn’t lost on you.

“Another,” you pleaded.

“Nuh-uh.”

“You’re a mean ol— mean man.” You tried to correct course when you felt a mention of ‘old’ slip back into your vernacular, and inwardly, you cringed at your words.

Joel had already heard it. He cocked one eyebrow.

“Mean ol’ man?” he scoffed, still fingerfucking you softly. When you bucked against it, he nodded as if to say ‘fair enough.’

Then, before you could chime in, he nodded some more.

His expression was hard.

“Fuck my hand,” he said.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

You weren’t quite sure what he meant for you to do. When he nodded a third time, the gesture was accompanied by a quick dart of his eyes to the place where your cunt was being penetrated by his one finger. He curled the finger inward, and when you twitched at the hot throb of pleasure that followed, he grunted.

Fuck my hand.

Nails still searing tiny half-moons into his shoulders, you acted more out of impulse than by command. The look from Joel sure didn’t hurt, though. The second you started rolling your hips, he nodded again. Holding onto his praises for now and simply showing approbation.

“Like that,” he murmured.

All you were doing was rocking back and forth over his finger, whimpers percolating quietly in your chest, but the act alone made you feel desperate. And Joel smug.

It was like he wanted to see you getting off to this one, comparatively smaller part of him without being filled. Bucking plaintively to find that fullness and coming back empty every time. Your whimpers turned into whines.

“Need more,” you keened.

“Yeah?” Joel replied gently.

“Yeah.”

A beat, then:

“Tough shit.”

But he said it so goddamn sweet you had to do a double take to make sure you’d heard him correctly. When you met Joel’s eyes, you saw a hint of amusement lingering behind them. Then he squeezed your hip again and started helping you move into his hand, up and down.

“Only givin’ more fingers to good girls, y’hear?” he said.

“What about your cock?” You couldn’t help it.

Joel just breathed out through his nose. In a second, he went from camp counselor to disapproving father figure.

“Greedy little thing, ain’t ya?”

That was all he needed to say, but the firm plunge of his middle finger certainly put a finer point on it. He curled the digit again and, upon grazing that spongy surface inside you, saw another desperate plea in your eyes.

And pleasure.

The pleasure ran almost as intense as the desperation.

Your head fell back when Joel got to making those ‘come hither’ motions again and again, thumb circling your clit, eyes trained on your figure with a marked concern. Like the prospect of not drawing an orgasm out of you in the next two minutes might very well ruin the man’s night.

“‘S’alright, honey,” Joel said quietly.

Then, finding your gaze when your head tilted back,

“Be a good girl and let go for me. Let go for daddy, hm?”

Fortunately for him, that one low hum and another flick of his middle finger and thumb were all you needed to find your release. You came on his hand with a sharp, pitiful cry and a ‘Fuckthatfeelssogooddaddyplease,’ hips working feverishly against his hand as you rode out your high. The sight of you bouncing up and down on his open palm and the way your eyes rolled back, begging him to fuck you full of his cock next, felt wildly obscene.

Joel loved obscene. Needed obscene. Hot. Febrile. Raw.

He nodded again.

Before you’d even descended fully from those staggering heights, his finger was moving too—joined by two more. Joel stuffed his index and ring fingers inside your still-pulsing hole and pretended not to hear your soft cry.

After all, you’d asked for more before. Joel was just sating your desire; your overwrought body would be fine.

“Joel,” you hissed, seizing his wrist.

“Too much?” he returned.

You tried to verbalize some answer but were cut short by a punishing stretch—all three fingers plunging in and out of your sensitive, drooling cunt and making it full of him.

“Too soon?” he tried again.

“I—”

“Too fast?”

“N—”

“Too…old?” Joel pressed after a beat.

There was an air of feigned condescension in his tone as he took on a faster pace gliding his thick, calloused fingers between your walls. You might’ve screamed if you hadn’t found your forehead pressed to his and the warmth of his irises boring into yours while he did it all. At this distance, you could discern a trace of hurt again. Something needing to be soothed inside Joel Miller.

You rutted your hips and shook your head, skull still stuck to his as you did so. Whimpers coming low.

“I didn’t…mean it,” you managed at length.

“What? That I’m ‘old as shit but wildly hot’?”

Joel wedged his fingers straight down to the knuckle and nearly tore a shriek out of your body. His eyes were surprisingly soft. Making sure your pleasure was all there.

“Hyperbole,” you choked, voice hoarse.

Then your jaw grew lax when a hand cupped your chin. All you wanted to do was melt into Joel, but you sensed something brewing again behind those honeyed eyes. Blinking was all you could do to keep your composure.

“You’re right, darlin’,” Joel said, “I am too old for you.”

Right after a clench in your tummy, a hurried word leapt up to your tongue, ‘NO!’ and you had to swallow a moan to keep from succumbing to the pleasure Joel was bringing with his fingers. Sandwiched between two orgasms was no time for a serious argument to take place, but there you were, fighting against it anyway.

“N-No,” you stammered. Stupid.

“I am.” His voice came softer somehow, more resigned.

When outright rejection of the claim seemed futile, you tried to pivot. Climax still closing in as fast as ever.

“I don’t care about that,” you hissed, exhaling hard when the first ripples of bliss crept up toward your stomach.

Joel watched you with careful eyes.

“Yeah? And Tess?”

“Joel—”

“Or Tommy.”

“I don’t—”

“Everyone else?”

Almost against your will, those minuscule ripples turned to waves of full-blown euphoria, and then you were clenching again on Joel’s hand and crying out in climax. You willed your gaze not to stray from his, but it was tough. Especially when the eyes beneath your own seemed so fucking morose and removed from you.

Don’t do this to me, Miller. Don’t do it, don’t do it.

In the wake of what should’ve been consummate satisfaction, you found yourself retreating to a place more akin to starvation—suddenly eager to get your mouth over his and start kissing, tonguing, and scraping your teeth like you’d missed out on a full week’s worth of meals. Feeling selfish but also uncertain how else to proceed—was Joel Miller breaking up with you here?

You couldn’t be sure, because he kissed you back. Joel kissed you and cupped your cheeks, then chased your frame all the way down to the coarse, scratchy sheets of the bed, where he was quick to climb on top of you.

Hell, it seemed breathing was too tough to accomplish with your frenzied pace and the continuous stream of open-mouthed kisses placed anywhere and everywhere. A groan from Joel trembled between your lips as you helped him get his shorts and boxers the rest of the way down his legs—all but dragging them with your heels—and he tightened a fist in your hair when they were off.

“I shouldn’t’a come here,” he mumbled.

“But you did,” you panted.

Both of you got lost in another onslaught of kisses, and you tried not to sigh. Joel was still battling something.

Even as he peeled your panties off and lined himself up with your entrance, he seemed resolved to stay quiet. Holding your gaze and not saying what had to be said.

He was a lot like you in that way.

You kept kissing him anyway.

The events that followed seemed to you little more than fleeting, happy scenes from a film you’d always wanted to see—an eager Joel, a caring Joel, an I-don’t-think-I’m-physically-capable-of-holding-you-any-closer Joel. The weight of his cock a welcome friend and the kisses somehow far too intimate to be considered friendly at all. You’d almost forgotten you were at a camp designed to prevent this very thing from happening between two stupid, impulsive people like you, and you didn’t care.

All you knew was a yawning stretch—that aching, empty void filled to perfection by Joel’s member—and the shockwaves of pleasure that vibrated in bands all the way down to the balls of your feet. You felt safe and secure caged between two muscular arms, and you reveled in a warmth that spanned every inch of your body touching his. The weight suffocating and somehow not oppressive; Joel cradled your head to make sure of it.

“Ain’t…hurtin’ ya, am I?” he said when you winced.

You shook your head against his sweaty palms to say that he wasn’t; you were just adjusting. He scanned your face for any trace of insincerity but found nothing.

In this tender position, your brain was ready to burst—whether from guilt, shame, ruthless self-loathing, or a sobering sense of closeness, you weren’t sure. All four seemed to form the impetus for the words that came next, which were soft, repeated apologies against Joel’s mouth. He swallowed each one without a second thought.

“Quit sayin’ it,” he rasped, low.

“I’m sorry, Joel, I’m sorr—”

Soft lips again. ‘S’okay, honey.’

You weren’t sure why, but your face felt extra hot.

Joel pressed his thumbs on either side of it while he kissed you and went deeper. Then he squeezed even more, and your breath hitched quietly in your throat.

Aw, shit, he could probably feel your heart running amok in your chest and thrumming like crazy right now.

“Ain’t nothin’—” Joel paused to send one measured thrust along your cervix, “—to be sorry for. Nothin’.”

Your legs tightened at his sides when his hips started to snap in quick, stuttered motions, desperate for more friction and depth. He got both, and he groaned feeling you tighten around him as he filled your cunt to the brim. The silky warmth of your walls drawing him in was almost too much, and every now and then he’d have to slow to mutter some, ‘’S’fuckin’ chokin’ me, honey, ya feel that?’ or ‘This pussy’s just made to take me, huh?’

Joel asked like he actually needed the reassurance. As if the slick, dripping arousal coating his length and the sounds of your whimpers mixed in with those wet slaps weren’t enough—as if he had to have deeper consolation.

He was splitting you open and looked guilty as he did it.

Still shaking with each thrust, you helped him slide his shirt over his head and bring him bare, chest-to-chest with you. You couldn’t ignore the tension any longer.

“Joel, I fuckin’ love— I need you inside,” you managed.

“You do?”

“Uh-huh.”

His face softened.

“‘S’mine, isn’t it?”

He said it so fast you couldn’t make out if it were really a question or a simple statement of fact. His balls routinely smacking your ass, eyes searching yours, always gentle.

“Say that you’re mine.”

No, Joel—don’t do that, don’t say it like that.

Your visceral reaction was to recoil. You couldn’t because he had you pinned, but damn did you want to—not him, not this, not now, Joel, why would you fucking say that?

The look in his eyes now surpassed the hurt from before. It was open and aching, even as he drilled your body in two at a near-ruthless pace. Asking you so sincerely.

The obstinacy inside you was almost laughable. Damn near sent your head spinning in a fit of hysterics at how much you wanted to say but wouldn’t; how much you sensed lay waiting to fly off Joel’s tongue but couldn’t. If you were any more emotionally pent-up you might’ve ruptured a blood vessel and lost all ability to think.

It didn’t help that you were both about to cum.

Or that Joel’s right hand was fumbling for your clit.

His expression was steady as ever when you jumped, made a whining noise below him, and grabbed his wrist. You looked down to where your bodies were joined and got a dizzying glimpse of that sight: cunt swallowing Joel’s cock repeatedly, pleasure pooling between your two bodies, then a digit at that little bundle of nerves.

He kissed your hairline and hummed.

“C’mon, pretty girl. Whose pussy is this?”

His thrusts sped up, along with his thumb.

“Don’t.” Not an answer but a warning: tread lightly, Joel.

He kissed your forehead again. And again. For a second you thought he might stay that way until you both came, but then his lips were finding yours, mumbling softly,

“Say no one’s gonna fuck you but me.”

“But—”

“None of those pencil-dick douchebag Delta Sigma whatever-the-fuck ya call ‘ems—” Joel continued, unfazed, “—not your lab partner, not your hallmate—”

His cock was gliding in and out of you at a punishing pace now. Wonderfully slick with sounds obscenely piercing to your ears. You could feel Joel digging in the depths of your tight, throbbing cunt, could see his expression contort with much the same pleasure you were experiencing yourself, and could very well smell the faint aroma of American Spirits still staining his breath. Joel Miller was a sick fuck for what he was doing to you, and he knew it. You nipped at his lower lip in between tender kisses and quietly-spoken words, and whimpered.

“—not your TAs, not your professors—” he pressed on.

You opened your mouth to let a lewd moan escape when Joel lifted his hand to shove a thumb inside. Instinctively, you sucked the whole thing straight down to the knuckle.

“Nobody but me, y’hear that?” Afforded better leverage with his finger wedged between your teeth, he shook your head a little as he fucked you. Watched you bob and nod a wordless ‘yes’ in doe-eyed complaisance while his cock drove shockwaves of pleasure straight through you.

He rubbed his thumb back and forth, and you let him.

You drooled all over that man’s finger like it might’ve been supplying oxygen to your lungs, and when Joel leaned in and said, ‘Ya like that, sweet pea?’, you answered in the affirmative. Or at least as close as you could get while Joel was filling up his two favorite holes.

Your orgasm was maybe two strokes away from shattering bones, it seemed. Now was his chance.

Swiftly, Joel retracted his touch just far enough to drag a string of saliva out of your mouth—then deliver a taut but gentle slap to your cheek. The soft thwack, combined with the sounds your bodies were making down below, served only to elevate the pornographic pitch of your moan:

“Joel!”

“That’s right.”

Joel’s mouth hovered an inch over yours, half-smirking, as if waiting to suck the words clean off of your lips. You whined when his thrusts got quicker and the mouth that was grinning got to kissing your own again. Talking dirty, too.

“Show me who this cunt belongs to. Say it,” he grunted.

You clenched, kissed him back, were just barely aware of the words you were trying to form when you stuttered some unintelligible, ‘Y-Y—ohfuckdaddyjustlikethatoh—’

Oh.

Your eyes widened to Joel’s, and before you could even begin to process what was happening to your body, his name just snapped off your tongue like a shot. A shriek. Some blissfully half-strangled moan that Joel captured between his teeth as he fucked you into the mattress and held your body tight to his own. His palm was wet.

Your legs were wet.

The soft, heaving juncture between your bodies was wet.

You were only dimly aware of the sensation as you dug your heels in Joel’s back and let out a series of cries and moans, but then that fluttering feeling inside made you flinch. A pulsing between your thighs and a…warmth.

You were still blinking through a post-euphoric haze when you felt a soft heat simmer and sink within you.

Did Joel just…cum inside you? Again?

“You dumb motherfucker,” you hissed without hesitation.

You’d just managed to shove him away—not far, but away—when you scrambled into a sitting position and slapped a hand over your stomach. Expecting to feel a churning and an awful pinch as you came to make out some vague sensation of Joel’s seed painting your insides, you were surprised when you didn’t get it at all.

In point of fact, Joel had just sprayed a full Jackson Pollock onto your stomach and was blinking, still fisting his cock as you quickly made your way back to your feet.

Where was that wetness coming from?

You stood and stared down at your stomach. Your legs. The translucent, trickling something that had paved a clear path between your thighs and all over Joel’s front. It didn’t make sense, unless—

“You fuckin’ squirted!” Joel cheered.

Your first instinct was to make a face.

That shit only happened in poorly produced pornos and movies based on books by Colleen Hoover, not real-life human beings. What the hell was this man on about?

“Be fucking serious,” you scowled, reaching for a stray shirt on the floor. Before realizing it was even yours, you hastily swiped several big globs of Joel’s cum with it. Your face grew even more enflamed, and yourself, oddly…ashamed. You couldn’t quite make sense of why Joel was grinning so big, or why you felt so embarrassed by what appeared to be a natural bodily function, but you suspected it probably had something to do with the state of sex education in Texas. Those fuckers definitely skipped squirting in favor of abstinence-only rhetoric.

Still weird. Still gross. You wished Joel would stop smiling.

“Lose the look or I’ll slap that fuckin’ grey off your head.”

Admittedly, neither aftercare nor communication was your métier. You started throwing on clothes, annoyed.

Meanwhile, Joel was swiping moisture off his abdomen three thick fingers at a time and wiggling the residue up for you to see—‘All it is is a sign of good lovin’, sweets, ain’t nothin’a be ashamed of!’—and you gave him just one finger in return. You were sliding your shorts up your legs and attempting to scrap the jizz off your FEDRA top when Joel started shrugging on his stolen clothes, too.

Your back was turned to him, eyes scanning the almost too-calm outdoors through the window a minute later, when you felt an arm snake close around your waist.

“Tastes a little like honey,” Joel crooned in your ear, doubtlessly smirking as he swayed you, “Only sweeter.”

You rolled your eyes. No cunt tasted like a honeycomb.

And you tried to say as much when he stroked over the strip of exposed skin between your shorts and the hem of your shirt, squeezing you tighter, but Joel was too good. He spidered a teasing touch over your tummy and yanked you back into his chest when you squealed and tried to break free. Then your sides, your ribcage, your shoulder blades—anyplace Joel could tickle, he tried to—and most spots, you were squeamish as hell. You clamped a hand over your half-open, giggling mouth, and when you felt him flip you around, you didn’t protest.

Suddenly, Joel’s hands were on either side of your face. He wasn’t smiling quite so big anymore but nevertheless maintained a kind glint behind his eyes. They were soft.

“‘M’sorry,” he said.

Then, pausing as if to consider his words, he said,

“You did great.”

He stopped again to press a kiss on the tip of your nose.

“So good.”

When he saw another smile twitch at the corners of your lips, as though asking him for more, he kissed those too.

“If that was your first time with…that…I’m, uh…”

“What?”

Another beat. Another stupid, stubbled grin.

“The luckiest…senior citizen sonovabitch, I guess.”

At the tail end of that, and once Joel had punctuated his sentence with another tender peck, you met his gaze again. Somehow, it had only gotten softer. His thumbs were searing the gentlest of imprints in the apples of your cheeks, his breaths were even and warm, and if you hadn’t known any better, you might’ve thought the man was contemplating saying something else to you then.

He didn’t.

The bridge to an old Billy Joel song made sure of that.

“And when she’s walkin’, she’s lookin’ so f-i-i-i-ine.”

You heard gravel crunch outside the cabin.

“And when she’s talkin’, she’ll say that she’s m-i-i-i-ine.”

Footsteps bounding up the half-rotted, cedar steps.

“She’ll say I’m not so tough just because I’m in love wi—SHIT.”

Tess’s face went blank the second the door swung open.

Thankfully, both of you were clothed. You and Joel leapt apart like she’d just caught you in doggy, though. And Tess looked like she might’ve seen an asscheek or two with the way she was staring at you both, letting the screen door slam shut, and a wordless ‘what-the-fuck’ caught somewhere in the tepid air between you three.

You stared at Tess, and Tess stared at you. Joel peered over her shoulder for the arrival of any more onlookers or folks just wanting to sing ‘Uptown Girl’ in your general vicinity. Fortunately, no one else appeared behind her.

But Tess looked awestruck enough for fifty people. She blinked and visibly swallowed as her gaze shifted to Joel.

“So FEDRA does dick appointments now?” she hissed.

“No!”

“I’m not—”

“He’s from the other camp.”

“You’re shitting me. Absolutely shitting me right now.”

You brought both hands to your face in a stifling, quiet desperation, unsure what to do. Joel just blinked back.

“I’m—we’re—” he started.

“Fucking!” Tess bit back, “You are so fucking. Raw.”

She wasn’t wrong. Her sixth sense for knowing who was having clandestine sex in her bed was kind of insane.

But, where you expected a look of horror to crawl into those taut, too-smart-for-her-own-good features, you found your bunkmate starting to raise her eyebrows.

Then laugh.

Tess threw her head back and laughed because she thought you were boinking a FEDRA camp counselor.

Joel shared a similar look of surprise but didn’t laugh.

“Yeah, I’m uh…J—” Again, he made as if to speak, to introduce himself, but Tess cut him off. About to wheeze.

“Lucien Flores, you dirty dog!” she cackled.

Joel glanced down at his nametag, started to shake his head, and probably didn’t anticipate Tess smacking him on the shoulder in a semi-congratulatory sort of way. Given a little more muscle to the playful punch, she just might’ve knocked him over. Joel was then trying to pry the pin off his polo just as you stepped closer to her.

“Tess, he’s…” You considered spilling the beans en masse but quickly decided against it. You’d have to stick to the barest of bones if you had any hope of escaping this place. So, resuming, you squeezed her arm and just said:

“Flores is gonna bust us out. Get your shit and we’ll go.”

Theresa Servopoulos didn’t need to be told twice.

And when she scrambled over to her sex-stricken bunk, inquired with a hurried but patently grossed out expression about who the fuck had wet the bed while she was gone, Joel didn’t hesitate—he said it was him.

“FEDRA man with a piss kink. I like you already, Lucien.”

[foreveia]

take two ⤨ iwaizumi hajime

⨭ genre; fluff, idiots to lovers but like they're actually so dumb

⨭ pairing; iwaizumi x fem!reader

⨭ word count; 5.7k

⨭ descriptions; your boss has been trying to set you up with her son for months, but as it turns out at the holiday party... you've already met him before.

⨭ warnings; explicit language and dialogue, no graphic content tho, alcohol

⨭ a/n; fun little short fic to fill the fix to publish something lolol enjoy this iwa love dump as i work on my next long fic (tell me in the comments if y'all like these better)

song i listened to writing this: 'hold your breath' by chase atlantic

one.

There are exactly three things you know to be true about Iwaizumi Emi:

She is the best divorce attorney in Tohoku, possibly the country.

She is the kind of woman who could negotiate her way out of murder charges and secure the victim’s house in the settlement.

She is, without a doubt, trying to set you up with her son.

You respect her. You admire her. You are, on occasion, lowkey terrified of her.

Which is why you’re currently sitting at your desk, nodding at all the appropriate intervals while she breezes through yet another pitch about why her son and you are, in her professional opinion, a perfect match.

“He’s back from Irvine for the summer,” she says, skimming a property settlement document like it personally offended her. She tosses it onto your pile nonchalantly, and you let out a short sigh because it’s just more backend filing to do and, despite your adoration for your career path and real passion towards legal work, entry jobs in the firm are mostly busy work. “I really think you’ll like him. He’s—”

You tune out. Not in an obvious way, of course—no, you’re a professional. You sprinkle in the occasional mmhmm and sounds great so she doesn’t catch on, but this isn’t your first rodeo. You’ve heard this pitch before—multiple times. Hajime is intelligent, responsible, not an idiot like some of these men out here, blah blah blah.

It’s not that you have anything against him, really. It’s just that you’ve spent months perfecting the art of dodging your boss’s matchmaking attempts, and frankly, you don’t have the energy to entertain her latest scheme.

“You’re finally going to meet him at the firm’s ball this weekend,” Emi continues, finally looking up from her paperwork, her smile entirely too satisfied.

You blink. “Oh.”

“He’s excited to meet you too.”

Now that is new. Usually, these monologues are strictly one-sided—I told him about you! and You two will get along so well! But he’s excited to meet you too? That’s an escalation. That’s a game-changer. That means he knows about you. He has an opinion about you.

You resist the urge to groan. Instead, you summon a polite, professional smile—the same one you use when dealing with particularly insufferable clients. “Looking forward to it,” you say, because what else are you supposed to say to the woman who could single-handedly end your career if she wanted to?

In reality, the only thing you’re looking forward to about the ball is the open bar. Being in your early twenties means being woefully broke, and you’d be lying if you said the thought of unlimited free alcohol wasn’t a strong motivator.

So, you strike a deal with yourself: you’ll put on a fancy dress, endure painful heels, and let Emi parade you in front of her son like a prize show poodle—all in exchange for an endless supply of pinot noir, cocktail shrimp, and, if you play your cards right, an entire bottle of champagne to sneak home in your purse.

It’s a sacrifice you’re willing to make.

two.

Because you’re an adult with an absolutely thriving social life (read: you have two friends who are willing to tolerate your bullshit after 6 PM), you, Yachi, and Kiyoko are now seated at your favorite little izakaya, wedged into a corner booth with plates of karaage and a pitcher of beer between you. 

Kiyoko is talking about wedding venues. Because she’s engaged. To Tanaka. Which is objectively insane because in your head, they’re still in that “grossly obsessed with each other but pretending they’re just friends” phase, even though they’ve been together for years. The whole thing is a crime against single people everywhere, but you are supportive because your already jaw-dropping friend is somehow glowing even brighter now that she has a fat rock on her ring finger. She looks lighter, happier. She deserves it.

Yachi, meanwhile, is explaining—between delicate sips of her beer—that she’s too swamped with work to even think about dating. Which, yeah. Fair. The woman works harder than most people you know, so you respect it.

Then, as the conversation naturally shifts to your love life (as it always does, because you’re the group’s designated mess), you sigh, sinking into your seat dramatically.

“I haven’t had sex in months.”

There’s a beat of silence before Kiyoko and Yachi both roll their eyes in unison, like they rehearsed it.

“Oh my God,” Yachi mutters.

“You cannot still be caught up on GDD,” Kiyoko says flatly, pouring herself another drink.

“Okay, first of all,” you say, holding up a finger, “it is not about him. It’s just a general fact about my current state of being.”

“Uh-huh,” Kiyoko hums, entirely unconvinced.

“Second of all,” you continue, undeterred, “GDD was life-changing, and I feel like I should be allowed to mourn the lack of that level of—of excellence in my life.”

“Life-changing,” Yachi repeats, deadpan. “You hooked up with him once.”

“Yeah, and my life was changed.”

GDD—Good Dick Dude, as he has been dubbed by your dear, unsupportive friends—was a guy you hooked up with in January after a truly legendary New Year’s Eve party.

The night itself had been pure chaos. Hinata had somehow scored an invite to this insane rooftop party—one of those bougie, exclusive, if-you-know-you-know events where you absolutely do not belong but somehow manage to fake it enough to get through the door. He’d gotten a few plus-ones, which is how you ended up there, sipping champagne you definitely couldn’t afford and making out with a guy who, to this day, remains one of the most mind-blowing hookups of your entire life.

Gorgeous, buff, and dangerous with his hands. The kind of guy who knew exactly what he was doing, which, honestly? A rarity these days. You barely remember his name—something short, easy to moan—but you do remember his stupidly perfect smirk and the way he all but ruined you against the nearest flat surface.

But then the party ended, the night faded into a haze, and you never saw him again.

Which is fine. It’s fine. Really.

You’re definitely not still thinking about it.

Kiyoko takes a sip of her beer, unimpressed. “You’ve been on, what? Five Hinge dates since then? Six?”

“Seven,” Yachi corrects.

You point at her. “Exactly.”

Kiyoko gives you a long, slow blink.

“I mean that as proof that I am not hung up on him!” you clarify. “I’ve been trying, okay? But the bar is in hell. Do you know how many ‘we should get drinks’ texts I get from guys who put crypto investor in their bios?”

Kiyoko sighs. “Okay, but let’s be real—are you actually giving any of these guys a chance?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Frown. “I mean… like… conceptually?”

“Right.”

Yachi, forever gentle but devastatingly perceptive, tilts her head at you. “Is it possible,” she says carefully, “that maybe none of these guys are measuring up because you’re subconsciously comparing them to him?”

You scoff. “That’s ridiculous.”

Is it ridiculous?

Because, okay, maybe—just maybe—no one has quite lived up to that night. And maybe you’re being a little unfair to the dating pool by expecting every single guy to have that same kind of chemistry with you. And maybe you do occasionally find yourself staring at random ceilings, wondering where GDD is now and if he even remembers you.

But still. That doesn’t mean anything.

You’re pretty sure.

“I hate you guys,” you grumble, stabbing aggressively at a piece of karaage.

Yachi pats your hand sympathetically. “We know.”

Kiyoko, ever the queen of smooth topic transitions, nudges the conversation in a new direction. “Speaking of your questionable taste in men, your boss is still trying to set you up with her son, correct?”

You groan, letting your head fall back against the booth. “Unfortunately, yes. And now, apparently, he’s excited to meet me.”

Yachi perks up. “Wait, so you are meeting him?”

“At the firm’s ball this weekend,” you say, waving a hand. “It’s fine. I’ll get a little wine drunk, take advantage of the seafood bar.”

Kiyoko raises an eyebrow. “So, you’re not going to entertain the idea of this Hajime guy at all?”

You scoff. “Absolutely not.”

Yachi hums, tilting her head in that way she does when she’s about to say something devastatingly reasonable. “I mean… what if Emi’s right?”

You blink. “What?”

“What if this is it?” she says, half-teasing, half-genuinely curious. “Like, what if you meet him and he’s actually your soulmate? Imagine if this whole time, your boss has been playing the long game, orchestrating your love story like some kind of corporate fairy godmother.”

You snort. Loudly. “Right. Because that’s totally my luck.”

Kiyoko and Yachi exchange a knowing look, but they let it go.

You take another sip of your beer, shaking your head. Hajime Iwaizumi—whoever he is—is not the love of your life.

That would be insane.

three.

You had to pull out your graduate school formal gown from the back of your closet for this, but wow, you really forgot just how good you look in red.

Your day-to-day work attire consists of pantsuits and button-ups, neatly tucked into cautiously ironed trousers, so you’ve honestly forgotten how nice it is to get dressed up once in a while. There’s something about slipping into a gown that fits like a dream, sweeping your hair up just right, and swiping on that perfect shade of lipstick that makes you feel invincible. Like you could negotiate a million-dollar deal, steal the firm’s best clients, and seduce someone’s husband all in the same breath.

Not that you would, obviously.

Probably.

The venue is ridiculous in the way all law firm events are ridiculous—held in a ballroom large enough to house a small country, chandeliers dripping in gold, servers weaving through the crowd with trays of champagne and fancy bruschetta topped with fucking caviar of all things. All this just to celebrate another year of making money off people��s divorces. Incredible the way capitalism works.

You’ve barely made it through your first glass of wine before Emi finds you.

“There she is,” she croons, linking her arm through yours. She looks positively radiant in an emerald gown, diamonds at her ears, and the kind of effortless elegance that comes from winning. You’d respect it more if she weren’t actively dragging you toward your inevitable doom. “Come on, sweetheart. Hajime’s here, and I cannot wait for you two to finally meet.”

You bite back a sigh, because of course. No warm-up period, no buffer—just straight to the matchmaking. “Can’t I get a few more drinks in me first?”

She waves a hand, utterly dismissing your complaints. “You’ll like him. I know you will.”

You doubt it. But you let her lead you anyway, mostly because you know resisting is pointless: your boss has the world’s most spell-blinding smile and enough charm to always get her way. Emi always wins.

She stops near the bar, where a man stands with his back to you, broad shoulders wrapped in a sharp black suit, one hand resting on the counter as he talks with someone just out of view.

Emi squeezes your hand. “Hajime,” she calls, her voice warm.

The man turns.

And every thought in your head immediately ceases to exist.

Because standing before you, looking unfairly good in a tailored suit and sipping from a glass of whiskey like he isn’t single-handedly ruining your life, is GDD.

Good Dick Dude.

Hajime Iwaizumi is Good Dick Dude.

Your brain short-circuits. This is not happening. This is some kind of fever dream, a cruel trick played by the universe to punish you for your sins.

Hajime’s sharp green eyes land on you, recognition flickering behind them, and then—oh no. 

He smirks. Like he knows exactly what’s running through your mind right now. Like he remembers everything.

Emi, completely unaware of your crisis, beams. “Hajime, this is the associate I’ve been telling you about.”

His mischievous, more than just amused smile widens. “Oh, I know who she is.”

Your soul leaves your body.

Because that voice? That voice is the same one that had whispered filth against your neck four months ago. The same voice that had laughed when you moaned his name. The same voice that had ruined you in ways you still haven’t fully recovered from.

You are going to die. Right here, right now, in the middle of this godforsaken gala.

“Hajime Iwaizumi,” he says smoothly, offering a hand. His palm is rough when you take it—calloused, strong, a stark reminder of exactly where those hands have been. His grip is firm, steady, and entirely too knowing.

You swallow, pasting on the best Oh wow, I am totally not spiraling internally smile you can manage. “Yeah,” you say weakly. “We’ve met.”

“Oh!” Emi beams, clasping her hands together like she’s just delighted by this new revelation. “That’s wonderful! I knew you two would get along.”

You let out a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a strangled choke. Hajime is still watching you, head tilted slightly, like he’s enjoying this: like he can see the exact moment you realize how deeply, horrifically screwed you are. Because there is no way Emi knows. She’s too composed, too pleased. If she had any inkling that her son and her associate had met four months ago in a completely inappropriate context, she’d have you both buried in litigation faster than you could say conflict of interest.

Which means Hajime is choosing to be a menace.

God, you’re going to kill him.

“Hajime just got back from Irvine a few days ago, for the start of his summer break,” Emi continues, completely oblivious to the absolute war waging behind your polite smile. “I’ve been telling him all about you, of course.”

You almost choke on your drink. “You have?”

“Of course I have!” Emi nods enthusiastically. “She’s one of the brightest associates we have, Hajime. Sharp, diligent, absolutely ruthless in negotiations—she reminds me of myself when I was her age.”

Your lips twitch. You do enjoy being compared to the most terrifying woman you’ve ever met, so it’s really too bad that this entire situation has you currently dying inside.

Hajime hums, eyes still locked on you. “Yeah,” he says, voice dipping just slightly. “She’s definitely memorable.”

Your entire body lights on fire.

Memorable.

Oh, he’s being insufferable on purpose.

Emi sighs happily, taking a sip of her champagne. “I knew you two would hit it off.”

You want to scream. You want to throw your drink in Hajime’s face. You want to rewind time and never step foot into that rooftop party.

Instead, you just smile tightly. “Mm-hmm.”

Hajime grins at your suffering. “So,” he says, tilting his glass in your direction, “how have you been?”

You resist the urge to kick him in the shins. “Busy,” you say, voice clipped. “Working.”

“Ah,” he says, nodding thoughtfully. “Yeah, that does sound like you.”

You stiffen. Hajime, you realize, is having the time of his life watching you squirm. And it’s only going to get worse.

Because Emi suddenly claps her hands together, eyes bright with mischief. “Oh! I should leave you two to chat,” she says. “Get to know each other properly.”

Oh. Oh no. Emi. Emi, please.

But before you can protest, she winks at you—winks, like she’s a fairy godmother orchestrating the perfect romance—and disappears back into the crowd.

And just like that, you are alone with him.

Hajime watches you over the rim of his glass, eyes gleaming with amusement. “So,” he says, smirking, “I see you haven’t forgotten me.”

Your jaw clenches. “You smug little—”

“You look good,” he interrupts smoothly, scanning you from head to toe. His gaze lingers, appreciative but blatantly teasing. “Red suits you.”

God, you want to strangle him. You cross your arms, willing yourself to stay calm. “You knew this whole time, didn’t you?”

He chuckles. “I had a feeling.”

“A feeling?”

He tilts his head, as if contemplating. “Well,” he says, “it wasn’t confirmed until I saw you.”

You glare. “You could’ve warned me.”

“And miss that reaction?” He grins. “Not a chance.”

You hate him. You hate that he looks so effortlessly good in a suit. You hate that his voice is still just as devastating as you remember. You hate that even now, months later, you can still feel the phantom weight of his hands on your hips, the rough scrape of his callouses against your skin, the way he had murmured just like that, baby against your ear—

You inhale sharply. Nope. Absolutely not. We are not thinking about that right now.

Hajime, unfortunately, definitely knows what you’re thinking about. His smirk is downright criminal. “So,” he says, leaning in slightly, voice low, “been a while, hasn’t it?”

You refuse to give him the satisfaction of blushing. “Oh, shut up.”

He laughs, warm and amused, and you are horribly aware that this night is only just beginning.

four.

Hajime happens to actually be a pretty intelligent and funny person, which is making it much, much harder to dodge his attempts at flirting and his mother’s attempts at forced-proximity matchmaking.

It was supposed to be easy. You were supposed to sip your wine, endure some polite small talk, and then fade into the crowd before Emi could corner you into any serious you’d make such a beautiful couple talk. But instead, you’re somehow still here, talking to him, because Hajime Iwaizumi is annoyingly easy to talk to.

Which is not fair. It’s not fair at all, actually.

He makes it look effortless, like this isn’t completely unhinged, like it’s not absolutely deranged that your boss has spent months trying to set you up with a man who has already—

You take a sip of your wine. You are not going to finish that thought.

Hajime watches you over the rim of his whiskey glass, looking entirely too entertained by this whole situation. “You seem tense.”

“Gee, I wonder why.”

His mouth twitches, but he doesn’t argue. “Hey, could be worse,” he says. “At least my mom has good taste.”

You choke on your sip, feeling the bubbles tingle in your nose and really regretting every life decision you’ve made in the last six months. “Oh, my God.”

He laughs, tilting his glass in a mock toast.

You squint at him, wary and slightly annoyed, unable to fathom how he’s not also dying at this situation. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“I mean…” He shrugs, all easy amusement. “I’m just saying—this could be a lot worse. Imagine if she was trying to set you up with someone actually terrible.”

“I don’t know,” you mutter, swirling your wine. “You’re already pretty high on my list of worst-case scenarios.”

“See, now that hurts.”

You roll your eyes. “You’ll live.”

Before Hajime can respond—before you can regain any sense of control over this conversation—Emi appears out of nowhere, her eyes shining.

“There you two are!” she says, absolutely beaming. “It’s time for the first dance!”

You freeze.

Hajime—the absolute traitor—just raises an eyebrow. “First dance?”

“Yes! It’s tradition,” Emi says, already ushering you toward the ballroom floor. “Senior partners and their dates open the dance floor—it’s been that way for years.”

You dig your heels into the floor. “But I’m not—”

“Now, sweetheart,” Emi interrupts, entirely ignoring your panic, “you wouldn’t want to break tradition, would you?”

You stare at her, betrayed.

She smiles.

Oh, she planned this.

Hajime, standing beside you, lets out a quiet, amused sigh before draining the last of his whiskey. “Well,” he says, offering you a hand, “guess we should give the people what they want.”

You glare at him. “I hate you.”

“Uh-huh,” he says. “That’s why you’re still holding my hand.”

You drop it immediately.

Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop him from leading you on to the dance floor. His hand slides around your waist, pulling you gently to the center of the ballroom; you’re struggling to ignore the far too many pairs of eyes on you two as he rearranges your arms around his neck.

And—oh, hell.

You forgot how solid he is.

His grip is firm but steady, his palm warm where it rests against your back. He moves easily, like this isn’t completely ridiculous, like your brain isn’t currently melting out of your ears.

“Relax,” Hajime murmurs.

You scowl. “I am relaxed.”

His lips twitch. “Yeah, totally.”

You hate him. You hate the way he’s looking at you—amused, interested, entirely too smug for someone who has already ruined your life once.

He leads you into a slow, easy step, and goddamn it, of course he’s good at this, too. His movements are effortless, confident. He keeps the rhythm perfectly, and you hate that you match him so well.

He tilts his head, watching you. “You’re thinking really hard about something.”

“No, I’m not.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Right. So you’re definitely not thinking about how good I am at this.”

You promptly step on his foot. He laughs, and it ignites your hatefire even more.

“Asshole,” you mutter.

“I was going to say you look good tonight,” he muses, unfazed. “But now I don’t know if you deserve the compliment.”

You glare at him. “Shut up.”

Hajime smirks. “Touchy.”

He spins you as the music hits a crescendo, dropping you abruptly into a dip that catches you heavily off-guard. It makes you lock your fingers tighter around his neck, and when he lifts you back up, you nearly slam right into his very, very firm chest (what the hell, is this man made entirely of protein?), face first.

“What the fuck?” you huff, a little winded. “You are actually a horrible human being.”

Hajime hums, tilting his head slightly, his eyes flickering with something too smug, too entertained. “You keep saying that,” he muses, voice low enough that it barely carries past the space between you, “but I think you just like having someone to complain about.”

Before you can deliver a scathing reply, he tugs you a fraction closer. It’s subtle, barely noticeable to anyone watching, but you feel it—the shift of his fingers pressing against the small of your back, the way your body slots against his just enough for warmth to pass between you.

Your breath catches, and it’s infuriating how he notices. How his hold tightens, like he can read every single thought running through your head and is thrilled by it.

“You’re such a dick,” you frown, shifting slightly, trying to put some space between you.

Hajime chuckles, and the sound is entirely too satisfied. His mouth is right by your ear, so you practically feel it more than you really hear it, when he murmurs, “And what are you gonna do about it?”

Your brain short-circuits.

Because that—that—is not fair.

That is the kind of thing a man should not be allowed to say in that voice, in that low, teasing rumble, into your ear, while holding you against him like this.

It happens before you can even think about it.

Before you can register that you are, in fact, in the middle of a ballroom at your company’s annual gala. Before you can process the reality that Emi is somewhere in this crowd, and she has already been insufferable about this whole ordeal.

Before any of that can hit you, you grab the lapels of his stupidly well-fitted suit, tilt your chin up, and kiss him.

It’s instant, sharp, devastating. Your hands tighten against his chest as you crash into him, and Hajime—because he is the worst person alive—immediately reacts.

One hand presses firm into your back, the other finding its way to your jaw, fingers curling just slightly as he deepens the kiss without hesitation. His lips are warm, just the right mix of soft and steady, and when he angles his head just so—his nose brushing against yours, his thumb skimming your cheek—you feel yourself sink, like he’s pulling you under and you don’t even mind drowning.

It should not be this good.

It should not set your pulse racing like this, make you forget for a single, damning second that this is the worst possible thing you could be doing right now.

But it does. And for just a moment, nothing else exists. Not the party. Not the music. Not the fact that literally everyone is watching you right now. Just the heat of his mouth, the firm press of his fingers at your back, the way he exhales sharply like he wasn’t expecting this either, but he’s not about to stop it, not for anything in the world. 

And then you remember where you are.

You rip yourself away, blinking rapidly, your brain racing to catch up with what you just did.

And that is the moment you hear it: the loudest, most delighted squeal of your entire existence.

Your stomach plummets.

Because standing at the edge of the ballroom, her hands clasped together in sheer glee, is none other than Emi Iwaizumi herself. And she is positively vibrating with joy.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she gushes, and the way she looks at you is the exact way someone would look at their child who just announced they were getting married. “I knew it! I knew you two would be perfect together!”

Your soul leaves your body. You stare at her, horrified. You slowly turn back to Hajime—who, because he is an absolute menace, is still standing entirely too close, still holding you just slightly like he isn’t ready to let go.

And he is smiling.

The kind of smile that says I win. The kind of smile that says he is absolutely going to remind you of this for the rest of your natural life.

You physically have to stop yourself from shoving him away.

Instead, you inhale, sharp and deep, and will yourself to stay calm. Emi is still talking. She is still gushing. And you cannot deal with whatever she’s about to say next, so before she can so much as breathe, you turn back to Hajime, seize his wrist, and drag him off the dance floor, because if you don’t get away from this immediately, you are actually going to die of secondhand embarrassment and shame.

five.

This is because of your dry spell.

Your dry spell is the reason why your entire sense of self-control and awareness have gone out the window, and the reason why, now that you and Hajime have successfully escaped the ballroom onto the balcony, he is doubled over laughing and you are actually freaking out.

“Jesus fuck,” you groan, pressing your hands to your face. The cool night air does nothing to soothe the absolute catastrophe unfolding inside your brain. “I kissed you. I kissed you in front of everyone.”

Hajime straightens, still grinning like an asshole. “Yeah,” he says, entirely too pleased. “You did.”

You drop your hands, glaring. “Fuck you, dude. You’re not helping.”

He shrugs. “Wasn’t aware I needed to.”

You let out an incoherent noise of distress.

Hajime, because he is insufferable, just leans against the balcony railing, watching you unravel like it’s the best entertainment he’s had all night. His tie is slightly loosened now, his jacket unbuttoned, and somehow, he looks even better like this—a little rumpled, a little amused, looking at you like he already knows how this is going to end. 

That is actually unacceptable.

“This is your fault,” you snap, pointing an accusing finger at him. “You goaded me into it.”

Hajime raises an eyebrow. “Oh, so I made you kiss me?”

“Yes,” you declare, with full conviction, even though you definitely grabbed him first. “You set me up.”

He snorts, shaking his head. “You really can’t handle taking the L, huh?”

“I can handle it,” you insist. “I just don’t want to.”

His lips twitch like he’s trying very hard not to laugh again. “So you kissed me against your will?”

“Yes.”

Hajime tilts his head, amused. “Interesting. Because you seemed pretty into it.”

Your jaw drops. “I—you—shut up.”

He chuckles, and God, his voice is all warm and low and pleased with himself, and you really need to get it together before you do something stupid again.

You exhale sharply, crossing your arms and shifting your focus to the city skyline instead. Sendai stretches out before you in a sea of golden lights, a stark contrast to the absolute nightmare happening in your head. 

This is fine. You can recover from this. You just have to never, ever acknowledge it again.

You square your shoulders, turning back to him. “Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen. We are going to go back inside, pretend this never happened, and move on with our lives.”

Hajime hums, considering. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s gonna work.”

You squint. “What do you mean that’s not gonna work?”

He pushes off the railing, taking a step closer—too close, enough that you feel it again, that ridiculous, stupid warmth that shouldn’t still be there after all this time. “I mean,” he says, slow, deliberate, “you’re acting like that kiss was a mistake.”

You blink. “Because it was.”

He lifts a single eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

“Yes,” you say immediately, but it comes out way too defensive, and Hajime knows it.

He grins. You decide that you hate him.

“I’m sure,” you insist, crossing your arms tighter, like that will somehow make this whole situation less insufferable. “It was a heat-of-the-moment thing. A lapse in judgment. That’s it.”

Hajime tilts his head, thoughtful. “Okay. So if I kissed you again right now, you wouldn’t like it.”

Your entire brain short-circuits. The audacity. The unbelievable nerve.

You gape at him. “You wouldn’t.”

His grin widens. “Wouldn’t I?”

You hate how smug he looks. You hate that your stomach flips at the idea of it. You hate that you don’t immediately shut it down.

He watches your expression carefully, like he’s waiting for you to stop him, like he won’t actually do it unless you give him some kind of sign. Which is so much worse, because it means he’s giving you the chance to say no, to walk away, to end this before it can spiral any further.

But you don’t.

And that—more than the kiss itself, more than Emi’s squealing, more than the public spectacle you just made—is what finally sends you into full-blown panic mode.

You do want him to kiss you again.

You stare at him, pulse thrumming, brain caught in a violent tug-of-war between denial and desire. And Hajime? Hajime is watching you with the patience of someone who knows he’s already won.

“Say it,” he murmurs, voice low, steady.

You scowl. “Say what?”

“That you want me to kiss you again.”

Your jaw clenches. He’s baiting you, letting you choose, waiting for you to meet him halfway. You exhale sharply, tilting your chin up. “You’re so full of yourself.”

His mouth twitches. “Not an answer.”

“Fine,” you snap. “I want you to kiss me again.”

Hajime grins. “That’s all I needed.”

And then, he does.

This time, it’s slower, deeper, not rushed by the heat of the moment. He takes his time, like he’s savoring it, like he’s memorizing the way you melt into him. And you? You let him. Because, goddamn it, you were never winning this battle.

When you finally pull away, breathless, he smirks down at you. “See? Not a mistake.”

You groan. “I hate you.”

He laughs, pressing another quick kiss to your forehead that feels far more intimate than a casual pair of friends-with-benefits should. You, scandalized, shove him away, but Hajime just grins, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“You’re impossible,” you mutter, pressing your fingers to your forehead, like that will somehow stop the ridiculous heat crawling up your neck.

Hajime hums, smug. “And yet, you’re still standing here.”

You are still standing here. You could have left, could have walked back into that ballroom and pretended this entire thing never happened. But instead, you’re here. On this balcony. With him.

You shift, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. “So… what now?”

Hajime leans back against the railing. “Dunno. Guess that depends on you.”

You narrow your eyes. “Why do I feel like you already have an answer?”

“Because I do,” he says plainly, in a way so nonchalant and effortless it could only be said like that by him. 

You exhale sharply, tilting your head up to the sky, like the stars might have some kind of solution for this. “You know this is gonna be a thing now, right?”

Hajime raises an eyebrow. “A thing?”

“Yeah,” you say, making a vague gesture between the two of you. “A thing. Emi’s gonna lose her mind. She’s probably already telling the senior partners that her matchmaking career is a success.”

Hajime laughs, the sound easy, effortless. “Yeah. She probably is.”

You sigh, dragging a hand down your face. “I am never going to live this down.”

“Probably not.”

You squint at him. “You could at least pretend to be sympathetic.”

Hajime shrugs, then reaches for your hand, tugging you forward so suddenly that you nearly stumble into him. His hands slide down to your waist, thumbs brushing over the fabric of your dress. “I could,” he murmurs, close, too close, “but we both know I wouldn’t mean it.”

You scowl. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” he says, smug, “you still kissed me. Twice, actually.”

You glare. “Stop counting.”

“No promises.”

You groan, pressing your forehead to his chest in sheer exasperation. “This is my villain origin story.”

Hajime just laughs, wrapping his arms fully around you, and you hate—hate—that it feels nice, that it feels right.

“Hajime,” you say, voice muffled against his suit jacket.

“Yeah?”

You lift your head just enough to meet his gaze. “If we’re doing this, you are legally required to make it up to me with at least two fancy dates. Minimum.”

Hajime smirks, like he was already planning on it. “Deal.”

“And no getting too smug about this, either,” you squint.

He tilts his head. “Define ‘too smug.’”

You groan, shoving at his chest. “God, I hate you.”

Hajime just catches your wrist and grins, pressing a slow, soft kiss to your knuckles. “Sure you do.”

You really don’t. And both of you know that very well, because he has his mother’s spell-blinding smile and you have always been a sucker for them both.

⨭ closing; churned this out over one 3 hour writing sesh bc i got this idea in my head and had to see it through. not proofread and very very hastily written, but i like her anyway. #comment #reblog #lemme know ur thoughts mwah xoxo

[moonstruckme]

Thawing Out

collab with @ellecdc

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10 | part 11 | part 12 | part 13 | part 14 | part 15 | part 16

cw: modern au, chronic pain, some talk of traumatic injury

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ♡ 2.2k words

At five thirty in the morning, you send Sirius a text. 

Be on time, and there’s a caramel latte in your future. If you’re late I’m giving it to Marcello. 

Marcello is the guy who comes in early every morning to resurface the ice. You actually ordered a drink for him, too, but Sirius doesn’t need to know that. 

The morning air is cool and refreshing, sweeping across your cheeks in the self-made breeze of your brisk steps. You can only have one hand in your pocket with the other holding the drink carrier, but you don’t mind the bite of cold on your fingers. You’ve always loved the sharp, clean feel of winter weather. Though Sirius complains this time of year about leaving practice just to encounter yet more cold outside, the chilly air has always made you feel alive, invigorated. It wakes you up as you walk to the rink. 

Marcello leaves the staff door open for you every morning so that you can practice early. He’s still out on the Zamboni, so you leave his drink on the front desk where he’ll see it. You know you’re not the first person to the rink, but it surprises you that you’re not the second. 

It surprises you even more to find your new coach in the off-ice room. 

Remus is lying on the floor, one knee bent and the other ankle crossed over it in a stretch you recognize. His eyes are closed and his expression pinched. His chest rises and falls with deep, measured breaths. 

“Hi.” 

You try to announce your presence softly, but Remus' eyes fly open like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t be. You find yourself taking a step back as though to avoid frightening him. 

“Sorry,” you say automatically, and automatically, Sirius’ For what, doll? sounds in your head like an overplayed song. You set your shoulders back and walk over to Remus, crouching to set his drink beside him on the floor. You’ve wagered your bets on a plain tea; he seems like the no-nonsense sort. “I didn’t expect anyone else here this early, but this is for you.” 

“Thanks.” Remus grunts quietly as he sits up, and you pretend you don’t hear. He takes a tentative sip from his cup. You deduce that you’ve wagered correctly when his eyes close blissfully. “I can go if you want the room to stretch.” 

“That’s alright. Plenty of room for both of us,” you say awkwardly. 

But as soon as you set your foot up on the ballet bar, you second-guess yourself. Is it difficult for him, watching you do things he can no longer do himself? You knew about Remus’ injury—everyone does—but seeing his face creased in pain doing such a simple stretch is another thing entirely. 

You watch him covertly as you bend over your leg, feeling the pleasant strain in your muscles, but Remus’ expression doesn’t change. He only stands, taking his ankle in one hand and wrapping the other around the bar as he stretches his quads. 

Remus has long fingers, you’ve noticed. Pianist’s fingers. They make you think of every routine of his you’ve seen a million times, arms and hands always outstretched to emphasize the facile grace of his movements. He was art in motion, in his day. Now you’re not sure what he is. Still lovely, but something else. 

“I wanted to apologize.” 

Remus’ voice breaks into your reverie so gently that at first you think you’ve imagined it. You look up at him, bemused, and his gaze is steady on yours. It’s that skater’s poise. Quiet, resolute. 

“I didn’t mean to shout at you yesterday,” he says. “I was frustrated because I feel like you really could get past that jump with just a tiny adjustment—” his face tenses as some of that frustration seeps back into his voice now, but Remus quells it “—but I shouldn’t have raised my voice. Sirius was right, I wasn’t telling you in a way that was helpful.” 

“It’s okay.” Your voice comes out smaller than you mean for it to, but the air in the room feels thick and awkward. You’re not used to needing to have these conversations with people on your team. You, Sirius, and your coach used to be a unit. There was no need for shouting matches and make-ups. You had years of history together; you knew how to handle each other. You miss that ease terribly now. 

“What I should have said,” Remus goes on, “is that I’ve noticed you hesitating before a lot of higher difficulty jumps. You’ll be about to go into it, and then you second-guess yourself and under-rotate. That doesn’t work on the ice.” 

You drop your gaze, nodding. “I know,” you say as you swap legs on the bar. “I’ll try to stop.” 

“We’ll work on it.” Remus’ voice softens, and you glance up to find a sheepish sort of kindness in his eyes. One corner of his mouth lifts tentatively. “And I’ll work on giving better feedback the first time around.” 

You return his smile, a heavy load in your chest lifting just slightly. It feels like the return of your cautious optimism from before yesterday’s practice, like flirting with the possibility of everything being all right after all. Maybe you can salvage the season after all. 

Sirius practically stomps into the room, dark circles under both eyes and looking like he hates the world and everyone in it. Remus’ almost-smile evaporates. 

“Here you are.” You pass Sirius his coffee magnanimously. “Thank you for being on time.” 

He takes a long sip. Once he’s finished, he says gravely, “This can’t continue.” 

“You’ll get used to it,” you promise as Remus lets his foot drop and steps away from the bar to make room for Sirius. 

“Ten minutes of stretching,” your coach says gruffly. You feel your lips purse dissatisfiedly; you take this to mean that although he’s apologized to you, he’s not over his tiff with Sirius from the day before. Remus turns from the room. “I’ll see you out there.” 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You manage to get through practice without bloodshed. Remus is short and businesslike, but while his pointers don’t leave much room for conversation he does take the time to make sure you understand him and he praises you when you improve. Sirius doesn’t spare many words for your new coach, though you know him saying little is likely an improvement over what he’d have to say if he did speak up. Still, he’s not exactly thorough in making sure Remus doesn’t see the smirks and derisive looks he sends your way every time your coach’s voice reaches you across the ice. The other boy pretends not to notice. 

It doesn’t escape you either that Remus has far less critiques for Sirius than for you. Sirius is more likely to get ahead of himself so that he falls out of sync with you, whereas you’re more likely to fall in general. 

You didn’t used to be like this. Just a handful of weeks ago you and Sirius were an equal match, but recent events have planted an anxiety in you that makes you bail out of your risker jumps and sabotages your routine. Remus is right; you’re hesitant. Sirius throws himself into every move, full-bodied and artful, but you just can’t do the same. Until you can catch up and get back to where you were, you’re a liability. 

You land most of your jumps, fall on more than usual, and by the time practice wraps up you know you’ll be bruised all over. If Remus is frustrated with you again, he’s better at hiding it. He only instructs you to work on whatever mental block is hindering you, promises to see you both tomorrow, and goes. 

Then Sirius can’t contain himself any longer. 

“God, what a prick,” he fumes as he puts guards on his skates. He starts undoing his laces, nails cut short for the season but still painted a shimmery black. “I hate that stupid line he gets between his eyebrows right before he lays into us. He’s like a sixty-year-old schoolteacher stuck in a twenty-something body.” 

You look down to hide a smile. “He was nicer today, though. That’s something.” 

Sirius scoffs. “Yeah, so was I. Did you lay into him, too?” 

“Didn’t have to,” you say complacently. “He apologized himself. You know, like adults do.” 

“Don’t be daft. He’s not taking the high road, he just doesn’t want to lose his job.” 

You turn to give Sirius an exasperated look, only he’s looking back at you with a similar expression. 

You know Sirius thinks you’re being too trusting of your new coach. He only wants to protect you, both of you, but something he’s never been able to grasp is that optimism doesn’t have to be blind. You can be wary of Remus, can have that same desire to protect the team you and Sirius have built together, and at the same time be hopeful that he really will be the thing you need. You’re desperate to make this work for the both of you. You’re a pair in repair, and though it was your former coach that broke you, if there’s a chance that Remus could fix things you’re ready to welcome him with open arms. 

Peter was Sirius’ friend before he was yours. He fell into coaching you both almost by accident, it felt so natural. Both you and Sirius had coaches throughout your childhoods, but it was nice to have someone around your own age, who viewed skating through the same lens as you did and could talk to you on a more personal level. Peter was your friend in a way your other coaches hadn’t been. That made his betrayal sting all the worse. 

There had been a hearing, when Peter’s texts came out. The International Skating Union had gotten involved. He’d been sharing things—tips, secrets, videos of your entire routine from start to finish—with another team. It felt odd, reading about it in the news. Almost invasive. It felt like something you should be discussing back at Sirius’, the three of you sat in your usual places around his living room, hashing it out the way you always did. But you weren’t a unit anymore. 

Sirius didn’t want another coach at all after that. You could keep each other in check, he said, and realistically anyone you hired would know all about your recent disaster with Peter. Your names were attached to one of the largest figure skating scandals the community had had in years. You saw the logic in your partner’s reluctance, but you still thought you needed an outside perspective to tell you when you both were going wrong. You needed a real coach. Then, you’d thought of Remus. 

You wish you could say it was Remus’ illustrious figure skating career that drew you to him. He was the golden boy of the sport for nearly a decade, shooting up into stardom at an unprecedented age. He earned enough medals to likely break whatever shelf his family tried to put them on, and he took home gold for Britain at just seventeen. But truthfully, it was his isolation that appealed to you. 

Remus Lupin left the figure skating community entirely after his injury. He’d returned to his hometown in Wales, reportedly to be with his family but more likely to heal—physically and mentally, from the hip dislocation that cost him Worlds and then the rest of his career. By all accounts, he would have been the last person to follow your hearing or any of the ensuing gossip everyone else you spoke to seemed to take as gospel. You had to fight tooth and nail to get Sirius to let you hire Remus, and even still he’s resistant to the addition to your team. But it’s in Sirius’ nature to expect people to hurt him; you have to be the opposite to compensate. 

“He said you were right,” you say lightly. 

Sirius blinks. “Pardon?” 

You shrug, feigning insouciance. “I don’t think it’s likely he’ll ever say it to your face, but this morning Remus told me that you were right, and he does need to communicate his feedback better. He seemed better about it today, right? I think it’s sweet that he’s trying.” 

Sirius scowls, standing while you finish packing up. “He’s kissing your ass because he knows you were the one who wanted him. He doesn’t give a shit about us.” 

“I didn’t mention anything,” you reply. “And he may not, but he definitely gives a shit about skating. I walked in on him stretching in the off-ice room this morning. It was…sad.” A small part of you feels wrong for sharing this, even with Sirius; it felt like a private moment you’d intruded on, although Remus had been stretching in a public place. “You can tell he really misses it, you know?” 

Sirius is quiet for a beat, and when you look over he’s sucking his teeth. Peering at you in that way of his, like he’s got you all figured out. 

“You should have a heart-to-heart with him about it,” he says blankly. “He seems like the sort of bloke who really enjoys a pity party.” 

“Prick.” You stand, bumping your shoulder into his roughly. Sirius wraps an arm around them to bind you to his side, walking you towards the exit. “We’re stopping for donuts on our way home. You owe me after I bought your coffee.” 

“Oi, bribery’s no good if I have to pay it back. And what would your new favorite coach say about us eating those during the season?” 

“The same as any coach; nothing, because we’re not gonna tell him.”

[tan1shere]

Passion Painting

Billie Eilish x female reader !

A/n: Was watching my show when I got a little inspired by an episode :D kinda quoted a line from it too because it was fitting. I'll make it bold so you guys know ! - I literally need this woman rn (or even a dom in my asks that'll be great too.)

Summary: you get a gift so you and Billie spice things up a bit ;)

Warnings: smut ! Scissoring 🥰 bills being a bit rough 😫 (i personally love how this turned out)

Tags: @trulyy-yourzz @eilishslut @brat-at-the-disco @iluvapplesxh @chrissv4mp @n0vabug

masterlist

The door opens, hearing keys jingle. Billie was finally home and you had missed her all day. But she doesn't come empty handed. You had just come into the room, greeting her. "Hey baby, what's that?" She sets it down. "Well, it's an early Christmas gift from Claudia. She said we can open it whenever? Whatever that means." You tilt your head. "Do we open it now?" She takes her shoes off, looking at you. "I mean if you want to, she didn't say otherwise. So I'd say its fine." She smiles at you, going over to give you a kiss.

"Good day?" - "It was ok, bit slow work wise but apart from that it was good." You say, going to pick up the box wrapped with festive paper. Bringing it over to the dining table. "How's Finn and Claudia? Did you get much done today?" She nods. "They're good, and yeah a little bit thank goodness. Glad to be home, missed you." You go to kiss her again. "I missed you. Right lets see what we have here." You say, ripping the thin material. Reading the box outloud.

Confusion strikes you. "What is it?" Billie asks. You turn it around so she can see, reading out the words to her. "Passion Painting Erotic Art Kit." She makes a face of realization. "So that's why she said to do it at night time and maybe after a date. I was so confused." You look at her. "You wanna do it?" She thinks for a moment, smirking to herself. "What? Slather you in paint and fuck you? Without a doubt babe." You grin widely. "Sounds like a plan then."

Giggles echoed though the house as you open the front door and speed over to the kit. Billie close behind. "I've actually been thinking about this all day." You admit. "Oh yeah?" She comes close to you. "Sitting in your desk at work, clenching your thighs as I smear paint all over your body. Over your curves." Your faces were close to one another, inches away. You bite your lip, averting your eyes to look at hers. They were natural apart from a little liner making them look plump and inviting. You lean in to kiss her but she pulls back.

Causing an annoyed groan to leave you. "Billie." You whine. She chuckles. That fucking chuckle. It was menacing. "Why don't we make this a little challenge." Your head tilts with intrigue. "I'm listening." She goes to unbox it, waiting a moment before she speaks again. "Let's see how long we can go without kissing one another." - "What-?" She turns around. "Don't think you can?" You think for a second. "Fine, let's see who looses." She smirks. "I think we both know who that's going to be." Your eyes roll. "Yeah yeah." But her hand grabs your jaw.

"Such an attitude for someone whos about to get fucked on the floor." Your throat closes up finding breathing to be the last thing on your mind currently. You both spread the canvas out. But in reality, you're going to be the canvas spread out at the end of the night. She'd make sure of it. You pick up the paints. Gold and blue. "Which?" She looks at them. "Hmm blue." You hand her the blue. "Right well I better get out of this." You began, back facing her. Slightly bent over as you stand back up. She smirks to herself grabbing the zip at the top of your dress. And swiftly pulling it down.

You gasp as the air hits your nipples. Since the dress had no straps you went against wearing a bra. Now standing almost fully naked in your kitchen, you two had moved some furniture around so you'd have the right space. "Oops, well I mean now all you need to take off is that tiny. Tiny. Pair of underwear." You had to process how fast she was with the dress you almost didn't register her hands pulling the thin material of your underwear off. It was only then when you realized how cool everything got. A shiver running down your spine. You wanted to kiss that smirk right off her face.

But you couldn't, you had to remember the game. "Your turn." Her smirk stays, grabbing her shirt from the back with one hand, lifting it off her head. Hair becoming messy. She takes off her pants next because she too, didn't put a bra on. There was no need. But you definitely weren't complaining. Your eyes stare for a moment. Maybe if you focused on that and not her really, inviting lips you'd be fine. But God were you wrong. You just wanted to grab her and kiss her. You both stand fully naked infront of one another.

Your nerves getting the better of you as she stalks closer to you. The lid pops off the paint. As she hands you the blue one. "We have to put it on one another." But her words went out one ear and out the other. "Hey." She says getting your attention. "Focus baby." Your eyes meet hers, handing her the gold. There was still some plastic on it so she brings it up to her mouth, getting ahold of it and ripping it off. All while keeping intense eye contact. You were going to be dripping soon. And not with paint. Her lips come to the cap, popping that off and out of her mouth. She squeezes a good amount into her hand. "You're going to be so gold you'll look like one of my Oscar's."

You gulp back saliva, you were almost drooling. Even more so when her hand makes contact with your skin. The paint was a little cold, but her burning hands soon get rid of that. Your body starts to become hot. Nerves coming back more prominent. She rubs it all over your chest, moving down to your tits, having it around most but leaving your nipples free. She had plans. Her movements were incredibly slow, making you more needy. She made sure she got your whole body, minus the places she needed access to. Standing back and letting you take over on hers.

Your shakey hand comes in contact with her neck. "Nervous?" You shake your head. "That's not really an answer huh?" You couldn't look at her, you just couldn't. You were close to giving into everything how was she so God damn calm? Your mind races as you come to her breats, you were hesitant but eager to touch them. "Why so Nervous huh? It's as if you haven't touched them before, when we both know that's not true." She was getting you to break, to give up on the game. "You're making this harder.." You whisper out. "Is that so? Darn, I didn't even realize." You pout slightly. "Can't go on?"

You think for a second, shaking your head. "Im fine." You say as your hands move over the rest of her body. "So shy, sweetheart." You swallow. "N-no I'm not." Her brow raises. "Don't lie." But she softly grabs your hand, moving them over her body. "See like that, not hard is it?" You whimper. "You're making it hard Bills." Your eyes look at her with a pleading glint. "Shame." Her eyes look down at your body. "Think its time we have our fun." She says, grabbing your shoulders and pushing you down on the paper. Letting her hands move to your breasts. She had the left a part of your neck blank, bringing her lips to it and kissing.

"Billie.." You breathe out, but she moves her hands and grabs your ass tightly. "Uh uh, say it correct." Your head spins. "Mommy." - "Good girl." Your eyes shut. Trying so hard to resist the urge to kiss her. "Mommy please." You say, grabbing her arms and moving them down to her waist as she begins to move her cunt on your own. Your first moan of the night slips out. "What? Are you all sad you can't kiss me darling girl? You agreed to the challenge no?" You zip it. Hating that you did agree to it, you didn't care anymore. You go to switch positions getting ontop.

"Please let me kiss you please." Her hands rest on your lower back as you desperately move your pussy on hers. "Please Mommy, need it so bad." She smirks. "I can see angel. You've never done that before I guess you truly mean it." You pout again at her, she was playing with you and it was driving you mental. Moving down to attatch your lips to her own. But she serves, loving the little frustrated whines you let out. "You're so mean." Her hand instantly wraps around your throat and in the blink of and eye she was back ontop.

"What was that princess?" Her grip tightens making your words float away. "Hm??" You try to talk but it's no use. "Exactly what I thought." Her hand grips your thigh, hoisting it up to dangle on her shoulder. Her hand remains around your throat while the other is on the paper, close to your head and surely leaving a handprint on the almost covered paper. Your body's making art. Surely a night to remember. Her movements become harsh making your mind race, your mouth hangs open at the feeling of both of your wetness together. She watches your eyes roll back, and slowly seeing your lids drooping.

"there you go, fall into subspace that's it. You beautiful being." You had no thought other than her, the way she was fucking against you. Absolutely no words left. Her hand stays firmly around your throat. Your bodys soon come close together. Your breasts touching, nipples grazing one another and that was it. That was all it took for you two to gush against the other. Her lips come crashing down onto your own, loosening her grip to hear your sinful moans travel into her mouth. She groans as she rides out both of your orgasmns. Flopping on you to catch her breath. "Wow." You say. "Wow indeed."

You had a nice soothing shower together, getting comfortable in your bed. Snuggling up close. Until you grab your phone. "What're you doing?" She asks. "Thanking that amazing woman for even thinking of this for us." She smiles, letting out a laugh. "Thank her for me too." You then smile to yourself. "You do know you lost your own game right?"

"A wins a win when you get to fuck your girlfriend and showcase it on a wall for everyone to see and know that you're all. Mine."

[girliism]

math professor!art donaldson x reader

art donaldson who has been teaching for years and prided himself on staying professional even with all the many pretty girls that took his class. never once did he cross line between teacher and student.

but then one year you took his class, you who was sweet and a little naive. he was drawn to you like people are drawn to stray kittens they see on the street, a desperate urge to help them. so when you came to him with such a defeated look on your face asking for his help he couldn’t say no.

another F. was written in the corner of you math exam from last week. you wanted to cry, all the studying you did essentially being useless. you waited until the end of class until everyone had walked out so it was just you and art in the room.

“um, mr.dondalson. can i talk with you?” art looked up at you through his glasses, you stood in front of his desk your hands fiddling with the failed exam paper. “of course.” he removed his glasses placing them on his desk. art knew what if was you wanted to talk about and he’s a little surprised it took you this long to ask for help. “i don’t think i’m understanding much of the coursework and i need your help.” you pouted, your voice was small and you were a little embarrassed. art got up from his chair walking to stand in front of you. “what else am i here for than to help.” he smiled at you.

an hour. one hour has passed and you had only made it to the third question. “i-i don’t know.” you dropped the pencil in your hand and placed your head on the table. art was asking you what the answer to the question was but your mind was spent. art sighed, it was only the beginning of the semester he hadn’t even brought out the hard stuff yet.

“we just went over this.” he said. you lifted your head up off the table. “i forgot it.” you whined. art looked down at you, you had that signature pout on your face and your wet eyes were making his pants tighter.

art walked back to sit behind his desk. you sat there your nose a little red he could see how drained you were from just doing those two questions. art motioned from you to come sit in his lap. it didn’t even cross your mind how unprofessional it was you just got up from your seat settling down on art’s lap, your back resting against his chest with your thighs on display from how your skirt rode up.

“i’m sorry, if i wasted your time mr.donaldson.” you huffed. “it’s just all so confusing.” art hummed, dragging his fingers up and down your inner thigh watching as they started to open. “too much for your brain to comprehend, wasn’t it?” he asked, the pads of his finger pressing down on your clothed clit. you nodded, soft breaths falling from your lips your legs now fully open resting on either side of art’s thighs. “why don’t we take a break and relax, ok.” his words echoed in your mind. “o-ok.” you melted back into him.

art pulled your soaked panties to the side. “so wet down here.” art slide his fingers from your opening to your tiny bundle of nerves rubbing slow circles. you let out a loud moan when art slipped two of his fingers in with ease. “o-oh my god.” your head dropped back on his shoulder, eyes squeezing close from the stretch. art groaned from the feeling of your warm gummy walls tightening around his fingers. “so fucking tight.” he mumbled, leaving kisses behind your ear and down your neck.

“feels so good mr.donaldson.” you slur. your hand gripping his wrist that was moving in and out of you. squelching noises and your loud whimpering moans filled the room. “oh fuck!” art curled his fingers upward pressing them against that soft spot causing you to let out a particularly loud noise. art’s eyes darted to the classroom door to see if anyone was walking by.

“gone so dumb on just my fingers can’t even keep quiet. what if someone walked in and saw us?” he scolded you but didn’t slow down his movements only speeding them up. you stuttered out a pathetic apology in between your whines. “all spread out for me like a slut.” he hissed in your ear. his words were only making you wetter, your arousal dripping past his fingers making a mess on his pants.

the closer you were to more you legs threatened to close, art had to hook his other arm up under your knee pulling your leg up to his chest. “s-so close, mr.donaldson. gonna cum.” you whimpered. your nails dug into art’s wrists. art let go of your leg, sneaking his hand up to your throat pulling your head back so he could slot his mouth against yours.

“let it go, baby.” art muttered right into your mouth.

art’s thumb flicked back and forth on your clit and his fingers punched in and out of you. your eyes crossed and you let out a choked moan as you came all over his fingers.

after many more sessions with art your grades had finally started to improve.

[kissingmilfs]

⚔︎ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥 | 𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ⚔︎

summary: ambessa’s ruthless tactics in pledging your loyalty to her and her only. even at the expense of her daughter, mel.

18+ minors please dni

content warnings: slight angst, fingering, manipulation

⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆ ⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆ ⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆ ⋆༺

your sandals echoed on the marble floors as you followed the familiar path. your fingers hadn’t stopped touching the spot on your lips where mel kissed you. it almost burned through the soft flesh. the kiss completely took you off guard. one second you’re in the garden, head positioned on mel’s lap and reading/reciting sonnets. the next second mel’s face blocked the sun and her lips brushing against yours. the kiss was so brief. yet so tender and filled with emotions you couldn’t understand.

the undoubtably expression of shock twinged with guilt crossed your face. mel must’ve ignored the look. or perhaps her excitement clouded reality. you hadn’t stopped her when she pressed another kiss on your lips. in fact—you found yourself giving her parted lips. the kiss, likewise, lasted all but a few seconds. mel bashfully offered you a smile and uttered under her breath, “i wanted to know what it felt to kiss you.”

now as you walked the halls of the expansive medarda palace—your thoughts carried with memories of the fresh kiss. you didn’t need to think to find yourself in the familiar corridors. you had done this journey far too many times. your heart beat in anticipation the closer you arrived. the events of the kiss replayed and you worked through them—wondering how you could twist the story.

you don’t even need to raise your hand towards the door or announce your presence. ambessa senses you—hears you—before you’ve pulled yourself out of your thoughts.

“enter.” the only words ambessa offers as you took a shaky breath and listened.

as you cross the threshold, your entire disposition changes. your shoulders roll backwards and you place your hands behind your back. entering ambessa’s personal office, you bow your head in respect. ambessa carefully scrutinizes every aspect of your beginning. your posture, the neatness and cut of your dress, the slight part of your lips. her eyes zoom in then. something appears different.

“come closer.” ambessa commands again.

you nod your acknowledgement before letting yourself move towards ambessa’s desk. you stand behind it—unsure of how close she desires you.

ambessa admonishes you with a disappointed scoff. “you know that’s not what i meant, child.” ambessa scoots out one inch from the desk. her eyes pointedly drops to the open space on the wooden desk.

you refuse to let yourself become effected too soon into the encounter. your face remains expressionless as you round the corner. you take calculated breaths as your feet bring you closer. between ambessa’s long muscular legs and the size of the desk—you carefully maneuver the tiny gap. the second you reach between ambessa’s thighs—the woman grips your hips and effortlessly sits you on the desk. ambessa hums lowly.

leaning into the plush backing of her chair, ambessa takes another opportunity to look you over. your hands tuck underneath your thighs—feeling the desperate urge to pick at your nails.

ambessa props her elbow on the wooden arm rest, cradling her chin on her knuckles. “how is my daughter doing?”

it has started. time to report. you did not have enough time to concoct a lie about the kiss. or how to weave it in a manner that doesn’t potentially get you sent away.

“mel is doing well. she’s adjusting to kino’s departure.”

ambessa golden eyes bore into yours with passive expression. “i wouldn’t necessarily call it a departure but continue.”

you almost stutter over your words at her interruption. “yes, my apologies. mel is taken more interest in the arts as you suspected. i do not anticipate her having more interest in combat training.”

“why is that? her instructors are the best. i would train her myself but she refuses.”

“mel is not a fighter.” you immediately come to her defense. both you and ambessa sense the urgency in your words. she arches a careful eyebrow. “she only continues her training because she knows the expectations you are placing on her.”

ambessa taps her fingers against her cheek. “she is a medarda. anything less than perfection is not allowed. how can she rule without an iron fist? without the necessary training and protocols? she must continue the medarda legacy and continue the conquests of our family.”

your throat aches uncomfortably at ambessa’s words. the reminder of the truth of the medarda’s never gets easier to swallow. ambessa’s conquests had found you at her mercy only five years ago.

you can still feel the fierce grip of her hand underneath your chin as you attempted to scramble and scratch your nails into her skin. her eyes engrained in your vision. the zealous flame of war in those darkened eyes. how you were so convinced of physically seeing ambessa’s spirits engorged with the high of a successful mission. the undeniable sheen of murder written all over her face.

and then she had done the unexpected thing. ambessa showed mercy. she had watched the fight in you. cackled even as you managed to draw blood. your feet attempting to find steady ground but your thrashing never ceased.

“you’ll do well, little one.” the words rung through your head as she had one of her men place chains on your wrists and ankles.

your thoughts don’t stray for long. it takes only ambessa brushing her knee against yours to snap out of the haze. “mel does not wish to rule as you and those that have come before. she prefers to give you a little in hopes you’ll eventually come to see her side of things. combat training is useful. mel understands that. but she will not take more interest besides that.”

ambessa eyes fall to your lips. you can feel your lips burn in the intensity. it almost, as if, ambessa is actively drawing mel’s kiss out. she has never paid such close attention. you anxiously await her response to your previous revelation. instead ambessa mindlessly parts your leg with one of her knees.

there’s no protest from you. in fact your other leg widens in return until your calves pressed on the outside of ambessa’s knees. it’s second nature at this point.

“is this my daughter’s first time kissing you?” ambessa nonchalantly asks the question as if the conversation naturally steered there. you blink your response. you’d almost convinced yourself, in this brief moment, you must’ve alluded to it somehow.

ambessa pinches your inner thigh when you don’t respond. “i don’t have all day.”

you jump slightly at the pinch which earns you a slap in the same spot. “what makes you think mel kissed me?” your question is immediate in response to the stinging pain. there’s always a looming fear in these encounters with ambessa. however, for the first time in years, you feared ambessa would discard you.

“your loyalties lie to me. not my daughter.” ambessa reminds. with one hand ambessa tears the fabric covering your modesty. her tone still seems so passive. it’s hard to differentiate if ambessa is upset, amused, or indifferent.

your mouth instantaneously waters with the anticipation. yet you let ambessa’s words dig into the pits of your stomach and uneasily churn the contents of your lunch. you hadn’t anticipated having any types of affections towards mel. she thought you her friend. and overtime you convinced yourself you were her friend.

you did leave out information gradually while reporting back to ambessa. you had grown fond of mel’s insistence in her own freedom and fate—separate of the medarda clan. ambessa’s watchful eye was not necessary for mel. at the age of 23, mel had a deeper and stronger understanding of the world around her than most scholars years into their studies. mel never presented as reckless or thoughtless. she took after ambessa in that way.

your fondness of mel in the end may get you more trouble than anything else. you curse yourself for your weakened resolve. years under ambessa’s reign left you more interested in your own survival at the end of the day. her hand settled on your mound—producing a uneven sharp intake of air.

“mel has never kissed me before today.”

ambessa rewards with one of her fingers sliding into your pussy. she watches you carefully. gauging your reactions for any hint of deceit. once she finds nothing, ambessa nods and you continue.

“i’m not sure why she did it either. nothing about our…relationship…indicated she saw me as something more.”

ambessa curls her finger against the plushness of your g-spot. she almost smiles seeing your fingers grip the edge of the desk. but you don’t moan or even screw your face in pleasure. your breathing is the only thing that gives you away. ambessa wanting to see you crumble—adds another finger. she basks in the feeling of your hole stretching in accommodation.

“did you like it?” ambessa questions after she begins a slow pumping motion inside of you.

“the kiss?” you exhale slowly. when ambessa doesn’t respond or nod—you take it as a yes. “i’m not sure. i don’t really understand it.”

ambessa laughs deeply and you can feel the vibrations all through her arm and at the tips of her fingers pressed deep inside of you. “have you really been so devoid of normal social interactions that you forget why people partake in kissing?”

the question swirl around in your head. but you don’t have enough time to properly understand the full implication before ambessa slowly drags her fingers out of you. but she doesn’t fully extract them and instead slams them back into you. the heel of her palm colliding with your clit. an unexpected choked gasp comes out of you.

ambessa laughs again. “it’s clear my daughter desires more than a friendship with you. how intimate are you with her?”

“intimate? i’ve never touched mel that way.” your nails accidentally scrape on the underside of ambessa’s desk. her fingers were moving in and out of you with a steady rhythm. any normal person would’ve already stuttered over their words.

“i’m aware. intimacy means more than sex, child.”

you furrow your eyebrows at that. you were around mel 24/7. if you were not in ambessa’s office that is. you had learned her favorite meals, how she liked her hair styled, the scents she preferred to bathe in. all by ambessa’s design, of course. you were mel’s closest friend and confidant.

“i suppose we are very intimate then. we have even slept besides each other on numerous nights.”

ambessa hums. her other hand comes to your clit and begins circling her thumb. she is processing the information—using your body as means to work through her thoughts. ambessa lifts her eyes when she hears a breathy moan come from you. almost as if your sounds of pleasures are distracting her from thinking. her thumb and two fingers work in perfect tandem. neither of you can see what she’s doing but it’s been done far too many times. the vein in ambessa’s lower arm is most likely prominent as her fingers continuously curl deeply.

the more ambessa fucks you—the longer she pumps her fingers against your velvet walls—the more your inhibitions slip away. she knows she has you right where she wants you. the sounds of your cunt fill the tiny gap between you both. even with the covering of your dress—it’s no denying the noises of her fingers stretching you out.

ambessa takes note of the subtle way you try to deny the sensations. your legs twitching ever so often. the undeniable sound of your nails scratching the wooden desk. but she’s bored of your self restraint. something in her today wants to see you let go. boredom fuels creativity, right?

she slows her fingers enough and you feel a third finger nudging against your entrance. you find solace in biting your bottom lip as her ring fingers joins the other two. you’re unable to hold back now. you both know it. your head drops backwards and a moan leaves your lips. the stretch of three normal fingers is already a feat but ambessa’s fingers aren’t the average size of woman. and when she starts working her fingers again, as if nothing happened, as if you can even barely register anything but the feel of being filled and fucked.

her thumb returns with languid circles on your clit. your palms press flat against the desk as you attempt to widen your legs. even the widening of your legs does nothing to soothe the ache. but it’s an ache you crave time and time again. you become aware of ambessa’s voice finding your ears. it takes a second to re-emerge from the depths of your pleasure.

“…you’ll continue as you are with mel. nothing shall change. if she desires to kiss you again then so be it. you must, however, convince her to spend less time daydreaming of love poems and more on her training.” ambessa’s fingers never relent. if anything as she doles out her assignment—the three fingers move with more haste. your wetness allows them no resistance and ambessa easily buries her fingers to the knuckles.

you nod your understanding. even if you did not agree or did not understand—you couldn’t bring yourself to do anything but follow along with ambessa’s plan. you’d continue giving yourself to mel however she desired or needed you. ambessa content with your placidity—presses her thumb firmly on your clit. your back arches in response.

“good. now come for me, pet. you’ve served your purpose for today.” ambessa’s voice is even and unwavering. it’s hard to believe your panting, gleam of sweat covering your forehead while ambessa remains almost unaffected.

her command settles in your core and within a blink of an eye—your vision is clouded with a flash of red as you squeeze them tightly. her fingers continue their relentless pumping, the steady rhythm of her fingers hitting that one spot over and over. your moan of coital release lodges in your throat as your tremble atop ambessa’s desk. you whine feeling yourself leak out all over wood and down your legs.

ambessa does not hesitate curling her fingers once more before she withdraws them from your cunt. you stare up at the ceiling, panting. you don’t have long to recover and leave ambessa’s office. you’ve never not left looking freshly fucked. ambessa closes your legs and pats the side of your knee in dismissal.

swinging your legs off the desk, you smoothen out your dress as your limbs wobble in attempt to keep you upright. your hole throbs and pulses with the desire to be filled again. as you’re rounding the desk ambessa grabs your wrist. you find her eyes immediately. you wait for her to say something but she simply reaches upwards and wipes her thumb against your lips. as she pulls away, ambessa presents the thumb for your viewing.

mel had left her mark on you. her signature lipstick now smudged on ambessa’s thumb. you held that strange feeling in your chest and exited ambessa’s office.

as you closed the door behind you, your eyes met with disbelieving green eyes. they widened as they inspected you with the same scrutiny of her mother’s. you stood frozen in place.

mel said nothing. she did nothing. after what felt like eons, mel walked away leaving the silence to tell you what you already knew.

tag list: @natashalance

[awakenedevildays]

「bites and 'I love you's」 Art Donaldson x F!reader

you can read the other parts here!

━━━•❃°•°❀°•°❃•━━━

Art loves to bite you. 

It's something you found out pretty quickly in your relationship, but no matter how many times it happens it still surprises you. 

The first time it happened you were dating for 2 weeks, you were laying on his bed, belly down while reading a book to entertain yourself until Art's arrival from practice.

When the door opened you were too immersed in your book to notice and Art closed the door quietly behind him after stepping in the room, the tennis sack dropped on the floor next to the desk as he walked towards you on the bed. 

He sat down and you finally noticed his presence "hey baby how was pract- OW" you yelped as his teeth sank on your shoulder, not in a painful way but the surprise was still there. 

"What the hell was that for Art?!" you laughed and turned your head around to look at him, Art still sat on the edge with his arms resting on your sides.

"I'm sorry you just looked so bitable" he said and kissed the spot where the bite mark is, Art wrapped his right arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him and rested his head on your shoulder, a devious glint in his eyes as with the free hand he closed the book in your hands. 

You turned around on your back "how was practice?" you repeated and kissed his lips to greet him.

He returned your kiss and smiled gently, moving to lay down next to you. He was clearly tired, practice went long today, and laying down on the bed next to you, wrapping both arms around you to pull you close to him seemed to relax him enough to finally close his eyes "I'm tired and I stink" he said softly, burying his face against the crook of your neck.

"I can tell" he pinched your waist at that and you whined "keep your teeth and fingers away from me!". 

He laughed softly with that, shifting and laying fully on top of you. His head on your chest, his right hand moving up and under your shirt, resting against the skin of your side while the fingers of his other hand traced little patterns on your stomach "but you're so fun to bite and pinch" he teased, lightly biting your chest, just above your breast.

"no, no I have to go, I planned a dinner with Tashi tonight" you pushed him off of you until he is kneeled between your legs.

"Nooo, c'mon, can't you cancel your plans and stay with me for a bit? I wanna spend some time with you before I go shower" he whined and grabbed your arms, trying to pull you against him again.

"I can't, I haven't seen Tashi outside a tennis camp for what it feels like years". 

"Now you're overreacting, maybe a few weeks". 

"Exactly almost years" he laughed and pulled again your arms to make you sit in front of him. 

"Can't you spend an hour or two with me before seeing her?" he asked and you looked at the clock and sighed. 

"I really can't, but I can come here after dinner and sleep here tonight" you proposed with an encouraging smile on the lips making him hum thoughtfully, clearly not fully satisfied with that proposal, but the offer for you to stay the night was enough of a win for him.

"Promise you're coming later? And not going back to your dorm" he mumbled against your neck before he suddenly but very lightly bit your earlobe.

"pinky promise" you kissed his lips once more before standing up "but I expect you to be clean and scented when I come back, or you'll sleep on the floor" he laughed, sitting up properly on the bed.

"Of course baby, I'll shower and be all clean for you" he said with a smile on his lips "now go, get out of here before I change my mind" he teased, smacking your ass lightly.

you laughed "see you later, bye!".

"have fun baby". 

Another time it happened you were trying on some clothes in your dorm room, Art sat on the edge of your bed while looking at you in the dress you just bought, it was beautiful, you were beautiful, "what do you think?" you asked twirling around in front of him.

"you look stunning baby" his arms and legs opened for you to get between them, his hands immediately went to rest on your hips while his gaze moved over your body, taking in the way the dress hugged your curves and accentuated all the right places.

"you could wear this to meet my parents" he mumbled with a smirk on his lips, his eyes met yours.

You laughed at that "yes, if I want them to look forward to you breaking up with me" he looked at you confused and you simply turned around to make him look at the back better. 

He hummed "yeah, definitely too short for that" he pulled the fabric as down as possible "but you look amazing".

He moved his hands up and down your legs, admiring the view from behind while the dress rode up, going up your thighs until most of your legs were exposed, you smiled "thank you baby, but I could wear this for a date" you looked at the mirror, too focused on thinking for something to pair it with. 

"love the idea".

"I could pair this with the black heel- ART" you felt a sting on your left butt cheek and you quickly left his arms, your hand going to cover the sore spot, he laughed when your turned to look at him, face shocked.  

"it looks way too good in that dress, I couldn't help myself" he said in between laughs.

"Stop biting me Donaldson! I mean it" you said but there isn't real bite in your tone.

He stood up to walk towards you "what? Maybe you simply should stop looking so pretty" he teased you.

Your hand in front of you stopped him "no, no stay back you're scaring me" you said between laughters "you're sleeping on the floor tonight" he grabbed your hand swiftly and bit your wrist as softly as possible. Then, he made you turn around, back pressed against his chest and arms wrapped around your waist, his eyes looking at yours in the mirror. 

"Will you let me sleep with you again if I promise not to bite you while you sleep?" he asked and you pouted a bit, pretending to think about his offer for a moment before nodding reluctantly.

"I guess so, as long as you keep your promise to not attack me at night like some feral animal" you said with a fake pout.

He huffed and mumbled a small 'fine' against your neck and you patted his biciep around your waist "now, let me try the other two dresse- ART!" he smiled sheepishly after releasing your shoulder "you never said anything about not biting you outside the bed" he winked. 

"Art. Don't be ridiculous. I said 'I love you first'" 

The two of you are laying in your new bed, naked skin pressed together as the early evening sunlight streams in through the gap in the curtains. The air around you feels warm, the room is filled with the sound of light-hearted bickering.

"and I told you it's not true, I did!" he exclaims and you pull away from his arms to turn and look him in the eyes. The sheets around you ruffles at your movements and Art gets more comfortable against the mattress, the sheets are covering his lower parts of him and leaving his chest naked, one hand on his stomach while the other is still under your head, his fingers lazily playing with your hair as he lays on his back now.

"why are you lying? it was our four months anniversary and I told you I loved you during the picnic at the beach!" he just shakes his head, his eyes stared lovingly at you. 

"that was the first time you said it to me, I told you waaaay before that" you raise your eyebrows in disbelief, a mix of irritation and curiosity in your expression.

"Okay, fine. If you're so sure you told me first, then when exactly did you say it? Surely you can remember the circumstances of such a monumental moment" you shoot back.

He ignores the irritation in your voice and begins to talk "we were in my dorm room, you were reading a book in my bed and I had just returned from my training... you looked so beautiful and I couldn't help it, we were together for two weeks" you frown and lift your bust to rest on your elbows, eyes looking at the wall in front of you like it can help you remember that moment.

"Wait, I think I remember that day" you say, your eyes still fixed on the wall in a thoughtful gaze "I do remember that I was in your bed, reading a book and that you had just gotten back from practice... but I don't remember you saying anything"

"well, technically I didn't say it... I bit you" you blink at him.

 "you bit me" he nodded proudly. 

"how was I even supposed to understand that was an 'I love you'?!" you are flabbergasted. 

"I do it all the time!".

 "yes but it doesn't mean 'I love you'" you laugh incredulous. 

"for me it does!"

"for normal people it doesn't!" you can't believe what he is saying. He seriously thinks that biting equals an "I love you".

"Okay, hold on. So, you're telling me that every time you bite me, you're actually telling me that you love me? I thought you're just being playful..."

He shakes his head, a smirk playing on his lips. He clearly thinks that it's a reasonable assumption "when I first wanted to tell you... I felt like it was too soon and I didn't want to scare you away so I sticked to bites" he explains. 

You can't help but roll your eyes at his logic. It's silly but also kind of sweet. 

"So instead of just telling me you love me like a normal person, you thought resorting to biting me was a more reasonable approach?" you ask, trying not to laugh but failing miserably. He looks at you obviously proud of himself and you shake your head in disbelief at that, god how you love him. 

You hide your head in his neck, arms wrapped around him and his around you, his naked skin against yours comforting. You can feel his heartbeat close to your ear, steady and strong. He sighs contentedly and rests his chin on the top of your head, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on your back.

Suddenly, he feels your teeth sinking softly in his neck before nibbling it over and over again, his smile grows wider and his heart explodes of joy. 

His lips moves closer to your ear, his breath warm against your skin as he whispers softly in it...

 "I love you too". 

Art loves to love you. 

━━━•❃°•°❀°•°❃•━━━

Do not copy or repost.

[nininikki]

divorced-ish — n. kento

content warnings: ex-husband!nanami, delusional!nanami (he’s cute tho)

author’s note: sigh i need him

ex-husband!nanami who just couldn’t stay away from you if he tried

ex-husband!nanami who you’d originally separated from on account of his work seeming to hold more priority over you, and then your newborn daughter.

ex-husband!nanami who still keeps a photo of you and the baby on his desk at his job (which, ironically, was the thing that ultimately led to his marriage failing). when asked by his nosey secretary why he still kept the photo, he only responded, “it’s my family. why wouldn’t i?”

ex-husband!nanami who had yet to actually finalize the divorce. but really, it wasn’t his fault. he just hadn’t gotten around to sending the papers over (or having them printed up at all), what with all those crazy shifts at work. oh, well, it didn’t matter. he would do it at some point.

ex-husband!nanami who had left you virtually everything in the not-so-finalized-divorce. the four bedroom, four bathroom house, your diamond 6 carat engagement ring, your wedding china, the aston martin db9 he had gifted you for your birthday, the park avenue apartment, the country house in monaco—all of it.

ex-husband!nanami who you had never been able to turn down whenever he stayed over just a little later after dropping the baby back off with you. the two of you would sit on the couch and catch up over a glass of wine. then one glass turned to two, then two to three. and for a minute it would almost feel as if you were still married.

nanami never ended up leaving until the late hours of the night. by which point you began to wonder where he’d gotten all the free time he couldn’t seem to find when you were actually married.

ex-husband!nanami who internally scoffed whenever you mentioned going on a date with another man.

“do you think you could watch her on saturday? i’ve got a date i really don’t wanna miss.” you’d asked at the tail end of an already too long (thirty minute) phone call.

nanami breathed a recognizable, pensive sigh on the other end, chewing through what he’d earlier told you was tempura, but considering how long it was taking him to answer, it may as well have been your nerves.

“you know i will, but, uh,” you heard him swallow. “a date?”

although your ex-husband didn’t exactly sound like he was joking, you couldn’t help the giggle that vibrated through your body. glancing at the clock on your nightstand that read eight-thirty and the baby sleeping soundly in the crib next to your bed, you propped the house phone between your ear and shoulder. what was the harm in killing another thirty minutes?

“yes, kento, a date. his name is scott. he’s an art dealer. i think you’d like him.”

“does scott know you’re still married?”

“separated,” you corrected him. “and no, he doesn’t. do you tell every woman who asks you out that you’re married?”

nanami hesitated for a second before answering, “yes, i do.”

ex-husband!nanami who came to your house with flowers and a store bought pumpkin pie for thanksgiving. more than you’d like to admit, you liked having him around for the holidays. he was so good with the baby, and so attentive to everything else. cleaning up all the leftovers and stray baby toys as the night came to an end.

it was nearing ten o’clock when he had successfully put the baby to sleep, and then came down to help you tidy up the downstairs. “y’know you didn’t have to buy a pie, right?” you told him after you’d discovered it hidden amongst the array of leftover pots and aluminum pans. “i know it’s your favorite. i’d have made you some.”

nanami brought his task at hand (loading the dishwasher) to a stiff halt and joined you at the island countertop. “but hey,” you added, tearing the lid off the pie. “we could see if it’s as good as the real thing.”

your ex-husband, usually the most well-spoken man you knew, could only stiffly nod in your direction while you retrieved a pair of shiny silver forks, still in the drawer they’d always been in. “and i got some whipped cream if you want.” you added as you gave him a fork, now taken aback by his sudden lack of speech. seriously, he hadn’t spoken this little since the year leading up to your separation.

what you didn’t know was that nanami couldn’t speak if he wanted to. he needed this. the three of you hadn’t had a real holiday together since last halloween, and even that was admittedly very bleak. “i miss you,” nanami blurted.

and he did. he missed your desserts for every holiday—savory pumpkin pie for thanksgiving, sweet apple pie for christmas, strawberry eclairs for valentine’s day. he missed opening his eyes every morning to the sight of your face smushed into a pillow, or a bit of drool gathering at the corner of your mouth. he missed coming home from work to the sight of you and the baby sound asleep on the couch. he missed being your husband, and even more knowing you were his wife.

ex-husband!nanami who spent the night fucking his ex-wife into the couch as though they were still married. wrapping you in his strong arms, while murmuring promises of change and betterment. “i’ll never go to work again, swear,” he said, shuddering between deep thrusts. “please just take me back, baby.”

[roseghoul26]

Cooper Howard | The Ghoul x fem!Reader

Tags: Title From A Fall Out Boy, Fame < Infamy by Fall Out Boy, Takes Place Before The Destruction of NCR, Jealousy, Someone Else Flirts With You, Derogatory Language Towards Women, Bisexual The Ghoul, Because Walton Goggins Said So, Arguments, Confessions, First Kiss, Sub Ghoul, Poor Man Is Desperate, Teasing, Edging, Oral Sex, Blowjobs, Cowgirl Position, You Wear His Hat, Light Dom/Sub, Cuddles Synopsis: After two weeks out on the job, you and The Ghoul are spending the night at a bar in Shady Shands relaxing. The Ghoul has always flirted with you, but he never meant anything by it, never did anything more, leaving you frustrated and desperately wanting the man. So when you meet someone who acts on his words, you nearly agree to spend the night with him, hoping to fill your lonely nights with another person instead of thoughts of The Ghoul. But any prospect of enjoying his company is destroyed when The Ghoul beats the man for even looking in your direction. Rightfully angry, an argument between the two of you ensues, leading to things that you only imagined would happen in your thoughts during your lonely nights.  Author’s Note: alright so normally i’m like meh about my own smut writing but i will admit i am a bit proud of this one :D Taglist: @ancientbeing10 @alex-does-art-things

The bar you were currently sitting in was dingy, seedy, and smelled like old food and piss. You didn’t even remember the name of it, too excited for the prospect of a cold drink to care, and you let The Ghoul drag you in. You were sourly disappointed when the Mr. Handy behind the counter handed you a lukewarm beer, not even a single drop of condensation on the brown bottle. 

So here you were, leaning back against a moth-eaten and weathered couch tucked in the corner, nursing a drink that just made you thirstier. He sat next to you, his legs lounged up on the low table in front of you two like he hadn’t a care in the world. You supposed that being alive for over two hundred years would do that to someone. 

The Ghoul had his own drink, a glass of whiskey, more specifically. It used to have ice in it, about ten minutes ago, but it had quickly melted, no doubt watering down the drink. Still, he continued to sip at it, his eyes roaming the crowds in the bar. Your eyes were shut, head resting against the back of the couch, catching up on some much-needed rest.

The Ghoul and you had just come back from a two-week-long excursion of the Wasteland, hunting down a group of escaped convicts from the jail in Shady Sands. Most of the time had been spent walking, searching for clues in the ending sea of sand. It had almost been impossible, but you were able to pick up a trail. It had led you to a long-since abandoned town near the shoreline of California, and after an intense firefight the two of you managed to slay them all; there was no way in hell you were escorting alive prisoners all the way back to Filly. Carrying the heads would be easier. 

And it was, except for the plethora of animals and insects it attracted, but you’d take that over the prisoners fighting you the entire time. Eventually, you and The Ghoul had made it back to Shady Sands, sweaty and covered in blood and exhausted, and dumped the heads onto the desk of the deputy. You don’t think you’ve ever seen a man pale so fast. 

After The Ghoul received the cap reward, he paid for two rooms for the both of you and some sleazy hotel, and after getting washed up he had dragged you to the bar further down the street. You hadn’t had the energy to fight him, but you almost wish you had now. You were barely staying awake, head bobbing as you forced yourself to concentrate on the chatter of patrons to keep you conscious. 

Bringing the drink up to your lips, your muscles cried out in protest, but you just ignored them. The drink itself wasn’t terrible, the flavor was almost citrusy, but it felt like sandpaper as it went down your throat. Wincing, you cleared your throat, garnering the attention of the man beside you. “Surly it ain’t that bad,” he chuckled, and you cracked an eye open at him. 

You didn’t respond, just holding out the drink for him to grab. You were sure to hold it by the neck so he had plenty of space to grab it below, but you felt him grab it in a way that made his gloved finger bush over yours. You kept your face neutral, but you certainly felt your heart react, ticking up in rhythm.

After taking a sip, a similar grimace crossed his face. If he had brows, you’re sure they would be furrowed, his lips curled up in disgust. “Even I can tell that tastes like shit,” he shook his head, forcing the drink back into your hands. There was only an inch of liquid left at the bottom, and so choosing to ignore the fact that his lips had just been on the bottle, you finished it off. 

Setting it on the table, you wiped the back of your mouth with your hand. “It’s not good, sure, but it’s better than anythin’ else I’ve had in the past weeks. “So, I,” you stood with a slight groan, “am gonna get another one.”

You didn’t get too far attempting to step around the table, his legs blocking the easiest way out. A hand grabbed your wrist, tugging you back down on the couch, very nearly toppling into him. You tried to break free, but his grip was unyielding. Not enough to hurt, no, but you were stuck. “Now, what kinda man would I be if I made a pretty thing like you get their own drink?” His words made you still, and you were grateful for the shitty lighting that hid your blush. 

Little did you know that he could see you clearly, an amused smile now on his lips. “That’s what I thought,” he murmured, and you were now able to yank your hand away, glaring harshly at him. “Now,” he lightly patted your thigh, making you jump, “stay here, sweetheart. I’ll be back before you know it.”

You were unable to resist the urge to flip him off as he walked towards the bar, before flopping against the couch with a huff. It wasn’t that you hated that he flirted with you. No, it was quite the opposite. You loved the comments and light touches, making your heart race and less-than-decent thoughts pour into your brain. But from the time the two of you had started working together, so roughly a year ago, that’s all it had been. Soft touches, empty promises, saccharine words and petnames that made you melt, but nothing more. He would always stop before it became more, his touch receding like you’d burned him, a witty remark that quelled the fire he stoked, an I’m just teasin’ ya, sweetheart. God, you hated those words specifically. 

 You wanted more, but it terrified you because you couldn’t tell if he actually meant something by his flirtations, or if he just enjoyed tormenting you. Friends were a rarity in the Wastleland, and you were screwed if you somehow managed to ruin things between you two. You’d be out of income, protection, and a genuine friend who (sometimes) had your best interest in mind.

So you bit your tongue, pretending like his words weren’t making you dizzy, that you wanted nothing more than to feel his body beneath you, to be able to feel his lips against yours. So many late-night fantasies that left you even more lonely in the morning, your knuckles bruised from where you had to bite them to keep quiet. Even though it hurt, you kept your desires close to your heart, treasuring the small things he did give you. Which, you’d come to realize, made it worse, but he had made you addicted to it. 

You were so caught up in your thoughts that you didn’t even detect someone approaching. You expected to see the familiar face of The Ghoul beside you, but you were startled to find someone else. He was a ghoul, and even though it was hard to tell you could see that he was younger, late twenties, or early thirties if you had to guess. He wore a simple blue shirt and some jeans, way too neat and hole-less than what you were used to. 

He had a beer in hand, and he used it to gesture to the spot beside you. “This spot taken?” He was the usual rasp of a ghoul, albeit a bit higher pitched than The Ghoul’s. God, you couldn’t stop yourself from comparing him to the other man. 

Speaking of him, you were able to subtly glance behind him to the bar, and you found the other man in conversation with some others. It didn’t look to be a confrontation, luckily, and you heard laughter from the group. You focused your attention on the stranger in front of you, smiling warmly at him. “Not at all,” you patted the space beside you, only barely warm still. 

As he sat beside you, setting his drink on the table, you let yourself take him in. He wasn’t unattractive, far from it. There was almost a playfulness to his features, his fully black eyes glimmering with mirth. His arm went around the couch, and you could feel the heat from it. Even though he wasn’t the man that had plagued your thoughts, you couldn’t help the way your body reacted to the stranger, breathing growing short, your cheeks darkening slightly. You were only human after all. 

“Can’t say I’ve seen you around here before, gorgeous.” He flashed his teeth, and you were pleasantly surprised to find pretty much all of them intact, and still in good condition. Another rarity of the Wastleland. 

“I’m just passing through. Just finished up some… work.” You turned yourself to face him more.

“Work, you say? Whattya do?”

“Oh, just some odd jobs here and there. Whatever makes me money.”

He chucked at that. “Can’t blame you for that. I’m Daniel, by the way.” He held a hand out for you, ungloved and bare. You shook it, giving him your name, and he repeated it back to you. It wasn’t the drawl of The Ghoul’s voice, but it was pleasant enough. 

You expect him to drop your hand, but something about them must’ve intrigued him, and you watched, quite confused, as he filled it over. His eyes ran over your fingers, especially your forefinger and thumb, before flicking back up to yours. He still didn’t drop your hand. “You use a gun a lot?” He smirked when you nodded, bewildered. “I can tell by the callouses here,” he dragged a finger along them, tickling you slightly. 

“Well, look at you,” you laughed. “What’re you, a detective?”

“Nah, nothin’ like that. Just… observant.” He flashed you another smile, completely confident in his actions. “So, you’re a bounty hunter then?”

You didn’t bother to deny his claim, knowing the expression on your face just gave you away. Thank goodness you weren’t a con artist. “Is it gonna be a problem if I say yes?” You asked cautiously, slowly retracting your hand, ready for this interaction to go bad. You let your eyes flick to The Ghoul, locating him in case you need help. He was still at the bar, talking with someone new this time, and you felt a pang of something as the man he was talking to brushed his shoulder, nothing innocent in the touch. 

“Not a problem at all,” he answered completely honestly. “Nasty business, though.”

You glanced back at Daniel, relief flooding you. You did not have the energy for a barfight tonight. “You don’t know the half of it,” you groaned. “It’s ruthless, but I enjoy it, weirdly enough. And I’m pretty good at it.”

The hand resting on the back of the couch shifted, and you felt his fingers brush over your shoulders, making you shiver slightly. I like a girl that can handle herself,” he admitted. “Strong,”  he gently squeezed the muscles in your biceps. “Confident. Powerful.” His voice turned into a whisper at the end, mouth pressed close to your ear. 

You were quite flustered now. “Well, you’re in luck then.”

“It seems I am. So, what say you, bounty hunter? Do you wanna get out of here in a bit, have some fun tonight before you head off?”

It had been a long time since you’d had someone in your bed. Since about when you started working with The Ghoul, to be exact. You’re not sure why you hadn’t in so long; it wasn’t for a lack of options. You just… couldn’t bring yourself to take someone to bed that wasn’t The Ghoul. Still, you hated waking up alone each morning, loneliness clawing at your heart. And when you’d see men and women stumble from his room, it felt like someone shot you, making you irritable with him for days to come. Maybe for once you’d have someone leaving your room, your heart content, if for a moment. Maybe you could imagine that it wasn’t Daniel, picture the other man’s features instead.

Maybe he would feel the same way you felt as he watched Daniel sneak from your room. That idea made you grin, and any hesitance about taking him to bed vanished. 

You didn’t get a chance to respond, though, before two familiar gloved hands rested on Daniel’s shoulders, making the man tense. He was forcibly pulled back from you, the force of the pull nearly making him fall off the couch. He caught himself, and you watched as he stood and faced The Ghoul. 

The shade from his hat hid most of his face, but even then you could see the hatred in his eyes as he stared down Daniel. The Ghoul was a formidable opponent, but you have to give some credit to Daniel as he squared up against him. “The hell’s your problem, man?” If the way The Ghoul had yanked Daniel hadn’t gotten the attention of the crowd, Daniel’s words surely did. Behind them, you watched a small crowd begin to form, and you wished to just let the shadows consume you. 

“She’s… off-limits,” he titled his head to the side. The action would make any sane person falter, and you watched as Daniel’s posture went rigid, fear hitting him. 

Still, Daniel didn’t let up, male pride and all that. “Maybe you should let her know, then,” he gestured angrily to you, and you shrank lower into the seat. “By the way she was lettin’ me talk to her, I can imagine the whole town’s probably had their way-”

His words, which had been so sweet moments ago, were cut off when The Ghoul grabbed him by the throat, slamming him onto the table in front of you. You jumped off the couch as splinters of wood and glass sprayed everywhere, narrowly avoiding you. Mortified, you could do nothing but watch as The Ghoul began to beat the man, blood joining in with the debris. If Daniel had a nose left, you were sure it would be pulverized. 

The Ghoul’s lips had curled up into a snarl, his eyes blazing as he leered down at the man, stopping his assault. Daniel tried to pry the other man’s hand from his throat, a choked gasp leaving him, yet that seemed to just make his grip tighter. “Gimme one reason why I shouldn’t just kill ya?” He growled, shoving Daniel’s head into the ground. He could barely garble out a reply, the words indistinguishable. 

Glass shattered on the floor as The Ghoul tossed the man into another table, another piece of furniture destroyed. As he stalked towards the downed man, he rolled over onto his hands and knees, rubbing at his throat. He was coughing and sputtering, genuine fear in his eyes as he looked up at the bounty hunter. Crouching before him, The Ghoul regarded him slowly, nothing but disgust on his features. 

“Fuck… she all yours,” Daniel managed to pant out between coughs. “Just… God, don’t kill me!”

Satisfied with his answer, The Ghoul kicked him one last time for good measure, sending him sprawling back. It was dead silent in the bar, and patrons gawked and shuffled away as The Ghoul walked to where you had been standing, only to find you gone. 

You had slipped out when he had thrown him, unable to continue watching. The streets were busy, and you kept your head down as you wove between people, heading to the hotel as quickly as you could. Too many emotions overwhelmed you, and you took a deep breath and began to collect your thoughts. 

First, you were embarrassed. 

You were embarrassed that they had been fighting over you. When you weren’t on a job, you hated creating conflict, not wanting to be the center of attention. You had plenty of that doing bounty hunting. This was supposed to be a night where you relaxed, to forget all about the horrors of the world you lived in, with or without The Ghoul, but that plan was tossed aside. 

Secondly, you were angry. 

Fuming would be a better word for it, and if you looked hard enough you could probably see the steam pouring from your ears. You were pissed that he had ruined a possibly enjoyable night with another person, ending your celibate streak. You were pissed that he felt like he could just take control of your choices like that. And you were pissed that you never got that next drink, although that was the least of your concerns at this point. 

Finally, you were confused.

Why had he reacted the way he did? It wasn’t like there was anything between you two, as much as it pained you to come to terms with it. Why did he care who you took to bed? He had taken plenty of people to bed during the time you’d worked together, and you’d never made a complaint about it. Why were you weirdly attracted to his display of… jealousy? Was it jealousy? You couldn’t even imagine what that could mean if it was. 

The sound of your name being shouted behind you forcefully tore you from your thoughts. You immediately recognized it, and you refrained from looking over at him. Ducking your head, you hoped that you blended in well with the others on the street, and you continued to briskly walk towards the hotel. 

You heard your name being called again, this time closer, and so you picked up the pace, nearly jogging at this point. You heard the sound of people crying out in alarm, and you knew that he was getting closer to you, barreling through the crowds without any thought. 

You could see the neon sign of the hotel, now lit, and you breathed out a sigh of relief. That feeling was short-lived, panic making your stomach drop when you heard The Ghoul right behind you. “Don’t make me fuckin’ tackle ya,” you heard him threaten. For a moment, you debated just ignoring him, but you knew that he didn’t make empty threats. Besides, the ground was dusty, and you’d rather not spend the rest of the night covered in sand.

Groaning, you finally halted, turning to face him with a scowl. You didn’t respond, just raising a brow and gesturing for him to ‘get on with it’. Your jaw was clenched so hard, and you could feel the headache that threatened to torment you later because of it. 

“The fuck was that about?” 

God, was he joking with you? “I should be the one asking you that! In what world was that a rational response?”

People stared as they passed, but you both just ignored them. “He was touchin’ ya.”

“And did I look even remotely disinterested? Was there any part of my body language that read that I was even the tiniest bit uncomfortable?” You laughed bitterly at the lack of response from him; you both knew what the answer was. “Why the hell do you even care if he was touching me or not?”

He was silent again, and you just scoffed, taking a few steps back. “Whatever,” you sighed in defeat, before turning and walking the remaining way to the hotel. You were almost disappointed when you didn’t hear him following behind you. 

The person behind the desk recognized you, and you were able to quickly make your way up to the second floor where your room was. You made sure to not let your eyes wander to the door where he was staying that night, a few feet down from yours on the other side of the hallway. 

When you were finally alone in your room, you resisted the urge to just scream angrily. Instead, you kicked off your shoes, which hit the walls with a loud noise, and you flopped onto your bed. Laying on your back with your arms spread, you stared at the surprisingly intact ceiling, frustrated tears stinging your eyes. Disagreements always upset you, but there was something about this one that made you feel ill, a sense of dread that you’d never felt before filled your body. 

You’re not sure how long you just lay there, calming your racing heart and your heightened emotions. It must’ve been a while, because you dozed off, the exhaustion in your body now taking control.

A light knock at the door woke you, and for a second you thought you had just imagined it. When it came again, more forceful, you sighed, knowing exactly who was on the other side of the door. Like before, you debated just ignoring him, but you didn’t want to be charged for the destruction of more property. “What?” You snapped out, still not in the mood to talk to him yet. 

“We need to talk.” The Ghoul responded, sounding less irritated than you. 

“Yeah, no shit.” I gave you plenty of time to explain yourself downstairs. 

You could hear him sigh through the thin wood door. “Sweetheart.” You hated that he knew how to get you to do whatever you wanted. You couldn’t even stop yourself as you sat up and made your way to the door. With no hesitation you opened it, his endearment almost putting you under a spell.

It was dissipated when you saw him, those emotions flooding your mind instead. The door was only open a crack, your body filling it as you glared at the other man. “Yes?

“Let me talk to ya,” he sighed in frustration. 

“You are.” You couldn’t care less that you were being stubborn and difficult. He deserved it.

His jaw clenched. “Inside.”

You didn’t respond, mulling over his words as you stared at him, fire never once leaving your eyes. Finally, you relented, against your better judgment. Stepping back, you left the door open, leaning up against one of the dressers with your arms crossed. You watched as he entered, the door clicking shut in finality, looking like he expected to be attacked by you at any second. You were almost proud to instill that level of fear in him.

He kept a respectful distance away from you, loitering near the foot of the bed. “Look, I’m… sorry.” He said the words like they were brand new. 

He left it at that, and you scoffed. You knew that you should just accept his apology and move on. You knew that you shouldn’t instigate something, to purposely start an argument with your traveling partner. But you were still too damn angry to care. You needed him to know what you felt.

“‘Sorry’? I get nothing more than that?”

“What’dya want from me then, sweetheart?” He growled, your anger rubbing off on him. “You want me to get down on my fuckin’ knees, plead for your forgiveness? You want me to promise I ain’t ever gonna do it again, even though it’ll be a damn lie? What the fuck do you want from me?” He spat the last sentence out, emphasizing each word.

The image of him on his knees before you flashed in your mind, and you had to admit it did seem appealing. But not now. 

He was getting closer to you now. Slow, methodical steps, but he was closer, and continuing. “I want an explanation.”

You might’ve as well just slapped him, the way he halted in his tracks, stunned. Words seemed to evade him, and the anger that had just been rolling off him in waves subsided, still there yet not as strong. It should’ve had the opposite effect, but your rage was growing, threatening to burst. “Oh, so now you can’t talk? It’s a simple request!”

“It’s really fuckin’ not.”

“Why?” Silence. “You’ve got two options here. You either suck it up and tell me, or you get the hell out of here. It’s your choice.”

You could tell that he hated the choice you gave him, but you didn’t care. You expected to watch him turn and storm out the door, leaving your relationship in tatters on the dirty hotel floor. So you were surprised when he took a deep breath and remained where he was. “I hated that he was touchin’ you."

“So you were jealous?” You ignored the way you were elated when he nodded, albeit with some hesitancy. The anger subsided, and you felt pure want take its place. “You wanted to be him,” you whispered, taking a step towards him. Your confidence grew at how hungrily he watched you. 

“You wanted to be the one whispering those words, to be running their fingers on my body.” Another step. “You wanted to be the one to take me to bed, to feel me, to fuck me.” You were finally close enough to him that you could touch him if you wish, but you kept your hands by your sides.

The Ghoul groaned at your words, and you couldn’t help the small smirk on your face at his reaction. “Do you want that?” You asked, needed to hear confirmation. 

It came almost immediately. “Fuck, yes.” His own hands reached out to touch you, but you swatted them away. That snapped him out of his semi-trance, his eyes flashing with confusion.

“You don’t get to touch me yet.”

 Something new flashed in his eyes instead, something you couldn’t quite name. “Sweetheart-”

“Sit down.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but you just shot him a look, silencing him instantly. The bed groaned as he sat on the edge of it, eyes never leaving yours. It made him stand a head lower than you now, and he had to look up to continue holding your gaze. “How does it feel? To watch someone else get the things you want?”

You didn’t give him a chance to respond. “It hurts, doesn’t it? It feels like someone’s stabbed you in the heart, no? So,” you moved between his legs, “how do you think I felt? After you flirt with me, then take someone else to bed. After you touch me, toy with me, but then act like my body disgusts you, and you recoil away. After you say those things that leave me shaking and wanting, but then never act of them.” 

Your hands grabbed the lapels of his jacket, and you brought your face close to his. “I’ve seen you take countless lovers to bed during the time we’ve worked together, and I never said a peep. Even though it fucking killed me to see. That man in the bar, the one you beat senseless? That was gonna be the first person that’d occupied my bed in almost a year. And no, I didn’t really want him that badly, but maybe I could finally go to bed for one night and not have my thoughts be entirely of you.”

Shoving his back lightly, you stumbled back a few steps, the confession that had just spilled from your lips making you breathless. “I have to know; did you mean it? All the flirting, the touches, everything. Did you mean it?”

For once, The Ghoul kept any remarks to himself, and sheer honesty was written across his face. There before you, you saw a vulnerable man, gazing up at you like you hung the stars. “I did. I do.”

“Do you want me?” Cautiously, you began to move back towards him.

“Every fuckin’ minute.”

When you were back between his legs, you let your hands rest on the lapels, no longer strangling the poor material. “Do you want me to kiss you?”

A hopeful smile graced his lips, his eyes flicking down to your lips which hovered above him. After nodding lightly, you let yourself move closer until your lips just brushed over his, barely making contact. “A shame, then.” You pulled away before they could fully connect, a victorious smile on your face as you looked down at the confused man.

“Oh, you thought you’d be getting what you wanted tonight? You ran your hands up, resting on the sides of his neck now. You could feel his heart hammering. “I hate to break it to you, but you’re not. No, tonight you’re gonna feel as desperate as I’ve felt for the past year. And,” you made sure that he was especially paying attention to your words now, “if you think that at any point tonight you’re gonna have control, you’re wrong. Any objections?”

His eyes had blown out during your little speech, small pants leaving his lips as he stared up at you. He was already so eager, and you’d barely done anything yet. Even still, you saw a flicker of uncertainty, and you realized he’d probably never given up control in the bedroom. You let the facade drop for a moment. “I won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with. Not ever. You just gotta let me know, and we’ll stop immediately.”

Any uncertainty left him, and something warmed in your chest at the fact that he trusted you enough to do something like this. “You ready?”

He nodded, and you shook your head. “I need to hear you say it, baby.”

You watched his throat bob as he swallowed, not expecting the name from you. “I’m ready.”

“Good.” You rewarded him with a soft kiss on the cheek before grabbing his hat off his head. “Go get comfortable on the bed.” 

Stepping away from him, you set his hat on the nightstand as he got situated, his now bare head resting on the pillows. Making sure he had returned his attention to you, you heard his gasp when you grabbed the hem of your shirt, turning into an appreciative groan when you tore it off your head. You wore a simple black bra beneath, but you might as well have been wearing the most beautiful piece of lingerie with the way his eyes widened, a smile on his face again. You made quick work of your jeans, and you refrained from shivering as the air hit your now-exposed skin, clad in only your undergarments. But how could you be cold when he was looking at you with such heat in his eyes?

The bed creaked again when you got on it, and you adjusted until you straddled his abdomen. His clothing dug into your skin, but you could hardly feel it. Planting your hands on his chest, you leaned forward until your face was only an inch from his. He watched you with hooded eyes, which fluttered close when your lips pressed against his jaw, moving up until you stopped right below his ear. 

Gloved hands rested on your bare waist, and as much as you enjoyed feeling his hands on your body, you couldn’t let up that easily. “Did I say you could touch me yet?” You whispered, and you felt him slowly rescind his touch, now resting on the bedsheets beside him. “Good job,” you praised, and you felt him shudder slightly. Interesting. “If you behave, I might just let you touch me,” you offered, like dangling a piece of food in front of a starving animal. 

“Yeah?” 

You just smiled against his skin. 

Continuing your exploration, you moved inward, barely feeling the ridges of the indents of his skin. Moving up his cheek, to across where his nose would be, then to the other cheek, you littered his face with kisses, purposely avoiding his lips. His eyes continued to flutter open and close, and at this proximity, you were able to see short, brown eyelashes. How… peculiar. And cute. 

You didn’t make any comment on them, choosing to move back down again. But you went past his jaw this time, down to his neck, and you felt his head roll back to allow you more room. You felt him jump when you sunk your teeth into the skin before moaning beautifully, and you ran over the hurt with your tongue. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched as his hands instinctively went up to touch you, then resting back down on the bed, grabbing at the bedsheets instead. 

There wasn’t much exposed skin left when you reached where his neck and shoulders met, his shirt now covering it. Leaning back, you gestured for him to sit up, helping ease the jacket off his shoulders when he did. He pulled his arms out, and it pooled around his waist, still sitting on most of it. You didn’t care, as long as you could get his get his shirt off.

You hesitated a second before beginning to fiddle with the buttons, glancing up into his eyes. “Alright?” 

“You don’t gotta keep askin’, sweetheart,” he responded breathlessly. “I’ll let you know if I don’t want somethin’.”

You grinned at him, before quickly getting to work and taking off his button-up shirt. With every inch of his body that was revealed to you, you felt your heart accelerate, excitement bubbling in you. He had just gotten his arms out of the garment and had tossed it to the floor before you were forcing him back down on the bed with hands on his chest, loving how easily he complied. 

You let your fingers drag down the front of his chest, nails scratching lightly. Even with the thick scarring covering his body, he was still able to feel it, and he shivered. Your breath caught when you finally looked for yourself, instead of letting your touch see for you. To say he was gorgeous would be an understatement. All lean muscle, you could feel them flex and jump when you touched him, and for a moment you remembered how strong this man was. And here he was, submitting to your every request. You really did try to not let it go to your head. 

“You’re so beautiful, Cooper.” You hadn’t even realized you’d let his real name slip until he went deathly still beneath you. Glancing up at him, you couldn’t read the expression on his face, and you thought you went too far. Still, he had yet to say anything, and so you kept your mouth shut. You trusted that he would stop you.

Continuing to touch him, you barely heard the soft plea that he uttered. “Say it again.” 

The expression clicked now, and you smiled gently at him. You felt truly happy, knowing there was another thing he trusted you with. “Cooper,” you sighed, and you were startled when you felt his hands grasp at you, desperately trying to pull you towards him. You braced on his chest, stopping him, and you glanced at where his hands now rested until he tore them away. You made a disapproving noise as you leaned back down, teasing him by brushing your lips against his. But with the way you were sitting and the way you pressed down on his chest, he couldn’t meet you, and you heard him make a frustrated noise.

“Do I gotta tie your hands up, Cooper?” You semi-joked, gauging his reaction. When his eyes somehow darkened even more, you knew he was down. 

You both knew that he could easily “break free” from the restraints you’d placed on him; he had ghoul strength, and you were just a human. But he continued to play into your game, and you were grateful for it. You were having too much fun. 

“If ya keep sayin’ my name like that, then ya might have to.” 

“Oh, you’re too good to me, baby,” you praised, hands retracting so you could reach behind you. You smirked at his reaction when you tugged at his belt, being sure to purposely graze over the evident strain in his pants. You gave him the most innocent look you could when he glared at you, returning your touch to his belt. It took a bit of maneuvering, and with some help from him raising his hips, you were able to free it.

The headboard was made from metal bars, so you were easily able to secure his wrists to it. The restraint wasn’t tight, tight enough to keep him in place, but if he severely needed to leave then he could easily escape. When you sat back, you admired the sight before you. Your wildest dreams were playing out right in front of you, and you couldn’t be more excited.t

Starting at the base of his throat, you began to move down his body, pressing your lips against the skin as you descended. When you reached his nipples, you let your tongue flick over it, eliciting a whine from him. Your fingers toyed with the other one, making him squirm. You couldn’t deny that the noises he was making were making you dizzy, a familiar tension building in you. But you kept an amused and unaffected expression on your face, not wanting to break yet. 

You didn’t stay there for long, continuing your descent downwards. You scratched lightly over his abs when you reached them, and you figured goosebumps would be covering his body by now.

 “I could just leave you like this, you know,” you commented as you moved backward. “Hands bound, aching, wanting.” Your hands trailed down his thighs. 

“You wouldn’t,” he groaned, and you just flashed a smile at him.

“Oh, but I could.” You now rested just below his thighs, your own straddling them. “I could just sit here and make you watch as I touch myself, make myself cum, screaming your name.” You heard the belt rattle against the bedframe when you let one of your hands trail down your stomach, a gasp leaving you when you reached the band of your underwear. “Then leave you alone with just your thoughts, imagining all the things you could’ve done to me. Just how I spent every night this past year. Revenge is a bitch, isn’t it?”

“Sweetheart, please.” You don’t think you’ve ever heard something so wonderful, arousal spiking in your body. His eyes bore into you as you reached behind you, unclasping your bra. You let it slide off your body before setting it gently on the floor. Squeezing your breasts in your hands, you let your head roll back, his name tumbling from you. You debated moaning the other man’s name, the one in the bar, but you couldn’t remember it. Besides, you were torturing the man enough, and you assumed that he would tear through his bindings if you did. 

Eventually, you took pity on him, and your desire was starting to get in the way of your need to draw this out. He jumped when you rested your hands on his thighs, expecting you to do what you said, and you could feel the relief it brought him.

It didn’t take long for you to unbutton his pants, even less to unzip them. You tugged both them and his boxers down enough to free him. He was already rock hard, almost painfully so, and a strangled groan left him. The noise shot straight to your core, and you sighed in appreciation at him. He was long, not overwhelmingly so, but you knew you’d be feeling him for days to come. 

Keeping your eyes on him, you leaned forward and lapped at the tip, licking the bead of moisture there. You watched as he tried to move to touch you, and you grinned at him when the restraint stopped him. You could see the plea in his eyes, and you just shook your head at him. Not yet. 

Another run of your tongue made him curse, and you cooed at him. “Want me to take care of this, baby?”

“Please,” he gasped out.

“Well, when you ask that nicely.”

He didn’t get a chance to prepare before you were running your tongue along his entire length, base to tip, before taking as much of him as you could in your mouth. You took what you couldn’t fit in your hand, moving in tandem with your mouth as you sucked him. It was nearly unintelligible, but you heard your name being moaned by him. 

Bobbing your head up and down, you were unrelenting in the pleasure you were giving him, and you could feel his hips begin to buck and twist, and you moved your mouth off him before he could hit the back of your throat. 

Glancing up at him, he looked absolutely wrecked, and the fact made you smile cruelly. You could tell that he was close, by the way he pulsed and throbbed in your hand as you continued to stroke him. Your name was just streaming from him freely, straining and pressing against the belt. The bedpost made an awful noise, but it was covered by his noises. “You close, Cooper?”

His head had been thrown back against the pillows as pleasure coursed through him, but you watched as he flicked his gaze down to you. “Fuck, sweetheart, yes.” You hadn’t meant to, but you let it slip through in your expression what you were planning, and dread washed over his face. He groaned you name, almost in warning, but you ignored him. 

To his very evident displeasure, you let go of him, his incoming release ebbing away as you sat up. A string of curses left him, and a drop of sweat rolled down his face. His eyes were blazing with lust and anger, but they melted a bit when regarding you. At least the anger did. The lust seemed to just flare up, especially when he as you stood to slip off your underwear. “You only get to cum when I do, got it?”

He was able to see the evidence of your arousal on them as you discarded them, and even in the position he was in a cocky smile grew on his face. “Perfectly.” That cocky smile was wiped off when he saw you reach for his hat, putting it on your head as you climbed back onto the bed. As you straddled his lap, realization flashed on his features. “Are you tryin’ to fuckin’ kill me?” He wheezed, a mix of laughter and a groan. 

“I’m surprised I haven’t already,” you teased back, your hands bracing on his chest. Just like you thought, his heart pounded against your fingertips. Rocking your hips slowly, you began to rut against him, coating him in your arousal. 

You heard the tell-tale clink of his belt rattling against the bedframe. “Can I touch ya now, sweetheart?” He gasped out.

You seriously considered it for a moment, but you decided against it. “When you make me cum, you can. But if you finish before me…” You let the words trail off, the threat evident enough.

He looked like he wanted to argue, but he held his tongue, knowing that it would get him further away from what he wanted. You grinned at his compliance, rewarding him by getting on your knees and lining him up with your entrance. Sinking onto him, a gasp tore from you as he pressed into you. It had been so long since you’d been stretched like this, and it felt even better than you remembered. Or maybe it was because it was with him. 

His grip was vice-like against the metal bars as you slowly sank down on his cock, almost painful-sounding grunts and moans leaving him. It was a slow process, but eventually, you felt your hips go flush with his. “Oh, Cooper, baby,” you groaned, and you felt him twitch inside of you.

“You… you can’t say shit like that and then expect me to last,” he whined, and you laughed gently. 

“You need a moment?” You refrained from adding ‘baby’ to the end, knowing he was about to snap. 

A shaky exhale left him. “Just… just a moment.”

You hummed in response, letting yourself sit there for a moment. It felt like torture, wanting nothing more than to ride him, but you held back. You tried to not move too much, either, and you eventually felt his breathing calm some. It was still sporadic, but not as much as before. 

“Go ‘head now.” You didn’t have to be told twice. 

Starting with a slow roll of your hips, you began to move up and down. One hand was planted on his chest, the other on his hat to keep in on your head as it rolled back. It only took a few moments for you to fall into a rhythm, the slow movements gradually building to something faster. 

“Cooper, fuck, you feel so good,” you moaned, and you heard him make some noise in agreeance. Another roll of your hips made you see stars, and you could feel that familiar tension begin to build, slowly but surely. 

“What a sight you are,” he murmured between breaths, and you looked down to see him staring at you, almost mesmerized. “Wearin’ my hat while ya fuck yourself on my cock. Fuck, a man could die happy like this.”

You tried to grin down at him, but the pleasure became too much as you continued to rock, and you felt yourself falter. Instead, you just moaned out fragments of his name. He was all you could feel, pressing into spots that made you cry out, hitting them with each roll. “Baby.”

God, you loved the way he reacted whenever you uttered that name. His hips jumped, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. The hand planted on his chest dug into the toughened skin, nails no doubt leaving indents, but he didn’t seem to mind. Even though your legs were beginning to shake, you didn’t let up, moving up and down, your breathing becoming labored. You could feel yourself getting closer; you just needed a little more.

After angling your body to keep it steady, you let go of his hat, moving your hands to between your legs. It made you groan, feeling the way his cock moved in and out of you as you began to rub at your clit. The extra stimulation made you cry his name out loudly, and you knew there would be complaints from the other patrons of the hotel.

Your walls tightened around him, making him bite down harshly on his bottom lip to keep from cumming right there. His eyes flicked downward, his mouth going slack as he watched you touch yourself. He forced himself to look away, blown-out eyes staring into yours. You could see the tendons in his neck strain as he concentrated on controlling his release. 

The extra pleasure was what you needed, and you could feel your impending release inch closer. “You close, sweetheart?” His voice was hoarse, and you nodded furiously. “You gonna cum on my cock? Fuck, yeah you are.”

“Cooper, you can…” Your words were cut off with a whine. 

He seemed to get what you were saying, and he groaned in relief. “Can I finish in ya, sweetheart? Fill up that perfect cunt?”

“Please.” For the first time during the night, you pleaded for something. You were on the verge of release, your movements growing frantic as you chased your release.

“C’mon, sweetheart, lemme feel ya.” 

As you cried out his name again, you came, your body going slack as pleasure made you boneless. It wasn’t your first orgasm in a year, far from it, but it felt so much better when it came from another person. Your nerves hummed and you felt weightless, soft whines and pants leaving you. 

You barely managed to catch yourself before you fell on top of him, and the clench of you around him was all he needed for his own release, having staved it off for a long time now. He was even louder than you were, your name coming out like a sharp bark as he came, and you could feel his release seep into you, coating you. 

The room felt awfully quiet now, even though it was filled with the sound of both of you catching your breaths. With unstable legs, you lifted yourself up and off of him, and you watched as his spend dripped out of you and onto his abdomen. Groans both left you at this sight. 

You had been so caught up in the sight that it nearly startled you when you heard the clinking noise again. Glancing up at him, he gave you an expectant look, an almost teasing smirk on his face as he rattled the belt again. “You gonna release me? I’ve been good.” You scoffed at the way he pouted at you.

“You have been,” you agreed. “My good boy,” you added as you reached for the belt. His eyes widened, sucking in a gasp, and if could, he would be blushing. 

You just smirked down at him as you released him, but that victory was short-lived when you felt his hands immediately shoot to your body. He practically yanked you down to his mouth, desperately claiming your lips in a messy kiss. His hands roamed over every part of your body, the rough skin making you whine in pleasure, and you could feel his responding smile. 

As much as you were loving his attention, you had to admit you were incredibly exhausted, especially now. A yawn tore through you, interrupting the kiss, and you pulled back. “Am I borin’ you, sweetheart?” He asked, amused.

“You could never. But I don’t think I can do all that again,” you laughed breathlessly. 

“There’s always tomorrow,” he smirked. “And the next day. And the next.”

You slapped lightly at his chest, chuckling. “Eager, are we?”

“Desperately,” he growled lightly before pulling you back to his lips. This kiss was gentler, although no less passionate. He laughed boisterously when you pulled away to yawn again, fingers halting their exploration. 

When you tried to pull away, though, he didn’t let go, keeping your body close. “Baby, I need to get us cleaned up,” you laughed, trying and failing to escape his hold. “I’m not going to bed covered in…” You trailed off, too embarrassed to finish the sentence. You tried to wiggle free, and you sighed in defeat when he didn’t let go. 

“You’re blushin’,” he teased, making your ears burn more. “You were spewin’ those filthy things earlier without a second thought, but now you’re actin’ all shy?”

“I hate you,” you grumbled.

“Sure ya do, sweetheart,” he chuckled. “How ‘bout this? You finish what you were ‘bout to say, and I’ll let ya go. For a minute or two, that is.”

You sighed again. “I was saying that I’m not going to bed covered in your cum,” you said with major hesitancy, your ears on fire. 

“Why not?”

You slapped his chest again. “I did what you asked. Let me go, Cooper.”

He debated it for a moment. “Fine,” you felt his hand let up its hold, “but if you ain’t back in a minute, I’m draggin’ ya back to the bed.”

Now on a timer, you quickly got off his lap, not before pressing one last kiss to his cheek. On shaky legs, you made your way to the bathroom, flipping him off when he laughed at your inability to walk in a straight line. After using the bathroom, you used one of the provided washrags, dampening it before running it between your legs, and cleaning you up. Grabbing a new one, you dampened it as well before heading back to the bathroom.

He was now sitting on the edge of the bed, the rest of his clothing discarded on the floor, and he looked up when he saw you enter. “Thought I was ‘bout to drag you back,” he commented as you approached him, grinning when he saw your unabashed staring. “Like what ya see?”

You wiped that proud expression off when the cold washcloth made contact with his skin, and you quickly wiped him down. He hissed when it ran over his cock, and you muttered a small apology. You tried to move back to the bathroom to discard the cloth, but you felt him wrap an arm around your waist, pulling you back towards him. You felt him kiss the back of your neck, and you felt him yank the cloth from your hand, tossing it vaguely in the direction of the bathroom. 

He pulled you back onto the bed, adjusting the covers so that they covered you both, the one arm never leaving your waist, his face burrowed into your neck. Out of all the things you expected him to be, a cuddler was not one of them. But you certainly weren’t complaining.

Because of the heat of him behind you, and the exertion of the day's activities, you felt exhaustion take over you again, and your eyes fluttered close. “You still owe me anther drink,” you heard yourself mutter. 

The rumble of his chest from his laughter was the last thing you remembered before you fell asleep. 

Author’s Note: i stole the hat thing from one of my other fics, but i love it so much that i needed to use it again. also might write a continuation/pt.2 to this, idk yet.

also thank you @kinatanhi yet again for the comment that helped inspire all this <3

[criticallyacclaimedstranger]

You Need Only Ask [professor!Marcus Pike x librarian!reader]

Read on Ao3

Pairing: History of Art professor Marcus Pike x art library reader/you (cishet female)

Tags/Warnings: Kind of pining idiots but only one is pining, everyone is being professional but it's clear that Marcus is a pining idiot, implied coworkers to lovers.

Summary: Professor Marcus Pike is one of those cliché absent-minded professors - or so you think, but maybe there's another reason why this brilliant academic is acting a dumb fool around you?

Words: 3,534

A/N: This was inspired by an ask sent to me by @just-here-for-the-moment for a fic ask game thingy. Here's the original ask and my reply. I didn't write it exactly like that (main difference is my fic is set in modern times), but I hope y'all still like it!

”Good morning.”

Your customer service smile in place, you look over your shoulder.

”Morning, Professor. Just give me a second and I will be right with you.”

He hums, and you turn back to the bookcase where you were just about to finish re-shelving returns. Once done, you join Marcus Pike, Professor of Art History, at the desk. He’s tapping his fingers, almost impercievably, against the surface of the old solid wood desk, and you stifle a sigh. He didn’t have to wait that long.

”What can I do for you?” you ask politely. Professor Pike is never rude, but he is the typical professor type: absent-minded, a little awkward, his research always the number one priority.

“I looked for this book in the online catalog, but as I suspected, you don’t have it. It’s probably sold out, too.” He gives you a piece of paper before both his hands disappear into his pockets.

“Another inter-library loan, then?” you state, looking at the title. It’s in French, and you know immediately that your library doesn’t have it. Professor Pike is not the most computer-skilled person, so you usually double-check every book he asks for in the database, but this one you know you don’t have.

“Might have to go international for this one,” you tell him. “Canada och Europe. That’s coming out of your department’s budget, you know that.”

“I’ll make room,” he shrugs, looking towards the door, like he can’t wait to get back to the comfort of his own office. “And could you please give me more time with the last one you got for me? I need it for a bit longer.”

“I’ll contact the lending library,” you nod. “I’ll let you know.”

“Great. Thank you.”

The “Sure thing” has barely left your mouth before Pike is out the door, the sound of his steps against the stone floor quickly disappearing down the hall. You shake your head before sitting down to look up the book for him.

As you work, you once again wonder how people like Marcus Pike get jobs at all. Someone as introverted as that would never have a real shot at getting a library job, which requires people skills, patience, and the ability to stand in front of people. But when it comes to academia, it seems like all you need is credentials and a good research profile, and you’re hired. Unlike you, who had to fight tooth and nail for this position. You have Master’s degrees in art and library science, educational and language studies, job experience, and it was still almost impossible to get this job. People who have these jobs never seem to retire but just sit there, year after year, until they eventually sprout roots that fasten them to their chairs.

But you’re here now, since five years, and while Pike’s predecessor never showed his face in the library but sometimes sent you cryptical emails requests that took you half a day to decipher, it’s nice to see that the much younger professor actually frequents the university’s special arts library.

Finally locating Pike’s book in a university library in France, you quickly find the instructions for ILL’s, and send a loan request. After that, you apply for more time for Pike’s previous book, and by afternoon, you have confirmation for both books: one will be mailed out later during the day in Europe, the other has been renewed. You let Pike know through an email, before performing closing duties in the library. Your computer pings just as you’re about to turn it off, and you see that it’s a reply from Pike. Clicking it up, you see the very unlikely response:

>>Amazing, what a service. Just bill the department, I’ve got it covered. Thank you so much 😊 <<

Shaking your head in disbelief at the informal tone, you turn off the computer, clock out, and go home.

Professor Pike is back two days later, now asking for a book that’s available. When you tell him so, he clears his throat, gaze flickering away from you.

“Could you maybe show me where it is?”

“Sure.” You’re curt, because this isn’t the first time. It’s an easy enough book to find, and every item in the library is labeled, and the database even has an interactive feature where you can click on the item’s call number to open up a layout of the stacks, showing the correct shelf in red. It has freed you up a lot now that most patrons can easily find their literature themselves, but some people just want you to do everything for them.

“You know, Professor, you could maybe my start of term library tour useful,” you dare to tease him as you walk before him to the right case. “Most freshmen find it very helpful, and they can usually manage their own information retrieval after.”

“I think maybe a little touch-up course would do me good,” he replies, voice a little tight. “But I like personal service.”

You find the book, pull it out, and hand it to him.

“That’s what I’m here for,” you tell him easily. “Anything else I can do for you?”

He swallows visibly.

“No, thank you.”

He uses the self check-out this time, and leaves quickly without saying goodbye. You shake your head, and catch the eye of Mandy, a Master’s student who works on her thesis in the library almost every day.

“Strange fellow, that one, isn’t he?”

She gives you a peculiar look. “I guess so.”

One thing that you appreciate a lot about your job is the building itself. The campus was built in Collegiate Gothic style in the middle of the 19th century, and compared to the nearby city library with its white surfaces, glass walls, and modern design furniture, the much quieter arts library still seems more alive. The library houses more books than one would think when first seeing it, and it has the charming nooks and crannies that are so common for old houses.

You’re standing in one of those nooks one day; an alcove that houses folios, a cart of tall books parked next to the step stool that you’re standing on. You hear someone enter the library, shout out a “Hello!” as you usually do to let patrons know that you’re in the stacks, and receive a low answer. Mindful not to hurt your wrists, you pick up another folio from the cart, and put it back in its place.

The sound of footsteps stops at the desk, and you pick up the next book.

“Be right with you!”

The patron moves again, slowly walking towards the corner where you are, as if looking for you. You turn your head just as you see Professor Pike come around the corner of a bookcase.

“Oh,” he clears his throat. “There you are.”

“Here I am,” you nod, picking up the next book. “Almost done.”

“I got your email about the book from France. They sent it rather fast.”

“I was surprised, too,” you admit. There’s one book left, and you really should get down from the stool, move it, and get up again, but you’re lazy. You reach, getting up on your toes, just barely getting the book into place when you feel the stool slip from under you. You gasp, a thousand thoughts rushing through your head during the split second you’re in free fall, and then you land softly, not on the floor, but against a corduroy chest, strong arms holding you.

“Shit, that was close!”

You’re tongue-tied, wide-eyed with shock, heart in your throat and going a mile a minute to make up for the missed beats.

“Are you okay?”

You slowly start to realize that you’re in the arms of Marcus Pike, who caught you when you fell from the stool. And he’s still holding you.

“Yeah, I, yeah, fine, I’m good.” You babble, moving uncomfortably to let him know to let you down, which he does with the utmost care. Your legs are wobbly, and Pike keeps a hand on your waist to make sure you won’t fall.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” you now giggle, embarrassed but simultaneously exhilarated by the rush of adrenaline. “That wasn’t stupid at all, was it? I’ve been thinking about having that stool replaced, but I never got around to it, haha. I guess it takes an accident for me to get my thumb out of my a-, I mean, to get it done.”

Your cheeks are heating up, your hands are shaking as you grab the handles of the cart, kicking the accursed stool to the side.

“That was really scary, though,” Pike tells you in a low voice. “You could’ve really injured yourself.”

“Yeah, thanks, I mean, thanks for catching me.” You bite your lower lip and force yourself to look at him. “I’m so embarrassed. I should’ve been more careful.”

“Just glad I was here,” he shrugs, slowly following you as you march to the desk. “Although one could argue that had I not been here, you wouldn’t have tried to restack that heavy book without moving your stool. Sorry if I stressed you.”

“You didn’t,” you tell him lightly. “I sometimes cut corners like that. It’s fine, no harm done.”

You park the cart in its spot behind the desk, and turn to the shelf of reserved books.

“Here’s your inter-library loan. Due date four weeks from now, if you need it for longer, you know the drill.”

“I do,” he replies quietly and accepts the book from you. Holding it in one hand, he carefully opens it with the other, and thoughtfully browses through it. You sit down, flustered and still a little shaky, hoping that he’ll leave so that you can nurse your wounded pride, and maybe have a drink of water.

“It’s about these eighteenth-century art frauds in Europe – “

“I know. I read the title,” you cut him off, more curt than you meant to. Pike closes the book and nervously fingers the paper slip in it.

“You read French?”

“I even speak it.”

A smile breaks out on his face. “Of course you do.”

You stare at him, frowning as you try to understand what his deal is, and why he’s suddenly smiling like that. It’s never happened before.

And you’ve never noticed what a charming smile he has. It reveals a dimple in his right cheek that makes him look younger than he is – not that he’s old in any way, he must be around your age, somewhere between forty and fifty. The smile makes you even more shaky, and you can’t stop staring at him. He eventually notices, the smile dies down, and he lowers his eyes.

“Well, thanks,” he mumbles, turning around and walking away briskly, leaving you to stare after him, wondering what the hell happened.

Mandy comes in from her lunch break, waves a hello, then stops when she sees you.

“Is everything okay?”

You nod dismissively. “I’m fine, Mandy. I just… almost fell from a stool. But no harm done.”

She expresses her sympathies before going to the study area. You take a deep breath, and disappear into the back room for a glass of water.

There’s tittling in the stacks, but you don’t pay it any mind: it’s part of library life, especially on a campus filled with hormonal young adults. It’s not until your hear Professor Pike’s name mentioned that you stop writing on your keyboard, and strain to hear better.

“He’s the best lecturer here.”

“And he’s so fucking hot, don’t you think?”

“Cara! He’s a million years old!”

“No, he’s not, he’s like the youngest of the faculty, except for Langley, but she’s a woman.”

“Well, I’m bi, and she’s fine too.”

Shameless giggling ensues, and you have to stifle one as well.

“Wouldn’t mind doing some extra credit for Professor Pike…”

“That’s so tacky, Mindy.”

“Come on, like you haven’t thought about it.”

The girls appear from the stacks, carrying literature over to the self service check-out.

“I just think that his lectures are amazing. He can explain literally anything so that I get it. And he knows so much.”

You stare at your screen, but you’re listening to the students.

“He should lecture more, why doesn’t he have any classes?”

“Dug, because he’s a professor, he has other things to do.”

“I’d give him something to do…”

More giggling.

“I’m serious! I ended upw atching that Youtube lecture twice just because he’s so good!”

The girls borrow their books while talking, then nod good-bye to you as they leave. You nod back, then hit up Youtube, and type in Professor Marcus Pike.

You find a video of him giving a lecture on the history of art, and open it. And your jaw drops.

The man in the video is confident without being cocky, talkative, engaging, contact-seeking. He speaks clearly, even drops a couple of jokes, and he walks around the podium in the auditorium. If it wasn’t for that corduroy jacket with the leather patches at the shoulders, the one that you had enveloped around yourself last week, you wouldn’t have recognized the man.

You close the video and chew your lower lip. You always thought Pike was this nutty professor who didn’t know how to behave around people and preferred books to socializing. But the man in the video is nothing like that. So what is his problem when talking to you?

Navigating to Facebook, you search his name, finding him easily enough. He doesn’t seem to be very active, but his professional profile is listed.

His status is set to “single”, which surprises you, but you think no further of it. You click on to photos, finding only a few, most of them outdated.

“Good afternoon.”

You look up, startled at the familiar voice. Seeing Marcus Pike’s face, you close the browser window quickly.

“Sorry,” he quickly apologizes. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No worries, I was just… working.”

He clears his throat. “I’d like to return this.”

You accept the book from him, recognizing it as one of his previous ILL’s.

“Thank you.”

A couple of students come in, saying hello to both of you before disappearing into the stacks, phones in hand, library catalog probably open in their mobile browsers. Marcus looks after them, moving his weight from one foot to the other. You put the book to the side.

“Anything else I can do for you, Professor?”

He almost jumps at the sound of your voice.

“Um, no, thank you, I have to get back to work, grad student coming to see me, um, thanks, I’ll let your know if I need anything.”

He leaves the library, and you’re almost laughing. What the hell was that?

As soon as the students have found and borrowed their books, and you’re alone in the library with Mandy, she gets up and comes over to the desk. You smile your mild customer service smile at her, but she returns it with a wry grin.

“You know that he likes you right?”

You blink, not understanding. “Excuse me?”

“Professor Pike. He likes you.”

You shake your head to show her that you have no idea what she’s talking about, and she laughs.

“Oh, come on! The way he stutters and stumbles when he’s here. And he talks about you all the time, every chance he gets.”

“He what?” Your voice goes up, and you clamp your mouth shut. Mandy nods.

“He always tells us to use the library, and ask you for help. The librarian there is really competent, we’re lucky to have such a professional at our service, that sort of thing.”

“Why do you think that means he likes me?” you ask, cheeks heating up. This is stupid, this girl is half your age, and you’re talking like both of you are in middle school.

“Because he’s super confident in class, in meetings, whenever he talks to anyone, except you.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Hello!” Mandy rolls her eyes. “Earth to librarian lady! He’s like a flustered cinnamon bun whenever he’s around you – “

“Cinnamon bun?” you interrupt her, incredulously.

“Cutie patootie in old folk speech,” Mandy smirks at you, and you scoff.

“I know what a cinnamon bun is.”

“Whatever. He comes here constantly, doesn’t he? I sit here most days, and no other faculty member visits as much. He’s here practically every day, asking you the simplest questions. He’s into you.”

“I… don’t know what you’re talking about, Mandy,” you mumble, hands fidgeting in your lap.

“Alright, if you say so,” she smirks. “But I know what I’d do if I were you.”

Later, when she leaves the library, wishing you a good weekend, you open up the browser window again, Pike smiling charmingly at you from his profile picture. You look at it for a long time before logging out, and getting up to reshelf returns.

Friday afternoon in the library makes for slow hours. It’s usually empty – even Mandy has left – and while it gives you the opportunity to prepare for next week, there are Fridays when you’d rather just close up, if you could, and go home early.

A quarter to four, when you’re impatiently tapping your foot for closing time, Marcus Pike shows up again. Mandy’s words echo in your head, making you nervous for the first time, but you manage to suppress that, instead turning on your professional persona.

“Back so soon?” you ask him lightly

“Yeah, I need a book.” He seems to understand himself how stupid that sounded.

“You’ve come to the right place.”

He tells you the title, and you look it up.

“It’s in, call number N5198-5299,” you inform him, then looking up at his hesitant expression. “It’s in the corner over there.”

“Um, could you show me? I’m not good at this.”

“Okay.” You get up and walk around the desk. “But it’s a class that you use a lot, Professor, you should be accustomed to it by now.”

“Marcus.”

“What’s that?”

“Call me Marcus. I don’t much like titles anyway.”

“Uh-huh.”

You take him to the right stacks, walking in between the heavy cases. It’s a tight squeeze, this one, and the book is located further in. You pick it out, and turn around, only to find Marcus standing right behind you.

You’ve been in this situation before, many times even. Worst times were when you worked in the city library, and creeps would crowd you between the stacks, not trying anything but coming closer than necessary.

Your heart misses a beat, but you’re not uncomfortable. Instead, you smell something familiar and comforting, something besides old paper, leather covers, and ink. It takes you a moment to realize that it’s Marcus’s cologne, the corduroy, his shampoo: earthy but fresh, a little like the forest after rain, but with an undertone of old leather armchair.

You wet your lips, and hold up the book he asked for.

“Your book.”

“Thank you.” He doesn’t take it, so you lower your hand. He clears his throat, but this time, he doesn’t look away, but straight into your eyes.

“I was wondering…”

“Yeah?” you breathe.

“There’s this classic movie festival this weekend, and I was wondering…”

“If I wanted to go with you?” you finish his sentence for him, as he takes too long for you to wait. He blinks, then smiles that sweet smile again.

“Exactly. Yes. Would you?”

“I’d like that.”

“Really?” The smile seems to broaden even more.

“Sure. Tomorrow?”

“Perfect. I can pick you up, if you want to. At six?”

“Perfect,” you echo, now smiling widely yourself. He exhales, like he’s been holding his breath this entirely time.

“Perfect.”

The desk phone rings, startling both of you. The book falls from your hand, and you look down at it, then up at Marcus.

“I need to get that.”

“Of course,” he nods. You make a little movement with your head.

“I need to get past you, Marcus?”

“Oh, yes, of course, sorry.”

He backs out from between the cases, letting you out as well. His cologne seems to rub off on your arm when you brush past him, hurrying to the desk. You answer the phone and try to focus on the person calling, take a couple of notes, and end the call just as Marcus comes walking to the desk, book in hand. You check it out for him, give him your number, and he smiles again as he thanks you. You follow him to the door so that you can close up after him.

“I’ll call,” he promises as he steps out. You nod, hand on the door handle.

“Looking forward to it.”

He raises the book as a farewell, then starts walking down the corridor. You’re about to close the door when you suddenly step out, calling his name.

“Marcus!”

He turns around immediately, and now that he’s standing with his back straight, instead of hunched over, you notice how tall and broad-shouldered he is.

“Yes?”

“For the record… you’re into me, right?”

He chuckles, his ears turning pink. “Yeah, I’m into you.”

“Just checking,” you grin. “See you tomorrow.”

[sordidmusings]

Tender Love and Care - Massage 2/3 (Buggy x Reader)

Art by Capitanpoops!

A/N: May this be yet another testament to my addiction to both the clown and pining 🙏🏻 It's definitely time for the titular massage, don't you think? Buggy could really use it. Also a perfect way to be helpful and feel him up at the same time fdsfkdjflks Don't worry - he's looking at it as an excuse to be felt up so it's a perfect match. Theres a bit of a headcanon about the effects of extended use of his fruit in this one.

If you catch the meme reference hidden in this installment I love you lol

Word count: ~6.6k

Warnings: afab!reader (no pronouns), suggestive themes but nothing nsfw, humor, weapons grade pining, idiots in love, a little more of Buggy being a prickly bitch, also more of him being touch-starved and desperate for affection, this time the reader has some time in a fantasy world too, you maybe probably also give him a slap on the ass (he deserved it)

<-Prev Next(coming up!)->

~ ~ ~ ••• ✦✦✦ ••• ~ ~ ~

On the other side of the door, you frowned and hesitated. His voice sounded tired and grumpy. Had you taken too long and robbed him of time he’d rather be sleeping? Had he actually been upset that you had ordered him to bathe instead of asking? Had something come up in the time you’d been gone? Only one way to find out.

You had to stop and stare at Buggy once you were in the room. He looked gorgeous. You already knew he was hot but this was a different type of attractive. Even though the loose clothing you’d stolen for him (sorry Zoro) was casual sleepwear, the way it draped brought out the places where he was bulked up. Each lax section of soft cloth juxtaposed beautifully with the spots where muscle pushed against fabric. Shoulders, chest, and thighs stood out to you most, calling to you with the request to treat them as overstuffed pillows pressing at their cases. You admired him as your eyes made their way back up to his face. His hair was pulled back in a large messy bun that looked so, so soft and left his face completely unobscured. The refresh on makeup was skillfully executed and brought out all his features in a way that had your mouth run dry. The tempting lines of his lips stood out behind vibrant red. His brow and cheekbones were highlighted by slashes of blue. His sea-glass eyes looked all the brighter set against a rim of dark lashes and smudges. You were probably staring too long, but it was too difficult to look away.

Buggy didn’t mind. He can’t remember someone looking at him with awe this way before. It was the best balm he could've asked for to cover his freshly agitated self-loathing. He almost couldn’t believe that his efforts on his appearance had worked out so well. Feeling high off of his success, he couldn’t resist taking some time to gloat.

“Need help picking your jaw off the floor, sweetcheeks?” he teased. His teeth bared in a wide smile, splitting his face and narrowing his eyes. His canines shined white against the dark of his lips.

One hand flew over to you and held your chin. Buggy placed the pad of his thumb against your bottom lip, before rubbing the whole length of it down. Enraptured by the sight of your lip being pulled, Buggy stared and swallowed hard. His breath shook lightly, just like the breath he felt puff out against his hand. He let your lip flick back up before pressing his hand up to guide your gently parted mouth closed.

Feeling unsure of where things would go next, you cleared your throat and turned away. Maybe something routine would settle your nerves. Lotion. Yeah, that would work. The movements would be calming and it would let you stay in your own physical space until you were less flustered. Maybe it would even give you some time to cook up some vengeance and get the upper hand on the clown again.

Buggy was still taking up the chair at the desk, and you weren’t ready to breach the border of the bed yet. Luckily, there was a large pouf you could sit on and continue avoiding things. You tried not to let Buggy’s gleeful giggling at your expense goad you into saying something stupid to shut him up. Instead, you focused your attention on the calming smell of your lotion as you opened the tub. Delicate scents of amber, wood, and lavender greeted you and the pavlovian training from a long history of hard days smoothed out to this smell made you instantly loosen and breathe deeper.

“Were you a perfumier pre-pirate or something?” Buggy asked. He had made himself sound condescending, but you caught the interest in the way he looked over at you. 

You had noticed before how very unsubtly he had taken to your care products anyway. You had caught him sniffing at his own hair more than once since you’d washed it. If there was an occasion with an excuse for him to be close, his face tended to gravitate around your shoulders and head and you could’ve sworn he’d deepen his breath. It skirted the perfect line between sweet and pathetic for you to let it continue. Some part of you wondered if you would find it creepy from someone else, but a much larger part of you didn’t care.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, circus boy,” you scoffed. Having made quick work of your feet, you were now on to massaging the creamy lotion into the meat of your calf. 

“That’s not one of the things you’re allowed to call me,” he said, lip curling. “Closest you can get is ‘ringmaster’.” He paused then added as an afterthought, “You could always just keep it to ‘master’ too.”

“You wish,” you laughed out. You had switched to your other calf, the one closer to Buggy, and bent your leg towards yourself this time, tired of bending forward. Buggy’s rebuttal died on his lips as he watched your movements, especially the way it made your sleep shorts ride up. He didn’t know if he wanted to know how your hands felt, digging long stripes across skin and muscle, or how it felt to replace your hands with his, molding and admiring your body. His indecision only grew as you moved up to your thigh.

Noticing the long silence, you looked up at Buggy to see what had him distracted. His gaze was glued to your hands. To make sure that he was watching and not staring into the abyss, you leisurely slid your hands all the way back down to your ankle. His eyes intently followed the whole process. Definitely watching. Huh.

Going to the other thigh, you tried to decide how to react to that. Sure, he’s been flirty and so have you, but he’s also missed too many offers for closeness for you to think there was more to it. He’d shy from your hands more often than he would seek them and he tended to make himself scarce soon after your personal spaces mingled. That’s one of the things that tipped you off that he liked your shampoo and not you; it was the only time he would truly linger. You had decided that he yearned for touch but not your touch.

The thought had little pangs going through you, causing you to slow and slump. You looked back up at him and saw the longing in his eyes before he covered it up by screwing up his face and sticking his tongue out at you. What a fucking child. He’s perfect.

So, you treated that longing as what you thought it was: pure touch-starvation. You’ve been there and knew that pain. Honestly, you fell into it pretty quickly. Recently that was exacerbated by leaving Luffy’s crew, who would keep you sated on that front. Well… mostly Luffy, but Usopp was a hugger and Sanji would never be upset with contact. Nami would sometimes tolerate it, giving you the energy of a standoffish cat beginning to accept your presence. The most you broke out of Zoro were playful shoulder bumps and other such affectionate roughness. Reminiscing aside, you didn’t want Buggy to ache like that.

Gesturing towards Buggy with the lotion, you asked, “I’m guessing you didn’t use any yet?”

“Why would I? I don’t need it,” he responded, furrowing his brows.

“Well you won’t die without it I’ll give you that,” you started, “but it makes your skin soft and smells good.” You were surprised to see him take a moment to think over your offer so quickly. His eyes lingered on your legs again, and you worked to tamp down the hopes for affection it brought up in you.

“Looks like too much work,” Buggy dismissed, getting up and making for the bed.

“I’ll do it for you,” you pressed, falling victim to your own yearning for contact.

Buggy froze completely, even halting his breath, repeating the sounds of your voice in his mind to make sure they actually made those words. No way. Yeah, you did that lovely hair wash and seemed soft on him, but he figured that was mostly from pity for how helpless and bedraggled he was as a head. There’s no way you’re here just handing out a massage. “Care to repeat that, dollface?”

“I’ll do the lotioning for you, like, give you a massage,” you explained. The fact that he still hasn’t moved was making you nervous. It was a good thing you couldn’t see the wide-eyed look of startled prey frozen on his face. “If you don’t want me to that’s fi-”

“No!” Buggy yelped. Head and torso spun around, lifting off his lower body in his haste to face you. His lower body caught up and he popped back down onto his waist, causing his clothes to flutter. “I mean, uhhh-” he cleared his throat “I don’t mind. It’ll be a nice service for your Captain.” By the end of that, he at least started to sound smug and teasing again. There was no saving it, but you were gracious enough to let the fumbles pass this time. It helped that his eagerness was flattering.

“Sure thing, Cap,” you said, messing up the title to keep at least a small level of disrespect to rub at him. He was too fun to bait.

“It’s Captain. Captain Buggy, actually,” he told you. He backed up and sat on the edge of the bed to watch your approach. “It’s easy - Cap-tain Bu-ggy.” 

You huffed good-naturedly at him talking to you like you were a child, split syllables and all. Might as well continue toying with him.

“Cap-” you kneeled down between his legs “-tain” you had a hand at each of his ankles “Boo-” his left pant leg was pushed above his knee “-gie!” and the right one follows.

“You are such a brat,” he chastised, trying to sound stern and pissed off, but he was too distracted by the way the mischievous glint in your eye had his heart pounding. He had no clue what you were planning, but he was sure he would hate and love it. “Say it right.”

“Or what?” you snorted dismissively, rolling your eyes and trailing light fingertips down his shins. Unfortunately, that was a step too far; something in him felt you saw him as a foolish boy in that moment, making him lash out.

Your cheer fell the moment his hand fisted the front of your shirt. His grip tugged you in and his face got as close as possible without breaching to touch you. For a fraction of a second, it didn’t matter how pretty those eyes were; all you could see of them was anger. 

“Sorry, Captain Buggy,” you mumbled quickly. For a tense few breaths, his wild eyes peeled yours apart. You let him, wanting to show compliance and that you had nothing to hide. You got to watch first-hand how the fight left him in his relaxing brow, drooping shoulders, and slipping grip. Those fiery eyes lost their burn and his look closed off into something you couldn’t understand.

“Whatever. Just don’t do it again,” he grumbled. Sometime when the two of you had more practice opening to each other, you needed to ask him precisely what ‘it’ was. For now, you would file this away to await that day.

“I won’t,” you promised, truly meaning it. It wasn’t due to the threat but because you hated when he was upset. You started to get in your own head; somehow it seemed each time you moved to get close to him that you would upset him. The night that you two shared a hammock had ended up lovely, but you couldn’t help but worry that you were crossing boundaries he had tried to express to you through these turns of temper.

Buggy noticed how your hands at the lotion had become limp and hesitant. You didn’t want to touch him. But you offered! You can’t take it away from him now; he needs it. Hot shame broke across his skin at the realization that he had lashed out at you and made you nervous to touch him. You should never be scared of him and he resolved to stop giving you reason to be. You should look at him and see a reliable Captain, a brave protector. A lifelong lover. The ache was back and more pungent than ever.

You were still stalling, tracing nonsense into the lotion and shifting on your knees, when the hand that had been loosely holding your shirt instead smoothed it out and Buggy’s other hand grabbed your own and placed it against his calf. The hand at your chest rubbed soothing swipes back and forth beneath your collarbone, easing the creases he’d made out of the fabric of your top. You began to mimic this motion on the side of Buggy’s leg. Before you started to commit to your task, you looked up to meet Buggy’s eyes. He wouldn’t say the words, but his eyes were glassy and pleading for forgiveness. While words were nice, you could feel how genuine the apology was through his caring and nervous touch, and for now that was enough for you.

A tentative smile eased onto your lips and Buggy felt some of the pressure in his throat and chest loosen its grip. Your other hand joined the first in kneading his muscles and his lungs were freed enough to stretch full again.

He watched you intently while you set about lotioning his legs. The task helped you ease back up and you quickly took to enjoying it; touching Buggy always had your heart fluttering. You felt like you were edging on something unknown and unexplored and exciting. You had gained quite the affection for this temperamental and wounded man. You wanted desperately to be the one to soothe and comfort him and make it so more of that goofy and loving side of him could flourish. The goofiness has come out quite easily but he holds his love very close to his chest. You imagine that is the place that has been the most damaged with how he guards it. His pride also seems to be held quite close for fear of injury.

Buggy hummed out relief as you pressed more firmly into his calf. It gave you more confidence in your touch to know that you were making him feel good. Working thumbs down next to his shin, you marveled at the fact that even the soft hairs there were blue. You found it fitting that so much blue was wrapped into his looks: blue like the sea that promised the freedom that he endlessly chased, blue like the sky that has been his roof since boyhood, blue like the melancholy that steeped into his being. Red fit him too - his nose, his lips, his passion, his rage - but the blue seemed to run deeper.

Tending to the second leg, you broke yourself from your reverie to check in on Buggy. He was looking down at you, but you could tell from the glaze in his eyes that he wasn’t actually seeing you. Wherever he was in his head, you hoped that it was kind. 

You’d happily take advantage of his zoning out to stare at that pretty face for a while. The makeup highlighting his features looked extra meticulous, not a single wobble in the diamonds over his eyes. The color he put on tonight was richer by his lips and eyes than you’d ever seen it. Dark smudges fit him so nicely; they made his eyes more entrancing and the sea-green of his irises stand out. You trailed your gaze down to admire the other feature he’d emphasized; his lips. The bright crimson of his painted smile bled into a hypnotizing deep carmine right where you would kiss. Your new favorite color was interrupted by a flash of pink - a nervous tongue flicking to wet his lips over makeup - and you looked up.

Buggy’s eyes have managed to darken even more with his blown pupils. There was a questioning furrow to his brow but no apprehension to match it. His posture seemed a lot more leisurely than the hard set of his shoulders you had seen after his outburst. It made you smile brightly up at him, pleased that you were making him feel better. His eyes shot away from you, and you could’ve sworn you saw a flush peeking out on his cheeks. You placed a hand on each of his knees, giving them a playful squeeze.

“Wearing anything under these?” you asked, tugging at the pant legs shoved up on his thighs. Buggy took a second to choke on his surprise. He recovered quickly.

“No, but don’t let that stop you,” he teased. Ah, there’s that cheesy wink, tongue click and all. What a man. It was even better knowing that he’d shy away the moment your fingers touched his waistband. You eyed that waistband longingly for a moment before deciding to keep things away from your other massage talents.

“Captain!” you gasped in mock offense. “You’d offer such a thing to a pure maiden like me?”

“Pure maiden?” he laughed out, much too amused at the idea. “Oh, sure, the same pure maiden who offered a ‘tasting’ to that pretty boy chef?”

Despite laughing with him, you still gave his thigh a little smack for the jab.

“He was the one who responded to a compliment of his palette with ‘thank you, love, my tongue is well trained’!” you defended, making sure to put on a terrible impression when quoting Sanji. “What was I supposed to do? Not flirt back?”

“Do you always just flirt black?” Buggy’s eyes and tone turned more intense but not angry. You were happy to see that nothing harsh spilled into his expression with that focus.

“Only if I enjoy a person,” you responded evenly, a bit apprehensive of where he could be leading this. “I don’t play to anyone I don’t like.”

A pleased grin slowly split his face and you focused in on his shining teeth framed in blood red lips.  His words came out light and airy in a way that made you suspect a trap beneath their veneer when he asked, “Then tell me, little tease, do you like me?”

Buggy’s sudden confidence quickly had yours faltering. It felt the same as when someone toys with you because they know something you don’t. He had to have something up his sleeve to set you up like that. Sure, he had a moment earlier when he noticed your gawking, but this can’t be the same Buggy that tripped on his own feet when you offered to learn burlesque for his show. You decided to play it safe.

“Of course. I chose you as my Captain, right?” Agree but deflect - perfect.

Buggy wanted to be frustrated at your answer. Actually, some piece of him was - he was sure you knew that’s not what he was getting at - but he was also happy. You did choose him. You chose to run away with him, a pirate you barely knew, not to mention that that short time was always spent with one of you as the other’s hostage. He’d question your judgment if it weren’t benefitting him so much. Even if it wasn’t what he wanted (‘yet’ he hoped), you liked him enough to completely change the trajectory of your life path to run parallel with his. That counted for something. A lot of something. 

The affection that started to blend into Buggy’s eyes had your heart stuttering. You couldn’t look away even when he gently placed a hand atop your head then petted it slowly back and down so that he held the back of your head.

“Right,” he responded quietly. He gave two gentle scratches to the base of your skull before leaning away from you. The distance helped break you from the spell his gaze had you under. He huffed out a breath then asked, “So, what’s next?”

“I can do your back?” Yeah that should help; it would keep those pretty eyes from making you want to bare your soul. It seemed to be their mission tonight to do so by force or by favor and you were not ready for him to find the immense (and still somehow growing) affection for him there. You weren’t ready for the rejection you expected. You don’t think he would reject a more active night sharing a bed but you were certain he would reject the pursuit of love and that’s what would actually hurt. And besides, it would give him way too big of a head and the teasing would become unbearably annoying.

Oh, wow, when did he take his shirt off? Were you really zoned out thinking for more than a few seconds? And how come this man makes chest hair look so damn good? You wanted to feel that dark blue under your fingers and the pecs decorated with it as well. His shirt did him justice but he looks just as good, if not better, without it. Those pecs flexed a few times, letting you know he caught on to your staring again. 

“You’re really distracted today,” Buggy said through a smile, looking all too wolfish for your liking at the moment.

“What can I say, I love blue and you’re just lucky to be covered in it.”

“Well I am a natural bluenette,” Buggy said with that stupid, wonderful, self-satisfied glint in his eye he got every time he tried out one of his tenuous puns. 

“You are the worst,” you laughed. The corners of his cheeky smile pulled wider. “Here, let me set up for you.”

Buggy quirked a brow at you but said nothing as he watched you shuffle onto the bed. You grabbed the pillows from the head of the bed and laid them out in the middle. After making an upside down “T”, you took a moment to fluff them for maximum comfort. Luckily, the inn didn’t skimp out on pillow budget so you had a lot to work with. You finished by giving them an appeased nod then turned back to Buggy. With dramatic flair, you swept an arm through the air over your setup. 

“Your throne awaits,” you said. You patted the top pillow, “Chest here-” and the middle of the bottom one “-and hips here. Keep your head above the top one with your forehead on your arms so you don’t have to crank your neck the whole time.”

Buggy began moving to the center of the bed with a sarcastic “Yes, your highness” and turned to lay on his stomach. You took the opportunity to admire your beloved blue on his chest and happy trail. You scooted to sit on your knees right next to his side. Looking down at his back, you took in the muscles he had built there too. They made enticing lines across the expanse of soft skin and you were ever more eager to be able to have your hands on him. 

You leaned forward to begin a few awkward times before deciding you didn’t like the angle. It would be more comfortable with a straight shot, not to mention you’d be able to do a much better job for him. You wanted to impress him (hopefully enough to be able to do this again), so you pulled together the courage to throw a leg over him. You hovered for just a second, before lowering yourself to sit on his glutes. It ended up being a more cushioned seat than anticipated (good for him) so you felt comfortable relaxing more of your weight down on him. Buggy let out a nervous little giggle before he cleared his throat and shuffled beneath you.

“Is this okay?” you asked, frowning lightly.

“Yeah, fine,” Buggy responded, too quick and too high. You rolled your eyes at his convincing response and began to lift your weight back off of him. He threw his left hand back to sink his grip into your thigh and keep you from moving.

“I said it was fine,” Buggy repeated too firmly, causing you to sit back down incredulously.

It was most certainly not fine. Buggy didn’t think that something so simple would fluster him so much, but his touch-starved nerves were staging light shows under his skin and his mind was running wild. He had hoped that the start of the massage would have prepared him for further contact. Instead, his brain was drowning under a tide of happy chemicals at the feeling of your weight and warmth. Your soft thighs pressed gently into the skin of his sides and the heat exchanging between your bodies had him melting into the pillows. 

You snuggled your legs more comfortably into him, and the wonderful pressure of the act along with the weight of you on him had him feeling held for the first time in… how long? The night of his head cuddled into your chest was close (and quite precious to him), but it was different with his body involved - more overwhelming. His heart ached again as he was left to take in the images his brain conjured of the two of you wrapped in each other to start and end the days. The pain of it was more poignant with the realism your closeness allowed. Yep, he was not fine, but he was desperate to stay right where he was.

The nerves still persisted though. If the firm strokes of your fingers along his calves had him holding back pleased sighs, he was sure he’d have to bite his tongue to keep from moaning with your hands working his tense back loose. He was already kicking himself for the giggle and crackling voice. You must think he’s so pathetic; how could you admire him when he always crumbled around you?

“Seafaring has certainly done wonders for you,” you complimented while trailing fingertips across his shoulders. Buggy blinked and worried for a second that you could hear his downturning thoughts with how well-timed your compliments tended to be. Your fingers brushed down the length of his spine and the shiver it pulled out shook the worries from him. Tracing that path back up, you turned your hand over to tease him with the brush of your nails. Another tremble rewarded your efforts.

After spreading a generous amount of lotion on your hands, you rubbed the moisture into the lower half of his back to start. It was a bit cold for a moment before it warmed under your palms and warmed the air with more of that relaxing scent. The lavender and wood settled over Buggy’s senses and helped keep his breath deep and mind quiet. You took your time enjoying the feel of him as you molded his muscles under the base of your thumb, moving from spine to side then letting your fingers touch all the way back to the start. 

Buggy was split between turning liquid under your touch and tensing up to keep control of his composure, and the divide only worsened with each measured stroke across his skin. When he let himself lean towards relaxing, he felt a whine pressing out of his chest and tucked his head down to bite into the plush pillow to hold it back. He found that clenching his teeth into something helped ground all of his tension there and he began to let his muscles relax with your urging hands. Even still, he had to continue biting back pleased sounds for fear of your reaction. Unwilling to part with your touch, he bore the brunt of his insecurities. Long and slow breaths helped him keep his nerves and excitement back, and he found the payment of filing this into his memory well worth the risk of embarrassing himself.

Your own mind quieted as you subconsciously mimicked his deepening breaths and filled your mind with your senses instead of internal monologue. They led you to indulge as your eyes saw Buggy look like art under dim lamplight.  You felt his form shift and mix with your hands under you, you smelled your lotion mixing with the sweet haze around his hair and the barely there scent of his skin, and you heard the ambiance of slow breathing and skin brushing skin. You yearned to fill your last sense with Buggy too, pulling him in for a kiss to have him eased onto your tongue.

Meanwhile, Buggy had sunk enough into the moment to forget how to yearn. He was already getting more than he could’ve hoped for from you, and the satisfaction of getting your touch so directly, intentionally, and extendedly had him on cloud nine. His brain was turning gooey and it was distracting him from his aversion to making noise; his deep breaths shifted to take on the air of a sigh each time a new or particularly needy spot found itself under your loving hands. He’d wind his jaw back tight again each time that he heard the noise become too audible, but each time he had less and less resistance to give. The desperation to stay calm and collected was sinking beneath the desperation to fall under the spell of your care. With each moment under your comforting weight, radiant heat, enticing scent, and worshiping hands he knew he’d drown under that rising tide. The surrender was frightening, but the other side seemed so blissful.

When you circled your thumbs right above the dimples on his lower back and worked them deep into the muscles framing his spine, you pulled the first faint moan from him. It was cut short by a tense inhale but the shaky sound resonated long enough to spread goosebumps up the back of your neck. Waiting until he started to exhale, you kneaded your thumbs all the way up until you were palming his traps and another moan followed, low and long. Since he wasn’t able to hide the sound, you got to hear every needy tone wrapped up in the pressure of his voice. Pressing his forehead down further into his arms, Buggy stretched his shoulders wide and the base of his neck up to give you more to touch while also feeling more hidden. It had him looking like a sleepy cat leaning into petting.

“Feels good?” you asked, just barely above a whisper but tone still noticeably eager.

“So good,” Buggy mumbled, voice thick and rumbling from his chest. The stubborn tightness he’s been holding deep in his chest was finally leaving him. The freeing space quickly filled with a thrill he found unfamiliar; it wasn’t bubbling, flinging, or shocking through him but instead it sat sturdy within his ribs, spreading and dripping like molasses out through his body. To your surprise, Buggy gave you more of that enticing sleepy lilt. “Splitting up can make me sore and fuck with my nerves. Leaves my muscles feeling-” he paused to grunt with relief when you broke up a knot that had tucked itself next to his shoulder blade “-heavy. Puts pin pricks on my skin like it's numb too if I’m broken up a long time.” Your hands pushed out to hold the lats that lay thick over his ribs. After a moment of simply appreciating the waves of his breath under your palms, you continued your massage and earned another pleased groan from him, this one completely unrestrained. “It’s worst when my head’s off - makes my whole body ache.”

Buggy had been simply talking without thought, so when you stopped for a few long moments he had the time to let his mind catch up. Before he had enough time to regain any of his anxieties, you resumed your task.

“That sounds awful,” you mumbled sympathetically. 

He hummed in agreement, but was too soothed to let his mind actually linger on any of his hurts or complaints. Everything was simply gentle breathing and soft skin. 

That head fuzz kept him floating through the rest of your attention. In the future he’d be kicking himself for not intensely focusing on recording every second down in his memory. As he was now though, that languid semi-sleep suspended outside of time was his personal heaven. 

You retained more of your own focus, but being more alert than Buggy in that moment was an exceedingly low bar. It meant that you were just able to keep your task going and be conscious of your actions. Beyond that, your mind wandered far and wide through scenes both domestic and dramatic. The same Buggy who brushed fingertips across your cheek to wake you also professed his undying love at the threat of you heading back to your old crew. The Buggy who placed a peck with an obnoxious “mwah!” each time you passed each other while readying for the day also cried from fear and relief and clung to you after he swept you away from danger. Your Buggy shared the mundane quiet with you through squeezing hands, silly faces, and leaning weight. Your Buggy bared his teeth at those who wronged you and spilled you over his bed to salve the wounds with fervent devotion.

The Buggy under you let out a quiet snore and forced you to fully exist in reality.

You giggled fondly at the man below you, heart swelling at the thought of how much more comfortable and relaxed he became. 

“Mmn-why’d ya stop,” Buggy grumbled. His sleep-thick voice barely made it past the pillow.

“I figured you were gone to the world,” you responded, “and besides, I’ve been at this for… about an hour fifteen actually.”

“Another then.”

“Another what?”

“Hour fifteen.”

You snorted at his needy petulance. Give him just a bit of attention and he’s immediately spoiled rotten.

“Not even a thanks first for the time already given?” you teased.

“Thank you, my sweetest, most dearest crew member! Truly you are a gift to your captain and deserve accolades and promotion,” Buggy snarked in a dramatic cadence, sounding like a play lead professing his love.

The only promotion you saw happening was his promotion from spoiled rotten to Spoiled Rotten Brat. 

“What position will I be promoted to, my sweetest and most dearest Captain?” You mimicked him but packed much more sarcasm into the flattery. Getting up onto your knees, you eyed him up and down. You knew how you wanted to shut him up but felt like you shouldn’t.

“Why, just what the most essential and beloved member of my crew deserves!” Buggy was trying to sound dramatic, but couldn’t keep the sound of his wide smile out of his voice. He peeked over his shoulder to expose that face splitting grin with you. Like always, the blues and greens in his smile-crinkled eyes messed with your heart.

“You’ll be my very own personal servant,” Buggy finally answered, looking like the very embodiment of self-satisfaction.

You blamed him for your slip in self-control.

The sharp sound that cut through the room and his shittalking as your palm met his ass was music to your ears. The moment after contact, you bolted for the door, leaving him behind with your laughter. Unfortunately, you were no match for the speed of chop chop hands, which latched onto your wrists to halt your escape. Buggy was right behind them, reattaching and then wrapping arms around you to throw you over a shoulder in one frantic motion.

The cackling that burst out of him was wild and bright and you couldn’t resist joining in. You wished you could see his face as it twisted in joy, but you were stuck hanging over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Your mind lost that thought along with all others when you felt a harsh smack against your own ass. When he received a disbelieving chuckle instead of vicious cursing, Buggy repeated the sharp motion a few more times for good measure. You yelped and squirmed playfully, mildly impressed how easily he supported your weight and kept his hold firm.

You decided he was a hidden gentleman when his hand only stayed in place for a moment before moving down to the back of your thighs. You shivered at the feeling of his hand brushing down the sensitive skin there to rest its warmth just above the back of your knee. He started walking, his steps bouncing through you, and just when you wondered where he planned to put you, your world spun. Springs creaked as your back met the mattress and continued their protests with each residual bounce.

“You’re not allowed to take up the whole thing this time,” Buggy teased, narrowing his eyes down at you.

“Like you needed the space.” You still started shifting towards the walled side of the bed to make room for him.

“You gonna hold your Captain’s weakest moment over his head forever?” Buggy asked.

“Unlikely, but no promises,” you responded, voice warbled by your heavy shifts to turn over and face Buggy once more.

He beat your grace by a landslide when he delicately sat on the bed and slid under the covers. It reminded you of someone trying not to alert a predator with any sudden movements. Or maybe a teen sneaking back into the house just before dawn. Grace leaves him once his motion stops though; he lays awkwardly on his back and his whole body stiffens up to resemble a plank. He’s kept himself arm’s distance from you, not at the edge of the mattress but close. And he really had the gall to say you’d take up the whole bed when he was going to act like this.

“You just had a hand on my ass; are you really that scared to touch me again?” Your voice is much more incredulous than judgemental. You were simply astonished by his capricious nature yet again.

Instead of responding, Buggy sent a pouty glare your way. You met it with an easy smile, making it begin to lean more pout than glare. It looked positively absurd coming from the corner of his eye because he was still too locked up to move. Wanting to ease him and getting tired of waiting (and missing his touch), you began to reach for him. Just to spite you, Buggy finally broke his method acting as Statue to turn his back to you. The huff he let out had you giggling again. You took a moment to cherish how much he’s had you doing that, especially tonight.

“If you think I won’t spoon you, you’ve got another thing coming,” you threatened.

You caught the barest hint of his gaze when he turned his head to peek at you. It was only there for a moment before he faced back forward and snuggled himself deeper into the mattress. Looks like someone might actually be up for little spoon.

Moving slowly so that he has plenty of time to object, you shifted yourself forward on the bed until you were only a few inches away. The divot both of your bodies were making was adding gravity to the pull between you two but you still hesitated. The final step to contact was the most daunting after all, and also the part you wanted to savor the most. You took a deep breath, smelling your own favorite lotion off of the exposed skin in front of you, and moved forward.

~ ~ ~ ••• ✦✦✦ ••• ~ ~ ~

<-Prev Next (coming up!)->

Tentative Taglist (don't wanna bug people and I know it's been a LONG time since some people have asked - no pressure!): @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @hey-august @click-and-flash-pest-captures @feral-artistry @haveatthee83 @schoute @paranoid-poppies @clownetomb @srgtjamesbarnes @karma-gisa @mythicallystupid

[lastoneout]

It's also like super fucking infuriating to see people continue to argue that generative AI is the best way for disabled and/or poor people to make art because like, you know what helps make art more accessible? Giving poor and disabled people money.

Like take me for instance, I'm disabled. I get severe migraines and intense leg/back pain if I sit at my computer for too long, my hEDS makes holding pens and pencils hard, my ADHD makes it hard for me to start certain tasks and/or stop them before I potentially hurt myself, my neck also hurts if I look down too much, my dyslexia AND my ADHD both make it difficult to keep track of a story as I write and use correct spelling and grammar, plus, I need to prioritize taking care of myself and going to appointments and keeping my house clean and that takes up a lot of my free time. All of these things make creating the kind of art I want to create difficult if not occasionally impossible.

So what do you think would solve my problems better? Giving me money so that I can have a drawing tablet and desk chair that won't hurt my neck or back, another tablet + pen and a lap table and comfortable body pillows for drawing in bed, easier transportation to my doctors appointments, effective treatment for my chronic pain and migraines, the ability hire someone to help me keep my house clean, a spelling/grammar checker that isn't complete ass, and a therapist and psychatrist who can help me manage my ADHD better?

Or an AI program that takes my input and spits out a drawing or story made of stolen content glued together that, in the case of the art, I cannot meaningfully edit without starting over, which also destroys the environment in the process?

Seems pretty obvious to me. I don't need AI, I need help to manage the things that are actually stopping me from being able to write and draw.

Or take my mom. She's had severe rhumatoid arthritis since she was a small child, her hands are deformed and she relies on her wheelchair to get around. She doesn't need AI to help her paint, she needs special paint brushes she can actually hold, a table her wheelchair will fit at, and someone to help her with personal hygiene/keep her house clean/take her to doctors appointments so she actually has free time to paint.

Does that poor kid growing up in public housing with parents who are too poor to afford art classes or supplies or to send them to college really need a computer program to draw for them, or do they need support to help them take those classes, buy drawing supplies, and money so they can go to college.

Blind people can paint, deaf musicians exist, people with missing limbs find all sorts of ways to make art, people with parkinson's paint with typewriters, my mother can't hold a normal paintbrush and she makes some of the most beautiful watercolor paintings I've ever seen, Van Gogh had bipolar disorder and only sold like one painting when he was alive, I mean for real how many different artists have you heard of who's biographies start with them being born into poverty?

This is not meant to be inspiration porn, these people are just ones who were able to find ways to make art despite their struggles. They shouldn't have had to struggle at all, but god imagine how many more artisrs and writers we could have had if none of them had to overcome those struggles. It breaks my heart to think of all the wonderful art that never got to exist because no one helped the people who could have made it actually have the time, money, support, and safety they needed to make it. AI would not have saved them because making art isn't the problem, being disadvantaged is the problem. Living in a world that refuses to make room for you is the problem. Being fucking poor is the problem. Humans have always found ways to make art despite huge barriers, the solution isn't a computer that makes art for them, it's SUPPORT AND MONEY SO THEY CAN OVERCOME THOSE BARRIERS AND MAKE THEIR OWN ART.

As a last example: I love watching dancing and I would love to be able to dance, but I'm terrible at it(I got kicked off a dance team for not being able to learn the dance at all despite spending weeks on it, idk my brain wasn't made for dancing) and my disabled body makes it more pain than pleasure if not actively dangerous, anyway. Having a robot dressed to look like me dance next to me while I get to watch would not make me feel like I'm getting to dance. It would actually be extremely fucking demoralizing and frustrating. I would hate that!!

Having an AI spit out a painting or book would not make me feel like I got to paint or write a book. It's a fucking anamatronic doll running on stolen ideas and it will never be the same as getting to actually expirience the joy of creating art first hand. AI is not the solution. Helping people who need it is the solution. And I am CONSTANTLY pissed to think about all the time and money that goes into these fucking AI programs that would be better spent helping disabled and poor people get the help they need so they can make art themselves, all while the people running the nightmare plagiarism pollution machines pretend that their horrible inventions exist to help people like me.

[maldaptivedreamer]

From Afar P. 1

You didn't know his name and you didn't care to. You were perfectly content to watch him from afar...Or were you?

contents: Errors and mistakes, too lazy to edit, probably not entirely accurate to alien universe, Bjorn is also not a major character in this part, kinda long

wc: 1.7k

a/n: First thing to address is the fact that I absolutely hated Bjorn. He pissed me off and SPOILER: I was entirely satisfied when he died. Now because he’s a fictional person, I CAN change him, therefore I will. Second thing is, I have never written creatively before, so if my writing is clunky I apologize.

Masterist Next Part

Sweat dripped from your brow as you drilled into the rock. Your goggles fogged with humidity and your mask only made it harder to breath. Your arms trembled with effort as the alarm signaled the end of your shift. Immediately, your arms sagged. Despite the pain, you continued to push forward towards the tunnel's exit, dragging the heavy drill behind you.

As you stepped out into the open air, you placed your drill on the ground and quickly removed the bulky gloves from your hands. They were shoved under your arm as you pulled your mask and goggles down. You briefly paused. Looking up to catch your breath, you found little reprieve. Jackson's atmosphere is dense and contaminated with humidity and pollution. Even outside of the tunnel, the air is only a fraction better than the air inside.

Taking shaking steps towards the desk to clock out, you silently lay the drill in a compartment, where it is promptly checked in. "Another twelve-hour shift, no drill damage," the attendant muttered, barely glancing up from his screen. You nodded wearily, not bothering to speak. Your throat too raw from the dust and fumes. The worker inside nodded to you and handed you your bag. You ignored them, snatching your bag from the counter.

As you shuffled towards the locker room, your legs felt like lead. The ache in your muscles had become a constant companion, a dull throb that never truly faded. You passed by other miners, their faces etched with the same exhaustion you felt deep in your bones. The locker room was a cacophony of slamming metal doors and muted conversations. You peeled off your sweat-soaked jumpsuit, wincing as the fabric clung to your skin. You change into a loose t-shirt and jeans. Boots shoved back onto your throbbing feet.

You uncaringly threw your goggles and mask into your locker, jumpsuit shoved into your bag. Slamming the door closed, you swing the bag around your shoulder. The sweat built up on your shirt quickly, soaking the bag as it pressed into you back and dug into your stiff shoulders. Your sweaty hands are wiped along your stained jeans.

You walked home as fast as your body allowed, but the trip home is long. As you weave through the crowd, paying no attention to those around you, you allow yourself to think. Deftly maneuvering between each person, you become lost in your own world.

The cycle never ends. Go home, go to work, go back home, and then back to work. Endless monotony. You exert all your energy for what? For nothing. Nothing to strive towards. Just a replaceable cog in their machine, destined to spend your whole life on this planet until you die. They have no regard for you, you’re just another expendable worker. As this bitter and depressing thought crossed your mind, you briefly faltered in your steps. All you do is work and work, you deserve to relax. To just sit and be.

You don't bother going back home to wash off the stink of a long work day. You know that if you go back home, it'll likely end with you not leaving. Instead, you make your way to the northern quarry. It had been completely drained and now acts as a spot for younger people to drink and hang out at.

The once bustling quarry now stands as a barren wasteland, its towering walls and deep pits looking more intimidating due to the dark sky. Graffiti covers its jagged surfaces, a mix of colorful art and desperate messages scrawled in quick strokes. The air around the quarry is thick with the stench of alcohol, cigarettes, and sweat. The faint aroma of weed lingers in the air, masked by the stronger scent of chemicals and decay. Despite the unpleasant smells, the quarry is usually alive with chatter and laughter.

You’d never been there before, only passing by, socializing and relaxing not having been high on your priority list. However, with this goal in mind, you determinedly walked towards your destination.

You tilted your head while chewing your lip raw, watching as he laughed. He leans in closer to his friends, flashing a handsome smile. Releasing your lip, you blow air from your nose and take a sip of the beer in your hands, grimacing at the taste.

Silently watching the people around you, you couldn’t help but steal glances at the pretty boy across the quarry. You’d noticed him before. Just in passing, but his pretty face hadn’t left your mind since. He stood out in the dim light of the quarry, his sharp jawline and tousled hair making him appear almost ethereal. His loose shirt waves in the humid wind. His laugh is infectious and loud, his eyes sparkling in the flickering light from nearby bonfires.

You watch as he focuses his blue eyes on a girl with a shaved head, sipping on his drink as she spoke. You chewed on your bottom lip as he licked the droplet of liquid that escaped his mouth. The pretty boy’s long fingers loosely wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle.

An amused voice cuts through your silent admiration, “You’re drooling.” You turn to see a girl with curly hair grinning at you. She brushes a stray strand away from her face and raises her eyebrows as she chuckles. You glance back at the attractive boy before turning fully towards the girl. You shrug, “Can you blame me? He’s hot and fun to look at.”

She nods towards him, "Are you gonna’ to go talk to him?" Her tone is playful and her brown eyes twinkle with humor.

You scoffed under your breath and responded firmly, “Absolutely not.” She looks at you with a puzzled expression as you give her a wry smile. Her own smile falters as she asks, "Why not? Are you embarrassed? I could introduce you to him if you'd like."

You emphatically shake your head, “Hah no. No thanks. I refer to him as pretty boy cause I don’t know his name. I do not want to know his name.  I haven’t talked to him because I don’t want to know if he’s an asshole. Like I said he’s fun to look at and I’d hate for him to ruin his pretty face with a shitty personality. It would also be too much work to find another hot person to quietly obsess over, so I’m good thanks.” You end your small rant with another wry smile and a drink. You return to observing the people around you as you await her response.

For a brief moment, there is silence before her boisterous cackling shatters the relative calmness of the night. You and several others instinctively turn to towards her. Her curls bounce as she laughs, gesturing towards the empty seat next to you with a mischievous smile. You nod and motion for her to join you. Squinting your eyes in amusement, your lips curl into a smile at the infectious energy.

Suppressing her giggles, she takes a seat next to you. "I'm Kay," she introduces herself. You exchange names and lean back in your chair.

"I don't recognize you. Are you new here?" You finish your drink, scrunching your nose at the bitter taste before responding, "No, not exactly. Lived in the northern colony til’ I was about 8 and my parents died in the mines… was moved here a little while after.”

Kay frowned and gave your arm a gentle squeeze, “I’m sorry…” There was a short pause before you spoke, voice soft “It’s been a while and I’ve had a lot of time to process everything, but I appreciate the sentiment regardless.” You return her gesture with a small smile and nudged her playfully.

Kay suddenly looks more alive, her eyes filled with a playful glint. "Do you make a habit of staring at people, or is it just him?" You chuckle and glance around, shrugging your shoulders. "I enjoy observing others from time to time...and yes," you nudge her playfully, "I may stare at him a bit more than others." She smirks and nods. Side by side, the two of you silently observe those around you.

As you take a quick glance at pretty boy, your face scrunches up in confusion. You sit up taller and ask, "Wait, do you know him?"

She laughs quietly and confirms, "He's my cousin." You take a deep breath and face her. Kay watches as you start to speak, but you stop yourself mid-sentence. She raises an eyebrow in question. “I was going to apologize but I’m not sorry.” You shrug and give her a playful grin. She shakes her head with a smile, “You shouldn’t be anyway, he can be an asshole.”

You lean back and prop yourself up on your elbows, shaking your head in playful frustration, “Damn…I knew he was just a pretty face.“ Cliquing your tongue, you give her a grin. You look up and lock eyes with pretty boy, whose piercing blue stare take in every inch of you. He takes you in from head to toe before meeting your gaze again. You raise an eyebrow, feigning disinterest as if you had never noticed him before. He flashes a smile and winks at you, licking his lips playfully.

Kay snapped you out of your staring contest with a gentle push and a mischievous smile. "You've caught his eye now. What should I say when he inevitably asks about you?"

You burst into a fit of laughter before shrugging, "I have no idea. Let's just not tell him anything. I don't need to know about pretty boy and he doesn't need to know about me." You gesture towards him with a playful grin, briefly meeting his gaze. His eyes widen for a split second before he returns the grin. He takes this as an invitation and stands up, prompting you to do the same. "Sorry to cut this short, but I'm exhausted from my shift." Kay stands up and surprises you with a hug - awkward, yet oddly comforting. As you part ways, you turn to leave but pause, “I’ll see you soon?” You cringe internally at how needy it sounds, but are relieved when she nods and says, "I'll see you soon." With a genuine smile, she leaves.

Without paying any attention to the pretty boy with blue eyes, you turn and begin making your way home.

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