#arched display shelf | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

symbiomancy · 1 year ago

Text

boutique —minotaur

—summary: Your minotaur companion ruined your underwear after your speed date, so he makes good on his promise to replace them.

// AO3 // monster masterlist

—cw: minotaur x reader, smut (p in v sex), creampie, belly bulge, squirting, size difference, mentions of fantasy racism (I tried to stop myself from adding plot obviously I failed ok)

—wc: 2,2k

—a/n: part 2 of this! also I'm switching to shorter smut for a while, I watched the haikyuu movie yesterday and I gotta write sth for my stupid rooster head captain on my main.

You exchanged phone numbers after your little tryst in the bar bathroom.

And you’re content to write it off as a one-off fling until he calls you on Tuesday evening to invite you shopping — because he still has to make up for the pair of panties he ruined (and kept). You cannot contain your grin as you settle on the time and place, and you confirm you’ve received the text with the exact address.

Said address leads you to a fancy boutique. You glance down at your yellow sundress, wipe off the imaginary lint, and ignore the thought of being underdressed to shop in a place like this. You glance at your phone to double-check the address. It’s the correct building.

You nearly jump out of your skin when the front door of the boutique opens with a flourish and your minotaur companion greets you with a wave. Some pedestrians pause and stare, and you duck your head and hurry over to the store door, press past the minotaur’s body to escape into the building.

The interior is nice, fancy even: high, arched ceiling and tall windows, pillar with intricate carvings situated around the store, cream-colored walls with black shelves, black tables displaying merchandise. Sculpted models of bodies are erected onto said tables and shelves, a different monster everywhere you look. One table has a naga statue, a shelf has something with tentacles you can’t make out from the distance, and a third displays a sculpted orc lady. Her tusks are capped with gold.

Other than you, the minotaur, and the display bodies dressed in gorgeous lingerie, the store is void of life.

“Nobody’s here today,” the minotaur says.

“Oh?”

“I take care of the business part of running a business; my sister works with designers to order from. She also arranges models and sculptors for the display models.” He places his hands on his thighs, and runs them up and down once as if he’s nervous. “It’s just us today. I hope that’s okay.”

You nod, and let a small smile curl your lips up. The minotaur motions you along with the sweep of his hand, leading you through the showroom, winding around the displays — they’re gorgeous, obviously not mass-produced — until you arrive at a section with models of familiar build on the tables. Humanoid.

He follows a few steps behind you as you make your way around the tables, stop to pick a garment up to examine it, then carefully place it back. They’re gorgeous: lace-trimmed pieces, bejeweled pieces, crotchless pieces — your face heats up when you pick up a cute pink thong and realize it’s crotchless. The minotaur behind you pointedly looks away.

There’s a plush seat outside the dressing rooms and the minotaur takes a seat, and motions you towards one of the stalls. Though it’s much less like the bathroom stall from your previous encounter and more like a small but spacious room carved into the wall, separated from the store by a curtain.

You stare at the array of lingerie sets on their hangers and reach for the red one, fold your dress, and place it onto the long seat in front of the mirror.

The red… looks good. You twirl in front of the mirror, place your hands on your chest, onto ur thighs, onto ur ass, turn again and again and again. You… look good. It’s comfortable, too; the bra doesn’t dig into your skin and the seams on the panties don’t itch. You reach for the curtain and take a deep breath, then pull it back.

The minotaur looks up from his phone, lets it slide between his thigh and the chair armrest. Heat rushes to your cheeks but it’s way too late to back out, so you give him a slow twirl. He’s silent, staring at you, a closed fist pressing against his mouth. The silence stretches, drags.

“Can I ask you something?”

“You look amazing,” he says then, voice strained. Your entire face explodes in warmth and you nearly trip over your feet as you step back into the dressing room, yanking the curtain between you. “Sorry, I —”

“No, like… I wanted to ask why you approached me at the speed dating event.” You shrug off the red set of lingerie and place it on top of your dress. You slide the white set off its hanger and — oh fuck, the crotch area is just see-through lace.

“You’re gorgeous. I wanted to meet you.”

Your face might melt off at this rate.

“Well, I mean, humans have a… reputation, and attraction to anything non-human is considered sexual deviancy on a fetishistic level — as if anything other than straight vanilla sex isn’t also considered sexual deviancy. High school health classes were miserable enough and they chose to spread the propaganda spiel about how you shouldn’t fuck anything non-human because they’re below us. ‘Humans are the superior race’ or whatever — what a load of crock, how are you smarter than something with three heads and three times the brain?” The white bra is even better, makes your tits pop.

On the other side of the curtain, the minotaur chortles. “The amount of lectures we got about not hooking up with human women…” he huffs. “Sexual deviancy part matches up, though.”

“Oh? Were your reasons more interesting than ours?”

“Well, they liked to say human women specifically would use us for our cocks, then cry about assault and have their males skin and wear us… Men would wage war even if it was consensual because they think we’re below them.” You wince at his words. “History sure isn’t pretty, huh?”

“Yeah.”

You pull the curtain back and step out, do your little twirl for him. He hums appreciatively, motions towards the large mirror next to the dressing room. You step up and angle your body back and forth as he looms behind you, arms crossed over his chest. His biceps bulge through the button-up shirt he’s wearing. His heated breath caresses your bare back.

“Are those two the only ones you picked?”

“No, there’s one more.”

The minotaur nods and steps back to allow you passage into the dressing room.

Inside, you nearly keel over when you realize the last set has crotchless panties. But considering your companion has once already rearranged your guts in objectively worse conditions… You pull the curtain back to stick your head out.

“I’m not coming out in this,” you say and motion him inside with the jerk of your head. He adjusts himself and stands, and oh — you pointedly ignore the bulge in his pants as he slips through the curtain. He doesn’t stray far from you, stands so close you can practically feel the heat rolling off his body. Slowly, you turn to give him the full view of the piece, try and fail to ignore the shape of his cock through his pants, fuck he’s huge, stop when you can look at him head-on in the mirror again.

The minotaur raises a hand, drags his fingertips across your skin, leaves goosebumps in their wake, up your thigh, over the curve of your hip, up your stomach. He pauses at your breast, places his large palm over it, and pinches your nipple between his fingers. You gasp, press back against him. The beast in his pants rests at your lower back.

His other hand finds purchase on your hip, drags over the front of your panties. You slide your legs further apart and his breath hitches when his fingers find your uncovered cunt. They stall on your clit and you try to grind against them, pushing your ass against him even harder.

The minotaur pulls the hand on your clit back and you want to whine as it relocates to your upper back. He pushes you forward. You nearly trip, barely bracing your hands against the plush seat with your dress and discarded items. He undoes his belt buckle with one hand and when he’s pressing against you next, the tip of his cock drags through your folds. You press back, try to grind against him.

“So impatient,” he tuts, pressing against your entrance. You’re almost shaking from excitement — every orgasm you’ve tried to draw out on your own between now and your little bar bathroom rendezvous on Saturday has been okay but not nearly enough to be thoroughly satisfying. Your own fingers are good but there’s something about another participant, one whose actions you cannot control and who could do whatever they want with you has something in your brain short-circuiting. He could use you as his personal fleshlight and you’d thank him just for being full of his cum.

The minotaur slowly pushes in and fuck, you can feel him everywhere. You stifle the moan in your throat as he bottoms into you — fuck, fuck, fuck, he’s so big you swear you can see him in your guts when you look down — and he pauses, exhales slowly. He’s thick, warm, you can feel every ridge, every pulsing vein on his cock pressing against your insides.

He moves, pulls out nearly all the way, and thrusts back in as far as he can. It drives the air from your lungs and with it, a loud gasp. Your face erupts in heat and you look down, away from your reflection in the mirror. He sets a slow pace at first and you push your hips back against him, skin slapping against skin. It echoes in your ears over the roaring blood, lewd and wet the sounds your pussy is making, and you try not to focus on it, yet it permeates through you, bounces around in your skull. He keeps the pace and lets his hands run over your body, petting and groping and tugging. His fingers catch your nipple through the sheer lace of your bra.

You cum right then and there, clench around him with a moan from the back of your throat, arms shaking under your weight. He slows and you frantically shake your head.

“More. More,” you manage between choked breaths, push your ass against his pelvis. He speeds up, hands traveling again, exploring. One rests on your right hip, the other cups the underside of your thigh and raises it, thrusts in and you nearly shout when he hits something so deep in you but it feels so good, so full.

So good and too much. He’s too big, too deep. He picks up the pace, every ridge and curve of his cock dragging against your insides. Your pussy dribbles around him, accommodates for his size even though it feels like he’s about to split you in half but he feels so good, he’s so deep. Every nerve in your body is alight, fingertips buzzing, mind fuzzy. You cannot form a single coherent thought, let alone words, and find yourself babbling nonsense mixed with pleas for more on his huge cock as he pistons in and out of your ruined pussy.

Maybe, maybe, those fuckasses had a point when they claimed human women would line up to be fleshlights for monsters.

Your vision blurs with tears — he’s too much, too much for your sanity, for your sopping cunt, as if he’s rearranging your insides with every thrust to fit himself in and you welcome it, meet his thrusts halfway with erratic hips. His hand moves, your thigh clutched in his palm, dragging your legs even further apart. He’s deep, so deep and his cock touches something and you see white, squirt around his cock as the orgasm hits you. Your body is on fire, heat rolling through your cunt to your torso to your extremities. Your arms are shaking under your weight.

Your fluid splatters over his pants but he doesn’t even react, mutters something under his breath, and picks up to pace to chase his own high in your spasming cunt. His thrusts are brutal, thick fingers digging into your flesh, fuck, you can feel him in the back of your throat. His breathing is loud and labored and even then it’s barely audible over the smacking when your skin meets and the squelch of your pussy as he pistons in and out.

The minotaur grunts, digs his fingers into your flesh so hard you nearly shout, and buries himself deep into your pussy. His cock pulses — fuck, you can feel it pulsing, spasming in your cunt — and cums with a groan. He presses in further, as if he has any room left, cums and cums and cums. There’s so much it seeps out of your pussy, coats your thighs as it traverses the length of your leg as it surrenders to gravity.

Everything aches. Your skin is sticky with sweat and cum, yours and his. Your breathing is erratic, chest heaving to take in oxygen.

He pulls out slowly, stifling a hiss. Pearly cum dribbles out of your pussy, lands in the puddle on the dressing room floor. Your legs give out but he’s there, large, warm, secure hands on your waist to keep you from falling. He picks you up with ease, lowers himself onto the plush seat, and rests you on his lap. You hear his heartbeat thundering under your ear but yours is no better right now.

“Would you…” he begins after a moment, still panting, and pauses to swallow. “Would you like to go out? On a real date, I mean.”

“Even though mingling with humans is the fetishistic kind of sexual deviancy?” You ask. Your minotaur laughs. It’s a pleasant sound, you find.

“Yeah.”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

banners by @/cafekitsune

#monster x reader #monster x human #monster #monster fucker #monster imagine #teratophillia #monster x you #minotaur x human #minotaur x reader #monster boyfriend #minotaur smut

1K notes · View notes

sserasin · 1 year ago

Text

bring it on

cw nsfw under cut, g!p yunjin, wnba!yunjin, female reader, cheerleader!reader, size kink, tummy bulging, degrading, use of pet names (bunny), use of degrading name (slut), unprotected sex (but she pulls out!), biting like once, locker room sex, kinda dumbification, reader kinda passes out for a sec

“y-you— did— so— well,” you gasp in between kisses, gripping her ginger hair at the base of her neck. you pull back, a string of saliva connecting your lips and your eyes flicker down to her smirking lips as she wipes the saliva away.

yunjin’s thumb pulls your bottom lip down, watching it bounce back into place, “i had a great cheerleader.”

you smile involuntarily, “i cheer for the entire team, not just you, y’know?”

“on paper,” yunjin sighs, hand trailing down to your clothed pussy. you were still wearing your cheer uniform— the basic short skirt and crop top. “but we both know the truth.”

you don’t have a comeback, merely grinning at her before tugging at her jersey, “are you gonna take this off or what?”

“oh, right here?” she chuckles, littering kisses all over your neck and sucking lightly.

“no one’s gonna come in,” you whine lightly, frowning at her with your sentence ending in a drawn out moan. you arch your back, pressing your tits against hers. your nipples perk up at the feeling of the jersey’s material and your uniform together.

“baby, with how loud you are, people will notice,” yunjin grins, but dutifully listens, anyway. she tugs your safety shorts to the side, your panties having a wet spot in the middle. when she runs her fingers through your folds, your panties stick to your pussy from how soiled they are. “i’ll slide right— in—” she plants a kiss down your chest with each word, bringing your top up to reveal your naked chest. she looks up, momentarily irritated, “you weren’t wearing a bra?”

“feels good,” you whine, throwing your head back. “jen, i can keep quiet, please.”

“we literally get noise complaints all the time,” yunjin smirks, hands gripping your thighs and hoisting you up to wrap your legs around her. you gasp in shock, eyes widening at the display of strength. it all just reminds you of how much taller yunjin was than you and how often she had to get things from the highest shelf for you, how she’d also often hold things out of your reach to be annoying, how she’d have to bend down to give you a kiss.

your eyes narrow at her, “because of you!”

yunjin presses her body against yours, rough jersey material rubbing against your pert nipples. you sharply inhale at the feeling, arching your back that’s against the wall. you can feel everything of yunjin. her chest pressed against yours, her hardening cock in her pants. “wanna bet?” she murmurs.

you scoff, pretending as if you weren’t highly turned on right now and practically soaking your panties and on her crotch area. “bring it on.”

yunjin’s eyes gleam, not saying another word as she presses her lips against yours. her hand cups your mound, teasingly sliding a finger up your slit before slipping in without any warning. your warm, tight walls welcome her and she almost moans against your lips, slipping her tongue in your mouth.

your hips buck, walls eagerly swallowing her fingers as she pumps them in and out. she curls them to easily reach your g-spot, your hand clenching against the back of her neck to ground yourself from moaning outloud. your breath is heavy as her pace picks up, the palm of her hand slamming against your clit and stimulating it.

your back arches against her, hand cupped over your mouth to prevent from making any noise. it was futile, though, as you were breathing too heavily and you could literally hear your slick squelching.

“look at you,” yunjin coos, free hand coming to grip your jaw as she held you up with her legs. you briefly think about riding her thigh, but decide you don’t want to wait any longer than you have to. “you feel good, bunny?” you nod with a mumble of her name, warmth spreading across your chest at the pet name. you grind against her fingers as you feel a knot forming in your stomach. she grins, feeling your legs shaking, “then why don’t you show everyone?”

it’s like her words gave you permission to come, your muffled moans and whimpers filling her ears like a sweet melody. she gently pulls her fingers out of you, making you wince before she kisses your cheek gently.

once you calm down, your eyes open and make contact with yunjin. you can still feel her cock against you, standing as proud as ever against your body. before she can even think of stopping, you grind your core against the roughness of her jeans. the stimulation hurts a bit, but you continue and eventually when you get the right angle, it turns into pleasure.

“oh,” yunjin breathes out, peering down between you two, “i haven’t even gotten an orgasm yet and you’re already wanting another one?” her smile is playful, but her eyes are dark, “you really are just a slut for dick, aren’t you?” you whine at the name, wrapping your arms around her neck in an attempt to pull her closer. “you’re so desperate you’d hop on anyone’s, bunny?” you shake your head frantically as her hands grip your waist firmly and pulls you off her.

“jen,” you drag out her name, “please,” your words are just below a whisper, a promise for just her, “i promise i’ll be good to you.”

“oh, i know you will,” she hums, her nose trailing up the side of your neck and making you shiver. your hole clenches around nothing, grinding down at air. “stop.” you listen, watching her as she lets go of you and still somehow manages to not drop you as she pulls her cock out of her pants.

yunjin presses her lips on yours as her cock slides through your puffy folds, slicking it up. like you said, you stay still despite wanting to move and sink down on her cock. the mushroomy head pushes past your folds, toes curling with each inch she slides in. she groans against your lips as you adjust to her size, feeling the tightness and warmth of your walls.

you roll your hips once you get too impatient when waiting for her to make the first move, “come on.”

“you always want me to do all the hard work,” she sighs, but listens. she raises you up before slamming you back down on her cock as she thrusts up, feeling the slight burn on your back from the wall. “which is so— fucking—” she groans, “—funny when you’re the one always begging for more. you’re such a desperate bunny

you gasp, clenching around her as the two of you set a consistence pace. you move when she thrusts, a mixture of your moans filling the warm air in the locker room. the fat head of her cock rubs against the spongy spot inside of your front walls with every thrust. whimpering against her shoulder, you swear you can literally feel her in your fucking womb. there’s an unfamiliar pressure on your lower abdomen, but you don’t really care enough to pay attention.

“oh, fuck,” yunjin groans, looking down between your bodies. a little out of it, you blink back a wave of overwhelmed tears and follow her gaze. the sight of it is enough to make you moan, rolling your hips forward weakly. a small bump was underneath the bottom of your stomach, your skin protruding slightly. her hand comes to rest lightly over the bump, “god, you’re so—“ tiny. compared to her, anyway.

“‘t’s too big,” you squeal, squirming away as she repeatedly hit your soft spot. you feel as if she was about to split you open on her cock. “you’re too big!”

“you can take it,” she grunts, biting down on your shoulder to conceal her noises as she ruts up into your faster. “you gonna give it to me, bunny?”

the only warning she has that you’re coming is you tightening around her, walls squeezing tightly around her cock as mindless babbles leave your mouth. she mosns as your cum creates a white ring around the base of her cock, slipping out of you and guiding your hand around her. her hand covers your entire hand as she jerks off hastily, doing most of the work but your hand felt too good around her, better than her own. her sharp gasp turns into a moan in your neck as thick ropes of cum paints your hands and stomach white.

you don’t know how long you’re out for, but you come to laying down on one of the benches as yunjin gently cleans you up. she pulls a pair of her spare shorts over you instead of your skirt, having been soiled from her cum. she smirks when your eyes meet, and you would’ve rolled your eyes if even that didn’t exhaust you. “welcome back.”

“shut up,” you try and say, but you’re sure it just comes out jumbled up as a mumble.

“don’t start battles you know you’ll lose, bun,” yunjin presses her lips to yours with a loud smacking noise, barely having to dodge your weak attempt to hit her. “‘cause i always win.”

#yunjin.txt #lsf.txt #writing.txt #yunjin smut #le sserafim smut #heo yunjin #jennifer huh #kpop gg smut #kpop girl group smut #le sserafim hard thoughts #le sserafim hard hours #le sserafim x reader #le sserafim imagines #le sserafim #kpop girl group imagines #gxg smut #lesbian wlw

1K notes · View notes

lilazooo · 2 months ago

Text

Leather Jackets & First Editions

Jason Todd x Reader / fluff, slice of life

You noticed him the first time he walked in—mostly because he looked completely out of place.

Leather jacket, bruised knuckles, a scowl that could burn a hole through your romance display table. He scanned the shelves like they personally offended him and picked up a copy of The Catcher in the Rye only to frown at it like it owed him money.

You arched an eyebrow from behind the counter. “Lost?”

But then you saw the way his fingers hovered over the spines—familiar, practiced. He traced the titles like they meant something. Like he already knew what he was looking for.

“Not lost,” he replied, eyes still on the shelf. “Just judging Holden.”

___________________________________________

He started showing up every Thursday.

Never bought anything at first. Just skimmed the shelves, made dry comments about genre tropes, and asked questions like:

"Why does every thriller have a dead wife?"

"Is it legally required for fantasy books to be 900 pages?"

You snorted once and said, “You’re one broken spine away from being banned.”

“I like the way you threaten me,” he said without missing a beat, and your heart might’ve stuttered a little.

___________________________________________

He didn’t talk much at first—just quiet nods and one-word answers. But he always carried a book with him, even if he wasn’t buying one. Always marked up with underlines, notes in the margins, and dog-eared corners that made your inner librarian twitch.

After a while, you stopped pretending not to notice the way he lingered. How he’d show up when the place was quiet. How he always left just after closing, like he didn’t want to be anywhere else.

One Thursday, you slid a copy of The Secret History across the counter—his style, a little dark, a little obsessive—and tucked a folded scrap of paper between the pages.

He raised an eyebrow but said nothing, only gave you that half-smile like he already knew.

Later that night, your phone lit up.

"Do I have to fake return this to see you again, or can I just ask you out?"

#jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd x y/n #jason todd is a book nerd #i love jason todd

294 notes · View notes

adjpngs · 5 months ago

Text

(1) oversize coffee mugs storage, (2) triple arch apothecary crystal/trinket shelf, (3) vintage wooden cubby hole wall fixture, (4) vintage display box, (5) githa storage container, (6) wooden trinket display shelf

#pngs #png #transparent #—#trinket #trinket box #mug #mug box #mug shelf

306 notes · View notes

realityjoey · 3 months ago

Text

SEASON 1, EPISODE 1: “PILOT”

The sound of boots hitting linoleum echoed through the halls of the LAPD precinct like the warning thump of an approaching storm. Officer Tim Bradford moved with deliberate intensity, shoulders squared, chin up, eyes already scanning for prey. Two younger officers trailed behind him, trying to keep up, practically tripping over themselves in their eagerness not to annoy him.

Tim, however, was in his element.

“Rookie Day,” he said, grinning like a wolf on the hunt. “Best damn day of the year.”

The younger officers exchanged wary glances, unsure whether to laugh or stay silent.

He continued without missing a beat. “They come in bright-eyed, fresh out the Academy, full of dreams and idealism—and I get to crush it all before lunch. It’s a public service, really.”

It wasn’t malice—at least not entirely. Tim Bradford didn’t hate rookies. He just believed that the real world didn’t have time for coddling. His job was to break them down and see what was left. Some would survive. Most wouldn’t. He was okay with that.

As they stepped into the locker room, Tim’s eyes scanned for his first target. It didn’t take long. Down the row, Jackson West stood at his locker, carefully unpacking his gear like he was setting up a display in a museum. Everything about him screamed new: the freshly pressed uniform, the shiny boots, the nervous little glances at his surroundings.

Tim zeroed in.

“West,” he barked.

Jackson turned, startled but composed. “Yes, sir?”

“You even know how to load your weapon, or should I prep some coloring books for you?”

Jackson straightened, his posture flawless. “Top of my class, sir. Certified and field-ready.”

Tim squinted, waiting for the flinch, the nervous smile, the over-eager stammer. But Jackson met his gaze with surprising confidence.

Tim’s jaw tensed. “Right.”

He gave a slight, dismissive wave and turned away, muttering under his breath. “Goddamn overachievers…”

He barely took two steps before he spotted someone else. A figure crouched further down the locker row, back turned, organizing her gear with quiet efficiency. Long legs in fitted black jeans, hair tied up, a casual shoulder holster slung across her body. She was humming to herself—something British, upbeat, and completely out of place in the grimy LAPD locker room.

Tim didn’t recognize her. That meant she was new. Another rookie.

Perfect.

He strode over, voice loaded with sarcasm.

“You lost, Rookie? Locker room’s not a damn concert.”

The woman stood slowly, not flinching, not rushing. She turned, and Tim’s words caught somewhere in his throat.

She was… unexpected.

Sharp green eyes met his without a hint of hesitation. A faint scar arched near one brow, and her expression was calm, almost amused. She looked him over once—cool and measured—and then spoke in a clipped, clearly British accent that managed to sound both tired and vaguely threatening.

“I could ask you the same thing,” she said dryly. “Though if this is how you welcome new officers, I’m starting to understand the dropout rate.”

Tim frowned. “You’re not a rookie?”

“Nope.”

“Then who the hell are you?”

She reached into her locker and slapped her badge onto the shelf. He glanced down. Detective Dylan Jenkins.

“Transferred in last week,” she said, like she was reading his mind. “Ten years in the Met. Homicide. And if you’re planning on trying to scare me off, you’ll have to get in line behind a few armed robbers, five ex-boyfriends, and my mother.”

Tim blinked.

She smirked.

“Nice try, though, tough guy. I’d give it a six out of ten. Maybe you’ll scare someone next time.”

He straightened instinctively, trying to regain ground, but her grin widened slightly—confident, unbothered.

“You think this is funny?” he asked, one brow raised.

“I think you’re funny.”

She slammed her locker shut with one hand and brushed past him without another glance, pausing only to nod politely at the two stunned officers still lingering nearby.

“Morning, lads,” she said smoothly, walking away like she owned the place.

Tim stared after her, momentarily speechless. The two officers exchanged looks behind him, clearly trying not to smile.

“Think you just met your match,” one of them muttered.

Tim didn’t look back. “She’s not gonna last.”

But even as he said it, he knew he was lying. She was going to last—and more than that, she was going to make his life a hell of a lot more complicated.

Ten minutes later, the bullpen was filled with the low buzz of conversation and the occasional scrape of chairs as officers gathered for morning roll call. The precinct’s large briefing room smelled of stale coffee, leather, and ink—familiar and grounding. Officers lined up loosely in rows, some standing with arms folded, others slouched in their chairs, tapping pens or scrolling idly on their phones.

At the front of the room, Sergeant Wade Grey stepped up to the podium with the quiet authority of a man who didn’t need to raise his voice to be respected.

“All right,” he began, voice cutting clean through the chatter. “Settle down.”

The room quieted almost instantly.

Grey scanned the room. “Got some fresh blood today, so let’s play nice. Or at least pretend.”

A few dry chuckles rippled across the room.

He gestured to the side, where three fresh-faced rookies stood against the wall like kids on the first day of school.

“First up: Officer John Nolan. Former construction business owner. Late bloomer, some might say. But don’t underestimate him.”

Nolan gave a polite nod, shifting a little awkwardly under the weight of so many stares. Older than the other two by at least fifteen years, he looked calm but out of place.

“Next: Jackson West. Top marks at the Academy. You may recognize the name—yes, he’s the son of Commander West. But no, he didn’t ask for special treatment. Let’s keep it that way.”

Jackson stood straighter, clearly proud but trying not to show it.

“And finally, Lucy Chen. Smart. Sharp. She’ll be learning fast—because she’ll have to.”

Lucy smiled faintly, the kind of smile that said she wasn’t here to be underestimated.

The room gave a mild smattering of interest—respectful enough, but unsurprised. Rookie intros were routine.

Then Grey turned back toward the wall. “And lastly, we have Detective Dylan Jenkins.”

Every head turned.

She stepped forward, hands casually in the pockets of her fitted jacket, chin tilted up just slightly. Calm, poised, completely unbothered by the full attention of a room filled with seasoned LAPD officers.

“Detective Jenkins joins us from the Metropolitan Police in London,” Grey continued. “Ten years on the job. Homicide. Multiple commendations. She’s not a rookie—but she is new to the way we do things here. Keep that in mind.”

Someone in the back let out a low whistle. Someone else muttered, “Damn,” under their breath.

Tim Bradford, arms crossed, leaned back slightly where he stood in the far corner, jaw tight. She didn’t even glance at him.

Grey’s voice cut back in. “Pairings for today: Chen, you’re with Officer Yates. West, you’re riding with Lopez. Nolan—Bishop’s got you.”

Each of the rookies stepped forward to meet their assigned Training Officers.

Then Grey paused.

“And Jenkins,” he said, “you’ll be partnered with Officer Bradford.”

There was a beat of silence.

Tim’s head snapped toward Grey like he hadn’t heard right. “Excuse me?”

Dylan turned her head, arching a brow at him like it was Christmas morning.

Grey didn’t blink. “You heard me. You’ll be responsible for giving her a crash course in LAPD procedures and American policing. She’s got the experience, but she needs to learn our way of doing things.”

Tim didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just stared at Grey like he might be able to stare him into changing his mind.

It didn’t work.

“Dismissed,” Grey said.

The room burst into motion—officers peeling off, meeting partners, heading to squad cars and desks. Dylan didn’t move straight away. Instead, she waited until they were nearly alone in the room.

Bradford still hadn’t said anything. His arms were crossed tightly now, jaw clenched, like he was holding back a hundred different arguments.

“Something wrong, Officer?” Dylan asked, ever-so-innocent.

He narrowed his eyes. “This isn’t funny.”

She smiled. “Didn’t say it was. But it is poetic.”

Before he could respond, Grey stepped down from the podium and approached the pair.

“Before you throw a tantrum, Bradford, let me be clear,” he said. “This isn’t a punishment. It’s a challenge. Jenkins isn’t some green rookie you can scare into submission. She’s here to learn the system, not the job. She already knows how to handle herself.”

Tim didn’t reply, but the tension in his shoulders said plenty.

Grey turned to Dylan. “You’ll report to Captain Andersen eventually, but for the next few weeks, you’ll shadow Bradford. He knows our protocols better than anyone. Consider this your American immersion course.”

Dylan nodded. “Understood.”

Grey gave Tim a final look—something between a warning and a dare—then walked away.

Tim let out a breath, turning to face her fully.

“Don’t get comfortable,” he said.

She smirked, already walking past him. “I rarely do.”

And just like that, Dylan Jenkins became the first person in a long time to truly throw Tim Bradford off his game.

And she knew it.

The patrol car rumbled steadily through the streets of downtown L.A., sun creeping higher above the skyline, casting long shadows against the cracked pavement. Inside the shop, the silence between Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins was thick enough to cut with a knife.

Tim drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift, his eyes scanning the streets like a hawk. He hadn’t said much since they pulled out of the precinct. Neither had she. The only sounds were the low static of the police radio and the occasional blare of traffic outside.

Dylan sat in the passenger seat, back straight, one arm draped over the door. She watched the passing storefronts and unfamiliar intersections with quiet interest, but her expression was unreadable. Stoic, detached. The silence didn’t bother her. She’d worked cases in the Met where whole days went by with only the sound of rain and crime scene tape flapping in the wind.

But she could feel him looking at her now and then. Weighing her.

Eventually, his voice broke the quiet.

“So,” Tim said, eyes still on the road, “why America?”

Dylan didn’t turn her head. “Weather’s nice.”

He glanced at her. “You don’t strike me as the palm trees and beach yoga type.”

She smiled faintly. “Well, I was deciding between here and Arizona, but I thought my accent would be wasted in the desert.”

He huffed a short breath. A noncommittal sound. He didn’t push. Not yet.

The silence returned—for about thirty seconds.

Then Tim suddenly slammed on the brakes.

The tires screeched slightly, the car jolting to a halt. Dylan’s hand instinctively grabbed the dash, her other already reaching for her holster.

“What the—” she started, but Tim cut her off.

“I’ve been shot,” he said, voice strained and loud. “Bleeding out. You need to call for help. Where are we?”

Dylan blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Where are we?” he snapped. “I’m losing blood, Jenkins. Tick tock.”

She stared at him, jaw tightening. It took her half a second too long to orient herself. The street signs were small and high, a layout nothing like the numbered, gridded roads she’d grown up with in London.

She looked left, right, spotted a cross street and muttered it aloud.

Tim leaned back in his seat, dropping the act like it was a coat he was done wearing. “Too slow. Now I’m dead, and it’s your fault.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” He checked the mirror and pulled back into traffic without another word.

“You did that fake act just to test me?”

“It’s not fake when it happens for real,” he said coolly. “I’m not here to hold your hand, Jenkins. You need to know the city like the back of your hand. If I go down, or you do, or someone else does, every second counts. You freeze like that on the job, someone ends up in a body bag.”

Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t respond immediately. He could feel the tension radiating off her now. Controlled. Contained. But real.

“I’ve done ten years of this job,” she said finally, voice low. “And I didn’t survive it by freezing.”

Tim didn’t look at her. “This isn’t London.”

“No,” she agreed coldly. “It’s a circus where apparently training means getting sucker-punched with imaginary trauma at a red light.”

Tim allowed himself a small smirk. “You’ll thank me later.”

She turned her head to look out the window, biting down the thousand things she wanted to say. She wasn’t rattled. She was pissed. But more than that, she understood what he was doing. He was setting the tone. Drawing a line. Making it clear that she wasn’t above the tests—not in his car.

But if he thought she’d fold under pressure, he had no idea who the hell he was dealing with.

Unbeknownst to Dylan, this was only the beginning. The first of many “Tim Tests” that would come at her hard and fast—each one carefully designed not just to teach, but to challenge. Push. Provoke.

And if Tim Bradford was looking for someone to break, he’d picked the wrong woman.

The tension in the car simmered like a pot on the edge of boiling.

After Dylan’s failure to name their exact location fast enough for Tim’s liking, the silence between them had turned icy, sharp-edged. He drove without speaking. She sat rigid in the passenger seat, jaw clenched, staring dead ahead at the road unspooling in front of them.

Then, without warning, Tim pulled over.

Not a smooth coast to the curb. A firm, deliberate stop. The car idled.

Dylan turned to him, annoyed. “Now what?”

“Out,” Tim said simply.

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Get out.”

She scoffed, arms folding across her chest. “You’re taking the piss.”

He turned in his seat to face her, eyes cool and unmoved. “You want to learn this city? Walk it. You don’t get to rely on GPS when someone’s bleeding out in your arms and you’ve got ten seconds to call in help. You don’t know where you are? Then get out and start learning.”

She stared at him like she was trying to decide whether to punch him or laugh. Probably both.

“That’s your solution? Kick me out like a bad date?”

Tim didn’t blink. “Walk until you know where you are. Then you can get back in.”

Dylan stared at him for another beat, jaw working. Then, with a sharp exhale, she threw open the door and stepped out. The door slammed behind her like a gunshot.

The moment the door shut, Tim shifted the car into drive and rolled forward. Not far. Just enough to stay next to her. His pace was excruciatingly slow, the cruiser crawling beside her like an overbearing chaperone.

She walked with purpose—long strides, fists clenched, eyes scanning street signs and landmarks. She knew what this was. A test. Another one. She was sick of the games, but damn if she’d let him win.

After about a minute of the awkward, silent crawl, Tim finally spoke again.

“Why did you really move to L.A.?”

She didn’t look at him. “I told you. The weather.”

“No, you didn’t. That was sarcasm.”

A beat passed.

She kept walking, boots hitting the pavement hard.

“I’m not here to play twenty questions,” she muttered.

“Good,” he said, still watching her. “Because I don’t care about the small talk. I care about who I’m riding with. Who’s got my back. And right now, I don’t know a damn thing about you—except that you don’t know where the hell you are.”

She stopped walking. Finally. Turned to face him. Her green eyes were narrowed, fierce.

“You want the truth?” she asked.

He shrugged. “It’d be a start.”

She walked over to the passenger door but didn’t get in. She leaned down slightly so they were eye to eye through the open window.

“I moved because I needed a fresh start. Because staying in London meant suffocating in a job that broke my family apart, living on minimum wage, and hoping for the day that some screwed up junkie stabbed me in just the right place to put an end to it all.” Her voice was low now. Controlled, but edged with something darker. Something that had weight behind it.

“Or maybe,” she added, “because I was running from something. Or someone. You don’t need to know the details— and you never will.”

Tim studied her for a moment. He didn’t ask anything else. Didn’t push. Just nodded once.

“Get in.” He said.

She opened the door and slid back into the passenger seat without a word.

For a while, the car was quiet again.

But this time, it wasn’t silence loaded with resentment. It was silence thick with understanding. Not a truce, exactly—but something close.

The engine hummed as they pulled back into traffic.

Tim didn’t look at her when he spoke next, eyes still focused on the road.

“You ever pull that sarcasm crap when someone’s bleeding out next to you again, I’ll make you walk the whole damn district.”

Dylan scoffed, “You know you weren’t actually bleeding out, right? Or are you so caught up in your little tests that—“

Tim glared at her, raising his eyebrows sternly.

Dylan smirked faintly, eyes on the window.

“Noted.” She nodded, dramatically.

The afternoon sun bore down on the city, making the asphalt shimmer and the air inside the patrol car thick with heat. Tim and Dylan had fallen into a more tolerable silence now, the earlier tension dulled but not quite gone. The day had been quiet—too quiet, as Tim would put it.

Then the radio crackled to life, sharp and urgent.

“7-Adam-15, requesting backup! Suspect on foot, heading eastbound on Temple. Male, Hispanic, black hoodie—repeat, on foot. Bishop’s in pursuit. We need units!”

It was Nolan’s voice. Breathless, strained, panicked in a way that made Tim’s eyes sharpen.

Tim flicked the lights on and slammed the car into motion. “7-Adam-19, responding. We’re two blocks out.”

Dylan was already shifting in her seat, focused. The streets blurred past in a rush, sirens slicing through traffic as they closed in.

Moments later, Tim screeched the cruiser to a halt near the edge of a narrow alleyway. Dylan was out of the passenger seat before he’d fully stopped, feet hitting the ground hard.

They heard the shouting before they saw them—Bishop’s sharp commands echoing through the maze of buildings. A dark figure darted across the alley ahead of them, sweat-slick and fast.

“There!” Tim shouted, breaking into a sprint.

But Dylan was already moving.

She surged ahead like a bullet, legs pounding against the pavement, sleek and focused. Her breath was steady. Controlled. She passed Nolan, who was huffing heavily, a few steps behind Bishop, already starting to lag.

Nolan blinked in surprise as she tore past him. “She’s fast,” he muttered—mostly to himself.

Tim was close behind, but even he had to admit: she was impressive.

The suspect cut hard through an alley and bolted into a construction site. Dylan didn’t hesitate. She ducked under scaffolding, vaulted a low barrier, and stayed on him, eyes locked on his back like a predator on prey.

The suspect glanced back—once. A mistake.

He turned to cut left toward a side fence.

Dylan saw the opening.

She didn’t stop to think. She launched.

Her feet left the ground, body horizontal mid-air as she slammed into the suspect’s back with a perfect flying tackle that sent them both crashing to the gravel. Dust exploded around them, the suspect groaning as Dylan pinned him hard to the ground, one arm twisted behind his back before he even knew what hit him.

“LAPD! Stay down!” she barked, already reaching for the cuffs.

Tim skidded to a stop just as she snapped the bracelets around the guy’s wrists and yanked him to his knees.

Behind them, Nolan let out a frustrated grunt.

Tim glanced back and stifled a smirk.

John Nolan was dangling halfway up a chain-link fence, his shirt caught on the metal, one leg awkwardly stuck mid-climb. He looked like a cat who’d second-guessed jumping a wall but couldn’t find the way down.

“Welcome to the arrest.” Tim called out, dry amusement in his voice.

“I… yeah,” Nolan muttered, trying to pry himself loose.

Dylan pulled the suspect to his feet, dusted herself off, and shot Tim a look.

“You’re welcome,” she said.

Tim exhaled, shrugging. “Not bad.”

Dylan raised a brow. “Not bad? That was textbook.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tim muttered. “We’ll get you a medal later.”

She grinned, flushed from the chase, hair sticking to her forehead, knuckles scraped—but victorious.

As they led the suspect back toward the cruiser, Nolan finally managed to untangle himself and drop to the ground with a huff, looking sheepish. Bishop arrived moments later, eyeing the cuffed perp and raising a brow at Dylan.

“Remind me to request her next time I’m chasing someone,” she said.

Dylan just shrugged, casual. “Love a good chase. Thrilling.”

Tim tried to act unaffected, but he could feel it: the slow shift in his perception. She wasn’t just surviving the Tim Bradford Trials—she was passing them. With grit, skill, and a smirk that said she wasn’t afraid of him or the job.

Midday sun hung high, casting long shadows over the cracked parking lot where the smell of sizzling onions and chargrilled meat wafted through the warm breeze. The unmistakable buzz of a food truck lunch break had taken over, and for once, the LAPD officers had a moment to breathe.

The burger van—“Benny’s Burgers: Home of the Widowmaker”—was an unassuming, slightly greasy legend among the precinct. A busted neon sign flickered above the window, and the owner, a wiry man with more tattoos than teeth, barked out orders with a cheerful lack of hygiene.

The training officers and their rookies had spilled out around a few weather-worn picnic tables scattered nearby. Drinks sweated in the heat, fries were fought over, and the tension of the morning’s chases and patrols had relaxed into laughter and easy conversation.

At one of the tables, Jackson West, John Nolan, Lucy Chen, and Dylan Jenkins sat together, trays in front of them, legs stretched out under the table.

“So, is it true,” Jackson asked, leaning forward conspiratorially, “that your sirens back home sound like a dying goose?”

Dylan, mid-bite of her burger, chewed thoughtfully before answering with a smirk. “More like a goose having a panic attack. It’s less intimidating, more… confusing. Great way to clear traffic, though—people pull over just to make it stop.”

Lucy laughed, nearly choking on her soda. “God, I love your accent. It makes even horrifying sirens sound interesting.”

“Tell that to the blokes I’ve arrested mid-chase,” Dylan said, raising her brows. “Nothing interesting about getting tackled by someone yelling at you in full Cockney rage.”

“You tackled someone earlier today,” Nolan pointed out, pointing at her with a fry. “That was—honestly? Epic.”

Jackson nodded. “Straight up NFL highlight reel.”

Dylan shrugged, modestly brushing a fry through some ketchup. “He was running. I don’t like runners.”

Lucy grinned. “You and Bradford are kind of perfect for each other, you know.”

Dylan gave her a sharp look. “Don’t say that. I’ll lose my appetite.”

They all laughed. Even Nolan, who was clearly still recovering from getting caught on a fence, chuckled with mock humility. “Okay, but real talk—what’s it actually like working in London?”

Dylan leaned back a bit, tilting her head toward the sky, as if summoning ten years of stories.

“Rainy,” she said at last. “Political. Fast-paced. And rougher than most people think. A lot more paperwork. A lot less guns. You don’t realize how much adrenaline you get from being armed until suddenly you’re not.”

Lucy nodded slowly, fascinated. “Did you always want to be a detective?”

“No,” Dylan replied honestly. “I wanted to be a writer. Or a vet. But then my brother got arrested when I was sixteen, and I realized the only people making a difference were the ones on the inside.”

There was a pause. Not somber, exactly—but heavier.

Lucy reached out and touched her arm lightly. “Well… I’m glad you chose this path. You’re kinda badass.”

Dylan smiled, genuinely. “Thanks, Luce. You’re not so bad yourself.”

At a nearby bench, just far enough away to hear the laughter without being part of it, Tim Bradford, Angela Lopez, and Talia Bishop sat with their own burgers and drinks.

Angela, sipping her iced tea, glanced over at the rookies’ table, eyes landing squarely on Dylan. “So. Your Brit is settling in.”

Tim didn’t look up. “She’s not my Brit.”

Talia smirked. “But she is in your shop. And from what I saw earlier, she’s putting your pride to the test.”

Bradford ripped a bite out of his burger like it had personally offended him. “She’s fast. I’ll give her that.”

Angela raised a brow. “Fast? Tim, she tackled a suspect like she was some kind of athlete.”

“And cuffed him clean,” Talia added. “No hesitation.”

Tim grunted, chewing slower now. He hated admitting it, but the woman was competent. More than competent. She moved like someone who’d been in high-stakes situations for years. Controlled, precise. Even when she was pissed off—which, to be fair, seemed to be a constant state around him—she never lost her focus.

“She’s got instincts,” he muttered, finally conceding. “But she’s also had ten years on the job, so all of this is the bare minimum.”

Angela leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “She’s also bonded with the rookies. Chen’s practically got hearts in her eyes.”

“She’s sharp,” Talia agreed. “A little raw, but sharp. There’s something under all that sarcasm and leather.”

“Trauma,” Tim said flatly. “I can tell.”

Angela looked at him. “You’d know.” She muttered.

He gave her a look. “Funny.”

The three of them sat in thoughtful silence for a moment, watching as Dylan tossed a fry at Lucy and Lucy mock-gasped in betrayal.

Talia leaned back and said, “You’re not gonna break her, Bradford. Not like the others.”

Tim didn’t answer right away. He just kept watching.

“You never know.” he said finally.

“Oh, we know she won’t break.” Angela smirked. “But maybe… she’ll break you.”

He rolled his eyes, but didn’t deny it.

The fluorescent lights in the locker room buzzed softly overhead, casting a sterile glow on the cold metal lockers and tiled floor. Most of the day shift officers had already cleared out, leaving the room still and quiet—an odd contrast to the chaos of the shift that had just ended.

Dylan Jenkins stood in front of her locker, the door open wide, the contents nearly cleared out. She’d changed out of her LAPD uniform and into a fitted black leather jacket, faded jeans, and ankle boots—her usual armor of civvy clothes. Her badge and gun were already locked away, and she was stuffing the last of her belongings into a worn canvas shoulder bag.

Her hair was down now, loose waves tumbling over her shoulders. Without the rigid silhouette of her uniform, she looked less like the no-nonsense detective who’d tackled a suspect to the ground that morning, and more like someone you might mistake for a musician or a freelance journalist. She liked that—kept people guessing.

The locker room door creaked open behind her.

She didn’t turn.

“Either say something or stop hovering,” she said flatly.

There was a pause. Then a familiar voice—Jackson West—chuckled nervously.

“You know, for someone with such a charming accent, you’re kind of scary sometimes.”

Dylan turned slightly, arching a brow as Jackson and Lucy Chen approached. Lucy had changed into a casual hoodie and jeans, hair up in a ponytail, but her expression was bright and familiar. Jackson, still in his Academy-issued sweatshirt, looked a little more subdued.

Dylan tilted her head. “You two stalking me now, or is this some LAPD hazing ritual?”

“Neither,” Lucy said, smiling. “We just wanted to see if you were free tonight.”

Dylan zipped up her bag. “Define ‘free.’”

“We’re all heading out for drinks,” Jackson said. “It’s not your first day, obviously, but it’s ours. Thought we’d celebrate surviving it—and, you know, buy Nolan a beer before he completely spirals.”

Dylan frowned slightly. “Nolan?”

Lucy’s expression softened. “He saw his first death on the job today. Some guy got stabbed to death. He didn’t say much, but… it hit him.”

Dylan let out a quiet breath. She remembered that moment. Everyone did. That first time death wasn’t just a photo on a file, but a body on the floor—still warm, eyes open, no longer human.

She closed her locker door and leaned against it.

“First one’s always the hardest,” she said quietly. “He okay?”

“He’s pretending he is,” Jackson said. “But he’s not. So we figured drinks. Something light. Laugh a little. Remind ourselves we made it through.”

Lucy looked at Dylan, hopeful. “You should come.”

Dylan studied them both for a moment. There was no pity in their expressions—just the openness of people still soft around the edges, still new enough to believe that sharing the weight might make it easier to carry.

She wasn’t used to being invited. Or included.

In London, it had been coffee at her desk. A bottle of something bitter at home. Silence.

But here—this wasn’t about her. It was about Nolan. About the fact that this job didn’t just break you in—it shaped you, with or without your permission.

“Alright,” she said, pushing off the locker. “But I’m not dancing, and I’m not doing karaoke.”

Lucy grinned. “No promises.”

Jackson smiled. “I’m just impressed you said yes.”

Dylan slung her bag over her shoulder. “Don’t make me regret it.”

As they walked out of the locker room together, the laughter between the three of them echoed off the walls—soft, genuine, and new.

And behind them, in the now-empty room, the silence lingered a little less heavily.

The bar wasn’t fancy—half the neon lights outside were broken, and the air inside was thick with cheap beer, over-loud music, and the low murmur of conversations that ranged from laughter to heated pool-table debates.

But it was familiar. Comfortable.

One of those off-duty cop haunts tucked just far enough from the precinct that it didn’t feel like an extension of the job, but close enough that you could still show up in uniform and no one would bat an eye.

Dylan Jenkins sat on a weathered leather booth seat near the back, one arm draped casually along the backrest, a half-empty whiskey sour in her hand. Her jacket was slung over the chair beside her, boots crossed at the ankles under the table. She looked relaxed—but she was always watching.

Across the table, John Nolan nursed a beer quietly, eyes a little distant, his expression thoughtful even when he smiled. Lucy Chen sat beside him, leaning into his space like a sister might, and Jackson West was halfway through telling a story, hands animated and voice rising and falling with dramatic flair.

“And then,” Jackson said, eyes wide, “my FTO walks into the locker room, sees me in full gear, and goes, ‘You look like you’re playing dress-up in your daddy’s clothes.’ In front of everyone!”

Dylan let out a low laugh. “Ouch.”

“I almost turned around and quit on the spot,” Jackson said. “But I’d already paid the dry cleaning bill.”

Even Nolan chuckled at that, shaking his head. “They really don’t hold back.”

Lucy grinned. “The Academy was just… chaos. Remember that time they made us do the obstacle course in full gear during a heatwave?”

“Someone passed out,” Jackson added.

“Two someones,” Lucy corrected. “One of them fell into the tire pit.”

They all laughed again, and even Nolan’s face seemed to lift a little.

Dylan took another sip of her drink, her smirk faint but present. “You lot are soft.”

Lucy leaned in. “Oh yeah? What was it like in London, then? Come on. Tell us a story.”

Jackson nodded eagerly. “A real one. Like, something wild.”

Dylan raised a brow, thoughtful for a moment. Then her eyes gleamed.

“Alright,” she said, voice smooth with that unshakable accent. “You want dark? I’ll give you dark. But don’t blame me if you never look at kebab shops the same way again.”

That got their attention.

“So,” she began, “this one time, I was working surveillance on a guy suspected of trafficking arms through fake food deliveries. Sounds stupid, but it worked—he had a kebab van, right? Parked it all over South London. Every time someone ordered a double lamb with chili sauce, he’d drop off a silenced Glock instead.”

Jackson’s eyes widened.

“Anyway, one night, I’m parked outside in this freezing car, sipping the worst coffee you’ve ever tasted, and I see our guy dragging something heavy out of the van.”

“Drugs?” Lucy guessed.

“Body,” Dylan corrected flatly, like she was discussing the weather. “Wrapped in cling film. Tosses it into a wheelie bin like it’s Tuesday’s leftovers.”

Jackson made a face.

Lucy leaned in, fascinated. “What did you do?”

“I radioed it in. My backup, of course, was ‘stuck in traffic’—which in London means they were three blocks away, couldn’t be arsed to run, and we were understaffed. So I went in alone.”

Nolan blinked. “Alone?”

“Yeah,” Dylan said with a shrug. “Pulled my baton, because guess what? I wasn’t armed back then. He swung a carving knife at me, screamed something about MI6 trying to poison his kebab meat. I took a lamb spit to the face and still cuffed him.”

There was a stunned silence.

Then Lucy burst out laughing. “Oh my god. You’re insane.”

“I was hungry,” Dylan said, completely deadpan. “The real tragedy? The kebab van got impounded before I got my dinner.”

Even Nolan laughed now, his expression lighter than it had been all night.

The tension he’d been carrying all shift—the haunted look in his eyes from the guy who’d been stabbed—seemed to soften around the edges, not gone, but less sharp. Lucy gave him a soft, sideways smile and touched his arm briefly. He returned the gesture, grateful.

At the bar, people noticed Dylan—of course they did.

Men stole second glances. Women raised eyebrows. The way she carried herself was hard to ignore: the sharp jawline, the casual elegance, the effortless cool of someone who didn’t need attention but always got it. With her whiskey glass in hand and that impossibly smooth accent, she looked like a walking contradiction—tough as hell, but disarmingly charming.

And yet—her gaze never wandered. Her attention never left the table. Not for the guy by the bar trying to make eye contact. Not for the waitress who “accidentally” brushed against her.

Her focus was here, with them.

With Lucy, who kept telling stories about rookie training mishaps and snorted when she laughed too hard.

With Jackson, who asked too many questions but meant well.

With Nolan, who had seen something today that changed him—and needed to be around people who understood that.

Dylan sat back slightly in the booth, letting the hum of the bar drift around her. The laughter, the dim lighting, the comfort of shared experience. It had been a long time since she’d felt this—not just included, but accepted.

She’d walked into the LAPD expecting to feel like an outsider. And maybe she still was. But tonight?

Tonight felt like a start.

DYLAN JENKINS X TIM BRADFORD SERIES

next episode

#tim bradford #the rookie #tim bradford x reader #lucy chen #jackson west #john nolan #oc

195 notes · View notes

sturnlsstuff · 5 months ago

Text

TEASING GHOSTFACE!MATT THROUGH THE CAMERA.

[smut, masturbation]

matt's room was cloaked in darkness, save for the faint glow of the monitor in front of him, casting an eerie light on his face. his skin burned with the heat of his focus, his gaze locked in your every move. every inch of matt taut with the need to bridge the space between you two, but he was too mesmerized and hard to move, so all he could do was watch.

a heat crept through you as your fingers run along your slick folds, a quiet gasp falling from your lips. the desire you felt was bigger than ever, mostly caused by the awareness of matt watching you. he was always watching, sometimes making you cover the camera that was between your books on the shelf opposite your bed, but other times, in moments like these, you took advantage of him being able to see you— and you made him lose his mind.

it should've made you nervous, but instead, it made you feel alive. the confidence you had at that moment made power surged through your veins, a dark little secret shared between you two. matt was craving, desperate to consume every inch of you, and you feel it, that undeniable pull— his hunger, his obsession. and you were feeding it.

your gut is raveling with the growing pleasure, your fingers circling your dripping entrance, legs spreading wider to be on full display for him. a small whimper leaving your lips, making matt groan as his hand was already working on his hard length, his pulse throbbing in his ears, the rhythm of his breathing unsteady.

he strokes himself slowly, matching your teasing, his blue eyes locked on the monitor just as you push two fingers inside your pussy. matt's grip on the armchair tightened as he watches you pumping your fingers in and out. you were so wet that he was able to hear it even through the computer as you continued.

"oh my god, matt... wish it was you touching me right now—" you choke out, circling your clit with the other hand. your eyes squeezed shut, there was no point in guessing of who you were thinking about, since it was pretty obvious.

he moans after hearing your words, the pink hue tinting his cheeks, his hand moving faster now, more desperately. his thumb brushes over the head of his cock, his grip tightening as he starts pathetically bucking his hips in rhythm with the growing ache in his stomach. "fuck, sweetheart... drivin' me crazy..." he growls just as you whimper his name again. the power you had over him made the lust burn hotter, more insistent. he keeps fucking his hand, not being able to look away from the monitor, his shirt between his teeth to muffle his noises.

"mmhp— so good—" another desperate whine leaving your lips as you curl you fingers, hitting your g-spot and making your toes curl. you bend your knee, your back arching up, exposing yourself to matt even more and giving him a better look.

"oh, shit, gonna... gonna make me cum..." his voice hoarse, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. he throws his head back, but his eyes still remain on the computer, not wanting to lose any second of watching you, his hips constantly moving upwards as he continues jerking off. you move your fingers deeper and faster, completely unaware of matching his movements, your jaw hanging low, eyebrows knitted together in pleasure.

"m-matt, i... i'm so close—"

"come f'me, sweetheart, c'mon...." he mutters to himself, his dick twitching in his grasp. "f-fuck, keep... keep going..."

it's definitely a sight, the way you're fucking yourself on your fingers, your gummy walls sucking them in, the other hand circling your swollen bud. but it's when he hears your next words that he loses the last control he had.

"thinking of your cock deep inside me— miss this... miss you— fuck, please—"

a loud groan leaving his lips, his chest heaving, "shiiiittt—" he chases his release, his movements erratic. there's a moan of your name leaving his lips just as cum spurts out of his cock, painting his skin.

"need to... feel you— please, matt—" you cry out just as your legs start to tremble, your pussy throbs. you're completely a mess, the pleasure that overcomes you is so intense that it leaves you gasping for air. you try your best not to close your legs as you start creaming around your fingers, letting him see everything, your fingers moving in the same pace as you work yourself through your orgasm. "fuck, i can't..." your legs automatically close, your hips lifting from the bed to start grinding against your hand.

for the next moment, both rooms are filled with heavy breathing, the air around you thick. both of you breathless, his skin burning with the ache of want, his chest tightened with a raw, possessive need— matt couldn’t just watch anymore. he needed to be there, to close the distance, to feel you under his hands as always.

"little fuckin' tease," he pants, and sends you a short message.

your phone buzzed just as you come down from your high, pulling your covered in slick fingers out of your pussy. you reach for the device blindly, still trying to come down to earth after the release you just had.

matt 🥷🏻🔪 ;

Gonna be there in 10 leave your doors unlocked

divider credits. @anitalenia

taglist: @certifiedstarrr @chrislovespepsi @le4hsblog @sturnsxbitvh @sweetlikesug4rvenom @xaristhings @mattsfavbitchhh @lvrsturniolo @r0s3luvr @slut4brunettes @madisonsturnioloss @chrispillowprincess @sturnioloslutttt4 @ashlishes @mattsbitchh @hi-people-who-are-alive @stellward123 @inssanely @matts-girlfriend @imnotalive420 @emely9274 @shadowthesim @yunkilm @sophiaxsblog @namelesssav @demyackerman @fratbrochrisgf @lvrsturniolo @chrisweetheart @chrisfavoritewhore @sturnslutz @ncm9696 @certified-sturniolo @mattsobvimyfav @swagalicious260 @giannalovessturniolo @sophand4n4 @brazyturtleneck @jocelyncsblog @sophand4n4 @giannalovessturniolo @alesturniolos @ilovenmcs @seluky10 @chriss-slutt @ribbonlovergirl @icrazy106 @izzylovesmatt @trevorsgodmother @sturniolo101 @starstrucktyrantinfluencer

#sturnlsstuff ❦ [ghostface!matt]#ghostface!matt x sweet!reader #sturniolo triplets #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo x reader #sturniolo x fem reader #sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo x fem reader #matt sturniolo #matt sturniolo x you #matt sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo x reader

343 notes · View notes

emilys-bangs · 8 months ago

Text

malleable | e.p

Tags: established relationship, fluff, mom!emily, no use of yn, reader isn't really present in this fic, halloween

Summary: Emily hates Halloween (but when her daughter asks her to dress up with her, she can't refuse).

Word count: 2.1k

If there’s anything Emily’s daughter is, it’s obsessed with Tangled. The movie plays at least three times a week on your living room TV; you and Emily have memorized the dialogue somewhere around three months ago. Now you can easily recite it in your sleep, close your eyes and clearly picture Rapunzel and Eugene’s next moves.

Despite that, your daughter still remains infatuated. Which is why Emily is only briefly surprised when Eloise drops her hand with a gasp and takes off running to the end of the costume aisle, colorful lights bursting along her sneakers as she runs to the purple dress packaged beneath a picture of the princess.

“This one!”

Emily smothers her smile as Eloise rises on the very tips of her tiptoes, her fingers wriggling impatiently as she tries to reach the costume. She falls a few inches short, and her displeasure is immediately known in the twist of her lips.

“Mommy.” She whines at her mother’s slow approach.

“Hmm,” Emily hums. “How many times have we said not to run off, Eloise? You know you can’t do that when we’re outside.” She sweeps messy bangs away from Eloise’s eyes—the exact same shade as her own.

“Sorry. Can I have it? Please?” She settles back on the soles of her feet and hugs Emily’s legs. “Please, please, Mommy.” Her mouth curls into a pleading pout.

The long repeated reprimand fades into the background. Your daughter is usually good at following it, almost always content with holding either your hand or Emily’s, so she smiles softly and lets it go this once.

“How about we see it first, yeah sweetheart?” One of her hands goes to Eloise’s back as she grabs the costume off the shelf. Shades of purple wink up at her through the clear plastic, peeking out from beneath Rapunzel’s picture and the picture of the little girl displaying it. “Cute,” she says, absently combing her fingers through Eloise’s hair.

“Wanna see.”

Emily bends over to get closer to Eloise, letting her take the costume from her hands. “What do you think?” She murmurs, brushing her daughter’s bangs over the soft arch of her eyebrows. “Do you like it?”

“Yes!” Eloise gasps.

The palpable excitement in her voice makes the garish costume store a little more bearable. Emily smiles as she adjusts the hem of Eloise’s sweater down her stomach, having risen up in her strenuous pursuit of the costume. “Are you sure that’s the one you want? We haven’t seen many others.”

“Wanna be Rapunzel.” Eloise says firmly, nodding to herself as she hugs the dress to her chest.

“Alright, well if you’re sure,” Emily laughs, not in the least bit surprised at her five-year-old’s resoluteness. It’s something she’d gotten directly from her; Emily’s heart only expands at seeing roots of herself grow in her daughter.

“I’m sure.” Eloise drags out the word, stretching it out so it sounds like duh.

“Okay. Let me see if that’s your size.” Emily holds out her hand. With great reluctance, Eloise hands her the costume. Emily huffs out an amused laugh as she straightens, distantly wondering where her daughter got such an intense love for Halloween from. You’re mostly indifferent, and she hates it with more passion than it deserves. But your little gremlin has been talking nonstop about her costume for the past week, and after a brief debate—which Emily lost—you finally found the time to take her.

Though Emily feels two little arms wrap around her thigh, she places a hand on Eloise’s head for extra measure. Small fingers tickle her through her jeans as she rifles through the costumes, humming until she finds the proper size.

“Here it is. I think that’s about it—”

“I’m gonna be Rapunzel and you’re Mother Gospel!” Eloise announces as she steals the costume from Emily’s hands. Emily’s brows furrow.

“Gothel.”

“Garthel.”

Every time.

Emily lets it go. Instead she focuses on the more pressing issue her daughter presented. “You want me to be your evil Mommy?” She frowns at Eloise, the pout of her lips exaggerated.

Eloise is unfazed. “You’re not my evil Mommy, you’re ’punzle’s evil Mommy.” She says sagely. The circles of her eyes are wide, a shine to them that almost always ensures she’s going to get what she wants. “And I’m Rapunzel so you have to be her Mommy.” She reasons.

Emily swallows a grimace at the hopeful tone in her voice. Her distaste for Halloween peeks through her love for her daughter, the two conflicting sides clashing together as she looks down at the five-year-old expectantly tilting her chin up.

“Honey, I don’t really like wearing costumes for Halloween.” Emily says, slowly, as if it’ll soften the blow.

Eloise frowns. “Why?”

“Uhh...” It’s not the easiest thing to explain to her toddler that she despises the holiday partly because of her inability to unsee masked unsubs everywhere. But really a huge part of it Emily doesn’t understand herself; the unrestrained chaos of it, the headache of coming up with a costume each year, and—in more recent years—swapping out the candy after her daughter has passed out. It’s more hassle than it deserves, and Emily simply doesn’t have the patience for it.

“I don’t know.” She raises her shoulders in a jerky shrug. Her words seem extra lame when Eloise tilts her head, confused. “I’m not a fan, I guess.”

“But it’s Halloween.” She whines.

“I know, bug. But you know who’d match really well with you? Your—”

“Want you to be Mother Gospel.” Eloise grumbles, interrupting before Emily can throw the role on you—like she did last year. Her eyes turn stormy dark as the disappointment settles, etching itself in delicate frown lines across her young face. The happiness of acquiring her costume dissolves into a cloud, one that starts growing gray above her head, gathering with rain that reflects in Eloise’s eyes.

Emily’s stomach turns with guilt.

“Ellie…” She chews on her lip, feeling herself crumble beneath her daughter’s gaze. But then her eyes flit to the costumes around them and her nose wrinkles, almost against her will. “We’ll talk about it at home, okay? Let’s just get your costume now, it’s almost lunch time.”

Eloise sulks. She thrusts her arms out, a frown digging between her brows. “Mommy up.” She demands, almost as if it’s punishment.

Emily finds herself smiling. “Yes, my liege.” She says playfully, lightening her tone and hoping to pull a similar smile from her daughter as she lifts her up into her arms. Emily stifles a grunt as she heaves Eloise up against her chest, a dull strain pulling the muscles of her arms taut as she secures her little girl to her body, where she always used to lay as an infant. Admittedly, Eloise is heavier than she used to be, her rapidly growing body settling more firmly against Emily’s side. But she knows these days are starting to slip from her fingers, the sand draining to the other end of the glass, so Emily grasps each opportunity she can get, regardless of the ache in her back and hip.

Eloise still doesn’t smile back, so Emily kisses her cheek, hoping to find a dimple. “You know, you could do with being Mother Gothel yourself.” She murmurs as Eloise settles against her, the costume halfway squished between their bodies.

“She’s not a princess,” Eloise sighs heavily as she lays her head on her shoulder.

Which is definitely her only fault.

“How could I have forgotten,” Emily says, absently sweeping another kiss over Eloise’s forehead. “She’s not a princess. Does this come with a crown?” She tries to look down at the costume.

“Nu-uh.”

“Well, that won’t do. Our princess needs a crown, doesn’t she?”

“A purple crown.” Eloise agrees.

“A purple crown,” Emily parrots. She hoists Eloise higher on her hip, forcing her eyes away from the sweet relief of the cashier and to the endless shelves of accessories. She swallows down a deep sigh and tries to think of her daughter’s happiness. “Let’s browse their selection, shall we?”

___

“It’s the best costume in the world!” Eloise gushes, her eyes bright with excitement. She trips over the word costume, switching the s and t, which strikes Emily as a little odd for a girl who can effortlessly pronounce Rapunzel.

She laughs as she fixes the crown on Eloise’s head, silently hoping she never grows out of her endearing quirks. “It is pretty cool. Fine choice, m’lady.” She grabs Eloise’s hand and twirls her around in front of the mirror, smiling when the little girl giggles at the flare of her dress.

They spin until Eloise grows dizzy, tumbling into her mother, so Emily gently sits her down on the carpeted floor of her room. Her cheeks are flushed, the deep brown of her eyes glittering with glee. Once again her tiara tilts, slipping on her head.

“Your crown is lopsided, princess,” Emily murmurs, smiling as she fixes it. “Careful, it’s gotta be on straight.”

Eloise giggles, the sound breathless and bright as she places her hands on Emily’s knees, scrunching the fabric of her sweatpants. “Can we put the flowers in my hair?” She asks, tilting her head up to meet Emily’s eyes. The crown jostles further.

Emily hums and leaves it, finding the task futile. “Yeah, that would be a nice touch,” she taps the tip of her finger on Eloise’s nose, “maybe we can have some daises and—”

“And your hair curly!”

“Mine?” Emily’s brows lift. “Why? I think it looks pretty like this, don’t you?” She shakes out her—admittedly flat—hair.

Eloise shakes her head no. Her eyes narrow critically; she suddenly looks so much like you that Emily’s heart warms, a more than familiar desire to take her daughter into her arms and pepper her face with kisses floating through her veins.

“Y’cant be Mother Garthel without curly hair.” Eloise says.

The feeling dims.

“Eloise,” Emily sighs. “Mon chou, Mommy doesn’t wanna dress up.” She shrugs meekly.

“Please? Please, please, please, Mommy. Henry’s Mommy is gonna wear a costume. And Jack’s Daddy.” Eloise’s eyes grow wider as she crawls into Emily’s lap. Emily’s arms automatically wrap around her, the walls of her resolve crumbling as Eloise burrows closer. She can feel her walls tumbling down, a weary reluctance surfacing from beneath the chipped pieces of her hatred for the holiday as Eloise’s small fingers twist into the fabric of her sweater.

Distantly, Emily thinks that she used to be stronger than this. Her will was iron clad, her mind—once made up—impossible to budge. She’s still like this, you’d argue, only she’s incapable of showing that front to her daughter. She’s putty in Eloise’s hands, bendable and soft and completely, embarrassingly pliant. Which is inconvenient.

Still, Emily gently reminds her daughter of last year’s Halloween. The effort is half hearted at this point, the image of you and Eloise in your matching costumes fuzzy even in her own mind. When Eloise whines quietly, a sulk dragging her mouth down, it tips her over the edge.

“Want it to be you.” She says, her bottom lip starting to quiver.

Which is how Emily finds herself dressed in a red velvet dress on the 31st of October, her hair extravagantly curled and her hand held in Eloise’s. Her other arm is around your waist, her fingers absently rubbing the soft warmth of your costume.

“Thought you said you weren’t dressing up.” JJ’s brows lift, an amused glint shining in her eyes. You’re all standing on her porch, waiting for Henry to come out of the bathroom to take the kids trick or treating.

“The princess demanded it,” Emily says. Try as she might to sound annoyed, she can’t, because Eloise is beaming up at her, a wide grin on her face that displays all of her teeth. Emily smiles back, carving a dimple in her cheek that’s identical to the one in her daughter’s.

“Rapunzel can’t go as Rapunzel without Mother Gothel, right?” She winks. Eloise giggles delightedly, giving Emily a firm nod as she leans into her side.

Even with Jack next to her—dressed as Batman, with Hotch as Robin—she doesn’t let go of Emily’s hand. Her fingers are small and chilly, leeching warmth from the cocoon of her mother’s palm. The small gesture makes Emily’s heart squeeze, her body flood with warmth, and this miniscule pocket of mundanity makes Halloween well worth it.

“And what are you mean to be?” Hotch frowns, the edges of it soft and playful as he directs the question to you.

Emily turns, smothering a laugh at your defeated expression. The pale green of your onesie stands out against the setting sky, the fading rays of the sun illuminating the frog eyes on your fuzzy hood.

You sigh, low and resigned and somehow still overflowing with love.

“I’m the chameleon.”

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism @catssluvr @i-lovefandom @haiklya @justhereforthosefics @storiesofsvu@ashluvscaterina @basicallyvivi

#emily prentiss #emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss x you #emily prentiss x y/n #emily prentiss fanfic #emily prentiss fic #emily prentiss fics #emily prentiss fanfiction #emily prentiss fluff #emily prentiss imagine #emily prentiss drabble #emily prentiss blurb #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfic #mom!emily #momily #fic #divider by saradika #prentiss kids

241 notes · View notes

ticifics · 6 months ago

Note

hiii, could you maybe write a dave lizewski x reader where the reader is also a huge comic book nerd like dave? and he comes over to her place to help her organize all her comic books + action figures into her display shelves + they yap together abt comic stuff or something

it can be established rs or pre relationship, i think either way would be still be so cute!!! it would also be rlly cool to see a more sarcastic reader utilized here, its cute to see that dynamic with dave!!!

i rlly hope this makes sense! i hope it didnt seem too rambly 😭😭😭😭 thank uuuuu

Supreme Sarcasm Power

Dave Lizewski x f!reader

Summary: "I knew you had an impressive collection, but… this is practically a nerd sanctuary." "You only say that because you want to marry me and get half of the assets in the division," you retorted. The teasing tone made Dave flash a crooked smile, nearly dropping the action figure. "I don't need a comic collection for that," he shot back, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses. "Just you."

Warnings: just fluffy

A/N: honey, yeees I understood, don't worry. I feel like I made a mistake with the nerdy references(so sorry), but I hope you can like it <33

The room was a perfect reflection of your personality: half Disney princess, half intergalactic warrior. Cute plushies shared space with incredibly detailed action figures, and shelves full of comics contrasted with delicate pastel-colored lamps. Dave was in the middle of the organized chaos, holding a Captain America action figure in one hand and a Watchmen comic book in the other.

"I knew you had an impressive collection, but... this is practically a nerd sanctuary," he said, trying not to sound too impressed—and failing miserably.

"You only say that because you want to marry me and get half of the assets in the division," you retorted, not even looking up as you stacked some issues of Saga. The teasing tone made Dave flash a crooked smile, nearly dropping the action figure.

"I don't need a comic collection for that," he shot back, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses. "Just you."

"Aww," you replied, turning to face him with an arched eyebrow. "But if you drop my Captain America, forget it."

Dave chuckled, slightly flushed, as he carefully placed the action figure on the designated shelf. "Seriously, how did you get this? This limited edition costs a fortune."

"Connections," you replied mysteriously, crossing your arms. "And what I did was sell part of my soul. Totally worth it, don't you think?"

Dave laughed, still eyeing the action figure in his hands before carefully returning it to its proper spot on the shelf. You could feel his gaze lingering on every detail of your room, as if he was absorbing it all. It was the kind of attention he gave to everything he loved, and, well, you knew that included you. But you weren’t going to admit that out loud, at least not without making a sarcastic comment right after.

"So, what's next on the organization list?" he asked, putting his hands on his hips in an awkward but absurdly adorable way.

You pointed to the stack of boxes in the corner of the room. "That one. But be careful with the one at the bottom, it has glass. And if you break something... well, let's just say not even the Hulk will protect you."

"Got it," he responded with a serious expression that lasted two seconds before giving way to a nervous smile. "No ruining my entrance to the Avengers, noted."

As he bent down to grab the next box, you returned your focus to organizing the comics alphabetically—because, of course, it had to be alphabetical. It didn’t take long for the comfortable silence to be broken by a strange sound coming from Dave: a mix of a sigh and a stifled laugh.

"What’s up?" you asked, not turning around. The casual tone was a clear attempt to ignore the little wave of concern that hit you. After all, that kind of sound coming from him usually meant he'd found something... compromising.

He didn’t answer, which only made your anxiety worse. When you finally turned around, your heart practically dropped to your stomach. There he was, holding a Quicksilver poster with a lipstick mark strategically placed on the character’s cheek. The bright red contrasted with the worn paper, clearly loved too much during its glory days.

"Oh, God," you muttered, bringing a hand to your face. "Dave, give me that."

He held the poster above his head with a grin so wide it looked like it might split his face in half. "I didn’t know you were such a big fan of Peter Maximoff."

"I’m not!" you shot back, already crossing the room toward him. "It was a teenage thing. Give it to me before I die of embarrassment."

"Teenage?" He raised an eyebrow, as if processing a revolutionary discovery. "You used to kiss posters as a teenager?"

"I didn’t kiss posters!" you exclaimed, trying to jump and grab the paper, but he had the height advantage. "It was just... I had a crush, okay? And that’s none of your business!"

He laughed, stepping back. "I think it is. After all, I’m the one who’ll have to compete with Quicksilver now."

"Dave Lizewski, I swear I’ll..." you began, but he interrupted, holding the poster even higher.

"What are you going to do? Summon your supreme sarcasm powers? Because, as far as I know, that’s not going to help you get this," he teased, his eyes gleaming with pure amusement.

You sighed, trying not to show how defeated you were in your own specialty: keeping composure. Dave seemed to be enjoying every second of this role reversal, holding the poster like a freshly won trophy, his dark curls slightly messy on his forehead, and his blue eyes shining behind his glasses. It was hard to stay truly mad at him when he had that expression—a half-smile, half-mischievous grin—that made your heart stumble before you even realized it.

But you weren’t going to give up that easily.

"Do you really want to turn this into a battle?" you shot back, crossing your arms and raising an eyebrow. "Because, as far as I know, you’re not exactly known for winning."

He laughed, a low chuckle that seemed to reverberate in the space between you. "Oh, sure. This coming from the person who’s literally turning red just because I found out she kissed posters."

"I didn’t kiss posters," you repeated, even though the evidence was incriminatingly clear.

Dave raised his hand even higher, the poster swaying dangerously above you both. He wasn’t exactly tall, but he was strong in a way that didn’t seem obvious at first glance—not until you noticed the muscles in his arms, visible even under the sleeves of his T-shirt. You tried again to grab the poster, but he leaned back, laughing once more.

"Okay, this is getting ridiculous," you muttered, stopping your jumping and placing your hands on your hips. "I can't believe I’m losing to you."

"That’s what makes me a genius, right?" he responded, still with that teasing tone. "I finally figured out your weakness: teenage embarrassment."

"No way," you said, your voice firm, even though the back of your neck was still warm.

You knew you needed to change strategies. Jumping and trying to grab the poster clearly wasn’t working, so it was time to do what you did best: turn the tables in your favor.

Straightening your posture, you took a step closer to him, closing the distance until you were almost invading his space. Your gaze deliberately moved from his eyes to the poster, then back to him, your lips curling into a slow, deliberate smile.

"Okay, you won," you said softly, your voice dropping to a low, almost melodic tone. "But, if we’re talking about kisses..."

Before he could process what was happening, you placed your hands on his torso—heat and firmness under the thin fabric of his T-shirt—and took another step closer. Your fingers lazily running along his sides.

"...maybe you want one too?"

You saw the instant transformation in him. The confident smile faltered, his eyes widened slightly behind his glasses, and color rose on his cheeks with almost comical speed.

"W-what?" he stammered, his voice faltering like someone had pressed the wrong key.

You seized the advantage, tilting your head slightly as if considering the idea seriously. "You heard me. Just tell me, Dave. I’m generous like that."

The poster started to drop—finally—but by this point, you didn’t even care about it anymore. All that mattered was the growing heat between you, the way his eyes couldn’t decide whether to look at yours or your lips, and the way his breath had become slightly irregular.

"I... I mean..." he tried, but the words tangled in an adorable way.

"Dave," you interrupted, your voice a little firmer, but with a hint of tenderness.

"Hm?"

"I don’t want the poster," you admitted, letting your hands slide a little higher up his chest. "I just want you."

The silence that followed was thick, but in a way that made the air feel electrified. He finally let go of the poster, letting it fall to the floor carelessly, while his arms came around your waist, pulling you gently closer.

"You don’t play fair," he murmured, his voice husky, but with that mischievous smile still present.

"I know," you replied, leaning in his direction until your lips finally met.

The kiss was slow but full of intention, a mix of quiet laughs and a passion that seemed to overflow with every touch. It was a little clumsy, as always, but that only made you fall for him more.

When you finally pulled apart, he was grinning from ear to ear, his eyes sparkling in a way that made everything around you feel lighter.

"You won this time," he said, with a theatrical sigh.

"I always win," you retorted, giving his chest a little push before turning to grab the forgotten poster.

But as you crouched down to pick it up, he spoke again:

"Just so it’s recorded... I definitely wouldn’t mind being defeated like that more often."

And in that moment, as you laughed and tried to look indifferent, all you could think about was how Dave Lizewski was your favorite victory.

240 notes · View notes

edenspoem · 2 years ago

Text

kneeling for her ⋆ | ellie williams headcanons

༺ ellie x fem!reader sucking her strap hcs/scenario! ༻ ☽𖤐☾

(ellie image from kittaeria on pinterest)

✧˖ ° 🕯 bright blessings!

AN: had the most random scenario blossom in my head yesterday so i wrote it per usual, went a lil more risqué with this one 😜at least to my standards

cw/tags: NSFW!! SMUT!! MDNI!! ellies a lil goofy in the beginning, blunt/straightforward-ish reader, not a fully wrote out fic, small time skips, sitting on lap, cursing, takes place in jackson but not specified to be before seattle (readers choice) soft-dom leaning ellie (except maybe less soft in one instance, nothing rough tho), guiding you verbally and with hands, praises, petnames; (good girl, baby, slut) sucking/choking on strap, clit stim (giving) strap-vag insertion, flatiron position, rewarding, gripping head/hair, deepthroating.

⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆

setting the scene

༻⛧one dusty orange sunset, cooped up in ellie's makeshift 'garage house' relishing a simple meal she whipped up for the both of you, albeit can you really classify her attempts at the art of culinary as five-star cuisine? regardless, the two of you slumped into the gray sofas' sufficient padding and dined like kings; in apocalyptic standards. no conversation had been rustling the space between you until a rather, interesting, unordinary, dare say- scandalous? scenario had implanted its peculiar self into your thoughts.

"hey babe?" you quell the silence, tone arching in curiosity.

"mhm?" ellie garbled through shut lips, chowing down her food.

"you know.. we should- try something new-"

"ooh~ like what?" she instantaneously hunches her back closer to you and tosses her barren plate aside, avid to hear your words go from mind to mouth. she invariably dotes on your ideas.

"uh- it's like.. related to.. bed stuff."

"like sleepin- wait! can we pleaaasee build a display shelf for my comic books above my bed-"

"ellie."

"sorry." ellie, even being an adult, is still crazy about her long-kept hobbies.

"uh- anyways. I'm talking 'bout like.. sex." you impenitently tell.

her eyelids dim, sloping her head to the side in adorned interest, "sex? that's one way to ask."

"no ..seriously, I have an idea.." you stow the plate atop a stubby heap of books, conveying a genuineness in your stare.

ellie sails her tongue briskly through her lips, anchoring her torso back onto the sofas' arm, lengthening her legs out with a faint bend at the knees. her palm drops to her thigh, patting it twice.

"c'm over here." she coaxes sweetly with an alluring gaze, imbued with a pip of power in her vowels.

a suffuse of blush overlies your midface, crawling your body towards her beckon.

her hands steady your hips down on her lap, finding refuge on the back of your thighs thereupon settling.

"what's the idea, then?" the moods' been shifted, emanating one of sensuality.

you nestle near her headspace, whispering, "y'know ur' strap?"

"yeah.." ellie likes where this is leading, clearly by her rapt smirk and tune of chords rising in tempt.

"what if I sucked it?"

⛧ oh boy, that set off a night she wouldn't be forgetting for the inbound days ahead. immediately you found yourself levitating up from the couch by her arms and bouncing on the mattress. a makeout session leads to fated stripping and now, your kneeling in front of her at groin-level and a hunter green mass protruding towards your nose bridge.

her optics glare down at you, the sight of you so keen and willing to do this. sure, it's not the real thing but the sight should and will be fucking exhilarating.

"c'mon, what're you staring at?" ellie's hand gently smacks your cheek and splinters your blurry-minded trance.

you deduct a reply from your mouth, instead, taking a solid grasp of the strap and wrapping your lips round' the tip, all while preserving unwavering eye contact.

"shit.."

her hands ease and twine the locks on each margin of your head, massaging the pads of her fingertips tenderly. her arousals' climbing new peaks every second at this rate. she presses her pelvis further upon your lip, steering you to open up.

your lips part and welcome the rotund tip in, stroking along your front teeth. the weak grasp on your head pushes the strap languidly to a greater extent that bounds it to the back wall of your throat.

"ach-" you jab out a cough.

"good girl, take that shit in.."

⛧she's one to be in control, but it's nothing rough. her hands guiding you back n forth gently as the strap summons spurts of tickles in your throat each time it prods the back of it. it'd be far enough to chafe the hilt against her clit, per usual any time she wears the contraption, so you'd always hear quaint whimpers, curses, groans, etcetera, from above.

"mhh~ fuuhhhhckkkk.." ellie draws out a long euphoric groan, straining her neck back and exposing the mild protrusion of her adam's apple.

catching up with the motion, you begin bobbing your head on your own accord. her hands dull their hold and hover above, letting you work your utter sorcery, mouth wide open and drooling for her.

her head recoils down, "such a slut- oohh~ fuck.."

⛧again, she's not rough without consent and a special occasion, but she'll clutch your hair firmly enough. to you, it's like her non-verbal sign that says 'go faster'.

thrusting your head faster, her own moans begin to burgeon and crowd the room over your sucking and popping noises. she looks so fucking hot from your angle, a clement sweat, fucked out face, leaning slightly back so her pelvis projects closer to you, a solo hand supporting on the back of her thigh, the other latched onto the apex of your head and knotting strands of hair around her fingers. it's all getting to you.

"oh- baby, fuck- keep goin'n.. uhn- shit!" the climax augmenting within her hips jitters the shit out of her knees, begging to just buckle underneath her and collapse on the bed.

"gh- hn.." your words fumble around ellie's cock, still putting your all into pleasing her. adding a grip on the strap and stroking it was endgame for her, the adjoined knocking against her swelling bud ruined her.

⛧ellie's definitely more of a groaner and a huffer when she comes, it's not growling level but it's certainly not fake exaggerated ones.

⛧i think she's also the type who'd want you to come as well, like, there is not a single night where she's the only one getting pleased, she has to see you unravel and lose your shit under her.

"stop, baby- stop.." ellie hastily hushes through heaves of breath, pulling your head from the strap to which it springs off your lips.

"huh..?"

"m'not cummin' without you- fuck.." her fingers take a grapple at your jaw, guiding you up onto your feet.

you give her a blank stare until it's washed away with a surprised one as you're cast onto the bed, stomach down, ass up. she shambles over you and flattens you out till your hips settle in the cloudy mattress.

she mounts your thighs and inclines her crotch to yours, slowly inserting into your cunt from the back. her nails chisel into your plush hips, thumbs notably indenting on your ass.

"oh-my gmm.. ellie.."

"god damn-" she mumbles to herself, cuffing out a quick chuckle, "you earned this.." positively rewarding you for your work.

insert a loooong night spent railing.

⛧random conclusion hc but I feel like in this position where she's behind you she'll litter you with kisses and bites on your shoulder-neck region, especially for being so good and disposed for her.

⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆

MASTERLIST

1K notes · View notes

andy-15-07 · 4 months ago

Note

could you write a pedro pascal x reader story about getting pedro a book he's been wanting for ages? like we see it at some library while out and buy it for him, as a little gift to show him some love. and he loves it, he'd been meaning to get that book for ages but never found it. and he's talking our ears off about it and we ask him to read it for us and he's super happy and ugh just bookworm pedro in love with books and with us 🥺🥰

Our Bookish Love Story

PAIRING:Pedro Pascal x reader

WORD COUNT: 2673| requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

“Y/N, you really know how to surprise me,” Pedro said, his eyes sparkling as we strolled side-by-side through the grand entrance of our favorite local library. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting playful patterns on the polished wooden floors. It was a Saturday afternoon—a day we both reserved for wandering among shelves laden with worlds waiting to be discovered.

I squeezed his hand gently. “I thought you’d appreciate a quiet escape today,” I replied with a smile. “Besides, I have something special planned.”

Pedro chuckled, running his fingers through his dark hair. “You always do, y/n. But I can’t help but wonder—what mystery have you uncovered this time?”

As we passed the literature section, I could see the excitement in his eyes. He was a self-proclaimed bookworm, endlessly fascinated by stories that whisked him away from the ordinary. Over the years, I’d grown to love how his face lit up when discussing a well-crafted narrative. Today, however, there was an extra gleam of anticipation in his gaze—a secret he’d been holding for ages.

“Remember how I’ve been going on about that book?” Pedro began, almost in a whisper as we paused near an ornate shelf lined with classics. “The one I’ve been searching for forever?”

I smiled knowingly. “You mean The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón?”

His eyes widened, and his voice turned reverent. “Yes! That very book—the one that’s been eluding me for ages. I’ve always dreamed of owning a pristine copy. Every time I see it referenced or hear someone mention it, I feel this inexplicable pull, like I’m meant to dive into its labyrinth of stories and mysteries.”

I stepped closer to the shelf, pretending to peruse the spines, but my heart was already set. “Then let’s find it,” I said softly, tugging him along. “I have a hunch that today might be your lucky day.”

Pedro’s smile widened, and he pulled me into a warm embrace. “Y/n, you’re a lifesaver,” he murmured against my hair. “I’ve searched high and low in bookstores, on the internet, even in the most obscure corners of this city, but it always seems to slip through my fingers.”

Our conversation continued as we walked through the library, voices low and filled with shared excitement. I could see the passion in Pedro’s eyes as he recounted every detail he’d ever known about the book—its mysterious setting in post-Spanish Civil War Barcelona, the intricate plot woven through the alleys of memory and time, the haunting allure of characters who seemed to live on the page long after the book was closed.

“Every time I talk about it, I end up feeling like I’m sharing a piece of my soul,” Pedro confessed as we found a quiet nook by a large arched window. “I even have a favorite passage—I can recite it in my sleep. It’s not just a book for me; it’s a doorway to another world.”

I laughed softly. “Then tonight, you’ll open that door for both of us, won’t you?”

He grinned and nodded eagerly. “Absolutely. There’s nothing I’d love more than to share its magic with you.”

Our little conversation was interrupted by the sound of a librarian’s footsteps echoing softly down the corridor. We exchanged amused glances before continuing our quest through the maze of books. As we turned a corner near a display of new arrivals, my heart skipped a beat—there, nestled between a first edition of a beloved classic and a modern thriller, was a copy of The Shadow of the Wind. Its cover, a blend of deep blues and dusky grays, seemed to whisper secrets of mystery and passion.

“Pedro, look!” I exclaimed, pointing at the book with an excited sparkle in my eyes.

Pedro hurried over, his expression shifting from curiosity to unabashed delight as he reached for the book with trembling fingers. “Oh my God, y/n,” he breathed, holding the book as if it were a rare treasure. “I can’t believe it… I’ve been looking for this edition forever!”

He flipped through the pages reverently, his eyes glistening with tears of joy and nostalgia. “Every time I see this cover in my mind, I imagine the stories hidden within these pages, waiting to be unveiled. I’ve dreamed of a moment like this for so long.”

I wrapped an arm around his waist, sharing in his elation. “I knew it was meant to be,” I whispered. “I couldn’t let you go another day without it.”

The librarian approached, smiling kindly as she noticed our animated discussion. “That’s a wonderful choice,” she commented softly. “It’s one of our most sought-after editions. I hope it brings you as much joy as it has to others.”

Pedro thanked her warmly, and after a brief exchange about its rarity and literary significance, I insisted we purchase the book right then and there. “Come on, Pedro,” I said, tugging him gently. “Let’s head to the bookstore next door. I want you to take this home tonight.”

He hesitated for a moment, his eyes still fixed on the precious book. “Y/n, you have no idea how much this means to me,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “This isn’t just a gift. It’s a piece of my heart, a long-awaited dream coming true.”

We left the library, the cool afternoon air enveloping us as we walked hand-in-hand toward our next destination. The bookstore was a charming, tucked-away haven with creaking wooden floors, cozy reading nooks, and the intoxicating scent of old paper and fresh ink. Inside, the soft glow of vintage lamps illuminated rows upon rows of literary wonders.

“Here we are,” I said, leading him to the counter. “I’d like to purchase this copy of The Shadow of the Wind, please.”

The shop owner, an elderly man with a gentle smile, took the book carefully from my hand. “An excellent choice,” he remarked, running his finger along the embossed title. “This edition is truly special—rare, indeed. It’s not every day that one finds such a treasure.”

Pedro’s eyes shone as he leaned in, almost reverently. “I’ve read countless reviews, heard endless tales of its magic, but never imagined I’d actually hold it. It’s like fate, y/n. Thank you for making this moment real.”

After the transaction was complete, we settled into a quiet corner of the bookstore, sinking into plush armchairs that seemed to have been waiting just for us. The world outside the shop faded away as Pedro carefully cradled the book, his fingers tracing its cover as if memorizing every line and curve.

“Y/n, may I read a little from it?” he asked, a note of eager anticipation in his voice.

I nodded, my heart swelling with love. “I’d love nothing more.”

Pedro cleared his throat gently, a playful glint in his eyes as he began to read aloud. His voice was soft at first, then gradually grew richer and more animated with each line. He recited a passage that described the labyrinthine streets of Barcelona, the echoes of forgotten voices, and the bittersweet dance between memory and desire. Every word was imbued with his passion—not just for the story, but for the art of reading itself.

“I’ve always believed that books are more than just words on a page,” he said, pausing to meet my eyes. “They’re living, breathing entities that hold our dreams, our fears, and our hopes. This book… it’s a portal to another time, another life. And every time I read it, I feel like I’m rediscovering a part of myself.”

I listened, utterly entranced by his delivery. “Pedro, you make it sound so magical,” I whispered. “Your love for literature is one of the many things that make you so incredible.”

He grinned, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “And now, thanks to you, I can finally share that magic with you, too. It’s not often that someone understands just how deeply a story can touch your soul.”

The conversation flowed easily between us as we discussed the themes of the book, its intricate plot, and the way its characters mirrored our own struggles and dreams. Pedro’s enthusiasm was contagious—every time he mentioned a detail, his face lit up, and I found myself laughing and nodding along, caught up in the wonder of his words.

“Y/n,” he said between paragraphs, “do you ever feel that books are like old friends? They’re always there when you need them, offering comfort, wisdom, and even a bit of mischief?”

I smiled. “I do. I think every book holds a piece of who we are—like a secret diary written by the universe.”

He laughed softly, the sound warm and inviting. “That’s exactly it. And tonight, with this book in my hands, I feel like I’m finally living the story I’ve always dreamed of.”

Time seemed to slip by as Pedro continued to read, his voice filling the cozy space with the sound of whispered adventures and timeless romance. I couldn’t help but lean in closer, captivated not only by his words but by the sheer joy radiating from him. In that moment, we were more than just two people in love with literature—we were two souls united by the magic of storytelling.

After he finished reading the selected passage, Pedro closed the book gently and looked at me with eyes that shimmered with affection. “What do you think?” he asked softly. “Do you feel it too—the pull of a story that promises to change us?”

I reached out, placing my hand over his. “Every word you read made me feel like I was right there with you,” I said, my voice tender. “I love that about you, Pedro—the way you make everything come alive, the way you share your heart through these stories.”

He leaned in and kissed my hand gently. “Thank you, y/n. For understanding me, for loving me—and for giving me this incredible gift. This isn’t just a book—it’s a symbol of everything we share: our passion, our dreams, and the unspoken promise that we’ll always have each other to lean on.”

As the afternoon light began to fade, we left the bookstore hand-in-hand, the treasured book tucked safely under Pedro’s arm. On our walk home, our conversation turned to our future, to other stories we’d chase together, and to the quiet moments of joy that came from sharing the simple pleasures of life.

That evening, back in the comfort of our shared apartment, Pedro set the book on the coffee table and turned to me with a playful glint in his eyes. “Y/n, now that you’ve given me this amazing gift, there’s only one thing left to do,” he declared.

I raised an eyebrow. “And what might that be?”

He sat down beside me on the couch, the book open on his lap as he looked up at me with sincere intensity. “I want to read it to you. Not just the passages I love, but the whole story—from beginning to end. I want you to experience every twist, every secret, every moment that has captivated my heart for so long.”

I felt a warm rush of affection and excitement. “I’d love that, Pedro,” I replied. “Curl up with me and read aloud. Let your voice be the soundtrack of our evening.”

He grinned widely, settling in comfortably as he adjusted the book. “All right then. Let’s begin our own little adventure,” he said, his tone brimming with anticipation.

For the next few hours, our living room transformed into a private sanctuary of whispered words and shared dreams. Pedro’s rich voice filled the room as he read aloud, pausing occasionally to explain a line or to share an anecdote about the book’s creation. Every now and then, he would look up at me, his eyes sparkling as if the pages held a secret that only we could understand.

“Did you know, y/n,” he said at one point, “that Carlos Ruiz Zafón wrote this book as a tribute to the magic of storytelling? He believed that every reader carries a universe within them, waiting to be ignited by the right words.”

I nodded, completely entranced. “That’s so beautiful,” I murmured. “I think every time you read it, you remind me just how much passion you have for the art of literature.”

Pedro’s smile softened, and he continued, “Every time I read, I imagine a world where every book is a doorway. And tonight, you’ve opened a door for me—a door into a realm of love, hope, and endless adventure.”

As the night wore on, our conversation wove in and out of the narrative. We laughed over shared insights, debated interpretations of ambiguous lines, and even recited favorite quotes back and forth. It was as if the book had not only brought Pedro immense joy, but had also deepened the connection between us.

“I could listen to you read forever,” I confessed during a quiet moment, nestled close as he turned the page. “Your voice, your passion—it makes the words dance. I love you even more for it.”

Pedro’s eyes met mine, soft and sincere. “And I love you for believing in me, for cherishing these moments, and for always understanding that sometimes the greatest gift isn’t the object itself but the love and care behind it.”

When the final chapter finally drew to a close, we sat in silence for a while, letting the last echoes of Pedro’s reading fade into the gentle hum of the night. The book lay open on his lap—a symbol of our shared journey, a testament to the way a simple act of love can transform an ordinary day into something magical.

Breaking the silence, I whispered, “Thank you, Pedro. For everything—the book, your passion, and most of all, for making me feel like I’m part of your world.”

He pulled me into a warm embrace, his voice husky with emotion. “Thank you, y/n. I promise that every time I open this book, I’ll remember today. I’ll remember the gift of love that you gave me—not just in the form of a book, but in the way you make my heart feel full.”

We spent the rest of the night curled up together, the pages of The Shadow of the Wind scattered like confetti around us, each one a reminder of our shared adventure in literature and life. In that quiet space, where words and love intermingled, we found that our relationship was built not just on romance, but on a deep, abiding passion for the stories that shape us.

Over the following weeks, that day at the library and bookstore became one of our favorite memories—a chapter in our own story that we often revisited. Pedro would occasionally pick up the book, his eyes lighting up as he recounted that magical afternoon. And I, ever grateful for the moment I had found that treasured edition, would smile and say, “It was just the beginning of our novel gift—a story that continues to write itself with every day we share.”

One rainy afternoon, as we sat together by a window with rain tapping softly against the glass, Pedro turned to me with that familiar glint in his eyes. “Y/n, what do you think our next adventure should be?” he asked, his voice a gentle blend of curiosity and excitement.

I laughed softly, “Maybe we’ll find another book that changes everything. Or maybe we’ll write our own story—one chapter at a time.”

He pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Either way, as long as I have you by my side, I know it will be a story worth telling.”

And so, our bookish love story continued—a narrative woven with passion, dialogue, and the shared magic of literature. Every new book became a shared journey, every page a testament to our bond, and every whispered word a promise that no matter what stories lay ahead, we would always have each other.

Because in the end, it wasn’t just about finding that one elusive book—it was about discovering that the greatest adventure of all was the love we nurtured every single day.

109 notes · View notes

strangerxperv · 1 year ago

Text

65. “you’re being particularly insufferable today”

Exasperated Dom/ Daddy Jim Hopper x loser perv sub/ little reader

Warnings: NSFW/ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, Age difference, degradation, you're a loser/ unkept/ chapped lips/ almost constant dehydration, curvy fem bodied, Jim is a Dom turned annoyed daddy, you're disgusting and full of lust, Jim secretly loves its, spitting, and breeding.

Daddy's Little Pervy Loser

You're not Jim's usual type and you've found peace in this knowledge. He likes you and hasn't broken up with your degenerate ass yet. Most people in this situation would try to bend over backwards. You?

You like to annoy Jim so he'll be mean to you. You love how it feels for him to make you feel small. The way Jim's big burly arms cage you in close.

Jim's cock stuffed down your throat forcing drool and precum to waterfall. Slip past your chapped split lips and drip off his full balls. His hands engulfing the sides of your face with his calloused thick fingers entangled in your hair.

But you loved it even more when Jim fucked you full of cum over and over, promising to knock you up. All the while his deep voice whispers words of twisted praise. The degrading look and tone fills you with satisfaction knowing you have brought him to sin.

Chief Jim Hopper a true and just man laying with a disgusting young perverted loser. You tempt him and he used to hate it. Jim thought he hated you and was even cruel. But that didn't deter you and instead it encouraged you to push harder, like it was a game.

So yes, your relationship is odd and most don't understand how it works. Jim isn't embarrassed by you or ashamed of the relationship. He does hate that you like to make people uncomfortable by jokingly calling him daddy.

He hates it even more feeling his dick twitch to life at the title you've given him, "Daddy!" Your goading bratty tone pulls all the right strings. Jim wants to make you scream it until your horse voice begs Daddy to forgive you. He wonders if you're aware of the effect that name has for the large man.

You must know to some extent based on your current behavior, "Mmm...I can't reach my cup! Can you pleeease help me, daddy?" It's obvious that you can reach the cup on the shelf completely in grasping distance.

Or when you bent over to grab the remote from under the couch. Your ass poking out from your skirt before you widened your stance. Ass up and back arched he sees your glistening petals, "Oooooh! My fingers can't reach it, daddy! I need your help!"

But worse yet you sitting on his lap bugging him during the game, "Don't you wanna play with me instead daddy?" And this time you feel him twitch, "I can catch you balls until it rains!"

Jim begins to shake from under you before his boisterous laugh echos around you, "You want me to fuck you? Till you squirt?!" It's humiliating that him laughing at your flirtatious offer makes you more desperate, "How you're dehydrated-" Jim's laughing so hard he can't breath and his face is getting red, "The only drinks you ever open your mouth for is daddy's spit or cum!"

You feel hot all over from embarrassment and excitement, "That's cause daddy tastes so much better than yucky water!" With that you open your mouth as wide as you can physically handle. Your tongue lolling out in a lewdly debauched display of submission.

"you’re being particularly insufferable today," He's not laughing anymore, "Only good girls get daddy's spit. You want it?" His hand grips your jaw forcing your face away, "Earn it and drink that big glass of water." To prove his point Jim spits onto your puffy cheek.

Fuck. Fuck. FUCK. You can't help but hump your ass onto his throbbing cock. It's so fucking mean you want more. Stumbling off his lap, Jim rights you, almost tripping over your own feet before gripping the large cup.

Gulp after gulp you're soon drenched and your shirt is soaked, clinging to your fat tits. Nipples are poking out at Jim and he barely takes notice of you gasping for breath. A few gulps more and the cup is empty so you toss it aside.

"Wow," it's sarcastic, "You're that much of a desperate fucking loser whose only thought is to get stuffed with cock-" a shake of his head, "You're willing to drench your shirt just to obey your daddy?"

A moan squeaks from your dripping lips while you wiggle in place. Your hands pull your skirt up to show your puffy cunt. The fabric bunched in your small hands, "Please, Please look at me!" Jim can't look away from your pussy squished between thick thighs, "I wan' you to fill my fuck hole full of your sticky cum. Wan' you to fuck me, daddy, I wan' feel your full balls slapping me!" One hand slips down as you spread your stance and then your lips, "My clit is so hard it hurts!" Your whine makes Jim clench his jaw.

"You're a degenerate pervert." Jim growls out as his glare watches slick drool from your hole. It only makes you more wet and serves to piss Jim off further, "I swear to God. You dumb fucking whore, do you know what You've done to me? How you seduced me and twisted me from a good man to one that craves you constantly?" He rises from his chair to tower over you, "I need to ruin you like you've ruined me."

377 notes · View notes

matt-murdockk · 1 month ago

Text

Love (?) is in the air

pairing: jonah simms x fem!cloud9!reader words: 1.5k summary: Sandra clearly misreads a situation between (Y/n) and Jonah. Or does she? warnings: one single f-bomb a/n: superstore fic can I get a hell yeah

"You know, when I pictured what I'd be doing at this age, I always hoped it involved a forklift and a six-foot bear with dead eyes," (Y/N) said dryly, hoisting the last of the giant plush monstrosities onto the display shelf before she got down from the forklift.

Jonah adjusted the row of novelty mugs for the third time that hour. “You know,” he said, glancing sideways, “if these mugs were any more passive-aggressive, they’d be my mom.”

(Y/N) snorted, steadying the bear before it could tip over and crush a cardboard standee of Cupid. “This mug literally says, 'I guess you’ll do.' Romance is alive and well.”

The fluorescent lights above them flickered like they, too, were judging the display. Somewhere in the distance, a child shrieked bloody murder— likely over a dented box of candy hearts.

Jonah picked up one of the mugs and turned it in his hand, mock thoughtful. “‘I’m Yours. No Refunds.’ Honestly? Kind of hot.”

(Y/N) arched an eyebrow. “That’s your type?”

He shrugged. “I like a little emotional blackmail in my dishware.”

She nudged his side with her elbow, grinning. “That explains so much.”

He laughed and leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice like he was about to tell a secret. “I mean, if someone gave me this mug and a half-assed note, I’d probably propose on the spot.”

“Oh, so we’re setting the bar that low now?” she teased.

“I work retail, (Y/N). The bar’s in the stockroom buried under a broken price scanner and my will to live.”

She barked out a laugh. “That tracks.”

They were standing too close now— not that either of them minded. It was just the kind of comfortable proximity that happened when two people spent too much time in the same blue vests, in the same aisles, pretending they weren’t already halfway to a workplace romance.

Jonah reached over to fix one of the mugs she’d haphazardly placed. Their fingers brushed.

(Y/N) looked up at him. “Wow. Perfectionist and poetic. Dangerous combo.”

Jonah smiled, a little crooked. “Don’t forget modest.”

Before she could reply, a small gasp echoed from the end of the aisle.

They both turned their heads.

Sandra stood frozen like she’d been caught in the middle of an unspeakable act. Her eyes were wide, darting between Jonah and (Y/N), and she clutched her clipboard to her chest like it might shield her from whatever she thought she was witnessing.

She lifted one shaky finger and pointed at them. Then back to her clipboard. Then at them again.

Her mouth opened. Nothing came out.

Jonah blinked. “Uh… hey, Sandra.”

Sandra said nothing. Just kept pointing. Now with both hands, her clipboard forgotten on the ground with a mild thud. Her lip trembled slightly, as though on the verge of tears, or a nervous breakdown, or both.

(Y/N) took a slow step forward. “Are you okay?”

Sandra squeaked. Literally squeaked. Then turned on her heel and walked away at a brisk, flustered shuffle.

Jonah and (Y/N) stood in silence for a moment.

Finally, (Y/N) said, “So… that felt normal.”

Jonah nodded. “Textbook Cloud 9 interaction.”

“Well, at least that’s the weirdest today has gotten.”

And just as Jonah was about to make another joke about flower arrangements, someone in the toy aisle screamed, “IS THAT A RACCOON?!”

They both turned toward the sound. And sighed.

——————————————————————————————————

The breakroom smelled vaguely like burnt popcorn and cleaning fluid. Glenn stood at the front near the whiteboard, nervously holding a laminated emergency protocol chart with one corner already chewed off— presumably by the raccoon still unaccounted for in the store.

“So,” Glenn began, “in the event that you see the raccoon again, please don’t try to lure it with peanut butter. Or beef jerky. Or Cheyenne’s perfume.”

Cheyenne, from the couch, raised a hand. “Okay, but it really liked my perfume. Like, aggressively.”

Mateo scoffed. “I’m just saying, if it’s still in the building, I vote we name it and train it to do returns.”

“You’re all missing the point,” Glenn said, waving the chart like it held divine authority. “This is a serious—”

“Okay, everyone shut up,” Dina cut in, not even looking up from her protein bar. “Glenn’s talking. Which means you listen and pretend to care.”

The room quieted— well, as much as it ever did. Jonah sat near the vending machine, one foot bouncing lightly. (Y/N) was across the table from him, chin propped on her hand, looking both amused and half-asleep.

Glenn cleared his throat. “Now. In case of wild animal invasion, the protocol is to calmly evacuate the aisle and alert management—”

“Like that ever happens,” Amy muttered.

“And not to scream and throw a clearance Nerf gun at it,” Glenn added, giving Marcus a meaningful look.

Marcus just shrugged. “Instinct.”

The conversation derailed instantly, as usual. Someone brought up whether or not they should build a raccoon-proof panic room. Mateo started a pitch for his “Emergency Escape Fashion Capsule.” Cheyenne offered to draw raccoon warning signs for every aisle.

And then, without warning, Sandra stood up.

She’d been uncharacteristically quiet, sitting stiffly in the corner, eyes fixed on the floor like she was building up courage for something big. Which, in Sandra’s case, meant something dramatic and deeply misguided.

“I just think,” she said suddenly, “that we should take a moment to appreciate that love can blossom anywhere. Even in a hostile workplace environment.”

Silence.

Everyone turned.

Garrett, eyebrows raised, leaned back in his wheelchair. “Okay… continue.”

Sandra swallowed, visibly shaking. “I mean— Jonah and (Y/N). It’s just so beautiful to see two people finally realize what they’ve been denying for so long.”

More silence, but this time of the awkward and stunned kind.

(Y/N) blinked. “Wait, what?”

Jonah looked around like maybe someone else was being referenced. “I’m sorry, us?”

"Sandra, genuinely, what the fuck?"

Sandra clutched the edge of the table like she’d just made a profound announcement. “I saw you. This morning. In Seasonal.”

Jonah frowned. “With the… mugs?”

Sandra nodded solemnly, like this explained everything. “And the bear.”

Cheyenne gasped. “Wait, you guys?”

Garrett leaned forward, looking far too entertained. “Hold on. You’re saying Jonah and (Y/N) are a thing now?”

Jonah opened his mouth. “No, absolutely—”

“Thank you,” Mateo cut in, nodding solemnly. “Because finally, someone else noticed.”

Jonah threw his hands up. “There’s nothing to notice!”

“Oh please,” Cheyenne said. “You were standing like, this close.” She held two fingers about a breath apart. “And Jonah was doing his soft eyes thing.”

“I don’t do a soft eyes thing,” Jonah said.

“You one hundred percent do a soft eyes thing,” Garrett said. “You do it every time (Y/N) says something even remotely sarcastic.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jonah muttered.

(Y/N) looked around the table. “Can we get back to the part where there’s a raccoon loose in the store? Or is that less important than whatever hallucination Sandra had?”

Sandra, quietly, “It wasn’t a hallucination.”

Mateo sipped his drink. “She’s doubling down. Bold.”

Glenn clasped his hands. “I always hoped love would bloom here. Even in the presence of pest infestations and frequent cart theft.”

(Y/N) looked around the room, expression blank. “I am begging you all to get hobbies.”

“That’s what people say when they’re caught,” Mateo said.

“Caught doing what?” Jonah asked, voice rising slightly.

“Being all soft and couple-y,” Amy replied, like it was a felony, clearly enjoying this more than she should.

Glenn sniffled. “It’s just... nice, you know? Love in a hopeless place.”

Dina stood up, clearly done. “Alright. Break’s over. Glenn, your meeting has gone off the rails. You are spineless and a downright disgrace. As fun as this was, there is a raccoon loose in the store that we need to tend to. If I find that before you do, I’m keeping it.”

Everyone stood and filed out of the breakroom, still murmuring and exchanging knowing looks.

Jonah and (Y/N) stayed behind for a second. He gave her a look, somewhere between exasperated and amused.

“You think if we start actively being mean to each other, they’ll drop it?”

(Y/N) stood, grabbing her half-empty coffee. “Probably not. We’ll just end up on a different kind of list.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I mean, next time I’ll just high-five you from across the aisle to avoid scandal.”

(Y/N) smirked. “I feel like that it will actively make it worse.”

Jonah opened his mouth, stopped, sighed. “Cool. Awesome.”

She paused at the door. “For the record? You do do the soft eyes thing.”

Jonah blinked. “What’s the—?”

She gave him a deadpan look as she leaned against the doorframe, then rolled her eyes and walked away, smiling. Jonah instinctively felt his entire demeanour change, soften, in fact.

Oh.

#jonah simms #jonah simms x reader #jonah simms x you #jonah simms fluff #jonah simms fanfiction #superstore #superstore fanfic #superstore fanfiction #superstore x reader #maya writes #ben feldman

93 notes · View notes