#broad street pump

[pandemic-info]

The Doctor Who Championed Hand-Washing And Briefly Saved Lives : Shots - Health News : NPR

This does not have a happy ending.

But it's important.

[lizzzieread]

I can’t explain to you guys how it feels to be obsessed with the specific taste of the tap water from your kitchen sink, only to realize that the words that you use to describe how good the water tastes are the same words people used to describe the water from The Broad Street Pump from the 1854 London Cholera Epidemic.

[theculturedmarxist]

In photos of 2023’s World Economic Forum- or Davos as it is commonly called, after the Swiss resort town where it annually occurs- you might not notice the HEPA filters. They’re in the background, unobtrusive and unremarked upon, quietly cleansing the air of viruses and bacteria. You wouldn’t know- not unless you asked- that every attendee was PCR tested before entering the forum, or that in the case of a positive test, access was automatically, electronically, revoked. And if you happened to get a glimpse of the strange blue lights overhead, you could reasonably assume that their glow was simply a modern aesthetic choice, not the calming buzz of cutting edge Far UVC technology- demonstrated to kill microbes in the air.

It’s hard to square this information with the public narrative about COVID, isn’t it? President Biden has called the pandemic “over”. The New York Times recently claimed that “the risk of Covid is similar to that of the flu” in an article about “hold outs” that are annoyingly refusing to accept continual reinfection as their “new normal”. Yet, this week the richest people in the world are taking common sense, easy- but strict- precautions to ensure they don’t catch Covid-19 at Davos.

These common sense, easy precautions include high-quality ventiliation, use of Far UVC-lighting technology, and PCR testing. You’ll also see some masks at Davos, but generally, the testing + air filtration protocol seems to be effective at preventing the kind of super-spreader events most of us are now accustomed to attending.

It seems unlikely to me that a New York Times reporter will follow the super-rich around like David Attenborough on safari, the way one of their employees did when they profiled middle-class maskers last month. I doubt they will write “family members and friends can get a little exasperated by the hyper-concern” about the assembled Prime Ministers, Presidents and CEOs in Switzerland. After all, these are important people. The kind of people who merit high-quality ventilation. The kind of people who deserve accurate tests.

Why is the media so hellbent on portraying simple, scientifically proven measures like high-quality ventilation as ridiculous and unnecessary as hundreds of people continue to die daily here in the US?

Why is the public accepting a “new normal” where we are expected to get infected over and over and over again, at work events with zero precautions, on airplanes with no masks, and at social dinners trying to approximate our 2019 normal?

We deserve better. We deserve to be #DavosSafe as the hashtag going around on twitter puts it. Your children deserve to be treated with the care that world leaders are treating each other. Your family deserves to be protected from the disease which is still- unlike the flu- the third leading cause of death in the US. We don’t deserve to be shoved back into poorly ventilated workplaces while our politicians and press assure us that only crazy people would demand to breathe clean air.

Clean water and clean food are rights we fought for; we have regulatory bodies that ensure we aren’t exposed to pathogens via our water supply nor our food. In 1854, John Snow famously conducted his Broad Street Pump study in London and demonstrated that cholera was water-bourne; however, it took decades for our public policy to catch up with our scientific knowledge.

A public health case study published by the NBCI describes the years that followed:

The first use of chlorine as a disinfectant for water facilities was in 1897 in England. The first use of this method for municipal water facilities in the United States was in Jersey City, New Jersey, and Chicago, Illinois, in 1915. Other cities followed and the use of chlorination as standard treatment for water disinfection rapidly grew. During the 20th century, death rates from waterborne diseases decreased significantly, and although other additional factors contributed to the general improvements in health (such as sanitation, improved quality of life, and nutrition), the improvement of water quality was, without doubt, a major reason.

Forty-three years passed from the initial demonstration that pathogens were being spread via water, and public action and regulation to halt disease.

Can you imagine, in the 1890s, being somebody who argued against cleaning the water?

Can you imagine, in those years of plentiful cholera, calling the people who demanded shit-free water “hold outs”?

One thing COVID realists are accused of is being “doomsayers” and “fearmongers,��� so let me share a dose of optimism about the future with you. When we choose- whenever we choose- to get COVID under control, there’s an exciting new world awaiting us. One, not only without constant COVID reinfection, but where our kids can grow up free of colds, flus, RSV, and many other common bugs. And no, contrary to what you may have heard, staying healthy (shockingly enough) is not bad for children!

Once we choose to institute ventilation standards and introduce new technologies like Far UVC lighting- and embrace masking as an easy, kind, and useful tool to control outbreaks- we can bring every nasty airborne pathogen under control the way we did cholera. We didn’t have the science before; now we do. (I mean that quite literally; I can’t recommend enough the linked Wired article cataloguing the long journey to establishing that Covid is, indeed, airborne).

We face a stark choice; down one road, the one with zero infrastructure upgrades, no air quality regulations, and Covid safety only for those who can afford it, you and your family will get Covid this year. You will get Covid next year. You will continue to get Covid over and over and over again, as the health problems - like cardiac damage, viral persistance, and immune system dysfunction- continue to build up. (The billionaires, of course, will not).

Down the other road, we quite simply treat ourselves the way Davos would. We engage with what the science is telling us and we build a safer, better world for our kids. We embrace the lessons this pandemic is teaching us, and let go of things we now know are harming people. We stop clinging desperately to the idea that 2019 will come back if we just get the virus one more time, and we come together to achieve what we’ve been told is impossible: elimination.

The economic elite thrive on our divisiveness and blame casting. They don’t mind that we’re calling each other names, engaging in racial stereotyping, or leaving disabled people to die, so long as we keep their machine running. But we can choose to stop throwing blame at each other, and direct it where it belongs: at the powerful people who’ve left us to suffer, at the politicians who are whipping people into a frenzy over masks instead of over our millions of dead, at the talking heads on TV that work so hard to convince us: you want to get sick. It’s better than being a *weirdo* or a *hold out*.

We needn’t wait 43 years to redirect our energies. France and Belgium have already introduced new air quality standards, and DIY projects to build Corsi-Rosenthal boxes for schools and healthcare settings have popped up around the country. We have the science, we have the technology. All we need now is the political will and the solidarity to truly end the pandemic- the kind of solidarity the super rich always show with one another.

The billionaires at Davos don’t accept continual Covid reinfection. They demand better. It’s time we demand better too.

[jerrydevine]

9 years old: last time eddie went to confession

10 years old: ramon pulled eddie aside and told him it was time to step up and be the man of the house

12 years old: set off the smoke alarm because he was making eggs for his sisters and ramon yelled at him

14 years old: met shannon for the first time

17 years old: reconnected with shannon and started dating

18 years old: gets married and enlists in the army

19 years old: christopher is born

23 years old: reenlists in the army, almost dies and saves the lives of all but one of his team, honorable discharge, then goes home to his mother berating him and shannon leaving him in the same 48 hours

25 years old: his parents try to take custody of christopher and tell him he cannot take care of his son

26 years old: lives and works through a 7.1 magnitude earthquake

27 years old: shannon dies while he sits beside her and can't do anything to save her, buck gets his leg crushed by a ladder truck and eddie can't do anything to save him, christopher and buck get lost in the tsunami and eddie thinks christopher is dead, buck sues the department and legally goes no-contact with eddie and chris, joins an underground fight club and almost kills a man

28 years old: almost dies in a well collapse trying to save a child, goes through the covid-19 pandemic while not able to quarantine with his son

29 years old: tries to start dating his son's former teacher, chris freaks out and eddie thinks he's gone missing, tries to help a child who is being poisoned by his mother, gets shot in the street in broad daylight and almost dies, works through a city-wide blackout, gets held hostage and threatened with a gun before doing chest compressions to keep the man's heart pumping blood to save the man's child, eddie leaves the 118 for a job he hates because he wants christopher to feel like he is safe

30 years old: has a complete and total mental breakdown when he finds out that every single person he saved from the helicopter crash seven years ago is now dead and terrifies his son, starts going to therapy for PTSD, bobby won't let him back to the 118, his place of work goes up in flames and he has to save his coworkers, goes to visit his parents to celebrate his dad's retirement and when he tries to stand up for himself against his parents his father collapses and he has to save him

31 years old: buck gets struck by lightning and dies for 3 minutes and 17 seconds while eddie desperately tries to save him, his aunt tries to set him up on dates with women without telling him, gets crushed in a van and breaks his ribs

32 years old: gets his ankle sprained by buck, sees a doppelganger of shannon and asks her to spend time with him, wakes up to kim purposefully acting and looking exactly like shannon and cannot get her to leave his house, bursts into tears trying to wrestle with his feelings about shannon and kim's behavior, christopher and marisol walks in on him and kim hugging, chris calls eddie's parents and goes to el paso, lets everyone believe he had sex with kim, his parents completely take over chris' life and do not let him reconnect with his son, the fucking beenado, tries to help a teen who cheerleads reconnect with his dad who hates that his son doesn't align with his ideas of masculinity

also 32 years old: next time eddie went to confession

[agoodflyting]

Good Omens Historical Trivia That's Haunting Me Today...

So we all know A.Z. Fell & Co is located on the fictitious Whickber Street in Soho and was established in 1800.

Aziraphale has run the shop ever since then and was in contact with Crowley at least until the 1820's when they took their little jaunt to Edinburgh and Crowley got sucked down the tube slide to Hell. They meet up again no later than the 1860's, when Crowley asks for Holy Water.

Stands to reason that between the 1820's and 1860's Aziraphale was in Soho doing Aziraphale things. Running his bookshop. Eating tiny cakes

Yeah... you know what else was going on in Soho during that time?

The worst cholera epidemic in London history.

If you don't know, cholera is a deadly bacterial infection caused by drinking contaminated water. Prior to the 1850's humans weren't really sure what caused cholera, but they knew it was terrifying and also that it was absolutely epidemic in big cities.

TW: this is gross - The main symptoms of cholera are agonizing stomach pain and non-stop watery diarrhea, eventually leading to the skin turning blue due to the thickening of blood from severe dehydration. Patients can lose more than 20% of their body weight in hours as they quite literally evacuate every drop of water in their bodies until they die of heart failure. - OK gross part over

Cholera symptoms show up as short as 5 hours after infection and could kill within as little as 12 hours. Cholera was especially terrifying because of how quickly and painfully it killed you, and because the patient maintained mental clarity up until the point of death. More than half of the people who contracted cholera died within a few days after consuming the bacteria-contaminated water.

And guess what water had cholera bacteria in it?

The public water pump on Broad Street in Soho in August of 1854

And this wasn't one of those epidemics that starts slowly and drags on. It hit like a bomb. It killed 600 Soho residents in ten days.

That's roughly 60 people a day in a 3-4 block area. Most of them died at home because the disease struck too quickly for them to to make it to a hospital. Survivors described hearses stacked with coffins 4-5 high going down the street nonstop all day long during the outbreak. Entire families were wiped out overnight.

What does that have to do with Good Omens?

Aziraphale's book shop was right in the epicenter of this outbreak.

Neil Gaiman has been pretty free about the fact that Whickber Street is a thinly veiled expy of the real Berwick Street in Soho.

This is a famous map showing the 1854 Soho Cholera epidemic. I highlighted Berwick Street and the public water pump that was the center of the contagion. The black bars (I circled a few in blue) on the map designate deaths. The thicker the black bar, the more people died in that particular house.

51 people died the week of the cholera outbreak on Aziraphale's Street alone.

Cholera was one of those diseases that provoked a lot of panic, not just because of how fast and painful it was, but because of the way it didn't follow common conventions about class or age. Children died while the elderly survived (often because the elderly had no one to gather water for them). Lower class houses were spared while their middle class landlords died. Churches were packed that week, because people in Soho had no idea who would get sick next. The epidemic pretty much burned itself out in a week and a half, since by that point everyone who drank the water had already died. I have to wonder what our resident Angel was up to during that time. Obviously cholera can't hurt him, but that's his neighborhood. There's no way hundreds of people, including entire families with children, are dying painfully in his neighborhood and Aziraphale doesn't notice. That means that in between this scene:

And this one:

Aziraphale would have watched one of the worst disease outbreaks in London history play out right outside his front door. I feel like there's great potential for a good story there if anyone better than me wants to write it.

[sehnsuchts-trunken]

Twenty-Five Going on Forty-Seven

dbf!jake seresin x fem!reader 12k words (.....yes. 12k. i-)

summary: Flirting with the guy who fixed your car turns out to lead to much, much more when you find out he's actually not just some random guy, but your new neighbour and father's new best friend, Jake Seresin.

a/n: porn with plot. a lot of plot. and a lot of porn. 18+ obviously. reader is twenty-five in this, jake is forty-seven. this is entirely based on my new fixation on dbf!jake. i have so many thots. so many that they led to a 12k oneshot lmfao. anyway, as always, a list of things to watch out for:

pet names used in an unholy way, safe sex (i fucking managed to finally give them a condom whooooohoooo), oral sex for the both of them (yes i also wrote a blowjob. this is unbelievable i know), dom!jake, some praise kink, a smidge of strength kink at the end. a lot of begging. as always. mention of shower sex. mostly vanilla. jake fucks in missionary because he wants to be nice for his first time with her. if there's ever a sequel i swear to god he will be the most unholy fucker ever

top gun masterlist | dbf!jake seresin masterlist

The first time Jake meets you isn't the first time he's supposed to meet you. He's supposed to come by for dinner that evening, to finally get to know the daughter your parents have told him so much about. And it's not his fault that he meets you seven hours earlier that day. Not really.

Because the pictures your parents had kept showing him were all old. Mostly childhood photographs, some from your graduation, but none recent enough to connect the dots.

So it's really not his fault that he doesn't recognise you when he sees you standing there on the side of the road, phone clamped between your ear and shoulder, the hood of your car all the way up. With how wildly you're gesturing, Jake guesses that you're not particularly close to fixing whatever problem you have.

You're wary when he pulls up behind you and opens his door. It's rarely a good sign when random men prey on very obviously helpless and distressed young women. But Jake doesn't even get closer at first, just stands there in the opened car door and asks if you need any help. For a little moment, you debate whether it's worth the risk. Then your father's voice rings out from your phone and you decide that there's not much this guy could do to you in broad daylight on a well used street with your father on the phone.

So you tell him the truth. Yes, you most definitely have a problem. The way he makes sure it's okay for him to come over and take a look calms you even more. He's considerate and careful and maybe you're actually lucky and he's just a guy who genuinely wants to help.

He steps out from the door and walks up to you and honestly, for a moment there you're startled. He has to be in his forties, but damn, he's attractive. Suddenly you're glad you picked your sundress over your sweatpants this morning.

You let him lean over your car and take a closer look.

"If he can't help, I'll just come pick you up and we'll call a tow truck", your father says after you've filled him in on what's happening. Honestly, you'd really rather not have to call a tow truck though, because that's just going to cost you a bunch of money again, which isn't particularly the way you want to spend it.

Also, this guy leaning over your car - and you're not even denying that you're very much eyeing him up - seems like he actually knows what he's doing there.

He takes a minute or two before he comes up again. He's smiling, which you take as a good sign. He opens his mouth and you hear what he's saying - but because you have no clue what it is that he's trying to tell you, you just nod along. You're not a mechanic, you don't know the goddamn terminology. Something something battery, something something fuel pump, whatever. You take the time to notice his accent instead.

The good news is he thinks he can fix whatever he's found, but you'll still have to get it checked out later on.

He walks back to his own car, rummages around and comes back with a toolbox and an unopened water bottle.

"It might take a while", he tells you as he offers you the bottle. "Feel free to turn on my radio."

You take the waterbottle and bite down on your lip to keep from grinning. He's sweet. Goddamn. Because you've deemed the whole thing safe, you tell your father goodbye and hang up - you honestly just want a bit of privacy to stare at this hunk of a man who's bending over the hood of your car again and offering you a very... good look at his backside.

It's summer. He's wearing a wife pleaser, which is reasonable in these temperatures, but the sight of his forearms working almost makes you feel like he knows what he's doing by wearing it. Does he have a wife to please, though? He's old enough to have kids - your age, maybe a few years younger. He's about as old as your dad. If he has a wife, maybe he's wearing it for her. Maybe she likes the way his biceps flexes just like you do.

You squint at his hands as you uncap the water bottle and take a sip. There's no ring as far as you can see. Would it be entirely unreasonable to assume he's... single?

It's been a minute, maybe, when you decide it's probably awkward for you to stand there and watch him, so you go with his suggestion and lean into his car, palms bracing against the seat to reach for the radio.

You turn it on, switch through a few channels until you find one you like and turn the volume up. Because it's probably just as awkward if you stay in his car - if not bordering on creepy - you step around the opened door and settle yourself against the hood. Your thighs stick to the warmed metal, but that's something you're willing to deal with.

Your eyes cling to him as he works. You don't know what the hell he's doing, you just hope he knows and you're not left with an even worse problem after. But he doesn't seem like that type of guy. And since he's seemingly unmarried... You don't stop yourself from staring.

Fuck, maybe he has a girlfriend, not everyone gets married at thirty. Not everyone wears their wedding ring either. But a girl can dream, right? And you're dreaming, for just a few minutes. You allow yourself to dream.

He looks so good. He looks so fucking good.

Sandy-blond hair, cut short, but not too short, broad, broad, broad shoulders... those arms, that back.

When he straightenes and looks at you, greasy fingers and a triumphant grin on his lips, you also have to admit that he's got chiseled fucking features. You swallow hard and do your best to pretend you haven't been ogling him.

"All done", he says. You raise your eyebrows.

"Really? That quickly?"

He grins and takes a step back, offering you to take a look yourself. You bite back a smile and push off the hood of his car - your hips are swaying as you walk, yeah, but as far as you're aware, he's single and just fixed your car for you, for free, in less than fifteen minutes.

Also, he's hot.

"Looks no different to me", you admit. He lets out a chuckle.

"Try it", he says, reaches for the hood and pulls it down as you slip into the driver's seat. You look up to him through the windshield before you turn the key in the ignition and-

The car starts.

The fucking car starts.

He's actually managed it.

You turn the key back and shake your head in disbelief. If he hadn't accidentally stumbled upon you, you'd probably have had to call the tow truck by now. Instead, you reach for the glove compartment and grab your purse.

"How-", you start as you climb out of the car seat again, shutting the door behind you. "How the hell?"

He chuckles.

"Actually, don't tell me", you interrupt yourself, throwing your hands up. "I don't even want to know. Here."

You reach into your purse and pull out disinfection wipes, offering them to him. He takes one with a smile and a drawled thanks and cleans off the grease on his hands before folding it up and letting it disappear into his pocket.

"So you're my knight in shining armour today", you say, biting down on your lip. Fuck it. You're gonna find out here and now whether or not he's single. "Otherwise I'm sure the tow truck would've cost me a hundred bucks - at least."

"Yeah, probably", he agrees, his eyes dropping to your mouth for just a second.

"Well, then", you smile, as coyly as you can manage. "How can I thank you?"

And just as you hoped, he stills, taking you in - maybe for the first time, you're not sure. His eyes rake down your body, your cleavage, your waist, your legs. His lips tug into a grin, but when he looks back up at you, he's serious.

"No worries", he tells you. "I'm not the tow truck."

He's not pushing you. Actually, he's doing the opposite, and you're not a fan. Maybe he isn't single after all. Maybe he does have a girlfriend. Or a wife. Or maybe he's not interested. Maybe... but you can give it a try, right? Just one try.

"I can't just drive off", you argue, blinking up at him a little more, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Fuck, are you really doing this? Your breath catches for a moment. But then again, if he isn't single, you're just gonna get into your car and never see him again. So who cares? "How about I give you my number?"

Your heartbeat quickens as he looks at you and straightens up. He's still grinning. You can't quite figure him out.

"I'm forty-seven, darling", he chuckles. You try your hardest to ignore how that pet name sounds, all sweet and intimate and god, you'd do a lot to have him say it again.

"So?", you ask and raise an eyebrow. "Does that mean you don't have a phone?"

Jake shakes his head with a chuckle, but you keep looking up at him so seductively, keep smiling so flirtatiously that he can't help himself. You're wearing such a pretty dress, such a dainty necklace around your throat. And you're serious about this.

He's had younger women flirt with him, yes, but usually five, ten years younger at most - and even that's been a while, because he isn't going to bars every night anymore.

You're really young. You're too young. You're, what, twenty-six? You can't be much older.

But you're stunning. Gorgeous eyes, kissable lips, glossy and plush and for just a moment, Jake loses himself in the images his mind seems to produce immediately when he looks at you - has been, from the second he'd spotted you through his windshield.

He's old enough to know better. But he still reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his phone.

...

The first time Jake officially meets you is seven hours later when he knocks on your parents' door and takes a step back to wait for it to open.

"That's gotta be Jake, someone get the door!", your mother's voice calls out, and it takes a few seconds until he hears soft footsteps coming down the hallway.

Then the door cracks open.

And there stands-

You.

You're smiling widely for the entirety of two seconds. Then your face falls.

Jake feels like the rug is pulled out from under his feet. He tumbles deep down a dark, dark hole as he stares at your pretty eyes, all shocked and wide, mouth open.

"You", you let out, almost breathless.

"You", Jake echoes, in quite the same tone.

Within seconds, you're stepping out onto the porch, closing the door behind you and holding out your hand in front of you, as if to keep him a safe distance away.

You're quick, almost stumbling over your own words as you come to conclusions and try to grasp all their consequences. Jake has a hard time even listening to you. He's frozen in his spot, barely comprehending the entire situation.

The young woman that had so unashamedly flirted with him this morning - that he had most definitely flirted back with - is his neighbour's daughter. His friend's daughter.

So he's fucking frozen in spot, yes.

He's frozen even as you're ushering him into the house with a smile on your lips that's just a bit too wide. He's frozen as he sits down at the dinner table and frozen as your mother offers him a beer. He's frozen as he settles on the couch after and as your father turns on a football game. He's frozen as you scoff at the tv and disappear up the stairs.

Your father asks him what's wrong, but there's no way Jake can tell him.

Even without your lecture on the porch, there would've been no way he would have admitted that he's got your number saved in his phone, "Twenty-five" with a winky face emoji behind it.

So he says he hasn't been all that well - maybe getting the flu or something.

Which is bullshit. He doesn't get sick. He's been sick two, maybe three times in all his life.

But he does think he'll be sick when you take your last step down the stairs half an hour later, in pajamas that barely cover anything - satin or something, he's too focused not focusing on your bare skin to notice anything except your bare skin, really. You just traipse over to the kitchen on tiptoes, eyes glued to your phone, hushed voices reaching his ears when you talk to your mother before you reappear in the living room.

"I'm going to bed", you announce, phone clutched tightly in your hands. "It's been a long day."

Jake can't hear your father's answer. He can't hear the commentator or the cheers from the tv. He can't hear anything, not when you're standing there in the doorway, when he's concentrating so fucking hard on not looking at you.

He fails miserably.

His eyes rake down your body so scorchingly hot that they burn holes into your skin. You have to swallow hard at his expression.

You're not tired at all, actually. Yes, it's been a long day, but if anything, you're buzzing with adrenaline. Which is worse. Because the entire dinner long, you've just had to sit there and stare at him and not do anything about it.

So you're aching to finally hide away in your room, to crawl into bed and contemplate what the fuck is happening. And, just maybe, to dip your fingers into your pajama shorts and think about his shoulders, his arms, his jawline...

Jake manages to grunt some kind of 'goodnight' before you flee - but he doesn't manage to drag his eyes back up from your stomach, all exposed and on display for him. And he doesn't manage to hide it from you.

...

He sees you often over the following weeks. He's been over at your parents' house almost every day for the past six months anyway, and that doesn't change just because you've come back home. Your father still invites him for football games, your mother still talks him into coming over for lunch or for dinner or both and whenever they're outside tinkering on something, he's being called to help.

And - because of course, it's your house as well - you're there, too.

All around him, all the time.

At first, it's innocent. You walk into the kitchen to get a glass of water and smile and say hello. You sit on the couch on a call with a friend and wave at him through the window. You come back from a walk with the dog and ask how he's doing before you disappear inside.

But then there come moments... Moments in which you lie down on a sun lounger in a skimpy bikini while he's painting the fence with your father, sunglasses high on your nose, a book in your hands, rubbing sunscreen into your skin and biting your lip when he can't help but look at you. Moments in which you brush up against him in the kitchen with a giggled 'Sorry', your mother's back turned to you as she grabs milk from the fridge, his fists clenching at his sides, his coffee cup held decently in front of his crotch. Moments in which you sit next to him on the couch and have to lean over him with a lengthy apology, your father just disappearing into the bathroom, your palm high enough on his thigh to stagger into the inappropriate.

The only time he's safe is at work. And even then, you're on his mind constantly.

Those pretty dresses you wear all the time, low-cut in the front and so short they hardly reach past your mid-thighs, in all colours of the rainbow. Those skimpy tops with the flowers on them and jeans-shorts or skirts he's more than once noticed are actually skorts.

He shouldn't be attracted to you. It's so wrong on so many levels. You're too young, much too young, twenty-two years younger than him. And - worse - he's best friends with your father.

He can't be attracted to his best friend's daughter. He simply can't.

It's wrong. It's so, so wrong.

But he can't help himself. He can't help himself when you brush up against him, when you touch him, when you look like that right in front of him.

He doesn't know how he survives those first weeks. He doesn't feel like he's alive, really. Every waking thought is of you - of you and of how wrong it is that he can't stop thinking about you. That he keeps imagining what it would be like to hold you, to kiss you, to-

No.

No, he can't.

Even though you're making it practically impossible for him.

And it's not like you really know what you're doing either. But ever since the car incident that very first day back home, you've been picturing those arms, those shoulders - and after the first time you caught sight of him working shirtless on some project in the backyard with your father, those fucking abs. All glistening, sweaty skin, that v-line, that happy trail...

It's not your fault he's starring in all of your late night fantasies now. It's his. It's his because he shouldn't be allowed to look that fucking good, to smell and sound and feel that good, when you can't have him. Because of course you can't.

He's twenty-two years older than you. He's your dad's new best friend.

You can't.

You can't flirt with him like you want to, you can't have him, because it would be wrong. But you also can't not.

You don't mean to taunt him, not at first. At first, it's just instincts. Talk to him, get his attention. But the more you're around him... the less you can control yourself.

You want to then. You want to graze your fingers across his thigh when your father isn't looking, you want to suck the straw of your drink into your mouth while you blink up at him, you want to accidentally drop your spoon and bend over in front of him. You want to because you know he wants you to.

Even though he doesn't say it, even though he forces himself to turn away when you walk by him, you see the way he looks at you. You catch him staring, you catch him eyeing you up and down. You notice the tick in his jaw and the way his fists clench at his sides. You watch his knuckles turn white as he grabs the neck of his beer bottle and takes a deep sip.

You know he's most definitely attracted to you.

Because even if you imagine half of those things - there's still the car incident. There's still your number saved in his phone. There's still 'darling' on your mind. Mostly the way he's repeated it since then, two or three times maybe, each one inspiring more sinful bedtime scenarios.

You can't.

He can't.

And yet neither of you doesn't.

...

Your parents are away when it happens. Your dad has to go on a trip for work and he takes your mother with him, surprises her with an extra weekend of romance just for the two of them. They're gone by Wednesday morning and won't be back until Sunday afternoon and even though you're twenty-five and have experience living on your own, they've asked Jake to check in on you, just to make sure you're okay.

The first time he 'checks in on you' is involuntary. He's just come back from work, it's Wednesday, 3pm, and he's sitting down on his back porch with a beer when he spots you.

He really doesn't mean to. He hadn't even known you were there.

But the fence between your house and his isn't high and so it's only natural that his eyes flick over to your garden once.

And then twice.

Because you're climbing out of the pool in the tiniest black bikini Jake has ever seen in his life, looking like some angelic, biblic, ancient goddess - your hair in a messy bun, droplets of water running down your bare skin, muscles working as you pull yourself up the little ladder and put both feet against solid, dry ground, leaving wet footprints with every step you take until you grab your towel, sling it around your shoulders and-

Look right at him.

Your lips tug into a flirty grin. You wave at him, your hand lingering in the air a second too long before you wrap the towel tightly around yourself and tread towards the fence. Jake can't do anything but watch you go and swallow hard.

The other option would probably be to drag you into his arms and ravage you until your throat is sore from screaming his name.

So he just sits there and stares at you instead.

"Hey there", you greet as soon as you're close enough to the fence that he can't look past your belly button anymore.

"Hey", Jake says and for whatever reason, his voice sounds raspy even to himself. Your grin only deepens.

"Do you have plans for dinner yet?", you ask. You bat your lashes at him innocently as you dry off your arms. "I was going to order take out."

So that's why three hours later, Jake rings your doorbell, in a black button up he spent twenty minutes picking out. The last time he'd spent that long in front of the closet, he'd been about fifteen years younger and about to go on an actual date. This isn't an actual date. This is anything but a date, because he's only supposed to check in on his best friend's daughter. He's supposed to look after you. Keep you safe.

But you open the door in an oversized, washed out band tee and smile so stunningly that he forgets what he's supposed to do in about half a second.

There's a moment of silence as Jake stares at you. He knows that damn band tee.

"Is that... mine?", he asks in disbelief as he waits for the sight to sink in, which it does not do. His mind blanks completely. It's not just that it's oversized and that you look like you're drowning in it, which already has him imagining the way he could flatten his palms against your stomach and feel for you in that heap of fabric. It's also that he knows this fucking shirt because he's been wearing it for the past ten years.

You look down like you're just realising what you have on, not like you'd almost had a heart attack when you'd seen it in the laundry basket, squealing so loudly that your mother had come in to check on you. Jake had worn that shirt the same day and apparently forgotten to put it back on when he'd gone home, so your mother had put it in the laundry.

She hadn't realised that you'd stolen it for yourself before she could wash it. She probably hadn't paid it that much attention.

You had though. And tonight had felt like the perfect occasion to wear it.

"I found it in the laundry", you say truthfully, looking up at him with big eyes. "Dad said it wasn't his so I just took it. Maybe a mix up. Do you want it back?"

Your fingers reach for the hem of the shirt down by your thighs, tugging mindlessly up just a tiny bit. Jake almost stumbles over his own words with how quick he is in denying you.

"No, no, keep it", he reassures. "Keep it."

You let go of the shirt as your grin widens.

"Okay then", you say softly, turn around and leave the door open so Jake can get in. You stroll into the kitchen, crack open the fridge and grab the freshly made iced tea while Jake closes the door behind him and puts away his shoes.

It could have easily been awkward. Honestly, Jake isn't sure that it's not. But it doesn't feel like that. It just feels... heavy. Drowsy. As though you're moving in slow motion, looking at him over your shoulder with a sultry grin. And in his shirt as well. His fucking shirt, it's unbelievable.

You're smiling at him over Chinese take out food with the radio playing softly in the background and the dim kitchen light on and it could have been almost normal, almost nothing, almost just a friendly dinner with his best friend's daughter.

But it isn't.

It isn't because you're leaning over the table and stealing a spring roll from him, grinning at him when he starts to protest. It isn't because you're pushing him back down onto his chair when he wants to get up and help you clear the table, leaning most definitely too close to him to grab his plate and bending most definitely too far down to put it into the dishwasher. It isn't because you're opening a bottle of whiskey, pouring him one and only then asking if he's going to stay and watch a movie with you.

You've already poured him the drink.

Not that he'd been planning to say no.

You're not close to him on the couch, not really. You're a respectful distance away as you put your own drink onto the table in front of you and grab the remote. You're still a respectful distance away as you scroll through a bunch of movies and ask him if he's got any preferences - besides football, of course.

But when you decide on a movie, on one of those rom-coms he'd never watch willingly, you're draping your legs over his and brushing your hair away from your face and he has to swallow hard.

His hands drop to your bare skin almost instinctively. He can't keep them off of you, not when you're this close to him, not when you're offering so prettily. It's like he has to touch you, has to brush his thumbs across your ankles.

This could all be normal. This could all be usual.

Jake doesn't bother paying attention to the movie. It's not like he could possibly pay attention to it, not when his fingers are running up and down your soft skin. So he doesn't really mind that he misses their first kiss, even as you look up from the drink you're refilling with a gasp and wide eyes to watch.

Jake just watches the way your hair frames your face, those droplets of iced tea on your lips before you wipe them off. He's sure he could taste them if he tried to.

You lean back into the couch then and stretch and your shirt - Jake's shirt - rides so far up that he catches sight of your underwear. Fuck.

He has to grab onto you hard so that he doesn't launch himself right on top of you. His mouth is dry all of a sudden, so dry that he has to swallow. You blink up at him as you feel his hands clench around your ankles, your teeth digging into your bottom lip to keep from grinning.

He needs a few seconds to even look up at you. It's like his eyes are glued to that expanse of bare skin at your hip, clinging to the thought of you in your underwear right before him. You're always wearing shorts. You're always wearing shorts. You're always fucking wearing shorts.

Shit.

He shouldn't. He can't.

But his hands brush up your calves and he does look back at you then, which really isn't better, because your lip is still caught between your teeth and your expression is so sinful that he has to bite down on his own tongue.

"Jake", you breathe, all soft and quiet and that's it. That's his breaking point.

You can't just say his fucking name like that, not in his shirt, not while presenting him such a good look at your underwear, and expect him to be okay.

"Fuck", he mutters, then he's on you.

It's an uncomfortable position. You're half turned to him, half away, your legs are still thrown over his lap, which means he can't really push close to you, but his lips are against yours, so firmly, so passionately that you can't care, not right then.

Your eyes fall shut and you kiss him back with the same fervor, the same heat, the same fucking desperation to finally feel him. You part you lips almost too eagerly, too quickly, just so he can stroke his tongue along yours. His hands dig into your thighs, grabbing you tightly, and your arms cross behind his neck to drag him down to you - just that your legs are really in the way now and you have to try and pry one from his lap so that he doesn't crush it, which isn't all that comfortable and takes a while too long to still be sexy. You hardly mind. Jake doesn't either, only pulls his knees up to the couch to climb on top of you.

The whole thing is complicated and annoying and decidedly too time consuming, but his lips are on yours and he's pressing against you, catching himself with a palm against the couch cushions and lowering you to lie down, every single touch frenzied and hurried and hot. Heady and heavy and horny.

You're dragging your hands through his hair, tugging, pulling, scratching your nails across his scalp. He's grabbing your hips with his free hand, grasping your thighs, tangling his fingers in your shirt and digging them into your skin.

You're grinding against him. Not softly, not carefully, not secretly. You're wrapping your legs around him and grinding against him, almost without realising it - you need to be close, you need to be closer. You need to move. You need to feel him.

At the first moan you let out, Jake stills. When you breathily add his name, he pulls back entirely.

It's cold and empty without him, cold and empty and confusing as he settles back on his ankles, panting and wide-eyed. Your arms and legs drop to the couch as you try to catch your breath.

"No", Jake mutters. "We can't."

You push yourself up onto your palms, chest still heaving as you look up at him. Your cheeks feel so hot that you're sure they're embarrassingly red by now and your mind is still hazy with what just happened -

Jake had kissed you. He'd kissed you and you'd kissed him back.

And now he isn't kissing you anymore and you're absolutely not alright with that. You need him to kiss you again. You need to dig your hands into his hair and feel him knead your thighs again. You need to find out what it's like to rake your nails along his arms and scratch down his back.

"Jake", you breathe, staring at him all wide-eyed as he shakes his head and inches even further away from you. He seems like he's in a trance. You repeat his name more forcefully and reach out for him - but he only shakes his head again and runs a hand down his face.

You still for the entirety of two seconds. Then you sit up, inches closer to him than necessary, and toy with the hem of your shirt. You've got a hunch that giving and taking the sight of your underwear will only help your case here.

"Why not?", you ask as you watch his eyes drop down, just like you'd wanted. His breath catches.

"You're twenty-five", he begins, his voice a bit too rough to sound unaffected. "And I'm friends with your father."

You take a long look at him.

"Would you if you weren't friends with my father?"

You bite down on your lip and blink up at him as prettily as you can manage. You're quite sure you know the answer. Especially with that car incident... With your number saved in his phone. With that smug grin you still see in your fantasies.

He hadn't been too concerned with your age back then.

"I am friends with your father", Jake says, all the while struggling to drag his eyes back up your body.

"But if you weren't", you go on, not ready just yet to leave this be - because you know that if you back down now, you'll never get a chance again. Not like this. Not with him. "If you weren't friends with my father. Would you?"

A muscle ticks in his jaw. You hold your breath - one, two, three seconds. Then he's on you yet again and this time, this time with no end in sight. Not as he pushes you back down onto the couch and sets both his palms down next to your head. Not as you wrap your legs around his waist and work the buttons of his shirt, fingers moving so frantically that you slip up more than once - not that you care.

You're kissing Jake. After what has felt like an eternity of teasing and quietly flirting, you're finally kissing him, touching him, feeling him. On top of you, all around you.

Yes, he fucking would. You were right.

His shirt finally unbuttons and you can hardly push it out of the way quickly enough to run your hands down his chest - exploring his collarbones, his abs, that fucking happy trail that has been driving you insane ever since you saw it for the first time. Your fingers brush bare skin, warm, hot, bare skin, before they catch on his waistband. He grinds his hips onto yours as you draw your fingertips along his belt and swallows the moan you so pathetically let out.

You're just about to get to work on opening his belt buckle when he shifts his weight onto one hand and grasps your wrist with the other, pulling an inch away from you as he does so, lips parting in sticky intoxication.

"Jake", you mewl, but when you blink open your eyes he's already shaking his head softly and- grinning. Grinning that smug grin that you've been dreaming of. The one you haven't seen since the very first time you met him. Not with your dad around or directed at anyone else, no. The grin that takes your breath away right then, and you can't even tell why.

It's confident and cocky and cheeky and so, so very, very sexy. Fuck.

You stare at him with wide eyes and parted lips, too caught up in taking him in to notice how he's bringing both your hands up over your head.

"If we're doing this, I'm doing it right, darling", he mutters, all low and rough and the pet name has you clamping your thighs even harder around him. "And only if you want me to."

You can't nod quickly enough.

"I need you to tell me, baby", he grins, exposing those pearly whites that you'd very much like to feel biting into your neck or something. "I need you to say yes."

"Yes, Jake", you push past your lips, breathless and panting and desperate. Desperate for him. "Please."

His chuckle reverberates in your own chest. He runs his hand down your side and rubs a soft circle against the bare skin of your hip, catching on the flimsy fabric of your underwear.

"Already begging for me", he mutters with a grin, his fingers hooking into your waistband. Your hips buck up into his and a moan drops from your lips and Jake just keeps on grinning. Keeps on running his thumbs along your hip bones. "That easily."

You can't even deny it, deny him. You need him to touch you and you need him to do it now.

"You're lucky I want to taste you, because I'm sure it'd be fun to tease you", he chuckles, holds you down against the couch as he sits back on his ankles, keeping your legs spread and the dark spot on your underwear right on display for him. "I could keep you here all night."

You're not sure what excites you more - the promise of all night or the tasting you part. Either way, you bury your hands into your own hair and tug hard to keep yourself from sitting up, pushing him onto his back and riding him into oblivion. He wouldn't let you anyway, you're guessing.

Jake runs his free hand down the inside of your thigh and you really have to concentrate on not moving then. Every touch, every brush and every stroke sends shivers down your spine and pools in your core, heating up each inch of your skin.

When he reaches your underwear once more, he hooks his second thumb into it as well and tugs. Your jaw clenches. God, you've gotta keep still, you've just gotta wait-

He looks up then and raises his eyebrows.

"Please, Jake", you breathe, before he can even say anything. His eyes drop again and he pulls your underwear down, down, down, pushing your knees together to slide them off your legs and you're holding your breath, holding your breath in this intoxicating mess of a moment as he parts your thighs again and leans in. Leans closer.

Leans... not close enough.

Instead, he grabs the hem of your shirt.

"As much as I like that you're wearing my shirt", he mutters, already pushing it up and exposing your stomach to him, "I want to see you."

You let out a pathetic little moan, loosen your hands from your hair and pull his shirt over your head instead, dropping it down onto the floor without looking or bothering where it lands. You're not really bothered about anything besides getting Jake's mouth on you right now.

You're dripping already, dripping down your own thighs as he takes you in - all naked, all bare in front of him, soft skin and smooth curves, chest rising and falling with your heavy breath, eyes half-closed, lips parted and kiss-swollen.

It's wrong. He shouldn't. But he's already gone too far and now, now, with all of you for him to see, to touch, to feel, he can't go back. He can't ever go back.

He wants to burn this image into his memory forever.

"Jake", you whisper, voice just as soft and silky as the rest of you and he snaps out of his trance, runs his fingertips over your stomach, studies you as your breath catches. He leans down again, but his eyes are fixed on you still, focused even as he presses a kiss to your hipbone, then to the inside of your thigh. His teeth graze your skin and his fingers brush against the underside of your boobs.

Fuck.

You bite down on your lip.

Jake thinks he might be in heaven as he palms at your breasts, swiping his thumbs across your nipples and watching your expression change ever so slightly. He breathes against your wetness and his eyes flicker down to finally look at you, dripping for him. His fingers still for just a moment.

If he does this, there's no going back. He's crossing a line that he can never uncross.

But in all honesty - he's already long crossed that line.

So he flattens his tongue against you and tastes you. And you throw you head back and let out a moan that's so filthy that he can't even be bothered to care about what fucking lines he's crossing anymore. He just buries his face in your wetness and basks in the way your eyes roll back into your head.

Your hands dig into his hair all by themselves, tug and pull and push him closer, further into you. You taste heavenly. You are in heaven. You're in heaven with Jake between your legs, brushing his tongue through your folds, sucking your clit into his mouth and groaning into you. He's running his fingers over your breasts, palming and grasping at them, circling and tracing.

That's when the movie stops.

You hadn't even realised it was still on, to be honest, but now, in the silence, your moans echo three times as loud. Jake bathes in the sounds you're letting out. You're absolutely gorgeous like that, teeth tugging at your bottom lip, cheeks flushed, eyes fluttering closed before you blink them open again to look at him, to watch him as he lays between your thighs.

You're soaking in the way he swipes his tongue against you, the way he palms at your skin. With every touch and every brush, you can feel the knot tightening. Can feel the tension in your limbs growing. Can feel the way your legs are starting to clamp tighter, tighter and tighter around Jake's head.

He's so good at this. He's so fucking good at this.

Your grip on his hair tightens so much that you're sure you have to be hurting him, but he doesn't show the slightest hint of wanting to tell you off for it. No, quite the opposite: he pushes further into you and groans his approval.

Which is about the last thing you can take.

Your legs cramp, your hands drag at his hair, your back arches, your head hits the armrest of the couch and Jake guides you through your high, eyes set on you, focused and fixed on you, watching every single reaction you have to him, drinking in the sight of you, drinking in your moans. You're pushing back against him, panting and clawing at him, lips parted and eyes shut tightly as you take in a shaky breath and sink slowly back against the couch.

The air is heavy. Heavy with your emotions, heavy with your orgasm, heavy with your moans.

Jake pulls back slowly, softly, draws his hands down to your stomach to rub circles onto your skin - significantly warmer now than before. You're still breathing heavily, legs unhooking from around his head only reluctantly. Honestly, you wouldn't have minded if he'd just decided to stay down there for the next three to five business days. But you also don't mind as he pushes himself up and presses a kiss to your lips, because he tastes like you and you get to hook your arms around his neck and pull him even further down onto you.

With his half-bare chest pushed against yours, his tongue runs along your lips and you open willingly up to him. More than just willingly. Because with him on top of you, his lips sticky and syrupy on yours, not wanting or not able to part from yours, there's already anticipation running in your veins, wetness pooling in your core again, the urge to wrap your legs around him and grind against him growing and growing with every second that he's kissing you.

You draw your hands down his throat, push his shirt out of the way and brush your palms down his bare torso, all hard abs against your fingertips. He's in such good fucking shape you could truly be running your hands up and down a washboard right now. It feels unfair that he's more than twenty years older than you and somehow fitter.

Your fingers catch on his waistband then.

"Jake", you whine softly against him. "Please, I need you."

He groans, drops his head down to your neck and for a second, you just hear him breathe - all hot and heavy before his lips graze your skin.

"Fuck, you can't say that, darling", he mutters. "You don't know what you do to me."

His belt buckle feels cold against your fingertips, so cold against your sticky, sweaty skin.

"Show me", you whine, beg, plead. He's not teasing you, not taking his time, he's not waiting or edging or anything, and still- Still, you're so fucking desperate. He's finally got you here, finally, and as much as you're sure you'd enjoy his teasing... You just need him to fuck you. Now.

Jake chuckles breathily as he raises his head to look down at you. There's that grin again. That fucking grin.

Then he plants that grin onto your lips and you moan softly, hooking your fingers into his belt and pulling hard. You've just started loosening it successfully when he sits back onto his ankles, leaves you cold and lonely and fully naked on the couch. You mewl.

"Jake-", you let out, but he's already standing up, climbing off of the couch and you're sitting up as if in trance, just to follow him, whatever it is that he has in mind.

He slips off his shoes before he starts to work his belt and then lets that fall to the ground too. You reach for him instinctively, drawing your fingertips along his thighs as he pops the button of his jeans and pulls down his zipper, but when he hooks his thumbs beneath his waistband and tugs down, something snaps inside of you.

"Wait", you whisper. "Let me."

You reach out for him and graze your fingers along his waistband, taking a breath as your eyes flutter up at him. He swallows hard, lets his arms drop to his sides and nods heavily. God, he looks so fucking attractive. His hair all messy, his jaw clenched, his eyes fixed solely on you. You make sure to work quickly, almost frenzied, hurriedly pulling down his jeans and taking his briefs right with them. You won't spend unnecessary time on unimportant things.

Your breath catches, palms stilling against his thighs.

Fuck.

Jake's hand twitches, then clenches into a fist. But he stays right where he is, doesn't move an inch. Everything in him screams at him to run his fingers through your hair and guide you closer to him - but he doesn't. He won't. Not tonight, not right now. Right now, he wants to give you every out he can. Just in case you want to take it.

You don't. Of course not.

Not when you can see just how much he's holding himself back.

So instead you lean down and kitten-lick his tip. His hand flexes, again, and even though he lets out a deep groan that will surely echo in your head for the next two weeks, he stays still.

You just wrap your fingers around the base of his cock and take him into your mouth.

He has to close his eyes and tilt his head up to keep from bucking into you. Damn, it hasn't even been that long since he got blown. And he didn't react like a teenager then. But something about your warm, wet mouth, something about the way your dainty fingers reach around him, something about how you eagerly take him so far that he hits the back of your throat, something about that soft little gagging noise you make just before you pull off of him to breathe in deeply-

Fuck, you're making this really hard for him.

"Jake", you mutter, your hand still working him. He opens his eyes and looks down at you, looks down at you sitting there on the couch, completely naked, eyes all wide and cheeks flushed and so fucking stunning. His fingers brush along your forehead, tuck a strand of loose hair behind your ear.

"Jake", you repeat, a little more breathlessly this time. "Don't hold back for me. I won't break."

His jaw clenches again, but you just blink up at him, the weight of your words heavy between you. His eyes roam your face for any sign of uncertainty - then he nods. He'd like to disagree, though. He's more than afraid he'll break you.

You're so young, so sweet, so fragile.

Just not innocent. And you feel like you have to remind him of that - of your more than obvious flirting, of your sultry grins and half-naked hints, of your number sitting so unashamedly in his contacts.

So you lean in again, pull your free hand from his thigh and grab his wrist instead, dragging it away from your cheek and planting it on the back of your head as you wrap your lips around him. He takes a shallow breath and your hand drops back down to his thigh. There's one, two seconds in which your eyes just flutter closed and your nails dig into his skin-

Then, finally, fucking finally! Jake tangles his fingers into your hair and pushes you into him. You loosen your hand from around him and put it against his other thigh, allowing him to pull you closer and closer. You breathe deeply through your nose as Jake groans above you - and it takes everything in you not to grin. Instead, you just let him guide you, blink open your eyes to look at him and try to ignore the arousal dripping down the inside of your thighs. He looks so fucking good, it should truly be forbidden, because now you have to press your legs together and steady your palms against him.

Jake feels about the same. His breathing is heavy, his grip on your hair firm, and his eyes are set on you - on how he disappears inside your mouth, again and again, your spit coating him, your throat tight. He can't help but push you down, one time, two times, and pull you back, three times, four times, then push you down and pull you back again. And again. And again. He can hardly concentrate on how good you're making him feel when you're looking that fucking sinful.

Shit.

Before he can come right then and there in your mouth, he tugs you off fully, his jaw clenching involuntarily at the soft whine you let slip. But you can barely be truly bothered when he leans down and presses his lips to yours instead. You're not bothered about anything, really - about anything but his tongue against yours as you cross your arms behind his neck and draw him in, your hands dragging into his hair, your mouth moving desperately against his, sloppily, silently begging him for more.

Jake steadies his palms against the back rest and pulls away heavily, breathing hard as you open your eyes again to look at him - half-lidded, all languid and slow. He swallows hard.

"Do you-", he starts, his voice low and rough and you nod, letting your arms drop from around him to point at the side table.

Have a condom, he'd wanted to ask. In any other situation, he'd have one himself, but something about bringing condoms for a check in on his best friends daughter would have felt incredibly wrong.

"In my makeup bag", you say, your voice thin and breathy as he stretches and reaches for the lavender coloured pouch, unzipping it and looking for the condoms between all the brushes and lipglosses. He can barely pull one out before your fingers close around it, before you've carefully torn it open. He drops your makeup bag back onto the side table right as you straighten up to press a kiss to his lips - almost innocent, almost, if it weren't for the taste of him on your tongue. Then you press a kiss onto his collarbone. Then one right onto his abs. Then one just above that happy trail that has been driving you fucking insane. And then, then, you run your tongue over his tip again before you roll the condom onto him.

Which means it's his turn.

And he doesn't hesitate.

He's not rough in the way he pushes you onto your back on the couch, no, he's smooth with it, hands running along your skin as he cages you in, as he rests his arms next to your head - but he's firm nonetheless. He takes control easily, moving you how and where he wants to, claiming your mouth, pressing his lips to yours. You let him. More even, you relish in giving in to him, in giving him control, in letting go, in trusting him. You bathe in his kisses, in his touches, in his soft grunts as he guides himself into you.

"Jake", you whine against his lips, your fingers tangling in his hair, eyes falling shut. The stretch is delicious, heavenly. He fills you slowly, dragging his lips down your throat as you tilt your head back and let out a filthy moan. Your legs wrap around him, pull him closer. His teeth graze your neck, drawing a moan from you as he settles. He gives you a moment to adjust.

A moment too long.

Way too long.

Even with his lips on your skin, with your nails dragging down his neck, digging into his shoulders, even with him inside of you, you need more. You need him to move. Right fucking now.

"Jake", you mewl, your eyes fluttering open. He raises his head to look at you and- Fuck, good lord. You've messed up his hair and his pupils are wide and his cheeks are red and he looks fucking heavenly. So heavenly that your breath catches. You forget what you wanted to say for a moment. Then his thumb brushes your cheek and you remember.

"Move", you breathe, digging your fingers into his skin and wrapping your legs around him tightly. You need him to move. But his lips tug up in that grin again and, as quickly as you can, you add- "Please, Jake."

His grin widens as he looks down at you, all pretty and desperate, clenching around him, lips parting in a silent moan. It would be so easy to tease you, so easy to make you beg and plead for him... And you'd look so gorgeous doing it. You're already so eager to please him.

But not tonight. Not right now. Right now, he just needs to make you feel good. So he leans down, presses a kiss to your lips and moves. Finally.

You open up to him eagerly, letting him run his tongue along yours, moaning into him as he thrusts into you. Deep and languid, hitting all the right spots like no one has before. Fuck, fuck, fuck-

You're really doing this. He's really doing this. You claw at his back, scratch down his skin, sure to leave bruises as he pulls his head up to look at you, to watch the way you arch up into him. Your skin glistens with sweat, your lips part to let out a breathy mewl and the coil in your stomach tightens, tightens, tightens.

Jake shifts his weight onto one arm, frees a hand to brush his fingers through your hair, tugging, tilting your head back, exposing your throat to him. You moan at the ceiling as he drops a filthy kiss onto your collarbone before he lets go of your hair again, trailing his hand down your side instead - and his hand is so fucking big, so big as he draws it down your body, brushing his fingertips over your boob, sweeping over your hip, grasping your thigh. You pull him down onto you, crash your lips back onto his hard. You need to feel him, you need to kiss him, you need to hold him right now. You need him. You need this.

He smoothes his fingers down your skin until they catch on your clit.

"Jake", you moan into his mouth, pathetic even to your own ears. He only grins into the kiss and circles your clit as he thrusts into you, again and again and again, your legs clenching harder and harder and harder around him before he pulls away, pulls even further away even though you chase after his lips, his eyes roaming your face as you squeeze yours shut tightly.

"Look at me, darling", he drawls, his voice low and raspy, his fingers rough against your clit. "Look at me when I'm fucking you."

You let out some kind of deranged moan at his crude wording, opening your eyes and blinking up at him because there's no fucking way you can deny him. Not when he calls you darling like that. Not when he thrusts inside you just right. Not when the view of him, messy hair and grinning and all, has you clenching around him this hard.

You're close. So close.

"Atta girl", he mutters, and that does it for you.

Your legs cramp and your lips part again to let out a gorgeous little moan that Jake swallows up immediately, slotting his mouth over yours and drinking up the way you clench around him. It takes everything in him not to come too. You're so fucking pretty and you're clenching so fucking perfectly around him, but he needs to make you feel good first, he needs to make you come first, he needs...

"Jake", you mewl, face scrunched up, back arched, as he guides you through your second high of the night. "Fuck, fuck."

He's grinning when you come down. You grab his hand and pull it away from your clit. It's too much right now, too much. It takes a second for you to even realise that he's stopped moving entirely, too focused on watching you, on drinking up the sight of you, tousled hair and red cheeks and parted lips and all. You look like an angel, so fucking heavenly that he can't believe his eyes, not really.

"Jake", you mutter, slurring his name so prettily and pulling him in for another kiss, your arms loose around his neck, your fingers lazily brushing through his hair. "Come for me?"

It's barely more than a breath, barely more than a whisper onto his lips, but he hears it, oh, he hears it. He lets out a groan as he draws away again, his eyes roaming your face. You're unbelievable. Fucking unbelievable.

You're asking him to come for you. Begging him to come for you.

And there's no grin in sight, no smug smile, no hint of trying to take control of him - it's not a command, not even close, you're actually, genuinely pleading, your eyes half-lidded and barely focusing, just needing him to feel good now, too.

You're really fucking unbelievable.

He can't remember ever having a woman ask him to come.

He kisses you so hard you become dizzy, pressing his lips onto yours and tangling a hand into your hair. He pushes impossibly closer, thrusts back into you and pulls another string of moans from you, bordering on incomprehensible, hardly more than breaths, mewls that he swallows before they can flee into the empty air of the living room.

His own breathing comes in pants, his muscles clenching and tensing and he's there quicker than he thought he'd be. He's close, really close, and that's when you decide to dig your teeth into his lip and tug and fuck, he's there, alright. He's done then. He spills inside you with a groan, pulling back right as you flash him a dazed grin, eyes fluttering open to take him in.

Your throat feels way too dry all of a sudden.

You don't think you'll get this image out of your head ever again, this image of him coming undone on top of you. It's burning itself into your memory while you watch, never to be forgotten.

Because hell no, you won't forget this.

"Fuck", Jake groans, his voice all rough and hoarse and he leans down to press a kiss to your lips again, slow this time, almost soft. He brushes a thumb down your cheek, lightly cups your jaw and pulls you even closer, your skin warm beneath his fingers.

You tighten your arms around his neck a bit, keeping him firmly there, firmly on top of you, firmly inside of you. But he makes no move to leave, anyway. Just runs his tongue tenderly along yours, unhurried and gentle, and holds you close. You don't know for how long. He could've kept you there for eternity and you wouldn't have minded. How could you mind, basking in the afterglow like this, with his skin sticking to yours, his fingers grazing your cheek, his lips brushing against yours? No, really, you could've stayed there for the rest of forever.

But he pulls back after a while, of course, and pulls out, too. You let out some kind of disappointed mewl, but that's about everything you can do before he gently grasps your wrists and pulls your arms from around him, smiling in a way you can't even begin to complain.

"Lets get you cleaned up, darling", he says softly, carefully helping you sit up, his hands everywhere but nowhere nearly long enough.

You sigh dramatically, blinking your eyes open to look at him, even as you let him pull you up. Your legs feel like pudding. You feel like pudding.

"If we have to", you give in, smiling as Jake grins and shakes his head at you.

"We have to", he chuckles, hauls you up into his arms and waits for you to hold onto him before he carries you into the bathroom - seemingly fucking without any problem whatsoever, as if you weigh nothing at all to him.

You bite down on your lip and rest your forehead against his chest, squeezing your eyes shut to not have to look at him while you contemplate his strength. He should not be this fucking strong. He should not be allowed to be this fucking strong.

"Careful", Jake says, his voice low, as he sets you gently down on the toilet seat. You flinch away from the ice-cold seat against your thighs, fingernails digging into his shoulders for one, two, three seconds before you relax and settle down.

Jake lets go of you just as softly, steadying you until he's sure you won't just fall right off the toilet. He turns and you look up, his back right there to stare at, a smile tugging at your lips again - goddamn, he looks way too good, holy shit. You barely hear the garbage can open and close as he throws away the used condom, then rummages through the drawers until he finds a washcloth that he can soak in luke warm water.

He turns with a smile, grabs your chin tenderly and presses a kiss to your lips, just one, all sweet and languid, so unlike the rest of his kisses. You hardly notice that he's cleaning you off as he kneels down in front of you, simply because you're so entranced by him. God, but he really looks like he's fucking glowing, you hate him for having this effect on you.

He wraps his arms around you again - did he put the washcloth away? fuck, did you miss that? - and you cuddle close, almost (but just almost) letting out a pleased sigh. Fuck, he's so broad and so strong and so comfortable...

He sets you down on the couch and smiles.

"Wait here for me, darling", he mutters, bending down to pick up your shirt (his shirt, really) and slide it carefully over your head once again. You hug yourself close and settle deep into the couch as Jake disappears. His steps echo through the house.

Then there's silence.

Absolute silence.

You rest your head against the headrest and close your eyes, your fingertips absentmindedly drawing circles against your heated skin.

And in this quiet emptiness... the reality of the situation finally sinks in.

For the first time.

Because you just slept with Jake Seresin.

Jake Seresin. Your neighbour Jake Seresin. Your dad's best friend Jake Seresin. Twenty-two years older than you Jake Seresin.

Holy fucking shit. Holy fucking shit.

This actually happened. This actually fucking happened. You slept with Jake Seresin. And somehow... somehow- Somehow you can't feel guilty. You can't feel bad or ashamed. Not like you should. And you definitely should. Because this is Jake Seresin, not some random frat guy. This is forty-seven year old, your dad's best friend Jake Seresin.

But you can't feel bad.

You really do try, for the entirety of a minute or two, while somewhere in the back of the house, a door is opened and closed again. But you still can't feel bad. So you don't.

Jake comes back with a water bottle and his briefs back on, which you can't help but feel disappointed at. He sits down on the couch next to you and hands you the bottle.

"Drink", he nods, so you uncap it carefully and take a sip. It's charming, really, how the first time you'd met him with your car broken down, he'd also handed you a water bottle. A grin tugs at your lips involuntarily. It's just coincidence, you know that, but there's something incredibly sweet about the way he's seemingly always made sure to keep you hydrated. There's something sweet about him, simple as that, with how softly he's cleaned you off and settled you down on the couch after.

You put the bottle down on the table and turn to him.

He looks almost normal again, almost like before. He's still nearly naked though (which you certainly aren't complaining about), and his hair still looks like he's just walked straight out of a hurricane. He raises his eyebrows at you as you take him in.

"We should probably talk about this", you say, your voice cracking halfway through. You're not sure you want to talk about it. And with the way Jake's face falls... yeah, he doesn't seem to, either. But he still straightens up and brings some more distance between the both of you.

Maybe that's smart, actually. Maybe. But then again, you've already done everything you could to try and feel bad, so instead of doing the reasonable (you're already way past the reasonable anyway) and pushing further away from Jake too, you stretch out a leg and drape it over his lap again.

A muscle in his jaw ticks and he grasps your ankle almost immediately, as if there's no other choice but to touch you even while he's trying to keep his distance.

"But", you grin, scooching a little closer as an idea forms in your mind, "You know, I still have to shower. Chlorine is so bad for the skin unless you wash it off. And I did spend quite a while in the pool today."

...

It's Monday afternoon and even hotter than the weeks before. You're sitting outside, sunbathing in the fifteenth layer of sunscreen of the day, with sunglasses on that hardly seem to do anything and wearing nothing but a bikini because god, you're fucking melting. It hasn't been this hot the entire year.

The only really good thing about the scorching heat is that Jake, for lack of swimming pools in his garden, is doing sets in yours. You're incredibly glad for your sunglasses, because even though your mother is sitting right next to you, burying her nose in another of the novels she'd checked out from the library two weeks earlier, you can ogle Jake without worrying that she'll catch you.

And goddamn, you're ogling, alright.

It's not like you haven't stared at him enough. Over the past five days, you've barely been doing anything else. Well, except for those times you'd had your eyes closed and his lips on yours, of course. But still, you don't really feel like you could ever possibly get enough of staring at him.

And right now, right now, with the way he climbs out of the pool, arms tensing and flexing, water dropping down his skin, his hands running through his soaking wet hair...

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

You bite down on your lip and press your thighs together. God, if you aren't careful, you'll have to disappear into the house and shower early, because you're sure you could not pass the dark spot on your bikini bottoms off as sweat.

Jake turns away to grab his towel and starts to dry off and you're already mulling over how you'll phrase the message you'll send him (something along the lines of 'tell my parents you need to use the bathroom' with a shower selfie attached? You've already sent him way worse things while he'd been at work) when your mother suddenly gasps.

Three heads turn to her simultaneously.

"Jake!", she chokes, her book sinking down into her lap. Jake raises his eyebrows at her, just as clueless as you are. She parts her lips and then clamps her mouth shut again, apparently lost for words. "Your back."

It hits you like a tidal wave.

Oh, shit. Oh, holy fucking shit.

You should've noticed earlier. Much earlier. You should've- God, he'd known, too, hadn't he? But you'd been the one to stare at his back long enough that you should've noticed. Yesterday. You should've noticed the long, red lines running down his skin. Your long, red lines running down his skin. Fuck, fuck-

"Oh, that-"

Jake stumbles over his own words for the first time ever since you've met him. His eyes find yours, for just a moment or two, and you can see the panic in them. It's the second fucking day your parents are back. The second fucking day. And you're already messing up, you're already-

"I knew it", your mother grins, clapping her hands together and letting out a laugh that startles you so hard you flinch. "I knew you were a womanizer after all! I mean, looking like that, there's no other way-"

"Honey!", your father gasps, and she giggles and throws her hands up. But he's grinning too and you know him well enough to say he isn't really mad that she's complimenting Jake.

"Sorry, sorry, just saying." She chuckles to herself and grabs her book again, her voice dropping to a mumble. "I can't believe it though, we go away for five days and suddenly he's hooking up with someone! I think we need to stop inviting him over so often if we want him to find somebody."

Your father laughs and gets up to offer Jake a beer.

"You didn't happen to see who he brought home, did you?", your mother asks, her voice almost too casual to really be casual as she turns her head to look at you with raised eyebrows.

You choke on your breath.

"Um-", you start, but your father already rolls his eyes and saves you without meaning to.

"You're not nosy at all", he chides, resting his beer bottle against her foot. She tugs it away and shakes her head at him.

"Just curious", she grins. "Just curious."

Yeah. Just curious. You pray to god that just curious won't one day expose the little secret you've got going on with Jake. Next time, you'll really have to be more careful with your nails.

[austinbutlerslovers]

The Chase

Label Mature 18+

🎃 Kinktober One Shot

Summary Benny Cross chases you through the streets on his motorcycle but once he catches you the fun really begins.

🧡Depraved Smut🧡 Dubcon• fingering •P in V• orgasm 🔗 Master List

🎂 Happy Birthday @austinbutlerfly 🎂 (have a fun day ☺️) 📖 Proof reader @purejasmine

@megangovier Thank you so much it’s perfect for October 🧡

The Chase

The autumn night air is filled with excitement, the streets of Chicago alive for a parade. People are cheering and laughing, their voices rising in excitement as the floats glide by.

But you have no interest in the light festivities, you are looking for a different kind of thrill.

You move swiftly through the crowded sidewalks, dodging groups of people, the cool breeze biting at your skin.

The music fills the air loudly as people clap along, but you keep your head down, weaving through the chaos.

You walk into a crowded diner, the smell of fries and coffee filling the air as the usual crowd bustles in and out.

You go straight to the jukebox, flipping through the vinyls trying to make a selection—and that’s when you see him the moment he walks in.

—Benny Cross

He was impossible to miss, all swagger and confidence, his leather jacket on his broad shoulders like a second skin.

The jean vest he wore over his jacket wasn’t just for show either—it bore the unmistakable insignia of his biker crew, the Vandals.

They were infamous in Chicago, the name carrying weight in each corner of the city, and everyone knew to keep their head down as he walked past.

But Benny was the kind of trouble you couldn’t ignore—handsome in a way that made you look twice, and tonight, that trouble set his eyes directly on you.

He scanned the diner as he came in, looking at you for just a moment, a slow, knowing smile on his lips.

And that was all it took.

Maybe it was the challenge, or maybe it was just the way his eyes lingered on you for that one moment, but you were mesmerized.

You should’ve left well enough alone, you should’ve looked away, but something in you couldn’t help it—the thrill, the danger, the way Benny Cross made your heart race.

So as you walk past him, you make sure to bump into him, casual enough not to raise suspicion but just enough to get close.

Your hand slips into his back pocket with a practiced ease, your fingers curling around the leather of his wallet. He doesn’t notice, not immediately anyway—because who would ever steal from Benny Cross?

By the time you walk was past him, its already in your jacket, your heart pounding.

You dont look back. You couldn’t.

You know you shouldn’t have done it, but it doesn’t matter now. What matters is you got away with getting your quick thrill… or so you thought.

The parade has just ended, and the streets are littered with streamers and confetti, the crowd slowly dispersing as people head home in small groups, their laughter and voices carrying into the night.

-That’s when you hear it.

The echo of Benny’s motorcycle roaring through the streets behind you, the engine a low, menacing growl that cuts right through the cool October air.

Your heartbeat quickens—because you know he’s figured it out and you know exactly what he wants now.

-He’s after you!

Without warning, you break into a sprint, quickly weaving through clusters of people, your breaths coming in fast, adrenaline pumping through your veins.

You can hear Benny’s bike as he tracks you and he’s getting close—too close.

And that’s when you realize you’ve run too far ahead of the crowd, singling yourself out.

—Bad luck.

Benny spots you right away, the sound of his bike engine revving kicks your adrenaline into overdrive.

Gasping for breath you see an alley ahead and push your self faster, your heart pounding against your ribs as you dash in.

You’re trying to put as much distance between you and Benny as possible, but his engine only grows louder and you throw a glance over your shoulder to be sure.

—Bad idea.

Benny is right there, his eyes locked on you as he leans in on his bike turning into the alley, his headlight illuminating your every move.

He isn’t just catching up—he’s on you!

Every time the bike revs, it sends a jolt of panic through you the sound echoing loudly off the alley walls pushing you forward, making your heart hammer even harder in your chest.

You exhale, glancing around desperately for some escape route.

Ahead, the alley narrows, the walls closing in, dumpsters and crates forming an obstacle in your path and you know he won’t be able to follow you through on that bike.

You easily weave through the clutter, your breaths coming in quick as you do.

But just as you clear the blockage, the sound of his engine cuts abruptly, and you hear the heavy thud of his boots hitting the pavement.

—He’s coming after you on foot!

Benny Cross is running full-speed at you, his footsteps pounding against the pavement, and he’s much faster than you, he’s right behind you!

“Hey fucking stop!” he shouts, his voice dark with malice, the sound cutting through the alley.

Your chest is heaving, your veins going cold with dread seeing the alley closing to a dead end.

Your hand goes into your pocket, feeling the wallet you’d taken, wondering if it was all worth it now.

Before you can make another move, Bennys hand grips the collar of your jacket, yanking you back. You stumble forward gasping for breath, as his other arm snakes around your waist, pulling you against him.

“I said stop!” Benny yells, turning and pushing you against the cold brick wall of the alley.

His body cages you in, his grip firm and unrelenting as his steely blue eyes burn with a fierce anger, making it clear he isn’t letting you get away.

“What do you think you’re doing, hm?” he asks, his eyes searching your face in the dim lighting.

Your chest is heaving, still trying to catch your breath, and you don’t even answer, feeling the adrenaline still coursing through you, your pulse thundering in your ears.

There’s a shift in his expression as he looks at you, his intrigue growing as his gaze lingers on your features and then his eyes slowly trail down your body.

His hand reaches into your jacket pocket, fingers brushing against yours as he pulls his stolen wallet from your grasp, his gaze lingering intensely as he holds it up between you.

“You thought you could get away with this?” he asks, his voice laced with intrigue as he returns it securely to his back pocket.

You shoot him a defiant look, your heart still hammering in your chest.

“Maybe …I wasn’t trying to get away,” you retort, your breath catching feeling a wave of heat flood through you having him so close.

He’s pressed against you, the scent of leather and a faint trace of smoke clinging to him, making him even more intoxicating.

“What were you trying to do then?” he asks, his voice dropping lower, his gaze deepening as it sweeps over you, taking in every small reaction.

You look up at him, your face flushed as your lips part, because in the midst of everything, the truth is undeniable—you are drawn to him—irresistibly attracted to his danger in every way, and now you have him.

He catches it, that spark of attraction, his eyes shifting with a subtle recognition as the tension between you changes into a different kind of charge.

His gaze lingers on your parted lips as you hesitate to answer and a slow knowing grin spreads across his face.

He leans in close, so close that his lips brush the shell of your ear. “The next time you want my attention,” he whispers, the words slow, savoring the moment as his grip on your jacket loosens “…just ask for it.”

His words hit you like a spark to kindling, igniting a rush of heat that spreads through your entire body. His attention is exactly what you want.

His eyes lock with yours now fully aware of the effect he has on you and his fingers lightly begin to trail down your body with an agonizing slowness.

His touch is soft, almost intimate, as his hand glides down to your waist but it carries the weight of his dominance—an unspoken reminder that he’s caught you and isn’t about to let you forget it.

You swallow hard, trying to steady your breathing, your heart racing in your chest as his hand lingers, just barely grazing your side, the contact sending sparks of heat through you.

“I should be mad,” he muses, sliding his thumb along your waist, testing the limits of how far he can push.

“But I think I like the way you play,” he reveals, his fingertips slipping into the waist band of your skirt.

His touch is confident and knowing, making it impossible to ignore his intentions, and the way he looks at you makes it clear—he’s in control, and he’s enjoying every second of it.

You bite your lip, the urge to lean into his touch becoming overwhelming as a surge of adrenaline rushes through you reminding you of the chase that led you here.

“You like playing with danger?” he asks, his voice low, his gaze flicking down to your lips and back to your eyes, and the way he looks at you tells you everything you need to know.

—He’s going to take what he wants.

You open your mouth to answer, but the words die on your lips as he says, “Well, now you’ve got it,” his voice rough and heavy with need and you don’t even try to stop him as he leans in, his lips claiming yours in a hard, possessive kiss.

His other hand dips to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him and you gasp against his mouth as his hand slips lower, his fingers grazing your panties as if daring you to deny him.

“You should’ve known better,” he whispers against your lips, his voice dark and intense. “Taking what’s mine… this is what happens.” He confirms his hand gliding lower.

You barely have time to react before his fingers push their way into your panties. The alley beyond you becoming nothing but a blur as his fingers thrust into you rough and urgent, like he can’t get enough.

His mouth moves to your neck, trailing hot kisses along your skin as he thrusts them even harder inside you, the slick wetness coating his fingers.

You let out a low moan, feeling how soaked you are as the pressure builds between your thighs, his touch igniting something deep and uncontrollable within you.

“You like getting caught?” he rasps, his voice low and taunting, his breath hot and heavy against your ear and his fingers thrust faster, relentless now, his control slipping as his own need takes over.

“Yes,” you manage to gasp, the word barely a whisper, almost lost in the rush of sensation overwhelming you.

“I thought so,” he whispers, his lips grazing your ear, his fingers thrusting faster bringing you close to the edge.

“Gonna teach you a lesson about me” he says with a rough grip pulling your thigh up and pressing you harder against the brick wall, his body closing the space between you.

“You’re gonna take this lesson well,” he rasps as his other hand moves quickly, yanking down his zipper.

In one swift motion, he pulls your panties aside, his fingers slipping away, only to be replaced by the hard urgent tip of his cock.

You cry out as he pushes into you with one powerful thrust. He’s raw and unyielding—his pace rushed as his body claims yours without hesitation.

A moan rises in your throat, your breath quickening as your muscles tighten around him. Each thrust igniting a fire in you as he takes control.

“You wanna take something from me?... I’ll give you something to take,” he whispers against your ear, his voice dark and teasing.

With a sudden forceful thrust, he drives into you harder, pressing you firmly against the rough brick wall and a loud moan escapes your lips, as the pleasure floods through you. 

The heat of him, the roughness of him, the way his lips claim yours again—it all blurs together until you can’t think, can’t focus on anything but the way he makes you feel.

The tension coils tighter and tighter within you until his intensity is consuming every thought, every breath.

Before you know it, you begin to orgasm, your face pressing to his shoulder as desperate cries escape your lips feeling the waves of pleasure over take you.

Your inner walls tighten on his cock pulsing with each thrust, and you begin to loudly moan against him drawing him in deeper as you ride out the high.

Benny groans from his chest as he pulls out, his grip tightening on your hip.

His other hand wraps around his cock, roughly stroking it as he comes hard, his release spilling in thick streams along the alley way floor.

For a long moment, neither of you move, breaths still heavy and uneven as you come down from the intensity of the moment.

Benny leans back slightly, as he catches his breath. A smug grin on his lips as if he’s just won some kind of prize.

His fingers linger on your waist for just a second longer, as if to remind you he could take more if he wanted.

Then with a satisfied smile, he leans close, his lips grazing your ear.

“Next time you think of taking something from me you better ask first.” He whispers as he tucks his cock away in his jeans. “Or you better be ready to handle the consequences.” He adds with a wicked grin.

His words are a challenge, laced with danger and excitement, making your pulse race as you feel the weight of his promise linger in the air between you.

As you begin to straighten your skirt he steps back, that same easy confidence in his stride as he heads back toward his motorcycle.

He gives you one last look as he kick starts the engine, his grin still firmly in place, the silent promise in his eyes.

The intensity of his gaze makes it clear—he’s daring you to push him, and you know he’s more than ready to make you pay for it.

The roar of his engine echoes down the alley as he rides off, leaving you standing there with your heart pounding in your chest, and you bite your lip as you watch him go, knowing full well this isn’t the last time you’ll make Benny Cross chase after you.

🎃 End 🎃

🔗 Masterlist

🏷️Always Tag Me List @burnthheparaphilia @butdaddyilovehim99 @lindszeppelin @abswifey @ausssbutlershortstories @magicovento @umika @obsessedvibee @austiebuttbutt @psycheetamore @aust-een @faegoddessog @jessica987 @slowsweetlove @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler @hardcoredisneynerd @thegabbyh @thefallofthedamned @buckysteveloki-me @bucking-mustangs-with-wings @shegatsby @darlingisntit @lovereadingfanfic @elvismylove04 @denised916 @shockercoco @minispice-1 @ughdontbeboring @meetmeatyourworst @avidreader73 @xxmandaveexx @mamawiggers1980 @feralgodmothers @finley-08 @imjustheretoreadsmuthaha @majestyjade @gravesdiggergirl @nostalgichoya @ifuckindontknow @kaelatargaryen @darknightmareobject

🏍️ Benny Cross Tag List @ashelybutler @landlockedmermaid77 @jvanilly @oceanablue @12joeywheelerfangirl @presley1992 @rose-deathman @sillylittlethrowaway @lillypink @faephoria @fallout-girl219

[froggibus]

Power Trip - Miguel O’Hara

Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x f! Reader (reader uses female pronouns + has a pussy)

Genre: smut/NSFW

Word Count: 1.9k

Summary: Miguel comes to your universe seeking comfort, but gets the opposite when he sees you on a date

CW: kinda sorta maybe dubcon?, friends with benefits, dom! Miguel, sub! Reader, jealous! Miguel, possessiveness, fingering, oral (f! receiving), slight orgasm denial, begging, sub/dom dynamics, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it <3), creampie, Miguel is kind of an asshole

ive been incredibly down bad for this man lately so here is the result of my 2am thirst writing lol <3 also idkidk I just love the idea of fwb with Miguel and him being super possessive while also being noncommittal

————

It’s late by the time Miguel is back in your universe, but you’re nowhere to be seen in your studio apartment. He knows you were here recently, he can smell it. Smell your perfume lingering in the air. 

The sweet smell floods his senses and only adds to his annoyance. Where are you going this late at night, dressing up all nice and smelling so sweet? Who are you seeing?

The thought of you going on a date has the adrenaline pumping through his veins. You’re his. You should be with him. 

He pulls his mask back over his face and climbs out of your window, pulling out his phone. He opens up the app he installed on your phone to track you, narrowing his eyes when he sees the red dot pulsing at a bar. 

Because of course you’re at a bar. 

Miguel watches you from the shadows of the rooftop across the street. You’re all dressed up, sipping on a Manhattan while some loser chats you up. He can’t help but size the guy up—he could snap him like a twig with one arm. 

What the hell are you doing with a guy like that?

You can feel eyes on you, and not just from the guy in front of you talking about his crypto. No—you’re being watched. You can feel eyes burning into the back of your head, watching your every move. 

The feeling makes you tense, shoulders bunching up to your ears. You finish off your drink and start pulling your coat over your shoulders. 

Crypto guy looks at you in confusion. “Leaving so soon?”

“Yeah, I just, I need some air,” you say, and before he can protest anymore, you’re shoving your way onto the cold, crowded streets. 

Miguel doesn’t take his eyes off of you the whole time, silently trailing after you. He almost laughs at the way you look over your shoulder, trying to see if you’re being followed, but falling just short of seeing him. It’s adorable, really. 

As if he’d ever let anything happen to you. 

You set down your bag and jacket at your kitchen table, rolling your shoulders to loosen the tension. Something in the shadows catches your eye and you sigh. Of course. 

“You can come out now,” you sigh. 

Miguel steps out of the shadows, broad frame towering over you. His jaw is clenched and he looks unimpressed. 

“What are you doing here, Miguel?”

“Who was that at the bar?”

You sigh, leaning against your counter and rubbing your temples. “We’re not together, Miguel. You shouldn’t even be here.”

He steps closer to you, fists clenched at his sides. His dark eyes narrow on you, eyeing you from head to toe. “Answer the question.”

“Jesus—just some guy, okay? Why is it any of your business?”

You’re playing a dangerous game, like running across thin ice and expecting not to fall through. You avoid looking at him—you can feel the tension in the air. 

And then Miguel laughs. Really laughs. You stay perfectly still, clenching your hands on the counter. Heavy footsteps approach you until you can feel him standing behind you, hard breathing echoing in your ears. 

His hands grasp your hips, sharp nails digging into your sides. He tugs you back to him, holding your hips flush against his. “It’s always my business,” he growls. “You can pretend all you want, dear, but you will always be mine.”

His words have your breath catching in your throat, heat flooding your entire body. You squirm under his touch with no real intention of getting away, body fully submitting to him just from his touch. 

“See?” He rubs his hands up your sides, roughly cupping your chest and squeezing hard. “You like to play pretend and tease and run away, but you come back to me. Every. Single. Time.”

He squeezes again, hovering his lips over the base of your throat. A gasp falls from your lips. You can feel his fangs grazing your throat, sharp teeth brushing the sensitive skin. You close your eyes, bracing yourself on the counter in front of you. 

He pushes his hand under your shirt, cold fingers ghosting over your sensitive skin. You shiver from his touch, throwing your head back against his chest. His other hand snakes around your throat, holding you still so he can sink his fangs into your neck. 

The puncture stings as always, blood rushing to the sensitive vein he just bit into. Miguel manages to balance the pain with pleasure—rolling your nipples between his fingers, alternating between gently rubbing and harshly tugging at them. 

He moans at the taste of you, hot blood flooding his mouth. You’ve always tasted delectable, and he’s never been able to get enough. You shake in his arms, whimpering from the feeling. He can smell your arousal in the air, flooding his senses. 

He releases your neck and drops his hand from his shirt, lifting you up and tossing you onto the counter. He towers over you, broad form engulfing the kitchen light. He rips off your shirt, practically shredding the flimsy fabric to pieces. 

“M-miguel!” 

He rolls his eyes at your antics, pulling so the edge of your thighs rest on the counter. He pulls your pants off in one, swift motion, leaving you naked and shivering on the marble countertop. 

The smell of you only gets stronger, sending the blood rushing straight to his groin. You look so pretty like this, so weak. His for the taking—not that you’d ever protest. 

Sharp teeth graze the plush skin of your thighs as he plants kisses up to your heat. The feeling of his breath just above where you need him most has you arching your back, pushing your hips into his face. 

Miguel takes that in stride, wrapping his hands around your thighs to hold you in place and forcing you down to his mouth. The first touch of his tongue against your swollen clit has your eyes rolling back, pleas for more filling the air. 

You reach down to tug on his hair, dark curls falling through your fingers like silk. The feeling of you pulling on his hair and shoving your hips into his face only makes Miguel hungrier for you. He slips a finger inside of you, working you open. His fingers are so long and so thick, they stretch you open better than when you do it yourself. 

He pushes another finger inside of you, pulling his mouth away so he can watch your drooling hole open up around his knuckles. “As if any other man can make you feel like this,” he growls. 

He dives back into your pussy, burying his face between your legs. The added contact has your legs shaking, muscles quivering around his face. He slips one more finger in, reaching that spot that he knows drives you crazy. 

It only takes another second before you’re being thrown over the edge, crying out for more while trying to pull away from him. Miguel keeps a tight grip on your legs, holding you against his face while you ride out your orgasm. 

He pulls away, a twisted grin on his face. “Look at you,” he shakes his head, tugging off his pants to reveal his hard cock. 

He strokes it with one hand, using the other to trail up and down your shaking body. You’re looking at him with those needy, desperate eyes. It’s like you’re begging him to take you. 

He lands a slap to your pussy, laughing at the way you whine and try to close your legs around his hand. He spreads your legs apart, positioning himself between them so all you can do is wrap your legs around his hips. 

He shoves his way inside of you, your walls straining to take him after all this time. He’s so big, so much bigger than you, it’s a struggle. You close your eyes and whine, reaching desperately for his shoulders. For anything to ground yourself. 

Miguel settles into a steady pace, slamming his hips into yours, bottoming out with every thrust. He’s so deep inside of you, stretching out every part of you. 

With every thrust he admires the fucked out look on your face. Your whines and whimpers and pleas for him to keep going only drive him further, speeding up his pace just so he can keep hearing you whine like that. 

You claw at the skin of his back, each thrust pushing you farther across the counter before Miguel tugs you back to him and thrusts again. You slide your hands from his shoulder to his arms, gripping at the muscles of his forearms. 

His muscles flex with every thrust, tugging you even further against him. He watches how desperate you are, how badly you need to finish. He knows if he keeps up this pace, you won’t last long. 

So he stops, leaving just the tip of his cock inside of you. 

You whine in protest, opening your eyes to reveal tears starting to form. “W-why’d you stop?”

“Admit you’re mine,” he emphasizes his words with a thrust before holding still, “or you don’t get to cum again.”

“M-miguel, please,” you whine, looking up at him with those desperate eyes. 

He stares at you unimpressed, trying to resist the urge to keep going so he can finish too. But he won’t. Not until you say it. 

You try to thrust your hips against his but he holds you still, and he’s so much stronger than you that there’s no chance of moving. 

You sigh. You didn’t want to be put in this position again, but he’s so sexy and you’re so hot and wet and all you want is to cum, and his big cock is just sitting there inside of you. You clench around him, whining. 

“I-I’m all yours.” You whine, trying to pull him back to you, “only yours.”

He grins, immediately thrusting back into you. His pace is faster now, more frantic. Desperate. 

He wipes a few tears from your face, “isn’t it just so much easier when you submit to me? Don’t you love it when you don’t have to think about anything other than being my slut?”

His words make you drool and clench around him, wrapping your legs around his waist to force him deeper. Miguel gets the hint, throwing one of your legs over his shoulder and fucking into you even harder. 

He’s so close, but he refuses to finish until you do. He leans in, leaving gentle bites up and down your neck and collarbone. The slight pain is enough to finish you off, your orgasm washing over you in intense waves. 

As soon as he feels your legs shaking, your muscles relaxing, Miguel knows he can let go. He pounds into you a few more times before bottoming out and letting wave after wave of cum flood your insides. 

The hot feeling has you moaning, lazily rolling your hips into his while he pumps his cum inside of you. Miguel pulls out, admiring the sight of you on the counter with his cum leaking out of you. 

He pulls on his clothes and leans in to kiss you. “This is how it should be,” he says. “You better be ready for me next time, no nonsense.”

“Yes, sir.”

He smirks at your submission. “Good girl,” he says, and disappears into the night. 

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Soldat

A random drabble for @startcarvingdarling

Warnings for fear, kidnap, and spanking.

Character: Bucky Barnes, side of Peter Parker

“Peter? I’m waiting,” you say as he finally picks up. 

“Hmm? Waiting? What do you mean?” He asks as you hear something whirring in the background. 

“What? Don’t tell me you forgot.” You sneer, “you’re at the lab, aren’t you?” 

“Uh, yeah, of course. Where am I supposed to be?” He sputters. 

“Meeting me for our date!” You snip. “Ugh, I’m so embarrassed.” 

“Date? What—I didn’t-- I guess I forgot but I don’t remember--” 

“You never remember anything, do you? Not unless you’re getting some award or simping for Tony.” You huff. 

“What? I mean it. I have no recollection of this--” 

“You texted me last week. Said you want to spend some time together since you’ve been so busy and—Never mind. I’m not doing this. I’m not responsible for keeping your mind straight,” you shake your head, “bye.” 

You hang up as your eyes prick. You should have expected it. You can barely get a message back so why would he follow through on this? Besides, all he ever talks about are his gadgets. 

You drop your arm and turn to the restaurant. You look up and groan. He probably didn’t even make a reservation. You drag your feet away and head back down the street. 

The marquee lights reflect off the dark pavement and cast your shadow across the curb. As you walk, others pass by merrily in couples and groups. They’re raucous as they head out for a night of fun. For time with people who care about them. 

You turn down the next street. It’s emptier, and darker, away from the main strip. Your footsteps echo and you cross the street, undeterred as the traffic is sparse. As you get to the other side, you flinch. You turn. You thought you heard something. 

As you turn back, you jump. There was a shadow there. You spin and search the darkness. You’re imagining things. Even if that’s the case, it is New York. 

You speed ahead through the cones of light glowing from the tall street poles. You pump your arms as your breath hitches. Your heart is racing. You hear another scuff. You turn but see nothing. 

You jump as there’s a clatter down the alley and you squeak, stumbling back. You whirl around again and this time, your path is blocked. The silhouette of a man looms between the safe haven of the lights. His shoulders are broad and his feet wide. 

“Um, you—take it,” you throw your purse at him. He swipes it away. You flinch and step back. “Sir, I don’t--” 

He steps forward and your voice fizzles in the air. You know him. It’s Bucky. Yet, it doesn’t seem like him. His posture is different and he has a black mask over the lower half of his face. His eyes are almost black and he move mechanically as he comes closer. 

“Bucky? What are yo--” 

He grabs you by your throat and you cough. You latch onto his wrist as your phone bounces off the sidewalk. You whimper. The street light is swallowed up in his pupils as brings you near. He presses his nose to yours, the fabric of the mask rough. 

He tilts his head as he pulls back and launches you up. He takes a step and catches you easily over his shoulder. He veers and marches into the alleyway as you squeal. His hand cracks across your ass and your voice catches. He squeezes until your whine, digging into your flesh. 

“Wait- what--” 

He hushes you as he keeps going. You kick your legs and swipe at his back. He doesn’t stop. It’s as if he can’t hear you. As if your pleas are nothing, just like your weight on his shoulder. 

His laughter echoes against the brick walls as he carries you into the shadows. You don’t know where he’s taking you, or why, but you know you should be afraid. This isn’t Bucky, this is what he used to be. 

[jasontoddsdarling]

perihelion

— pairing: red hood x female reader

— words: 2,9k

— tags: smut 18+, naked female clothed male, cunnilingus (jason is a pussy eater and i meant it here), size differences*, size kink, rough sex, vaginal sex, belly bulge, overstimulation, creampie, fluff at the end

*❗content warning: repeated (and i meant repeated) descriptions about their size differences, so proceed with caution! it's going to be excessive lol so if it's not your cup of tea you can skip this one :)

"Red." 

She whimpers pathetically, eyes blurry with unshed tears as she looks down at the man situated in between her wide open thighs.

Red Hood's tongue delves into her pussy, eating her out like a man starving. Maybe he is. Because it's been… what? Thirty minutes? And he hasn't stopped. Not even for stretching his massive body or something. Not for one second, even.

His lips keep making out with her cunt. 

She's overly sensitive. 

But by hearing her mewling his name it spurs him on, for he's sucking her clit hard with a low groan.

Her hips shot high. She will probably reach the ceiling of her room if Red Hood's hands on her hips aren't holding her down.

"Red! Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!"

She sobs, orgasm wrecking her body like a ship against gigantic waves. Tears falling down her face in rivulets, dampening her soft pink pillowcase.

She can hear Red Hood shuffling now, by the sound of the fabric of her bedding against his clothes.

"You said you want to take my cock whole and not just half to three quarters," he says, voice hoarse, "I should prepare you thoroughly to make that possible. And multiple orgasms seem to prepare your tiny pretty pussy better indeed."

He proves his point by sweeping his fingers around her pussy opening, gathering her arousal.

"Look at this."

He's showing his shiny fingers to her. 

"Look at you gushing for me. All for me, isn't that true, princess?"

"Yes, Red. All for you."

Red Hood smiles, eyes glittering with wickedness and blown wide with lust behind his mask.

Red Hood quickly works, removing his belt and thigh holsters and dragging his trousers and briefs down above his knees.

He positions his leaking fat cock on her entrance, moving it up and down that at some point the angry red tip catches inside her.

She jerks at that, letting out a gasp. Her body always seems to forget how big he is compared to her.

Red Hood doesn't seem to notice because now he's placing his cock on her entire mound, his tip rests right above her navel. She shudders at the image both of them create. 

He is so massive. It should make her feel wary or something, she thinks, but she just feels that she's being taken care of and protected by this masked vigilante. A man that's capable of eradicating crime without mercy in Gotham streets is also able to worship her body and make her feel safe whenever she's with him, making her feel so wanted.

See, her thoughts have wandered into deeper territory she doesn't wish to visit—at least not right now anyway, when the man above her is about to be balls deep inside of her.

She directs her mind to the present.

Red Hood rubs his cock on her pussy, slathering the underside with her arousal from the orgasms he has drawn from her. 

"I'm not doing my job well if you're able to leave me alone and busy with your thoughts."

"Huh?"

She doesn't think Red Hood realizes that, she's pretty sure she was just lost in her mind for some milliseconds.

Red Hood removes himself from the top of her. She is about to protest but he swiftly sits on his haunches and pumps his cock with his precum and the wet underside of his cock from her arousal, slathering the moistures all over his cock.

Before knowing it, he has positioned himself back above her body.

She knows if hypothetically there's a mirror on her ceiling, she's only able to see his broad shoulders and toned body on the reflection—maybe her thighs if she opened them wide but that's it—because this massive man just simply covers her smaller torso with his. And she likes it more than she ever should.

Red Hood eases his tip inside of her and she feels the relief of having a part of him in her.

She closes her eyes as he keeps feeding her pussy with his cock. 

She can feel the slight pleasant ache that indicates he's working himself deep inside of her. He's probably almost all in now, she thinks.

But when she opens her eyes he's only about halfway inside.

Red Hood's expression indicates that he's holding back, pleasure written all over his face. 

But he is nothing if not relentless, keep pushing hips and drawing back, trying to ease the process. He keeps stuffing her with the rest of his cock centimeter by centimeter.

When he's like four fifths inside her, he groans her name.

"Princess. You're–" he groans, "you're always so tight. But I think this is the tightest you've ever been." 

She preens at his dirty talk. 

"It's you that is so big, Red. Why are you so big, so so big."

Tears gathered in her eyes at the sensation of his fat cock almost fully nestled inside of her. She has never felt like this, so full and whole. And he hasn't even all the way in.

And it's true. He's very considerable, and definitely the biggest one she has ever taken. The first time they're doing this—it was two months after he was wounded in her fire escape and kept visiting her weekly since then, just hanging out and mindlessly talking with her after his patrol—Red Hood was only able to put one third of his cock inside of her because he was afraid he was going to break her, even though she was begging him to just put the rest of it inside. Afterwards he was making it up to her by eating her out until she couldn't feel her thighs because of how he was holding her down so she couldn't squirm away from his ministrations.

Red Hood growls in her ear, cupping her tit and harshly playing with her nipple.

"You're flattering me so much, my sun."

My sun. Her nickname from him after learning the meaning of her name. It makes her feel buzzing that has nothing to do with him currently working his cock to be buried deep inside of her body.

Red Hood swaps his fingers with his hot mouth, his teeth pulling at her peaked brown nipple. 

"Ah!"

Red Hood puts his forehead on hers.

His minty breath fanning her hair as he stuffs the rest of his cock while also keeps distracting her from the stretch by circling her areola with her tongue and sucking on her nipple and globe of tit—leaving hickeys, switching between right to left.

Until he accomplishes the thing that she has wanted since the first time they slept together: the entirety of his fat cock inside of her pussy.

"Redredredredoh."

She feels intense stretch and pleasure she has never felt before, feeling his cock stretch her and the length of it reach a part inside her no one has ever been able to go. 

She feels so incredibly full.

"That's it. It's all in. You take all of my cock. Your tiny cunt is able to swallow all of me."

Red Hood kisses the rivulets that sliding down her cheek away, licking them clean.

She squeezes her inner muscles at the praises and the gesture and he groans, deep rumbles of sound from his chest.

She can feel every ridge of his cock, his veins rubbing deliciously against her walls. 

She has to bite her lips to contain her mewls.

"We're a tight fit. You're so good for me, so perfect."

She moans at his praises. 

Curious, she looks down at the part where they're joined.

A tiny gasp leaves her at the sight. 

Her lower stomach has a bulge from his cock residing inside.

Red Hood touches the indentation on her lower stomach, pressing on where his cock is nestled deep in her. 

"Look where I am inside of you."

He says as he keeps the pressure on her skin.

"You're–you're so deep."

She breathes out, seeing the proof of how different their bodies are—how big, how massive he is compared to her regular size, sending minds into so many directions.

He caresses the bump with his hand like it's the first time he has ever witnessed this. 

"It's the first time I have ever left something like this."

He says as if he knows what she's thinking about. 

"You're so beautiful like this."

She whimpers, her blown wide dark brown eyes seeing his beautiful rugged face above her. Even though he's always with his mask, his beauty has never been able to be obscured by it.

Red Hood kisses her deep, his mask digging on her face. His arms beside her head are strained, holding his body from crushing her smaller one.

His kiss is bruising, his teeth scraping against her upper and lower lips equally. He swipes his tongue, demanding an entrance to her mouth that she immediately grants. His tongue swipes hers, their saliva strings connected and messy between their lips.

Red Hood starts to move his hips, drawing his cock in and out of her in an experimental thrust, his fingers rubbing on her engorged clit. She lets out a pleasurable sigh.

Seeing her body has adjusted to the feel of his entire length intruding her slick walls, he repeats the motion much quicker and she screams at how her throbbing pussy being speared over and over again by his thick cock, always managed to be balls deep and bottoming out inside of her tight cunt everytime.

Her hand tugs on the silky strands of his dark hair.

"You're created for me, made for taking my cock nice and whole."

Red Hood says each word in between each of his deep thrusts. He grunts on her ears, the sounds making her cunt gushing. 

Her eyes roll to the back of her head by the carnal pleasure of his heavy thrusts and his dirty praises. 

She sobs on his shoulder, long black hair wildly fanning on her soft pink pillow and her bed.

But instead of telling him to slow down, she tells him, "Harder, please. Give your all."

Red Hood always obliges her, she doesn't have to ask him twice. That's what he wants as well, but he wanted to build up the pleasure. But her asking him to do so without his initiative, it just spurs him on.

He plows her cunt roughly, the drags of his thick cock and its ridges sets her nerves on fire. She accepts the pleasure borderline on oversensitivity gladly. She takes them all like a champ. Partly because it's a hassle to thrust up her hips against his powerful one but also because she wants this, badly. 

Beads of his sweats rolling down his cheeks, dropping on his light stubble and dropping on her tits. He swipes it away, fondling her tits and squeezing them. He pinches the erect peak and then closes his mouth on one of them, biting it hard. She cries, an orgasm tearing out of her by him, again for the nth time tonight.

"Red, you're so big, so deep. So deep." 

She babbles the only words she can only think of at this time. 

Her mind is completely blank with the way his cock keeps making space inside of her deeper and deeper as if it's still possible. 

"So big, oh God. Big. So thick… my tiny cunt." 

She looks like she's delirious with the height he brings her, the words that will make her hide her face with her hands if she ever remembers she ever speaks of them. 

His chest rumbles at her mindless dirty praises to him, his eyes almost rolling to the back of his head, his sacks drawn tighter, preparing to blow his massive loads. 

If she keeps praising him like this with the cute and ethereal blissed out face of hers, messy but glowing black hair tangling on his fingers, and glistening skin of hers, he isn't sure he's able to hold on longer. He has been holding his orgasm since he was eating her out hours ago.

"Where do you want me, angel?"

Red Hood asks, grunting and panting above her. 

"Inside, please. Please cum inside of me, Red."

Red Hood growls at her consent and then draws his hips for the last time sending a deep, deep harsh thrust—that will send her head knocking against her headboard if he isn't currently clutching her hips to the point of bruising—until he's fully sheathed and bottoming out inside of her, the deepest he has been tonight, both of them sure—then losing himself in the height of his powerful climax.

A bodily shudder goes through her, her teary screams of pleasure are sure audible for her nearest neighbors.

Red Hood chants her name as his hot, thick white cum flows inside of her cunt, flooding her insides.

It's so much, too much. 

The streams of his hot cum is somehow a relief but also making her oversensitive. She doesn't think anyone is able to give that much of cum in one climax, but she thinks—as her mind cleared by her most powerful peak tonight—he must have been holding his orgasm since he ate her out hours ago. 

God knows if she were in his place—giving him blowjob multiple times until he climaxes—she wouldn't be able to hold hers and would probably orgasm alongside him with his cock deep in her throat. She shudders at her imaginative thought, not entirely against it—but Red Hood sure is, he likes the act of giving more than receiving.

She squirms because he hasn't stopped pumping his seed inside of her—balls still half drawn tight—but he shushes her and flicks her clit to calm her down from oversensitivity. 

She's just there, lying blissfully where the broad shouldered man above her cooing at her and praising her for doing so good for him and but she's in between wakefulness and sleep. She feels it when his cock sends the last spurts of his cum inside of her, but he doesn't move until he has softened in her, then carefully pulled out of her.

Red Hood is lying down beside her, hasn't drawn his pants and briefs up. 

He can feel the heavy stare of eyes in between her thighs, so she looks down on her body too.

Their combined fluids are a sticky white mess between her thighs, the blob of it peeking out from between her folds—not to mention the rest of his massive load inside of her cunt that probably will dribble down if she is as much as sitting down, she can't imagine if she tries to stand or walk, if she's able to in the first place, which she thinks she doesn't. 

The man beside her has wrecked her pussy with his cock and taken her ability to stand for at least until this morning, the feeling of it will definitely last for a week though.

As if senses that she needs to clean up but can't, he stands, drawing his pants and briefs up without zipping the former—probably for easy clean up—and walking to her bathroom. He's there for two minutes—she checks her bedside clock—and then comes back with his pants zipped up, hair much tidier, and a wet, warm soft towel on his hand.

He sits on the edge of the bed, cleaning the stickiness on her thighs and the white blob of cum that peeking out from her labia—the latter carefully because he knows she is overstimulated after everything—and then goes back to the bathroom to deposit it in her basket of dirty clothes.

When he's back again, she's slightly moving her body up—still laying down, though—holding her stuffed animal in her naked form in between the shallow valley of her tits, the sight making him smile. He sits at the side of the bed, drawing her blanket up until it covers her navel. 

He reaches for a bottle of water she has on her nightstand. Opening the cap, he offers it to her and because her head is only leveled up by her pillows at the back of her head and neck, some of it spills down her torso and slightly dampened her stuffie. 

"Pengu!"

"Pengu is okay, she's a penguin."

He retorts before drinking the rest of the water. 

She gives him her playful stink eyes, but says nothing and tries to rub the water with her blanket, even though it's obvious has been absorbed by the material of her stuffed animal.

She is still drying Pengu, so it surprises him when she asks, "Are you going to go, soon?"

"Do you want me to?"

He usually goes right after cleaning up, no hard feelings and anything.

But something is different in the air today, and he doesn't want to examine it further, but he knows he wants to stay here at least for some more hours.

"No."

She still hasn't looked at him, holding Pengu to her chest, so he pinches her chin up and kisses her.

"Okay, I will stay. Maybe until you sleep?"

She nods at him, her little smile is everything to him.

He lies down beside her, heads on the stack of her fluffy soft pink pillows that smells so her—peony and lychee scented perfume she wears—clothes intact and all, just without his belt and holster that are lying on her bedroom floor, but that's his problem for later. 

For now, he caresses her hair and holds his head close to his chest until she falls asleep.

mariea's notes: wow, you made it here! technically, this fic is crossposted from my ao3 account, i wrote it in september 2023. slightly modified. and i mind slight. you can head to my account (link on my pinned) if you're curious about the change i made lol. anyway thanks for reading <3

[meowpupp]

This is probably a bit more self indulgent, but imagine if owner!Price decides if pup!Kyle is trained well enough to be a good boy, he trusts that he can leave him with puppy!reader

Kyle and her having the whole day to just themselves, imagine her just wandering around the couch to find the other hybrid laying on the bed just staring her like he wants to eat her <3

Being the ever so kinder one of the two, willingly spreads her legs for him, and he treats her nicely for once leaving her surprised 🥰

Other self indulgent ideas,, Hybrid pup!Kyle would probably scare off all the other hybrids from trying to sniff her sweet scent or even nip at her tail— Can’t have such a sweet thing ruined by some other mutts (Price probably trained him well for that too)

I LOVE this whole ask, but I want to focus on the second half because it's just so AHHHHGG

tw://hybrid smut, breif mention of noncon (1 sentence abt grinding), knotting, CHUBBY READER PER USUAL, unedited 😭😭

price who knows you're a pretty girl. he takes pride in it, making sure both you and gaz are well taken care of. you're precious, and he treats you as such.

but price isn't stupid either. he knows that when dumb street mutts pick up on your sweet scent, they cant help but drool and pull at their leashes. it's partly not their fault, a pretty young thing like you? prime age to carry a pup or two of your own? he has to keep you on a tight leash, or else you might just be bred by some big, mean mutt at the dog park.

everytime he takes you out, let's you off leash, you always end up being bullied. other dog hybrids twice you size nipping your tail, your ears. they push you to the ground, grinding their tents against you. they can't help it! your fat hips are perfect for breeding, and the short skirts price has you in are all too easy to push up.

half the time you come back from the park frazzled and overwhelmed. poor cunt all slick n wet as your body craves to be fucked. those are the times price lets you ride your toys. the fake knot is your only relief, even if the silicone isn't nearly as thick and long as price.

but then kyle comes along. a mean looking hybrid. he's tall, broad and lean. he was born to guard and protect, which was awfully convient for price.

the other pup is practically stuck to your side. like a bodyguard, he's never out of sight. once glance from him and most other hybrids scamper. he rarely has to get aggressive, but when he does, it's downright terrifying.

kyle flares up, shoulders taught, teeth grit. he can't help the deep growl that ripples from his chest. he pushes you behind him, and if Price wasn't there to call him off, he'd rip the other mutt apart.

but it doesn't stop there. the whole day he's on edge. he can't help it, his entire world is you. you're his mate, his pup, his girl. and the thought of someone else shoving their cocks into your tight cunt, fucking you full? it makes him feral.

price has found that there's only one way to help calm kyle down. letting him fuck his cum deep in your woumb. the pup practically snarling and growling into your neck, fingerprints leaving marks on your hips as he practically muals your neck. he can't help but knott you, pumping you full with so much cum is practically makes your tummy bloat.

marking you his. ensuring no other mutt even glances your way.

taglist! (I'm sorry I forget to do this all the time) @titaniasfairy @notalwaysa (?)

[domesticgoddess22]

A night With Joel Miller

Dad's enemy!joel

Ao3 | masterlist

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader rating: Explicit (18+ only!) warnings : dub-con, unprotected PIV, breeding kink, mild gun violence, dark!joel miller, raider!joel, deep throating, spanking, daddy kink, creampie, dom!Joel, dad's enemy!joel, praise kink, captivity word count: 4.1k summary: You're scavenging around an old CD store in Austin when the notorious Joel Miller catches you alone. Clickers swarm the street, so he takes you upstairs to hide out for the night. He says you were free to leave, but you stay and things get steamy.

a/n: This is my little one shot I posted to Ao3 awhile back. I've been considering making it a series once I finish some chapters of Wish Upon A Cowboy. Also this is the first time I've ever posted a fic on Tumblr so I hope I'm doing it right<3

~~~

You were always the adventurous type, always exploring, always curious. Never doing what you’re told and trading obedience for the sweet thrill of temptation. Your old man only caught you traversing through Austin by yourself a handful of times now. Those were the times you were lazy, slipped up a little, enough for someone in the faction to notice you were missing and rat you out. Your dad would send his guys after you like you were some fucking kid that couldn’t handle yourself out there. The other 300 times you did it, he had no idea you had even left your room.

Tonight was another one of those nights. 

You were on your way to an old CD store to see if you could scrap up something new to listen to. It was time to put Sweet Home Alabama to fucking rest and change up the tunes, and if you were lucky, maybe you’d find an old Nirvana CD still intact.

The beam of your flashlight reflected on what little shine the CD cases had left to offer, most of them dusty and scratched, tossed across the rubble like relics. 

The sound of a gun clicked behind your ears.

“Don’t move,” a low, smokey voice breathed into the shell of your ear. Instinctively, your arms shot up, palms facing outward. The Nirvana case crashed at your feet, fragments of plastic splintered this way and that. “Turn around. Slowly. ” 

You obeyed, heart hammering, blood pumping, eyes beginning to tear. When you do turn to face him, you’re blinded by a blaring flashlight pointed at you. 

“‘s just you here?” 

“Yes–yes it’s just me, I swear it.” 

“Ain’t it a bit dangerous for a little thing like you to be runnin’ around Austin…?” He aimed the light away so it’s pointed somewhere off to your left, scanning the room before his eyes lock back onto yours. “... Alone. ” 

You could see him more clearly now, tall, broad shoulders, face lined with stress, and eyes so cold, you’re sure he’d seen death more than you ever had. You were no match for him either, even with the revolver strapped to your ankle and a knife in your bra. He was too big. Too imposing. 

“I uh…” you swallowed the acidic bile creeping up your throat. “I like to live on the edge.”

“Mmm,” he licked his teeth, studying you. “That ain’t very smart. Lot more out here to be ‘fraid of than infected.”

He’s going to fucking kill you, isn’t he?

“My dad will raise hell if anythin’ happens to me.” 

“Your dad, huh?”

“Mhm. Old man is probably on a wild goose chase lookin’ for me as we speak.”

He chuckles darkly, “I ain’t scared of your daddy.”

“Look, man, I don't have much on me,” you plea, eyebrows knitted inward. Maybe he’d pity you and let you loose.

“Not much, but sounds like you got somethin’.”

“Got a granola bar.”

“Think your life is worth a granola bar?” He cocked his brow.

You rolled your eyes. “Got a revolver on my left ankle. Map in my back pocket with some marks where my dad hides his shit. Happy?”

His lips tugged into a smile that didn’t reflect in his eyes, “Atta girl.” 

In one flood motion, he binds your wrists together with one hand, tucking his gun back into his belt and then patting down your pant legs searching for weapons. When he reaches your ankles, he takes the revolver. 

“‘s only got one bullet,” he grumbled.

“Times are tough.” People are out there stealing your faction’s shit.

He straightens, your arms are pinned against your head now and his eyes are dark, boring into yours. His grip tightens and he steps closer, a greedy hand sliding into your back jean pocket, you wince at the feel of a man’s hand on your ass.

“Other pocket.”

He grabs your wrists with his left hand, letting his right hand explore your left pocket this time, his fingers grabbing the little paper you told him about.

“Easy, cowboy.” You drawl, eyelashes fluttering, eyes trailing up his washed-out green flannel. Up, up, up until they land on his wide chest. His thick shoulders. And then finally, his eyes, dark and matched with an expression so stern and sharp it could cut glass. 

His stare burns into you like he’s turning your flirtatious words repeatedly in his head. And then his gaze falls to your lips. The weight of his hand is hot on your waist now, even through layers of cotton, you can feel his heat in this late October cold.

There’s a distant sound of a soda can rolling down the pavement, knocking into rubble, and then feet shuffling.

“What was that?” 

The man looks over the shelves to see what you can’t at your height.

“Clickers. Come on.” He tugged you by the waist, guiding you to the back exit and up a flight of stairs. 

“Woah, where are we going?” You whispered harshly.

“You’d rather stay out here?” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder and your gaze follows. There was a dozen clickers roaming around. How convenient. 

“If you give me my fucking gun back, yeah.”

“You got one bullet, kid. There’s fuckin’ ten of ‘em out there.” You step into an old apartment and the front door clicks behind you. He scopes out the rooms. “It’s clear. We can stay here for the night. If we gotta fight, better we do it in the daylight.” 

“I’m not stayin’ the night here with a stranger. Especially not a hunter. ” The word was thick on your tongue. Hunters were despicable people who stooped to the lowest of the low.

“By all means darlin’, you wanna test your luck, go right ahead. I ain’t stoppin’ you.” 

You scowled at that, but he was right. It seemed like you’d finally got yourself into a pickle, and despite your attempt to look calm and collected, you were scared shitless right now. Either you were going to spend the night with this random guy or try to dodge all the clickers and make it back home.

“Fine,” you rolled your shoulders in defeat. “But I’m not sleepin’. As soon as the sun comes up and the clickers disperse, I’m out.” 

“Don’t sleep then,” he murmured, looking through the cupboards and drawers for any remnants of the past.

“Still got that granola bar? ’m gettin’ pretty hungry.”

You threw the granola bar at his chest and he smirked, tearing the wrapper open.

“Thanks, Darlin’.”

“Not like you were gonna give me a choice.” 

Joel sat on the old couch and leaned back, arm propped against the back cushion. Legs spread. Brown eyes on you. He had removed his green flannel, exposing just a simple black tee barely holding onto his muscles. It took every ounce of sense in you to ignore how fucking good he looked. 

“Like what you see?” He said, a cocky grin on his face. Your eyes flicked elsewhere, dancing around the room to find something else to occupy your mind with.

“Don’t flatter yourself, old man.”

Arrogant son-of-a-bitch.

“What’s your deal?” he pried.  “You runnin’ away from your daddy or some’n?”

“Nah.”

“Then?”

“Just like goin’ out. Seein’ the world.”

He scoffed. “‘m surprised he lets you run ‘round Austin all by yourself.” 

“He doesn’t. Doesn’t think I can handle myself out here.”

The man cocked a brow, challenging you.

“I can handle myself. I’m twenty-seven years old.” 

“You wanna handle yourself, darlin’, you better scope out places before hangin’ out in ‘em,” he grumbled, chewing on the granola bar. He pointed the rest of it in your direction, nodding his head in a gesture for you to take the rest.

“You’re lettin’ me have the last bite?”

“Take it, ‘fore I change my mind.”

You snatched it from him. “Did ya finally learn you can catch more flies with honey than vinegar?”

“You sayin’ I won you over, sweet thing?”

“Not a chance. I still don’t trust you.”

“Probably for the best.”

“That so?”

“I ain’t really a good guy.”

“Yeah, I gathered that. You robbed an innocent girl, nearly killin’ over a damn granola bar and a half-empty revolver. Swell guy.”

“Hey, you woulda been dead without me.” He sat forward with his elbows on his knees and pointed a finger at you. “Clickers woulda chased after your dumb ass, loud as you were with those old CD cases and whatnot.”

“Whatever,” you slumped into the armchair across from him. “Wouldn't of made noise and dropped Nirvana if you hadn't surprised me.”

“Nirvana ain’t worth dyin’ over, kid.”

“Then what is?”

“Som’ else.”

“Go on,” you waved your hand, urging him to enlighten you on what he considers music worth dying for.

“The Eagles. If I see you again after this, I’ll give ya a listen. Got a few CDs of my own.”

“Okie dokie, random hunter dude that robbed me.” Because intentionally hanging out with a hunter sounded like a smart plan.

“Joel,” he leaned back against the cushion again.

Your blood was ice in your veins.

“What?” 

“My name. It’s Joel.” Your eyes were still wide in shock as Joel shook his head, tossing his hands like what don’t you understand?

“As in… Joel Miller?”

“Yeah?”

Joel fucking Miller.

This whole time you’ve been with the heartless hunter your dad cursed daily. 

Now that you could put a face to the name, it was hard to believe he looked so attractive. With the way your dad talked about him, you imagined Joel as an ugly troll.

“My dad would have a heart attack if he knew I was with you right now. He hates your guts, ya know.”

“Your dad? You’ll need to fill me in, sweetheart, I got a lotta guys that hate me.”

You tell him about your dad and watch the way Joel’s head nodded slowly in recognition.

“He’s had it out for me ‘n my guys for some time now. Can’t say I blame ‘im.” His eyes shifted to the left in thought, probably flashing back to the terrible things he’s done, and then his brown orbs fell back on you. “If I’m rememberin’ right, you must be…”

He tastes your name on his lips with a southern drawl as sweet as tea. 

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

“I know a lotta ‘bout your faction. Stole from ya ‘nuff times.” 

“Lovely.”

“Gotta survive, baby. Ain’t got somebody to do the dirty work for me like you do.”

“And what are you implyin’?”

“‘m just sayin’. And you’re dad ‘n I ain’t so different. Just survivin’ the best way we know how. Only difference is, he probably does what he does to protect you. I do what I do just… ‘cuz. ”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Pretend you know anythin’ about me or my old man.”

“I don’t have to pretend. You’re an open book, darlin’,” he says with that same damn smirk on his face.

“Nah, I’m not,” you fold your arms across your chest and turn your gaze to the world outside the window. Below is a congregation of clickers on the road, confirmation that you were trapped alone with this man for the evening. 

The couch creaks when Joel stands, a divet in the old cushion left behind in his absence. He steps toward you, his belt buckle a few inches from your face. Saliva builds in your mouth and you swallow. Hard.

Rough fingers grip your chin, tilting your head upward to look into the dark eyes that gaze down upon you. 

“You look like you’ve been cravin’ some fun. Daddy’s been keepin’ you cooped up, ain’t he?” He exhales, a whiskey aroma riding the small breeze from his lips all the way to yours.

There’s an ache between your legs and your cheeks feel hot with shame. Your pulse quickened, and Joel fucking knew it. He could feel it. 

You had two options: deny it and look away, or embrace the thrill.

“Joel… What are you…” Your voice trailed off and you look bewildered, but your hand finds a place on his thigh. The denim feels hot on your palm.

“I can help you with that. Make you feel good.” He’s leaning down now, his breath on your lips. “Anybody ever made you feel good before?”

“N-No one,” you stutter, glossing over the memories of one of the guys from your faction. You were both young, inexperienced. It was nothing but a night of experimentation and pain, and then it never happened again.

Joel nodded slowly, releasing his grip on your chin and then moving back to the couch, eyes dark, right arm relaxed along the backside of the seat, left hand lifting two fingers that gesture for you to come hither.

If you were being fucking honest, the attraction began the second he pat you down and only deepened when you found out who he was. It felt like a dangerous thrill knowing you were with the very man your father would forbid you to be near.

“Come’re,” Joel pat his lap.

Without batting your eyes, without even thinking twice, you obeyed. You found a spot on his thigh, thick enough for you to have ample space to sit.

The gray bristles in his beard were more noticeable up close. You guessed he was in his mid to late 40s. He slowly tugged your jeans off and tossed them on the floor.

Joel’s palm rested on your naked thigh, kneading into your skin with his face buried in your neck, licking and biting and licking again, growing increasingly heady with each one until he was sucking on your neck so hard you could feel it turn purple. Then his fingers brushed the fabric of your panties and you squealed from the sudden contact.

“You okay, sweet thing? He breathed into your hair.

“I’m nervous.”

“‘S okay,’ his voice was a low whisper into your clavicle, followed by soft kisses on the side of your neck. “Why are ya nervous?”

“Um… just shy, I guess… Never done this much.”

He groaned when the tips of his fingers felt your dripping heat. “Fuck–you’re so wet.”

Eyes lidded with lust and back arched to give him more access, you start to grind on his hand. Moaning at his touch,  the wet heat that pools between your legs and soaks his hand, the way his fingers caress your folds in a circular motion.

“Good girl.”

The praise sent a tingling feeling through your core.

You were a good girl for him.

He rubbed your little bud more furiously now, picking up the pace and then he slid a thick digit into your slick. You bit your lip to stifle the moans that came in uncontrollable tidal waves as he pumped his finger in and out, in and out, in and out.

Just when you think you’re going to reach your peak, he firmly grips your waist on either side, lifting your ass until you crash down onto the seat of the cushion. His lips were on your pussy, before the two of you ever even kissed, you noted. He groaned the second his tongue glided across your wet slit, and the sound vibrates against your soft lips.

“Couldn’t resist… Baby… Fuck–Taste so fuckin’ sweet.” He babbled into your dripping lips, the stone-cold man from earlier was long gone, and now in his stead was a man drunk with lust. He was melting from your pheromones, your scent, your wetness. It felt good to know that you had that effect on him.

Joel bucked his hips into the couch with each lick and suck, growing more sporadic and sloppy in his rhythm. You weren’t an expert in the matters of men in the bedroom, but he clearly wasn’t going to hang on much longer–that much you knew. 

A rough hand cupped your mound and then toyed with your sensitive nipple. He pumped his finger back into you, his tongue still keeping the pressure on your bud. Joel slid in another finger, and then another until three of his thick digits are stretching you to the brim, viciously fucking into you until you were screaming his name and begging him for more. He conceded, guiding you to the sweet bliss of the finish line. 

Your chest was heaving, forehead tacky, and eyes planted on the popcorn ceiling above you as you came to. Two blinks later, the sound of a zipper snapped you out of your daze and you shifted your gaze to the space between your spread legs.

Joel had his cock out, thick and angry, veins pulsing. 

He was huge.  

Your mouth watered at the sight of it as you watched him jerk himself off to your body. 

You got on your knees, bending to show him the nice curve of your backside, face now inches away from his cock. He lets go as you place a hand on his jean pocket and steady yourself, and then he plunges into your mouth. 

Joel’s hands snaked through your hair and latched onto the backside of your head, pumping his cock into the back of your throat in five relentless thrusts. You choked from the sudden penetration and he quickly pulled out, his head sliding out of your lips with a “pop.”

“Too much?”

“No.” You wiped the string of saliva that connected you to him. “I like it.” And you liked that as cold and mean as he played off, he cared about whether or not he was hurting you.

His eyes went dark and there was a ghost of a smile pulled at his lips in satisfaction. And then his cock was sliding past your lips again and gliding against your tongue. You rolled your tongue around and suck him in as far as you could. He groaned, eyes rolling into the back of his head.

“Ain’t gonna last long. Got me… all wound up.”

You moaned affectionately as he picked up the pace, thrusting and groaning, mumbling profanities. You even swore he said your name as his hot cream pumped into your mouth. 

Hands now pressed to his lower back for support, he was so deep that his balls were pressed to your chin and you felt him straining to release every drop. You realize that his gun, and yours, are tucked into his belt right by your hands. When he settled, you leaned back, swallowed, and licked your finger.

“You look so sexy right now,” he said, voice deep and gravelly, thick with the aftermath of sex.

You’d never felt this sexy before. Hair disheveled, naked ass resting on the back of your ankles, T-shirt barely covering your womanhood but leaving just enough to the imagination, and your breasts peeking out of the V.

Joel bent down until his body was completely imposing yours, caging you in. Your brows caved inward, looking up at him doe-eyed and uncertain of what he planned to do next. He wrapped one around your waist, pulling you into his embrace while his other hand creeps across your neck. 

He surprised you with an intimate kiss. It was romantic, demanding, and dangerous. Joel commanded your tongue to dance with his, exploring your mouth with fervor like he belonged there. 

“Turn around. Face down. Ass up,” he says in a husky whisper. You look up at him wide-eyed. “Now.” He commanded.

“Yes, daddy.” 

Ass up, just like he asked, he slapped your asscheek. You felt his chest against your back and his breath on the shell of your ear.

“This might hurt a little, just be a good girl for me, okay?”

“Mhmm,” you nodded eagerly.

“What was that? ” He said through clenched teeth.

“Yes, daddy.”

“Atta girl.” 

He slapped your ass again. The head of his cock was jabbing at your entrance, pulsing with desire. He bucked it in his hand and lined it up to your slit and pressed in. Hard.

“Fuuuuuck.” He groaned and you screamed in an odd mixture of pain and pleasure.

He was so big he nearly ripped you in two, yet the way you wrapped tightly around him, sucking him in felt so right. The wetness of his tongue glided up your back and along the side of your neck.

There was a little bit of relief as he pulled his cock out, but then he thrust back in, his balls slapping against your lips so deep it had you seeing stars. Rinse and repeat. In and out, in and out.

His thrusts were angry and unrelenting.

The way he twisted your nipple and squeezed your tit was downright cruel.

You were putty in Joel’s hands and he fucking knew it.

“Please. More. Please, please, please.” The voice that left your lips was hoarse and desperate but you needed it. You needed him.

At the back of your neck, you felt the weight of his calloused palm pinning you down. 

“Such a tight little thing. Fuckin’ mine.” He grabbed your chin and forced you to look him in the eye. “You got that? Say it.”

“I’m yours, Joel.”

Somehow, his cock pulsed and stretched you even more to the brim. The feel of your slick mixed with his juice was oozing out of you, trickling down your leg.

One hand still pinning you down, Joel’s other hand was now petting your swollen heat. 

“Fuck, baby, I ain’t gonna hold out much longer. You’re so good to me. So tight. ‘m gonna cum in this wet pussy.”

“Joel, I’m gonna cum…” You trailed off, but you were already on the edge. His fingers were rubbing you at just the right speed, and his dirty sweet nothings were setting you ablaze. 

He continued to rub and thrust at just the right angle, the squelching sound of his cock pumping in and out of your sex only further heightened your arousal. 

In the heat of the moment, you didn’t even care that Joel was on the brink of filling you with his seed. You were dazed, delirious, and desperate. The three dangerous Ds, because condoms and birth control were a thing of the past. The apocalypse was a gamble for those who wanted to partake in life’s good old-fashioned pleasures.

You were ready to take that risk for the brief moment of pleasure because Joel had you wrapped around his finger and you were ready to swallow his seed. Hell, your unhinged state didn’t even care if you got pregnant with his baby as he sloppily slammed his cock into you, groaning and threatening to cum inside you. 

He didn’t seem to care either.

“H-Harder.” You beg, and that was it. That’s what set him over the edge, pouring into you like an explosion of white-hot milk and screaming profanities. He rubbed your clit while he rode his high, and then you came together, jaws slack, eyes rolled. 

Two people who, for a brief moment in time, could indulge in the comfort of each other’s bodies and forget that the world had gone to shit.

Joel flipped you over, his cock still buried inside of you, and leaned down to kiss you. It was a gentle kiss this time. The kiss of a lover. 

There was an undeniable spark between you that transcended beyond a mere one-night stand. Neither of you spoke a word of it. Instead, you fell asleep in his arms, and with his cock going limp inside you.

—------------

“Good morning, Joel.” You pointed two guns at the man as he blinked the sleep out of his eyes.

When he made sense of the situation, he chuckled darkly, wiping his face with his hands.

“Oh, darlin’, you are full of surprises ain’t ya?” His chocolate-brown eyes landed on yours and you felt your heart skip a beat, your grip on both guns loosened in a moment of weakness.

“Told ya I know how to take care of myself.”

“I can see that.” He put his arms behind his head, looking far too relaxed for a man who had two bullets aimed at him. “Did your daddy send you out to do this?”

You smirked, eyes flicking over to the old map that you made sure to leave on the table.

“I’m not gonna shoot you. Just wanted to say goodbye.” 

He licked his teeth and nodded.

“See ya, cowboy.”

And then you left him there and something tugged at you to stay but you didn’t, because you knew that it would be the death of you if you did.

“You want to tell me why the fuck you have Joel Miller’s gun?” your dad asked when you made it back to the base.

Dad had found out you left and had his guys check you for bites. When they did, they found the gun marked with an ‘M’, which was something Joel did to all of his weapons. Weapons that he stole.

“I was just helping us out a little, Dad.”

[pandapetals]

Cage Fight

logan howlett x fem!reader - cage fighting, fighting, sabertooth appearance, slight au of x1, brooding logan, no mention of description of reader, no use of Y/N.

Xavier has sent you, Storm and Scott to find the infamous Wolverine.

read on Ao3

The biting cold of the Canadian wilderness gnawed at your skin, the wind cutting through your jacket as you wrapped your arms tighter around yourself. Snowflakes clung to your hair and eyelashes, and the world around you was an endless stretch of white, broken only by the small town ahead, barely visible through the swirling flurries.

“This is brutal,” you muttered under your breath, trying to suppress the shivers that rattled through your body. “Couldn’t Xavier have picked a warmer place to send us?”

Ororo, her silver hair catching in the wind, glanced at you. Her eyes briefly flashed white as she used her powers to ease the snowstorm around you. “He wouldn’t have sent us here if it wasn’t important,” she said, her voice calm, though you could see the concern in her expression. “We need to find this mutant before Magneto does.”

Scott, walking ahead, his visor gleaming against the stark white snow, nodded. “If Sabretooth finds him first, it’s over. We can’t let Magneto get his hands on him.”

You didn’t argue. You knew the stakes. But still, Canada? In the middle of winter? You had to admit, it wasn’t your ideal location for mutant hunting. Not by a long shot.

The three of you trudged through the snow until you reached the small town Xavier had pinpointed—a forgotten speck on the map, where, according to intel, a powerful mutant had been laying low. Xavier had described the mutant: Dangerous. Animalistic. A survivor.

And according to Xavier, Magneto wanted him.

You walked through the town, its dim streetlights flickering against the harsh snowstorm. Eventually, the muffled sound of cheers and shouts drifted through the cold air, drawing your attention to a dingy, run-down bar at the edge of the street. The light spilling from the windows was warm and inviting, but the noise coming from inside told a different story.

You exchanged a glance with Ororo and Scott. “That’s gotta be the place,” Scott said, his voice low, eyes narrowed behind his visor.

Without hesitation, the three of you made your way inside, the warmth of the bar hitting you like a wave after the relentless cold. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, beer, and something metallic—blood. Your eyes adjusted to the dim light, scanning the room as the source of the noise came into view.

In the center of the bar was a cage—an old, rusted structure that looked barely stable. Inside, two men were fighting, their bodies slick with sweat, each strike echoing through the room like thunder. The crowd around them roared with approval, fists pumping in the air, money exchanging hands as bets were made.

It wasn’t the chaos of the crowd that caught your attention—it was the man inside the cage. He was taller than you’d imagined, his broad shoulders straining against the fabric of his undershirt, muscles rippling as he dodged a blow from his opponent. His hair was dark, wild, and his face was set in a fierce snarl, but his eyes—hazel and intense—flashed with something far more dangerous than anger.

There was no mistaking it. This was the mutant Xavier had sent you to find.

“That’s him,” Scott muttered, his voice barely audible over the noise. “That’s the guy.”

“Wolverine,” Ororo said, her gaze fixed on the man in the cage. “He’s the one Magneto’s after.”

As you watched him move, there was a raw, primal power in his every action, his fists connecting with his opponent’s body with a force that sent the man flying into the cage walls. Then, as if sensing your presence, his eyes flicked up—straight to you.

For a split second, time seemed to slow. His gaze locked with yours, and something electric crackled in the air between you. You couldn’t explain it, but in that moment, everything else in the room fell away—the noise, the crowd, even the biting cold that still clung to your skin. It was just you and him, staring at each other across the room, the space between you suddenly too small, too charged.

A shiver ran down your spine. There was something about him—something dangerous, yes—but also something magnetic. It had your heart racing faster than it should’ve.

Logan—Wolverine—narrowed his eyes at you, his chest heaving with breath, but his focus was entirely on you. He didn’t look away, even when his opponent staggered to his feet behind him, barely managing to stand.

“Shit,” Scott muttered, already moving toward the cage. “We need to get him out of here.”

Before any of you could react, the cage fight came to a brutal end. With a swift, calculated movement, Logan delivered the final blow, sending his opponent crashing to the floor in a heap. The crowd erupted into boos, and Logan didn’t revel in the victory. His eyes remained locked on yours, his expression unreadable, but his intensity unmistakable.

As he stepped out of the cage, wiping the blood from his knuckles, a young girl caught your attention from the corner of the room. She was sitting at a table, her hood pulled low over her face, watching the fight with wide eyes. You recognized her from Xavier’s files. Marie. Rogue. She had been hiding, too—another mutant Xavier had warned you to keep an eye out for.

Logan moved toward her, but his gaze flicked back to you, lingering as if he was trying to figure you out. The room seemed to close in, the air between you thick with tension, and as he came closer, you could feel that pull again—that invisible thread connecting you to him, drawing you in.

“You’re not from around here,” he said gruffly, his voice low and gravelly, but there was an edge of curiosity in it as his eyes flickered over you.

“No,” you replied, meeting his gaze head-on. “And neither are you.”

Logan’s eyes narrowed slightly, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. “What gave it away?”

You felt a small smile tug at your lips despite the situation, but before you could respond, Scott stepped forward, breaking the moment.

“Wolverine,” Scott said, his tone all business. “We need to talk.”

Logan’s gaze flicked to Scott, then back to you, his expression hardening. “I don’t talk to people I don’t know.”

“We’re here because Magneto is after you,” Ororo said, her voice calm but urgent. “You need to come with us.”

Logan glanced at Rogue, then back at you, clearly torn between staying and listening—or walking away. “Magneto, huh?” he muttered, his tone laced with suspicion. “What’s a Magento?”

Scott stepped forward, his jaw tight. “We can explain everything, but not here.”

Logan’s eyes darted back to you once more, the connection between you still simmering beneath the surface. Then, with a grunt, he turned away, motioning for Rogue to follow him. “Alright. I’ll hear you out. But I ain’t promising anything.”

As you followed him out of the bar, the cold air hit you again, but this time, the bite didn’t seem so sharp. Your mind was still reeling from the intensity of Logan’s gaze, the electricity that had passed between you.

Outside the bar, the biting cold returned with full force, but the tension between Logan and Scott was even colder. Logan’s broad shoulders were tense, his eyes flicking from Scott to Ororo and back to you, his jaw set like he was ready for a fight. Marie stood a few steps behind him, nervously pulling her hood tighter around her face.

Scott, standing tall and rigid, clearly didn’t appreciate Logan’s resistance. “Look, Wolverine—Logan—this isn’t a negotiation. Magneto’s coming for you, and if Sabretooth gets to you first, you won’t get a second chance to argue.”

Logan’s eyes narrowed. He took a step closer, his posture more menacing now like a caged animal sizing up its next move. “I don’t take orders from anyone. Least of all some pretty boy in red glasses who thinks he knows what’s best for me.”

Scott’s jaw clenched. “I’m trying to save your life.”

Logan gave a low, humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “I’ve been saving my own life for years, bub. I don’t need your help.”

You could feel the hostility brewing between them, thick in the icy air. Scott had a point, and you all knew Logan was in real danger, but his defiance was written all over his face. He wasn’t about to be dragged anywhere, not with someone like Scott barking orders at him.

Ororo stepped forward, her tone calm, but her voice carrying authority. “We don’t have time for this. Sabretooth is already looking for you, Logan. If Magneto gets his hands on you, you’ll be used as a weapon. Xavier sent us here to help you.”

Logan’s gaze flickered to Ororo, but then his eyes found you again, softer this time. There was a glimmer of curiosity behind the defiance as if he was trying to figure out why you were here—what made you different from the others.

“Logan, please,” you said, taking a step toward him. You could feel that pull again, the strange, undeniable connection that had sparked the moment you first locked eyes in the bar. “We’re not here to control you. We’re trying to help. Rogue could use your help too.”

Logan glanced over his shoulder at Marie, and for a moment, his hard expression softened. Marie shifted nervously but nodded. “Maybe… maybe it’s not such a bad idea,” she said, her voice small but steady. “I mean, if they’re offering to protect us, why not take it?”

Logan exhaled sharply, running a hand through his wild hair. “I don’t trust this.”

Scott opened his mouth to say something else, but before he could, Logan’s eyes snapped to the tree line, his body going still. You saw it too—movement in the shadows, barely visible against the thick white snow. Something was out there.

Suddenly, the quiet of the night shattered.

A blur of fur and muscle came barreling out of the darkness, and before anyone could react, Sabretooth was upon you, his massive form towering over the group. He moved with terrifying speed, a low growl rumbling deep in his throat as his claws slashed toward Logan.

“Get down!” Scott shouted, already reaching for his visor, but it was too late.

Logan spun just in time, his claws unsheathing with a sharp SNIKT, meeting Sabretooth’s attack head-on. The impact sent both men crashing into the snow, their claws flashing as they traded brutal blows, growls and snarls echoing in the air. Sabretooth’s strength was monstrous, but Logan fought like a man who had nothing to lose; his movements were precise and lethal, and his years of experience were evident in every swing.

“Stay back!” Ororo shouted, her eyes going white as she raised her arms, summoning a gust of wind that whipped through the trees, pushing the snow back and giving you all room to move.

You grabbed Rogue’s arm, pulling her behind you, trying to shield her from the chaos. “Get to the jet!” you called to Scott, who was already firing a blast of optic energy at Sabretooth, forcing him back a few steps.

Sabretooth was relentless. He shrugged off the hit with a snarl, his eyes locked on Logan, filled with bloodlust. “You can’t run forever,” he growled, his voice dripping with malice. “Magneto’s gonna get what he wants.”

Logan’s eyes blazed with fury, his claws glinting in the pale light as he slashed at Sabretooth’s chest, leaving deep gashes in the beast’s skin. “I’m not running.”

Sabretooth lunged again, but this time, Logan was ready. With a swift movement, he sidestepped the attack and slammed Sabretooth into a nearby tree with bone-crunching force. The ground shook beneath you as the tree splintered from the impact.

Scott fired another blast from his visor, hitting Sabretooth in the side and sending him skidding across the snow. “Go!” Scott shouted at you. “Get her to the jet!”

You didn’t need to be told twice. Grabbing Rogue’s hand, you ran toward the jet, your heart pounding in your chest as the sounds of the fight echoed behind you. You could hear Logan’s grunts, Sabretooth’s growls, and the crackle of energy as Ororo summoned another gust of wind to keep the battlefield under control.

Just as you and Rogue reached the edge of the treeline, you heard a deafening roar.

You whipped around just in time to see Sabretooth throw Logan into the snow, the beast’s claws raised high, ready to strike. Logan’s breath was ragged, his body battered, but there was no fear in his eyes. Only fury.

Before Sabretooth could land the final blow, Scott hit him with another optic blast, this time sending him flying through the air and crashing into a boulder. The force of the impact shook the ground, and Sabretooth lay still, momentarily stunned.

Logan staggered to his feet, his claws retracting as he looked over at you and Rogue. His eyes locked on yours again, the tension from earlier replaced by something deeper—something raw. He was hurt, bleeding, but still standing.

“We need to go. Now,” Ororo called, her voice cutting through the chaos as she gestured toward the jet.

Logan hesitated, looking at you, then at Rogue, before finally giving a sharp nod. “Fine. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

The four of you hurried toward the jet, Sabretooth’s body still lying in the snow behind you. As you climbed the ramp, you glanced back one last time at the destruction left in his wake.

Logan was the last to board, his eyes flicking to you once more, something unreadable passing between you. That connection, that spark, still lingered in the air, stronger now after the chaos.

“Guess I’m comin’ with you after all,” Logan muttered as he stepped onto the jet, his voice rough but edged with something softer. He glanced at Rogue, then back at you, his eyes lingering just a little longer. “For now.”

You smiled, breathless from the adrenaline, your heart still pounding. “Glad to have you.”

Logan just grunted, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he took his seat, the tension between you far from resolved but now laced with something else—something neither of you could ignore.

[starshideurfics]

Thirsty Thursday - Family Video

steddie, omegaverse, mdni 🔞

Eddie’s putzing around in the horror section at Family Video when the bell over the door jingles. He glances without thinking, shocked to see Robin Buckley lead Steve Harrington inside.

He’s nosy, wants to know what the hell is up with that. But he also doesn’t want to attract Keith’s attention. Eddie’s taking his time to hang in the A/C as long as possible, nearly an hour already.

Not that Buckley is capable of being quiet, so he hears plenty.

How they’re job hunting and how Robin probably knows more about film than Keith does. How Steve Fuckin’ Harrington likes Return of the Jedi! Even if he can’t remember the title and calls ewoks teddy bears. 

Color Eddie surprised.

Add in Steve’s bright, colorblocked outfit and his swoopy hair, the way he absolutely takes out the Fast Times promotional standee and hurries to fix it, resume in his mouth like an enthusiastic labrador retriever.

Embarrassingly, Eddie realizes he’s been pumping out his campfire and marshmallow scent, too charmed to lock down his sudden interest, subconsciously trying to draw in the stupidly endearing omega.

He figures he should go before he actually catches any attention, dipping around the counter and out the door, but not before he hears Buckley and Harrington get hired on the spot.

It’s easy enough for Eddie to memorize Steve’s schedule, only going to rent movies while he’s working. Sometimes he drags the guys with him, or maybe just Jeff, giving more cover to surreptitiously stare at the moles on Steve’s neck.

“You aren’t being nearly as sneaky as you think,” Jeff mutters on more than one occasion . “Just go talk to him.”

“Can’t.” Eddie keeps Jeff between himself and the counter, eyes on the slasher movies like he’s agonizing over his decision.

“Why not?”

“Cuz I’ll say something stupid like, ‘Please, sit on my face, I wanna drown in your pussy.’ That’s why,” Eddie whispers, risking a glance towards Steve.

“What? Seriously!”

“Have you seen what a mess he is now? And add in that apple pie scent—my mouth is watering and my dick is—”

“Christ! I’m sorry I asked. But I still think you should talk to him.” Jeff turns his attention to the shelf in front of them. “Nightmare on Elm Street?” he asks, reaching for the case.

“Yeah…” Then Eddie stares as Jeff brings the tape up to the counter, his best friend effortlessly making small talk and laughing as he rents the movie. Like a coward, Eddie hurries out of the video store, waiting for Jeff in his van.

When Eddie goes to return the tape the next day, he’s surprised when Steve looks at Robin and says, “I’m going on my break,” even as he accepts the tape from Eddie, their fingers brushing.

“Yeah, whatever,” Robin answers, flipping through a magazine.

Broad fingers wrap around Eddie’s wrist and drag him back to the Family Video break room past the “Employees Only” sign.

Steve smiles at him as he closes the door behind them. “Sorry. Just got tired of waiting for you to make a move.”

“What?” Eddie has never known Steve Harrington to be the kind of omega who waits for an alpha.

“You aren’t doing a very good job of controlling your scent.”

Eddie gulps, cheeks heating.

“And your friend said you were super into me, which… Yeah, definitely picked up on that.”

Nodding, Eddie waits for his tongue to untie, pretty sure he’s gonna die first when Steve steps closer, presses his hand to Eddie’s chest. “You surprised me,” he manages to say.

“Sorry about that.” Steve doesn’t look sorry at all as he leans in, sniffs at Eddie’s neck. “I’m too used to Robin, bad at personal space with pack.”

“Not what I meant—the ewoks—I mean. Shit. Wait.” Eddie closes his eyes, Steve’s scent filling his nose and making him warm. He smells safe. Familiar.

“Yes?” Steve murmurs, hand moving up to touch the skin above the collar of Eddie’s shirt.

“Not pack, what do you mean bad at personal space with pack?”

“Can tell you should be pack.” He nuzzles at Eddie’s cheek and whispers, “Want to be your pack.”

Eddie gives into his instincts then, whining and holding Steve’s face still, bringing their mouths together. He has no idea what he’s doing, but Steve clearly does as he gentles the kiss, grinning as he pulls away.

“My shift ends at seven. Meet me at my place at seven-thirty.”

Eddie nods. “Uh-huh, yep, whatever you say.”

Steve glances up at the clock. “But we’ve still got six minutes before my break ends, and you need to practice,” he teases, pulling Eddie back in for another kiss.

[mykneeshurt]

Envy

Shout out (again lmao) to @ave661 for the artwork (I’m sorry I tag you so much lmao)

Possessive Keegan x F!reader

Inspired by Bad Omens - Death of Peace of Mind

Not proofread because I’m legit so tired lmao I could have done more to this but my brain isn’t working x

Warnings - 18+, minors DNI, possessive and jealous themes, p in v, unprotected sex, goes without saying but it’s the internet ini, this is fiction. This is not a healthy relationship.

•

The buzz of the bar hummed around you, strangers going about their business, wrapped up in their own little worlds. You sipped at your drink as you watched life unfold before you. Couples sharing intimate conversations, friends sharing stories, laughter. That’s when you noticed a pair of silvery blue eyes watching you from across the bar.

Keegan.

More specifically your ex-boyfriend Keegan.

Absolutely not wanting to get into it you finished your drink and made your way out of the bar. You could feel his eyes bore into you as you took your leave. Watching. Waiting.

It was an early autumn evening. Still warm but with a noticeable chill now in the air. Pulling out your phone your text your best friend, informing them that you’d seen Keegan at the bar and that you were making your way home. Going for a drink on your own wasn’t unusual for you. You did it quite often in fact, happy in your own company, watching the world go by. It gave you time to decompress, to think.

The taxi rank was about a 15 minute walk away, the streets weren’t too crowded, it being a Sunday after all. Everyone at home too full to move after their roast dinner. Various alley ways lined the streets, the first golden crisp leaves began to fall, the breeze encapsulated you in its warm embrace.

It was perfection. Your favourite season.

You allowed your mind to drift, forgetting all about seeing your ex-boyfriend. Entranced within your own world. And that’s when he pounced.

A firm broad body slams into you, pushing you full force into one of the alleyways. Before a shriek could even fall from your mouth a large hand muffled your mouth. Effectively silencing you. Your body hit the red brick wall with a dull thud. Dazed you eventually focused on your assailant, eyes widening as you were met with Keegans face.

His ashen eyes stared into your very soul, your essence. Your brows knitted together confused as you relaxed into his form. He’d never laid a hand on you, if anything he was sickly sweet, worshipping the ground you walked on. But he had a jealous side, one that he had managed to hide well. But the mask slipped, as it always did. He became possessive, envious of every interaction you had. He didn’t control or coerce you in anyway, but he’d always let you know what he was thinking. He wanted you all to himself. That’s when you ended it.

And by the looks he wasn’t getting over you any time soon.

Slowly he removed his hand, allowing your short sharp breaths to echo in the cramped alley. ‘Keegan?’ Your eyes fluttered around his features, trying to make sense of this … situation. ‘Hi sweetheart’ he drawled, his voice thick like caramel. Still breathless you whispered ‘what are you doing?’ He watched as your chest rose and fell, your lungs fighting against the adrenaline pumping through you.

He tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear as he caressed your cheek. ‘Just missed you is all. Saw you across the bar n needed to tell you.’ Scrunching your nose you scoffed ‘then just tell me like a normal person? Instead of pinning me in an alley way. Christ Keegan.’

‘Fuck, I love it when you’re angry.’ His eyes fell to your lips, watching as the corner of your mouth twitched.

Dropping his head he nuzzled into your neck, as he slipped his knee between your thighs. Slightly pushing your dress up against your skin. ‘Keegan’ you warned, your tone sharp and commanding. But that’s when he trailed his tongue from your neck to your earlobe, nipping at it gently. ‘Fuck you smell so good sweetheart’ you felt his voice rumble through his chest and onto yours. Your breath hitched in your throat as he pulled at your hip, his 6’1 frame towering over you.

‘Keegan …’ it was less of a warning and more of a plead, your breathless voice seeped into his skin spurring him on. ‘Missed the way you say my name sweetheart’ his grip on your hip tightened. Causing you inadvertently roll your hips into him, arching your back off the brick wall.

You brushed your cheek against his, his sharp jaw cut against your skin as you melted into him. With his other hand he snaked it up your body, along your neck and into your hair. Twisting it in his grasp. A surprised moan fell from you lips as he nipped your collarbone.

Peering over his shoulder you tried to scope out the street, to see if any passers by had clocked you. The street appeared empty, the off leaf tumbling by the entry way, the sky gradually darkening with every minute.

Giving in slightly you placed your hands on his arms, squeezing them gently. Heavy breaths fell in between the two of you. Nipping at your jaw he finally placed his lips on to yours, going against your better judgement you reciprocated the kiss. Lips dancing in unison as he swiped his tongue against yours. Sighing deeper into the kiss you tangled your fingers in his jet black hair, eliciting a hiss from him.

He placed his hand at the small of your back pulling you further into him. Breaking the kiss he trailed kissed from your lips to your neck again, knowing it was your sensitive spot. Using his free hand he cupped your jaw, dragging his thumb along your lips. You nipped and sucked on it gently, muffling the guttural moans from your chest. Thrusting his knee upwards closer to your cunt it grazed your swollen clit.

You jerked your hips, desperate to relieve the mounting pressure. Feeling you grind against his thigh he cupped your pussy, feeling how wet you were through your lace panties. ‘Always knew I could still make you wet baby, you want me to fill this cunt? Just like I used to? … hmmm?’ You knew this was so wrong, you ended it for a reason, but he always knew how to work your body. How to make you come undone with a mere touch.

‘Yes … fuck, yes’ you muttered.

With that he swept your panties to the side and plunged two fingers into your weeping cunt. Not giving you any time to adjust to his fingers he began pumping them in and out of you. Clenching onto the back of his neck you buried your face into his shoulder, biting at his muscular form. The sound of the wet pussy echoed in the alleyway as you desperately tried to stifle your moans. ‘Such a pretty little cunt. All those pretty sounds just for me. Only me’ his voice was possessive and deep.

You could feel his erection pressing against your thigh, he was thick, it honestly surprised you every time. Dropping your hand you began rubbing his cock over his jeans, causing him to buck his hips slightly. With small gentle motions he began to circle your clit, adding to the pressure that was building in your core. He felt you clench against his fingers, ‘give it to me baby, wanna feel you cum … c’mon’ he cooed, his voice soft but demanding.

He kept his rhythm going, his moans melted into your ears as you rubbed his cock. He felt you clench tighter, throwing your head back your jaw fell slack as you started into to pant. Feeling yourself pass through the veil into an ocean of euphoria you clenched your eyes shut. Your hips writhed and jerked on his hand as his fingers remained inside you.

Tugging as his belt he soon got the message, removing his fingers he placed them on his tongue. Eyes rolling back into his head at your taste, a taste he missed to fervently. Yanking down his jeans and boxers his thick cock flung free. Wasting no time he hooked your thigh around his waist and pushed into you. Both gasping at the change in sensation as your walls hugged his cock. The evening air nipping at your exposed cores.

He placed his forehead against yours, biting his lip as he whimpered. Noses bumping together as he thrust into you, making up for lost time. ‘Missed the way you fuck, the way you taste’ he whispered against your lips. A grin broke out across your lips as you whined into him, reigniting a kiss. It was sloppy, messy and driven by his intense possessiveness of you. But fuck did he know how to work you, how to break you.

You muttered a string of nonsensical phrases under your breath as you savoured the feeling of him again. He stretched out your walls as the tip of his cock kissed your cervix, his fingertips clenched onto your thigh like a vice. Trying to steady himself but to pull you closer, despite there being no more room. Your arms draped around his neck, nails digging into his flesh as you let the intense pleasure consume you.

Feeling your oncoming orgasm grow deep with you, he gripped your jaw forcing you to look at him. ‘Fuck sweetheart, that’s it, cum on my cock’ he said drawling every last letter, every last syllable. You mouth fell open as heat rose against your skin, dropping a hand to your clit to push you past the edge. He quickly slapped a hand over your mouth as you came, stifling your moans, muffling his name. The vibrations of your sounds shattered through him, as he came seconds later. He bit down on his lip, hard. Quietly whimpering as he watched your blown out pupils search his face, for what he wasn’t sure.

He pulled out slowly, but not before pushing his cum back into your cunt. You jolted at the sudden intrusion before smirking to yourself. He kissed you again, but this time it was slower, tender. As he pulled away he ran his thumb across your lips ‘you’ll always be mine.’

————

Taglist - @taurus-ted @luminousbeings-crudematter

‘The way you fuck the way you taste’ I didn’t make this up, this is from the song. God bless you Noah Sebastiann

[guksvault]

HOUSE OF BALLOONS | JJK

01 - The Party

warnings: party party party yea, jk is a dickhead oops, drug/alcohol use, reader just wants to leave (someone help her pls), shitty parents, min yoongi is a saint <3 nepo baby reader !

w/c: 2.9k

!minorsdni! // masterlist

✩ ₊ ˚. ⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊✧

Seven. That's exactly how many times you have passed the same shitty run down house at the end of a sketchy cul-de-sac.

The bass of the music blares, the thumping so loud you can feel it in your chest from a few streets away. The door opens and closes, people flowing in one after another, all too familiar with this place. Red lights bleed through the windows.

Dressed in a pale purple Hervé Léger, direct from the archive of their 1996 Spring Summer collection. White pumps and a small Chanel handbag to match, tucked under your shoulder.

You stand in the line down the driveway, each person before you dropping a $5 bill into a tin bucket being held by someone who looks like they could have been hired to bodyguard you at premieres. You reach to grab a note out of your handbag, offering a small awkward smile to the broad shouldered man beside the door.

“Nah, it’s a tenner for you,” he says, his eyes locked straight ahead, the smirk on his face shows he’s clearly amused.

Truth is, you only had a hundred-dollar bill to offer, struggling to recall the last time you carried anything less than that.

Your face tightens slightly. You don’t look like the others—those who stumbled in before you, or the ones who will after you.

You drop the bill into the bucket, the crisp note fluttering down to rest atop the crinkled fivers. The man guarding the door watches it fall, letting out a scoff and shaking his head ever so slightly, as if to silently remind you that you’re not quite one of them.

You step inside. The hallway is cramped, leading you into a living room bathed in the harsh glow of cheap LED lights, taped along the ceiling trim. The red tint paints everything—walls, partygoers, the air itself. Black and white balloons litter the floor. The stench of burning cigarettes and pot is so thick, you can taste it. You’re certain you’ve lost at least three years off your life just by stepping inside this shit hole.

Fifteen minutes and two shots of cheap vodka that burn your pride more than your throat is enough time to realise this was a mistake. You need to leave.

You squeeze through the packed crowd of sweaty bodies, the exit finally coming into view. You swear you can almost feel the air getting cleaner with each step.

That is, until someone grabs your wrist, yanking you back so hard it feels like your arm might just rip out of its socket

"The fuck?" you almost squeal.

"No fucking way, the fuck are you doing here?"

Min Yoongi. He rubs his eyes, double-checking as if you’re some sort of hallucination from a bad batch of laced coke.

You don’t look any less shocked than he does. You came to this ‘party’ because of Yoongi. You knew he’d be here. Wanted to see him. That was until you had the very smart, very wise realisation that you do not belong here.

"Fuck kid, what the fuck? Are you like… Lost?" He is almost laughing at you, before he stops. "Don't tell me they sent you here for me?"

It's been 2 years since you last laid eyes on Yoongi in person. 2 years since he realised what you are slowly beginning to realise for yourself about the reality of your life.

Yoongi upped and left his trust-funded, posh, shiny life two years ago. His parents didn’t approve of him pursuing music instead of taking over the family’s oil business. They told him if he even considered it, they’d cut him off. It wasn’t until his dick of a father took a baseball bat to his beloved sampler and sequencer that Yoongi realised it was time to get out.

"Actually came here on my own account" you almost gag out. "Not here to kidnap you back to your tower. Came to see you though, I guess?"

Yoongi's brows are pinched together so harshly in confusion that you think he might earn himself a permanent wrinkle.

"How the fuck did you find me here?"

Truth is, his big mouthed cousin after a bottle or two of red told you Yoongi was having a 'psychotic breakdown' and ran to the slums of Daegu after daddy said no to him for the first time.

Which was a surprise to you, because his parents had told everyone he was in the States taking care of one of their many overseas companies.

Only took you two more glasses for her to tell you exactly where he was and what he had been up to.

You shrug, "People talk. You know how it is."

You try to excuse yourself, but Yoongi isn't really in the departing mood. Can't believe you are here. Isn't going to let you go without getting you a little fucked up, wants to see you down something that he knows you would never look twice at due to the lack of zero's on the price tag.

Yoongi had you down 4 shots of vodka, you had been surprised to see a bottle of Grey Goose calling your name on the table that's filled with red solo cups and cheap alcoholic bottles. Until you downed it and realised it was in fact, not Grey Goose, just a bottle that was refilled with something that tasted like pure fucking burning ass.

Yoongi had almost pissed himself from laughing at you, the look of disgust on your face as you realised.

Two full red soda cups of vodka lemonades later, and Yoongi was leading you toward a corner of the house. Four beaten-up leather couches formed a makeshift VIP area—exclusive, but still near the chaos of the party. Three men were sprawled out on the couches, girls draped beside, behind, and even on top of them.

A small coffee table center of the couches. Covered in red solo cups, packets of cigarettes, rolled bills and tiny ziplock bags filled with coke.

You sit beside Yoongi, your cup resting against your lips as you take in the scene before you. How the fuck was Yoongi living like this? Did he do this every weekend? Every night? Did he even enjoy it?

“I want out, Yoongs.” You glance over your shoulder at him, avoiding the daggers the girls send your way, dancing mostly for the guys on the couch. You stand out like a pair of dog balls.

While you’re dressed in a pale purple, fitted designer dress with white heels to match, they’re in black mini skirts, bras as tops, and fishnet stockings that should’ve been thrown out five holes ago.

“Hm?” Yoongi almost has to force his eyes off one of the way-too-fucked girls to look at you. “Oh, shit, yeah, of course, I’ll walk you out.”

You shake your head, biting the words back like they’re stuck in your throat, harder to get out than Yoongi had to tear his eyes away from the girl shaking ass just an arm’s reach away.

“No. I mean, I’m done. With them. With the rules, the fucking fakeness—all of it. Want out. Need out.” It’s the first time you’ve said it out loud, and it feels stupid now. If Yoongi ended up here, what fucking hope do you have?

“Oh, fuck, Bee, you for real?” Yoongi barely believed you, though there was still a trace of surprise in his voice. He’d always known you to enjoy the lifestyle you both were raised in—boat parties, private jets to islands for weekend getaways, never having a limit on what you wanted.

Bee. The nickname echoed in your head, almost drowning out the DJ in the center of the living room, blasting ‘Baby By Me’ by 50 Cent, constantly yelling for people to “put their fucking hands up or get the fuck out.”

Bee. A nickname you scored when Yoongi gave you your first blunt. He’d found his father’s sneaky stash and dragged you to the river by his parents’ Lake House one summer when you were 16. It felt good—until you got so paranoid that bees were swarming you. That’s when the nickname stuck.

"They want me married, like, married-married." You felt your stomach flip and turn itself inside out at the memory of the conversation.

"Honey, this could be really good for us. For you, too. Taehyung is a lovely boy, and we all know he's been in love with you since you guys were kids." Your mother sat opposite to you in the media room, a martini in hand.

Your father had nodded in agreement, "Think about it, his family owns the most luxurious hotel chain across the globe, you would benefit from it. We all would."

They can't be fucking serious. Surely not. Marriage? Me? Taehyung? Abso-fucking-lutely not.

"Taehyung and I aren't even a thing. He's a friend. I'm not marrying someone just because it would bring motion to your businesses."

A scoff earned from your mother, an eye roll from your father.

"What would Taehyung think? Both our parents putting us in an arranged marriage?" Your eyes dart from your father to your mother.

"He's the one who suggested it. Why do you think he's been visiting so often?" Your father cocks his eyebrow, almost challenging you to question him.

You shake the thought from your head, feel dizzy, might vomit that cheap vodka that should definitely be taken off the shelves if you think about it any longer.

"Who's the newbie, Min?" A voice calls huskily. He's sat on the couch to your left, a girl under his arm fiddling with the buttons of his loose black fitted shirt, sly smirks on both their faces.

He's sports a buzzcut, two lines by his temple just a tad shorter than the rest. A blunt between his fingers and one tucked behind his ear, two dimples peeking out when he talks.

“Didn’t have to hire someone, Min. We got plenty of company around here,” Joon smirks, his voice low and lazy, too faded to bother raising it.

“Fuck off, Joon. Don’t be a cunt,” Yoongi almost warns, lighting a cigarette before exhaling, his voice cutting through the air. “This is Bee, a friend of mine.”

Joon leans back, passing the blunt to the girl beside him, who’s still sizing you up. “You ain’t from these parts, huh, Bee?”

“Nah, do most of my whoring in the city.” You shoot back, your voice dry. “Out of your budget though, sorry.

The words come out a little sharper than intended, defensive maybe—but it’s the first time anyone’s implied that you might be a prostitute.

Yoongi chuckles, as does the pouty blonde on the couch to your right.

“Joon couldn’t afford you even if you gave it up for free,” the blonde says, his eyes barely open from the amount of whatever his substance of choice is. “Can barely afford fuckin’ ramyeon,” he continues, only to have Joon peg a lighter at him.

“Fuck up, both of you. She ain’t a fuckin’ hooker. We grew up together,” Yoongi says, leaning back into the couch but not before nudging your shoulder slightly.

You spend the next hour or so sitting stiffly on the worn, cracked black leather sofa, mostly talking to Yoongi, but every now and then, you throw a few words toward Jimin—the pretty blonde you’ve learned goes by that name.

You watch Yoongi hit the bong, once, twice, thrice. Joon’s tongue is tangled with the girl glued to his side. The party roars on around you, balloons being slapped through the makeshift living room-turned-dancefloor. You finish three more cups of vodka lemonade, the alcohol providing a small buzz that helps ease some of your discomfort.

Yoongi excused himself about ten minutes ago, mentioning something about a runner waiting for him outside. Jimin, who’d taken it upon himself to keep Yoongi’s seat warm, had to clarify it was a dealer, not some jogging partner.

You’ve been meaning to take advantage of the Yoongi-free space to make your escape—head home, and really think about whether you want to leave behind the life so many people would kill for.

But of course, your luck had gone to shit ever since you stepped inside this house. Jimin won’t stop fucking talking, rambling about how you look like you belong in some high-end museum in Paris, not a rundown, seedy weekend hotspot in the slums of Daegu.

Charming, sure. A sight for sore eyes, but honestly, you’d rather he pop a Xanax and pass out than snort another line, just so you can slip out unnoticed.

Yoongi returns, dropping a black plastic bag onto the table, earning a few excited whistles and whispers. And then, just like that, he’s gone again—girl in tow, disappearing upstairs.

That’s your cue. The small group around you all focused the black bag, oblivious to the rest of the world now. You go to stand, ready to slip away before Jimin decides to continue to yap. But just as you move, the one person you’ve barely registered catches your eye.

He’s been there the whole time, opposite you, but always hidden behind the girl on his lap or his head low, in his own little world.

He’s sitting upright now, practically shoving the girl off his lap as soon as Yoongi dropped the black bag onto the table. His eyes lock onto it like it’s the juiciest fucking steak and he’s the lion, ready to devour it.

A slow, deliberate lick of his lips, then his arm—now visible with tattoos that wrap around his skin—extends toward the table. He dumps the bag, and the contents spill out like a treasure chest: dozens of tiny ziplocs filled with coke.

You can't help but fucking stare. Think your mother would have begged him to be a model for her clothing lines. Gorgeous. A shaggy mullet framing his face, which he's now tying up into a small sprout at the back of his head.

He eagerly lowers himself to the floor, grabs a rolled up bill and a card. Carves out equal lines of the coke, you don't know shit about coke other than half the people in the high society you're surrounded by daily need it to keep themselves sane.

As he focuses on the lines, it’s like watching someone in a trance—completely in control, the movement fluid and natural. He brings the rolled bill to his nostril, blocking the other side with his finger, then snorts down the line.

Then, repeats.

You can barely make out the details of his face from where you’re sitting, but the red lights catch the glint of a lip ring on his lower lip, catching your attention for a second. He rubs his face, then slides back into his seat.

This time though, his head isnt hanging low. It's pointed directly at you. Expressionless, zoned out as he stares you down.

Jungkook had noticed you long before you even stepped inside. He saw you lingering outside, pacing back and forth. At first, he thought you were some kind of undercover cop, but when he saw you talk to Yoongi after trying to slip out unnoticed, it all made sense. You were just another pampered, stuck-up rich bitch from Yoongi’s past.

He watched you, though, took note of everything. The way you eyed the cheap alcohol like it was beneath you. The way you stiffened when Joon made his comment, like you were trying to hold yourself together. Thinks if you were a hooker, maybe he’d pick up an extra shift at the restaurant. He noticed you turn down the blunts Jimin kept offering, like you were too good for that too.

You didn’t belong here. People like you never did. Jungkook doesn’t want you here, doesn’t want anyone who’s tied to the life Yoongi left behind. He fucking hates it. Hates the reminders, hates everything about it. Decides he hates you, too.

His stare doesn't falter, eyes locked on you, steady and unblinking. He wants you uncomfortable. Wants you out. Hates the way your dress is too colorful. Hates the gold jewelry, delicate and shiny around your neck and wrist-he prefers silver. Hates the way your legs have made him hard. Out. Get out.

"Want one?" He drawls lazily, that cocky grin tugging at his lips as he tilts his head toward the coke.

You glance at the last line on the table, then back at him. He holds out the rolled-up bill, smirking.

You shake your head, "All good, thanks."

"What? Too good to snort from a fiver?" He laughs, tossing the bill to Jimin without taking his eyes off you.

Jimin cuts his own stack of lines, less organised than Jungkook's were. Snorts one and stands up, fingers rubbing at the bridge of his nose.

Your eyes dart around for Yoongi, if the vibe of this shit box wasn't enough, the man sitting opposite sending you snarky remarks and eye daggers definitely was.

You know you don’t belong here. You didn’t need the overgrown, practically bald one to remind you that you look like an expensive fuck, or the band-tee-wearing asshole who’s probably three lines away from a collapsed septum to tell you the same.

As you lean back into the couch, counting the minutes until you can wish Yoongi a goodbye and a “good fucking luck,” another man stumbles into the closed-off section. He trips over your legs, collapsing down at the coffee table.

“Watch your fuckin’ step, Hobes. We can’t afford to scratch up the girl. Probably has leg insurance or some shit,” Joon snorts, puffing out a cloud of smoke.

He turns to face you, "Sorry darlin', don't sue me, I can only afford to pay in mixtapes" He chirps, giving your leg a once over.

Ah, the DJ. The one who was screaming for everyone to put their fucking hands in the air. Who now has his hands in the air feigning defence.

You roll your eyes, letting out a small laugh at his more positive nature, feeling slightly eased by his lightheartedness.

But what really bothers you now isn’t the trust fund, nepo baby jabs. It’s the pair of narrowed, dark eyes glaring at you from the couch opposite.

Unwavering. Harsh. Piercing.

✩ ₊ ˚. ⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊✧