#dd: fanfic

[ddagent]

"Found Family"

Matching March Day 11

Margo slid the first earring into her earlobe, then reached for the other - only to find that it wasn't there. She groaned, shoulders slumping in defeat. Not today. "Aleida?"

No answer. "Aleida?"

Margo padded across her bedroom, tapping two fingertips on the grand piano and the sheet music as she passed. Her room was pretty sparse other than the piano and the bed and a stack of Stephen King books awaiting a bookshelf that neither Margo nor her two roommates had found the time to put together. It was a million miles away from the bedroom that Margo entered through the door to her right: Aleida's room was covered in band posters, design schematics, with the occasional stray sock adding to the decor.

The occupant was currently going over her notes from school, orange headphones nestled over her ears. Margo waved a hand in front of her face. Aleida slid the headphones down. "Hey. You look good! You nervous?"

"I'm...fine. Have you seen my other earring?"

It had been a long time since Aleida Rosales had borrowed any of Margo's clothing. There had been a period, when she was a fifteen year old kid with nothing but a duffel bag to her name, that she had borrowed Margo's clothes – a jacket here; a pair of earrings there. Margo hadn't minded. Anything to take care of the teenager that had posed as a college student to rent the room Margo had going. But Aleida had grown up and developed a style more befitting a twenty-one year old college student. She just laughed; shook her head.

"No, I haven't. You can just find another pair, though, right?"

Margo balked at that. Today she had to look perfect. Today, she was interviewing to be Director of Johnson Space Center. Everything had to be perfect. From her shoes and her panty hose to her American blue suit to her diamond earrings. She had to be perfect. "Thanks anyway. I'll check with Sergei."

Aleida offered her a thumbs up before returning to her notes. Margo crossed over her room and opened the adjoining door into the next bedroom. Sergei's room was more cluttered than Margo's but infinitely tidier than Aleida's. His shelves were filled with poetry and murder mysteries; there were framed postcards of Moscow on the wall. Since his defection in 1973, they had tried to find little pieces of home for him. Margo now scanned over his dresser for her earring, and the stack of mixed country-western tapes that Aleida had made for him under suffrage. She checked his bedside table. Even checked the sheets. Nothing.

Annoyed – mostly at herself for not being sufficiently prepared for her interview today – Margo slipped out of Sergei's room and into the main living area of the loft, where Sergei was busying himself in the kitchen. "Good morning, Margo."

"Mornin'." She settled himself at the breakfast bar. A glass of orange juice was already waiting for her. "Thank you."

"That is not all. I made breakfast," Sergei announced, sliding chocolate chip pancakes shaped like rockets onto the mismatched crockery. "For your big day."

She glared, good-naturedly, at him. "You shouldn't have. You've got your presentation with the Boeing board this afternoon."

"It does not matter. If I fail, I will know the new head of JSC and simply get a job there."

Sergei chuckled, his laughter filling the cavernous space of their loft. Margo soon joined in, which was how Aleida found them when she surfaced for food. They were an odd trio: a teenage runaway, a Soviet defector rejected by every landlord in Houston, and a woman who had been living out of her office. Some days, when the hours were long and she slept on her couch, Margo missed the ease of living at JSC. Other days, when she shared breakfast with the two of them or the nights they worked on the engine prototype in their living room, Margo was glad that security had kicked her out.

Margo took a sip of her orange juice and just watched Sergei and Aleida teach each other today's phrase in both Spanish and Russian. After practicing the phrase three times, Aleida then turned to Margo. "Did you find your earring?"

She shook her head. "No. I checked everywhere. Your room, my room, Sergei's room. The dresser, the bed sheets—"

"—what would your earring be doing in Sergei's bed?" Aleida cut in, fork tapping thoughtfully against her chin.

Margo flushed. She resolutely did not meet Sergei's eye. "I thought it might have got tangled up in the laundry."

"Sure. Sure." Aleida ate another mouthful of pancake. "Okay. Well, I've got an early class. Call me after the interview, okay?"

"I will. Enjoy Professor Alper."

"I will if he ever shuts up."

Aleida dumped her plate in the sink, grabbed her backpack, and headed for the front door. As soon as the door slammed shut, Sergei reached across the table for Margo's hand and pressed his lips against the knuckle. "She is a smart young woman. She knows."

"She suspects." Margo let herself be led from the kitchen island into Sergei's orbit. "We could be more discreet."

"Especially when it comes to beautiful future NASA Directors leaving their earrings in my bed." Sergei grinned and produced her missing earring. "I believe you are looking for this?"

"Sergei."

"Let me."

Gently, with great care, he reached over and slid the diamond earring into her ear. They had been a gift from him, and he admired them now in the early morning light. Then, he leant down and left a soft kiss behind her earlobe. Along her neck. Her throat. Margo placed a firm hand against his chest. She would not be late to this interview because she and her boyfriend fell back into bed. "To be continued?"

He nodded. Grinned. "Definitely to be continued. And maybe we can see what else you can leave in my bed."

"Perhaps I might even stay."

She left him with a brief peck to his lips before she finished getting ready for her interview. Things were changing. Aleida would be graduating next year and looking at entry level engineering positions. Sergei was finally overseeing an important Boeing project but it was a long time coming. Margo had never been one for nepotism. But Aleida and Sergei were incredibly talented engineers; NASA would be lucky to have them. And if they were to move – to a one bedroom to start a new life; to a house in the suburbs to start another – at least they would still be together in the halls of JSC.

She just needed to become Director, and then everything Margo had never knew she wanted could become a reality.

[hellishjoel]

positions

2.4k / pairing: tattoo artist daddy dom!joel miller x sub f!reader

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chapter summary: You and Joel mutually pleasure each other while “researching” porn. 

chapter warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), no outbreak/TLOU, Joel is a tattoo artist with tattoos and piercings, Joel and reader are in the pre-phase of creating porn together, watching porn together, unspecified age gap, established relationship, reader is described to have hair and is able-bodied (but otherwise, unspecified), swearing, dirty talk, smut, lots of pet names (angel, bunny, etc.), dacryphilia (kink = getting aroused by tears), dom/sub dynamics, innocence kink, praise kink, degradation kink, pain kink, daddy kink, oral (m!receiving), size kink, fingering (f!receiving), squirting, hair pulling, one (1) pussy smack, pussy and cock pronouns

A/N: this was written as a mini chapter within the cherry thrill series but can be read as a standalone. a hugehugehuge shoutout to @devineconjuring because without her support, I wouldn’t have even thought about sitting down to write this when the creative burst finally hit! everyone thank annie for beta’ing this mini-chapter! divider is by @firefly-graphics!

Eyes glazed over in lust, lips parted, skin warm with desire — both of you. 

You and Joel rest your backs against the headboard of his bed, gazes unbroken, staring at your laptop screen. 

Porn. 

Anal. Amateur. Bondage. Free Use. Hardcore. Softcore. You’re watching the A-Z catalog with your partner. Was this a kink? Because trying to sit next to Joel while watching porn, trying not to get worked up, felt like a twisted game. 

Joel knows you’re turned on. You haven’t stopped squirming beside him for at least twenty minutes. It was agonizing at this point to be so wet, so aching for touch, a deep breath of air nowhere in sight. And it was your stupid idea. 

If you were going to film porn, it was only logical that you see what’s out there and get a sense of what you’d be open to filming with Joel. What was your comfort level? Would you start out by appealing to the amateur audience with limited cuts and genuine passion? Or would you like it more if Joel had all the control, playing into his role of being your dom, and ordered you around like his little cock slut? 

All these videos had you questioning which category you fit in. Even worse, these videos, which were meant to be for research, had turned you on to the point of no return. 

You can feel him looking at you out of the corner of your eye. You’d have to be blind not to notice how hard he’s become in his sweatpants. It’s almost thrilling at this point to see who breaks first. 

Your body shudders as Joel moves to change the video to the next one. Christ, help me. He chooses something from the exhibition category, and you can feel your stomach twisting with desire. 

“You doin’ alright?” His gravelly voice rumbles from beside you, a weak mhmm leaving your lips in response. Your eyes trace over the dark swirls of ink that curve around his forearm and flourish into a larger design on his bicep. You remember the day you asked if it hurt—if the needle pressing into flesh left behind more than just beauty. He didn’t answer; he just shot you a sly smirk, the kind that left you wondering if the pain was part of the allure. 

Joel reaches over, his firm hand squeezing your trembling thigh. It feels like a force of nature, the way you gush harder at the physical contact. You swallow the lump in your throat as you feel his hand move to the waistband of your sweats. 

You don’t move, don’t breathe. Both of your gazes are fixed on the laptop screen, not shifting even when his fingers curl inside your wet panties. He parts your pussy lips, feeling her warmth and arousal soak his fingers. A shaky breath leaves you as one of his fingers slowly circles your swollen clit. 

“Joel,” you whisper breathlessly, your forehead resting against his tattooed bicep. 

“I know,” is all he has to say. 

His fingers dip lower, swirling the tips around your desperate hole before finally sinking in. 

You stare at the video, but it’s like white noise at this point. Neither of you pays attention to the screen, but the blood rushing to your ears forces you to catch every moan and grunt from the partners in the video. 

“Jesus,” you can’t help but pant out. “Please,” you weakly beg. 

All Joel does is tut darkly. “Jesus ain’t here to save this wet pussy, angel, I am. So you better start beggin’ me.” 

As Joel starts to slowly finger your pussy, you realize it’s less about needing to orgasm and more about the process of feeling satisfied together. 

With your head resting on Joel’s arm, you press soft kisses against his tan skin as your hand reaches past the waistband of his grey sweatpants. 

Your touch is electric. You watch as Joel sits up straight beside you once you start slowly stroking his already hard cock–he’s heavy in your hand, your gentle fingertips able to feel all the prominent veins of his shaft. 

Joel’s low groan fills the room, and you know he’s struggling to keep himself from ripping your panties down your legs and getting his fill of you. 

But that’s not the game you two are playing. 

Your hot breath fans across his skin as he crooks his fingers to just the right spot within your cunt, the feeling unexpected as he stretches your sweet pussy. The sensation forces your hand to squeeze Joel a little harder, a distinct growl of both pain and pleasure fueling his ministrations. Once again, you’re reminded that pleasure protects you like a shield, and pain is the only thing that can penetrate it. Pain doesn’t just hurt Joel. It transforms him.

“I wanna bend you over like that,” he admits, his tongue playing with his lip piercing out of habit. Your hazy eyes slowly flick from Joel to your laptop. The video has changed again. The man in the video currently has a housemaid bent over the kitchen counter, doing whatever he pleases to her, while his wife sits in the dining room simply flipping through her newspaper and drinking her coffee. 

You’re not as good at this as Joel is; you can barely speak as he pleasures you. “W-We’d get caught,” you breathe out, your hips grinding against his fingers as his thumb starts to work over your pearl. 

Joel hums darkly, shifting a third finger into your entrance. It’s a burning stretch, one that forces out a low whine from deep in your throat. Your touch all but abandons Joel, his jaw tightening as you remove your hand from his swollen cock. 

You stare deep into his dark eyes as you lick a slow stripe up your palm, excess saliva trailing down your hand before you return it to his aching member. 

“Fuck,” he pants, his head falling back to rest on the headboard with a hard thud. He doesn’t fucking care. The pleasure outweighs the pain. 

“Come here, baby,” Joel instructs as his fingers exit your warmth. 

You whine like a brat but follow his instructions. He pulls you onto your knees, moving your upper half over his lap and shoving his sweatpants down so his cock is finally free. 

“Use that pretty mouth of yours. Always so perfect for me,” he coos. “Now go slow.” 

His words have you mewling in pleasure, resting your head on his lap as you suckle his tip into your warm mouth. It’s teasing, but you want to go slow, to do what he told you to. You want him to last. 

He pulls your sweats and panties down, your warm pussy and the globes of your ass shocked by the cool air hitting your skin. You let out a needy whimper–he never fails to pleasure you, even while chasing his own release. Arching your back, you put yourself on display for him.

“Keep watchin’ the screen. Good girl,” Joel mutters as he slowly gathers your hair in one fist, lazily dragging your head up and down his cock. He fills your mouth, and for a moment, you forget to breathe. Your eyes grow teary, your body flinching as you choke down his length in a desperate attempt to taste his salty finish. Swallowing down as much of him as you can, you bury your nose against the coarse dark hair at the base of his shaft, gulping around his length. Desire ultimately outweighs Joel’s orders for you to go slow, and you begin to suck his cock at your own more eager pace. His grunts of pleasure fill your ears, the grip on your hair only tightening, whatever restraint he has left quickly deserting him. 

Joel is a man whose sexual pleasure derives from control—a fragile dominance that feeds his pleasure. But that control is unraveling, slipping through his gasp faster than he can regain himself. 

“Hey,” he grumbles, yanking you off his shaft by your hair. He slips out of your hungry mouth–you still try to get him back into the safety of your warmth as he reprimands you. A spank to your aching pussy with his heavy hand sends a shockwave of throbbing need across your body, jolting you to life as you let out a whine for him. “I said slow. It’ll feel better the longer you wait, I promise. For both of us.” 

You have to trust him. You know he knows best. 

Swallowing down thick spit, you nod against his grip. “Yes, daddy. I’m sorry, daddy.” 

That goddamn name. It pulls something from deep inside of Joel, a monster in hibernation that’s hungry for something to cross its path and wake it up. 

And you just did. 

“Good girl.” The grip he has on your hair tightens, and you’re back to stuffing his cock down your tight throat. 

You follow his instructions. The speed is slow, as promised, but every touch feels exhilarating. Your senses are on overdrive. The tingling in your scalp, the feeling of his two thick tattooed fingers plugging your cunt, his thumb circling your already charged clit–it was all so desperate to unfurl. 

You can feel Joel pulsing inside your mouth, ready to gush like a volcano on the verge of eruption. You trace the vein on the underside of his cock with your tongue, his precum adding a layer of tanginess to your tastebuds. 

You weakly moan against him, trying to force out as much excess saliva as you can. It drips down all his inches and coats the hair on his balls. Your arousal leaks down his fingers. The woman in the video lets out strangled moans from the kitchen counter, and finally, the man’s wife takes notice of the two fucking on the counter. She acts shocked, catching them both in the act. 

Joel wins. 

You cry out against his cock and tighten the suction you have on his shaft, slurping and letting out lewd sounds as you quicken the pace of your mouth. You ignore the pain in your jaw and neck, eager to taste his salty release. Joel must agree that the game is up because his hand no longer guides you–he simply pumps his fingers faster inside your desperate cunt. Your hips drive back against his hand, the heel of his palm adding extra friction to your clit. 

“Goddam, you wanna choke on it that bad? Fill your mouth up, wishing it was your pussy? Listen to this good little pussy purr,” Joel moans out as he massages the spongy walls within your cunt, and you can already feel your stomach begin to spasm. 

You gluck gluck gluck around his dick, mouth filled with so much of him that it makes you light-headed with lust. He rips you away from his cock, but only for a moment, a rush of air filling your lungs as he lays your head on top of his thigh. Your eyes are wild and lost, desperate for one thing and one thing only. 

“Tell me,” Joel demands, the veins in his neck pulsing as the crease between his eyebrows deepens. “Tell me what you are, what you want.” 

You whine something pathetic as Joel’s fingers only quicken inside your cunt. “Fuck!” you cry out, your entire body shuddering over his lap as you keep stroking his sticky cock with your hand. 

He makes you admit your thoughts, your sexual desires, and everything you're thinking out in the open. It forces you to be vulnerable with your sexuality–something that doesn’t come easy for you, but Joel willingly helps you navigate. 

If you want to finish, you need to spill your secrets and fantasies. 

It surges like a headrush, electric along your spine and needy for him as you find your words. 

“I-I’m such a fucking slut for your cum, Joel, please baby, I wanna taste you so bad,” you stutter and slur as Joel hums approvingly. His thumb wipes away a stray tear, something comforting and warm in the way he praises you for trying. You feel your orgasm working its way up through your bones, through the heat in your stomach, until it slips down your spine. “I-I wanna feel it down my throat, I want it to be my last meal, I- fuck, I feel so fucking dumb with your cock in my mouth. I worship him.”

Joel’s hanging onto every word, his chest pumping with the added fuel to his ego. His jaw clenches tighter and tighter, teeth gritting as he groans your name at the praise.

“Christ,” he mutters, enamored by your words and how pretty you look with his precum and your saliva glistening on your lips. “Such a good girl for me, so fuckin’ perfect.” 

Something different pools at the base of your stomach, something you don’t fully understand, but it’s familiar. You whimper in embarrassment because it almost feels like you need to pee, but you don’t, your thighs getting splashed by something more than an orgasm, and Joel really fucking likes it.

“Oh god, d-did I-”

“Yeah, bunny, you fuckin’ squirted for me,” Joel growls as he drags you back over him. 

You’re slurping at his cock, and it doesn’t take long for you to both reach the orgasm you’ve been holding out on while watching this damn porn. 

Glistening tears flow down your cheeks, your brain dumb with pleasure as the euphoria finally floods the tight clench in your stomach. Your release pools down Joel’s fingers, his own more desperate and needy as he shoots white-hot spurts down your throat. You moan against his shaft and roll your head from side to side, nose buried in the thick hair of his happy trail as you swallow around his cock like he taught you. 

Joel groans out in pleasure, your tongue still lazily lapping around his shaft. “So fuckin’ good, that was so hot, baby. Jesus Christ.” 

He strokes your hair, and you both slow to nothing, feeling like you’ve run a marathon. His fingers stay buried inside your wasted cunt, your wet mouth weakly panting against his warm thigh. Joel reaches forward and closes the laptop. 

“Did you… did you see any positions you liked?” 

You don’t respond right away. You know he’s talking to you, but it takes a few moments for it to register. 

“I think… I’ve got a few ideas for our debut.” 

Joel chuckles tiredly, laying his head back against the headboard once more.

“We’re really doin’ this? We’re gonna make porn?”

You sigh weakly and find the strength to sit up, facing the weathered look Joel is sporting. You give him an innocent smile as you wipe your chin with your forearm. “That’s right, daddy.” 

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[matt-murdockk]

Time

pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!Reader

words: 2.8k

summary: On their wedding night, (Y/n) disappears in Matt’s arms-blipped without warning. For five years, he mourns her, tormented by grief and hallucinations. When she returns, unchanged, he’s convinced she’s not real. (angst mostly with fluff ending)

warnings: angst, cussing, lack of proofreading rip, set in infinity war - endgame timeline (reader getting blipped, etc)

a/n: Listen, my boy Matt is the PERFECT practice for writing angst. I just like to put him in situations and watch him like he's in a fish tank and I'm outside tapping on the glass. This man absolutely cannot catch a break and while I am partially to blame (cause I'm writing it this time), just how Matt is written in general is in a way that it just makes sense to put him through shit. He is a walking amalgam of Catholic Guilt, adrenaline, and poor decision making and I love him so much. This one is a boatload of angst but I threw in some fluff in the ending because well, we deserve good things.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The apartment door creaked open with the softest thud, and then her back hit it as Matt pressed her gently against the wood, lips grazing her jaw, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. He was smiling.

That rare, devastating smile he only wore when it was just them.

“You’re supposed to carry me across the threshold, remember?” she whispered, breathless with laughter.

“Oh, I didn’t forget,” Matt murmured. “Just wanted a moment alone with my wife first.”

Wife.

The word made her stomach flip in a good way- warm and giddy and ridiculous.

He scooped her up easily, one arm beneath her knees, the other at her back, and she looped her arms around his neck like she’d never let go. “You’re enjoying this a little too much.”

“I’m legally required to now,” he said with a smirk. “It’s in the vows. Carry you everywhere. Worship the ground you walk on. Try not to lose my mind over how good you look in that dress.”

“Flawless delivery, Murdock,” she teased. “Truly. I can tell you definitely wrote your own vows.”

He chuckled against her shoulder as he carried her through the doorway into the quiet, dimly lit apartment. Candles flickered. Soft music still hummed faintly from the speaker they forgot to turn off before the ceremony.

And for a second- just one perfect second- it was all stillness. Just them. Just this.

He set her down gently, hands lingering at her waist. They kissed again, slower now. Softer. Everything feeling like it had finally settled into place. She pressed her forehead to his, heart beating a little too fast.

“I think I’m going to cry.”

“I’ll beat you to it,” he murmured, eyes closing, nose brushing hers. “You’re here. You’re mine. We made it.”

She smiled, eyes glassy. “We did.”

They stood there for a while. Just holding each other. Breathing the same air. Wedding bands warm against skin.

But then-

She shifted slightly in his arms. Her brows furrowed.

“Matt?”

He straightened a little, instantly alert. “Yeah?”

“I feel... weird.”

He tilted his head, concern filtering through his features. “Weird how?”

She pressed a hand to her stomach. “I don’t know. It’s like- I just got dizzy all of a sudden. Like the room’s moving.”

Matt gently guided her toward the couch, helping her sit down. “Okay. Just breathe. You might be dehydrated. Or just- adrenaline crash.”

She tried to smile. “Yeah. Big day. Lots of emotions. Too many speeches.”

She stood too fast. Her hand slipped from his.

“Careful,” Matt said, already reaching for her again. “Take it slow- ”

“I think I need to throw up,” she mumbled, voice shaky.

“Okay, yeah,” he nodded, already guiding her. “Bathroom’s just- ”

She staggered.

Her balance tipped.

Matt caught her by the waist before she could fall. “Hey. Hey, I got you. It’s okay- ”

She didn’t answer.

Her body felt... lighter. Unsteady. Like her weight was shifting in his arms.

He tilted his head, trying to focus on her. “(Y/n)? You with me?”

She looked up at him.

Confused.

Scared.

“M-Matt, I...”

And then her voice just- cut out.

His arms were suddenly empty.

He blinked.

No sound. No step. No breath.

Just... gone.

The faintest warmth lingered against his fingertips- and then something like dust scattered through them.

“What the- ?” he whispered, stepping back. “(Y/n)?”

His hand shook. Her scent was still in the room. Her heartbeat-

No. No, that wasn’t right.

He turned, listening harder, straining his senses.

Nothing.

There was nothing.

The silence grew louder. His throat closed up.

“(Y/n)?”

He moved down the hallway. Checked the bathroom. The bedroom. “(y/n), c’mon. Say something.”

No heartbeat. No motion. Not even the creak of a floorboard. Like she’d never been there. Matt’s chest started to cave in.

“Okay, this isn’t- this doesn’t make sense,” he muttered. “Maybe you passed out. Maybe you hit your head. Maybe- ”

His foot bumped something.

Her ring.

Her wedding ring.

Lying on the floor.

His knees hit the hardwood before he could stop them. “No.”

He crawled forward, hands blindly reaching, as if she might be hidden just out of reach.

“(Y/n)!” His voice cracked. “Where are you?!”

Still nothing.

Just the flicker of the candles.

Just the soft sound of ash settling.

“No, no- God, no!” He stood again. Stumbled. Slipped.

“(Y/n)!” He shouted so hard it tore something in his throat. “Talk to me!”

He made it to the front door. Opened it. Nothing. No one. No footsteps. No sounds of retreat. Matt’s breathing picked up. His fingers trembled as he unlocked his phone, nearly dropping it before hitting Call.

Foggy.

It rang once. Twice-

Pick up.

The sound of the city outside had changed. He could hear it.

Screaming. Tires screeching. Glass shattering six blocks over. Someone crying for help. Sirens multiplying like wildfire. It all surged into his head at once- too much, too fast.

He pressed his palm against his ear, gritting his teeth. “Too loud. I can’t- ”

Click.

“Matt?” Foggy answered, out of breath. “Hey, shouldn’t you be- ?”

“She’s gone,” Matt said immediately, voice fraying. “Foggy- she was right here, and then she just... disappeared.”

“What do you mean ‘disappeared’?”

“I mean she turned to ash in my hands,” Matt snapped, breath catching. “I was holding her. She said she felt sick and then- then she just... she was gone.”

There was a pause.

“Matt, hang on- wait- ” Foggy’s voice shifted, panic creeping in. “I think... Matt, something’s happening. It’s not just her.”

Matt stilled. “What do you mean?”

“I’m outside and people are vanishing. Right in front of me. There was a guy walking beside me- just turned to dust. A woman screaming for her kid, and the kid vanished. A guy in a cab just disappeared behind the wheel, Matt. It crashed into a light post.”

Matt pressed a hand to the center of his chest like he could anchor himself to the sound of Foggy’s voice. But even that was drowned out by the chaos around him.

“I can’t hear her,” he whispered. “Her heartbeat- her breathing- it’s just gone. Like she was never here, foggy.”

Foggy’s voice came through again, strained and tense. “It’s happening everywhere. I can’t keep up. There’s shouting, people running- I think half the crowd outside just vanished. I’m not exaggerating.”

Matt stumbled toward the couch, hand landing on the coffee table. “She was right here.”

“I’m coming to you,” Foggy said quickly. “Stay there, Matt. Don’t go outside- Jesus Christ, someone else just- ”

The line crackled. Cut out. Came back.

Matt’s hands were shaking as he reached for the remote.

The TV flicked on.

"...mass disappearances reported in New York, Chicago, London- this is now confirmed to be a global event..."

Footage played- Times Square chaos. Pedestrians turning to dust mid-step. News anchors looking off-camera in horror. Phones on the ground. Car alarms going off in every direction.

“We are receiving reports that approximately half the world’s population has- vanished.”

The camera panned to a child’s stuffed toy, untouched, lying in a pile of ash. Everything was still. Except the noise. And the empty space beside him on the floor.

“She was right here,” he said again, softly. Like it might undo it.

“She was right here.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

five years later

She came back mid-step.

One foot lifted toward the bathroom- and when it landed, everything was wrong.

The apartment was darker. Colder. Rearranged.

The soft glow from the corner lamp was unfamiliar. The kitchen counter had a different crack. The rug was new. The air carried a different scent- like dust and time and a city that had moved on without her.

“Matt?” she called, voice hoarse.

Silence.

She stepped further in. The living room looked lived-in, but not by her. Not anymore. Not for a long time. The coffee table was cluttered with open case files. There was a cane by the door she didn’t recognize. Her heart pounded faster.

“Matt-?”

And then he was there. He stood in the doorway like he’d been carved from stone, unreadable and unmoved. Then, quietly- too calmly- he said, “So. You’re back.”

She stopped cold.

“Matt-”

He tilted his head slightly, almost as if studying her. “Took longer this time.”

“What…?” she breathed.

“Usually you show up around hour thirty-six,” he said, like it was a fact. “Right after the exhaustion hits but before the whiskey does anything useful.”

Her stomach twisted. “Matt, I’m not-”

“Don’t,” he cut in, sharp. “Don’t do that.”

She swallowed hard. “This isn’t what you think.”

“No?” His voice was soft, even, lethal. “Because it looks a hell of a lot like every other time I’ve lost my mind and imagined you standing in this room.”

(Y/n) blinked, her chest rising and falling too fast. “Matt, I- I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, no trace of humor. “You wouldn’t.”

“I was just- I felt sick and then it was cold, and everything looked wrong and-" Her words tangled, tripping over each other. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

He didn’t answer.

“Matt?”

Nothing.

She took a tentative step forward. “Please. Say something. What happened? What- what’s going on?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His voice, when it came, was low and sharp, like a scalpel slicing through skin without even trying.

“Don’t do this to me again.”

Her breath caught. “What- what do you mean, again?”

“I know your routine now,” he said, voice tightening with each word. “You show up, confused. You ask questions. You cry. And then just when I start to believe you might be real- when I almost let myself feel something again- you vanish.”

“Matt, I don’t- ”

“No,” he snapped. “Stop. Just stop.”

She froze. He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, his jaw locked, eyes unreadable.

“You know what it’s like to bury someone without a body, (Y/n)?” he asked. “To sit in this apartment with your ring in my hand, trying to convince myself that ash on the floor was all that was left of you?”

She shook her head, tears spilling freely now. “I don’t remember anything-”

“Exactly,” he said, bitter. “You never do. That’s the trick, isn’t it? You pretend like you’re all confused. Like you don’t know what’s happening. And I- I fall for it. Every time. Like an idiot.”

“Matt- please, just listen to my heartbeat-”

“I did,” he cut in. “I’ve heard it before. Right before it disappears.”

Her lips trembled. “I swear I’m not-”

“You don’t get to do this,” he said, his voice suddenly shaking, but no less cruel. “You don’t get to come back here like nothing happened. Like you didn’t leave me bleeding on the floor that night. Like I didn’t spend years trying to claw my way out of what you left behind.”

“I didn’t leave you,” she whispered.

“But you’re dead,” Matt hissed, stepping close enough for her to feel the heat off his skin. “You died. And whatever this is- this illusion, this dream- it doesn’t change that. You don’t get to hurt me again.”

He said it like a closing statement. Like a sentence passed down after a trial that never had a chance. But he didn’t stop there.

“You think this is easy for me?” he went on, voice low, cracking at the edges now. “You think I want to keep seeing you in doorways? Hearing your voice when I close my eyes? You think I haven’t begged for it to stop?”

(Y/n) stood frozen, lips parted, tears streaking silently down her face.

“I have spent five years trying to forget the exact way you said my name before you disappeared. Five years trying not to hear it in someone else’s mouth. Five years waking up thinking you might be there- just once- and then realizing that all I’ve got left is a bed that’s too big and silence that’s too loud.”

He was pacing now, hands in his hair, breathing hard, unable to stop himself.

“You were my wife. You were supposed to be the rest of my life. And I had you for minutes. You were ripped out of my arms before I even got to love you properly. Do you understand that? Do you even get what you left behind?”

“Matt-”

“I grieved you like a man who’d never believe in God again,” he growled. “I went back to that night a thousand times in my head-wondering if I missed something, if I could’ve saved you, if I’d just done one thing different-”

“Matt-”

“I begged,” he snapped. “I begged God to bring you back. I lost everything trying to survive you. And now you show up here, looking exactly the same, like time hasn’t touched you, like you’re just picking up where you left off- like you didn’t burn me to the fucking ground-”

“Matt.”

She said it once.

Quietly.

And then she reached for him.

He flinched on instinct, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, gently, deliberately, she took his hand in hers- still trembling from the weight of his words- and guided it up between them.

To her chest. To her heartbeat. Right there. Steady. Real. Alive. His breath hitched. She kept his hand pressed there, fingers wrapped around his wrist like she could anchor him to this one undeniable truth.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m not in your head. I don’t know how or why or what the hell happened, but I’m here.”

Matt didn’t move at first. Just stood there, hand pressed to her chest, like he didn’t trust what he was feeling. Like it might stop if he acknowledged it out loud. Then- suddenly- he let out a shaky breath and pulled her into him, hard.

His voice was muffled against her shoulder. “What the fuck.”

Her hands gripped his shirt like she was afraid he’d drop her again. “Yeah, what the fuck. I don’t know what’s happening.”

He laughed once, breathless and half-broken. “Yeah. Me neither.”

They just stood there for a second. Breathing each other in. Trying to recalibrate. Then, against his chest, she mumbled, “You look like shit, by the way.”

It slipped out before she could stop it. Matt let out an actual laugh- short, incredulous, almost like it startled him.

“That’s not funny,” he said, wiping at his eyes, still half-laughing.

She smiled weakly. “Little bit funny.”

He shook his head, still not quite believing any of it. “God, I missed you.”

And then he kissed her.

Desperate and real and messy- too much force, too much urgency, like he didn’t trust it to last. His hands found her face, holding her like he needed proof she was solid. She kissed him back just as hard, fingers in his hair, anchoring him to now. To her.

It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t perfect. But it was real. And that was enough.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

a little bonus content because well it was funny in my head

A few days later

She was curled up next to him on the couch, legs tangled, one of his old hoodies hanging off her shoulder. The TV was on, volume low, neither of them really watching.

She was still catching up- on everything. The blip. The aftermath. The years she missed. Sometimes it hit her like a freight train. Other times, like now, it just snuck up and poked her in the ribs.

She turned to look at him, brow furrowed. “Wait a second.”

Matt tilted his head toward her. “Uh-oh.”

She sat up a little. “So… technically, you’re five years older than me now?”

He blinked. “That’s what you’re choosing to focus on right now?”

“It’s a valid question,” she insisted, grinning. “I married a man my age, not some grizzled thirty-something.”

He scoffed. “Grizzled?”

“I mean, I don’t see any grey hairs, but-”

“I’m blind, not deaf. I heard that smirk.”

She tried to hold back a laugh. Failed. “So you’re like… what, thirty-eight?”

“Thirty-seven,” he corrected flatly.

“Oh no. I married an older man.”

Matt deadpanned, “And I married a time traveler. Guess we’re even.”

She bumped her shoulder into his. “You gonna start calling me ‘kid’ now?”

He turned toward her, a slow smirk tugging at his mouth. “Only if you want to see how fast a five-year age gap doesn’t matter.”

Her face flushed. “Okay, grandpa.”

Matt groaned. “Regret. Immediate regret.”

She laughed, leaning back into him again, warm and solid and finally, finally real.

“Still married me,” she said, smug.

“Still would,” he replied, without hesitation.

And that shut her up for a minute.

[sweetmapple]

2 chairs in the bar now, rejoice

[cryinganabell]

Devilish Wedding summary

[janiehellion]

𝐖𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝛐𝐠 ⋮ 𝔇𝔞𝔯𝔶𝔩 𝔇𝔦𝔵𝔬𝔫

𝑺𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: You don’t just walk the dog—you make him crave it. And just like a loyal pet, Daryl Dixon will follow your every command—if you keep him on a leash and train him to obey.

𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: Submissive Daryl Dixon ⋮ Humiliation ⋮ Degradation ⋮ Handjob ⋮ Cumplay ⋮ Implied CBT ⋮ Edging & Denial ⋮ Praise

𝑾𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝑪𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕: 8.080 𝑷𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: Dominant Fem!Reader

𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ⋮ 𝑹𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝑮𝒖𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔

You never did blend in, and that was the whole point. Your style had always been a choice—black and red leather and latex, hugging every inch of your body. Leather jackets, thigh-high boots with heels that announced your arrival before you ever spoke, and even tighter leather pants that hinted at the curves underneath without giving too much away.

A tantalizing kind of restraint.

You'd always chosen black as your base, but red? That was your signature color. It wasn't just in your wardrobe, either. It was the color you put onto your lips, perfectly applied and turning heads.

You weren't shy about it. Not at all. The way you used that lipstick was intentional. You liked how people's eyes looked at your lips when you talked and how they stared at you when you smiled. Even before the world fell apart, you'd been magnetic—someone who drew attention just by existing in the same space.

When the apocalypse hit, you didn't drop the act like so many others did. If anything, the end of the world had given you more reason to keep it up.

While others scavenged for practicality, you hunted for pieces that made you feel powerful.

You wore leather gloves, too. But they weren't just for show—they protected your hands, just like the rest of your outfit was a form of protection. It was all about control in a world that had taken everything else from you. And if that meant walking into every stranger, living or dead, like you owned them, like everyone and everything was already beneath you, so be it.

Later, you met Juanita Sanchez, even though you don't remember the exact day you met Princess. It was one of those moments in the apocalypse where survival felt like the only thing keeping time moving. You'd been scavenging in a half-collapsed building—in your usual style, walking through the halls in a way that made even the living dead seem hesitant to approach. That's where you'd found her.

She was standing in the middle of a store where you watched her for a while, leaning casually against the frame of a broken doorway, a cigarette between your gloved fingers. Your lipstick—a deep, sinful red—was freshly applied, even if finding a mirror that wasn't broken in this world was a luxury. You didn't need one, though. You'd practiced until you could swipe it across your lips perfectly in the reflection of a knife blade.

"Gotta say," you'd called out after some time, "you kinda look like you're auditioning for a circus act."

Princess had turned around, and her eyes had landed on you, then dropped to the outfit you wore that day—a tight catsuit with the zipper pulled down just enough to leave little to the imagination. She didn't even try to hide the fact she was staring.

"Damn, if I wore that outfit, I'd look like a sausage," she joked, eyeing you up and down. "But you? You look like... a femme fatale! Girl, you're like sex on legs! I absolutely love it!"

"Something like that," you'd replied with a smirk, taking a long drag from your cigarette before flicking the ash to the floor. "Too bad I don't share my closet."

That was the start of it. She'd laughed so hard she snorted, and from that moment on, the two of you had been inseparable. Princess was the kind of friend who never asked questions about the things you didn't want to talk about. She didn't ask about your past or push you to explain why you wore leather and latex like armor and why you painted your lips with the boldest and deepest red you could find.

When you both joined up with Eugene, Ezekiel, and Yumiko, it became clear pretty quickly that you were nothing like them. But you didn't care. You didn't owe anyone at the Commonwealth or the Coalition an explanation, and you weren't about to start dressing differently either.

Then there was Daryl Dixon.

He had been the hardest to crack after you got to know your way around the new people. From the moment you met him, you could tell he was different. He didn't look at you the way other men did—at least, not at first. At first, he'd avoided you entirely, keeping his eyes on the ground or somewhere in the distance whenever you were around. Like he was afraid you might catch him looking.

But you did catch him. Over and over again.

And you hadn't made it easy for him because teasing him had become one of your favorite pastimes...

The department store you were now in had seen better days—most of the shelves were broken, the walls covered in dust and blood, and the floor in broken glass. Scavenging wasn't exactly your favorite thing in the world, but it was still necessary, even after all this time.

You, of course, walked through the cosmetics section while Daryl followed a few steps behind, his boots crunching over old plastic, and Princess had wandered off toward clothing racks.

But Daryl? He stuck annoyingly close. Not that he was trying to talk or anything—God forbid. No, he was just there, walking after you like a shadow, grunting whenever you looked his way.

At first, you thought maybe he was just keeping watch, being the silent protector or… whatever. But it didn't take long to notice that every time you moved to a new section, he followed. Close. A little too close.

Soon, you were looking through a shelf of random cosmetics when you saw it—a tube of lipstick, half-buried under some packaging. Your fingers closed around it, pulling it free, and you smirked to yourself.

Red. Not just any red—your red.

"Well, would you look at that," you said, holding it up to take a closer look. "A bit of civilization."

Daryl glanced at you out of the corner of his eye but didn't say anything. You could feel him watching, though, as you popped the cap off and twisted the lipstick out of the tube.

"I should give this to Princess," you laughed, turning the tube over in your hand. "She'd probably lose her shit."

You paused, pretending to think, then shrugged. "Nah. Think I'll keep it for myself."

And just like that, you dragged the lipstick across your mouth, slowly, like you were painting on war paint.

Rubbing your lips together, you admired the color in the cracked little hand mirror you'd found earlier. "Not too bad for something that's been here for years."

Then, out of curiosity, you looked at Daryl again.

He was frozen.

Absolutely frozen.

His hand was halfway to a shelf like he'd been about to grab something, but now it just hung there uselessly. His eyes—those blue eyes—were staring at your mouth, and for a second, he didn't even blink.

"You think it's my color?" You asked casually, pressing your lips together one more time.

He blinked, pulling his gaze away so fast it was somewhat funny. "Dunno," he grumbled, his voice a little too quiet.

"Mhm." You slipped the lipstick into your pocket, walking past him as you moved to the next shelf. "I'll take that as a yes."

You didn't miss the way his breath stopped when your shoulder touched his arm or the way he stumbled a little awkwardly like he didn't know what to do with himself.

For someone who was supposed to be all tough, he was being downright weird.

But somehow, it was charming.

Then there was the fact that he was still following you.

Every time you moved, he was right behind you, just close enough that you could feel his presence like a shadow behind your back. He wasn't even pretending to look for supplies anymore. His eyes kept looking at you—your hands, your lips—and every time you caught him, he looked away as if feeling guilty.

Pausing in front of another shelf, you were bending down slightly to check the lower level. Behind you, Daryl stopped, and you knew his gaze had dropped—staring at your ass for just a second too long before he looked back up.

When you straightened yourself and turned, he was closer than he had any right to be, his face red and his eyes looking everywhere but at you.

"You okay there, Dixon?" You asked curiously, smiling and raising an eyebrow.

"'M fine," he answered, stepping back like he needed to put space between you. His voice sounded strained, and he was fidgeting with his hands like his life depended on it.

"Okay, if you say so." You took a step closer, just to see what he'd do. He didn't move, but his breath hitched again, and his gaze dropped to your lips before looking into your eyes.

"Jus' don't see how that's useful," he continued. "Ain't exactly what we need."

"Oh, really?" You rolled your eyes, closing the space between you until you were chest to chest, making his breath stutter. "And what is it that you need, Dixon?"

His eyes widened just slightly in an instant, his mouth opening and closing itself as he tried—and failed—to form believable words.

"Hey, c'mon now, Daryl," you said, leaning a bit closer. "A little lipstick never hurt anyone. And I don't do sloppy… in any sense."

You were about to push him further—tease him, maybe wet your red lips just to see if his eyes would follow—when Princess's voice was to be heard from somewhere nearby.

"Hey! Did you find anything good? I found a mannequin missing an arm!"

Daryl practically jumped at the sound of her voice, stepping back so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet. His face was red—so red it almost matched the lipstick you'd just found.

"Over here!" You called back, not even bothering to hide your amusement.

Princess came into view as she waved a mannequin arm in the air. "I mean, come on! Look at this thing! Who broke it? And why? Were they mad? Was it for art? The questions are endless!"

"Who knows?" You answered dryly, but still with a little grin on your face.

"Right?" Princess threw the mannequin arm aside. "Anyway, I'm gonna check out the upstairs. Think there might be some supplies up there—maybe even some cool clothes!"

Without waiting for a response, she disappeared around the corner, leaving the two of you alone again. Turning back to Daryl, your grin was widening as you watched him.

Poor man was blushing hard.

His fingers were now tapping his leg like he needed something—anything—to focus on other than you.

You tilted your head, watching him closely and observing every little reaction. "You know," you said, stepping even closer, your voice dropping to a whisper, "red's always been my color. But I think it might look even better on you."

He huffed in response, his shoulders tense as he kept looking to the floor before he stepped away completely.

Oh, this was too much fun.

So you followed Daryl through the aisles, the clicking of your heels almost too loud in the otherwise silent building, but now and then, you'd lean into his space, just close enough. Your clothing creaked with every movement, a sound he could hear and not ignore, no doubt.

A sound that made him nervous.

You didn't even have to try hard. You just had to be you.

But then, as if you weren't satisfied with just that, you turned into the next aisle, stopping in front of something familiar.

A pair of leather gloves. Black, shiny, perfect. You slipped them on with ease, letting the smooth leather slide over your fingers, loving the feeling of it.

Daryl was silent, but you could feel the way his eyes stayed on you from behind.

"Tell me, Daryl," you then started, "what's so interesting about me?"

His eyes didn't leave you, though his lips parted slightly as if to say something. But then he just shook his head, a little breathless. "Nothin'," he responded, looking around.

His hands twitched at his sides as he swallowed hard. He was so close to losing it.

"Well, if you say so." You held your hands up, wiggling your gloved fingers with a smirk. "I think I like the way they feel on me. Makes me want to... touch everything."

Brushing past him accidentally, you moved toward a door with the sign Employees Only, pushing it open with your hip. The room inside was small—only a storage room, judging by the shelves stacked with boxes and random chaos in every corner.

Daryl stopped in the doorway, clearly torn between following you and staying put like a good little watchdog. You didn't give him a choice.

Grabbing his arm, you pulled him inside and kicked the door shut behind him. He stumbled slightly, his wide-eyed expression confused as you turned to face him.

"You know what? I think I missed a spot," you suddenly said, pulling the lipstick from your pocket and holding it up like a weapon.

His brow furrowed. "Huh?"

"My lips," you clarified, pointing at your mouth. "Missed a spot. Hold this for me, would you?"

You grabbed the small mirror again and shoved it into his hands before he could argue. He looked at it like it might bite him, his fingers trembling slightly as he held it up. "Ain't there a mirror right behind—"

You stepped closer—too close—until there was barely a bit of space between you. His breath stopped as you leaned in, looking at your reflection in the little mirror.

"Wait," you said, twisting the lipstick and carefully swiping it over your lips. "Tricky angle. Maybe if I…"

You leaned in closer, your face stopping just inches from his while his chest was rising and falling with quicker breaths by now.

Then, without warning, you pressed your mouth to his cheek, leaving a lipstick kiss on his skin. Daryl stiffened, a quiet, fast groan escaping his throat.

Oh... Oh, that was interesting.

"My bad," you said, not sounding sorry at all. "Must've slipped."

You leaned in again, this time brushing your lips against his jaw. He made that same noise—quiet and desperate—and you felt the tiniest shiver run through him.

So you kept going.

One kiss turned into two. Then three. Each one was slower as you worked your way along his jaw and his throat. His breathing grew heavier, and when you reached his neck, he let out a broken little whine.

"Something wrong, Dixon?" You asked innocently against his skin.

"N-nah," he stammered, but his voice cracked, and the way his hand gripped the mirror told a very different story.

"Okay." You trailed your lips back up to his ear, letting your tongue move along his neck just enough to make him squirm. "You sure about that?"

He whimpered—actually fucking whimpered—and you had to hold back a loud laugh. God, he was pathetic. And it was absolutely adorable.

"Hold still," you commanded, taking his chin between your fingers and tilting his head back slightly. "Haven't reached the spot yet."

Daryl's knees wobbled, and for a moment, you thought he might actually fall.

"Please," he whispered, his voice so soft and quiet it made you growl slightly.

"Please what?" You teased, brushing your thumb over his bottom lip, smudging the faintest bit of lipstick.

"I… I…"

Daryl trailed off as he noticed your smirk, with your lips only a breath away from his. "Use your words, Dixon."

But he didn't.

He just let out another whimper, his body trembling as you leaned in and kissed him again—this time on the lips.

And that was when he completely fell apart.

Daryl didn't say anything—hell, you hadn't expected him to, and in this moment, words weren't needed anyway, because his body said everything for him. The way his shoulders stiffened and his hands shook as he let the broken mirror fall to the floor, the way his eyes looked everywhere but at you, as if looking at you for even a second longer might break him in half.

He didn't even resist when you pushed him back on a dusty old chair in the corner of the room. The thing looked like it hadn't been sat on since before the world ended, but you didn't care. You shoved him down into it, straddling his lap before he had a chance to protest against it, trapping him under you like the helpless little thing he was.

His breath hitched again—barely, but enough to make you smirk, as his hands hovered awkwardly near your thighs, not daring to touch you unless you told him to. You tilted your head, studying his face, and watching the way he was trying to hold himself together.

"Don't worry, Dixon," you said, holding up the lipstick. "Gonna make you look pretty."

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing, but he didn't argue. Not verbally, anyway.

You leaned in, swiping the lipstick across your lips, making sure it was freshly applied. Then, you turned your attention back to him. You put a soft red dot right next to his mouth, just a tiny spot, and he squirmed under your touch. His lips parted, a shaky breath escaping him as you dragged your thumb over the mark, smearing it across his cheek. The leather of your glove against his skin made him flinch—only a little bit—and you couldn't help but laugh.

"Look at you," you continued. "What a pretty boy you are."

Daryl's only response was a soft whine, so soft it got almost lost. Almost.

You leaned closer, pressing your lips to his neck again, leaving another kiss and mark against his skin. Then another, just below it, and another still, moving down to the collar of his shirt. His breathing was uneven now, shallow and fast, and you could feel the way his heart was beating faster and faster.

When you reached his chest, you grabbed the collar of his shirt and tugged, opening a few of the buttons with ease. "Don't need this in the way, do we?"

You kissed him there, leaving another red mark against his skin and another below it, just like before. You worked your way down as you slid off his legs, slowly, marking him in your color, inch by inch.

By the time you reached his waistband, you didn't even need to look up to know he was gone. His body was trembling in front of you, his hands gripping his thighs like they were the only thing keeping him sane. You then glanced down at the obvious bulge straining against his pants and back up at his face. He looked done—blushing, panting, eyes almost closed and glazed over with need.

"You're so cute," you smirked, dragging your gloved hand over and down his abs. He let out a choked groan when you stopped just above his waistband, teasing the skin with the leather. "Getting this turned on from lipstick? That's all it takes?"

"Shut up," Daryl grumbled, his voice all shaky, but there was no anger behind his words. His eyes dropped to your hands again—those goddamn gloves.

He hated how they looked on you, hated how perfect they fit, how they moved so roughly against his skin. It wasn't right how much it got to him. He was embarrassing, wasn't he? Letting a pair of gloves own him like this.

Letting you own him.

And yet, he couldn't stop staring, couldn't stop imagining what it would feel like if you wrapped those gloved fingers around his throat instead, squeezing just enough to make him feel dizzy, to make him beg for air. The thought alone made his cock twitch, and he hated himself for it. Hated how much he wanted it.

"How sweet, did I embarrass you?" You asked, tilting your head. Your fingers moved lower, brushing over the bulge in his pants again, and he tensed up, a whimper escaping his lips before he could stop it.

You laughed softly, grabbing his bulge a little bit rougher. "You're so hard, poor thing... Bet it hurts, doesn't it?"

Daryl didn't answer, just let out another broken little moan, hips bucking up into your touch like he couldn't help himself.

"Pathetic," you said, shaking your head. "But I guess I'll take pity on you. Only this once."

You undid his belt and yanked his pants down just enough to free him, his cock springing up against his abs, hard and leaking.

Not even giving him time to adjust, you positioned yourself more comfortably onto your knees in front of him and holding the lipstick up again, you twisted it and painted a slow, messy line along the length of his shaft, leaving behind a perfect mark of red against his skin. He let out a strangled sound, somewhere between a moan and a whine, his head falling back against the chair.

"Look at you," you teased, putting the lipstick aside. "So fucking pretty, don't you think?"

You slipped one gloved hand around his cock in an instant before he could respond, gripping him just tight enough to make him squirm, and started stroking slowly up and down, letting the leather glide over him. His reaction was immediate—hips bucking, head thrown back, mouth open in a silent groan.

"P-please," he choked out, voice barely more than a broken whisper.

You smiled as you continued to stroke him, slow and merciless. "Please what, Dixon? Gotta use your words."

"Please," he whined again, louder this time, hips bucking into your hand. "Please, I—fuck—jus'—"

But you didn't let him finish. You tightened your grip, cutting him off with a rough squeeze, and he cried out, a loud, desperate sound that had you grinning from ear to ear.

"Good boy," you whispered, dragging your thumb along the tip of his cock. "Come on, Daryl. Let me hear you."

And oh, he obeyed.

"Haven't even done anything yet, and you're already that close? What a shame."

Daryl sobbed—an actual, honest-to-god sob—and you could feel the way his thighs tensed beneath you. His hands were gripping the sides of his legs so hard his knuckles had gone white like he needed something to hold onto or he'd completely come undone.

"Gonna give you what you need, don't worry," you told him, pulling back just enough to look up into his face, "but only 'cause you're looking so damn pretty like this. All red and so needy. Now… Sit still."

Kneeling between his spread legs, you were tugging his pants down further to get them out of the way. His cock was so slick at the tip, leaking pre-cum over and over, and when you wrapped your fingers around him once more to keep it steady, he gasped, and his hips jerked involuntarily, making you give him a warning look that froze him instantly.

"Don't move," you said. "You wanna be a good boy for me, don't you?"

He nodded several times, lips parted and panting wildly. "Y-yeah…"

"That's what I wanna hear from you, Daryl," you smirked, grabbing the lipstick and moving it underneath the tip of his cock, painting a small, messy red heart under it next.

Daryl gasped, his head falling forward, his whole body trembling as you worked. "F-fuck," he stammered, voice shaking. "What—what're ya—"

"Be quiet," you said, still smirking as you painted the tiny heart. "Told you I'd make you look all pretty, didn't I?"

You put the lipstick aside when you were satisfied, leaning in close to press your lips right onto the tip of his cock, leaving another faint smudge behind. He let out a broken groan, his thighs now quivering under your touch, his hips bucking up once more before he caught himself.

"Stay still," you warned again, gripping his cock harder. "Don't make me tell you again."

"'M sorry," he whimpered, but you weren't interested in apologies. His lungs were fighting for air as he tried—and failed—to keep quiet. But your voice, that lovely, mocking tone, went straight through every bit of his self-control like it wasn't even there. You didn't need to say much. Just the way you looked at him… it wrecked him.

"Sorry doesn't cut it," you said, running your gloved thumb over the lipstick-smeared tip of his cock. He whimpered again, loud and desperate as you teased him further. "You're lucky I'm even touching you after that. You're so fucking pathetic, Daryl. All this just from a little lipstick. You like being my toy that much, huh?"

He nodded, his head tilting back, not wanting to look you in the eyes, but you had other plans.

"Look at me," you snapped, and his eyes flew open. "You're gonna watch," you continued, leaning in to kiss the side of his cock softly, leaving more smudged marks in your wake. "You're gonna watch, Dixon. And you're gonna thank me for it."

"Please," he whimpered, his voice cracking more with every word, and you felt almost satisfied with how wrecked he sounded. "Please, I—Shit, shit, I can't—"

"Can't what?" You interrupted, pressing your other hand to his abs to keep him from moving as you kissed your way along the length of his cock. "Can't handle it? Can't stop yourself from being a whiny little boy for me?"

He let out a choked cry, his hands moving to the sides of the chair this time, gripping them so hard it looked like he might rip it apart.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," you grumbled against his throbbing shaft, kissing him just above his base before dragging your tongue back up to the tip to smear the line of red all along it.

"God, you're so fucking needy," you said. "You should thank me for making you look this pretty. Go on, baby—say thank you. Thank me for making you look this pretty."

"Th-thanks," he choked out, just before he apologized. "'M sorry!"

"You're not sorry," you laughed, shaking your head in disapproval. "You'd let me do this to you forever, wouldn't you? Tell me, do you even wanna be a good boy for me?"

"Yes," he gasped, the word barely more than a breath. "Yes, please, I—fuck, I do! I—"

Indeed, he wanted to be good for you. Wanted to do what you told him, no matter what it was, no matter how much it made his face burn. Because when you praised him—when you called him a good boy, even in that mocking tone—it felt like salvation.

And when you didn't, when you laughed and shook your head like he'd disappointed you… That was worse than the end of the world. Literally. He couldn't stand it. Couldn't stand not being enough for you. So he'd do anything—anything—if it meant you'd look at him like he was worthy of your time. Even if it was just for a moment.

"Oh, I know you do," you said, smirking as you tightened your grip. "But you're not good enough. Not yet, at least. You're gonna sit there and listen to my every command. Understand? Just sit still and be quiet."

Daryl nodded frantically, his breath hitching as you started to stroke him again, slow and torturous, dragging your gloved hand up and down his shaft. He was a mess—whimpering, gasping, his head thrown back, his body so stiff, and his muscles flexing.

The rough feeling of the leather against his sensitive cock was driving him insane, his hips jerking up into your hand despite himself. It throbbed painfully, aching with a need that made him want to scream.

He hated how much it turned him on, how much he craved it, but fuck, there was no escaping it. The feeling of your leather gloves, the smirk on your lips, the way you tilted your head and insulted him like he was just some toy for you to play with… it made him feel small and weak, and somehow, that only made him harder. He hated how much he loved it, how much he needed it.

You were training him, and he was letting you.

No—he was begging for it.

"I told you to keep still," you suddenly said, pulling your hand away. He whimpered, his cock twitching, and you swore his entire body tensed. "You really don't know how to behave, do you? You want to be good for me, but you're only acting all pathetic instead."

"I—I can be good," he stammered, his voice shaking as his hands gripped the chair tighter, desperate to keep himself quiet. "Please, I can—"

"Shut up," you snapped, cutting him off. "If you could behave, we wouldn't be having this conversation, would we?"

You didn't give him a chance to respond before wrapping your hand around him again, tighter this time, stroking him slowly from base to tip. He groaned, his hips twitching again, but he stopped himself before he bucked up fully.

"There you go," you praised mockingly, your gloved thumb brushing over his leaking tip once more. "Knew you could listen if I kept you desperate enough. Such a good little thing when you wanna be, huh?"

Daryl whined, his lips parted. "Fuck," he choked out, his voice all desperate. "Please, I—fuck, I can't—"

"Again?" You asked, jerking him faster now, watching as the muscles of his arms flexed. "Can't handle how good this feels? Can't stop yourself from being such a greedy, slutty boy for me? You can't what?"

He made a sound you could only describe as a wail as you decided to slap his cock with your gloved hand out of nowhere. His head shot up, eyes wide, his lips quivering as he stared down at you.

"Did I say you could move?" You asked, your voice cold. He shook his head quickly, a tiny tear rolling down his cheek as he whimpered out another apology.

"Good," you said quietly, smirking as you slapped his cock again, just a little harder this time. It twitched in your hand, and he let out a strangled moan as he tried to brace himself for whatever you'd do next.

"Would you look at that," you laughed, pumping his cock again. "Getting even harder from me slapping your dick. You're so damn ridiculous, Daryl."

"N-no," he whispered. "I—I love… I—I, fuck, please, I need—"

"You need?" You repeated with a grin, laughing as you pressed another kiss to the underside of his cock. The lipstick smeared against his skin as you kissed it some more, this time so fast he could barely feel it. "Go on. Tell me what you need, baby. Use your words."

"Need ya," he choked out, his voice breaking further. "Need ya to—to finish me, please. I'll be good, I swear—"

"You'll be good? That's what you keep saying," you said before you slapped his cock again, hard enough to make him flinch. Daryl just whimpered, and you shook your head. "You don't even know how to be good, Dixon. You're just a desperate, whiny little brat."

"Please," he begged and cried, some more tiny tears rolling down his cheek. "Please, I'll do anythin', jus'—jus' don't stop!"

You laughed louder, stroking his cock a little quicker now, watching as his eyes rolled back, his chest rising up and down with each breath. "So adorable," you said, leaning in to press one more lipstick kiss to the tip of his cock, making sure the red was looking messy. "Keep begging for me, baby. Let me hear and see just how desperate you can get."

Your pace turned ruthless soon, stroking him hard and fast, watching as Daryl lost himself more and more. His breath came out in quick gasps, his body trembling so violently you thought he might come on the spot. He was close already—so damn close—and you could feel it in the way his cock throbbed wildly in your grip, could hear it in the way he moaned for more like it was the only thing he could do.

"Gonna come soon for me?" You teased as your gloved hand moved in unforgiving pumps up and down his shaft. "That's why you're so fucking ridiculous, Daryl. You're literally trembling! Bet you're imagining me riding you, huh? Bet you'd come in seconds if I even tried. Poor little baby boy can't handle anything, can you? Pathetic."

"Please," he whined out over and over again as a sob tore from his throat. "Please, I—I'm so close—fuck, I—"

Then you suddenly stopped, removing your hand from his cock.

His eyes flew open immediately, wide and glassy, his lips parted in shock as he stared at you like you'd just ripped his soul out of his body.

"Wha—no, no, no," he whimpered, his voice a broken plea as his hands gripped his thighs so tightly again that his knuckles turned white once more. "Please, don't stop—please, I'll do anythin'! I'll—"

"Quiet," you interrupted, pressing a gloved finger to his lips after you stood up. His voice died immediately, though he let out a pitiful little sob as his eyes dropped to your hand, noticing his pre-cum smeared on the leather.

"You really are adorable," you laughed, smirking as you tilted your head, watching the way his eyes looked frantically from your glove to your face. "So fucking needy you can't even obey. Do you even know how greedy you are right now?"

He whimpered again, nodding and squirming beneath you, his hips jerking up involuntarily as if he thought you might touch him again. But you didn't. Instead, you dragged your gloved finger slowly across his bottom lip, smearing a mix of pre-cum and lipstick along his mouth.

"Go on," you said, your tone sounding commanding as you pressed the tip of your finger harder against his mouth. "Lick it off. Be a good boy for me, Daryl."

His eyes widened even further, his hands trembling as he stared at you, another blush immediately rising to his cheeks. "Wh—what?" He stammered, his voice barely audible.

"You heard me," you shot back, arching an eyebrow. "Lick it off. Or do you want me to stop entirely? Maybe I should just go away. Maybe I'll leave you alone here like this—so hard and desperate… with no one to help you."

"N-no," he stuttered quickly, shaking his head as another tear rolled down his cheek. "I—I'll do it, jus'—don't leave, please, I'll do it! I—"

"That's what I wanna hear," you smiled as you pressed your finger more roughly against his lips. "Now, be a good boy and show me how much you want it. How much you want me to finish you."

With a shaky breath, Daryl opened his mouth, slowly at first, his tongue brushing against the leather. You could see his hesitation, the way his body quivered beneath you, but he didn't stop. He licked up his own pre-cum, his face flushed red and his eyes now closed as if that might somehow help him.

"Licking up your disgusting mess like the desperate little thing you are. You really have no shame, do you, Daryl?"

The word 'shame' hit him with every little sound he'd made so far. And yet, somehow, it was addicting. The pain of your words, the way you handled him like he was not worth your time. It hurt, and he wanted more of it. Needed more of it. It was sick, wasn't it? Letting you tear him down, scold him, mock him… and feeling like he'd die without it. You were breaking him, and he didn't want you to stop.

Daryl's tongue was still moving over your glove, cleaning it like his life depended on it. When he was done, he pulled back slightly, opening his eyes a little to look up into yours.

He'd worship you if you told him to. He'd beg and plead at your feet if it meant you'd touch him again, even if it was just to insult him. The thought of it—of being that desperate for you—made him feel even more shame.

But shame had never felt so good.

"Good boy," you praised him, cupping his cheek with your free hand, smirking as you watched the way he leaned into your touch when you stroked his cheek lovingly. "See? You can behave when you really want to."

"Please," he then whispered, his voice broken, his cock still throbbing and twitching against his abs. "Please—'M good; I promise... I'll—"

"Oh, I know, I know," you interrupted, your smirk widening as you wrapped your gloved hand around him again, giving him one slow, light stroke. His moans came out in cries now, pitiful and still needy, his hips jerking uncontrollably as he begged for the friction he so desperately needed. You leaned in close, stopping right next to his ear as you whispered, "You want to come now, don't you?"

"Y-yeah," he begged, his voice shaking, his breath hitching with every stroke of your hand. "Please, I—I need it—please, jus' let me—"

You pressed a soft kiss to his temple, almost tenderly, before you slid down between his legs again, and his eyes were glued to you as he panted like he'd been running for miles.

Then, without any warning, you moved your mouth to his cock again—but this time, instead of just teasing the tip with kisses, you took him fully past your lips, wrapping your mouth around him. The sudden feeling of it all hit him at once.

"Oh—fuck, fuck!" He let out a strangled cry as his hips bucked uncontrollably, trying to fuck deeper into your mouth. "Please… please, 'M gonna… please, don't stop—"

You sucked hard at the tip of his cock as you bobbed your head just once—slowly—before pulling back with a wet sound, holding it tightly in your grip. "Go on now, be a good boy, and come for me."

It pushed him right over the edge—he couldn't hold back, not when you had him so suddenly, so fast, in your mouth, only to leave him hanging once more as if he didn't deserve the feeling of your lips around him.

Daryl's eyes were shocked, his expression wild with panic, but you didn't give him a chance to protest. His orgasm hit him hard and much too fast, his body shaking uncontrollably, his cock throbbing in your grip as his cum shot over your glove and himself.

"Fuck, fuck, I—I'm sorry!" He sobbed. "'M sorry, I—I didn't mean to!"

You didn't soften your grip, holding his shaft through the last of it, watching as he whimpered and squirmed, his cock twitching helplessly in your hand.

"Still pathetic," you answered as you leaned back on your heels, looking at the mess he'd made of himself. "Can't even come properly, can you?"

"I—I'm sorry," he whispered again, his eyes now squeezed shut as if he didn't know whether to keep them open or not. "Didn't mean to—please, I'm sorry—"

"Shut up," you responded before you reached out to scoop up some of his cum with your gloved fingers. "Look at this nasty shit... Open your mouth and clean it up. Again."

His eyes shot open at that, full of embarrassment once more. But he didn't argue. Not now.

"Lick and swallow, baby," you teased as you watched him suck his cum off your glove, his breath still coming in short, ragged bursts.

By the time he was finished, he was trembling so badly you thought he might collapse all over. And as you stood up, taking a step back and straightening your gloves, you knew you'd left your mark on him.

But Daryl couldn't think. Hell, he could barely even react.

His chest was still heaving as he slumped back in the chair, every muscle in his body flexing from his orgasm. His cock was still half-hard, but he hadn't even thought to tuck himself away, too wrecked to do anything but sit there and take it. His lips were bitten bloody, swollen from how he'd chewed them trying not to embarrass himself even further, but it hadn't worked.

Not when you had gotten every sob, every whimper, out of him like you'd planned it that way.

His half-lidded eyes followed you as you picked up your lipstick and moved away from him in your thigh-high boots. Daryl didn't know where to look—your thighs, your ass, your lips. All of it was overwhelming, and shit, how he loved it. He felt completely done in your presence and at your mercy, and for some reason, that only made the ever-present need in himself worse.

Suddenly turning around, you didn't say a word as you approached him again. His heart was pounding in his chest as you stepped closer, every click of your heels on the floor shooting straight through him, making his head spin.

When you stopped in front of him, he thought—prayed—you were done with him. But you didn't back away. No, you leaned in, close enough that your warm breath touched his neck, and lifted one of your boots, pressing it between his knees.

Daryl's breath caught in his throat as it slid along his inner thighs, just barely brushing against the skin there. His hips bucked involuntarily, the movement pitiful even to him, but he couldn't stop himself. He felt it—you—your boot moving higher, pressing hard enough between his thighs and down onto his still-sensitive cock.

Shit…

The feeling was maddening. The pressure on his balls made him whine, and his hands didn't know what to do as he fought the urge to grind against the feeling of your boot like a desperate brat.

He sure as hell felt it all.

He felt how you owned every inch of his body. And he knew it.

Your boot pressed down harder, forcing a choked groan from his lips, but you didn't care.

"Speak up," you then demanded out of nowhere. "Tell me what you are, Daryl."

"I—I'm…" He stammered, his voice sounding weak.

"You're what?" Your boot pressed some more, grinding just enough to send a bit of pain through his cock, and his body flinched. "Say it. Say how pathetic you are."

"'M pathetic," he whispered without any kind of hesitation, his face still burning red, and his hips bucked slightly again.

He shouldn't want this—not after the mess he'd already made of himself—but his body didn't seem to care as his cock gave another faint twitch.

You leaned in further, and the extra weight against him made him whine. Your breasts were practically in his face now, the sight of your tits teasing him as you adjusted the pressure of your boot just enough to make his head spin.

Goddamn it.

Without another word, you tilted your head up and began reapplying your lipstick after having it pulled out of your pocket again, your eyes never leaving your reflection in the mirror.

Daryl tried to look away, embarrassed by the way his heart raced at something so simple, but your free hand shot out, grabbing his chin roughly and forcing his gaze up to look at you.

You used the opportunity to put the lipstick onto your lips slowly—intentionally—making him watch, making him wait. And the kiss you then put on his cheek felt like fire before you were pulling your boot away slowly like you wanted him to miss it.

When you were done and finally spoke, your voice sounded lovingly, praising him.

"My adorable little boy," you whispered, smirking at him before you turned around without another word and walked toward the door.

Daryl could still only sit there as he watched you leave. The sight of your ass in those tight clothes would haunt him as well; he was sure of it.

He let out a deep, shaky breath, his head dropping back against the chair as he tried to pull himself together. But the red stains on his skin and the faint ache in his muscles reminded him that he was anything but together.

And maybe he never would be, no, not when it came to you.

Daryl stared at the door long after you'd left, his heart pounding in his ears.

As soon as he tried to stand up, his eyes looked at the mirror mounted on the wall behind him, and he gulped at the sight staring back at him. He was covered in red stains, the smudges of your lipstick marking him like a trophy.

He reached up, touching the marks as if it would make them disappear, but they didn't. The color clung to his skin, and it wasn't just there. His body felt raw and wrecked. And lower—Jesus Christ…

He finally looked down at his still-open pants. The red smudges on his cock were obvious, every print of your mouth burned onto him like a brand. He didn't bother cleaning it off. Hell, the thought of wiping your lipstick away felt wrong, like getting rid of a memory he wasn't ready to lose. Instead, he tucked himself back into his pants, the marks hidden but not forgotten.

Daryl tried to focus, to get his head straight, but his hands shook as he buttoned up.

His reflection stared back at him, lips parted, eyes wide, and that look on his face—the one that screamed for more—made him groan softly.

Get it t'gether. C'mon.

But he couldn't. Not when his legs felt like jelly… until the door creaked open behind him, and his whole body tensed.

"C'mon, Dixon," your voice pulled him out of his thoughts. "We're leaving."

Daryl turned slowly, watching you lean against the frame. You didn't even look at the mess you'd made of him, your eyes already looking away like you expected him to follow without a second thought.

Of course, he did. He walked after you, his head ducked low as if scolded.

Princess's voice was to be heard somewhere ahead, but Daryl barely listened to it, too focused on you as you led the way.

You stopped all of a sudden, and he almost bumped into you, too distracted by everything to notice you'd turned again. Before he could step back, your hand shot out, grabbing his cock roughly through his pants with a hard squeeze.

Daryl froze, choking out a strangled groan, his face burning as you pressed just enough to make him feel it.

"Still following me like a good boy, huh? What? Gonna bark if there's a walker around and getting too close?"

Daryl didn't answer. No, he couldn't. He swallowed hard, his hips twitching against your touch.

"Should I get you a leash? Maybe you wanna be all dolled up? Is that what you wanna be, Dixon? My pretty little pet? Say it."

His head spun before he stammered something like, "Y-yes, 'm yer pet," but you couldn't quite make it out as your other hand tilted his chin up, forcing him to look at you.

You looked him up and down, your eyes dropping to his neck, where one of the red stains remained.

"Good," you said, releasing him with a few pats to his cheek. "Next time," you whispered, "we'll see if you look as pretty in a collar."

Daryl's legs trembled as you stepped away, but he didn't have time to steady himself before Princess appeared out of nowhere, searching for the both of you.

"Y'all find anything good?"

You didn't even hesitate, grinning at her as you patted Daryl's head and then his chest—right where one of the lipstick marks was smeared beneath his shirt.

"Oh, I haven't found anything worthy of my time just yet," you responded. "I'm just walking the dog."

Princess stopped, tilting her head to the side with a slight frown. "The dog? Wait, we got no—"

But you were already stepping away, leaving Daryl and Princess standing there, his face red as he struggled to keep up.

He followed you, of course. Just like you knew he would. And God help him, he wanted to follow you anywhere.

𝑨𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓'𝒔 𝑵𝒐𝒕𝒆: Thanks for reading! I've got a couple of ideas for a possible follow-up—maybe next time we'll see what happens when he gets a little treat, or what happens when he misbehaves just a bit too much. Just saying, there’s plenty more I could do with this. So... If you enjoyed this, drop a comment, reblog, or leave some kudos. Even if you hated it, I wouldn’t mind knowing—feedback always helps!

[kiivg]

.And I get down with crooked men, but I am the boy I've always been.

[jeonsbabygirlsworld]

DADDY DRABBLES MOODBOARD

SUMMARY: This Drabble series contains of small scenarios of them being a family from reader giving birth to baby's first words and them adopting pets and much more.

PAIRINGS: Husband JK X wife READER

WARNINGS: SMUT, FLUFF

IN COLLABRATION WITH @ahgasegotarmy116 🩷

A/N: hey guys! I hope you all would like this drabble series Thankyou to @ahgasegotarmy116 to continue when I thought this would go no where SO i plan on releasing twice a month, Requests for this family is always opened ;) Thank you so much for 550 followers I'm thankful for each one of you <3.

TAGLISTS ARE OPEN, COMMENT DOWN AND ILL ADD YOU

SOME DRABBLES MIGHT CONTAIN SMUT PLEASE BE AWARE🔞

DRABBLE ONE: Where the reader gives birth and Jungkook won't stop panicking.

DRABBLES TWO: In which you give your daughter an important life lesson

[ddagent]

"Meeting Again After Years"

Matching March Day 10

Margo Madison arrived at Lyndon B Johnson High School at an hour that her former classmates would probably call fashionably late. In actuality, Margo had spent the last hour on the phone to Houston, checking in on every conceivable project NASA was running and that Margo had even the slightest oversight over, in order to avoid attending. But Emma had, eventually, put her foot down. You're going. It will be good for you. There's more to life than what's going on in space. Margo thoroughly disagreed. But, to avoid her assistant setting her up on a blind date, Margo had agreed to attend her high school's thirty year reunion.

God help her.

The Alabama high school had not changed much in the intervening years. The football field was well-kept; the grounds neatly mowed every Wednesday. There was a little more budget to be found in the Science labs compared to other high schools this size – but only because of the university, and Margo's own, annual donation. There was no sense of nostalgia. No walk down memory lane as Margo retraced the old halls towards the gymnasium. This was a building. She had attended it for four years. Some of the people had been nice. Some of them had not.

Honestly, Margo did not understand the desire to look back when the path forward offered all kinds of exciting possibilities.

That was, unfortunately, not a sentiment her classmates shared. As she stepped foot inside the gymnasium, decked out in the school colours, it was clear so many of her peers from the class of '60 were reliving their glory days. The football players were in faded letterman jackets, guts creeping over their waistbands as they fumbled with the half-deflated pig skin. The cheerleaders were discussing their families and whatever pyramid scheme they were selling door-to-door. The outcasts were playing up their achievements and how much they had outgrown high school in a desperate attempt to win the approval of their peers.

And Margo Madison, head of NASA, went to the free bar and got herself a drink.

She had taken two sips when one of her classmates ventured over. Fuck. She was hoping to remain undisturbed. "Margie Madison!"

"Margo."

"Yes! You!" It was Christie, head of the Yearbook committee. The '60 volume was safely ensconced in her hands. She then flipped it open to Margo's entry: a small photograph of a teenage girl, long red hair over one shoulder, wishing she was back in the classroom instead of in front of a photographer. "You had that strange message for your comment."

Margo took a sip of the whiskey the bartender had (no brandy, apparently). "It's geo-coordinates for Houston, Texas."

Christie nodded, blankly. "Okay. And here you are in the school orchestra, and President of the Engineering Club, and here you are with Sergei—"

Margo faltered for a moment, before eagerly ushering the yearbook into her own hands. Sergei Nikulov. God, she hadn't thought about him in years. His mother had worked at the university as a visiting lecturer, so Lyndon B Johnson had had a Russian student their senior year. Tall, blond, with an easy laugh and a calm disposition. Nothing rattled him. Not when the football players strung him up on the field and swaddled him in an American flag. Not when he joined the school musical and his co-star fell off the stage next to Margo's piano. Not even when Margo gave him the hardest equations she could devise, as the President and VP and only attendees of Engineering Club.

"—you two were pretty good friends!"

There had been the possibility of more than friends, Margo remembered. A spring of stolen kisses after a Valentine's Day prank. A polite yet eager invitation to Prom. A virginity taken under the stars. But then Margo had gone off to college and his family had moved back to Russia and she had never seen him again. Huh. I wonder what he's doing now.

But Christie would not have those answers. If she didn't know Margo was head of NASA, she wouldn't know anything about the internal workings of Roscosmos. So, she shrugged. "I guess."

With no gossip shared or secrets revealed, Christie ploughed on. "So, I don't see any ring. Are you married? Divorced? How many kids? I've got three." She then tugged out her purse and began pulling out professionally shot pictures of all her children. "This is Amy, and this is Bradley, and this is—"

At some point, Margo lost interest and began working on ideas for the Mars habitat in her head. Christie lost interest in Margo, too, and went off to find another target. She kept at the bar, and sipped her inferior whiskey, and spent time calculating how long she could feasibly stay here and not endure the wrath of Emma Jorgens. Occasionally, she would hear a Margo! and face the awkward small talk of someone she went to high school with impressed that she had met the President and was running NASA – but was so sorry to hear she wasn't married.

"One more, please." Three drinks. Sipped slowly with nibbles foraged from the dessert table. That's how long she had to stay for. "Thank you."

"Margo?"

Dear Lord. But when she turned around, it was actually someone she wanted to see. Actually wanted to catch up with. "Sergei?"

"I cannot believe you are here."

They embraced awkwardly, as two people who had confessed their teenage love to each other under the stars, only to be torn away by circumstance, could do. There was a little grey in his blond hair, now, and his beard. Lines around his eyes and mouth where he still smiled. And a bare line around his finger. "It's good to see you, Sergei."

"And you, as well. It has been...thirty years?" He laughed readily. "I cannot believe it. And you are running NASA, as you always intended you would. Your Mars program is rather exciting from what I have seen so far."

Her fingertips pressed nervously to a spot behind her ear. "You...you know I'm head of NASA."

Sergei grinned. "Of course! One cannot be anyone in the aerospace world without knowing who Margo Madison is. First woman in Mission Control, first woman in charge of JSC..." He tailed off. "I must admit to keeping up with your career. I had always hoped you would do wonderful things, Margo. And, like our capsule design, I was proven right."

Margo shot him a look. "Seriously? It's been thirty years; how have you not realised that my design was the better one." But he was laughing again and she couldn't help but laugh, too. "So, what about you, Sergei? You always wanted to work for Roscosmos."

"I did. For a number of years. But my time in the US did not allow me to advance." He shrugged. "It is no matter. My mother got a job in Cambridge and we moved to the UK. I now run a small aerospace firm in London. Cardinal Aerospace. Perhaps you have heard of us?"

She had heard of them. Small was not a word she would use. "I hear you're making a Mars bid."

"You hear correctly." He leant in closer to her, as if sharing a confidence. "Perhaps we can give NASA a run for Mars."

"We're not adverse to a little competition. If you can keep up."

And all of a sudden it was like they were eighteen again, in a sun filled classroom after school, debating schematics and calculations and failed prototypes and Sergei was staring at her as if she was the answer and she was staring at him as if he were a ticking clock, only allowed seconds before she had to return to the work, her great plan to run NASA. But now they were older, of course. Wiser. Everything that had prevented them from exploring this outside the halls of Lyndon B Johnson High School didn't exist any more.

So, Margo made a decision. "Can I get you a drink?"

"Yes, of course. Uh—"

"My hotel has an excellent selection of brandy."

Sergei beamed, delighted at her boldness. "Well, it would be a shame not to sample them. After you, Margo."

The class of '60 didn't notice them leave. They hadn't really noticed them while they attended Lyndon B Johnson High, after all. There was a little gossip from the staff at the hotel bar but no one recognised Margo Madison after all these years, and no one recognised Sergei Nikulov, either. But she did. He was exactly the same. Older. Wiser. Hers.

[hellishjoel]

cherry thrill | lights

9.2k / pairing: daddy dom tattoo artist!joel miller x sub virgin f!reader

series masterlist | main masterlist | notifications blog | ko-fi chapter summary: your tattoo artist, joel miller, takes your virginity. chapter warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), no outbreak, implied age gap, swearing, virginity loss, dom&sub dynamics (/not lg), size kink, praise kink, degradation kink, daddy kink, innocence kink, corruption kink, swearing, dirty talk, pet names (princess, bunny, baby girl, sweetheart, etc.), oral (m&f receiving), fingering, protected p in v, joel talks you through it, protective!joel, slight pov switching, reader is described as having no tattoos or piercings, as well as hair, but otherwise no physical description, no use of y/n series summary: Trust and devotion. Ink meets innocence. Your tattoo artist, Joel Miller, shows you what it really means to give up control. Reeling from the loss of your job, you’re running out of options, until a passing comment from Joel and a video camera give you just the right idea. A/N: this was supposed to be a one shot but just like everything else I try to write, I expand on the characters too much for it not to become a series. also, thank you for 2,000 followers, I promise to do something soon to show my appreciation <3 I'm bad at giving thanks and receiving attention so anyway - dividers by @firefly-graphics (thank you, daisy!)

During your first consultation, there was something in the air. 

Glances that lasted a few seconds too long, a charged energy replicating that of two strong magnets.  You stand frozen in a dark office down the hall from the shop’s main entrance. The walls are painted black. A gallery wall displays different art and posters in gold frames. There’s a large red neon sign with your tattoo artist’s initials, J.M. 

Joel Miller. 

You sit opposite of him, leg anxiously bouncing and nails subconsciously piercing the chair’s leather arms as he listens silently to your request before his mind starts to work. It doesn’t take much time to draw up an example or two with your guided tweaks and fixes. 

Other than the scribble of a graphite pencil, silence falls over you both. And observation takes over. 

Joel surrounds himself with scattered drawings on loose paper that litter his desk. You watch the way his eyes screw inward to focus on the sketch he is drawing up. A small vein protrudes from his temple, his jaw shifts from side to side with tension. 

He’s a blunt sort of handsome. With harsh edges and lines, jaded and carved with precision like precious marble. It makes your pulse jump a bit in your neck and wrist. 

You think your first tattoo should be something special, especially since you’ve waited so long to pull the trigger. He was a bit intimidating like you imagined a tattoo artist to be, what with his brooding demeanor and how he looked you up and down upon taking one step inside his parlor. 

Virgin. 

That’s what he called your skin, untouched by any ink or piercings. 

He didn’t know that it described you down to your core. No one had popped your cherry, taken your virginity, made you theirs. Untouched.

Now, half an hour later and sitting anxiously in his back office, he finishes drawing up the sketch and asks about the precise placement you had in mind. 

“I was thinking here,” you mindlessly point to a spot on your upper thigh. There was a level of secrecy to it, in case any future employers cared about that sort of shit. 

You can’t help the way your skin vibrates under his touch, when he aids you in taking off your bottoms and runs his calloused palms up the smooth skin of your thighs. 

You shakily exhale as he warms you. 

You definitely don’t let yourself fantasize that he’s feeling you up, or even think about wanting him to explore every inch of your body. You know he’s just doing his job. 

But the way his eyes flick up to yours when he feels the goosebumps he knows he’s created is otherworldly. Like he knows you want him to fuck you. The way your muscles twitch under the warmth of his palm, feeling pliant under his touch. Fuck. 

His eyes gleam as his mouth forms into a barely-there smirk. 

There was no point in playing coy. Your body changed at the contact and Joel knew it. 

It was damn near degrading the way he let you simmer. It set a light inside of you no one had before. So that’s when you knew you’d let him, Joel Miller, take your virginity. 

It would be no easy task. You didn’t know how to pursue him, or anyone for that matter. Maybe if you did, you wouldn’t have said virginity. 

You try not to stare for too long, but even with his gruff demeanor and silence being second nature to him, he was handsome. A rugged sort of handsome with different facial piercings. 

A septum in his nose highlighted its aquiline structure. And a small hoop in his right eyebrow, with greys tickling through like pretty streaks in the hair. It made him look deliciously too old for you. Perhaps that’s what you enjoyed most, though. He was no amateur. 

The moment his fingers dipped into your flesh to work on your tattoo's placement, you knew he felt it, too. Supple under his touch. Squishy. Something he could sink his teeth into. Something that obeyed. 

“You prepared for the pain, sweetheart?”

His southern drawl is sweet like honey, deep and husky nonetheless. 

“I think so.” 

Your response is meek. It’s your wavering nerves from having him so close and unsure what the feeling of being tattooed will be like. Joel looks for certainty instead. He insists on it. 

“Need ya t’tell me. Not that you think, that you know.”

“I’m sorry. I know so.”

Joel squeezes the back of your thigh fondly, a proud little smile twitching at the edges of his mouth. “Good girl.”

The praise alone was enough to make your thighs sticky with arousal. Joel sent you home that day with an ache between your legs that your fingers had to fix. And you thought about him the entire time. 

How his cold tongue piercing would feel against the warmth of your clit. Holding you with his strong, protective arms swirled with black ink. How his staggering dark eyes would look into yours as he fucks you. 

But thinking about him wasn’t enough. 

You tried to string out the process, anything you could do to fix more time with him. Anything to get his tough palms on your skin. 

You fiddled with different placements, opting to show a little skin as you rid yourself of your top and pointed to your ribs during your next appointment. 

A breath hitches in your throat as he eyes your bra's innocent pink color. Lacy and pretty. Delicate. He clears his throat and runs his fingers along your side, evidence of his touch causing an effect on you displayed with more goosebumps. Your body could simply not hide the attraction you felt towards him. 

“Would hurt. A lot. The ribs move every time you breathe, which makes the tattooing process more painful.” Joel gently cups your side with his large palm and squeezes your ribs, holding you in place as you shakily breathe with the hold he has on you. “Can’t tell ya where to place it, can only advise. Just don’t want such a pretty girl to shed any tears.” 

That’s when you knew you could trust him. That even a man as hardened as himself could treat you with such care. 

He excuses himself for a moment, opting for more transfer paper and leaving you topless in his private office. 

Your ears were ringing, you could hear the quickening beat of your heart. You slowly inch off the portable tattoo table, glancing around Joel’s dark academia-style office. 

He’s an enigma, you think, the more you look at his surroundings. Quiet but dark, you knew he was concealing a hidden desire. You hope to unlock it. That he’ll trust you enough just as you trust him. 

Articles of clothing start to drop to the floor, one by one. You knew you’d be ambushing him; you didn’t want to scare Joel. So you left yourself in your soft pink-colored bra and panty set. You thought it was classy and cute. Not too forward, but sweet. Definitely planned out, you hope he doesn’t notice. 

All your confidence quickly disappears as soon as he comes back in through the door. You could feel your heart slowly sink to your stomach, your lips parting to come up with some sort of reasoning. 

“I-I’m sorry,” is all you can think to say. Joel is stilled at the entrance of his office, door still ajar as he blankly stares at the delicate angel standing in the middle of his office. 

He clears his throat and finally closes the door, leaving the two of you in silence. You can’t read his expression. 

“What do ya think you’re doin’?” He asks, sweet southern drawl dripping with tension as his heavy boots slowly make their way closer to you. 

You can only shake your head, unsteady hands concealing as much of your body as possible. You decide to face the mirror, keeping your back to him. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Miller, I was just-” Lie. “I was just looking at your full-length mirror to see other placement ideas.” 

Joel merely shakes his head, a knowing look in his eyes. “I can tell when you’re lyin’ t’me, baby girl. You wanna try tellin’ me the truth now?”

His tone only makes the ache in your core grow with desire as your pulse quickens under his eyeline. 

You feel embarrassed, heat coursing through your body and making you tingle as his stare lingers selfishly, basking in the glory of your figure. You watch with want in the reflection as his eyes stare at the curves of your hips and your ass. A handful, he probably thinks. 

“Come on, sweetheart,” he coaxes, moving closer and enveloping you in his musky pine and whiskey scent. It’s almost knowing what he says next. “Tell me what y’want.” 

You swallow the lump protruding in your throat before you decide to be honest with him. Like you said, you could trust him. You play with your fingers and pick at the skin by your nails.

“I want you.” You say barely above a whisper. 

Joel simply shakes his head, takes another impossible step closer, and cranes his head down to hear you better. His lips and coarse beard hairs tickle at the shell of your ear. 

Your eyes close shyly as he speaks again amid your silence. 

“Say it again, baby. Can’t hear ya.” His toned front meets your back, forcing a whimper past your lips. 

You work up the nerve to take a glance at the two figures in the gold-framed mirror. Perfect opposites. Young, beautiful, a little inexperienced. Older, handsome, sure as hell looks like he knows what he’s doing. 

His height looms over you. His eyes are an unknown shade of obsidian and he’s radiating a comforting warmth. Your hand reaches for his, only able to look him in the eyes through the glass as you guide his hand to your hip. 

Your thumb rolls across the faded tattoo on the backside of his hand. There used to be a cross there, but it looks to be covered up by some sort of python now. With a shaky sigh, you try again. “I want you, Mr. Miller. I want you to take my virginity.” 

You’ve prepared yourself to hear his laughter, a snickering, degrading comment of disbelief. You felt ready to experience shame. But you were wrong. 

Joel places his pointer finger under your chin, using his other hand to guide you in his hold to turn and face him. His thumb grazes over your lower lip as he guides your head to tilt up and look at him properly. Your soft eyes meet his lust-driven ones and your heart surges at the sight. 

You’ve never seen a man so hungry. 

“You want me to take your virginity, little bunny?” He hums seductively. Suddenly, you don’t feel so doomed. It’s placed with a little bit of eagerness now. You wanted your spoils. 

“Yes. Want you to do whatever you desire with me, I’ll do anything you want.” You sound like a devoted cult member, but the energy you feel is undeniable. You’re sure you’ve soaked through your panties at this point. 

Slowly but surely, Joel begins to nod. He’s mulled it over and he’s made up his mind. 

“Whatever I desire, huh?” He tuts almost degradingly. Your nod of enthusiasm makes his blood rush. 

He hesitates, untrusting of his own words. 

“Want you to call me Daddy,” He starts haphazardly, gauging your reaction. “Think you can do that, sweet girl?”

Your wide eyes soften, a notch of confusion knotting your eyebrows. 

“You- what?” 

“Want you to call me daddy. Want you to be a good little girl for me and hop up on that desk. Can ya do that for me, princess?” His chin juts up and signals toward his office desk. 

The swirling in your stomach just won’t stop. 

“Go on now.” His orotund voice projects his instructions. You back up a few paces until you feel the cool metal of his desk hit your backside, slowly moving to sit on it with hidden excitement and a shiver up your spine. 

You do want to be good, if there’s anything you want in this world right now, it’s to play along and be good for him. Knowing he would take care of you was making you leak. 

His fingertips delicately touch your skin, starting at your wrists and moving upwards to the straps on your bra. He’s intimidating to look at, so you fixate on something behind him. But it doesn’t help when he clouds your vision. Even his aroma, from the smoke of his cigarettes to the musky spruce cologne, was putting you in a tailspin. 

You don’t anticipate the way your body moves for him. His hands skim to the back of your bra, and your spine straightens. It makes the right side of his mouth twitch up into a smirk. 

“Nervous?” He belittles.

Your long lashes innocently flutter, you think you might be doing it on purpose. You sort of like playing along. 

“A little… Daddy.” You test cautiously, the word tangling on your tongue. But it’s unforgettable the way his eyes light up at the name. You find yourself already willing to do whatever it takes to recreate that signature look of his. 

Joel hums appreciatively, thumb making minuscule circles over your chin. “I’ll take care of ya. Ya know that. Or else you wouldn’t have chosen me.”

All you can do is nod. Because he knows that your selection process was a real thing. You had danced around it once during your first consultation when he asked if you had a boyfriend. All you could feel was heat rising to the back of your neck, shy eyes evading his warm brown orbs. 

“No, definitely not.” 

“What’d’ya mean definitely not? You’re a pretty girl.”  

You shrug in a noncommittal way. “I’ve never had to really worry about stuff like… boyfriends. Or girlfriends. Any of that sort of stuff.” 

His eyes flicked up to yours in an instant, a mutual understanding of your underlying words. “I see. I understand, angel.” 

Joel works your bra off with one hand, you gasp as you feel the material loosen around your body. His opposite hand taps at the top of your thigh. You’re all too aware you are eagerly sitting half-naked on his desk. 

“Open.” He directs, voice laced with smoke. 

You nip at your lower lip and slowly inch your clamped-shut thighs open for him. He instantly makes eye contact with the wet, dark little circle that’s ruining the pristine innocence of your panties. 

He decides not to make fun of it, but it’s truly a compliment. Your adoration for him. “This all for me, angel?”

You work up a few quick nods. Now that he was so close, you wanted him to hurry the hell up.

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?” 

You feel heat tingle at the sides of your neck. This would be your first time really talking like this with someone. He made it feel safe to talk so dirty. To try, to learn. 

“Yes, daddy.”

You can’t deny how proud you feel to be the reason a certain warmth brightens in his eyes and on his smirk. You did that, you pleased him. Little did you know how he’d thank you for it. 

“You said you’re a virgin? Hard to believe.”

A shaky sigh leaves your parted lips as his warm palms slowly pull your bra down, revealing your breasts to him. “Just never found anyone I really trusted or liked enough.” 

He mutters something quiet in understanding, all too distracted by how damn pretty you look. 

Joel is silently observing your body, he can’t help but want to touch the delicate flower in front of him. A gasp leaves your parted lips as his calloused hands come up and cup your breasts. He starts to squeeze, and a happy little whimper leaves your mouth with a small smile. 

“I like that.” You tell him, hoping it improves your chances that he’ll do it again. Which he does. 

“Good.” He compliments, pinching your nipples between his thumb and forefinger, turning them into peaks that send electricity down your spine. 

A sweet and experimental moan leaves your lips. Joel stands between your parted legs and you feel his erection for the first time against your skin. You can tell by the shape protruding through his pants that he’s a large man, already thick and swollen for your taking. 

“No one’s ever been inside of you?” He damn near growls, raising an eyebrow after the beat he offers you to answer.  

You shake your head again. “I’ve tried my fingers, but I’m sure it’s not the same.” 

A scoffy little breath echoes out of his nose. “No, not quite. Lay back for me, bunny.” His hands release your breasts, pebbled nipples left abandoned as you slowly move down onto your elbows and then onto your back. 

There was a sudden peak of anxiety, not being able to fully see him. But perhaps this was the point, to fully surrender yourself under his touch. To trust him. 

His rough hands grip the sides of your panties, slowly pulling them down your legs. He gets about halfway down your thighs before you quickly sit up on your elbows again. 

“Joel?” Your voice anxiously chirps. 

He stops, eyes flicking up to you from your cunt still concealed by your sticky thighs. 

“We can stop,” He says before you can explain. “S’okay if you’re not ready.”

“No, no, that’s not it, God, that’s not it,” You rid his worries, feeling your chest quickly rise and fall under his all of a sudden protective gaze. 

“I uh-... I know you don’t owe me this, we’re not together, but… can you talk me through what you’re doing? I want to learn, and I can tell you’re experienced, I know it’s a lot to ask but-”

“S’not too much to ask.” He quickly intervenes, gently taking your hands and guiding you to sit up fully once more. Your soft eyes graze over all the layers he’s still wearing, and suddenly you’re reminded how naked you are. 

“Use your voice, sweet girl. Can tell you wanna say somethin’. This is your time.” 

The sentiment means a lot. It is your time, your first time, and just because you’re an adult doesn’t mean it should be any less special. So you decide to make it your time, the way you want it. 

“Can you take your clothes off too? And is the door locked?” You trail off upon seeing his amused smirk. 

“Go on.” He nods again, letting you list your needs and wants. 

“And can you kiss me, please, Daddy?” You ask more softly than the rest of your demands. You know that kissing is romantic, but you think it might help settle you. Pull you back from drifting away, keep you here with him.  

He watches you for a moment, a bemused grin on his lips before he gently cradles your face. “The door’s locked. I’ll take my clothes off. And I’ll kiss you as many times as you like as long as you keep askin’ that nice.” 

For the first time during your interaction, your face lights up with a smile. It’s small, it’s thankful, but it’s there. There was an undeniable connection you shared with Joel, it made you feel safe under his curious eyes. 

With his large hands cupping either side of your jaw, he leans down while simultaneously guiding your chin up as your lips meet. It’s gentle at first, soft. His mouth tastes like a cigarette, it’s oddly intoxicating and you find yourself wanting more.

You know how to make out at the very least. So when you gently bite down and tug on Joel’s lower lip, both of your eyes open as a throaty little groan escapes him. 

He kisses you a little harder this time, hands falling to your hips as he pulls you closer so your fronts align. The force makes your lips part and Joel takes the opportunity to let his tongue invade your mouth. He moves fluently to explore, both of you falling into a sweet lull as your bodies meld into one. 

Inadvertently, he hooks his pointer finger into your panties halfway down your thighs and finishes pulling them to your ankles. They land somewhere on the floor in a pile of your other clothes. 

Unbeknownst to you until he took his hands off your body to pluck open his belt do you realize how you were on fire for him. 

You wonder while he pushes down his trousers and tugs off his shirt if he’s ever slept with a virgin before. If you’d be his version of a first time just like he’d be yours. No, not his first ever, you weren’t that foolish. But maybe you could teach him a thing or two as well. 

There’s no way to mask your surprise when he pushes down his boxer briefs, the dark band revealing all that was underneath. His half-hard cock raises towards his stomach, rosiness fluttering at his tip. You were pleasantly surprised to find that it was a little hooked, deliciously curving upwards. 

With a new sense of confidence, your hand reaches forward and you start to shift your hand up and down his length. Joel’s quiet grunt shatters your thoughts. He gently cups the side of your neck and twirls a piece of hair around his finger. 

Joel takes your hand off his cock and you worry you’ve done something wrong already. He holds it palm-side up and nods encouragingly. “Spit on your hand, baby.”

He nods after you look up at him with shy, blown-out eyes. But you obey. 

You spit into your hand and let him guide your hand back around his member. That seems a lot better. He glistens with your spit and you have the urge to keep shocking him with your confidence.

You lean forward and directly spit onto his tip, looking up to see his approving little smirk. 

“Fuck- That’s- mmm, that’s good, angel,” he sighs with a certain happiness, loving the feeling of getting his cock taken care of. “Feels real good.” 

The praise sets off a million pistons in your brain, feeling yourself scrabble off the desk,  dropping to your knees as you continue to pump him. 

He’s heavy in your hand, and you gently lean forward to give sweet kisses to the tip. You swallow the lump in your throat before parting your lips, taking the head of his cock into your mouth. He’s salty, musky, but not dirty. In fact, he was rather well-kempt in his nether regions. 

You force yourself deeper and Joel already has his hands in your hair to pause you. 

“Woah, slow your roll, pretty girl.” He says with shortened breaths. Heat floods your body, you hate being so new to this. 

Joel continues to stroke your hair back, gently gliding a thumb up your cheekbone before he cradles one side of your face. “I see you gettin’ all shy, I know this is your first time, but I’ll teach you the basics. And no one’s perfect on their first try, okay? So just get that thought outta your head now.”

Your chest swells at his eagerness to relax you, so you nod gently and lean in to kiss the base of his stomach in appreciation. The right side of his mouth tilts up as he swipes his thumb across your plump bottom lip, a silent thank you for the kiss. 

“You’re a real good girl, you know that?” A bigger smile breaks across your lips and you eagerly tug on his cock with eagerness. Joel sighs, already in defeat at how you’re willing to get it right for him, to learn, to listen. To obey. 

“You’re gonna wanna relax your jaw,” his fingers guide you, your lips parting and letting your jaw drop lower, lower, lower for him. “And the whole part is to suck, not just put your mouth on it, okay, peaches? So hollow your cheeks, no teeth, and only go as far as you feel comfortable.” 

You shake off your nerves and clear your throat, feeling your mouth fill with spit intended for him. You place your hands on the back of his thighs, feeling the dark hairs under the pads of your fingers. 

Slowly, you wrap your mouth around his tip once more. You swirl your tongue around him, adoring the way he hisses when you glide your tongue across the slit leaking a salty substance. 

Over the introduction, you try to take him down your throat properly. And he’s a mouthful, literally. He’s a lot. But you try to just enjoy that there’s no real pressure. 

A lot of saliva starts to build in your mouth, and you swallow it around him. You’re awestruck when he lets out a low moan, strong hands weaving through your hair and lightly tugging. Your eyes flutter up to him through your lashes, and he’s looking at you so deliciously. 

You can tell he wants to fuck your mouth, holding his hips back from really letting you have it. And maybe he could do that to you someday, but for now, today was slow. And Joel knew that too. 

Joel gently tucks your hair back, your lips suctioning around his length before he drags you back towards him, indicating for you to start moving, to bob your head. 

It takes a few tries, but you really feel yourself going further down his cock. You breathe through your nose, but it’s hard when you’re trying not to gag around him. Finally, after little to no error, you slip up. His tip unexpectedly hits the back of your throat and you gag around him.  Joel must feel your whole body tense with anxiety because he’s quick to gently hush and console you. Your eyes well up with tears, but your first instinct is to keep him inside your mouth and swallow around him. 

A long, low groan leaves Joel’s mouth, a compliment to your first big challenge. 

“Holy fuck,” he pants, weaving his fingers into your hair and fisting eagerly to keep himself grounded. “You’re doin’ so fuckin’ well, princess, you have no idea, fuck,” he grins. “Try using your hands on what you can’t take, come on, baby.” 

You can feel yourself physically gush at his compliments, your stomach swirling with a newfound desperation. To please. 

With new instructions, you work your hand at his base and pump up and down with the rhythm of your mouth. You worked on gently squeezing and releasing your hand, making Joel go slack-jawed as a husky groan leaves the back of his throat. Sucking and licking and bobbing your head in earnest, he’s already twitching in your mouth. 

“You’ve done this before baby,” his voice drips with a smirk, pulling yourself off for some deep breaths and a few desperate swallows. 

“Haven’t, promise, Joel,” You coo with a proud little smile, your voice thick and wrecked as you continue to pump his cock in the absence of your mouth. 

Joel lets your hair go and guides your hand off his cock before helping you up from the floor. 

Your face is obviously written with disappointment, you could have continued. You sort of wanted to continue despite the ache hanging around in your jaw. 

“You were gonna make me come, don’t wanna come yet, angel,” Joel pants weakly, ducking down and connecting your lips. You’re a little taken aback. Not by the kiss, but by the fact you already had him nearly ready to finish. 

“Really?” You murmur hopefully against his mouth, wishing he wasn’t just saying it to compliment you. 

The way that his features started to twitch and his tummy and chest fluttered with his jagged breathing, it would have been quite a sight to see him finish. Maybe he would have even done it right on your tongue. The thought alone gives you goosebumps. 

Your insides swirl as he licks inside of your mouth and gently runs his tongue along your bottom lip, moving you back towards his desk. You hop up without his instruction, feeling him smirk against your pouted mouth. 

“Now you’re gettin’ a hang of things.” He murmurs into your mouth, carrying on where he had left off before, sinking down to his own knees at the edge of the desk and positioning your feet to rest up on the edge. He seems to stare at the glistening arousal you’ve been creating for the last hour straight. 

That nervous feeling settles in your stomach, completely bare and open for him. A shocked gasp leaves your mouth, not prepared for him already to be diving into your pussy. 

The breadth of his tongue slowly swipes up the center of your core, purposely flicking off of your clit and making you yelp at the contact. His cold tongue piercing against your sensitive bundle made a shiver shoot up your spine. 

He gently smirks as he places a sweet kiss on the inside of your thigh. “You’re jumpy, kitten. Take a breath. Wanna make you feel real good.” 

You let out a shaky sigh and move off your elbows, back flat on his desk as your eyes slowly drift close. Then, as he starts to truly taste you, learning you and what you like, it’s unexpected how much you enjoy it. It never really dawned on you that some people truly enjoy eating pussy, but Joel Miller sure does. 

Your broken little whimpers and strung-out moans turn into writhing on his desk under him. He was such an expert, meticulously swirling his tongue around you and suckling your clit into his mouth. 

It didn’t take long for your fingers to wind up into his hair as his shoulders lay bracketed between your thighs. It was heavy, it was stomach-twisting, in fact, it was rolling through you like a storm. The it in question was your first oral orgasm. 

“J-Joel,” you gasp, your jaw dropping down as he slowly prods the tip of his finger at your entrance. 

“Need to get you ready for my cock, sweet girl, keep focusing on how good you feel,” he encourages. Your face pinches as his finger slowly sinks into your entrance, but you realize how grateful you are for all the extra spit and arousal Joel has provided. 

It doesn’t necessarily hurt, it’s a weird ache at first. But then his finger starts to slowly pump inside of you, and it’s a new craving. Especially with the way his tongue moves around your clit, the pistons in his brain firing all to figure out what you like. 

Do you like when he flicks your clit with his cold metal piercing?

“Ohmygod-” you gasp. 

Do you like when he swirls his naughty tongue around you in tight figure eights? 

“Joel, please,” you say, needing more. 

Did you like it most when he suckles around your sweet bud?

“Joel!” You cry out, tugging tighter at his hair, not sure if you want to tug him closer for more or push him away because it feels too good. 

“O-Oh, oh my god.” Lying still was a foreign thing to you now, all you could do was wiggle and grip your fingers into his hair, tugging harshly as he grunted against your core in enjoyment. 

He actually likes pleasing you, he likes tasting you! It’s a compliment without words as your eyes dip close and your head digs back into the desk.

Suddenly, your stomach starts to drop like you’re on a rollercoaster. You’re not unfamiliar with the feeling of an orgasm, but this, oral, it hits differently. 

“Fuck,” you curse unexpectedly, making Joel cock up an eyebrow as he glances up at you. All you can do is watch as his mouth suckles harder around you, his finger pumping faster and adding a second. 

Because if there’s anyone in this world that can break you out of your shell, Joel wants it to be him. 

Now you’re really aching for him,  wishing that it was his cock slotted between your walls, pushing you towards euphoria. 

“Know you wanna come for me angel,” his fingers quirk upwards in a come here motion, and a long, strung-out moan of his name leaves your lips.

God forbid any of the shop’s workers or clients hear you, but you can’t think of a singular reason to care right now. 

Your walls flex and squeeze around Joel’s two fingers, truly feeling the stretch as you come around his digits. It leaves you a whimpering mess on his desk, hot pants leaving your pretty lips. 

Joel is in heaven, lapping you up and moaning against your core as your clit starts to twitch with the overstimulation. His hands squeeze at the flesh of your thighs before he sits up and kisses up your body, his own lips meeting yours. He’s hungry, and you’re still bouncing back. But you want it so bad, and you’re so close to finally having it. 

“Joel, I’m ready.” You coo, wrapping your arms around his neck. 

He breathily laughs and pecks your lips once more, tasting your own arousal and making you feel warm inside. 

“Desperate for my cock, ain’t that right, pretty girl?” 

God, he was such a menace with his mouth. Your adorably shy grin is all the answer he needs. But you give him one anyway, because he likes when you talk like that with him. 

“Yes, daddy, I just wanna feel it already,” you try out, Joel’s lust-filled eyes meeting yours as white-hot heat spills into your stomach. 

“I’ll give it to ya, baby girl. Wanna give that tight little virgin pussy my cock, don’t want anyone else to have ya. Mine.” Joel huskily grunts, a choked moan leaving your lips. 

Joel reaches past your head and to the drawer on the other side of the desk. He jimmies it open and searches his hand around blindly. He flips open his wallet and pulls a small square foil package from the slot. 

Oh, duh, a condom. In all your excitement, you sort of forgot to be safe. But you’re glad he was prepared. 

You watch with adoration on your features as Joel lifts the condom to his lips, pearly teeth ripping the foil off but not hurting the condom. His other hand rests sweetly on your hip, thumb running soothing circles into your pretty skin. 

It’s a soothing feeling, one that he doesn’t have to do, but he does because he’s being considerate and maybe even a little protective. You gently lay your hand on his forearm, fingers tracing fresh black ink and older green ink on his arm’s sleeve. 

A shaky sigh leaves your lips as he uses both hands to glide the condom down his shaft. It’s nearly invisible, the way it’s so thin and tightly wrapped around his cock. Besides the band that rests at the very bottom of his shaft. He grumbles something incoherent, probably his annoyance with the fussing of the condom and how tight it probably felt around him.  

You take in a shaky breath and nod at him once he comes to rejoin your centers. 

“You’re sure you’re ready for this? Don’t wanna wait for someone y’love? Or trust? Or just... Anybody but me?” Joel’s face is pinched with genuine concern. 

You smile softly and gently cup his cheek. “I do trust you. It takes a lot of trust to allow someone to alter your body forever with a tattoo. So, you’re giving me a tattoo, and you’re taking my virginity. You’re sort of doubling down for me right now, honestly.” 

Joel flashes a genuine little smile. It’s the most you’ve said consistently all day with him, even with a little drip of sarcasm and wit. 

“Okay. But ya gotta say it.” He says more seriously. 

“I’m ready, Daddy. Want you to make me feel good. I know you can.” You can already feel yourself picking up his dirty talk. It makes your smile twitch as you gently grip both of his forearms, his hands spreading your thighs open for him. 

He enters the space, his heavy cock resting over your core and slowly slipping up and down your wet folds. 

You let out an unexpected little scoff as he grinds himself down against you, your arousal soaking the condom. He holds himself at his base and taps his tip down against your already throbbing clit, making you hiss out a desperate whine. 

“M’not usually this… gentle.” He admits through gritted teeth. You’re sort of shocked by that. Sure, he has a rough and tough exterior, but he’s treated you with such delicacy that you assumed he was like this all the time. 

“So, what are you usually like?” You pose, your breath hitching in your throat as one of his hands abandons your thighs and guides his tip from your clit to your entrance, up and down, several times. Your thighs twitch impatiently. Your entrance squeezes around nothing. 

“M’just... not this gentle,” is all he can say without breaking into a bemused smile. 

“Yeah? Maybe you can show me next time what you’re really like.” 

Joel playfully scoffs as his face starts to pierce with concentration. “Not sure if you can handle it, kitten.” 

“I’m sure I-” your words are cut off by a loud gasp, your lips parting as his tip penetrates your walls. You’re phased for a moment before you gulp and recollect yourself. You whimper, louder and louder as he pushes on, watching Joel move with such caution. 

He really is holding back, you think. You wonder what he’s like when he can just fuck how he pleases. 

“Baby,” Joel’s voice breaks your concentration. “Breathe.” 

A loud huff of air leaves your mouth that you hadn’t even realized you were holding in. The ache in your hips and core only builds with tension as Joel pushes on, his length and girth surely parting your tight walls. 

“So fuckin’- tight.” He says with gritted teeth, his fingers piercing into the delicate flesh of your outer thighs, making you whimper. 

“Joel,” you quietly cry for him, tears threatening to spill at the pain. It’s just- a lot. It’s a lot for your first time, and maybe you wouldn’t have signed up if you knew what he was packing, but in a weird way, you loved it. He felt made for you. 

“M’here, angel, look at me.” In all the excitement and overwhelming feelings of pain and pleasure, you hadn’t even noticed you were clenching your eyes closed. You slowly peek them open, greeted by his heavenly features. 

“There’s my girl.” He compliments, warmth and sweetness shooting through your body. 

“Fuck,” you say, your voice a bit wet as Joel comes down closer to aid you. He’s all the way in now, you can feel his balls flushed against your sopping wet cunt. 

The arousal helps, the condom sort of doesn’t but it’s fine, that’s life, you think. You’re torn between pain and pleasure. Honestly, you just feel so fucking full. 

He tells you between breathy pants that he would have used lube if he had any, but he didn’t, and he’s sorry, and his pretty voice starts to turn into static with how fucking good he feels inside of you. 

“You’re doing so good for me, angel,” he praises, sponging a few kisses along your cheeks and tasting your salty tears. You feel like some weak pathetic being under him. He’s been sweet, but you’re sure he’s just treating you like he found a wounded animal. 

“Move, Joel, please” you weakly demand, lassoing your arms around his neck and holding him close to you. 

“No.” He says through gritted teeth. “Just-” he pauses and takes a deep breath, knowing that you’re dealing with a million emotions right now as he’s trying to breathe around the death grip you have on his cock. “Just wait a minute, sweetheart, let yourself adjust.” 

A pouty, bratty sigh leaves your lips as you continue to blink away tears. You eventually nod and he only smiles adoringly as he returns to kiss at the tears.

Your senses are spiked. You can smell his cologne, feel each gristle of hair from his salt and pepper beard. It’s erotic how much more you can feel while at the edge of your emotions. 

One of your hands roams into his darling chocolate curls, instinctually going to gently scrape your nails delicately against his scalp. You’re sweetly surprised to hear him mutter a sweet little moan just for you against the shell of your ear. 

Your hands flutter across dark tattoos on his shoulders and arms, your blurry vision trying to make out the shapes as you trace a pretty angel on his upper bicep. 

Joel Miller was inside of you. Joel Miller has taken your virginity. The hottest man you’ve ever set your eyes on is fucking you at his place of work, on his desk. And you convinced him to. 

Joel was right. The pain, ache, and burn slowly turned into a real yearning for him to move. It felt like what was right, a certain neediness to be filled and fucked.  

“Daddy,” you whisper more sweetly this time, more to your character. “Please fuck me, you feel good now, I can take it. Promise.” 

It takes him a moment to gather himself as well, smiling sweetly as he keeps his mouth by your breasts where he is sucking a gentle hickey into your soft skin. Color flushes to the area, feeling his teeth gently nibble on the spot before he finally lifts off. 

Marking you, you think. It makes another gush of arousal flood your core, liquifying your spine as you become putty in his hands. 

His mouth twitches in a small smile as he captures your lips. Unbeknownst to you, the sweet kiss was just a distraction. 

Joel slowly began reeling his hips back which was a whole new sensation. His strangled moan harmonized with the gasp you let out into his mouth, moaning out the breath you were holding as he plunges himself fully back inside your warm cunt. 

You whimpered weakly, needy and anxiously happy, you wanted more. More, more, more. 

“Oh- my god,” you whimper, feeling him start a steady rhythm inside of you. Your jaw slowly drops and your eyes flutter closed, feeling your tits start to lightly bounce every time his hips perfectly align with your own. 

“So goddamn tight, still,” he grunts each word, forehead against yours as he watches your face unfold with a million reactions. 

Something primal switches in Joel, knowing he’s the first one to do this sort of stuff with you. 

It’s strangely possessive and arrogant, he knows it, but being the first man you trust to fuck you properly was feeding his ego. You’re a beautiful young woman with big doe eyes who waltzed into his shop and insisted he rail you, take your sacred first, talk you through it, and carry you through this dark and fearful forest. 

You trusted him. He wouldn’t break that bond. 

You came here wanting something, knowing how to get it. You came here asking, and Joel was open to teaching. The last thing he wanted was for some asshole to hurt you, something your sweet nature couldn’t afford was poison. 

Maybe he could teach you more, if you wanted. If he offered you an invitation to his world, would you take it? He only shared a slice of his lifestyle with you today, would the rest scare you, or entice you? 

Joel can’t help the way his hips buck faster at his thoughts, a little sob leaving your lips. He’s absent, just for a moment, feeling your skin slap against his as he holds you down and fills you fully. His tip hits your cervix for the first time and heat floods your stomach as you cry out his name. 

“Shit,” he panics and quickly comes back to his senses, wide eyes meeting your bleary ones, “you okay, angel? M’sorry” Joel whispers, returning to his original rhythm. 

“Yes-yes, fuck, please keep going, keep doing that, I can’t believe how good it feels.” 

Joel weakly smirks, proud to see you taking him so well.

The desk squeaks and juts with each of his heavy thrusts, that’s how you know it’s fucking good. You came here wanting to lose your virginity, but now that you’ve unwound Joel Miller, you want him to fucking rail you. 

Licking your lips, you lean up and pepper kisses up his wirey jawline, feeling the patch of hair that fades out and then back in again. He’s so sweet right now, but you wonder what he was talking about before. What was he when he wasn’t gentle? How good would rough feel? Would you like it? Maybe you could learn, explore, adventure. Surely Joel with his experience could be a guiding light. 

You watch with glittery eyes as Joel pulls his head off yours and licks across the pads of his fingers. 

“What are you- shit,” you whimper as his fingers start circling your clit, taking a moment to find your sweet little rhythm, one that somehow matches his hips. Now, your skin is slapping and it’s echoing around the room. Your moans are louder and uncontrollable, as are Joel’s. Your hips ache but you don’t find the will to care, he feels like fucking heaven. 

His cock is somehow inching deeper, as if your walls have decided to invite him in further, where he hits this perfect little spot inside of you that makes you squeak Joel’s name with robbed breaths. 

You’re not sure if you can hold on much longer, your stomach starts to swirl as all the knots inside your belly begin to untie themselves. 

You brace Joel at his shoulders and look into his eyes as you moan his name. A certain hunger flickers behind his dark brown orbs. His jaw clicks and he starts fucking you in earnest, filling you up each time as his hips snap with vigor. He feels fucking amazing, piercing your walls and marking you as his. 

“Joel-”

“Say what I wanna hear, baby,” he rasps. You quickly nod and gulp. 

“Daddy, please, I-I’m so close,” you moan sweetly as your head digs into the desk, jutting your chin up and arching your back. Joel takes full advantage of your breasts in his face, burying his nose in between them and nipping at the sensitive flesh, nearly making you yelp. 

“M’right there with you, angel baby, come for me,” he insists breathlessly.

His hips were losing their precision, going buck-wild, so you knew he was close. But he was holding out for you. 

You clench your eyes closed, feeling yourself lose all control. Your heart races in your chest, beat thrumming in your throat as you hold Joel against your front as his hips continue to snap and fill you. You don’t know what to do with your mouth, so you feverishly land your lips on his and make him mask the moans of your orgasm. 

Joel’s groan echoes loudly into your mouth as you gasp against his lips. Your walls clench eagerly around his cock as he spills into the condom. 

It’s blinding, deafening even. Your face goes slack and your eyes see stars. You think you might be shedding a tear or two because Joel is cupping your face kindly, thumbs swiping under your eyes as he encourages you out of your haze. 

“Lemme see those eyes, pretty girl,” he pants sweetly, watching for any sign of doubt. But he wouldn’t find any. 

You’re not so sure where he starts and you begin, your mind is so fuzzy. 

A soft hum leaves your lips as you soothingly run a hand through his dark hair again, gently stroking the longer curls away from the sheen on his forehead. Both of you were so warm, it felt like a fire was set between you two. When you curl a strand around your finger, you weakly smile as it coils back up and bounces. 

“How was your first time, angel?” Joel pants, still buried balls deep inside of you. Your hips ache, but part of you wasn’t ready for him to pull out yet. 

“I can’t believe I finished twice.” You admit with a shy smile, running a thumb up his cheekbone and glancing up at his eyebrow piercing. He notices you staring but keeps his eyes on your own.  

“Did it hurt?”

He shakes his head. 

“What about the one in your nose?”

He shakes his head again, this time with a smile. 

“Or your tongue?” 

This one made him ponder before he finally gave a light shrug. 

“You don’t remember the pain after a while. Just like tattoos. The pain is temporary.” 

Your mouth tilts in a lopsided smile, feeling messy with both of your spillages still puddled around your centers. 

Joel grunts as he slowly stands up from his bent-over position on the desk, pulling himself out of you and tying up the condom before he tosses it into the waste bin. 

You whine quietly to yourself as you close your legs. It hurts a little more now. Your hips and your core, a certain soreness. Or maybe it was missing him already. 

“Oh,” you whisper, starting to feel a little bit of leakage glide down your thigh. “Joe, do you-” 

“Course,” Joel says assuringly, hands already on a towel as he neals down and gently glides the material up the inside of your thigh. You bite down on your lip as he cleans you up with the soft towel and a little bit of water. 

You glance around the sterilized room and realize he’ll probably have to scrub this place down for the most part. Whoops. 

You’re slow to dress. Joel’s already buttoned his pants by the time you find your panties. He snickers quietly and helps you dress with a smirk. 

It’s not awkward like you feared it would. It sort of felt like you guys were friends. Then, something sort of unexpected happens. 

Joel fondly strokes a hair out of your face, pushing it behind your ear and smoothing out the little knots he had caused while fisting your hair during his blowjob. He’s soft and gentle with you. It makes you oh so curious what he looks like when he’s not soft and gentle. 

You sigh softly as you look at yourself in the mirror. You sort of felt proud, like you’d be a whole new person leaving the shop today. Even without a tattoo. 

“Joel, I don’t want anyone to see me leaving your office.” 

“That ashamed of me, huh?” He scoffs at you playfully, running his hand up and down his chest hair before he finally throws on his shirt. “I have the back office, so we can just go out that door.” He juts up his chin to behind you and you follow his eyeline. “Goes to the alley behind the shop.” 

You note the dark green painted exit door, and you’re thankful you don’t have to parade through the front of the shop or go past any other clients. 

The gentleman that he is, Joel walks you to your car as dusk settles in, marking the sky an orange and red horizon.  

“I gotta clean up the shop and close. You gonna be okay until I see you next?”

You nod meekly, a sweet smile on your face that twinges with a little shyness. “I’ll be okay. I still need that tattoo.” You tease to which he grins. 

“You do. I’ve worked real hard on it, so you better come back an’get it.” 

You nip at your lower lip as he stays guarded by your window, like a handsome pierced, and tatted bodyguard. 

It’s itching at you too much to let it go. You’re just too curious. “M’not this gentle.” 

“Yeah? Maybe you can show me next time what you’re really like.” 

“Not sure if you can handle it, kitten.” 

You gulp and clutch his hand before he fully stands up to walk away from your car. “You’ll show me again sometime? Like you said?”

Your eyes glimmer with a certain hopefulness, but his own seem to harden out of caution. 

It was just insane that he knew so much more than you. You wanted to unlock all forms of pleasure you were comfortable with. You like that he was holding something back. 

You were wet clay in his massive hands, he could mold you to his liking. You could learn his pleasures, his kinks, what unravels him beyond repair. You could learn a thing or two about yourself in the process. 

Joel sighs. 

“You don’t know what you’re askin’ for.” He warns, lips crooked in a snarl. His eyes beg for you not to want him, not to want this. 

But nothing set your nerves on fire like seeing him in control of you, just that brief second where his eyes flashed from amber to black and he fucked you like nothing or no one was stopping him. What if you gave it all up to him? 

Submissiveness dances behind your eyes, and Joel’s a sucker for that sweet look on your face. He debates if this is what you really want, or if it’s something else. He can’t deny he enjoys the trust you put in him. 

Joel quietly sighs with hesitation, eyes the way your small hand desperately holds his before he finally squeezes back. 

“You don’t know how t’take no for an answer, do ya?” He asks, a small smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth. “That’ll have to change.” 

You grin and nod, biting down on your lower lip as you shift uncomfortably in your seat. Joel takes notice, not wanting to see you in any sort of discomfort, especially from something he caused. 

“Take some pain medicine and relax tonight, angel. You were perfect.” 

Your heart swells at the compliment, the appreciation, the care. He gently pats your window a few times before standing up straight and backing up from your car, moving back towards the dark green exit door. “I’ll see you soon.” 

Driving away, you’re giddy with excitement of the unknown. It was a dark path you wanted to pursue. And maybe it was fucking stupid how you could trust a complete stranger like this, how none of your past partners felt worthy of your first time, but the tattooed and pierced old southern gentleman did. It was fucked. But you were sort of fucked for Joel Miller. 

You hum to the radio as you experience pure adrenaline, thumb gliding over the raised numbers on his business card. You glance down and notice a small stamp of a fern in the top right corner, adjacent to his name and professional title. 

The Obsidian Gallery 

Joel Miller

Senior Tatoo Artist

You can’t explain how your heart inadvertently races as you remember flashes of his hips rutting into yours, those same delicate fern leaves decorating the front of his hips. You were so fucked for Joel Miller. 

next chapter ->

[matt-murdockk]

Sweet Nothing

pairing: matt murdock x reader

words: 5.1k

warnings: cussing, slow-burn, angst if you really squint but it's just fluff mostly, lack of proofreading (rip), pretty descriptive making out

summary: This is the story of how Matt Murdock met the love of his life one fateful day at the NYPD precinct.

a/n: guess who finally learned out how to make emdashes on Mac— hehehehe. some fluffy slow-burn for you <3 (i tried not to use pronouns for the reader but I'm so sorry if i accidentally used she/her anywhere)

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While Matt was charming, romantic, and thoughtful, historically— he hasn't been the best at relationships. Flings were okay, short-term was fine, but a proper relationship? Matt didn't think he deserved to be in one until he met you.

To him, you were a breath of fresh air from all his previous exploits. Elektra was a rush of adrenaline, a thrill, certainly an experience, but he knew he didn't like the side of him that she brought out. Karen was too close a friend to lose over a relationship and Claire, well, he had way too much respect for her, he wouldn't do that to her.

You, on the other hand, were what he swore was the right person at the right time. The right amount of calm and the right amount of chaos. He didn’t go looking for you. But you found each other anyway— almost by accident, almost like it was fate.

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A regular phone call from Brett Mahoney about a possible case for Nelson & Murdock brought Foggy and Matt to the precinct one day. From outside, Matt quietly observed you before going in. You were in the holding cell, handcuffed, busted lip, and bruised knuckles. For all that you looked like you'd been through, Matt noticed that you were oddly calm.

Brett opened the door to let Matt and Foggy inside, the confusion in your face did not go unnoticed by the people in the room. "10 minutes, Foggy." The door shut behind him as he left, giving them a knowing look.

"You know it, Brett." Foggy helped Matt into his seat and took the empty seat beside him.

"Miss (Y/l/n), my name is Matt Murdock, this is my associate Foggy Nelson." Foggy gave you a half wave and smiled.

"I'm sorry, do I know you?"

"Before we begin, have you been assaulted while in custody?"

"No, I have not. Listen, I didn't ask for a lawyer."

"We understand that you have been accused of assaulting a police officer. You have opted not to seek legal representation, is that right?"

"First of all, there has been a huge misunderstanding. Secondly, I still don't know why you're here, Mr..."

"Murdock," he reminded you.

"Right. Murdock. Sorry."

"We run a practice at Hell's Kitchen. Our firm is interested in representing you. And please, call me Matt," he clarified, presenting a warm, genuine smile.

"Well, Matt, while I am certainly thankful for your interest in representing me, I'm sorry to disappoint you, I don't need a lawyer."

"Trust me, you're going to," he said, amused at your confidence that you'll be fine.

"Oh, I know, I just already have one."

"Well, our job here's done. No cigars for Bess next time," Foggy retorted, as he got up, ready to leave.

"Foggy, sit down. Miss (Y/l/n)—"

"(Y/n), please."

"Very well. (Y/n), I understand that you already have representation. Probably from a big-time firm with 5 times the number of defense attorneys than we do. But here’s the thing. Those firms? They see cases. Numbers. Profiles. Headlines. They’re already calculating how your situation fits into their win column. I don’t work like that. My firm doesn’t work like that. We don’t take every case. We don’t chase the press. What we do is show up— completely. We sit down, we listen, and we fight like hell for the people who trust us. No fluff. No posturing. Just the work, and the truth, and someone in your corner who actually gives a damn about what happens to you next. So if you want the machine— fine. But if you want someone who’s going to look past the charges, past the headlines, and actually see you? Then you want Nelson and Murdock."

"Wow, okay, so, great sales pitch, love the energy, I really do. There's just one problem."

"What is it?"

"My boss is already on his way to represent me."

"I'm sorry— Boss?" " Yeah, what is it you do, exactly?" enquired Foggy.

"I'm a senior associate at Pearson Hardman."

"Well, that crashed and burned splendidly. Happy now, Matthew? We're poaching clients now. Oh and not just from any firm. No, sir. From Pearson fucking Hardman, Unbelievable."

"Foggy, it's okay. So, (Y/n), is your boss any good? Or..."

"I work for Harvey Specter."

"And that's our cue to leave."

Matt finally admitted defeat and got up to leave, following Foggy who was already at the door. While he was certainly ambitious, he knew he couldn't compete with that.

"Thank you for your time, (Y/n)."

As Matt turned toward the door, he caught the subtle quickening of your heartbeat— hesitant, uncertain, like you were rethinking your decision. His hand was just about on the doorknob, ready to leave but not quite gone, when your voice stopped him.

“Wait.”

Out of your line of sight, he let the faintest smirk curl at his lips. He just loved being right.

“What is it?” Matt asked, turning back to face you.

You hesitated for a beat, eyes flicking between him and Foggy, then down to your bruised hands in your lap. “I... I want you guys to represent me.”

Foggy blinked, taken off guard. “Really? Just like that?”

You exhaled slowly, the edge of defiance in your tone softening into something a little more tired. “Let’s just say… I’ve worked long enough at firms that care more about damage control than people. I don’t want a firm that’s already prepping their PR statement. I want someone who’ll actually give a shit.”

Matt nodded once, quietly. His expression didn’t change, but there was something solid behind it. Something settled.

Foggy let out a low whistle, then grinned. “Well… welcome to Nelson & Murdock.”

Cut to a little while later— Nelson & Murdock office. You, Matt, and Foggy sat around the table, the arrest report open in front of you. The air buzzed faintly from the overhead light, the hum of late-night tension settling over the room.

Foggy skimmed through the statement again, frowning. “Okay. Walk us through it. From the top.”

You leaned forward, elbows on the table, tone clipped but calm. “I was on the subway platform. Late. Waiting on the C train. There were maybe three other people around, none of them close.”

Matt tilted his head slightly, tuning in. Not just to what you were saying, but how you said it— measured, unflinching. No panic. No dramatics. Just facts.

“This guy comes over, starts making small talk. I make it clear I’m not interested. He doesn’t take the hint. Gets closer. I step back, tell him to stop. He grabs my wrist.”

“Forcefully?” Matt asked.

“Firm enough that I couldn’t just shake him off,” you replied. “So I pulled away. He grabbed me again. That time, I reacted. Hit him once, hard, in the face.”

The rhythm of your pulse didn’t spike when you said it. No guilt. Just certainty.

Foggy nodded slowly. “And then?”

“He goes down, pulls out a badge. Says he’s NYPD. I get cuffed.”

“He never identified himself before that?” Matt asked.

“No. Not verbally, not visually. No badge, no warning. He was in plainclothes, no backup, no indication he was on duty.”

Matt exchanged a look with Foggy, then turned his attention back to her. That steady confidence. The way you answered questions like you were already anticipating the next three.

“That’s a serious problem for their case,” Matt said, flipping through the paperwork. “Use of force in response to a perceived threat is protected— especially when there’s no identification of authority.”

You shrugged. “It won’t stop the department from backing him, though.”

Matt’s brows lifted just slightly. YOu knew exactly how this would play out— too many steps ahead for someone just hoping to walk out clean. You were smart. He liked that. Maybe more than he should.

“No,” Foggy agreed. “But it gives us a strong narrative, especially if we can get security footage or eyewitness statements from the other people on the platform.”

There was a beat as Matt closed the folder and set it aside.

“You’re sharp,” he said, more thoughtful now. “You know the statute, you know your rights, and you’re quoting case law off the top of your head.”

You looked at him, just a little amused. “That’s because I’ve spent years doing the same thing you do.”

A flicker of something moved across Matt’s face. He leaned forward just slightly.

“Why exactly are you not representing yourself?”

You smirked. “Because representing yourself while you’re the one in custody is a logistical nightmare. And because even good lawyers know when to bring in reinforcements.”

Foggy shook his head, amused. “Okay. That was... a good answer.”

You smiled, leaning back in your chair. “Now let’s go win my case.”

Matt smiled slightly. “Glad you picked us.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They won.

Not easily, and not without a few uphill battles, but the charges didn’t stick. Between the platform security footage, two credible eyewitness statements, and some rather unflattering internal complaints about the arresting officer, the case quietly unravelled in court. Matt made his arguments clean and precise. Foggy handled the media brushback with that classic Nelson charm. You? You sat through the whole trial stone-faced and unshakable— until the verdict came in, and Matt swore he could hear the way your shoulders finally loosened.

You kept in touch after that.

Not constantly, no regular meetings or phone calls— just the occasional email. A few sarcastic text exchanges. One time, you sent Matt a voicemail of you laughing because Foggy had apparently called you "the one that got away." Matt saved it. He never said that part out loud.

It was about six months later when Foggy floated the idea.

“We could use another good lawyer,” he told Matt, over a plate of lukewarm takeout. “She’s smart, she’s sharp, and she gets us.”

Matt didn’t disagree. He didn’t say much at all, really. But the next morning, you got a call from him— short, polite, a little too formal— inviting you to "grab a coffee and talk opportunities."

You left Pearson Hardman three weeks later.

Karen was the first to greet you when you walked through the door on your first official day. She had already cleared space on the shared bookshelf, left a fresh legal pad on your desk, and warned you not to get caught in any of Foggy’s snack traps. You settled in like you were always meant to be there.

The four of you fell into rhythm faster than expected— late nights, tight wins, inside jokes. Karen became one of your closest friends before your second week was out. Matt had a habit of lingering in your doorway on the days he claimed he "wasn’t eavesdropping," but his smile always gave him away. You pretended not to notice. He pretended not to care."

The firm did better that year than anyone had predicted.

And you? You’d finally stopped feeling like just another cog in someone else’s machine. You felt like you were home.

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It was late.

Most of the lights in the office were off except for the one at Matt’s desk, and the faint glow of your screen across from him. Karen had bailed with a yawn and a pointed “Don’t stay too long, you two.” Foggy left not long after with a granola bar and a salute.

Now, just you and Matt.

A few open case files, cold takeout, empty coffee cups.

“Your typing slows down when you’re annoyed,” Matt said, breaking the silence without looking up.

You didn’t even pause. “Your voice gets smug when you’re fishing for attention.”

“That doesn’t sound right,” he said, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Because it’s not flattering?”

“Because I don’t need to fish for attention,” he said. “Not when you give it up so easily.”

You looked up, unimpressed. “Oh no. You have caught me.”

“Seriously, that's how you respond to my flirting?”

You closed your file and leaned your elbows on the desk. “I didn’t realize ‘mild workplace bullying’ counted as flirting now.”

Matt tilted his head, listening closely. “That wasn’t a no.”

You smiled. “Murdock, if I were flirting, you’d know.”

“Oh?” he leaned forward, just slightly. “Go on, then.”

You mirrored the movement. “You sure you want to start something you can’t finish?”

His smile flickered into something smaller, quieter. “I’m not worried.”

“You should be.”

The banter fizzled for a second into silence, but it wasn’t awkward. Just... full. Like both of you were waiting to see who would blink first. Then you reached for the leftover fries between you.

“See, this is where you should’ve swooped in and offered to share,” you said, picking one up.

“I was being polite.”

“You’re full of it.”

Matt chuckled, leaning back in his chair again. “You make work a lot harder than it should be.”

You smirked. “If you’re blaming me for your lack of focus, I feel like that’s a you problem.”

He tapped a knuckle against the folder in front of him. “Pretty sure you’re a walking conflict of interest.”

“Oh, I am,” you said, popping a fry into your mouth. “But you already knew that.”

Matt bit back a smile, quiet again. Listening. After a moment, he said, “You know you could’ve gone back to a hundred bigger firms. Why stay?”

You glanced at him, surprised by the shift in tone. “Because this place feels like... me. Like it's mine, you know?”

Matt nodded slowly. “Feels like mine, too.”

There was something honest in his voice when he said it. Something unguarded. And for a beat— just a beat— you weren’t just two coworkers trading late-night barbs. You were something else. Something that lived in the space between laughter and hesitation. He broke the silence first.

“If you keep looking at me like that, Karen’s going to start planning our engagement party.”

“She already has,” you said. “She’s terrifying.”

He laughed, bright and real. You laughed too, leaning forward again, close without touching. And that was it. Just a moment. Not a confession. Not a move. But later, walking home, you’d think about it again— about how easy it felt, how his voice softened just for you, how neither of you pulled away.

Matt sat at his desk long after you left.

The city hummed outside the windows, faint and familiar— footsteps, traffic, a distant siren splitting the air somewhere on the west side. The kind of night New York never ran out of. But his attention was still in the office. Still in that moment.

You’d laughed. That real kind of laugh that started in the chest and softened everything around it. And for a second, he wasn’t Daredevil or Matt Murdock, the guy with a double life and a thousand reasons to keep people at arm’s length. He was just a man sitting across from someone who made him forget about all of it.

He hadn’t expected you. Not just the sharpness, or the way you fit in so seamlessly, or how you never once treated him like he needed to be handled. It was the way you challenged him. Matched him. Made the air feel lighter, even when the work was heavy.

And tonight— he’d heard it in your heartbeat. That shift. That hesitation. The quiet hope. It mirrored something in his chest he didn’t want to name. Because if he named it, it would be real. And real things could break.

He ran a hand down his face, exhaling slowly. He’d been careful. Always careful. With you, maybe too careful. Always toeing the line between professional and personal, between harmless teasing and something far messier.

But tonight? Tonight, the line blurred. He couldn’t stop thinking about the way you said this place felt like yours. Like you’d claimed it. Like you belonged here— next to Karen, Foggy... and him.

Matt had spent most of his life believing that the things he loved either left or got hurt. And yet, here you were. And he was terrified. Because the thought of you staying scared him more than the thought of you leaving.

Because for the first time in a long time, he wanted something he couldn’t fight for in court. Couldn’t earn by bleeding for it.

He just... wanted you.

And wanting had never ended well.

He leaned back in his chair and turned his head toward where you’d been sitting hours ago, the ghost of your laughter still echoing softly in the corners of the room.

He didn’t know what came next. But for the first time in a very long time, he hoped. And that was dangerous.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Matt had been trained to keep things close to the chest. To be quiet. Composed. Measured. He’d made a whole life out of it— knowing exactly how much to say, how much to feel, and how much to hide. But lately? He was starting to slip.

It started with small things. Lingering a second too long outside your office. Finding reasons to walk the long way around the building just so he wouldn’t pass you in the hallway. Not looking up when you said his name. Not teasing you like he used to. It was subtle. Barely noticeable to anyone else. But Foggy? Foggy clocked it immediately.

“Are you avoiding (Y/n),” he asked one day, without even looking up from his sandwich, “or just trying to die alone with dignity?”

Matt didn’t dignify that with a response. Which, of course, was the response.

He tried to get a handle on it. He really did. But every time you walked into the room, something short-circuited in his chest. It wasn’t just the way your laugh stuck with him hours later, or the way you challenged him in court, or how you always saved the last of the coffee for him without saying a word. It was everything.

It was the way being near you made him feel like maybe he was allowed to want more. And that terrified him. So he did what Matt Murdock always did when he felt too much— he shut down. Smiled less. Talked less. Pulled back.

From your side, it made no sense. One minute, Matt was your closest friend at the firm— bantering with you over contracts and flirting shamelessly during late nights at the office. And then suddenly, he was stiff. Cautious. Civil, but distant. Like someone had flipped a switch and now you were radioactive.

You asked Karen once if you’d done something. She blinked, confused, then immediately said no. Foggy just smirked and shook his head like he knew something he wasn’t telling.

It wasn’t until the case came in that everything started to unravel.

A mugging gone wrong. Client said Daredevil saved her. That wasn’t unusual, not in Hell’s Kitchen. But Matt had disappeared halfway through the intake. No explanation, no warning.

When he came back, he looked… off.

There was a stiffness in his step. His jacket was damp. You noticed a bruise blooming along the edge of his jaw, half-hidden beneath his collar. And the excuse he gave? It was nothing. Too easy. Too rehearsed.

That was the first moment you really looked at him. And from that moment on, it didn’t stop. You started noticing everything.

It started small. A scrape on Matt’s knuckles one morning when he swore he just "bumped into a railing." A bruise along his jaw two days later that hadn’t been there the night before. The fact that he always knew when sirens were about to pass. That he sometimes winced at conversations happening across the street and flinched when someone behind him opened a soda can too loud.

The way his hands sometimes trembled when he thought no one was watching. The bruises that never quite added up. The way his hearing— his attention— seemed to stretch too far, too focused. His absences. His silences.

You weren’t stupid. You were a lawyer, after all-- your entire job revolved around reading people, noticing what others missed. So you paid attention. Not obsessively. Not yet. But enough. Enough to clock that he disappeared some nights without explanation, always coming back the next day with a carefully worded excuse and that same “don’t ask” look in his eye.

And then came the clincher.

A client— a woman being threatened by her landlord— was suddenly protected. Completely. No restraining order had gone through. No legal intervention. But the man stopped showing up. Cold turkey. When you asked, she just said, “That guy in the mask. The Devil. He said I’d be okay.”

You stared at her.

Later that night, while Matt was in his office pretending not to eavesdrop, you walked in and dropped the case file on his desk.

“She said ‘the Devil.’ Not a devil. The one. Hell’s Kitchen’s own.”

Matt didn’t look up. “Lot of people throw that name around.”

“She also said he was calm. Polite. Knew her name. Said she had nothing to be afraid of anymore.”

He was quiet.

You folded your arms. “She said he didn’t sound scary. Said his voice was warm.”

That made him pause.

“You’re not even going to deny it?”

Matt finally leaned back in his chair and sighed. “...hi?”

You blinked. “Hi?”

He shrugged. “It’s concise.”

You just stared at him.

“Matthew,” you said flatly. “What the fuck.”

“I was going to tell you.”

“When? When I saw you parkour off a fire escape in a three-piece suit?”

“I— look, I didn’t want this to change anything. I didn’t want you to change how you looked at me.”

“Look, I’ve been working beside you for over a year. And you didn’t think, at any point, to maybe mention that you moonlight as a one-man SWAT team?”

“I was trying to protect you.”

“Well, good job, Matt. Really nailed it.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then leaned forward slightly, voice lower. “Listen, I know you're upset. I would be too. I didn’t tell you only because I care about you. Because this thing, what I do— it’s brutal. And if anyone ever found out how much you mean to me...”

You blinked. That shut you up. For a second.

“Oh, so I mean something to you now?”

“I think that’s been fairly obvious.”

Matt noticed the way your heartbeat changed when he said you meant something to him. He figured this was a bad time to bring it up, although he smiled to himself at what that meant.

“I’m not mad that you’re Daredevil.”

That made him pause.

You went on. “I’m mad that you didn’t tell me. That you didn’t trust me enough to know. But... I get it. I really do.”

Matt didn’t say anything. Just listened. Really listened.

“You protect people. That’s who you are. And I don’t mean the mask or the fists or any of that— I mean you. The guy who goes to court for tenants getting pushed out of rent-stabilized apartments. The guy who sits through paperwork and trials and still somehow finds time to help people when the system doesn’t. So yeah, I get why you kept it quiet. I would’ve done the same.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Whatever he expected, it wasn’t this.

You stepped a little closer. “Would it have been easier to hear it from you directly? Sure. But I also understand why you didn’t. You’re trying to keep people safe. That’s kind of your whole thing.”

“I didn’t want to put you in danger.”

You gave him a look. “Matt. I’m a defence attorney in Hell’s Kitchen. I’m already in danger.”

He huffed a laugh, tension slipping just slightly.

“And besides,” you added, “it’s not like you told everybody.”

Matt winced. “Karen and Foggy know.”

“Splendid,” you muttered. “I’m last to know. That feels great.”

He opened his mouth to explain, but you waved him off.

“It’s okay. Really. I get it. You didn’t think I could handle it, or maybe you were just scared of what it would mean. Either way, I want you to know I still look at you the same way. Hell, I think I respect you more now."

His expression softened— like something in him untangled all at once.

“And Matt?” you said, quieter now. “I'm still here. I’m not going anywhere.”

That undid him more than any kiss could have. Matt Murdock was already in love with you.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Weeks passed. Then months.

You slipped into the parts of his life he never thought he'd share with you— quiet nights on the couch with cold tea and warmer glances, half-finished cases strewn between your desks, your voice low and steady on the phone as you helped him stitch up a gash at 2AM because Claire was out of town. You didn’t flinch at the bruises anymore. You stopped asking where they came from. Not because you didn’t care— because you knew he’d tell you if he could.

You joked that you were his unofficial dispatcher. He joked that you were the only one keeping him alive. It was good. Better than good, most nights. You were steady, sharp, present in a way that grounded him even on the worst days. You kept him tethered.

But even the strongest anchor can’t keep something from drifting if the pull is strong enough. It had been building.

After a particularly brutal stretch— three back-to-back nights of Daredevil coming home bleeding and bruised, a botched sting, a kid who didn’t make it— Matt changed.

He got quieter. Tense. He stopped calling when he was out late. Stopped dropping by your place after patrols. Stopped letting you patch him up. When you showed up with food one night and found his apartment dark, he didn’t even text to say thanks. You let it go. Once. Twice. Then you stopped letting it go.

It was almost midnight. The city was soft and silver around you, the streetlamps humming like old secrets. You’d waited for him— on the pavement outside the office, case files abandoned inside, takeout cold and forgotten. When he finally turned the corner, hoodie up, bruised along the cheekbone, your blood was already simmering.

You stood before he could say anything.

“Want to tell me what’s going on?”

Matt paused. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Bullshit,” you said. “You’ve been dodging me for weeks. You come back barely stitched together, and suddenly I’m a stranger? What, I only exist when you need to be sewn back together?”

“You knew what you were getting into.”

That hit harder than it should’ve.

You crossed your arms. “I told you I could handle this. That I was here because I wanted to be. You don’t get to push me out every time things get hard.”

Matt’s jaw tightened. “I never asked for your help.”

You stared at him. “Wow.”

“I didn’t,” he said, voice lower now. “You inserted yourself. You wanted this. You stayed.”

“Because I care about you, you idiot,” you said incredulously.

He looked away. “If this isn’t working for you—”

“Don’t,” you warned. “Don’t turn this around on me.”

“You don’t have to stay.”

You flinched. “So that’s it? You’re just giving me an out?”

“I’m saying,” he said, sharp now, “if you don’t want to keep doing this, you can stop. I’m not going to hold you here.”

Your chest burned. “Right. Got it. Loud and clear, Murdock.”

“Good. Glad we're on the same page.”

"Fine."

“Fine.”

You turned. He turned. The silence between your retreating footsteps felt louder than anything either of you had said.

You made it maybe ten steps before you turned on your heel. At the same time, Matt doubled back from the other end of the block. You both stopped mid-step.

“This is stupid,” you said.

“I know,” he echoed.

You walked back to each other like it hurt to be apart even for that long. Stopped just a few feet shy of touching.

Matt ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. Then, after a second— calmer now, but still visibly unraveling— he said, “You do realize what’s going on, right?”

You tilted your head. “You mean us shouting at each other in the middle of the street like deranged theatre kids?”

He gave you that small, crooked smile, the one he only let slip when it was just you. “I mean this,” he said, gesturing to the space in between you.

A beat. Then you laughed, soft and breathless. “Oh yeah. For two Ivy-educated lawyers, we are extremely oblivious people.”

“Painfully,” Matt said, taking one slow step closer. “Embarrassingly.”

You looked up at him, heart thudding. “Do we keep pretending? Or...”

“I don’t want to.”

“Oh, thank god,” you whispered.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t hesitant. Wasn’t cautious. It was months of built-up tension, late nights, shared space, quiet devotion, and almosts finally snapping into something real. His hands cupped your face. Yours gripped the front of his jacket. He kissed you like he’d been waiting for permission— and now that he had it, he wasn’t wasting time.

Before you could breathe, your back hit the wall. The brick was cool, sharp against your spine— nothing compared to the heat of him. His mouth crashed into yours, rough and hungry, all the restraint he’d held onto suddenly gone.

You gasped, and that was all he needed. His body pressed flush against yours, arm braced beside your head. One hand slid down, catching your waist and holding you there like he wasn’t letting go anytime soon. You kissed him back just as fiercely, your fingers threading into his hair, tugging. That made him groan— low and quiet and right against your lips.

The kiss deepened— messier, more desperate. He was everywhere. Warm mouth, steady grip, chest rising hard against yours. You barely registered the moment your hand slipped beneath his jacket, over the fabric of his shirt, just needing to feel something more. When you finally pulled back— barely— your forehead rested against his.

“That was…” you started, still catching your breath.

Matt laughed, voice rough and low. “Yeah. That was.”

You smiled, eyes fluttering shut for a second. “We are going to be so annoying now.”

He grinned, thumb brushing along your jaw. “We already were.”

[moonbeamsandmayhem]

Just some horny thoughts about Steve fucking you deep

Steve’s face was buried into your neck, his breathing laboured as he peppered kisses to a hammering pulse point. You can barely catch your breath, nails digging to the muscle of his back. He groaned, biting at the hollow of your throat, his hips grinding into yours. You mewl, trying to get more friction, but he has you pinned, at his mercy. “Fuck, you feel like velvet.” Steve mumbles, pulling back enough to look you in the eye. His pupils took up the majority of his irises, leaving pools of black. “M not done with you yet. I want at least two more.”

You’re beyond sensitive, but Steve doesn’t care. He wants you boneless and brainless, a drooling doll just for him. “You can do that for me, can’t you, baby?”

[jeonsbabygirlsworld]

SUMMARY: In which you are about to give birth, but Jungkook won't stop panicking.

PAIRINGS: Husband Jungkook X Wife Reader

WORD COUNT: 1.4k

WARNINGS: Childbirth, Screaming, fluff, crying,SO MANY kisses. Dad kook >>>

A/N: Hello all I hope you all are doing good. I thought of releasing the first part as 600+ followers here :0. Also, I'm sry to say @ahgasegotarmy116 won't be collaborating on this series anymore and I'll try to post the drabbles from now. Thank you for the cutest banner @ahgasegotarmy116 and I hope you like the first part of series please like, comment and reblog. <3 ❤️

Sitting in front of the TV and watching your favorite show you start to feel a few cramps here and there. Being nine months pregnant can sometimes be concerning but you had called your doctor a few times to make sure that experiencing things like this was normal he said that you shouldn’t worry too much since they never lasted more than a minute or two. At this point, all they’ve really suggested is that you sit there and wait it out for a few more days until your baby girl decides it’s time to come out. 

Jungkook being the ever-doting yet mildly nervous husband is always ready to drop everything to help you. He massages your feet, helps you take a bath and even helps you shave if you want him to. Even after he’s had a long day at the office. He never complains, he just wants to make sure you and the baby are always okay. 

While he was in the kitchen grabbing you some snacks and making you your favorite chamomile tea you started to feel the baby start moving around but it seemed pretty normal, so you thought nothing of it. Soon though you started to feel a really rough contraction running through what felt like your whole body and leaving your back aching and you letting out a huge groan in response. 

“Shit are you okay? Jungkook asks, running up to you panicking and hands you a glass of water, trying to think of something that might help. You let out another groan in pain and he starts to realize that it might be time. “I think the baby is coming,” I say, trying to stay calm and ride the wave as the next contraction starts. 

I’ll go get your hospital bag and we’ll leave as soon as possible. I’m here okay don’t worry” he says in a hushed tone, doing his best to help me stay calm before he starts running all over the house and makes sure that we have everything that we need. He packs a bag for himself quickly throwing random things he thinks would be helpful and rushes back over and helps me walk out the door. 

“Okay let me help you stand up. One, two, three-” Jungkook says "it's okay I’m not helpless so please stop worrying so much. Let’s just make it there as soon as we can” he nods in acknowledgement and makes sure to help me nonetheless as he walks me over to the elevator that takes us down into the lobby so we can head outside to where our car is parked. He helps you sit down in the passenger seat and closes the door for you before opening the door to the backseat quickly and packing everything into the car as quickly and carefully as he can so we can get on the road. 

He runs back into the apartment to grab a few more things and while he’s gone you let out a few tears just thinking about the fact that the next time you come back here you’ll be bringing your beautiful baby girl home. 

He rushes back to the car a few minutes later with the last few things he had forgotten including your Favorite wool sweater and your warm winter coat. “We’ll be there in a few minutes love, don’t worry everything's gonna be okay” he says leaning over and giving you a quick kiss before sitting back and putting his seatbelt on. “Everything is gonna be okay,” he says more to himself starts the car pulls out of the parking lot and rushes to the hospital. 

Once you reach the hospital that you’ve been going to for all of these months you meet with the nurses take you back to your room and have your husband fill out the forms to check you in. He’s hesitant to leave you but they’re able to complete everything quickly and he runs to the room they’ve put you in immediately and helps you change into the hospital gown they’ve given you before helping you lay down. 

AFTER SOME TIME 

The doctors suggested taking an epidural to ease the pain and your a few cms away from getting dilated. Jungkook sat beside the hospital bed holding your hand and gave soft kisses on the back of your hand whispering I love you and you going to be okay. But deep down Jungkook was afraid and just prayed for a safe delivery. 

Yours and Jungkook's talking resounded in the hospital room when you feel a sharp contraction and you groan in pain clutching his hand Jungkook hurries up calling the doctor and they tell you are ready to push.

"JEON JUNGKOOK GET THIS BABY OUT OF ME RIGHT NOW " you scream your lungs out and grab onto his collar your mouth just some inches away as the doctor and your husband try calming you down. "Baby calm down and just push... we will soon have our baby girl in our arms" Jungkook said drying the sweat forming on your forehead. 

Jungkook tries not passing out and staying with you the entire time while he panics himself and helps you push while the doctor in between your leg tells you she can see the head and tells you to let out more pushes while hardly clutching on your husband's hand and squeezing the life outta him. 

Soon enough soft cry resounds in the room, and you have a breath and collapse on the hospital bed... tears leave your eyes staining your now red cheek "Daddy wants to cut the umbilical cord?" The doctor asks snapping Jungkook out of his thoughts to lost when he sees his baby the nurses hand him a pair of scissors and he cuts it.

Making some space Jungkook removes some of your hospital gowns to allow some skin-to-skin to contact the doctor happily lays down your baby girl while you coo to make her stop crying, Jungkook giggles looking at her and smooths his fingers on her face and bows down towards your forehead and leave a kiss "you did so good baby" Jungkook speaks in between chuckles. 

A few minutes pass by while your baby opens her eyes and coos out the softest voice you have ever heard and you lay a kiss on her cheek "Hi baby" You speak to and she smiles up as if she understands what you are saying "Jungkook here you wanna hold her?" you ask your voice a bit raspy from all the screaming to get this baby girl out, nodding he removes his black t-shirt so he can have skin to skin contact with her and sanitizes his hands, and you pass her to your husband.

"Hi baby, it's me your dad" Jungkook introduced himself while the baby just whined and cuddled herself in his embrace chuckling, after a few kisses and talking to her in a baby voice he handed the baby to the nurses so they could take the baby so they could clean her and get her wrapped in a baby cloth.

In the meantime, the nurses bring in a birth certificate and you both name her Na-Eun the name you both decided after the gender reveal party and get it written on the birth certificate.

Na-Eun arrives in a purple swaddling which makes her look like a sweet potato smiling at the nurse she hands her to you and Jungkook lands a kiss on your face and tells you he will leave for a few minutes and call your parents.

You smile and nod at him and shift a bit so you can keep your daughter beside you, looking closely you notice her soft features resembling Jungkook so much a mole under her lip and a mole on her neck make her more beautiful you tear up a bit. 

“Oh my god…...” A small gasp is imitated by your mom as she stands there with some gifts in her hand and a bouquet in another, chuckling at you she kisses your forehead “You did great baby…. oh and look at this cutie right here” she says softly her own eyes tearing up and your dad stands beside you kissing your cheek. 

Na- Eun is held by her grandmother and grandfather who wouldn’t stop sweet-talking to her and you just wish you could stay in this moment forever and you can’t wait to bring your baby bean home.

A/N: Thank you so much if you made it till the end ill soon post the second part which is them bringing their baby home and how the first night goes :)

MOODBOARD

In which you teach your daughter an important life lesson.

TAGLIST: @kimmingyuswifee @jungk97kwife @jksgirlhere @httpjeonlicious @bunnykoos @ohsweetmimosa @dragonflygurl4 @lovingkoalaface @snow-strawberry @jungkooks21 @jklvrs-world @aloverga @vsr4197 @skzthinker @kpop-nct @--xxchrissyxx- @sarai-ibn-la-ahad @olimpiiaa @cassies-cookies @angelbiaa09 @ravynn-12 @lovebtsforever24 @yuyupie @100butterfliesinthesky @tannies-luv

Italics couldn’t be tagged :(

[ddagent]

"A Bond Tested"

Matching March Day 03

The Guardian [October 7th 2003] The body of a woman who was found in the Thames two days ago has been identified as Russian national Irina Morozova. Enquiries are still ongoing, although the Metropolitan Police have said that they are considering her death as suspicious.

Transcript of interview with Margo Madison and Met Police, October 8th 2003. Present at Margo Madison, CEO of Midnight Aerospace, her solicitor Ellen Waverly, and Detective Sergeant Eric Bradley.

Detective Sergeant Bradley: Ms Madison, thank you for coming in to talk to us today.

Margo Madison: I don't know how much I'll be able to help you.

DSB: I think you'll be more help than you realise. Do you know this woman? For the tape, I am presenting Ms Madison with a photograph.

MM: Her name is Irina Morozova. I met her a few months ago in St. James' Park. We were...friends.

DSB: Were?

MM: Well, she's dead, Detective. At least that's what the newspapers say.

DSB: Of course. And what did your friendship involve?

MM: Normal things. We met up for coffee. She came by the house once or twice. She worked at an auction house; she found me some jazz albums I had wanted to add to my collection. [EW clears her throat] I'm sorry that she's dead. We weren't...close but it was still a shock to hear.

DSB: Let's talk about your husband. Did he know Ms Morozova?

MM: No.

DSB: Are you sure about that?

MM: I am. He was never at the house when she came by. We never went out as a group.

DSB: Are you sure they didn't know each other? They're both Russian nationals.

MM: Russia is a big country, DS Bradley.

DSB: I see. So, you met your husband in '83, correct?

MM: I did.

DSB: Quite the romance. For the tape, I am showing Ms Madison a few headlines from 1983. Forbes, Time. National Enquirer. Margo Madison, CEO of Midnight Aerospace. The Virgin CEO. A little harsh, don't you think?

EW: Is there a point to this? What does this even have to do with Irina Morozova?

MM: I was called a lot of things by my competitors because I didn't want to fuck them, DS Bradley. I didn't take it personally and neither should you.

DSB: Sure. And, Ms Waverly, I'll get to my point very soon. You met your husband in London, right? At a gala, correct? That's you two there?

MM: It is.

DSB: Midnight Aerospace CEO Margo Madison with engineer Sergei Bezukhov. Nice. Only his name isn't Bezukhov. It's Nikulov. But you knew that already.

MM: My husband's name is Sergei Bezukhov. Your information is...incorrect.

DSB: It's not, Ms Madison. Your husband is not an engineer. He's a conman. He was hired by Ms Morozova to seduce you. To steal your fortune and then run off into the night.

EW: Jesus Christ.

MM: [laughs] Do you write fiction, DS Bradley? Because that is one hell of a story.

DSB: I don't. But it is quite a story. A lonely American CEO attends a gala in London and meets a handsome man who says he's an engineer. She hires him and they spend a few years flirting until he proposes. Now, the plan is to get her to sign over all her money. Run off with the cash. Maybe even kill her. But your lawyers are good. And Sergei Nikulov can't get the payout he wants. You married in, what, 1992?

MM: [long pause] Yes.

DSB: At that point you're worth twice as much as you were in 1983. What's a Russian conman to do? He fucks over his partner. Leaves Morozova in the dust. And he takes the stipend you give him in exchange for fucking you on the first of every month—

EW: —I'm sorry, are you insane? Is this bullshit why you dragged my client down here in the middle of the night?

MM: It's fine, Ellen.

EW: No, it's not. My client came here to assist your investigation with what little she knows, not to be insulted and have her sex life speculated upon.

DSB: I intend to do more than speculate on Ms Madison's sex life. I'm even going to go as far as accuse her of murder.

EW: Oh my God.

DSB: You found out, didn't you, Ms Madison? That you'd been married to a con man. Irina told you. Not the first time. Maybe not even the second or third. But she wanted her cut. And you were angry. Angry at being manipulated. Angry at being lied to. Angry at being used. And so you snapped.

MM: I didn't kill Irina Morozova.

DSB: That's not what your husband says.

MM: [laughs] I'm sorry?

DSB: We've got Nikulov next door. He's told us everything. How he lied. How he fucked you for a nice car and a nice watch and an even nicer house. How Irina came to him first and he told her to fuck off. How she came to you and you snapped. [pause] Nikulov sold you out for a reduced sentence on his fraud charges. So you might as well admit it.

MM: [a long pause. the a laugh.] Did you honestly expect that to work?

EW: We are done here. My client will not be answering any further questions. She's made it clear that she had nothing to do with Irina Morozova's death. And if you had anything other than some 80s cop show bullshit, you would be charging her. So, until you do, we'll be leaving.

[Interview terminated at 11:59 pm]

Margo went home, after the police interview. Went back to their house in Greenwich and up to their study, where she looked through their telescope at the Moon and the stars and where Mars should be until she heard the front door open. This was supposed to be a new life for them, in London. New offices, leaving Aleida to run the flagship in Houston. An opportunity for them to start winding down as they thought about retirement. That had been the plan, of course, until Irina Morozova had shared her newspaper with Margo in St. James Park.

"Are you alright?"

Her gaze fell from the telescope as she turned towards her husband. Sergei Nikulov seemed even older than his years as he took his familiar seat on the other side of their study. He shrugged. "They accused me of being a conman. Of whoring myself out to my rich wife. They accused me of planning to kill you. They accused me of actually killing Irina." He sighed. "They said you had told them everything. That you were angry; that you had discovered the truth and wanted me to suffer."

Margo stared at him. "Did you believe it?"

"Not for a moment. If you had wanted to do that, you would not have paid the ransom money all those years ago."

"No. I wouldn't have."

It was the hardest decision she had ever made. Ellen and Molly had argued with her, saying it was ridiculous to fork over that amount of cash to the Russian mob or the KGB or some con artist – to save a man who, admittedly, had been lying to her for the nine years of their acquaintance. But Margo had known three things. Sergei Nikulov loved her. He was brilliant at math. And he was a terrible liar. He had never been a conman. Just a sweet Russian engineer offered a job in America with strings he had never realised were there until they wrapped around his throat and pulled.

"They pulled the same stunt with me. Saying that you'd thrown me under the bus for a reduced sentence."

Sergei shook his head, chuckling darkly. "And you knew, yes? Knew I would never tell them this?"

"I did. I do." Margo smiled at her husband. Her husband of eleven years. It fell, slightly, as she thought of the woman who had tried to ruin that. Who had come into this house having earned Margo's friendship, her trust, and had tried to manipulate them against each other. The lies. The missing items. The cameras. Margo suddenly crossed the room and took Sergei's hand in hers. "But I need you to promise me something, Sergei. If it comes down to it. If the cops get their heads out of their asses and actually find some evidence, you will tell them it was me. Promise?" She squeezed his hand. "Promise me you won't tell them a damn thing about Aleida.

His grip on her hands tightened. "Not a word."

[hellishjoel]

chokehold

1.6k / pairing: tattoo artist daddy dom!joel miller x sub f!reader

series masterlist | main masterlist | notifications blog | ko-fi

chapter summary: Joel teaches you how to face fuck. 

chapter warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), no outbreak, unspecified age gap, established relationship, reader is described to have hair and is able-bodied (but otherwise, unspecified), swearing, dirty talk, smut, lots of pet names (sweetheart, angel, little bunny, etc.), dacryphilia (kink = getting aroused by tears), dom/sub dynamics, innocence kink, praise kink, degradation kink, daddy kink, face fucking/oral (m!receiving), size kink

A/N:  very lightly edited, but I wanted to give a little love to joel and little bunny since the third chapter is taking me some extra time! divider is by @firefly-graphics! and always a thank you to @thetriumphantpanda for reading this over and endless encouragement <3

Joel’s eyes roll to the back of his head, slow and steady, because that’s just the pace you’re taking him. 

Facefucking is still experimental to you. He’s your first partner, and you’re nervous to impress. 

What you don’t know is that Joel would never judge your inexperience. All sexual pleasures involve trust, praise, and a little direction.

Joel stokes your hair affectionately, growing more possessive as he gently guides your mouth up and down his thick length. 

You can feel the power shift as your knees dig into the floor, eyes hesitantly meeting his while you try to take more of his shaft. You want more, you’re willing to push your limits. 

Joel seems to sense your loss of inhibitions, your twinkling eyes meeting his whiskey ones. 

“Want me to use that pretty little mouth of yours?” Joel’s words vibrate through the room. He pulls his cock from your lips, smearing his tip from one corner of your mouth to the other as you catch a breath. His warm pre-cum slips onto your tongue, and all you crave is more. 

Watching you desperately try to get him past your parted lips again is enough to force out a dark, low chuckle. 

“Wanna hear y’say it, baby.” 

Your impatient whine and eager hands on the back of his thighs make you beg, “Please, Joel,” in that wrecked voice that he loves so much. 

Joel presses his hips forward once more, watching his tip slip past your puckered lips and back into the hot heat of your mouth. “Yeah, right where I belong, huh, baby? Right where that cock belongs.” Joel’s hand comes to cradle your face, tracing the bulge of his length against your cheek with a sinister smirk. 

The further he pushes on, your tells start to show. He admires the way your eyelashes flutter, gagging and coughing around him but insistent not to let yourself off. A stray tear slips down your cheek. He collects it with his thumb and brings it past his lips, tasting what you give him. 

“Even your tears taste pretty, sweetheart,” he mutters predatorily, watching as your eyes blow wide, shyly moaning against his length. 

“When it gets to be too much, try to stay on. Swallow around me,” Joel gently nods his head. “Go on.” 

You obey, swallowing around the thick trunk of his cock, throat feeling a little looser now. You’re oh so willing to take on the discomfort just to please him. Anything for Joel, because he’d do anything for you. 

As his hips pick up a lazy pace, Joel encourages you to drop your hands from the safety blanket of his thighs. Like the good girl you are, you ease them to the base of your spine and lay one wrist over the other. He’s tied you up in that position more times than he can count, allowing Joel to take control and use you as he pleases. Such a good fucking girl. 

Tears pool along the top of your cheeks, the sight of glassy eyes igniting a fire deep in his belly. The overflow of saliva trickles out along the corners of your mouth, pooling down to his length and soaking the coarse hair on his balls. 

Joel watches as you shift anxiously on your knees, eyes pleading because somehow you want more. 

“Oh, honey,” he drapes in a degrading tone, stroking your hair away from your wet face and letting you catch a breath as his hips halt. “Need more, don’t’cha, doll?” He drawls, cooing softly as you lay your head against his thigh. Your orbs lazily look to him and nod weakly, still measly sucking on his tip. 

You bravely flick your tongue along his tip’s sensitive slit, toying at the idea of getting a rise out of Joel. 

A hiss is released past his clenched teeth, his whiskey eyes turning wild. And then you do it again. 

Joel’s hips jerk like that of a bucking bull. His hand in your hair turns to a fist, causing you to clench your eyes closed at the scorching prickle along your scalp. Joel scoffs as you fucking moan against him. 

His grin turns wicked, twisted at the thought of you enjoying some rough love. 

“Fuckin’ naughty, aren’t ya, little bunny? Yeah, bein’ a damn brat,” he chastises, watching as you frown around his tip and sucking it insistently. “Think m’gonna have t’finish deep down that pretty throat of yours, make ya choke on it,” he remarks as he repositions your head with a newfound need to punish.

Joel gathers your hair into two sets of pigtails, fisting them between his large palms. He watches you struggle to stay upright and drags you into position. “Keep that cock in your mouth, don’t let it go, sweetheart,” he gripes as you struggle to maintain him. It almost feels like a twisted game the way he nearly slips loose from your heat. 

Your mouth was full, jaw aching for a break that was nowhere in sight. Your fingers intertwine to keep them locked at the very base of your spine, whining nonsense against his cock. Soaking wet and dripping onto the hardwood, your pussy clenches around the ghost of what is currently occupying your mouth. 

You wanted to touch yourself so fucking bad. The self-discipline it took to keep your hands together makes your stomach churn. Your pearl twitches with enthusiasm, drenched in your own arousal. 

The muscles in your thighs are tight, your chest heaving and causing your bare breasts to rise and fall at a quickened rate. The overflowing spit that drips down from his balls lands on your chest. Joel can’t seem to stop staring at the gleam. 

Your nose brushes against his thick pubic hair as he buries your face against the base of his stomach, and you sputter up a cough. Lungs squeezing, throat tightening, you will yourself to swallow around him and stay right where you are. I’m yours, Joel. Please, take me, use me. 

“Fuck,’ he growls upon yanking you off his cock, smirking widely as you gasp for lost breaths. “Love that goddamn throat,” Joel mutters before reaching past you and pulling your hands to the front of his thighs, which quickly form a home for you. It’s grounding, to feel him, to feel his blood pumping through his body, and etch mine on the inside of his upper thigh mindlessly. 

“Got me so close, honey,” he starts, and you’re already eagerly nodding. Joel brings his thumb to your throat and slowly circles one spot against the column of your flesh. “Wanna feel myself right here, think you can do that, sweetheart?” 

Your eyes soften at the depth he wishes to go, but you’d do anything for him. You nod shyly and drop your jaw, flattening your tongue just for him. Always for him. 

Joel’s pace is gentle at first, working up a rhythm that has your throat molding perfectly around him. You gag each time he thrusts all the way, knowing when to swallow and when to breathe, Joel has taught you this new erotic art. 

The saliva dripping down to the base of his cock greets your chin repeatedly. You hollow your cheeks around him, and he moans naughty filth. 

“Such a pretty slut for this cock, make me feel so fuckin’ good- god damn,” Joel pauses with his length fully down your tight throat, grinding himself against your mouth as you clench your eyes close and gag. Joel places his thumb on that sacred spot against your neck, and he can feel his tip bulging against the column of your throat. You’re so fucking full of him, and it’s enough to make him spill. 

The hold he has on your hair tightens, scalp prickling as you cry out along his length. Salt bitters your tongue, weakly swallowing back load after load of his warm, thick finish. You swallow around his length and moan lowly, all muffled and messy for him as he crashes harshly through his own concocted orgasm. 

Your nails etch half-moon shapes into the back of his thighs, keeping him there, pushing for him to cross the finish line. And it was all for you. 

Tears of happiness stream down your face as you let him finish painting your throat, releasing with a dramatic pop as you do your best to swallow every last dribble. You’re careful as you give his sensitive tip a few sweet kitten licks. His hands are at the ready in your hair as he hisses harshly, ready to control you if it’s too much overstimulation for your poor old Daddy. 

Sponging kisses down his softening length, you lay your head against his thigh, and he cards his fingers through your hair. A soothing hum leaves your throat, fluttering your eyes closed as his thumb comes along to brush away the stray tears. 

It’s easier to ignore the throbbing between your legs now that Joel has found peace. Your heart pounds in your ears, and you listen only slightly as he begins to coo gentle affirmations for you.

Joel holds your hands and helps you stand, your arms already tiredly linking around his neck as you lay your head on his shoulder. 

“Such a sweet girl,” he whispers, “always make Daddy so happy, you know that?” Your head bobbles loosely. His sweet remarks make your muscles even more pliant in his arms as he easily sweeps you off your feet and moves you to lie across the bed. 

Joel takes all of you in. Sweat glistening along your temple, parted lips lacquered in spit, the extra effort it takes you to swallow, how perky your nipples are, and the slick that’s all but made a mess down your thighs. 

“Shit, she’s so pretty f’me,” Joel whispers as you grin weakly.

“My turn now?” Your wrecked voice squeaks, to which Joel slowly nods, helping you pitch your legs up on the edge of the bed.  

“Your turn now, little bunny.”

[matt-murdockk]

Tolerate it

i made you my temple, my mural, my sky now i'm begging for footnotes in the story of your life

pairing: matt murdock x fem!reader

words: 1.7k

summary: He comes home bleeding. Again. You ask what's wrong. He kisses you instead. You let him— until you can't, not anymore. Love is not the problem. Silence is.

warnings: implied smut, detailed description of making out— almost smut actually but then a truckload of angst to balance the vibes, cussing, not a happy ending

a/n: i'd say sorry in advance but i'll be honest i enjoyed this way too much lmao. fic clearly based on tolerate it by taylor swift. special shoutout to the best person of all time @foreverwinterstan13, the person without whom this fic would not have existed at all, ilysm, this one's for you *shoots basketball into hoop and misses*

——————————————————————————————————

You heard the door unlock but didn’t move from the couch. You didn’t have to look. You could feel it— Matt’s presence in the way the air shifted. Heavy, worn out. Quiet. Keys in the bowl. Jacket on the hook. A slow, sharp inhale.

You stared straight ahead. “You’re late.”

No answer.

A few seconds passed. You heard him step into the room, that near-silent way he walked when he was trying not to show how much it hurt. You turned your head, eyes landing on him. Blood smeared across his temple. A bruise blooming near his jaw. His shirt was clinging to him with sweat, wrinkled, dark around the ribs.

You sat up straighter. “Matt—”

He crossed the room in two strides and kissed you. Just like that. No greeting, no warning. Just his mouth on yours— hot and urgent and desperate.

You froze for a second. Then you gave in. Because it was Matt. Because he knew exactly how to touch you, how to quiet every screaming part of your brain. Because he always came home like this— broken, aching— and you always let him.

His hands slid under your thighs, lifting you gently into his lap. You straddled him, arms wrapping around his shoulders, one hand threading into his hair. His breath hitched when your hips rolled forward, and you felt that familiar spark burn down your spine.

He kissed you deeper. Rougher. One hand slid under your shirt, the other bracing your waist like he was afraid you'd vanish.

You pulled back, barely, just enough to speak. “You’re bleeding.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he muttered, mouth chasing yours again.

“Matt—” you started, but his hand cupped the back of your neck and pulled you down. His lips moved to your throat, slow and reverent.

And God, it felt good. Too good.

You let him. You tilted your head and gave him more. His fingers brushed the underside of your bra and your breath stuttered.

“I’m serious,” you whispered, even as your hands tugged his shirt up. “You’re hurt.”

“I just need you,” he breathed.

And you wanted to believe that. You wanted to give him whatever he asked for. You wanted to lose yourself in him until you didn’t care what time it was or how fucked everything felt. So you let him keep going.

He laid you back on the couch, pressed kisses down your body. Your shirt was bunched around your ribs. You were shaking and aching and trying to hold yourself together.

“Matt…”

He kissed back up your sternum, across your chest, dragging his lips like he was memorizing you. Like he was sorry. Like he was praying. You arched into him, a broken sound in your throat. You loved him. You loved him so fucking much you could barely breathe.

But—

Your hands came up and pressed against his chest, not hard, but firm.

He paused, lips just under your jaw. “What?”

You were still catching your breath when you said, “I can’t keep doing this.”

His eyes opened— barely. He didn’t move.

You swallowed hard and sat up slowly, pushing his hands off you. “You walk in looking like you got hit by a truck, and you won’t talk to me. You kiss me like it’ll make it go away. Like I won’t notice.”

“I’m not trying to make anything go away,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I just—”

“You what?” you asked, searching his face. “You need a distraction? You want to forget about how much you're bleeding, so you touch me like I’m the one that needs saving?”

His jaw clenched. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Your voice rose, bitter now. “Say the part out loud? Because God forbid we ever talk about what this is.”

“You think I don’t care?” he shot back, rising to his feet. “You think I’d come home to you every night, let you see me like this, if I didn’t care?”

“I think you don’t let me in,” you snapped. “Not really. I think you come here because you like the idea of being loved. Because it’s warm and safe and I don’t ask you to be anything more than what you already are. You like feeling close to something good. Something safe. But when it really matters, you shut me out.”

“That’s not fair.”

You stood too, wrapping your arms around yourself. “No. What’s not fair is how I feel like a stranger in my own relationship. What’s not fair is how I spend every day wondering if you’re still in this, or if I’m just—”

You stopped yourself.

Matt’s voice was hoarse when he said, “Say it.”

You looked at him. “If I’m just something you tolerate.”

That landed like a fist to the gut. His head dropped slightly, like the weight of your words physically knocked something loose in him.

“You’re not,” he said, and for a second you almost believed it. “You’re not.”

“Then show me,” you whispered. “Tell me something real, Matt. Anything. Why won’t you let me all the way in?”

He didn’t answer. Just stood there, silent, the echo of his guilt ringing louder than words ever could. And that silence was worse than anything he could have said.

“Right,” you breathed. “That’s what I thought.”

You turned away from him, but he stepped forward. He took a step closer, hand half-lifting toward you like he wanted to close the gap, but he didn’t touch you. 

“I love you,” he said, voice breaking. “I love you more than I should. That’s the problem.”

You blinked, stunned for half a second. Then your expression hardened.

“Don’t turn this around on me,” you said sharply. “You chose to be in this. You let me in.”

“I know,” he murmured. “That’s where I went wrong.”

Your breath caught. “I’m sorry— what?”

Matt’s hands were at his sides, balled into fists, like he was holding himself together by a thread. He ran a hand through his hair, the motion sharp and messy.  “It was selfish. Wanting this. Wanting you. Wanting… a life.”

You stared at him, heart thudding in your chest.

“You think our relationship is a mistake?”

“I think I dragged you into something I never should’ve. I thought I could do both— be with you and still be… me. But who are we kidding, (Y/N)?” His voice broke again. “I can’t have normal. I can’t have domestic bliss and lazy Sundays and arguments about what kind of soap goes in the bathroom. I’m not built for that.”

You took a slow step back. “Don’t do this.”

“As cheesy as it sounds, I am doomed by the narrative,” he said, half-laughing, bitter. “I know how my story ends. Short. Bloody. Alone.”

“Stop—”

“I should’ve never brought you into it,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

You looked at him like you didn’t recognize the person standing in front of you. “Matt… I don’t need you to be someone else. I don’t need picket fences or lazy Sundays. I just need you. I need you to talk to me. To let me in.”

He didn’t answer.

“Don’t say things like that,” you said, voice shaking now. “You’re not alone. You don’t have to be.”

He looked at you for a long, aching second, and then said quietly, “Being with me is a constant trial. It’s always going to be like this—pain, fear, never knowing if I’m coming back, or God forbid, something happening to—” he stopped himself, jaw tight, and looked away. “I can’t do that to you. I won’t.”

“No.” You stepped closer, voice firm despite the crack in it. “I love you. I’ve chosen this. Chosen you. You don’t get to just—”

“I want us to remember each other in love,” he added, voice barely above a whisper. “Not as what we've become. Not as something broken.”

You stared at him, stunned. For a second, the room was silent except for your own heartbeat in your ears.

Then your voice cut through the quiet— sharp, shaking, furious.

“You don’t get to do that.”

Matt’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t speak.

“You don’t get to tell me you love me and then walk away like it means nothing. You don’t get to pull me into your world and then decide it was a mistake.”

“I never meant—”

“You did,” you snapped. “You said it. You think this was a mistake. Us. Me.”

He looked away.

You took a step forward, eyes burning. “You’re a fucking hypocrite, Matt. You told me to trust you. You said we’d figure it out. That we were in this together. But the second it got hard, you shut down. You ran.”

“I was trying to protect you.”

“Bullshit,” you bit out. “You were trying to protect yourself.”

He flinched.

You kept going. “You say you love me? Then prove it. Stay. Talk to me. Fight for this. You don’t just get to throw your hands up and disappear.”

Matt’s voice was low, but unyielding. “I’ve already done enough damage.”

You stared at him like you didn’t recognize him anymore. “Coward.”

His face tightened— hurt flickering under the surface— but he didn’t argue. Didn’t fight it.

You felt your throat close, the weight of it all crashing in.

“I love you,” you said, softer this time. Like maybe if you said it gently, it wouldn’t shatter between you. Like if you remind him one last time, he’d maybe change his mind.

Matt closed his eyes. His breath stuttered, chest tight like it hurt to contain it. He pressed the heel of his palm to his brow, like he could rub the thought of you away, like the words tasted wrong in his mouth before he even said them.

A slow exhale. A muscle jumping in his jaw. His shoulders dropping like surrender.

“It’ll pass.” 

a/n: oh yeah, i threw in a little fleabag :)