#double eyelid ceiling

[in-death-sacrifice]

Okay so I gave this idea of being a companion for Rook and having a mutual pining think going on with Lucanis. Could you write anything like that?

Warnings: Mutual pinning, Comfort, Fluff, One bed trope!

Lucanis Dellamorte x GN!Rook

Hope you enjoy! Requests are open so please send them my way! I am working on a couple of oneshots too! Along with some smut so if there's any kinks you think work well with our assassins you want to see it send them in my requests!❤️

Lucanis stared at the ceiling, his heart beating so wildly as he looked at you. Your body so close to his, tucked perfectly under the covers as exhaustion finally crept in. He should sleep but he was worried about spite, about where he might end up without people guarding the exits. Or without the safety of being tucked away in a spot of the fade that no one could enter.

The group were exhausted after their fight against the antaam, most of them almost beaten to pulp with their new weaponry. You all chose to sleep in a nearby inn, the only trouble there was only one room left that was finished with a Twin and Double. He offered to sleep in the chair, knowing he wouldn't be able to get a wink if he tried hard enough to prevent it. But of course you disapproved, practically shoving him to the bed and instructing him to stay like a dog. It was cute seeing you care so much, his heart melting at the fact you didn't even flinch at the idea to lay next to him and his demon partner.

He could feel the heat radiating off your body, wanting nothing more than to run his fingers through the strands of your hair. He found himself getting lost in the thought of the texture, wondering if the strands were soft and silky or rough. The slithers of skin that your evening outfit gave off were enough to get the blood pumping southwards. He felt like a teenage boy laying here; begging for a touch at the first chance he shares a bed. Lucanis continued to watch you, the way your features are relaxed in your sleep; your chest slowly rising with each breath. He wondered if your calmness was because of his own presence, if you felt the same way as he did. If he tainted your dreams like you do with the few he got to experience.

He wanted to fight it, the need to be closer; the feeling of his eyelids getting heavier with each breath. He could just pump himself with coffee in the morning like normal but maybe spite would be quiet just this once. Allow him to relax and finally catch up on the much needed sleep to chase away his constant headache. He didn't get to choose as he finally succumbed to the darkness, falling into a pit of deep sleep...thankful no horrors of the past year to plague his mind.

When you awoke you struggled to move, there was something pinning you to the mattress. Your arm is outstretched to feel for the man beside you only to find him laying on your chest. His arms tucked tightly around your waist hugging you like you escape his grasp, turn to dust. His breathing was even, his hair messy and falling over his eyes instead of in its usual pushed back style. You could feel his breath against the skin of your chest, the puffs of air leaving goosebumps against your skin. You knew you should move, but you didn't want to. It felt nice, grounding to be held like this. So instead of waking up you fell back into your deep slumber, this time you fingers gently playing with the longer strands of hair at the back of his head. Maybe he likes you too but until you knew for certain...his frustratingly slow shows of affections would do for you.

You only prayed the dangers you both had to face would allow you to relish in this moment.

[benevolentbones]

clumsy | spencer reid x reader part 3

part 1 | part 2

warnings: clumsy reader! nothing else really

word count: 1.7k

a/n: part 3 of clumsy as requested by many:) hope you enjoy, comments & reblogs appreciated <3

spencer laid back on his mattress, shuffling over to give you enough room to lay down beside him.

the bed was a smaller double, the fbi certainly didn’t like to overspend when it came to the accommodation for the team. your arm brushed against his as you laid down beside him, turning on your right side to face him.

your faces were just inches apart, spencer could tell you were exhausted, you blinked a few times your eyelids growing heavier every time you shut your eyes.

“spence..will you make sure to wake me in the morning, i don’t want to oversleep.” you yawned out, your nose scrunching up as you settled down into the pillow.

his face contorted into a smile as he watched you. “i will, don’t worry just try and sleep okay?”

you closed your eyes before nodding to spencer, you pulled up the blankets pressing your cheek into the soft bedding.

“goodnight spence..” you mumbled out.

“night y/n.” he replied, rolling to lay on his back.

spencer couldn’t fall asleep for the life of him, he was too aware that you were sleeping peacefully beside him. every so often he would direct his vision to your sleeping figure, your body moving lightly with every breath you took.

just like on the jet, you looked so calm when you were asleep, and he couldn’t quite get over the fact you were sleeping in his bed for the night.

spencer hadn’t given it much thought, he wasn’t one to daydream about a fantasy life with someone. but watching you next to him, sleeping so calmly, it was something he had grown to long for. he could imagine himself going to sleep next to you every night, waking up to you every morning.

spencer chewed on his lip, redirecting his gaze back to the white ceiling. it was almost painful for him to imagine. he wanted that with you, so badly. but he knew better than to dream of things like that, this was a once off event, it wouldn’t reoccur, you wouldn’t feel the same.

eventually the hazel eyed man managed to fall asleep, shallow breaths escaping his lips as he drifted into a slumber.

~

rays of sunlight beamed through the crack in the curtain, casting a warm glow through the otherwise dimly lit room.

spencer had a habit of waking up at the same time every morning, 8:15am to be exact, and this morning was no different.

the brunette man’s eyes blinked open slowly as he adjusted to being awake, he went to roll over but realised he was stuck.

his eyes shot downwards, now noticing your body pressed against his, your arms wrapped around his torso with your head buried in his chest.

spencer’s face flushed, his arm was draped over your body and he checked his watch. 8:15am exactly. he should really be getting up soon to get ready, hotch wanted to meet everyone at the station at 9:45am.

you stirred in your sleep, nestling closer into spencer’s chest, letting a deep sigh pass your lips. he didn’t want to wake you, to ruin this moment with you. this would most likely never happen to him again.

but realistically he had to, if you both weren’t up and ready in the next hour you would be late, and then the team would be suspicious.

spencer tried to pull back, removing his arm from your side. this plan didn’t seem to work, as you were very much holding on for dear life.

“y/n…we have to get up.” he whispered out, trying to rouse you from your hibernation. when his words were met with nothing but soft breathing, he attempted to move again, speaking up louder this time.

“y/n..it’s past eight. we have to get up.” his soft voice laced with a slight gravely undertone. you finally began to blink your eyes awake, quickly making sense of where you were.

you looked up, your eyes meeting spencer’s defined features. “good morning..” he muttered out, his previous attempts of pulling away from your hold failed so he lay with one arm rested against you.

your face irrupted into shades of crimson, you pulled back, shifting to your side of the bed. your once warm presence gone, letting the morning air chill against spencer’s skin.

“i’m so sorry- i didn’t mean to- i’m a cuddler sometimes i just-“ you rambled on, trying to explain that you in no way meant to make spencer uncomfortable.

he let out a small laugh, now able to sit up in the pool of sheets around him. his hair was tangled and stuck up in parts, the dark circles under his eyes not as noticeable as the night before.

“it’s alright, really, i didn’t mind.” he stood up, shuffling over to his to-go bag and pulling out some clothes and toiletries for the day.

you sat up in the bed, face still flushed, watching as he ambled around the room.

“i’m going to shower, we have to leave in thirty minutes okay? you can stay or-“

“i’m going to check to see if my clothes are dry, ill meet you outside?” you rushed your words together, spencer barely able to hear what you said.

“oh- yeah, okay i’ll meet you outside.” spencer couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed. yes, he knew you needed to get changed and get your things from your room, but something in him was hoping you’d stay. he shook the thought from his mind as he walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

you returned to your room, walking over to where you had laid out your clothes. you picked up the fabric, and thankfully it was dry. your eyes scanned the small room, landing on the untouched double bed. you let a sigh slip past your lips, wishing that you could go back to last night.

~

it was 9:45 on the dot. the team all met at the station, it was cold, worse than yesterday so everyone was all bundled up. you decided to wear the hoodie spencer let you borrow under your puffer coat, he surely wouldn’t mind.

they were currently looking for an unsub in his late thirties, who abducted and murdered local women, disposing of them by a lake just outside of town.

garcia had managed to pull up a list of potential unsubs.

“reid, l/n. i want you to go back to the dump site, see if we missed anything. morgan and i will head to the first suspect’s house.”

“on it, sir.” you nodded, walking towards the police station doors with spencer following close behind.

it was a short enough drive from the station, you sat in the passenger seat as spencer turned a corner on the icy road. you both sat in silence, your eyes scanning the slate toned sky.

he pulled up to the scene, stopping at the line of glossy police tape. you both stepped out, shutting the doors in sync.

“do you want to start by the water?” spencer questioned. his lean frame adorned a black coat, with a dark purple scarf tucked into it. he had combed through his previously messy locks, and wore a grey beanie.

“yeah sure.” you muttered back, following in spencer’s footsteps as he ducked under the police tape and began to descend down the bank.

a veil of white powdery snow covered everything as far as the eye could see, and i’m your opinion it was pretty useless being sent out to the dump site when you couldn’t really see anything.

but alas, you limboed under the tape, stepping in spencer’s footprints in the snow.

“just watch your step here it’s a little icy.” spencer had turned back to you, despite being lower down the bank he was still taller than you. he reached out his hand to take your gloved one. you locked fingers with him and took one step, just slightly to the left of spencer’s footprint, where you had intended to go.

you immediately felt your grip on the ground falter, causing you to slip backwards, falling back into the blanket of white below you. spencer instinctively reached out to catch you, but the momentum pulled the both of you down.

you both tumbled into the snow, spencer falling directly on top of you. instantly you both began to laugh, faces inches away from each other, cheeks flushed from the cold air.

for a moment, the laughter subdued, replaced by soft breaths. spencer’s eyes, soft and kind, held your gaze. the freezing snow was doing nothing to help the burning you felt in your cheeks.

“you know-“ spencer began, his voice just above a whisper. “i was only joking when i suggested you were falling for me- but if you keep this up- i’ll have to believe you are.” he let out a small chuckle.

spencer propped himself up, dusting the snow off of his hands. you sat up, feeling a small ache in your back, turning to face the taller man sitting beside you in the snow.

“maybe i am.” you muttered out, immediately regretting it.

spencer’s eyes fixed on your form, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. you stared back, internally fighting against the urge to take back your words. the silence stretched on, the snowfall around you acting as a curtain that enclosed the moment.

spencer's expression shifted from confusion to something softer, something almost hopeful. "wait," he said slowly, "do you mean that?"

you swallowed hard, the butterflies in your stomach fluttering wildly. "yes," you admitted, your voice trembling. there was no going back now. "i mean it, spence. i think i’ve been falling for you for a while now."

for a moment, spencer just stared, as if trying to process your words. then, a smile spread across his face, lighting up his features in a way that made your heart skip a beat. "you have no idea how long i've wanted to hear you say that," he said, his voice filled with a mix of relief and happiness.

before you could respond, spencer leaned in, his hand gently cupping your cheek. his touch was warm against the cold air. he paused, searching your eyes for any sign of hesitation. seeing none, he closed the gap between you, his lips meeting yours in a tender, lingering kiss.

the world seemed to melt away, leaving just the two of you, surrounded by the gentle whisper of falling snow. when you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathless, your foreheads resting together.

"well," spencer said with a grin, "i guess i don't have to joke about it anymore."

you laughed softly. "no," you agreed, "you don't."

taglist!! @0108s22m @rainoftearss @potatovoyager @rac00ns-are-c00l4 @luvmia222 @shardsofmarxx @silver138 @lover-of-books-and-tea @thedancingnerdmermaid

[gay-dorito-dust]

I blame @valeskafics for reviving my zuko brain rot with that modern!Zuko post! How dare 💜💕

If there’s one thing that you’ve come to learn about Zuko and that’s the fact that he doesn’t own clothes made to keep him warm. He has a plethora of jackets but they’re the thin kind of jackets that wouldn’t protect you from even the smallest of chilly breezes.

When you asked him about this when you first started dating, he only shrugged and said ‘I run too hot for those fleece jackets to ever feel the need to own one of them. I’m warm enough for the both of us as it is.’ Which is true. Zuko ran abnormally hot for a normal human being but that was one of the reasons why you loved cuddling up to him when it’s cold.

‘What happened to those warm blankets you normally bundle up in when you’re cold?’ Zuko asked as you proceed to cuddle yourself deeper into his side.

‘I just happen to have found something better in keeping me warm.’ You replied cheekily as you pressed a kiss to his cheek before you burrowed your face into his chest. Zuko sighs as he looks away from you to hide his flushed cheeks from sight as he smiled dopily, still not entirely use to an over abundance of affection directed towards him in a positive and healthy manner.

‘So what I’m hearing is that I’ve been demoted to your personal body warmer?’ He says rhetorically.

‘Think of it more as a promotion from my extremely warm boyfriend to extremely warm boyfriend who doubles as a personal body warmer.’ You replied, tightening your hold on him as you leeched more warmth off of him. ‘Don’t you find it dangerous?’ Zuko asks as he opened his palm to a small flame. It was practically harmless in your eyes, but Zuko always ingrain into you of the destructive power that even the smallest of flames possessed.

‘No.’ You answered honestly as you reached a hand to hold the back of his own that housed the small flame, enticed by its beautiful colours and flickering image with every movement being made. ‘Not really because I trust you more than I probably trust others.’ You added softly as you looked over at Zuko who was already looking back at you with a soft look in his eyes and an even softer smile. ‘Sounds like you should reevaluate that if you’re willing to put your trust in me.’ He said, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

‘No I don’t think I will ever want to reevaluate who I put my full trust in.’ You told him truthfully as you helped close his hand, extinguishing the flame as trails of smoke drifted upwards, only to dissipate before it could even reach the ceiling. ‘I’d like to think I am a sound judge of character and I defiantly don’t regret saying yes when you asked me out.’ You then kiss Zuko on the nose and felt his breath hitched in his chest. Zuko always has the cutest reactions to many things, but when it came to being some love and affection, those reactions were the ones you happen to love the most.

‘Then I hope to never make you second guess your choice to trust me with your heart.’ Zuko replied with a smile as he pressed a sweet kiss to your lips.

‘You never do, now be a good personal body warmer and let me leech off your warmth some more.’ You joked as you snuggled yourself into him and felt him place his arms over your waist, rubbing the skin that had been revealed when your nightshirt raised up a little, causing you to sigh under his touch as sleep slowly began to weigh heavily on your eyelids.

[gloomwitchwrites]

What Are We (2 of 4)

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: neighbor!Kyle, friends with benefits (sorta), lotus position, unprotected piv (wrap it up irl), creampie, aftercare, Kyle begs a bit, praise

Word Count: 1.1k

A/N: Part of the Imagines and What If Series

When neighbors become friends to become sometimes lovers, you make the first move after things between you grow a little heated.

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // what are we masterlist

What is this tangled thing?

This messy, gnarled thing that pulls you back in repeatedly until you’re standing on the ceiling, staring down at the floor in perplexed curiosity.

And why is it always him? It could be anyone, and yet you come back to Kyle every time, the two of you entering each other’s spaces time and time again as if Fate is forcing this arrangement.

He’s your neighbor. That’s it. A friend. Someone you say hello to in the hallway.

Someone who also always visits after he comes back from deployment. Someone who helps carry your laundry back to your flat or fixes the small shit the property owner is too lazy to care about. Someone that gives you such a soft smile that it melts your heart and turns you to goo even as you tell yourself how ridiculous you’re being.

Someone who, at this moment, is reaching for you, begging for you to come to him.

“Come here, love. In my lap.”

Moving is easy. Giving in is easy.

You drape your arm around Kyle’s neck while the other slides up to rest against his chest, fingers lightly curling to drag across his skin. Kyle sighs when you settle, that beautiful sound transforming into a low groan as you sink onto his cock. Your legs lock behind him, giving you leverage.

Kyle is not immune. His arms go around your middle, one reaching downward to lightly squeeze one round cheek while the other meanders upward to the back of your neck. Once there, he takes hold. Not roughly, but more of a possession, a silent command to let him take control in this one way.

The two of you meet repeatedly, his pelvis a perfect angle to rub against your clit with each convergence.

“That’s it. Just like that,” he croons, lips stretching into a smile. Kyle’s pearly whites appear briefly when he smiles and his brow softens as he observes you from behind half-closed eyelids. “That’s it, love. Ride me. Like that. Good girl.”

Your hips buck, and Kyle thrusts upward, matching you perfectly. The groan you let out is unseemly, but even as you try to tilt your head back to release it, Kyle blocks the movement, keeping you stationary.

“Look at me when you come, yeah? At me. In my eyes.” Kyle squeezes the back of your neck and you whimper, pussy clenching around him as you do as he says.

“Fuck,” he groans, drawing out the vowel.

Another shiver of pleasure rushes through you. Then another, just as quickly. The small death builds, explodes, and then you’re grinding down on Kyle, moaning his name. Kyle keeps you still, doesn’t move his hips either, just allows you to come undone on his cock.

The moment your muscles unspool, the tension melting away, Kyle rolls you onto your back. He grasps your wrists and throws them above your head, trapping them beneath one massive palm. He settles between your legs, doubling his efforts, huffing above you as he chases after his own end.

Kyle’s forehead presses against yours. “Let me come inside you, love. Please.” The please is strained, like it’s taking every effort within in him to not lose control.

Your nails dig into his back, and your hips flex upward, inviting him in. “Finish inside me, Kyle,” you beg, wanting to feel him deep.

His groan is low, and he settles further against you, rocking in quick burst of energy that punch the air from your lungs. You cling to him, giddy, reveling in how he falls apart. When he finds his end, your wrap your legs behind his back, holding him flush against you.

Kyle grins through his moan as your ankles lock over each other. You don’t uncross them until Kyle pushes away.

“Stay here,” he murmurs, patting your thigh. Pushing off from the bed, Kyle heads for the bathroom, his nakedness on full display.

You flush then, all the heat and memory bubbling up as his cum slowly drips out of your pussy. He’s never finished inside you without a condom. When there isn’t one to be had, he might finish on your back, stomach, or even in his hand. But never inside you. Kyle has never asked this.

When he returns, Kyle brings a damp cloth. With gentle hands, he eases your legs open, cleaning the insides of your thighs, wiping everything up except his cum. That is what he leaves behind, and that one small action feels like a brand. An act of ownership.

What the fuck.

What the fuck.

With the insides of your thighs clean, Kyle leans in and presses a small kiss to the insides, quickly discarding the cloth immediately after. Then, he is drawing you into his side, snuggling up beside you on the bed, one hand already holding onto his phone as he looks through takeout options.

“What do you want?” he asks. Without glancing away from the screen, Kyle kisses the spot right behind your ear.

You tense. This is too real, too personal. He’s always made it clear that this can’t be anything more. Hasn’t he? Pressing on the thought, you consider it, and realize that Kyle hasn’t entirely pushed the idea away.

“Did you hear me, love?”

“What?”

Kyle pushes up onto his elbow, glancing down at you. “Everything good?”

Can he feel how tense you are? Does he know what rushes through your mind? Should you even say anything at all? Keep it to yourself and pretend that these thoughts aren’t racing through your head?

But again, when has Kyle ever rejected a conversation with you? On plenty of occasions, Kyle has held you in the dark, let you cry into his chest, and pepper soft kisses along your brow as he brushes your hair out of your face.

Why would he turn away from this?

“What are we doing?” you blurt, immediately hating how strained your voice sounds.

Kyle arches a single eyebrow. “We’re ordering food,” he replies slowly.

“No. I mean—yes. I know that. But—us.” You gesture at him and then at yourself. “What are we doing? What is this?”

Kyle sits up a bit more. “What do you mean?”

“What are we, Kyle? This is…” You lose your nerve, unable to finish the last bit.

At first, you think Kyle might reject the question, but instead, a smile spreads across his face.

“Fuck, baby girl.” He runs his hand over the top of his head and falls onto his back. You twist around, reaching for him. The moment your hand touches his chest, Kyle snags it, pulling you into his arms. “Why do you think I’ve been making all these excuses to see you?”

“Because you like me?”

Kyle shakes his head, laughing. “Unbelievable. I’m ordering us food and then we’re talking about this.” Hooking his arm around your back, he brings the phone’s screen back into view. “But first, tell me what you want.”

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @spicyspicyliving @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @aykxz98 @kayden666 @36namey @pearljamislife @wrathofcats @keiva1000 @cherryofdeath @pertinentpostmortem @enfppixie @bbyfimmie @berarenado @saoirse06 @ninman82 @no-oneelsebutnsu @thewulf @hayleybarnesx @lxblm @ferns-fics @ooldcardigan @beebeechaos @enarien @sw33tsnow @kessi-21 @makayla-666

[ryndicate]

Double Down ⨳ Yoshida, Denji

“Didn’t know you were into that stuff.”

warnings: fem body/pronouns, nudes posted without permission, drug use, exhibition, creampie, videos taken with permission, stepcest, infidelity, masturbation, handjob, some spit mentions, premature ejac, implied fuckery, implied theft, if there's more i am just too wacked out to see it so lemme know!

event: @bastardblvd 's slimeball alley collab !! my first submission of who knows how many to come, im gonna try to not go crazy with it, promise

notes: didn't realize until it was done that I could've made it much more slimy but its okay. We'll get 'em next time babes 😩 this idea is expanding on a little blurb I put in cassie's inbox once, i included it in the fic itself with some itty bitty changes

By expanding, you are consenting to viewing adult/dark content, and all warnings listed above. 18+ Minors DNI

Blog Rules/DNI

Your fist slams on the bathroom door. “I swear to god, Denji! Where the fuck did you get those! Delete them now!”

“I already told you, Power found them online!” Your stepbrother yells back through the door, keeping his weight against the handle so that you can’t force your way in.

“You’re full of shit you fucking perv! You took them off my phone or something.”

“Wanna fucking bet? The real perv is that prettyboy bastard you call baby,” Denji sneers back, yelping as you get a good shove in on the creaking wood.

Your efforts to break the bathroom door pause. “The hell’re you talking about?”

“I told you he was trouble the day you two met. What—you think I was lying?”

You growl under your breath at the barenecked taunt in Denji’s voice. Yeah he told you, one time before he got high out of his mind. The only reason you even met Yoshida Hirofumi was because he hooked your stepbrother up a couple times, and you begged to tag along once. That situation ended with your brother counting stars on his buddy’s ceiling while you saw them on the backs of your eyelids with the guy’s lips wrapped around your clit. 

One thing led to another, and that “prettyboy bastard” became your boyfriend. He’s a bit of an ass, but Yoshida’s also sweet and funny, doesn’t roll his eyes at your music choices, doesn’t bat an eye when you want to go out with your friends, and is full of sexy, smirky sass that makes him so fun to be around. Sure, you sent him some photos, but he wouldn’t have put them out anywhere.

Your anger deflates, but your indignance does not. You step away from the bathroom door. “He’s got nothing to do with this.”

Denji throws the door open with a toothy grin, repeating himself. “You wanna bet?”

“You know what, yeah!” you snap at him, crossing your arms as he leans in the doorway, still looking smug. 

“Your boyfriend put your pics up on OnlyFans, and he’s using the money to pay for his xanny. If I’m right, you two gotta upload a video. Together,” Denji states, his eyebrows furrowed in twisted delight that makes you sneer at him.

“You’re disgusting!”

“Yeah? Tell me what you get if you win.”

Caught up in his childish bullshit, you push at his shoulder. “You gotta start an OnlyFans if you’re wrong, which you are. And you gotta wear lingerie.”

His smirk full drops at that, and he glares at you, cheeks darkerning. “Now who’s a perv.”

“This whole shit was your idea!”

“Lingerie?”

“How is wearing lingerie worse than telling your stepsister to fuck and post a video about it?!”

“Shut up!”

“And since we’re on the topic, I swear to god if you don’t stop taking my shit out of the laundry I’m gonna tell that redheaded lady at the DMV that she’s at the very top of your fap list.”

His blush deepens and he palms your face backwards in a light push. “The fuck she is. Shut up.”

“Yeah well, me and the thin fucking walls in this apartment would have to disagree.”

“Go find your boyfriend.”

“‘M gonna.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck him,” you hiss in barely supressed rage, gripping your boyfriend’s phone so tight you’re disappointed when it doesn’t crack. 

You’d waited for his high to hit him and let him drift off before going through his phone—what’s the point of asking him outright if it’s not true, right? No reason to stir the pot. But your stomach had dropped with unease when the account site was in his search history; you tried to brush it off as maybe he gets off to a set of camgirls, but the moment you saw the login info presaved—as in frequent entry—you began to forget the bet altogether.

Now your jaw is clenched, seething as you scroll through every racy picture you ever sent him. Each have thousands of views, hundreds of comments and jeez—so many subscribers. The heat of betrayal simmers through you. Your jaw drops at the total that’s set to drop into his account at the end of the week and resist the urge to slap Yoshida awake, but instead you set about trying to change the banking and login info, only to get halted by an infowall. Frustrated, you slip off the bed and call your stepbrother, edging into Yoshida’s bathroom so you don’t wake him up.

“You were right, and you fucking knew it, didn’t you? You set me up.” you hiss into the device as soon as he picks up with a mumbled ‘sup. You can hear voices and music in the background, paired with light explosions. You assume he’s out with his friends, probably gaming like usual. 

“You didn’t have to agree. Wait—” there’s the sound of the phone moving around and suddenly the music is gone. “Does that mean you’re gonna do it?”

“That’s besides the point, Denji!”

“Oh fuck, you are!”

“Chill your boner,” you snap, “‘m not gonna do it unless you help me!”

“Help you? What, like you want me to hold the camera or something?”

“Denji, I swear to god—”

“I’m kidding, jeez.”

“I can’t change the account info. They’re my pictures, and they’re already out there! He shouldn’t get to make money off of me.”

“Wait, so you want to keep the account?” He asks curiously. You hear a door slamming and wonder if he’s still moving, or if his friends are.

“Dude, we’ll have rent and anything else covered for the whole month with a single week’s drop from this thing. I don’t see a reason not to. I can quit Mcdonald’s!”

“Shit, for real? Lemme talk to Denki, ‘m pretty sure he knows a guy.”

“Thank you,” you coo into the phone.

“Yeah, yeah, just make sure you pay up.” You can hear his pervy smile, and you grumble a sulky fine at him.

“Ok. But he’s gotta do it soon. It pays out in a couple of days.”

“I’ll give him some cash to see if he can do it tonight. Don’t see why he’d say no—" Denji sounds a lot further away from the phone now, "—Oi! Don't bro! Give it back."

A familiar voice purrs into the receiver and you roll your eyes. "Heyyy, princess. You with that Yoshida guy still or are we allowed to hang now?"

"Byeee, Kiri. Tell Kat hi f'me." You hang up with a smile and leave the bathroom, glaring at your supposed boyfriend still sleeping. You never heard him say he was working and you always kinda wondered where he was getting his cash, but you always just thought he was dealing or something. Not the kind of think you ask about. You obviously should’ve asked.

You crawl into his lap and begin sucking on his exposed throat, admiring the sharp lines, the bob of his adam’s apple as thick lashes flutter open. 

“Mmm,” Yoshida moans. “Damn, was I out long?”

“Nah,” you hum, slipping your fingers up his shirt, smoothing over his waistline. “Got bored without you, that’s all.”

“Yeah, baby?” He grins up at you, dark eyes fuzzed out and sultry, and his hands come up to settle on your hips, easing you into a slow grind. “Wanna do something?”

“Mm. Maybe,” you tease softly, pushing his shirt up his chest and leaning down to wrap your lips around his nipples. He groans at the warm, slick suction, arching into your touch. 

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes out, his cock swelling beneath you. 

“Maybe I wanna do something…different.”

Yoshida grins up at you, half-lidded. “Yeah? Like what?”

Your nails make pink lines down his chest as you lean in to whisper in his ear. “What if you fucked me, and we let some people watch?”

His fingers dig into the fat of your waist, his dick thumping beneath you. “Anyone I know?”

Yoshida’s pupils have overtaken his coal irises, and you give him an inviting smile. “No one specific. I was thinking more like…a video or something. I wanna be able to see it later.”

“Holy fuck, baby. That’s sexy,” Yoshida grins up at you. “Didn’t know you were into that stuff.”

“Me either,” you breath softly, rocking yourself over his covered erection.

You’re left to yelp as he displaces you from your seat on his lap and pulls you out of the bed by your wrist with a wide smirk. “Come on.”

“Wait, where are we going?”

“Don’t worry baby, I just wanna pick something up at the Malmart first.”

“Fine, I guess,” you pout at him and his smirk only grows.

“‘S okay, baby. I’ll give you something too.”

“This is not what I meant when I said video, Hirofumi!” you gasp out. Your fingers are splayed out on the hood of his car as you try to stay upright. “Someone could actually see us!”

"If you don't wanna be seen, you gotta cum. Cause I'm not stopping til you cum."

"Fuck, fuck please, just hurry up!" You plead, half your words caught between whines and whimpers as he pounds into you from behind, your skirt flipped over your back.

"You think I'm not fucking you like I mean it?" There's so much smile in his voice that you want to call him on his bullshit for once, but the solid smacking of his hips into yours, the head of his dick pressing as deep as it can go with every thrust quickly makes you forget what you're snapping at him for.

"Just‐just, fucking make cum– ‘fumi!" You're desperately telling yourself you don't want to be seen. It's the middle of the night, so even here, parked under the one of the many lightposts that don’t work in grimetown's 24-hour walmart parking lot, the risk of anyone seeing is slim.

But not zero. Especially with the light from his phone camera shining down on your exposed lower half. You’re like a slutty beacon for whoever might be looking this way.

"I'm working on it baby, you gotta relax." His fingers slide around your waist, brushing past your clit and forcing a frustrated whimper past your lips at the neglect, to drag them through the slick dripping obscenely from your pussy lips. It's dripping to the rusted black hood, making it glisten. He aims the camera down at them before moving it back to the way your pussy clings to his cock. "You're so fucking wet for this, you'd think the whole thing was your idea. Well, most of it was."

You don't answer him, trying to work yourself back on him, chasing that fluttering heat twisting itself tighter and tigher with each passing second.

"Good girl, look at you. Fuck, look how bad you want—"

"Oi! Get the fuck out of here before I—"

Your whole body locks up at the tired but authoritative voice that rings across the lot.

Your boyfriend calls back. "C'mon man, have a heart. Let me finish her off and I'll give you a look." Except his last syllable staggers off with a groan, broken with a laugh as his grip on your hips tightens to a bruising pressure. The vice grip of your cunt has him looking down to sees your juices gush around the girth of his cock, dripping down your thighs to dirty the hood of his car even more. The sight pushes pushes him over and he calls out again, his voice tight but smug.

"Nevermind, we're done here."

He gets one last shot of his cum dripping out of you before closing out the livefeed.

“It’s like four in the morning,” Denji grumbles, rubbing one of his eyes as he cracks his bedroom open further at the sight of you. “Thought you were Power or somethin’, jeez.”

Denji blinks the blur from his eyes, zeroing in on your screen, and you just about hear his pupils expanding. He pulls a shaky inhale and you roll your eyes.

“Done. Bet over, and here’s your damn proof,” you grumble right back, slamming your phone against his chest and shoving your way into his bedroom to flop down into his bed. It had taken over an hour to convince Yoshida back to his place and get him to fool around enough for him to pass out and you to sneak back home.

"Also Kiri wants you to call him back. He's mad you hung up on him."

A small grin curls your lips but you don't respond, wiggling deeper into his mattress until you're comfortable.

He throws himself down in the bed next to you. “Turn on my speakers.” 

“Or you could just wear headphones, you freak.”

“Nah. Turn ‘em on.”

With an exaggerated sigh, you stretch out to reach up to his desk, turning on the bluetooth speakers that he usually uses to be a nuisance when he’s smoking. “If your dad was home, I’d kill you for this.”

“You’re not even breaking up with him, are you?” Denji chortles, ignoring your bickering. His eyes are glued to the screen as he shoves a hand into his loosened shorts. “What the fuck, you guys were outside?”

You shrug. The video’s only been up for a couple hours and it already has triple the views and donations of all the photos Yoshida has put up so far. “Looks like he’s gonna be making me lots of money, so why not? It’s the least he could do to pay me back.”

Your stepbrother doesn’t answer you, his breathing getting heavier. You close your eyes and sigh as the sounds wet sounds and your own whiny moaning starts bouncing off the walls of his room, wondering to yourself if you really sound like that or if part of you was exaggerating because of the camera. The mattress creaks every now and then as his hips jump, his arm brushing your side as he grinds into his own fist. 

You roll to face him, taking in the sound of his stuttered breaths, the muted slick sound of his fist pumping in his shorts. “So what about this gets you so riled up?”

Denji groans, stomach rippling where his shirt is pulled up around his midsection. “I’nno, it’s hot, isn’t it?”

You keep prodding, “What is? Yoshida? Or me?”

He gives a small whine that has your pulse picking up in sick interest, so you continue. “Was Power really the one to find it? Or…you were subbed to the account, weren’t you Denji?”

“Mm- maybe?”

“Shit,” you whisper to yourself, listening to your own voice begging to cum, shifting your weight onto your arm so you can look at him. A strange curiosity has taken over your body. He looks wrecked but his eyes are still on the screen. “Denji, look at me.”

Your body tingles as his eyes tear towards you, but he’s still got a hand around himself, hidden from your eyes. “Can I touch it?”

“You wanna what?” he moans, just barely, teeth digging into his lip.

“Can I jerk you off?”

You’re a little surprised when he actually hesitates. You’ve tolerated it all this time; as much as he pervs out on you, and your stuff, yet somehow he’s got a little crumb of morality left in there somewhere. And right now…you wanna kill it.

“My panties, my pictures…is this really any different?” you ask softly, sweetly, as you run with this electric current, placing your hand over his covered groin. You grin as his hand immediately goes slack at your touch and slips out of his shorts, and you get to feel for the first time how hard he is, rubbing over the smooth fabric, feeling out the shape of him.

“I mean…I guess not.” He sucks in a breath as you grip him over his shorts and give a couple experimental strokes. “B-but what about—?”

Denji’s head drops back to the pillows with a groan, phone in a death grip as you tug his waistband down, his dick slapping free. It’s pretty and slender, flushed deep red.

“What about what?”

“What about prettyboy, huh?” He finally gets it out as you spit in your hand and take him up again, stroking him steadily from base to tip, squeezing at the top with a gentle twist of your wrist. Yoshida always seemed to like it, seems like he does too. 

“That’s what you’re worried about? Not the whole stepsister thing?” You shrug. You’re still stung about Yoshida’s betrayal, so this feels like a little bit of retribution. A little bit. You still need to find more ways to make him pay first, but this is a good start. “Yeah, he’s my boyfriend, but ‘s not like you and me are dating, Denji. It’s a handjob. What’re you gonna do, marry me?”

Denji splutters and his dick throbs in your hand. “Don- Don’t say stupid shit!”

You coo at him and his lips part, panting hard as you work him faster. 

“What– haa, what if it wasn’t just a handjob? What then?” Denji gives a low moan as you settle over his lower thighs so you can gently cup his balls. They seem to tighten under your touch, before he relaxes and he tries to look at you. 

“What, like my mouth or something?” you ask playfully, leaning over and showing him your tongue, letting a strand of spit drip down to his dick.

A litany of curses tumblr from his mouth as Denji squeezes his eyes shut, fingers twisting into the pillow beneath his head as his cock jerks and shoots a load of hot sticky white into your palm, getting smeared down his throbbing shaft as you slowly work him through his high until only a couple dribbles get pressed out by a final pass of your thumb over his slit.

“Wasn’t expecting you to finish already.” You wipe your hand off on his comforter and try to ignore the throbbing in your panties. You feel like you can still imagine the slick from earlier tonight seeping out of you, but it’s as if it’s no longer enough.

“Holy fuck,” he mumbles under his breath, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes as he calms his breathing enough to raise himself up on his forearms. He watches you as you take your phone and flop down next to him. “I didn’t even get to see the rest of the video.”

“It’s online now, freak. You can watch it whenever.”

“Yeah...” 

You’re too busy trying to go through the account settings to notice the way he’s eyeing up your thighs; he hasn’t even put his dick away yet. 

“Hey,” he mutters softly, ignoring your glare when he puts a hand on your thighs and pulls them open. “If you can touch me, does that mean I get to touch you?”

Your pulse jumps and you try to keep your true thoughts hidden as you hide back behind your phone. “I guess that’s fair. If you wanted to.”

You can hear the click of Denji’s throat as he swallows, and you can’t stop the low whimper as his calloused fingers brush your inner thigh, right at the edge of your panties. 

They’re warm as they brush over the seat of your panties, timid but curious as they explore the surface, stroking over the tempting warmth and wet seeping through the thin fabric. A bolt of pleasure bursts and has your gut clenching as he swirls over your clothed clit

“H-hey, wait,” you say suddenly, nerves getting the better of you as you try to make sense of Denji taking control of your body. “It got switch but this isn’t my banking info. Is it yours?” You flip the screen towards him, and his brown eyes squint in the pale blue light.

“Uh, nah, that’s not mine.”

You mewl as he pulls your panties to the side and traces a finger through your folds, delicate, hungry. “Who did you say– mm, h-hacked the account for me?”

“I told you. M’friend Denki, his buddy did it. That purple-haired guy who works at the smoke shop.”

“The one wi—” you suck in a breath as he sinks his index finger into you. “With the tattoos?”

“Yeah him,” Denji mumbles, hardly paying attention to your words. He’s grinding against the bed as he pushes his middle in alongside it, imagining the tight squeeze around his dick instead.

Your groan is part pleasure, part dismay as you realize just who he’s talking about. “Oh fuck me.”

Denji bullies his way between your thighs in an instant.

“N-no, Den– that’s not what I meant!”

[macfrog]

you'll hurt me if you don't trust me sex on fire chapter eight

super special sparkly shoutout to @chloeangelic ✨💛✨ whose influence inspired a whole load of intimacy in this. it is, unashamedly, eleven thousand words of sheer self-indulgence. so. love u guys. see u soon

pairing: ceo!joel x fem!reader

summary: you’re unwell. joel makes you feel better. until he doesn’t.

warnings: age gap (reader is late 20s, joel late 40s), workplace relationship, imbalanced power dynamic, cursing, sugardaddy!joel, softsoftsoft!joel, they eat chinese food together, reader has her period + mention/description of used tampon, discussion of abandonment/absent parents & parental death, discussion of cheating, lying, thigh riding, unprotected piv period shower sex (that is a mouthful thatswhatshesaid), VERY needy reader, SLIGHT dacryphilia (kinda not really?), creampie, aftercare joel, praise kink, daddy kink, angst & fluff & angst all over again

word count: 11k

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 💚

Martha had been pretty good about it. She’d watched you near-doubled in pain most of yesterday, hobbling to the kitchen every four hours to top up on pain meds. She knew you weren’t making it up. She made a conservative two jokes about you calling in this morning, and then told you to rest up. She’d let Joel know you’d be back tomorrow.

“You owe me, though. Joel’s got that shareholders meeting today. If I’m forced to sit in with him ‘n his cronies talkin’ numbers and takin’ notes, sweetheart, all so you can catch up on The Bachelorette…”

Alright. Three jokes.

You hang up and slide the phone back across your nightstand; roll over and stuff a pillow between your thighs as if that’ll do anything against the dull throb gnawing at your belly. Your shades are tilted upward, shrinking your bedroom into a foggy gray save for the shards of light which split across the ceiling.

There’s a heavy ache tugging behind your eyes, an irritating weight which shoves you into the arms of sleep and then pulls you back by the hair before you’re taken off by it. You’re dozing, fingertips massaging your eyelids and stretching the skin back and forth when the doorbell slices the stillness of your apartment in two, shrill in your sleep-deprived ears.

You ignore it at first. Fuck that. Fuck whoever that is. You’re not planning on leaving your cocoon today unless it’s to go pee, grab a snack, or maybe if you lose the remote in your sheets.

But it rings out again. Twice, this time. And in a blur of hormonal rage, you whip the sheets back, throw yourself out of bed and stagger down the hallway. You straighten up only enough to peer through the peephole, your palms pressed to the back of the door, and that’s when you see him.

He’s cradling a brown bag in his left arm, a second dangling from his wrist. His head is huge in comparison to his body, owing to the distorted fisheye glass. He shifts from foot to foot impatiently, awkwardly glancing down the hall. You’d recognize that jawline fucking anywhere.

Your breath pushes nervously against the door. You click the lock and curl around the heavy wood, your fingers clamping on the edge.

The two of you eye one another up and down before Joel speaks.

“Hi, darlin’.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Martha said you were sick?”

You pause. Look down to the bunch of wild flowers sat in the crook of his elbow, and then back up to his face, painted with – what is it – concern? There are lines you rarely see when he’s looking at you, carved deep between his brows.

A fire strikes in your belly.

“…I’m fine. I’m – I’m all good. Just – feeling a little…”

“What is it? Is it the flu? I brought flu stuff.” He nods into the bag, and reaches inside for a box of cold tablets and a pack of tissues. He tosses them across the threshold and you catch them, holding them close against your shoulder.

You smile, trying to hold back on a laugh, but also because what the fuck? He’s so sweet. The flames lick at the bottom of your lungs.

“It’s not…it’s not the flu, no.”

Joel nods, looking back into the bag. “Good thing I also brought these, then.”

He tilts it forward and you unhook from the door, leaning over to peer in. A box of Tampax, two bottles of painkillers, green packets of face masks and floral sachets of herbal teas. You fish one out.

“Chamomile,” you muse, pouting.

He shrugs. “Lady at the store said it’s a good muscle relaxant, I don’t know.”

“Don’t you have a meeting today?”

“Cancelled it. You freaked me out.”

Your heart knocks on your chest wall. Did you fucking hear that? You freaked him out. You gulp in response. Swallow hard to shut it the hell up.

“So, Martha’s in the office by herself?”

“She’s a big girl. Told her she could leave early if she got my to-do list done. I give it until one,” he mutters, glancing down at his watch. “Oh,” he says then, spotting the brush of green and burst of purple in his arm, “got you these. I don’t know what you like yet, but…”

Yet. Yet yet yet.

You take the posy delicately between your fingers, as if it might fall apart at the mere touch of your hand. The brown paper crinkles as it lifts from Joel’s arm, and you tilt them in the hallway’s milky light.

The sprigs shoot in wild directions, tangling and twisting around one another. Daisies, lazy in their climb, swirling around the gentle brush of lavender, wrapped tightly to some other flower you don’t recognize. They’re tied together in a neat, white lace bow.

You imagine Joel stood in the middle of some fragrant florist, rotating on the spot. Dumbfounded before some assistant in a flowing skirt and tinkling bracelets sweeps over to him. I don’t know what she likes – yet, he tells them. And your heart screams into the pillow of muscle surrounding it.

“Thank you.” The smile on your lips threatens to break into a grin. At the same time, a shot of pain rips across your belly. “Come in,” you groan through a wince, taking his shirt in your fist and pulling him inside.

Your apartment is probably a couple years too small for you. You’ve accumulated so much in the time you’ve lived here that you could do with finding a bigger place – but you’re comfortable. It feels like home, when nowhere did for so long. It’s snug, and humble, and as you lead him down your hallway, you imagine you’re feeling how Joel probably did when he showed you around his childhood home.

Your cheeks flush with something a little blunter than embarrassment, but prickled with nerves. Your living room rolls its eyes inward, every object looking over in suspicion and wonder. Who the hell is this man, in your space, armed with toiletries and a ten-grand watch on his wrist?

You pause by the sink, filling a glass with water for the flowers. Your teeth bite down on your lip. There are dishes on the counter, there’s laundry piled on stools, blankets and cushions strewn messily across your couch. Joel shakes his head when you apologize, holds a palm up when you try to explain how you’d gotten home from work last night and gone straight to bed. I haven’t had the energy to clean.

He won’t hear it. Says he’s not here to see your clean apartment. Here to see you.

He sets the bags on the worktop and looks around the room. Blinks from the sheer curtains guarding the balcony doors, to the pastel candles on your coffee table. Smiles when he notices the Pretty Woman poster framed above the couch.

“What?” you ask, when his eyes finally land back on you. You tug at the hem of your shirt, pulling it further down your bare thighs.

“Nothin’. Just – knew there was somethin’ more to you.”

You fold your arms and rock forward gently on the balls of your feet. Your head tilts. Your brows knit.

Joel clarifies, “I knew you weren’t as put together as you pretend to be at work. This – looks like your place. That’s all.”

“Oh, yeah? ‘n what does my place look like?

His cheeks lift. “Little all over the place. Little surprising. But bright. Cozy. You.”

“Bright ‘n cozy,” you echo.

He nods. Purses his lips, then adds, “And great in bed.”

You cough a laugh, reach out to shove his arm, and he catches your hand. He reels you in against his body and cups your head, fixing some flyaway strands of hair. You stare up at him, eyelashes slowly blinking him in and out of focus. His mottled beard and hazel eyes. The flecks of honeydew and amber swimming around his pupil. His shirt wrinkles beneath your chin.

“You hungry?” he asks, voice rumbling through his chest. You seem to understand the vibrations sooner than the words, these days. He reaches for the handles of the white bag, sliding it over towards you. “I brought lunch.”

“You brought lunch.” You scoff, grinning to yourself. It quickly fades, though, when your hand lowers into the bag and meets a warm, flat surface – two halves of a folded lid. Your brows pull. “You brought…”

Joel smiles as you lift the box, popping it open. Hot steam escapes the minute the lid folds back.

“Chinese okay? I didn’t wanna ruin the surprise by callin’ to ask what you wanted. I can run out and grab somethin’ else if you’re not –”

“How did you know to get…?” Your voice whittles to nothing as you stare down at the fresh-cooked meal, the bed of greasy noodles mixed with fried vegetables. Your tongue swipes at the corners of your mouth.

“’cause I know you,” Joel says, digging for a second box from the bag. “Anytime you’re stressed with work, anytime I give you a hard day, that’s what you order in for lunch, right?” He nods to the container as he tosses an egg roll into his mouth.

You giggle, lifting the box to hide your swollen cheeks. Your heartbeat hammers below your jaw.

“Right?” Joel laughs. “Chow mein? I’m right, ain’t I? You know I’m right.”

He nudges against you, taking his own lunch from the bag, and casts a familiar glance – the same one you saw a few days ago in Lavender Oaks. Like the decades-old mask slips just for a second and suddenly, a younger, shyer Joel shines through. He’s almost imperceptible, almost concealed by the cocky smirk and witty remarks of his older self, but you’ve seen him once, and now – he’s impossible to lose sight of.

“You’re weird,” you note, spinning off towards your bedroom.

Joel’s hot at your heels. “I’m weird?”

“Uhuh. For noticing that.”

He snorts, and then you feel a slap to your ass cheek. “Nice underwear, by the way. Who’d you steal them from?” he murmurs close to your ear, averting your gaze when you turn back, beaming.

You pad across the soft rug to your bed, dropping down and pulling the sheets back to make room for Joel. He’s setting his food down. You think to offer him a change of clothes – something more comfortable than a dress shirt and suit trousers – but the best you’d have is an oversized tee, and not much else.

The thought almost dizzies you. Joel, in his boxers and a t-shirt from your wardrobe. A shirt that smells like you, feels like you, belongs to you. A piece of you, hung from his shoulders like it was always meant to be shared between you. The way it’d still smell of him even after the sun had set and he’d peeled it from his body, folded it into a pile at the end of your bed and left in his button up.

He sits on the edge of your mattress to kick his shoes off, and marvels some more at the room just like he did in the kitchen. The fire in your chest is slowly turning your lungs to ash, stealing breath each time his dimples appear – squinting at the framed photographs on your dresser, tilting his head to read the titles of the books on your shelves.

When he catches sight of the paint-splattered easel in the corner, he turns back. Your eyes are already locked back on your chow mein, refusing to meet his. He doesn’t say anything. Just shuffles up against the headboard, nudges your knee with his own.

“You get that at the concert?” he asks, eyes a little south of yours.

You glance down. You’re wearing an old Queen tour tee, graphic print accompanied by 1986 in multicolored lettering. A little before your grand entrance on the planet. A little after Joel’s.

“Rod’s Retro, eastside,” you reply. “You find some cool stuff in there, Mr. CEO.”

Joel’s chin lifts, considering. “Hm,” he says, “you gonna take me someday?”

You nod. Maybe a little too eagerly. It doesn’t feel like you ought to care. “Um, yes. You would fucking love it. Half my wardrobe is thrifted.”

He nods once – banking the information. “Every day, I learn somethin’ new.”

“Shut up,” you quip, kicking him gently. “How come I never get to learn anything new about you?”

He shrugs, chewing. “Self-absorbed.”

You kick him for real this time. He laughs into his takeout box.

“I’m messing with you. You know plenty about me. You met my mom the other day, for cryin’ out loud.”

“Not enough. Don’t know where you get all your clothes from, or what your comfort food is.”

He replies through a mouthful of chop suey. “Then, ask.”

Your voice is high, defensive. “No. That’s too easy.”

Joel snorts.

You reach for the remote and click the screen opposite to life. Joel lifts his arm to let you sink against his body, and you flick through the channels. Shark Tank, Grey’s Anatomy, Wendy fucking Williams, and then –

You gasp. Joel looks up from his food. His brows arch, eyes flitting from you to the screen. You swear a groan escapes from his lips. You feel the thunder against your ear.

“You ever seen it?”

“Dirty Dancing? Yeah, I’ve seen Dirty Dancing, pretty girl.”

“You probably saw it at the movies, right? When it came out? In the eighties?”

“Careful.”

You smile. “What did you think of it?”

Joel’s shoulders lift. His eyes are back on the screen. Be My Baby is crooning from the TV. “I liked Patrick Swayze,” he says.

You watch him, waiting for him to continue. When he doesn’t, you lean closer. “You…you liked Patrick Swayze?”

“Yeah,” Joel says, like it’s obvious. He turns back to you, one eyebrow raised. “He was cool. You don’t like ‘im in it?”

“No, I like Patrick Swayze,” you tell him. “Just…if that’s all you like about it, then…we might have a problem.”

He scoffs. “I don’t remember much of it, to tell you the truth.”

“Good. We’re watching it.”

Your head moves with his chest as he sucks in a deep, defeated breath. “Baby, I –”

“Ah,” you tap the remote on his knuckles, “you remember the Baby part.”

With a laugh which sounds an awful lot like approval and a grunt which sounds an awful lot like Alright, Joel sinks lower into the mattress. You drape your legs across his, and when he finishes eating, his fingers draw round shapes on your hot skin, daring past the hem of his own boxers on your thighs.

Somewhere around the lake scene, you notice your hand intertwined with his. Locked together, surfing over one another, squeezing and then loosening. Tracing the curve of each other’s palms and learning the lines scored into the skin. Fingertips becoming fluent in the landscape of one another’s bodies. Mapping them, like you’re afraid to forget.

Your eyes glass over, whether from fatigue, or from the now smoldering fire inside you, or from something harder to pinpoint. Your head feels heavy, leaning on Joel’s chest, listening to the drum of his heart against your ear. It sounds familiar, like you’ve known it forever. Like you can almost hear the whisperings between the soft thudding.

You start when you feel him moving beneath you. He groans, stretches his arms, and then snakes them around your body. The end credits are rolling. The movie’s over. You weren’t asleep, but you missed half of it. Your mind elsewhere – though you have no idea where.

Maybe you do. Maybe that’s not something you can bear – yet. Yet yet yet.

You crane your neck and look up to your boss. He’s already staring right back at you. His eyes widen.

“What did you think?” you ask sleepily.

He sniffs. “It’s good. Very politically charged. Lotsa Swayze.”

Your lips curve, cheek nuzzles into his shirt. “Very us, right?”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah. Especially that part in the water. When he –” his arms lift, holding an invisible Baby up – “y’know? You ‘n me, we do that all the time.”

“I hate you.”

He tightens his grip around your shoulders and lifts you closer, smiling. You think, when his eyes dart for half a second to your lips, that he might kiss you. You think you want him to. But he simply asks, “You want some tea?” and reaches over to swipe the empty containers from your nightstand.

You nod. “I’ll come help.”

“I got it,” he assures in that Southern gentleman tone, steady hand on your thigh as he slips out of bed.

“You don’t even know where the mugs are.”

Joel considers this for all of five seconds. Shrugs. Tells you, “I’ll figure it out,” and disappears through to the kitchen.

You lay back and close your eyes, counting each cupboard door opening and then immediately falling shut as he makes his way around the place, seeking out your collection of mugs. When he eventually opens what must be the right one, you hear him exclaim.

“Ha! First try.”

You snort, bleary eyes opening again to focus on the TV. They’re discussing the Kardashians on The View. Your eyebrows lift in agreement as if you’re sat in the studio with them. They move on to some segment on the president.

Joel returns a few minutes later, two mugs in hand, and passes you the one shaped like a ghost.

“Cute,” you whisper, taking it in both hands.

He flashes you a proud grin as he lays back down, sipping on a black coffee in a faded mug your mom gave you years ago.

You tap your nail against the ceramic in his hands. “World’s Best Daughter.”

“That’s me,” he replies, propping himself up on an elbow. “Your mom get you it?”

Your head drops, eyes staring at him from under low brows. “No. My fucking neighbor did.”

He stares back as he lifts the mug to his lips. They melt in a kiss against the ceramic. When he pulls it away again, he swallows, and says, “You’re close to her.”

“My neighbor? Yeah, she lives right next door.”

“Easy, smartass.”

You flash him a smug grin, which dissolves as quickly as you notice his eyes lingering on the half-heart charm around your neck. By instinct, your fingers clutch the smooth gold, as if protecting the smallest part of yourself from him. The only part you’ve never let him in on.

But there’s something in his eye – something that feels less like a spotlight and more like a warm fire. Sharing secrets muted by the sputtering of wood, held safely by the round rusty glow of the flames. Something kinder. Something protective.

“Yeah,” you say, voice crackling, “we’re closer ‘n anyone. Been through a lot together.”

Joel nods. He knew that already. “I’ll bet, pretty girl.”

And in typical Joel fashion, he doesn’t press for any more than you willingly offer. A part of you kind of wants him to ask more, wants him to push you. A weight jumps at the bottom of your chest, like the words fail to launch. And before you can retry, before you can confess more of yourself into his hands, he says –

“Ask me som’.”

You stall, and look at him intently. “What?”

“Anything you want. Free pass.”

Your cheeks swell. “What do you mean?”

 “If we’re sharin’ things, ‘s only fair we both do.”

“I don’t – We don’t have to –”

“Ask me,” he says slowly, eyebrows twitching.

“O-kay…”

You push a deep breath from your lips, cheeks globing as you scan around the room for inspiration. Something casual enough that you can ask it with ease, but deep enough that he’ll give you an answer worth sinking your teeth into. Something you don’t know about him; light enough to roll off your tongue, and then heavy when it lands in your palms.

Your gaze orbits back to his patient form and you ask, “How did you get the money to start your company?”

Joel seems to feel the weight of it when he catches it. Heavy, rather than light. Deep, rather than casual. He opens his mouth, runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek before he answers. “My, uh…my dad. He had a little bit of money.”

“He invest in it?”

“No, no. He, uh…he left it when he died.”

Your lips pull in a wince. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, and Joel looks up.

“’s okay, baby,” he replies, with a soft chuckle that makes the loose collar of his shirt quiver. He pushes some hair out of your face, settles his hand on your knee.

You hook two fingers around his thumb. He squeezes lightly.

“He musta loved you a lot. Leavin’ you so much.”

Another deep breath. His body stiffens. You think to unlock your fingers and take his hand properly, comfort him, maybe – but he’s already lifting it, scratching his beard with his thumb. He watches a bubble swirl around in his mug until it disappears with a pop into the dark coffee, and he finally looks up.

“It’s kinda…complicated. He and my mom – they were married for years, ‘n he ended up…” Joel swallows. His jaw clenches. “He cheated on her. Had this mistress for months. Mom found out through a friend of hers. She kicked him out of the house, but they never divorced. Just stayed separated until he died, ‘n then he left all his money to her.”

“To your mom?”

Joel nods. “She didn’t want a penny of it. Hated the man ‘til the day he died ‘n beyond.”

And you believe it. Ruth Miller was kind, warm and charming to you. She laughed with you, she smiled like she’d known you her whole life, she held your hands and she whispered secrets about Joel in your ear – purposefully to embarrass him, to make that bashful side turn its head again.

But she was sharp. She was quick, and you knew within the first five minutes of meeting her exactly where Joel got his wit and his mind. You can see her, clear as day, guarding the front porch of that little white house – one hand on her hip and the other pointing in the direction her cheating husband was to head.

Just as clear, you can see her stood over that same husband’s grave, waving her fist and tearing his will into confetti. It brings something of a smile to your face. Sad, sympathetic, but…impressed.

“Wow…So she – she gave it to you? And you – put it into the company?”

He shrugs, grip tightening around the mug. “When I started makin’ money, I paid off the mortgage on her house, managed to convince her to retire early. Got her into a good retirement home, once she was ready for it.”

Smart guy.

A calm quiet falls between you. Joel turns to watch the commercials on TV. Your chest fills with a need to ask him something – a feeling all too familiar whenever you’re around him. Only him. A weight on your mind, a bubbling which starts in your stomach and rises up until it’s practically pushing the words out over your tongue.

“Your dad – how do you not hate him?”

He turns back. Your eyes are stinging. He notices. Holds his palm out, and your fingers instantly lace through his. Your nails find those same valleys, the grooves you’d traced while Swayze and Grey mamboed.

Joel stares up at you, face suddenly tight with worry. He knows there’s something loaded behind your question. Knows you’re asking for something more than another jigsaw piece of him. You’re doing it again. You’re freakin’ him out.

“I…” He falls quiet, looks between your eyes at the pearly tears which form in the corners, the way your face sets to stone. He glances down at your necklace again, and shakes his head softly. “I spent a long time hatin’ him, baby. Changed nothin’. He did what he did. He was a scumbag.”

The answer melts your angry frame, body folding and sinking further into your pillows. You tug the bedsheet a little closer to your chin, press your lips into the top of the ceramic ghost’s head.

Your voice sounds small, sounds like it doesn’t even come from your chest, when you say, “I think I hate my dad. For what he did.”

Joel finally relaxes. Like he’s finally seen the tiny creature casting the huge, stretched shadow on the wall. “You…Yeah?”

You nod. Stare at the cotton mountain of your legs entangled in his. “Yeah. He just up ‘n left, when things got boring. When I grew up, and my mom got older. Just packed his car, and…I always wonder –” a breath lurches from your chest, “– I always wonder why I wasn’t worth stickin’ around for. Why he just – decided one day to…”

Your voice fails to carry. Joel knows the end of the sentence, anyway.

You’ve never told anybody any of this. Not Blake, not your mom, not any of your friends; you barely even know in yourself how you feel about it – even twelve years later. But the air in the room feels different – feels thicker, like you’re tucked away from the world. The conversation won’t leave your apartment, you know that much. Know that Joel wouldn’t speak of it again, wouldn’t so much as let it cross his own mind, if you asked him not to. And so you let the words tumble from your tongue, let them sit heavy in the space between you.

The space between you, which is now silent, like you’re both preoccupied. Joel, taking in the weight of what you’ve said into strong, safe hands; and you, feeling that same weight lift off of your chest. Until the silence itself feels clunky, and awkward, and you scram to find something to break it up.

“Anyway. Sorry to be a bummer.”

“You ain’t a bummer. Are you kidding?” Joel sighs. “I’m sorry, babygirl. Sorry that happened to you.”

“’s okay. He was just a scumbag, right?”

“Sure sounds it.”

You take a small sip, the tea sugarcoating your lips and flooding over your tongue – the sweet taste ridding them of the bitter memory of your dad. “Your turn,” you hum.

Joel’s head jerks. “No, darlin’, you already told me somethin’. You go again.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“I’m changin’ the rules.”

You try to protest, manage the sound Jo– before his hand lifts and he shushes you.

“That’s what I was gonna ask, anyways. Was gonna ask about you ‘n your dad. Now, go.”

He’s lying. You know it, and you suspect he knows you know it, too. It’s a terrible attempt at a lie, no matter how kind it is. But you’re too tired, a little too in pain to argue back over it. And he’s looking at you again, with that honeycomb twinkle in his eye, that Joel look which stirs something in you every time he shows you it.

You sigh, accepting defeat, and rack your brain for something else you want him to talk about.

“Alright, uh…What about your brother? He didn’t want any of your dad’s money?”

Joel’s face twists into something of a grimace. You instantly regret bringing it up.

“Touchy subject?” you ask, already coming up with five new, two-dimensional questions to ask in place of that one. Who was your first kiss and what was your first car and when did you find your first gray hair and what’s your mom’s maiden name and –

But you don’t need them.

Joel says, “Not with you,” and tilts his head, like measuring up his answer. He takes his time letting it filter down to his lips, and you reckon you’ve a good idea of why.

He was closed-off about it in Paris. About his brother. Didn’t say more than three sentences about him. And that was only where a sheep farm was considered. What you’re asking about right now is a hell of a lot deeper and a hell of a lot more difficult than a ranch in the Texan countryside.

“He was always closer to Dad. They used to go out huntin’ every Sunday. Liked the same music, watched the same TV. They were buddies, more ‘n anything. When it turned out my dad had this whole other life behind our backs – behind Tommy’s back – he flipped. Couldn’t take it. He disappeared, never looked back. Just packed his car, moved across the country.”

He’s staring at the TV now, barely blinking. Barely breathing, until you speak and it’s like he remembers he’s in your apartment, on your bed, with you. Not back in time twenty years, watching the dust kick up from under his little brother’s tires.

“He must’ve been pretty mad.”

“Yeah. Tommy’s like that, he’s got a hot head on his shoulders. But it meant leavin’ Mom, y’know? She went through all of that without him. I had to pick up all these broken pieces, juggle all this stuff, ‘n he just got to walk away from it all. And then, when Dad died, he refused to come back still. Left me to organize everything – the money, the funeral. The whole damn thing.”

He flicks his head, resentfully, like trying to dislodge the memory from his mind. Trying to shake it free. When you speak, it seems to soften him. Seems to thaw whatever angry image was frozen behind his eyes.

“Yeah,” you sigh, “that part sucks. I bet it was hard goin’ through all that without him.”

Joel’s head angles towards you. “Not any harder ‘n it was on you, goin’ through what you did.”

“Well…I know I would’ve found it easier if I had a brother or sister. Someone like me, someone who gets it, y’know?”

“Hm. We weren’t all that close to begin with, I guess.”

“You were close enough to want to buy a ranch together.”

He shakes his head again, this time refusing to let the idea in. Turning it away at the door.

“You miss him?”

“It my turn to ask somethin’ yet?” he asks, smiling.

But you’re feeling braver now. He’s answered everything up until now; it feels less like a game and more like…more like he wants to talk about it. Like it’s been pent up all this time and this is the first anyone’s brought it up. A relief to get it off his chest, if nothing else.

You ignore him. Press him. “Do you?”

Joel sighs deep enough that his coffee ripples a little in his mug, and then nods. “Sometimes I wonder what it’d be like if we were on speaking terms, yeah.”

“So, call him. You have his number?”

“I ain’t gonna call him, baby.”

“Where’s he at?”

“Last I heard, ‘n it was a long time ago now – he was in Wyoming. Married, kid on the way.”

“Call him. You really gonna let that kid grow up without Uncle Joel around?”

“Uncle Joel,” he repeats, laughing now. “He does not want to hear from me, angel. Let it go.”

Joel turns the volume up and settles back into bed, pillows propped behind him. You pass him your empty mug and he slots it alongside his own. As the commercials end and Whoopi Goldberg flashes a grin into the camera, you give it one final shot.

“I’d give anything to have someone who knew and understood me as well as a brother might.”

His hand falls limp against your bedsheets, remote loose in his fingers. You lift his arm, nuzzling underneath it to lean your head by his heart, and he sighs.

Argument won.

“Too many big questions,” you mutter after a while, eyes clinging to the screen. “Ask me somethin’ stupid.”

“Somethin’ stupid,” Joel repeats, and you nod. “Alright. Who’d you lose your virginity to?”

You slap his chest. “Dirtbag!”

He chuckles. “Who was it? Blake?”

“No,” you reply.

“Damn. Who?”

You roll your eyes, though he can’t see you.

But suddenly you feel the loose spaghetti straps of a slip dress over your shoulders, see the off-white glow of three-year-old sneakers crossed at your ankles, chipped pink fingernails tracing the blurry pastel shapes on floral bedsheets. A dry throat, the sanitized backwash of vodka and coke splashing across your tongue. A smash from downstairs – someone’s broken the host’s mom’s best vase.

“Was just this guy I slept with at a house party,” you tell Joel, clearing your throat. “Lisa Tait’s sweet sixteenth. We were in her bedroom, all of us, ‘n everyone started heading downstairs, ‘til it was just me ‘n this dude Jack laying on her bed.”

“You had sex on some other girl’s bed?”

You nod, cringing a little. “I wasn’t even friends with her. Wasn’t even friends with him. Just thought, fuck it. I didn’t wanna go into senior year a virgin ‘n neither did he, I guess.”

“How’d it go?”

The messy, uncomfortable thrusts between your legs. The hand shooting down to guide himself back in. The wet lips running along the shell of your ear, the acidic breath on your cheek. Is that good for you? Yeah, it’s good for me. You sure? I’m sure. Just hurry up.

“Lasted, like, four minutes, thirty seconds.”

Joel’s body jerks. You know he’s staring at the crown of your head. “You timed him?”

“No. He lasted as long as Paradise by Coldplay. It was playin’ downstairs in the living room.”

He tips his head back and laughs to the ceiling. You giggle into his shirt.

“Poor guy,” Joel says, rubbing your shoulder.

“Poor me, more like.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, and pats your head. “Least you’re doin’ alright now.”

You push yourself up from his chest and glare at his satisfied smirk, dodging his thumb when it lifts to clip your chin. “Oh, you’re so smug about it.”

“Are you kidding? For lastin’ longer than five minutes? ‘course I am. Can make you come twice in that time.”

“Yeah?”

He nods. Runs the tip of his tongue along his top lip, corners of his mouth twitching. Something sparks to life inside you.

Your knee lifts, reaching over his waist and planting into the mattress on the opposite side. Joel’s hands come to rest on your thighs, fingers slipping up beneath the black cotton and edging against your hipbones. You bend over him, lips running a wet trail from the base of his neck to his earlobe. His breath falters.

“Prove it, daddy,” you whisper, and his grip tightens.

“Baby,” he warns, voice suddenly sharper. “We don’t have to –”

You ignore him, holding him down by the shoulders. “I want to.”

“I’m just sayin’,” his fingers wrap around your wrists, “’s not why I came here. We can just hang out.”

“We are hanging out,” you tell him. “This is what we do.”

And he seems to agree. Or, at least, accepts defeat, in the form of rolling his hips upwards. His fingers slip through yours, locking at your knuckles, anchoring you to him. You grind against his belt buckle, the hard metal flat against your clit. Joel clocks you instantly.

He sits up. Holds you by the ass on his body until your center is flush with his. You feel him stir beneath your open legs.

He shifts to the edge of the bed, keeping you chest to chest in his lap. Your teeth grit against one another. His lips are warm, they still taste like coffee. You lick at the corners.

“Wanna make yourself feel good on me?” he asks.

A smile as sweet as sugar and laced with something darker spreads across your lips. “You’re best at it, right?”

Joel hums. “Alright,” he says, impressed. His chin lifts; he breathes a laugh as you pepper his jaw with kisses. “Take what you need, angel. ‘s all yours.”

Your knees spread wider. You push down on his swollen crotch, voice catching as he meets you halfway, bucking up into you again. Your clit throbs at the contact, forcing you back up off him.

“D-addy,” you choke, hands suddenly gripping his shoulders.

Joel’s stronger. He takes your waist and replaces you on his lap. “Shh,” he whispers, breath hot against your ear, “’s okay, baby. I got you. We’re gonna make you feel good together, alright? Here.”

He slides you over until your legs are either side of one of his, his thick thigh flat against your most sensitive spot. You dig your nails into his forearms, squeezing hard, but he doesn’t budge. Just looks up at you, holding you steady, and says –

“Go on. Ride it, babygirl.”

You move an inch. The rough fabric catches on the soft of Joel’s underwear. You gasp, relief mixing with arousal and spilling warm and soothing between your legs.

Joel squeezes your hips. “Do it, darlin’. Make yourself feel good. ‘m here, I’ll watch.”

The fabric beneath your pussy is soaked, probably dampening a mark into his pants – and you don’t fucking care. It feels good – the steady weight of him, lifting his thigh as you drag yourself along it, beginning to rock back and forth.

Your eyes are closed, head to the ceiling, grinding your core against his. You can feel him staring. Watching you, his gaze red hot on your already fevered skin. You collapse into him over and over, his body solid as a rock, letting yours fold against him. Liquid in pleasure and feeling.

Your eyes open a sliver and you smile, taking your bottom lip between your teeth.

Joel smirks. “You know how fucking perfect you look right now?”

You nod, forehead coming to lean heavily on his.

He bucks his leg, jaw tight. “How – fucking – beautiful you are? Making yourself come on daddy’s thigh?”

You inhale the words as he speaks them, swallowing them in gasps and parting your lips complacently for more. Keep going. Keep telling me –

“–you my good girl?”

“Mhm,” you whimper, legs starting to give.

“Gonna get me covered in you? Gonna come all fuckin’ over me, babygirl?”

“Daddy, I want –”

“Tell me,” he demands, “tell me what you want.”

His hands are clamped on your waist, guiding you – driving you, more than your weak hips are able to – holding you to him almost painfully. Your body circles messily, becoming sloppier the closer your orgasm draws, quivering when the feeling runs a delicate hand through your hair and plants wet kisses along your neck.

“Want you to fuck me, daddy,” you whine, body rocking again. Your hand lowers to cup the outline of him, rock-hard and restrained beneath linen. He shudders when you squeeze him – looks down to your small hand on the huge bulge in his trousers. “Need to feel you inside me.”

Your own eyes are stuck on the place where your bodies connect, writhing against one another – the wet seam of Joel’s underwear, the folds of his pant leg as you rut against him. Your empty cunt tightens, aching for more against his firm thigh.

“’m gonna, pretty girl,” he says, groaning as you palm him. “‘m gonna fuck you so good. Just give me one first, alright? Let me see you come for me.”

Your body jolts as you come. Hips lose their rhythm; arms lock tight around Joel’s shoulders. And all the while, his lips stay pressed against your ear.

“Look so good, baby,” he coos. “That feel good, angel? Yeah?”

As quickly as your orgasm sent you under, you’re pulling back. You haven’t even regained feeling between your legs, but you’re pushing yourself from his lap, separating your bodies.

Joel sits back, body lightweight when you tug on his wrists and drag him up to height in front of you. You’re backing up across the plush rug, his chest bumping against yours, your fingers fumbling for the buttons of his shirt. Your back hits the bathroom door. Joel twists the handle.

You spill onto the cold tile, attached at the mouth, frantically tearing clothes from each other’s bodies. It’s desperate. It’s burning. It’s almost fucking painful, how bad you need him.

His hands run from your cheeks to the hem of your shirt, hauling it over your torso and tossing it to the counter. You peel the shirt from his shoulders and your bare chest meets his, his hands finding your hips again when he whips them from his sleeves. The white shirt drops to your damp floor, dark, wet marks spreading across the dress fabric.

“Shoot,” you mumble against his lips. “My – bad. Sorry.”

“Don’t – care,” Joel breathes, and his thumbs push beneath his waistband.

You spin on your heel, backing towards the shower and taking him by the jaw with you. He shoves the clothing down his legs, stepping out of them and catching you again in time to drag the underwear from your thighs.

You shift into the shower, both fully naked. Joel spins the nozzle and the warm water rains down between you. His chest quickly soaks, dark hair thicker and blacker, flat against his glistening skin. He tilts his head under the spray and soaks his hair – gives one heavy flick of the head like a wet dog, and you laugh as he pulls you in again.

His hands cup your face as he connects your lips, and then his right drifts down your neck and pushes your tit up, squeezing the sensitive skin in his palm and rolling your firm nipple between two fingers. He lets it drop, runs his hand delicately down your frame, following the curve of your waist to your hips. He cups between your legs.

You come up for air, a sudden realization over your head as though the water runs freezing cold. “Wait,” you start, “I gotta –”

But he’s rubbing gentle circles against your clit, slow, pacing you as the tide of your first orgasm disappears to sea. He doesn’t seem to know, yet – or if he does, he doesn’t give a fuck.

“Joel –”

“I know,” he says, voice low and busy, but still – assuring. Unbothered. He moves his hand lower, surfing along your slit, until his fingers brush the wet string.

Your breathing jumps. He taps the seam of your thigh twice, and your leg tilts aside. Your eyes flit back up, crossing over his chest to fix on his jaw. You feel a flushing heat cross your cheeks, a moment’s hesitation before your fingers clamp around his wrist.

“Hey,” he whispers, and you almost don’t hear him over the running of the shower. He keeps his left hand on your jaw, his right between your legs. He shakes his head once, and takes the string in two fingers, and –

Gently pulls. Only a fraction, and then he pauses. Looks back up at you, a question in his stare.

You nod, exhaling heavily. He pulls again, and he doesn’t stop.

The tampon falls wet and heavy into his palm. His hand leaves your cheek and settles around your waist, leaning both of you out of the shower while he reaches for some toilet paper. Once it’s wrapped in a roll of white tissue and sat on your sink, he moves back into the cubicle.

He runs his palm under the flow; splashes of red swept up, watered down, and carried to the drain along with every last whispering of worry on your lips. Your elbows bend around his neck and he dips his head to kiss you, pushing you carefully into the corner.

“You tell me –” he kisses you, “– if it hurts or it gets too much, you tell me.” His body stands huge, blocking yours from the stream of water. Your back bumps against the shower wall; the shock of the cold tile pushes you closer to Joel.

“Just – fuck me.”

But he’s adamant. “You tell me.”

“I’ll tell you. You’ll know.”

“This is about you feelin’ good.”

“I’ll tell you,” you whine.

“We’re gonna have a word,” Joel instructs, lining up between your legs. He lifts your thigh to sit on his hip. “’n if you say it, I stop. Alright?”

You nod, fervently. “Please –”

His fingers separate your lips; his tip nudges your entrance. “Maple, alright? It gets too much, you say maple. You do that?”

“Joel, if you don’t –”

“Baby.”

“Maple,” you agree, “I’ll say it. Just –”

He pushes in without another word.

How many times has it been, by now? Ten? More than that? Enough for you to know in your mind, if not from trying to learn then simply from muscle memory, exactly how he feels. The curve of his cock, the width of the tip, the length of him as he slots deep inside you.

And yet – every fucking time – you feel so full. Full of him in every sense – your cunt, swollen around him, your lungs, breathing his scent, your every thought and feeling and sense replaced by Joel. Joel Joel Joel Joel –

He’s suffocating. And if you died right now – if you were smothered by him, swaddled until you couldn’t feel anything anymore – you’re not sure you’d be able to tell. Not sure you’d care enough to notice.

He pushes in slow, but deep. So fucking deep. Lets your walls expand around him the first few thrusts, lets your body welcome him back in. His lips press against your temple, his arms cradle your lower back. Your weight bears down on his shoulders and he lifts you, your other leg sitting on his waist. He holds your ass in both hands, begins to bounce you steadily.

“So good, baby,” he says. “Doin’ so good for me. You’re daddy’s girl, ain’t you?”

Your answer leaves your lips in the form of a moan. Something shaped like his name, or maybe some attempt at a response to his question, or maybe something more dangerous.

“My girl,” he repeats, whatever it was you said. “Daddy’s girl.”

Your head rolls back, cushioned by Joel’s hand between you and the tile wall. He knots his fingers in your hair, snaps his hips quick and hard, panting into your shoulder. And there’s a feeling – a stinging, a burning, sweeping across your eyes, and for a second you think it feels like shampoo, like the sharp scratch of soap between your lashes, until you realize it’s –

Tears. The heavy cut of tears, brimming your eyes. Blurring your vision. And with every thrust, every blissful meeting of Joel’s cock and your cervix, every inch he spreads you open wide – they form quicker, and quicker, and quicker. Until they spill down onto your cheeks, and you can’t tell the difference between them and the spray of the shower.

But Joel can. His head lifts from the crook of your neck, his teeth dragging from your skin. He spots your eyelashes, silky and wet, and in one motion, wraps his arm around your head, holds you with the inside of his elbow.

He dips his jaw, presses his lips featherlight to your cheeks, kisses the tears away as quickly as they roll down.

“I –” gasp, “– don’t know –” gasp, “– why I’m –”

Joel’s head shakes as he pulls away. Shuts you up. His answer is simple. You believe it instantly.

“’s okay. You’re okay.”

And right then – you think you understand.

Because you can see him – plain as day. You can see the amounts he cares for you, the limitless needs he can meet for you. There’s a warmth within you, spread throughout your body for him, and you have no fucking idea how to let him feel it. How to have it seep through your skin – so that every time his fingers ghost over your body, he’s met with a blaze strong enough to burn. A fire, big enough and bright enough that it shows him exactly how you feel.

Only him. No one else. A flame only he can see, dancing across your eyes when you look at him. A heat only he can feel. How do you make him feel it? How do you tell him? What combination of words might translate it?

It’s like slamming your fists against a glass barrier. A transparent wall, that allows you only to see him and draw near to him – never to feel him. Not really.

And so, you cry. You cry for him, for yourself. And Joel lets you.

For a little while.

His lips are back on your neck, biting marks into the soaking skin. “’attagirl,” he hums. It rattles your pulse, disturbs the rhythm and sends his own beating through your veins. “So good, baby.”

They soothe you – his lips, and the words which come from them. Soothe the sweet pain between your legs, the swollen ache every time Joel pushes into you. The stretch, the bruising tinge when his tip finds home in the deepest part of your body. Somewhere no one has ever reached, no one has ever found. No one, you feel, has ever been worthy enough to know.

Until him. Until Joel.

That same rhythm – your pulse on his wavelength – begins to flee south. Loops and swirls and dives to where his body connects with yours. Tightens rapidly around your cunt. Your hips grind against his, your thighs clamp on his waist. He starts to falter, hips slipping whether from blood or come or water. And then he’s growling, face burying into your chest as he steadies the two of you with an abrupt palm on the wall, and he stills.

The feeling of his release tips you over. The warmth spreading inside, so far you feel him in your stomach. Your walls contract around him, squeezing until every last drop of him is buried somewhere in you, and you lower one foot to the shower floor.

“Fuck, darlin’,” he pants, pulling his lips from your collarbone. “You okay?”

You nod, head rolling against the wall behind. You’re not crying anymore. The shower whirrs somewhere over Joel’s shoulder. Your chest feels tight. And you feel fucking euphoric.

He gives three more lazy, broken thrusts, pushing his come deeper inside. You both still, mouths curved open, exchanging breath and letting your tongues flick idly against one another.

You hold onto him long after your orgasm is shallow ripples between your legs. Long after the feeling has washed back into the ocean, your high a glimmer of sunlight bursting over the distant horizon, the aftereffects painting your world golden.

You hold onto him, and you let him run his hands slowly up and down your spine, and you sift your weak fingers through his dark hair, and you let him kiss your neck and your shoulders and your collarbones. He leans back; the flow of water cascades between you, carrying away any mess left on your bodies.

And then you let him carry you out of the shower, his tip still inside you, slowly softening. He settles you carefully against your counter, and reaches over for two white towels, caping one around your shoulders and using it to draw your body against his own.

You take the corners from his fingers and he lifts your chin, pushing your lips apart with his tongue. Then he pulls away, allows you to wrap the terry around yourself.

Joel wraps his own towel around his waist, slung loose enough that you can trace the dark hair peppered from his belly button down between his hips.

“You know how inappropriate it is to look at your boss like that?” he tuts.

You hook an arm around his neck and pull him back in. “Then stop lookin’ at me the way you do,” you tease, and he kisses your cheek.

He disappears through to your kitchen, reappears moments later with the box of Tampax, and you don’t even think to laugh or tell him you’ve an open box sat in the cupboard you’re leaning against. You just smile, and accept the clean tampon he holds out in his fingers. He leaves you to get dressed with the door closed over.

He’s sat on your bed when you emerge from the bathroom, holding his soaking shirt between two fingers. “Sorry about, uh…”

“’s alright,” he shrugs, standing up, “I’ll take it from your paycheck.”

His knuckles pinch your nose. You free yourself to place a chaste kiss on his fingers, and pass him the crinkled mess.

“I have something that’ll fit you somewhere,” you mutter, slipping past him as he hangs the shirt by the collar over your door.

“Do me a favor,” Joel’s voice follows, and he takes your wrist. You turn back to face him. “Catch your breath.”

“Huh?” you ask, and his hand comes up to mold around your cheek, the way it always fucking does. As if your bodies were made to be held by one another.

“Just – take a breath. You’re doin’ it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Movin’ at a hundred miles an hour. Breathe for me.”

You scoff, loosening yourself from his grasp to go sift through your wardrobe for something big enough for him. You settle for a Jurassic Park tee – logo faded and cracked, hem a little ragged.

“Rod’s?” he asks, holding the shirt up.

You’re already collapsing onto the mattress. “You bet.”

Joel smirks and tugs it over his head, throwing himself down against the headboard. Your hand wraps around his thigh, lips press soft kisses on the skin. He runs his hand over your hair.

“Are you gonna take a sick day off me for this?” you ask.

He shakes his head simply. “Doctor’s orders. Can’t say nothin’ to that.”

“I didn’t go to the doc–”

His thumb presses against your lips. “You don’t know when to fuckin’ lie, do you?” he whispers. “’s alright, we’ll getcha trained up.”

You snort, shaking yourself free of his hand. Your head settles by his hip, nails draw aimless patterns along the curve of his stomach.

“Need you better by Sunday, anyway,” Joel sighs, “Martha’s son’s birthday party.”

You grunt in response. You forgot about that.

Joel tuts. “Still gotta find him a present. How in the hell do I know what to buy a twelve-year-old?”

Your hand pauses. Neck cranes up to look at him. He’s staring down at you, his trademark glower still recognizable even upside down. Somehow, not sat upright in front of him, the thought seems less scary. Less of a commitment, more a casual suggestion.

“Why don’t we just get ‘im a joint one?”

The hard expression immediately wipes from his face. Replaced by something rounder. He blinks at you. “Really? From – you ‘n me?”

You shrug against his waist. It’s not answer enough for him.

“As in, you n’ me?” he asks.

“Why not?”

Joel’s head shakes. His mouth curves as he considers the thought. But he can’t mask the pang it sends through his body; can’t pretend he’s not covering the way his veins light and his nerves stand to attention by taking your hand in his and squeezing it briskly.

It doesn’t have to mean something. You, Joel, and Deb are the only people from work that Martha invited, and Deb’s bringing her two sons, which means her gift will be from them, too. All it has to mean is that you’re Martha’s co-workers, and figured it’d be cheaper and easier to get one gift over two.

Except – one of you is a millionaire.

It means something. The fact you asked. You’re not asking to save a buck, to make it simpler. You’re asking because you want to wrap some video game in paper Joel picked out; you want him to hold the folds down with one finger while you tear tape with your teeth. You want to sign the card with both of your names, in your handwriting. See how they look paired up.

You ask him because you want to feel the way you think you ought to have felt this entire time. Your body is ablaze. You’re ready to let him feel it. And you ‘n me seems like a pretty good combination of words to start with.

You’re ready. And that’s why you ask him.

Joel’s quiet for as long as you are. You both go to talk at the same time, both noticing how silent the room has fallen while you realize all of those things in real time.

“Sorry, baby, you go,” Joel says, sniffing.

“No, I was just – no, you go. What were you gonna say?”

He smiles. “Was just – wonderin’ what you wanted to get Alan.”

Your mouth opens to answer, and then you pause. “Al–? What?”

“What you wanted to get ‘im,” Joel repeats.

You push yourself up, lean on one hip in front of him. “Yeah, I heard that part. What did you call him?”

“Alan?”

You stare at him. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Joel stares right back. “Martha’s son.”

“Martha’s son’s name is Henry.”

“No, it fuckin’ ain’t.”

You’re biting back a laugh. “Yes, it fuckin’ is.”

“She calls him Little Al. All the damn time, baby, he’s –”

“That’s because he acts like Alan. Her husband. His father. All the damn time. You gotta be messing with me. Have you been calling him Alan the entire time he’s been alive?”

“No.”

His expression tells you yes.

You’re laughing now. Really laughing. It breaks your words in two, your head tilting back to the ceiling. “You…idiot.”

Joel’s struggling to compose himself, sliding off the bed. “The email she sent out says Alan’s Twelfth Birthday. The hell’s my phone?”

“You think she had a kid in two thousand eleven, and named it Alan? You don’t think they’d call Child Protection on her for that?”

He points a finger, tossing pillows to the bottom of your bed. “That’s disrespectful to the Alans of the world. Where the fuck is my –?”

Your chest swells in a giggle, eyes start to sting with tears. “What do you write in her Christmas cards? To Martha, Alan, and Alan?”

You slap the bed, leaning forward with a deep gasp, trying to catch your fucking breath. Joel’s still stripping the bed, still keeping his own laughter deep in his chest, but it’s quickly crumbling.

“Her email –” he chuckles, “– says Alan’s Twel–”

“She’s fucking with you!” you holler, catching the pillows he throws to you. “She’s fucking with – I’m gonna piss my pants. Martha, Alan, and Alan, oh my fucking –”

“Here,” he finally throws you the phone, “go find it. Find the email. Search the damn word Alan; she uses it every time she talks about him. Jesus Christ, I need a coffee. You want another chamomile tea, Little Miss Smartass?”

He lifts your mug and tilts it in your direction. You nod as you reach for the phone, wiping tears from your cheeks. Joel disappears through to the kitchen.

He clued you in on his passcode a few months after you started. You were still in the office past five o’clock, looking out files he needed for some client visit the following morning. His phone had buzzed, you were nearest it. He lifted his head and nodded to the lit screen.

1-6-9-1, he told you.

It finally made sense only a few days ago, after three years of wondering. Three years of knowing and never asking; a mystery solved. 1691 Maple.

His background was always one of the standard ones. The boring ones. A soft, blue gradient. Usually, his lock screen was too populated by notifications for you to even notice.

But now – it’s changed.

Now, it’s a photo of the view from the terrace in Paris. The pale sunset, faded blue into sweet yellow. The Eiffel Tower carved out in the center. You suck in a deep breath as you swipe texts and emails away to properly study it, figure out exactly where he was standing to take it, and exactly where you might’ve been when he did.

You tap in the four digits and his home screen lays out before you. Only, the background is different – again.

It’s Paris, still, but indoors. Dark wall, an ornate frame pinned to it, housing an amused smirk and soft hands. She’s looking off into the distance, past the photographer. Or maybe – she’s looking at you.

You, stood leaning on the barrier in front of her. The Mona Lisa. Your head tilted towards her, beaming like it’s a photo with your favorite celebrity.

It’s not a big deal. That’s what you tell yourself. It’s his home screen. Only visible if you know his password – and you’re fairly sure that you’re the only one who does. Not even Martha would know that this photo exists, never mind the fact that it’s his wallpaper. It’s not a big fucking deal.

No matter how much you think you want it to be.

You swiftly tap on the email app icon, trying to rid your mind of your own cheesing image. He has thirteen unread emails, all from the last hour. Some you know he’ll forward straight to you and Martha; others look a little more serious. As you’re scrolling down them, you notice a familiar face.

Denis Pelletier. His square-jawed grin flashes back at you from the tiny circle icon beside his name. You tap on the email, and your cheeks lift higher the further down it you read.

I hope your flight home was pleasant, and It was wonderful to take you both around Paris, and Your assistant was very sweet. You breathe a laugh, scrolling down the three-paragraph message urging Joel that if he’s ever back in Paris – if you’re ever back in Paris, both of you – to make sure you let the chauffeur know.

But there’s no email from Martha. At least, none in Joel’s inbox. You return out of the folder and wheel down to his Deleted folder, scrolling past password reset emails, panicked cries for help from Mackley and Tom, past order confirmations for brands you’ve never heard of, when –

A head of hair, more salt than pepper. A bright, unnerving smile, too many dazzling teeth in a mouth too small to house them. A pink sky behind him; candy floss clouds and townhouses glowing orange in the sunset – the building blocks of the Paris skyline.

Jean-Marc. An email – a deleted email – from Jean-Marc.

Dear Joel, It was such a pl… is all you can read from the preview. Your eyes flit up to your door. Joel’s still in the kitchen, humming. You glance back down to his phone.

Would it be invading his privacy? It’s only an email from Jean-Marc. It’s not like you don’t know who he is. What if your thumb slipped? Accidentally opened it? What if your eyes scanned over the text before you quickly swiped back out of the email?

There’s the sound of a drawer rolling closed. A spoon rattling against ceramic. He’s stirring your tea.

You click on the email.

It was such a pleasure to see you again.

You scan over the first paragraph. It’s just Jean-Marc cozying up to Joel. Your nose wrinkles and your lips turn.

I loved meeting your assistant, the next paragraph begins. And your focus is pulled.

I wonder if you had given our conversation any more thought? Whether she might be looking for a new challenge? Something this side of the Atlantic, perhaps?

Your heart skips a beat. A new challenge.

“You want the last egg roll?” Joel calls from the kitchen.

You jolt back to life. “N-no, you have it,” you reply. You hear the rustle of the bag.

I wonder if you might relay the message onto her, Jean-Marc continues. Please give her my email address and phone number.

You quickly pull the screen up, noting the date the message was sent. Three days after you got home from Paris. More than a week ago. You tap on Joel’s response as his footsteps creak back towards your bedroom.

His reply is as short and sweet as the few words he spoke to the Frenchman that Sunday morning.

I’ll pass on your details, he’s written, but unfortunately, my assistant is currently unavailable. Maybe sometime in the future.

Your jaw jerks. Eyes trace the words, over and over. Thumb scrolls up and down the email, making sure you’re reading it right. Joel, making promises he never followed through. Joel – your Joel, the one you pestered for fucking days after Paris over what he’d talked with Jean-Marc about – one hand laced through yours, the other with a vice grip around a secret he never intended to clue you in on.

You. He’d talked about you. They’d probably talked about you the entire fucking meeting, as soon as Joel mentioned you. You can see Jean-Marc’s ears twig; his eyebrows lift with interest. The way he sets his wine glass down, offers Joel another whiskey and invites him to say more.

Joel. Lying. And covering up. And keeping you close by his hip, walking in stride with him out of that fucking penthouse – like you’re on some kind of leash, or something.

The fabric of his underwear on your hips feels claustrophobic; a second layer of skin that rubs against yours like sandpaper. You want to rip them off off off – want to separate yourself from him, peel him from your body and forget the feeling of him as quickly as you seemed to absorb it. Instinct tells you to detach yourself – to remove any trace of him ever having laid eyes on you, never mind touched you.

What a fucking idiot, you think. He doesn’t fucking care about you after all.

You don’t even notice when his form saunters back into the room, when he shoves the door closed with his elbow. There’s a bitter taste on your tongue, sour with disappointment. Acrid with anger. Sick with fear.

Unavail–?

“You find it?” he asks, and you subconsciously clutch the phone to your chest.

“Not yet,” you murmur, watching as he sets the mug back on your nightstand.

His fingers slip through the handle, knuckle nudges the temple of the ghost a little further along the surface, and he straightens, lifting his own mug to his lips.

“’s in there,” he says against the ceramic. He holds a hand out, curls his fingers. “Let’s see.”

“Never mind,” you say, tapping out of the email, out of the folder, out of the app. “I believe you.”

And then –

“…You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”

He licks his lips. Holds the mug by his side, fingers gripping the lip. He gives a non-committal shrug of the shoulders.

“No, darlin’. Why would I lie to you?”

[fanaticsnail]

Bar Shift: Part 1

First time writing for Sanji, which accidentally turned into a multi-part mini series. This is part 1!

Your eyelids fluttered open as the rays of the morning sun shone through the material of the curtain and directly onto your face. Any other day, waking with the dawn would cause you to groan, wipe your face with your fingertips and you would lunge straight into a tirade of self-hype to awaken your senses as you prepared for your shift as the front of house manager of the floating restaurant, Baratie.

However, today was unlike any of the others you had encountered over the past several months. Today, you had finally been rostered for a single day off. You smiled and raised your arms over your head, stretching them above you and arching your back with a low moan. You released the tension acquired in your shoulders and shrugged back into the mattress below you.

It was not like you hadn’t been rostered off, releasing you from your duties over the several months prior. You had just acquired the nasty habit of accepting shifts pushed onto you to cover other members of staff in their duties. From aiding with back of house duties: washing dishes, vegetable preparation, sauce reduction and preparing ‘family meal’ for the staff to enjoy after completing a successful shift; to aiding the head Chef Zeff with listing groceries, preparing payroll, timetable scheduling and product costing. This is how you rose so high in the ranks aboard the sailing restaurant as their front of house staff; never being one to decline a shift to cover others in their time of need.

You smiled to yourself, springing the sheets from your body and preparing to undertake a true day dedicated to only yourself. You had a whole list of items prepared in your mind: face masks, deep hair conditioning, pampering your body by doing some exercise in the gym and enjoying breakfast on the broad deck in the sunshine on the bar.

You started with your face, plucking unruly and unwanted hair from their desired location, applying a face and hair mask and began doing your stretches to limber your body up for a small run after your masks had dried, been rinsed and tidied.

As the conditioning treatments began to solidify atop your features, you placed a record in your music player and swung to the beat with a small giggle. You discarded your sleep attire and searched through your draws for something to exercise in and something to wear to breakfast after you had a shower.

You rinsed off the dried masks from your face and wrapped your masked hair into a tight bun out of your face and left your quarters adorning your work-out gear. You completed a slightly cardio intensive routine over the course of an hour, including some kick-boxing against a small bag hanging from the ceiling on the crew-quarters gym before heading to the showers.

Indulging in the warmth of a lengthy shower, you dried your now shiny soft hair and styled it in a way you hadn’t done in a while – wearing it out instead of in the tightly woven style you would adorn in your regular shifts aboard Baratie. You raked through the locks, pinched your cheeks a little to add some warmth to your un-made up features and left the showers wearing slightly dressy clothes.

You were relishing in every moment you had acquired in a well deserved day off, noticing the hands on the clock on the hallway indicated it was now around 7:45am as you made your way atop the deck. More often than not, you would pull double – if not triple shifts – to aid the creater, owner and head chef of Baratie; often starting at 5am to aid in pastries, work a full shift on the floor before covering for a chef in the kitchen or helping with the dishes from the rush before managing the bar for the night life. You would often end your shift just after midnight if the night was slow, but would stay later if required.

There had been two crew birthdays for the front of house staff, one chef du cuisine reigniting his affections with an old flame and asking you to cover for him in the kitchen, three injuries at the hands of apprentices and one chef finding themselves overcome with some form of sea-bearing respiratory illness he acquired on one of his days off that rendered him useless for a week. Each time, Patty or Carne would seek you out and sheepishly ask you to cover; knowing they could truly count on you. And each time, you would say yes.

As you took a seat, basking in the light of the morning rays; you rolled your neck and closed your eyes to release some tension in your neck as a shadow fell over your face – successfully blocking the warmth from falling onto your skin.

You opened your eyes and looked up to see the blonde chef, Sanji; a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips as he presented you with what looked to be some number of fruits above a jelly and custard tart with whipped cream on the side. You smiled at him and sat up slightly from your reclined position.

“For you, princess,” he said with a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. You rolled your eyes and accepted the dish from him and placed it on the side table to the right of the lounging chair you were sitting on.

“What is it, love?” you asked him, gesturing to the dish he had handed to you. He broadly smiled at you, appreciating the name you bestowed onto him. He removed the finished cigarette from the corner of his lips and placed it in the ashtray on the table beside a different recliner, further away from the dish.

“It’s a white chocolate ganache custard tart with a bitter blueberry reduction,” he began, crouching down at the table, fixing his gaze at the dish in front of you and gesturing to each part.

“I’ve topped it with a sweet lychee jelly with chiffonade mint leaves and finely diced cubed mango,” he pointed to the finely chopped pieces, “and I’ve hand-whipped a vanilla bean meringue buttercream just for you.”

You noticed a twinkle in his eyes as you looked the dish over, assessing its presentation. You narrowed your eyes at the tart base, noticing it was different than the usual pie crusts Sanji had worked with in the past.

“And the base?” you questioned him, arching your eyebrow up at him. He chuckled a little and leant forward.

“A flattened and rolled out layered Bischoff brioche,” he winked at you. You were not unaccustomed to Sanji’s flirting, as many of the chefs would playfully banter with one another during the shifts. Between Patty, Carne or the other line cooks; it was more loving insults or playful banter and encouragement. If there was a pretty lady sitting at the tables, a chef would alert the rest of the kitchen by calling out a dish to table number that didn’t exist, or more boldly, wolf-whistle under their breath.

With you, being one of the only women who would grace the back of house with your presence on the line, they would often include you in their jabs and try to point out any men they would deem worthy of your time. Sanji, however, would push to include you in a more flirtatious manner – often calling out the non-existent table number when you would walk to the pass on one of your front of house shifts, or referring to you with a rotating number of pet-names, his latest including “princess”.

“Thank you, love,” you smiled at him, broadly. You picked up a small fork and sliced the sharpened edge of the utensil into the tart and collecting a sample of each of the ingredients onto it.

“Did you make one for yourself too?” you asked before raising it to your lips. He was gazing at you with anticipation as you placed the ingredients into your mouth. Immediately, an explosion of flavours erupted over your tongue; bitterness from the reduction, richness from the ganache and meringue, fresh juices from the jelly and herbaceous botanicals from the mint leaves eclipsed over your senses; pulling an unwilling moan from between your lips. Sanji broadly smiled at your reaction, his eyes twinkling at the unwithheld compliment to him that he managed to bring forth.

You blushed heavily at the reaction your body made in response to consuming the first bite of his food and continued to chew, rolling the contents over your tongue.

“Bloody hell, Sanji!” you widened your eyes and covered your mouth with the hand you had the utensil in, still chewing the tart in your mouth. He chuckled and cradled his head in his enclosed fist, bashfully while he continued to watch you enjoy the dish he made.

“To answer your question, princess,” he smiled, “no I didn’t. I made that especially for you.”

You swallowed the first bite and rose your eyebrows in subtle shock. You again carved off a generous piece of the tart, ensuring you collected a taste of each of the many parts of the dessert. Sanji followed your movements with his eyes as you skilfully did so, only looking back to you in confusion as you presented the fork towards his lips.

“Well then,” you declared, offering the fork further over to his lips, “say ‘ah’.”

He smiled widely before leaning towards the silver utensil and wrapping his lips over the tip of the fork. His tongue collected the ingredients from the bottom of the fork, drawing your eyes to the silver balled piercing located on his pink frenulum momentarily. He maintained eye contact with you as he placed the contents into his mouth, causing an unintentional blush to rise from your chest, tips of your ears and over your cheeks.

He released the fork slowly from his lips, removing all pieces of indulgent tart from the end of the fork and he smiled at you with fondness.

“Thank you,” he nodded his head at the fork, “always wanted to share a meal with you. I didn’t think it would be quite as literal as this, princess.”

You rolled your eyes at his playful flirtation and began to collect more of the beautiful breakfast he had meticulously prepared for you.

“You should’ve made this one for Chef,” you commented, “he might even be so inclined to put this on the menu. I’d vouch for you, love.”

He laughed at your comment, reaching into his jacket pocket and placing an unlit cigarette between his fingers.

“Nope,” he said, bringing his lips to the filter end of the cigarette, “too much work went into that one. Wouldn’t want it wasted on uncultured pricks that believe the height of cuisine is a well-done tomahawk steak with mashed potatoes and boiled carrots.”

You laughed at his comment, watching him as he stood up and attempted to click his flint-less lighter to ignite a flame. He growled slightly in frustration, prompting you to reach for your own lighter in your bag. You rose to your feet and situated yourself in front of the tall blonde, reaching up your lighter and flicking the flint to ignite a small flame from the end. He smiled in thanks at you as you brought your hand cradling the flame up to his lips once more. He leant into your hands, igniting the tip of the cigarette and inhaling deeply before releasing the tobacco-riddled smoke from the corner of his mouth away from your face. You smiled at him and flicked off the flame from your lighter and made to place it back into your bag.

Unknown to you, Sanji’s eyes followed your every movement as he gazed at you with nothing but pure adoration. This little crush he seemed to have on you was subject to many of the unrelenting teasing from the kitchen staff, especially from Patty. He didn’t mind being the butt of the joke, especially as his only crime per say was his unrequited fantasy in pining for you.

Sure, he’d flirt with many women over the course of his shift – more often than not to secure a higher tip, or to simply mess with an overzealous man who needed his oversized head to be knocked down a few paces. It was only ever playful, nothing truly more. With you? He found to be fixated on you. The highlight of his shift was knowing you were with him on Baratie, pulling all of your strength, effort and unbridled determination in ensuring the smooth sailing of each night. He adored how much work you put into the place, especially as he owed his life to the head chef and having you aboard seemed to make everything flow so easily.

Silence fell between you as you cut into the meal Sanji prepared for you and continued to place it into your mouth. He continued to smoke, always turning to release the smoke away from you to not tarnish your dining experience in any way.

Loud footsteps broke you both out of your shared silence together as Patty almost skipped over to the place you were sitting, a broad smile adorning his finely groomed facial hair.

Immediately, alarm bells blared into you as this smile you came to know as the one he would only ever use when asking you to cover a shift.

“No,” you said, holding your hands out and defensively shaking them at him, “absolutely not.”

The smile continued to widen over Patty’s features as a clasped his hands together in a pleading fashion.

“Oh my darling, the most precious and radiant flower all of the ocean has to offer,” Patty began his tirade of flattery aimed at you, prompting Sanji to turn to stare at his form.

You shook your head and frowned at him, continuing to wave your arms in front of your face.

“Don’t even start-,” you began, being cut off by more flattery.

“The angel of the east blue,” Patty spoke over you, “more beautiful than the shooting stars littering the sky!”

You brought your thumb and middle finger to your brow before raking your fingertips through the loose strands of your hair. Sanji’s eyes narrowed slightly at the stream of compliments flowing from the blue-haired chef.

“What happened?” you uttered reluctantly at his flattery. Patty dropped his hands from their pleading position and released a sigh, reluctantly removing the smile from his face.

“Cole slipped a disc in his back while walking down the steps last night,” Patty uttered through gritted teeth. You sighed slightly and frowned at the comment.

“Are you certain it’s a slipped disc? Not the fact that his fiancé was finally cleared to dock yesterday?” you growled at Patty. He flinched a little at your accusation, before uttering.

“Actually, he did seem more limber this morning,” he confirmed with a downturned smile, arching his eyebrows. You groaned and lay back into your reclined position after placing the fork on the side table alongside you finished plate.

“If Cole wants me to do his bar shift for him, he should be the one here grovelling for coverage,” you declared with frustration. Patty nervously laughed at your comment, turning to look at Sanji who had a look of complete displeasure on his features.

“You know what?” you suddenly said, sitting up from your reclining position, “the only way I will accept the shift tonight is if the almighty head chef Zeff himself saunters over here and tilts my head up with his index finger and whispers it to me like he would a lover. If those absolute improbable circumstances are completed, I’ll work the bar tonight.”

You slumped back into your seat with a large smile, knowing there was no way Zeff would come to you and flirt his way into having you complete a bar shift for him. Sanji snickered slightly at the thought. Patty excused himself from your presence and sculked back into the halls to where you assume he would go and ask another rostered off member of staff to complete tonight’s shift.

“I think that’s the first time I’ve ever seen you turn down a shift,” Sanji said, collecting another cigarette from his jacket pocket.

“It’s been five months since I’ve had a proper rostered off day,” you shrugged your shoulders and slumped back into your chair and enjoying the warm rays of the sun shining into your body, “and that was the only thing I could think of to get Patty off my case. I have so much respect for Zeff, and I would never mean to disrespect him in any way. I’m sure Patty has run off to find someone else, anyway.” Sanji smiled in response.

“May I?” Sanji asked, gesturing to your bag to retrieve your lighter.

“Go right ahead, love,” you said, closing your eyes and placing your hands behind your head.

Suddenly your peaceful morning was again interrupted with a loud thump and heavy wooden slap echoing along the polished wooden floor of the hallway where Patty had retreated into moments earlier. Several other bellowing drumbeats could also be heard reverberating behind the thump and slap, alerting both Sanji and yourself to a few bodies approaching.

You snapped your eyes open and stood immediately alert, focusing your sights on the approaching figure of your head chef.

“Alright, pumpkin,” the chef declared, charging over to the place you were standing alongside Sanji, “I’ll play along.”

Your eyes immediately widened at the figure closing the distance between you. Several other chefs, including Patty and Carne were trailing closely behind him almost brimming with excitement.

“Sorry Chef?” you apologised as more of an indication of mishearing him, shock riddling your face. He closed the distance between your bodies, bringing himself uncomfortably close to your own. He reached his hand forward and hooked his index finger beneath your chin, lifting your gaze to focus on his eyes.

“I need you,” he whispered into your face with a hint of close intimacy, holding firm to your chin and pulling all of your focus into his gaze. He paused before he released your chin from his firm grip, “to work the bar tonight.”

You felt a blush creep up over your shocked features as your head chef stepped away from you.

“Y-yes chef,” you managed to stutter out from between your clenched teeth, eyes still standing wide in shock. He smirked slightly and brushed his hands over his apron, stepping away from your close proximity. The snickers of your coworkers were reverberating throughout the area, causing more waves of embarrassment to course over your body.

“I meant no disrespect, chef,” you called after him, suddenly. Zeff chuckled in response.

“I know, sweetheart,” he said, “couldn’t resist a challenge though. Get a move on, your shift starts in under an hour.”

He began to retreat back to the kitchen office before calling back over his shoulder; “and Cole was working a double tonight.”

You hung your head and grit your teeth at the shock of the fact your boss actually responded to your non-serious challenge. Your shock was broken by the full belly-laugh from the blonde sous chef next to you, prompting you to snap your gaze over to his. His eyes were closed as he flung his head back and released more of his unhinged laughter.

“Your face,” he managed to gasp out through his unrelenting chuckles, “you should’ve seen your face.”

You growled slightly at the comments made by your coworker.

“Yeah, well I didn’t think my words all the way through, did I?” you spat at him in mock anger. He continued to laugh at you, wiping a small collection of tears spent at your expense.

“I didn’t think the old man had that amount of charm in him,” he said once hunching himself over and wiping his palms over his knees to collect himself.

“To be fair, neither did I,” you replied, “for a second there, I almost caught feelings for the man.”

Sanji chuckled again and straightened himself up.

“Gee if that all it takes to charm you, I should’ve given that a go first. Didn’t need to go through all the trouble of making you breakfast,” he playfully flirted with you, nudging your shoulder with his own. You offered him a warm smile in response.

“Alright, enough playing,” you said, nudging him back, “I’ve got to go get changed out of all this and make myself presentable.”

“You’re always more than beautiful, princess,” Sanji commented at you with a playful smile.

“Hah-hah,” you responded sarcastically, “seriously, love. I’ve got to go get into my bloody uniform now. Customers await.”

You reached your hand up and patted his cheek affectionately.

“Thank you again for breakfast,” you expressed your gratefulness to him, “it was beautiful. We should do this more often.”

He widened his eyes at you and leant slightly into your touch before you turned on your way, returning to your crew quarters. His gaze trailed over you, eyes filling slightly with a small amount of want. Although partially exhausted, he was so glad he gave up his night to preparing a dish especially for you – especially as you released such beautiful sounds acknowledging how much you appreciated it.

He was absolutely going to make something more flavourful for you to hopefully pull more of those melodic sounds from your lips. If he can’t have you moaning his name while coupling with you in a romantic embrace, he was going to extract those illicit sounds from you the only other way he knew how: cooking.

Part 2

[sissylittlefeather]

It's double-fic Wednesday!

Although, I'm not sure this counts as a fic 😂. More like a ficlet or drabble.

Anyway, here it is:

Play

Warnings: 18+ SMUTFEST MINORS DNI, cussing, blowjob, swallowing, pwp

Word count: ~580

Elvis bites his lip and stifles a moan. He looks down over his guitar to where his legs are spread wide and you have your warm, wet little mouth wrapped around his rock hard cock. You pull back and leave the tip of him glistening.

"I told ya to keep playin' baby."

"Not sure I c-can, doll." He breathes heavily at the sight of you on your knees, dick in your hand, pink lipstick smeared.

"Then I'll just stop." He shakes his head quickly.

"No, please don't. I-I-I'll play." He forms his fingers in a chord and starts strumming gently. You smile and lick the precum off his head, savoring the salty taste of him. He looks up at the ceiling and sighs, trying desperately to keep his hands moving on the guitar.

"Fuuuuck." You slide your lips all the way around his member, pushing it deep into your throat and sucking gently. He groans and muddles the chord progression as you bounce your mouth on him pornographically. When you open your throat and bury your nose in his pubic hair, he whimpers and you gag a little. His hips buck, but he keeps his hands moving. He's dying to fill your throat with hot white ropes of cum, but the guitar is slowing him down.

You pull off a little, lips puffy from use, and pump him with your hand. Then, you swirl your tongue around the tip of his cock while you jack him off. His hand shakes and he drops his pick.

"Goddamnit doll, I gotta cum."

"Play. Or I'm done." You squeeze his dick in your hand gently and he whimpers again. He half-heartedly strums the strings and rolls his hips into your palm.

"Fuck, baby, please." He can feel his load waiting just at the base of him, making his balls throb.

"Play." He moans loudly and his hands tremble, but he makes a chord and strums again. "Good boy."

You sink your pretty lips onto him again, holding them tight as you move down his dick slowly. He's so close to cumming that he feels like he might cry. He bites his lip again to stifle a groan and strums the guitar as fast as he can, imagining his hand on his cock. But he doesn't have to use his imagination long as you slide your mouth up and down quickly, complimenting your movements with your hand. His dick is sloppy with your spit as you give him just the right amount of friction and pressure.

"God! Fuck!" He damn near screams as you pump him and suck him all at once. His hands stop and his hips shudder against the guitar as he finally climaxes, shooting your mouth full of salty, hot semen. You swallow as he cums, sucking his release out of him like his dick is a straw. His eyes roll back and his body shakes as the waves of ecstasy crash over him, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.

When you finish, you lick a stripe up the bottom of his shaft and kiss his tip gently. He jerks and yelps from the overstimulation and then relaxes in the chair, arms and legs going slack.

"There. Now do you think you can record the song?" He looks up at you, his pupils blown and eyelids heavy with the afterglow of his orgasm.

"Yes. I can, doll." He slurs almost drunkenly.

"Good. You know I love to watch you play."

******

End

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Taglist:

@ccab @elvisalltheway101 @aliypop @18lkpeters @dkayfixates @tacozebra051 @your-nanas-house @deniseinmn @joshuntildawn13 @lookingforrainbows @60svintage @littlehoneyposts @epthedream69 @louisejoy86 @rjmartin11 @from-memphis-with-love @deltafalax @atleastpleasetelephone @cinnamoroll-things @burnthheparaphilia @jhoneybees @cattcb @everythingelvispresley @returntopresley

[lokisgoodgirl]

A Battle of Wills [Loki x Fem.Reader]

A link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: [Oneshot] You and Loki play a dirty game of denial. (w/c 1.8k) Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Smut. Language.

“I give you five minutes,” Loki growled hot and wet in your ear.

The dulcet words dripped from his tongue like treacle. “Five minutes before you’re writhing and whining my name like penitent sinner on the church steps.” He gave the light restraints around your wrists a self-congratulatory yank. “Whatever, Laufeyson," you whispered, "I give you...three.” You didn’t need to see him to know he was frowning.

“Time will tell," he sniffed, haughtiness oozing. The rustle of a sanctimonious hair flick was the only noise in the pregnant silence while he straightened. “You’ll lose," you sighed, settling into the pillow. A smile pressed against the silk mask covering your eyes. “You’re too horny.” Loki’s defiant footsteps retreated, letting the bedroom door swing with a soft creak behind him. But it stayed ajar, the closing click never coming. You pressed your lips together, feeling the cracks where they had dried from his rough kisses. The corners tingled, the bruise beneath the skin of your cupids bow feeling tender. I’m not going to be the one. Not this time. You arched your back, pulling at the restraints. What knot was it tonight? A one handed slip? An inline double coin? A finger curled with difficulty over a lump of silk rope, mapping the tell-tale curves. A prusik head. So it was one of those nights. In the burgundy veil behind your eyelids, shadows danced. There was an exaggerated sigh as Loki reclined on the sofa, the creak of the frame under his weight slicing the stillness. You could feel the familiar tingle of his gaze darting sporadically towards the open door, heavy with lustful arrogance. Could he see you on the bed? Cautiously, you stretched a bare leg upwards, toe pointed to the ceiling before bending it over the other. The curve of your naked ass was displayed towards the doorway, a wordless invitation to rescue...or ravish, the bound and helpless damsel in his bed. A dark rumble sounded from the living room, a synchronised squeak from the furniture betraying your voyeur’s unmistakeable reaction. He could. You smiled, imagining his slanted brows, his tongue instinctually licking towards where you lay strewn like prey. The gloss from your abandoned pussy would still be on his lips. Beneath his nose. A taste of what he was denying himself. The primal scent would be hanging thick in his nostrils. Your sly smile stretched wider. It had been what, ten seconds? Feigning an attempt to escape the binds, you moaned softly. The sofa creaked again. You could sense the anxious whirr of Loki's racing mind, his fingers clenching and unclenching as he tried to distract himself. The slide of cotton against his thighs as he crossed his legs. A tepid exhale as he uncrossed them again. Your lip twitched, hearing the familiar clunk of his belt buckle. And so it begins, you thought; as he carefully unfurled the leather through its holster. He was trying to be quiet. Trying to be subtle. And he was failing.

You squeezed your eyelids shut beneath the blindfold, concentrating. Each breath rising in your chest was tempered as you tried to zone in on the smallest sounds which betrayed Loki’s impatience. A low hum rustled through the air. His zipper, you thought smugly as you slid your legs together, pushing your chest upwards. He paused, listening - before resuming the zipper's clandestine descent. You could sense the grit of his teeth. The silent snarl as he wordlessly cursed the game he had initiated.

The delayed pleasure built to breaking point was always worth it, but god – it was torture. Before slipping on the blindfold, Loki’s tongue had explored every crevice of your sex, bringing you tantalisingly close to the edge. The sight of his dark crown buried between your open thighs flashed through your mind in silken darkness; low pants of muffled moans wet against your skin. With one final, licentious lick his face had risen between your trembling legs. The tip of his tongue danced softly over the curve of your clit as he teased your climax like a hanging axe. Snatching it away. From the look in his eyes, you had known what was coming. Mischief. And now it was time for him to pay. “Mmmm…” you moaned softly, sliding your hips on the soft sheets. The silk of your hold-ups slipped easily against the cotton, gracefully manoeuvring you into another achingly seductive position. “Cheater,” you heard the god rumble under his breath. He inhaled sharply, breath catching. It was the sound he always made when those long fingers wrapped around his throbbing cock for the first time. Loki let out a juddering sigh as he began to stroke himself. You let your mind become quiet. From the tortuously controlled rate of his breathing, you knew he was moving slowly. Too slowly. But he couldn’t resist the urge. He would barely be touching himself, trying to work every ounce of pleasure from the lightest of pumps. He didn’t want you to know how desperate he was. And he was desperate. Or at least, he would be. You squirmed. It was all you could do not to scream for him to mount you like an animal and fuck you into the headboard. Right now his shoulder-blades would be squeezing together, jaw set in a snarl as he tempered his pleasure. The velvet skin which coated its cock; the veins which crested along the thick shaft would sizzle under his calloused fingers. You had traced every one with your tongue, each secret sensitivity exposed as he grasped the bedsheets and grit his teeth to the ceiling. Right now you knew those same perfect teeth would be grinding, those piercing eyes fixed on his woman as she widened her legs. Maybe next time he’ll bind those too, you thought with a smirk. But not tonight. Not after the timer starts. That’s against the rules.

In your speckled darkness you could picture him sitting on the sofa beyond the door as clear as day. He was still wearing his suit trousers – he could remove them but he mistakenly thought they would increase his chances of denying the urge to break first. His pale cock would be standing proud from the splayed fly, the wetted tip tapping against his stomach with every achingly slow pump of his hand. The sight of Loki of Asgard fucking himself would never get old. The way he worked his carved, chiselled body - the clench of his obliques as he tightened his grip around the leaking tip. He would gather the foreskin before pulling roughly down. You loved that. How he retained that erotic stoicism until the final, tense moment when he splattered his seed on your tongue. Your face. Your tits. The fact he had denied you that sight tonight was another reason for revenge. A muffled grunt sounded through the wall. ‘Gods’, it growled, the timbre inhuman. He knew what was coming.

You didn’t care if the hot slick between your thighs was saliva or fresh arousal. The thought of it being both sent a thrill racing through your blood. You clenched, feeling it begin to seep between your cheeks. It tickled. A moan slid past your lips as you let your legs fall open, thrusting gently to the ceiling as you arched your back. Don’t say his name, you cursed silently. Don’t call out.

The clock ticked. There was a scuff as Loki’s feet drew towards the sofa on which he sat; toes curling in his dress shoes. Don’t give him the satisfaction.

Loki released a ragged breath. He sucked in sharply, the bite of pleasure from his tightening fingers making him wince. He was leaking. Drops of pre-cum squeezed from the aching tip of his cock with every reluctant sweep of his fist. He had begun too soon. He knew that. He glanced to the side, instantly regretting it. There you were, laid out like supper. Your wrists bound to his bed-frame. A prusik head knot – you wouldn’t escape that easily. Even with your talents. The sight made him weak. His stare roamed hungrily over the straps of your lingerie, supple curves glowing in the sultry light from the salt lamp. Only the bra and unhooked suspender belt remained. The matching panties lay discarded and wet on the bedroom floor. Had he ripped them in his eagerness to latch his searching mouth to your perfect little cunt? He couldn’t recall. With you, it always turned into a bit of a haze. Like an animal, he mulled; lowering his chin to his chest.

Loki bit his lip, stifling a growl as your feet slid up the sheets. The lace rims of your hold ups flashed as you squirmed coquettishly. I should have closed the door, Loki pondered bitterly. You knew exactly how to drive him to the brink. And he knew what came next.

“Gods,” he murmured gruffly, mouth agape as your knees fell open. In sync, his brows slanted. If only you could see him, you would instantly know how close he was to abandoning his hand in favour of your heavenly body. In favour of that sinfully decadent mess displayed brazenly between your open legs. Your smirk would be unbearable as he paced towards you like a defeated war-lord to yield his sword to your possession. Honour-bound to surrender. Fucking that smirk off your face would be an absolute pleasure. Loki grimaced, giving his shaft a punishing squeeze. She is growing too sure of her power over me, he snarled to himself. Do not yield. His narrowed eyes inched reluctantly over your glistening folds, plump pink skin begging to be sucked. Begging to be fucked. The top of your thighs shimmered. She’s so ready to be mine, look at her – he thought, the familiar dark haze descending. Spread and wet and insolent. Saliva welled beneath his tongue. Loki instinctively leant forward, the taste of you still lingering in his mouth as his muscles twitched. Perhaps he had been too hasty. Perhaps, tonight was not the time for games – not when you looked so- “F-fuck…” he growled, as a thumb slipped over the sensitive underside. The sticky digit caught against his foreskin, making his eyes roll back. All he needed was you. All he wanted was your hands, your mouth – your needy mewls as he made your world shake. He watched your hips thrust gently to the ceiling, every low clench of your ass driving him demented with lust.

Were you imagining his cock rocking into you? She better be. He grit his teeth. From the melodic gyration in your hips, he knew you were getting it how you liked it on nights like this. Slow, and rippling. Crushingly fluid thrusts that drove you back into the headboard and spilled you over the edge like treacle as you shamelessly howled his name. Loki’s fingers tightened around his shaft, pace quickening. His head fell back against the sofa, curls hanging sluttishly against his collarbone. He released a calculated moan of pleasure, brow furrowing as he saw your back arch in response. You will not surrender, he chanted to himself. Loki's eyes fell on your slippery sex, clenching in synchronisation with his rising groan, a well of glistening heat smothering your little cunt. Any moment now, he thought desperately, beginning to pant. Any moment now...she’ll break.

You slid one leg down the bed, warmth spreading in your belly as you heard Loki’s rattling sigh. The urge to call out to him was unbearable. To have him storm into the bedroom like a sexual warrior and begin his carnal worship, invading every curve with his weight. With his hands and mouth and words. ‘Loki...fuck me’. That’s all it would take. The phrase lingered on your tongue like salt, ready to spit. The words caught behind your teeth. God, he was too much. And you wanted it all. Now. But then, had he even been trying tonight? Or, maybe you were just that good. A single desperate whimper fluttered as you pulled the binds around your wrists. Loki choked suddenly, a rasping gasp tearing the stillness. A tight slap of his palm against the sofa sounded as he steadied himself. He had been close. Too close. You smirked as silence fell. You could barely hear him breathing. “Fuck,” Loki murmured bitterly. His tongue caught wetly on the k. There were no more words from Loki Laufeyson. Only the sound of his open belt buckle clunking gently as he stood, sword in hand. Ready to surrender.

Tags @lokischambermaid @meowmeow-motherfucker @muddyorbsblr @imalovernotahater @avengersalways @littledark11 @lokikissesmyforehead @simplyholl @fictive-sl0th @thedistractedagglomeration @loveroflokiforpoeticjustice @coldnique @jaidenhawke @silverfire475 @vbecker10 @imalovernotahater @thomase1 @morriggannlostinfandoms @marygoddessofmischief @sebstanwhore @peacefulpianist @maple-seed @yelkmelk @wheredafandomat @mistress-ofmagic @infinitystoner @goblingirlsarah @ozymdias @peaches1958 @your-taste-on-my-lips @lokidokieokie @kikster606 @peachyjinx @tbhiddlestan83 @trickster-maiden @skymoonandstardust @justjoanne242 @glitchquake @ladyofthestayingpower @wolfmoonmusic @brittbax @smolvenger @lunarnights95 @superficialdomina @kaleenjackson @fictional-hooman @psychospore @littlespaceyelf

[oddoul]

Look at you, so skeptical at first. Now you hear your trigger and those shoes come off SO FAST. you need to show off those socked feet. Keep looking at that pendulum. Now SLEEP.

DEEP SLEEP. Trying to open your eyes but those eyelids are SO HEAVY. Good. Slowly... roll your eyes. Breathe through your mouth, inhale, EXHALE. Your body goes limp. Your brain is turning into soft, malleable material.

Let go. Deep into TRANCE. No choice, just obedience. Double that relaxation. You feel so comfortable, you know it's the right thing to do, to submit to this deep state of HYPNOSIS.

Listen to my voice and relax your muscles, relax your arms. Your left arm is so relaxed... it's becoming lighter, it's floating, feel how it floats. The more it floats, the more you go deeper INTO TRANCE.

You'll loose all willpower once you release your shoe. At the count of three both your arms will float, 1... 2... 3... Trying to reach the ceiling. Your whole body is floppy and relaxed. When you touch that ceiling your body will turn into a PUPPET, MY TOY.

You can't control your neck now, its getting limp and soft. Carefully, drop your head backwards and go deeper into trance. Your mind is drifting away. Your arms are SO heavy, your legs feel SO HEAVY too. Your socked feet are STUCK to the floor.

Prop your socked feet up on the table now. Relax EVEN DEEPER into hypnosis than before. So relaxed, SLEEP. I'm placing my toy in such a comfortable, warm position. Not able to move. Completely unaware of your surroundings. Safe, warm and secure. Sshhh...

[whxtedreams]

Chapter 2: The Fairy and the King

Blood Runs Thicker than Water - Joel & F!Reader (Platonic DBF!)

Summary: Joel takes you to the supermarket to get the cake mix he forgot to get, and treats you to ice cream.

Word Count: 2.9k

Tags: Joel is just a tired dad, Joel being a little shit of a brother, Joel not having his shit together, Joel hates sprinkles (but he gets them for you anyway), panic, Joel is just full of anxiety, Tommy being Tommy, reader is just very cute

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on AO3

Chapter 2: The Fairy and the King

"Hey Dad, did you end up getting stuff for the cake?" Sarah's voice echoes through the house from the kitchen, along with the sound of cabinets closing.

Joel closes his eyes, a weary sigh escaping his lips as he mutters a curse under his breath. The little girl lays sprawled on the floor before him, diligently sketching her latest masterpiece. He realizes that he was meant to purchase a cake mix after work last night, along with the pancake mix. In reality, there was much he had intended to do the day before, but his double shift at work had left his mind feeling drained and exhausted by evening's end. When he returned home, his exhaustion got the better of him, he stumbled into bed, and accidentally slept past his alarm this morning.

Joel yawns widely, feeling the exhaustion settle over him like a heavy veil. His eyelids flutter tiredly, struggling to remain open. He brings his hand up to his face, rubbing his fingers over his closed eyelids before running his hand down his face, trying to wake himself up. Leaning back on the couch, he rests his tired limbs, just for a moment.

Why can't he seem to get even the simplest things right? The thought echoes in his head as he gazes up at the stained ceiling, the sight of the unfixed flaw serving as a reminder of yet another incomplete task. Exhaustion and frustration wash over him in waves, leaving him feeling overwhelmed and defeated.

Joel feels a light tap on his knee, drawing his attention away from the stained ceiling. He glances down to find the little girl grinning brightly up at him, her small hand offering him a colorful drawing. The sight of her smile and the gesture of her drawing melts away the weight of his exhaustion for a moment, bringing a small, tender smile to his lips.

Joel's voice softens as he examines the drawing, turning it around in his hands. His eyes take in the details of the figures - a smaller one with what appear to be wings, standing beside a larger figure resembling him. A warm smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as he contemplates the image, touched by the child's depiction of him. "What's this?" he asks softly, genuinely curious about the drawing's meaning.

She gleefully points at the smaller figure with wings and proclaims, "That's me, I'm a fairy!" Then she taps the larger figure and declares, "And that's you, you're a king!" Joel lets out a soft chuckle, thoroughly charmed by the child's imaginative portrayal. His heart warms with affection as he appreciates the innocence and creativity behind her drawing.

Joel's voice is tender as he looks back at her, a fond smile on his lips. "That's mighty sweet of you, baby," he remarks, his eyes fixed on her joyous face. He watches her face light up with excitement as he suggests framing the drawing on the refrigerator. Her eager agreement brings a warm chuckle to his chest.

“Dad?” Sarah calls out again from the kitchen.

“I’ll be there in a sec!” Joel shouts back to his daughter before he turns to the little girl as she climbs onto the couch beside him.

Joel gently pats her head with a warm smile. "Why don't you do another drawing for me while I go talk to Sarah? I'll be back in a second, alright?" he suggests, pausing briefly to admire her radiant smile. With a deep breath, he pushes himself off the couch.

Joel stops in his tracks mid-step, a mischievous twinkle in his eye as he turns back towards the little girl. "Do you remember when we watched Shrek together?" he asks, his voice betraying a hint of playful scheming. Her nod confirms her recollection, and he continues, "Why don't you draw Tommy as Shrek? I'm sure he will absolutely love that. We can show him when he comes over tonight." The girl's eyes light up at the suggestion, clearly excited to participate in this amusing surprise for his brother.

A soft chuckle escapes Joel's lips as he strides into the kitchen, shaking his head slightly. He takes a moment to stick the colorful drawing onto the refrigerator with a magnet, positioning it beside Sarah's latest award.

Sarah's voice quips in amusement, her tone filled with gentle teasing. "Looks just like you. Even got your big feet right," she remarks, leaning against the counter.

Joel rolls his eyes, feigning exasperation. "Very funny," he retorts with a deadpan expression, turning to face his daughter. Despite the mock disappointment in his voice, a small smile tugs at the corners of his lips, revealing his amusement.

Joel lets out a weary sigh as he approaches the pantry, joining his daughter beside it. He begins rummaging through the cans, moving them around with a hint of frustration, hoping a cake mix will magically appear. It doesn’t. "Do we really need a cake?" he mutters, his voice tinged with exhaustion.

Joel, noticing the absence of a response, pokes his head around the pantry door only to find Sarah regarding him with a raised eyebrow. The sight of her expression makes him feel somewhat scolded.

Joel, feeling a bit sheepish under Sarah's watchful eye, relents with a weary sigh. He knows that they need a cake for tonight, and it seems the pantry won't magically produce one. So, he agrees, "Alright, I'll take the little monster to go get a cake." He closes the pantry door, resigning himself to the task at hand.

Sarah chimes in with a casual shrug, offering a practical solution. "What if you just buy a cake?" she suggests.

Joel scans the kitchen bench, rummaging through the bowl for his keys, and responds with a determined glint in his eye. "Why buy a cake when we can make one ourselves? It’s cheaper anyway" he replies, a sense of determination in his voice.

Sarah reminds him with a sarcastic jab, dangling the keys in her hand as she recalls the memory, "Dad, you burned my birthday cake." Joel sighs, shaking his head as he recalls the unfortunate incident. He had indeed attempted to bake Sarah a cake for her birthday, but things hadn't gone quite as planned.

"It wasn't that bad," he defends himself with a sheepish grin as he picks the keys dangling from her hand.

“Tommy threw up.”

Joel mutters under his breath, a hint of amusement in his voice, "Tommy is just a dramatic little shit." He slips his wallet into his pocket and heads out of the kitchen to ensure the living room hasn't turned into a war zone in his absence.

Joel walks into the living room to find the child still engrossed in her drawing, creating an amusing portrayal of his brother as an ugly ogre. He chuckles softly, his laughter tinged with affection, as he watches her for a moment.

Joel smiles affectionately as he scoops the child into his arms, lifting her off the floor. She protests stubbornly, mumbling something about wanting to continue drawing.

Joel reassures her gently as he descends the steps towards his truck. "You can keep drawing Tommy when we get back, alright? You and I are going on an adventure," he says with enthusiasm, hoping to pique her interest.

She pouts, not particularly thrilled about venturing out, and voices her protest, prompting Joel to sigh softly. "Yeah, I know, kid. I know," he echoes, tenderly seating her in her car seat. He then makes a tantalizing proposal, "But if we're both good, how about we go get some ice cream afterward? That sound good?" His words laced with a gentle persuasion as he buckles her into her seat, pulling at it to make sure she’s safe.

Despite being four, the child surprises Joel with her well-mannered behavior in the supermarket. Joel finds himself marveling at her unusually cooperative attitude, speculating that perhaps her good behavior might be influenced by the promise of ice cream as a reward. He couldn't help but feel relieved and pleased by her unexpected angelic demeanor during the shopping trip.

Reflecting on his past experiences with Sarah at the same age, Joel chuckles softly as he recalls the challenges he faced. Unlike the child now, Sarah was a handful, constantly on the move and prone to running off in the supermarket. To keep her under control, Joel had resorted to securing her in the shopping cart, ensuring both his stress levels and sanity remained intact.

Joel's phone rings, disrupting the moment. He releases the girl's hand and fishes his phone out of his pocket, carefully balancing the shopping basket in his other hand. A familiar number flashes on the screen - it's Tommy, and Joel can't help but let out a slight sigh before answering the call.

Joel's voice carries a hint of annoyance as he speaks into the phone, "What do you want?" Glancing over the shelf, he picks up a container of chocolate icing and presents it to the girl with a shrug. She smiles and nods in approval, and Joel feels a sense of relief that they agree on the flavor as he places it in the basket.

Tommy's voice taunts through the phone, his words dripping with sarcasm. "Oh, so what? I can’t call my brother on his birthday while I'm covering his ass at work? You know I'm doing you a massive favor," he mocks. Joel can't help but roll his eyes at his brother's playful jibe.

As he listens to Tommy's sarcastic remarks on the phone, Joel responds with a playful, childish display. He playfully snaps his fingers to imitate his brother yapping and mumbles 'blah, blah, blah,' making exaggerated faces that make the child giggle as she watches him.

Joel's voice shifts to a more serious tone as he addresses Tommy over the phone, "Yeah, I know. Listen, I'm just taking care of Myles' kid. Can I chat with you later?" He glances down at the girl, who has now knelt on the floor, engrossed in the array of sprinkles.

Joel can't help but feel a sense of exasperation as his gaze drifts upward, directed at the ceiling. He can see it coming – her eyes now fixated on the colorful sprinkles, and she's likely going to want them for the cake. Unfortunately, he understands all too well that most of those sprinkles will end up on the kitchen floor instead of in the cake.

Tommy begins venting about the issues arising on the current work site, listing a series of problems that have gone awry. Joel attempts to interject, offering a different perspective or suggesting solutions, but his brother continues to talk over him, caught up in his own grievances. The frustration mounts as Joel tries to maintain patience and listen to his brother's venting.

As Joel listens to his brother's ongoing complaints, he can't help but feel like time is slowing down. Picking up the cake mix with sprinkles already included, a sense of relief washes over him. This could indeed be a better option compared to having sprinkles scattered on the outside of the cake, which means less mess for him to clean up. A plan forms in his mind to convince the kid that this is a more exciting choice, hoping she'll happily agree.

A sense of panic washes over Joel as he glances down where the kid was moments ago, only to find her absence. He scans the aisle urgently, desperately searching for any sign of her among the shelves. But she's nowhere to be found. The realization that she's no longer beside him sparks a feeling of dread, his stomach tightening and his heart skipping a beat in a swift surge of panic.

Joel curses under his breath, his voice tense and filled with anxiety. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," he mutters, hastily ending the call with his brother, his mind solely focused on finding the girl.

Joel abandons the shopping basket, the contents scattered on the floor as he urgently calls out the girl's name. His voice echoes through the store, filled with panic and fear. Each step he takes feels heavier, and his chest tightens, making it difficult to breathe. The adrenaline coursing through his veins fuels his desperate search as he scans the different aisles, searching for any sign of her.

This isn’t happening, this can’t be happening. She was just there, right beside him looking at the stupid sprinkles.

With a mixture of relief and panic flooding through him, Joel finally spots a pair of purple sneakers with flowers on them. The sight of her triggers a wave of emotions within him, his heart still racing as he approaches her. He can't help but feel a sense of nausea rising within him as he crouches down beside her, his gaze falling upon her, engrossed in a children's book, sitting on the sticky floor.

She’s seemingly unbothered by the chaos that had just erupted. Joel's initial rush of fear gives way to a mixture of relief and frustration, as he grapples with the emotions swirling inside him.

Joel's voice quivers slightly as he speaks to her, trying to keep his emotions in check. "Sweetheart, you can't run off on me like that," he says, attempting to maintain a semblance of calm. "You scared me, thought I lost you." The anxiety and fear he felt moments ago still linger just beneath the surface, but he doesn’t want to alarm her with his own panic.

She looks up at him, a gentle frown creasing her small brow as she processes his words. Her voice is filled with genuine remorse as she apologizes. "I'm sorry," she says softly, her words carrying the innocence and sincerity of a young child. Joel can't help but feel his own heart soften at her apology, a mixture of relief and affection flooding through him.

Joel takes a deep breath, slowly steadying himself as he gently lifts her off the ground, his grip a little tighter than usual. His voice quivers slightly as he speaks. "It's okay, sweetheart," he reassures her softly, his words tinged with a mix of relief and concern. "I just don't know what I'd do with myself if I ever lost you," He hugs her close to him as they walk back to the abandoned shopping basket,

"You didn't lose me, I'm right here." Her words carry a sense of playful reassurance, as if it should have been obvious to Joel all along. Joel can't help but chuckle softly, her laughter and comment helping to ease the lingering worry he felt.

Joel playfully agrees with her, his tone lighthearted and amused. "You're absolutely right! How could I forget that?" he chuckles, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he picks up the basket.

He picks up a packet of sprinkles on his way out.

"RAINBOW!" She shrieks and her eyes sparkle with sheer joy as she spots the rainbow ice cream, her finger pointed at the colorful treat. In her excitement, her other hand hits Joel's shoulder. He winces slightly from the unexpected impact, but her enthusiasm is contagious, and he can't help but laugh softly in response.

Joel’s playful voice teases her, jokingly suggesting, "Are you sure you don't want some plain vanilla instead?" But the child is not fooled, and she eagerly pushes him, her determination clear as she points insistently at the rainbow ice cream. The store employee smiles at the child's unbridled excitement, already scooping the colorful ice cream into a cone for her.

He orders a strawberry cone for himself before taking the colorful rainbow cone from the employee and passing it to the child. Her face lights up with delight as her fingers wrap around the cone, her smile so wide it seems like it could stretch across the entire store. Joel can't help but smile too.

Joel takes a few extra napkins from the store and makes his way to the park with the child. He carefully places her on a bench before sitting down beside her. As soon as he does, she shoves the ice cream into her mouth, excitement bubbling over. Joel watches as the sweet treat coats her face, her giggles and the messiness of the moment bringing a warm smile to his lips.

Joel shakes his head in amusement, trying to wipe the ice cream off her face, and she grins up at him, her tiny teeth glinting in the sunlight. His own ice cream is momentarily forgotten as he diligently attempts to clean up the mess, only to have it drip onto his shirt instead.

Joel mutters to himself, "Should have seen that coming," as he attempts to wipe the ice cream off his shirt, only managing to spread the mess further. He shakes his head with a mix of exasperation and amusement, but he finds it difficult to be annoyed in the presence of the child's joyful laughter.

Joel looks down at the child with a playful smirk on his face. "Oh, you think that's funny, huh?" He teases, his voice tinged with mock indignation, all while more ice cream drizzles down onto his pants. Despite the added mess, Joel can't help but grin at her infectious laughter, the sound filling the park with warmth and glee.

“Yep!” She smiles as she covers her face again in ice cream once more.

Click here for Chapter 3

Notes

Joel just being Joel. I had way too much fun just writing a chill scene between him, sarah and the reader tbh. Just life before the outbreak, Joel just trying to do his best by everyone. he's just being a silly dad And we all know Joel did not have his shit together before the outbreak. So i tried to bring that aspect to the chapter. Also! this isn't time-line or accurate to the shows events. As Joel went to work on his birthday and all that, but I just worked around that for the purpose of the fic.

Next chapter Sneak Peak!

“There’s smoke in the kitchen again.” Sarah sighs as she steps into the living room. He mutters a curse under his breath as he lowers the child onto the floor, stepping over the myriad of balloons. His movements are hasty as he rushes to the oven, where the cake is now burned to a crisp and black. The sight of the ruined dessert is met with a mix of disappointment and frustration, and Joel lets out a discouraged sigh as he surveys the damage.

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Every comment, like and reblog means the world to me. please let me know your thoughts about this, i want to ramble about this story so much.

tags: @sunandmuun , @rain-soaked-sun , @frootloops1213 , @samarav

[writing-for-marvel]

Everyone’s Watching Him (But He’s Looking At Her) (3)

Actor!Bucky Barnes x Assistant!Fem!Reader

< < PART 2 | Series Masterlist | PART 4 > >

Summary: You’ve barely had time to recover from the controversial interview the night before, but it’s time for Bucky to step into the limelight yet again for his movie premiere.

Warnings: body insecurity and mention of reader sucking her stomach in, idiots in love, soft fluff, shy & insecure reader, jealousy, multiple POV switches, miscommunication, angst (yes, you read that right, though it’s me so you shouldn’t be surprised)

Word count: 4.6k (I may have gotten a little carried away)

A/N: photo credit to @justarandomgirly, banners by @vase-of-lilies

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Sunshine creeps through the partly closed curtains, the brightness flickering against your closed eyelids causing you to wake from your serene slumber.

The bed is as soft as a marshmallow, and smells divine, like good quality fabric softener and an undeniable musky scent, which, when surrounding you entirely in the sheets, pillows and large duvet, is like coming home.

You’re still drowsy when you spread yourself out like a starfish, stretching all your joints that have become stiff with sleep. Which is when your brain kicks into gear and realises, in fact, this bed is much too large and comfortable to be your own.

Your eyes shoot open, and what you see confirms your suspicions that this indeed isn’t your bed. You’re met with a luxurious sized room, a large projector screen hanging from the ceiling against the wall opposite the king size bed and a chaise longue over in the corner beside a full length mirror.

Recognising it immediately as Bucky’s bedroom, you do a double take, checking to see if he’s in the bed beside you. You find your stomach sinks in disappointment when you realise you’re alone.

A soft meowing coming from the door catches your attention, but before you can shift positions too get a better look, a fluffy white cat jumps onto the bed and curls up beside your head. Much like his dad, Alpine was a little stand-offish at first, but once he became familiar with your presence, he’s been the most affectionate cat you’ve ever met.

“Good morning, handsome.” You murmur whilst reaching out to scratch under his chin. Alpine purrs in contentment. “C’mon, let’s see if your dad’s awake.”

James Barnes is of course not awake, though that doesn’t surprise you. He always needs a good eight hours of shut-eye, otherwise he’s in a horrible mood for the rest of the day.

Now that you’re wide awake, the memories of the previous night come back to you. In an attempt to distract Bucky from the chaos which would have been erupting online, you stayed up until four in the morning reminiscing, watching old movies and eating all the junk food in this extensive pantry.

Though from your last recollection you were still beside him on the couch, head resting on his shoulder as you became sleepy - you could only speculate that Bucky carried you to his bed after that.

You lean against the doorframe of his guest bedroom, coffee mug in hand and Alpine brushing against your leg as you take a moment to watch Bucky sleep. He looks so peaceful, his lips pressed together in a smile. You can’t prevent your mind from wandering to what exactly he dreams about when he closes his eyes at night, and the hope inflating like a balloon in your stomach that perhaps you have something to do with the subconscious smile he’s expressing.

After the ordeal the night before, you hate to wake him from the tranquillity he’s found for himself, rouse him into a day where all the headlines, both good and bad, will be about him, where his name will be trending on twitter, and all the gossip columnists will be speculating about who he’s dating and why he needs a prosthetic arm.

You wish you could protect him from the scandalous storm, but you also know he has a lot to do in preparation for his movie premiere tonight. The part of you who is employed as his assistant wins out this time.

“Bucky…” You coo gently from the doorway, hesitant to encroach on his personal space while he’s unconscious. You are just an assistant after all. Once you see him stir but not fully wake, you call softly again. “Buck, it’s time to get up.”

“Not yet.” He mumbles in response, making no effort to move or open his eyes, let alone get out of bed. You chuckle at how adorable he is when he’s tired. Most people would consider it being grumpy, you actually find it endearing.

“I made coffee.” You know those are the magical words to get Bucky Barnes moving for the day. He finally opens his eyes and they instantly meet yours, all you can think about is being the first thing he sees every single morning for the rest of his life.

“Thanks.” He says with a soft smile. “I’ll be right out.”

* * *

Bucky is still getting dressed when the doorbell rings.

He’s not expecting anyone, but he’s sure it’s just Maria coming over with last minute directives concerning the premiere tonight. A shiver runs down Bucky’s spine at the thought of stepping out in front of all those cameras again so soon after last night's debacle. It’s horrible timing really, but he doesn’t exactly have a choice but to attend, however reluctantly.

He’s buttoning up his shirt when he hears the distinctive sound of a toddler laughing, and he instantly knows who has paid him a visit.

When he exits his bedroom he’s met with four smiling faces. You, his darling sister, his best friend and their beautiful daughter.

“Buba!” She calls, not quite able to say his name yet.

“We thought we’d pop around after everything that happened last night. Much like her favourite uncle, Jamie has an infectious smile, and we think you could use some of that today.” Becks comments as she tickles her daughter's tummy, making her giggle. Bucky finds that contagious smile spreading over his features as his sister hands him Jamie, who, by the way she’s squirming in his grip, seems very happy to see her uncle.

He didn’t know it when he woke up this morning, but this is exactly what he needs to take his mind off yesterday’s disaster and his impending public appearance tonight.

You offer to leave, so he can spend time alone with his family, but he’s adamant that you stay. Bucky’s sure he will only ever be able to find true contentment and happiness with you by his side, because when you’re elsewhere, there will always be a fragment of himself missing.

The rest of the morning is filled with smiles, laughter and pure joy. His schedule has been so busy the last couple months with finishing the production of the movie in a different city and the press tour, that there’s a lot to catch up on in little Jamie’s life, as well as that of her parents.

“When are you going to tell her?” Becks asks in a low voice as the two of them make lunch in the kitchen, but Bucky can’t take his eyes off the scene playing out in the living room. He’s far too invested in watching you babble, laugh and play with his niece, the miracle his sister and best friend named after him, to care about anything else in the world.

“Tell her what?” Bucky asks, not paying enough awareness, even to his own sister, to figure out what she’s implying.

“That you’re in love with her.” This, however, does capture his attention and are perhaps the only words Becks could have uttered in order for him to take his focus from you.

“How do you know?”

“The way you look at her. Like she’s everything you’ve ever wanted and all you’ll ever need. Everything you’ve waited for.” Bucky chuckles, his sister knows him too well for her own good and he knows there’s no point in trying to deceive her - she also happens to be far too smart for her own good too.

“How come I could never see that between you and Stevie before you told me you loved each other?” It was the love found between his sister and best friend that made Bucky truly believe he too could find a love with someone that would transcend the remainder of his life. It may have taken him a couple years after that, but he then finally met you, and all fell into place.

“Because you were oblivious. Still are actually.” It’s now Becks’ turn to chuckle, but in a way that makes Bucky feel like he’s missing some vital piece of information.

“Why still?”

“Because you clearly don’t realise she’s in love with you too.” Bucky's entire world stops. All he can feel is his heart thumping so forcefully in his chest it might burst at any moment.

“You think- no, no she isn’t… is she?” Only in his fantasies do you return his affections. He’s dreamed, sincerely hoped, that bashful smile and twinkle in your eye when he says anything remotely flattering about you is an indication of something beyond friendship, but he’s never let himself fully believe that in fear of having his heart completely crushed.

Could you really love him?

“She’s the one who invited us around today, she thought seeing your family would be just the spark you need.” And that’s when he thinks his heart stops completely. You organised this? Without him asking or prompting in any way - you simply did it because you thought it would cheer him up? You knew exactly what he needed, what would brighten his day and you were content not taking the credit as long as he was happy?

“Buck, take it from someone who waited far too long to tell the person they loved that they indeed loved them - don’t wait. Stevie and I danced around it for years because he’s your best friend and I’m your sister. If you love her, tell her. It might just be the best decision you’ve ever made. It was for me.”

And with that Becks pats Bucky on the shoulder and leaves him with his l thoughts as she joins her daughter for feeding time.

Tonight. I’ll tell her tonight, Bucky pledges to himself with a new found surge of courage.

He just needs to get through the anxiety of this damn movie premiere without someone asking him why he’s missing a limb before he does.

* * *

After you bid farewell to the Rogers family, realisation sets in that it’s time to prepare for the premiere. You can tell by how tense Bucky’s shoulders are that he’s not looking forward to the occasion, which is a shame because he’s put so much time and effort into making an entertaining film for it to all be ruined by one bully interviewer.

And that’s what you attempt to remind him of, but to no avail. There’s a sharp, stabbing pain in your gut at the thought that, at least this time, you’re not enough to be able to cheer him up.

However begrudgingly, Bucky allows you to take him meet with his stylist for the final reveal of his attire for the night. After the award show season, he wants to go with a slightly different look, and Bucky seems to welcome the change.

“What do you think?” Bucky asks, strutting out in a navy blue suit with a cummerbund, doing a performative twirl just for you which makes you chuckle.

“I much prefer when I get to help you with a tie.” Is what you say, because you’re sure if you try to articulate how gorgeous he looks you’ll end up admitting he’s the most handsome man you’ve ever laid eyes on. The memory of helping you fix his tie last night flashes in your mind and your cheeks heat at simply the recollection of being that close to him.

“I’ll have to remind the stylist only suits with ties from now on.” Bucky smiles, his hands twitching in a way you hope indicates he wishes you were within proximity to touch. “Oh, I also have a surprise for you!”

He ducks back into the dressing area and for the minute it takes for him to return, excitement and suspense grow in your stomach. When Bucky comes back, he has a garment bag in his hands and a cheeky grin on his face.

“Try this on for me.” You try to protest, to object to him having spent any amount of money on you, but when he forces the garment into your arms and directs you to the dressing room with his large hands on your waist, you’re putty in his hands.

“Can you zip me up please?” You ask nervously, as you walk back out to model the gown for Bucky. You turn around and a wave of vulnerability overcomes you as he stares at your bare back. He slowly makes his way over to you, hands careful as he zips up the gown.

He looks at you in awe, but you’re sure it’s just because he’s used to seeing you in a pair of jeans and a band tee rather than an elegant dress.

“Bucky, I can’t accept this… this is far too beautiful and expensive.” You advise, though you're too busy admiring how the dress fits in the reflection of the mirror to fully appreciate the absolutely enamoured expression he’s regarding you with.

“Doll, it was made just for you, you wouldn’t want it to go to waste would you?” He says with a smile, unable to take his eyes off the dress and how perfectly it fits your body. He knows he’s going to have not so innocent dreams about it tonight.

“Thank you Buck, I promise I’ll pay you back.”

“No, you’ve already done so much for me, more than you know, please, let me do this for you.” You don’t push the matter any further, but make sure to express your gratitude again before leaving for the premiere. After feeling so out of place during the recent award show season, it means the world that Bucky would do this for you.

You feel confident in your custom dress when you arrive, not only because the gown you’re wearing actually fits you properly, unlike every other second hand dress you’ve worn to important events, but because of the way Bucky looks at you while you’re wearing it.

But when you get separated, him moving to the red carpet along with all the other exquisitely dressed celebrities and notable attendees, and you with the behind the scenes help, the distance between you allows space for doubt and uncertainty to creep in.

You watch Bucky greet his co-star, the gorgeous Sharon Carter. You can’t deny it, she looks absolutely stunning. Perhaps more than stunning, if that’s possible. A woman out of a man’s sexual fantasy.

A fire red dress plunges down her front, a long slit in the side shows off her tall, slim legs and taught material over her abdomen and hips leaves no room for questioning how flat her stomach is and the desirable curves of her waist. It makes you suck your stomach in, suddenly overly insecure about how your body looks in your gown.

It’s hard to breathe watching Bucky looking at her with such a genuine smile and an eagerness in his eyes that you could only describe as attraction. And that even though they’re in front of flashing cameras and being recorded for the entire world to see, you can see that he’s not feigning a second of it.

Everyone in attendance is abuzz with comments of how dashing they both look, but more notable, what a breathtaking couple they make.

Bucky’s hand slides lower and rests on the curves of her waist, making jealousy spread through your body and stomach churn with insecurity.

The ache in your chest is the painful reminder that it is only in your imagination where he is yours, even if in every version of reality you will always be his.

From that moment on you find it difficult to truly concentrate on the importance of the occasion, or the anticipation of seeing a blockbuster film before the majority of the world. You’re too caught up in the self doubting thoughts bouncing around your head like in a pinball machine.

The movie itself goes by in a blur. You try your best to remind yourself that Bucky’s playing a fictional character, but it’s difficult to sit through two hours of the sexual tension between him and Sharon which ultimately ends in a steamy sex scene.

The chemistry between them is tangible and you recognise that spark in his eye on the big screen as the same way he looked at her on the red carpet. It’s easy to convince yourself that there will never be that electrifying magnetism between you two when not only have they shown it while filming a movie for six months, but also have exhibited it right in front of your eyes tonight.

By the time the movie ends, it feels like someone’s sitting on your chest, every breath agonising, even though you have no right to be jealous. He’s not yours, he’s your boss, he’s never vocalised any romantic interest in you and quite clearly he’s capable of doing much better than you anyway.

The first person Bucky hugs as the credits roll is Sharon. Seeing him find solace in her arms is enough to push you to the edge - you need to get out of here.

As the cast is preoccupied by all the recognition and acknowledgements, you take the window of opportunity to slip out the side door, needing the fresh air and space between the setting bringing you so much anxiety.

You think you’ve escaped inconspicuously until you hear a door closing behind you. The way Bucky’s voice calls your name is like a warm embrace in the cold, lonely night and compels you to stop.

“Where are you going?” He enquires as he catches up to you, a confused furrow in his brow.

“I’m sorry Bucky, it was all becoming a bit too much for me in there, I just want to head home.” The concern brimming in his eyes is enough to make your knees weak and for you to forget that you’re actually incredibly insecure and jealous right now. Bucky knows you don’t like crowds so that’s the excuse you’ll stick with.

“Doll, why didn’t you just tell me? Let me drive you.” He offers thoughtfully without any further questioning.

“Bucky this is your night, you should be celebrating with your friends not driving me anywhere.” Your last wish is to inconvenience him, that’s why you attempted to leave unnoticed, because in the back of your mind you knew Bucky’s benevolent enough to try something like this on a night that should instead be dedicated to him.

“I want to make sure you get home safe. Please.” He looks at you with those puppy dog eyes you intrinsically know you’ll never be able to say no to, those same eyes which regard you with a tenderness you’re only familiar with from him, that make you feel more beautiful and treasured than all of the precious gemstones money can buy.

“Okay.” It should perhaps concern you how quickly you yield to him, but the elated smile which forms on Bucky’s face as you do is reward enough for conceding so easily. That, and the knowledge that if he’s with you, he’s not with Sharon.

“Thank you!” He exclaims, as if you’re the one doing him the favour instead of the other way around. His large hands cup your face as he leans in and kisses your forehead, much too quickly for your liking because before you’re even able to savour the feel of his touch he’s pulling away and rather all you can feel is the cold absence of where his contact was the moment before.

Bucky can see the shiver which runs down your spine and shrugs off his jacket before you even have the opportunity to protest.

“Here, take this, can’t have you feeling cold.” He places the large jacket around you without hesitation, making sure the shoulders are aligned correctly before his hands smooth down your arms before finishing in your hands. His proximity makes you feel dizzy and you’re suddenly hyper aware of how sweaty your palms are. Bucky looks down at you, eyes briefly flickering down to your lips as he licks his own, before settling on your eyes. Your desire to kiss him is about to overrule every professional instinct you’re attempting to exert, when he opens his mouth to speak. “Just wait right here, I need to say a quick goodbye to some people but I’ll be right back to take you home. I promise.”

He squeezes your hands as reassurance and before you’re even able to process the glint in his tender eyes, he’s disappeared inside.

You pull his jacket tighter around you as the wind picks up, losing yourself in the same captivating musky scent you were surrounded by this morning in his bed sheets. It’s soothing and reminds you that it was in fact you who was comforting him last night when he broke down. Not Sharon. You.

“Are you heading off?” A familiar voice asks. You look up to find Maria taking a drag of a cigarette, and for a rationale you’re unsure of, your grip on Bucky’s jacket becomes tighter.

“Yeah, Bucky’s driving me home.” You say with a smile you can’t suppress.

“Oh darling, he can’t leave the celebrations yet. He’s the star of the show!” Maria takes one last puff of her cigarette before she stamps it out with her red bottom shoes you’re sure cost more than your month's rent.

“But he-”

“Besides, I’m sure he’d much rather go home with his girlfriend.” If her words don’t kill you first the nonchalant tone she uses to implode your entire world just might.

“Girlfriend?” You choke out.

“Sharon - I mean, you saw how cosy the two of them were today? They’ve gotten awfully close after all those long months playing love interests.” Simply hearing her name makes your heart clench and brings back the suffocating envy you were feeling mere minutes ago.

“I guess.” Is all you can manage to say.

“Look, darling, you’ve had a long couple days working, you should head home! There’s a taxi rank just around the corner.” Maria almost pushes you forward, but with how weak and pliant you’ve become with self doubt, your body puts up no resistance. You mumble a quick goodnight before your feet shuffle you the rest of the way to the cab stand.

There was a small part of you that hoped, perhaps even believed, that Bucky reciprocated the overwhelming feelings of love and devotion you held for him.

Over time you’ve needed to syphon off larger and larger segments of your heart to be able to store your ever growing feelings for him and all the memories you’d made with him you refused to forget, until you realised that small section had instead become your entire, overflowing heart.

And you pondered that when Bucky looked at you like he didn’t even want to blink in fear of missing out on a single second with you, perhaps that’s what he was doing too.

But why should you trust your instincts when they’ve led you astray so many times before? When all it’s resulted in was the pain of heartbreak and rejection.

Why would Bucky Barnes, renowned playboy and the biggest movie star in the world, be any different?

To your dismay, it turns out he isn’t.

* * *

Bucky leaves the celebration with a pep in his step.

He’s going to take you home and tell you how he feels.

He can’t help the nervous twisting of his stomach at the thought of baring his heart to you. Revealing that his soul has become intertwined with yours and you carry his fragile heart wherever you go, but that there’s simply no one else in the entire world he wants nor trusts more to have that privilege.

He’s about to reveal his most closely guarded secret, open his heart and expose his most vulnerable side to you with the prospect of complete rejection. And as much as it scares him half to death, he’s taking his opportunity. Becks believes you love him, and that’s about as sure as he can be.

When Bucky rounds the corner, Maria is standing alone exactly where he left you and his heart squeezes tightly with anxiety.

“Where is-”

“She left, said she needed to get home and didn’t want to wait for you.” Maria informs flatly, but Bucky can’t believe it. You’re always so patient, so accommodating to his insanely hectic schedule, had you really grown tired of waiting on him?

“She left?” Bucky can hear the distress in his own voice. He looks around, desperately confused, feeling an abyss being carved into his chest as the realisation of your departure sets in.

He told you to wait right here.

He promised he’d be right back.

He was going to tell you he loves you…

Even though Maria confirmed otherwise, part of him expects to see you standing there, wearing his jacket over your shoulders and that shy smile of yours which makes his stomach perpetually flip. But there is nothing aside from the faint music reverberating from inside, and a cool breeze that reminds him you’ve left with his jacket, and his heart, without so much as a goodbye.

“She’s off the clock Bucky, no wonder she wants to go do her own thing, she’s not getting paid to cater to your every whim 24 hours a day. Besides, this gives us a chance to chat. I have to talk to you about Sharon Carter.” Maria platonically drapes her arm around Bucky’s shoulders and directs him back inside without knowing her words are like a knife to his chest.

Of course you want to do your own thing, you have a life outside of being his assistant, you don’t want to be around him every second of every day working. That’s why you were in such a rush to leave tonight.

How could he be stupid to mistake you doing your job for anything more?

“What about Sharon?” He doesn’t want to deal with any work talk right now, all he wants is to go home and nurse his bruised heart by himself.

“I’ve talked with her management, and we’ve agreed to push the angle that you two are dating.”

“No, Maria, I don’t want to do that, I’ve had enough of PR relationships.” You are all he wants. Bucky doesn’t want to have to hold hands, kiss and be excessively affectionate with someone else when it’s really you he wants to be able to do all those things, and more, with. He finds his palms are sweating at the mere thought of being able to do that with you, even if you don’t want that with him.

��James, it’s already in motion. Everyone’s speculating about who you’re dating after last night's interview, so we pushed the story before the red carpet tonight to drum up buzz about the movie. It’s perfect timing!”

Dread settles in the pit of Bucky’s stomach. The next week will be filled with press for the new movie and he’s going to have to play the part of Sharon’s devoted boyfriend when all he craves is to be yours. This was a nightmare he desperately wanted to wake up from.

Two hearts, connected in a way even their owners don’t understand, go to sleep that night feeling more alone and unloved than ever before, when in actuality they both dream of the same thing: being with each other.

Part 4 > >

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[newbornwhumperfly]

believing, if only for its sake...

so sad that this event is coming to an end but so eager to share this installment 😍👀🥰 this @whumpmasinjuly prompt - day 27: delirium - was a tricky one for me but i cracked it with a desire to introduce y'all to a new cast member...💖💖💖

title insp. by the song "comes and goes (in waves)" by greg laswell - "this one's for believing, if only for its sake"

~

So...sparring on hard-mode with Morja might have been…a mistake. 

Listen, Cobi knows the guy’s as stiff as a starched shirt most days but he’s not a mean or aggressive dude. Just…very quiet. Cobi’s met a lot of muscley dudes whose frowny-cross-armed-silence covers a lotta I’m better than you and my dick is bigger than yours and what are you looking at cockiness, crowding personal space and slammed doors. Dollars to donuts, Cobi bets Morja’s just shy - he doesn’t even close the fridge loudly. 

So all-in-all it’s kinda surprising when Cobi finds himself ass over teakettle on the gym mat.

And he thought it’d been going so well too, Cobi thinks to the ceiling spinning over him, cupping a hand over his eye. Ow. That’s gonna fuckin’ bruise. Just cause Morja’s on the short side doesn’t mean shit (when Claudia’s your bestie, you learn not to underestimate) and Morja spars like it’s for money, grim and silent and fast and precise in that very nice black tank top (very sporty, nice muscles, what?). Cobi hadn’t gone easy on him or anything but he’d been flipped twice (double this guy’s weight and height at least, holy shit) cause the guy doesn’t dodge for shit but he doesn’t fall either and Cobi was getting a sneaking suspicion that this friendly workout wasn’t exactly loosening Morja up. 

It’s just that Cobi didn’t take Morja to spring his opponents, c’mon, they were taking a break, that’s dirty fuckin’ pool. 

Hey Morja, wanna go a few rounds of sparring in the gym? Hey Morja, you can go harder, not gonna break! Hey Morja, that dodge was pretty good! Hey Morja, how about a water break? Oh no, a kick in the head in exchange for a tossed water bottle, ouch.

It’s fine, Cobi can take a hit and it was but a glancing blow, really. A grunted damn, dude, warn a guy first and he’s on his feet again, still clutching his face, cause he’s fine, it’s all good, just ow. But really quick, Cobi’s got a whole different problem because Morja is swaying. Or maybe the room is swaying? 

Nope. It’s Morja who’s pitching and looks like he’s seen a fucking ghost. Eyes bugging out to the whites, mouth slack (is it trembling?), staggering back a step. 

“Buddy?” Cobi reaches out, worried, and there’s a horrible sound, a scream that can’t get any volume, falling from Morja’s mouth as his whole body jerks like he was struck. 

“Please-”

And he faints. 

“Shit!” Cobi lunges and barely gets his arms under Morja before his eyes roll back, slumping limp in Cobi’s catch. “Oh, shit- uh…” 

Morja’s solid and stocky and thickly-built and he’s way too fucking light when Cobi scoops him, arm under knees, that detail spinning in Cobi’s mind when he carries Morja over to the little sitting place leading to the showers, towels, water bottles, right. 

Morja’s head sags onto Cobi’s shoulder and, damn, he looks so small laid down on the little sitting bench. The lights are softer in here - yellow and fancy outside the bathrooms, not the white-brightness of the workout room. He tucks a rolled-up towel under Morja’s neck, so gentle, slow, carefully pulls back his eyelid to check - okay, pupils fine, good, concussion-less, he doesn’t have to run for Sarai. 

Maybe he got overheated? They had been going for a while and Cobi thinks, with a pang of guilt, how he didn’t see Morja drink much water - did he drink at all? Shit.  

“Ah, be right back, man, don’t go anywhere, shhhhh…”

Cobi ducks into the bathroom with big steps, grabbing some cold water from the dispenser, dampening a towel from the sink, kneeling back in moments at Morja’s side. Llays a hand against the back of Morja’s head, stroking his dark, sweaty hair back. His hand shadows the guy’s whole face and something sinks a little in his stomach. 

Yeah, this is one of those time’s Cobi doesn’t like being big. Fuck, Morja’s face has a lot of scars - Cobi’d never stare, like, other than checking him out. It’s hard not to notice how many there are when his skin is clammy and ashen, raccoon circles under his eyes, lids fluttering (gosh, he’s got long lashes up close, huh?)

“Heyyyy, buddy, ‘s okay…you’re okay…gonna be okay, man…” 

Cobi says brightly, softly, stroking his hair. Kinda petting his head like a puppy or something but oh well. He hopes it’s not creepy. Cobi just wants to put him at ease, so small and still laying there, dabbing the damp towel over his head as he says nonsense words. His talking, or maybe his petting, seems to be working, and Morja’s eyelids flutter, blinking awake, stirring with a shudder, looking up. 

“Heyyyy, shhh, don’t move, buddy, just lay back, okay?” Cobi soothes, stroking the guy’s hair back with the towel now, a gentle hand on his shoulder so he doesn’t try to spring up. 

Well, oops, that was a mistake, cause the guy looks like he’s about to cry and his face crumples up into the smallest, saddest, most scared face ever and he fucking whimpers.

“Sorry, ‘msorryano-, sirsirdon’pleasedon’t, amsosorry- ‘m sorry-”

Shit. 

Oh, shit. Right, refugee, political asylum, the whole shebang, got it, right. Cobi curses his own fucking insensitivity. New Athens probably isn’t super nice to their whatchamacalits and yeah, oops, Morja probably thinks he’s in trouble or something fucked-up like that. The juddering, dry sob and the way Morja seems to be trying to melt back into the fucking bench-plastic doesn’t do anything to disprove Cobi’s theory. 

“Morja,” Cobi says, clearly and softly as possible, like Morja is a hysterical toddler who skinned his knee. “Not in trouble, okay, you passed out? Just gotta lay still for me, don’t want you to fall again, okay?”

He strokes his palm over Morja’s head again and the guy chokes on what sounds like a retch and turns his face to look at the wall. He’s fucking shaking. His knees seem drawn up close to his belly like he’s trying to curl up and, oops, Cobi doesn’t like that. 

“Ngh- I- yessir-” Morja flinches violently at another stroke of his hair, his breath coming out way too fast, hard, hiccuping. “Sorrysorrysorry…”

“Didn’t do anything wrong, hon, you’re maybe dehydrated? Gonna be all okay, I promise, there we go…breathe deep, yeah?”

Drags air in deep through his nose and out again. 

“Can you do what I’m doing, Morja? I’ve gotcha, just gotta breathe with me, doin’ so good?”

That seems to be a right thing to do, hashem, and Cobi breathes a little thanks out as Morja copies him. Certain people are comforted by being told to stop panicking and Morja definitely seems like the type, following oh-so-well, whimpering a little but not being attacked by panics anymore. 

“Doing so awesome, Morja, that was a lot, huh? You’re crushing this breathing-thing…”

Dark, watery eyes blink up at Cobi and fuck, it’s hard to see such a miserable expression in his direction. His mouth is a solid line, curling at the edges, and Cobi can see his jaw ticcing, clenched, under his skin. He gulps and shudders under Cobi’s hand and he doesn’t know if this petting thing is helping or not but Morja looks for all the world like a kicked dog (or a dog that’s about to be kicked). 

“‘m…’m sorry for fainting.” 

The whisper is so quiet, so shaky and choked, and it kinda breaks his heart hearing that tone from this guy. Cobi shakes his head, smiling softly, and thinks back. It wasn’t just the lack of water. If he remembers hard, Cobi can recall a weird look shuttering over Morja’s face, kinda blank and frantic, when Cobi threw the water bottle Morja’s direction, right before he got round-housed. 

“Aw, man, that’s gonna happen when you don’t got enough water in you.” Cobi answers brightly, patting softly, softly, at the crown of Morja’s head and tries to ignore the little flinch that happens when he does that, oops. Okay, not patting then. That feels suspiciously close to nothing that feels like a slap and wow, ouch, huh. “I’m sorry if I startled you? Kinda…threw that bottle at you, huh? Probably your body thought we were still in spar-mode?”

Morja nods so hard, tight and small and desperate, eyes wide and brown and there’s that please don’t kick me look again under all that frowniness. 

“Yes, yessir, yes sir, I- I don’t know w-why, I- I apologize for getting it wrong, wasn’t an attack, sir?-”

“No, no, honey, I know,” Cobi rushes to reassure cause he can see the gears ticking up to panic attack time in the hitch of Morja’s chest. “I know you weren’t attacking me, Morja, you’re just very well trained! Probably got really strong fighty-instincts and that water bottle really came flying in hard, huh?” 

Right thing to say again, yay, cause Morja does that tight, sharp nod again and there’s a little tiny bit of hopefulness in the way he looks up at Cobi and, fuck, that shouldn’t be so sad.

“Yessir.” He sniffs when he inhales deeply, swallows, his eyes flickering to the side of Cobi’s face that’s currently throbbing, shudders, closes his eyes. “I’m very sorry.”

“You’re all good, buddy, was a total accident, okay? Like, really obviously an accident, nothing to be sorry for.”

Morja’s lids squeeze shut, his fists at his side following suit, and Cobi sees his mouth shape around accident very quietly. He looks like he’s trying not to cry again. Cobi can’t help but still do his hair-petting thing cause he’s worried if he stops it’ll make Morja think he’s mad or something. 

“Are…are you going to correct me now, sir?”

Cobi frowns to himself and then laughs a little cause geez this guy is little-a-lot too self-disciplined to want form-adjustments right in the wake of fainting and oops, that was the wrong thing to do cause Morja’s stiff mouth tries to crack its hard line again in a tremor, oops. 

“Nope, nope, absolutely not, man!” Cobi assures brightly, patting Morja’s shoulder gently before he can panic again. “Hey, I think passing out is, like, enough of a gut-check, don’t you?” 

There’s a long of silence broken by a choked whimper, a frown deepening on that serious, clammy face. 

“You’re not in trouble, buddy, you know how many times Claud’s almost cold-cocked me? Not even almost, the little gremlin. How’s about, uhhhh, you don’t tell anyone I fell on my ass and I won’t tell anyone you don’t hydrate enough, yeah?”

“I don’t…sorry. You don’t want me to do anything, sir?” 

The poor guy’s still shaking. Maybe he never stopped. Whatever the hell that means, Cobi doesn’t get a good feeling in his stomach again, so he just shakes his head hard and urgent. 

“You’ve been punished enough, buddy.” Cobi murmurs teasingly, softly, just his thumb stroking awkwardly at that soft dark hair. 

“I haven’t been punished at all.” 

Well, that’s awful! That’s not great. Oof. 

“Can you sit up a little, man? Wanna get some water into ya, there we go…” Cobi encourages by way of answering, cause how do you answer that, and uses one hand to leave Morja’s head, finally, and gently sit him up by holding his upper arms. Offering the cold cup of water, watching him sip it, offering another. The guy’s shoulders are hunched all the way in, a schoolboy outside of the principle’s office, and that won’t do at all. 

“You like Dumas bars?”

The look of confusion that greets him is a no and that absolutely won’t do either, hello. Cobi excitedly digs into his pocket because, thank you, he will take a victory lap on carrying candy everywhere, Claud. Triumphantly pulls out his prize, an only slightly smooshed chocolate bar. Milk chocolate is better than any other chocolate, so there, and Morja stands a ninety-percent chance of agreeing. 

“Oh, man, you’re gonna not want any other kind when you try this one, hand on my heart, it’s like biting a pillow.”

The look on Morja’s face is almost skeptical and considering how scared he looked a few minutes ago, Cobi will take that suspicion as a win. He waves the shiny silver wrapping in Morja’s direction, grinning, as the guy stares blankly. 

“I didn’t sit on it, don’t worry.”

Morja does accept it, as if he’s taking a knife blade-first from Cobi’s fingertips. After glancing up at Cobi with another swallow, he seems to make up his mind at the smile he gets. Ripping the scalloped edge of the wrapper right at the seam, peeling it slowly, neatly. When the silver-red-blue shell is shucked off, he kinda stares it down, weighing it in his palm - probably could guess how much nougat per square centimeter there is. 

It’s not great to be watched while eating so Cobi tries not to but it’s hard not to take note of how hard Morja’s hand shakes, how small his bite is, barely a nibble. He chews, bites again, swallows. There’s that weighing look on his face again as…he unstiffens a little tiny bit, tilting his head, bird-like, staring at the fluffy inside as he chews. It’s like he’s really tasting it, not just eating it. 

 “…What is this?”

There’s that laser focus flickering in Morja’s dark-brown eyes again, bright and assessing in that way of his, no flat distance in the little crease between his eyebrows. Cobi breathes a little secret sigh of relief, beaming, leaning a little sideways on the bench so he can be more open in Morja’s direction. Doesn’t push the distance between them - Morja’s still shaken - but stretches out a little, warm and languid. 

“Good, huh? It’s nougat, some…fluff with eggs and honey, I think? They whip it up and cover it in chocolate - saw a video about it in school.”

Morja swallows a mouthful of candy, another mouthful of water, and his trembling slows, slows, calming. 

“Oh. It…It is. Good, sir.”

Morja’s fingers fold the wrapper, halves, fourths, smaller and smaller. Frowns. Tongue moving against his cheek inside, collecting taste, chocolate, spare sugar. Cobi isn’t sure he’s ever seen the guy savor before and that’s a thought to have. 

“…I’ve…never had that before.”

“Glad this could be your first introduction! I mean, Dumas is the best bar out there, duh, but that’s my bias. I’m sure you’ve got your own favorite?”

The wrapper is a tiny teeny silver square gleaming in Morja’s hand, the foil pressed as flat and compact as it will go. The crease deepens between his eyes. He shakes his head, almost ducking, the strands of sweaty hair tumbling down to half-hide his expression. 

“I’ve, um, I n-never had.”

“A favorite?”

“…A chocolate bar.”

Oh. Damn, now Cobi wants to cry, a little, cause what the hell, man? He doesn’t know why he just…assumed? He kinda wants to send a strongly worded letter to anyone who was responsible for that absence, actually, cause Morja deserves candy bars. So fucking there. 

“Hey Morja?” He offers softly. “I’m glad you liked that and…I’m sure there’s a whole lot of flavors you’d find delicious. Now you’re not gonna stand up yet cause dehydration isn’t a joke but when you’re better, we’re gonna go find some at the vending machine. Okay?”

The silence behind the curtain of hair is long and heavy, like Morja is weighing that in his hand too, and Cobi waits. 

“…Does it- will it be now, sir?”

“Cobi. And nah, Morja, when you’re up to it.”

“Sorry. Um. Yes. Okay.”

“Okay, man?”

“…Okay.”

Hidden in clasped hands, the tiny foil square digs into Morja’s thumb, a streak of chocolate still stuck there, and a groove pulses, red and angry, in the callus as his only anchor, however small, of pain. 

~

so, so excited for y'all to finally meet my sweetheart, goldeen retriever, tank-sized boy, cobi!!! 💖💖💖🥰🥰🥰

(also, yes, in case anyone wondered - in this future, the three musketeers chocolate bar has been renamed the dumas in honor of the book's author, alexandre dumas. and yes, i am that pedantic and silly, thank you 😇😇😇)

taglist: @much-ado-about-whumping @haro-whumps @whump-tr0pes @whumpzone @i-eat-worlds

@whatgoeswhumpinthenight @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @redwingedwhump @straight-to-the-pain @whumpthisway

@kixngiggles @scoundrelwithboba @wolfeyedwitch @whump-me-all-night-long @stoic-whumpee

@suspicious-whumping-egg @tears-and-lilies @liliability @whumpster-draganies

have a very merry @whumpmasinjuly everyone! 💖💖💖

@whumpmasinjuly-archive

[siren-brainrot-boogaloo]

Gift for @retquits and his delightful Fields of Mistria OC Monroe!!!

Monroe had put in his paces as an adventurer. He was never the strongest or the fastest, but he'd survived being chased by charging iron bulls, never ending slimes dropping on him and his party mates from the ceiling, and one particularly, persistently, furious parrot.

But for all his endurance, THIS was the truest test of his limits.

Soreness burned like acid deep in his muscles as the hoe slipped from his palms. His knees finally gave up on him as he collapsed ungracefully onto his ass, chest heaving as he stared up into the big blue sky. 

He had hoped the conversion rate between a life of adventuring and a life of farming would be more favorable. Though to call what he did “adventuring” would be… somewhat inflated. Monroe sighed as old irritations and insecurities throbbed like war scars. Exhaustion did little to dull their claws. 

His vision shook as he distantly registered the passing of clouds. Ephemeral, wispy things, with disappearing edges that his double vision didn't do any favors in clarifying.

His eyelids grew heavy. The burn of the midday sun on his pale skin would surely make him regret resting HERE, in the middle of his field, of all places...

But the ten foot journey to shade was just too impossible for his thoroughly fatigued body. The soreness from earlier would surely be felt, if he could feel his legs at all. Despite the screaming light of the sun, the world went dark as exhaustion overtook him.

Like the jump between chapters in a book, he woke propped up in the cool shade of the leeward side of his house. Damp handkerchief lain across his forehead. Monroe’s skin was hot and tight across his cheeks, his neck, his forehead, in a way that would surely burn tomorrow. It didn’t keep a look of shock from stretching across his features when one burly, brunette, and very concerned farmer and neighbor jumped into his field of vision.

"HEEEEEY NEIGHBOR! Welcome back to the land of the living!" 

The boisterous boom of Hayden's voice cut sharply through the concern that wrought his features just a second earlier. Truly, was this man always so bursting with energy? At his age? Monroe wished he had half his vigor right now.

"Whhappn'd" Monroe slurred elegantly. His gloved hand plucked the damp cloth from his forehead and flipped it over to the cool side, as he pressed it to his neck, his cheeks, anywhere the coolness was sorely missed. Hayden handed him a flask of water, which he immediately tipped into his bone-dry mouth with gusto.

"Found you baking in the sun when I came by to ask if you wanted to split a bag of sugar! You were halfway to medium well before I got ya into the shade." Hayden chirped back in his characteristic jovial drawl, and punctuated with a firm clap on the shoulder that made Monroe choke mid-swig.

The two blustered as Monroe coughed water out of his windpipe and Hayden patted him on the back, apologizing for his carelessness. When Monroe’s lungs contained more air than water again and his back no longer stung from Hayden’s well intentioned, if hamfisted attempts to help, he let out a long, beleaguered sigh. 

“Thanks for checking in on me. Sorry for the trouble.”

Before Hayden could reply, Monroe stood, head hung, still a bit dizzy, and tottered away from Hayden from where he squatted in the dirt. 

“Hey it’s no trouble-” “You can stay if you want, I think I just need to rest a little longer.” Monroe cut him off. There was a sinking feeling in his gut, some part lingering fatigue, some part old, cruel voices and festering doubts that dug their claws into his mood. His ears rang from dehydration, and all it reminded him of was his own weakness. 

The ringing in his ears and the headache from the heat called to mind a concussion he sustained during his dungeon delving days. He was the only one on his team that didn’t notice the tripwire. It had been obvious enough to them that they felt no need to warn him about it, and that “obviousness” only emboldened their chastising afterwards when the ceiling came down as punishment for his clumsiness. The collapse cost them the promised loot, and a stone striking Monroe in the head cost him four days of wages in lost time. The shame still burned in his memory when he was alone with his thoughts at night. 

The soreness in his body was an even sore-er reminder of the dozens of times his role in the party was “pack mule”; not “sniper”, “tank”, “lockpick” or anything more involved than being a pair of hands to hold and feet to move. Sometimes packs were thrown at his feet with the expectation he’d pick them up, sometimes it was a “Watch the cart.” barked at him while he stood outside ruins and taverns, his only company the hired mule hitched to it. His “friends” handled the important business inside. 

Monroe’s feet grew heavier with each unpleasant memory. He barely registered Hayden’s “You oka-” before he was in the door, face down on his creaky, stiff bed. When the darkness takes him again, it’s at least a cooler, quieter one. 

IF YOU HAVEN'T LOOKED AT HIS FIELDS OF MISTRIA ART YET PLEASE DO!!!

[charlielki]

Part 1: Pacifica's story

Pacifica stormed into her palatial bedroom and slammed the door so hard her chandeliers shook.

(There were at least 3 chandeliers in Pacifica’s room, including a teensy chandelier over her nightlight.)

She buried her head in a velvet pillow and screamed for an inhumanly long time, then flopped over and stewed at the painted cherubs on her ceiling. It wasn’t FAIR.

After everything she did for her parents- get up at 5 for fencing lessons, beauty pageants, fox-hunting, butler-hunting, cleaning up the black feathers after dads weird “grown up masquerade parties”- THIS is how they repay her HER! PACIFICA ELISA NORTHWEST!

It had been a rough summer for Pacifica- first she came alarmingly close to losing a Party Crown, then her golf skills were called into question, and now her parents grounded her for literally saving the entire family from a Category 10 ghost and shut off the spigot on her caviar tap for rest of the year. What was she supposed to eat now Dog Food She angrily opened her mini-fridge and pulled out an UpperCrustablesTM brand snack pack and angrily spread the caviar on the tiny baguette.

“Ugh, why does it come with this dumb little stick. The caviar always gets stuck in the CORNERS!”

She looked at a napkin where Dipper had written the shack’s phone number in case killing the ghost might have created a “double ghost.” Ha! As if she would put HIS number in HER phone.

Everything in her life used to make so much more sense before those PINES twins came along and screwed everything up.

That stupid Mabel and her baffling, undeserved confidence. That know-it-all sweat stain Dipper who’s giant head was always butting against hers.

Something about Dipper’s words had knocked over a domino in her mind that started a chain reaction that was causing her whole identity to come crashing down.

He told her she had potential to change into…a better person. How do you become a better person when you’re already the best person? It didn’t make sense!

Thinking about it exhausted her, and soon, her eyelids began to droop.

Soon she was… she was...

Zzz-

In Pacifica’s dream, she was freshening up at a party washing her hands when she noticed something… red, swirling in the drain.

[themoonweaversden]

Messeges that were found so far: PLATINUM PAZ (spoilers)

This is just to collect all the codes that you can type in in thisisnotawebsitedotcom.com and their effects only (please click images for better quality)

Masterpost with all messeges / codes

Transcript:

"Pacifica stormed into her palatial bedroom and slammed the door so hard her chandeliers shook. (There were at least 3 chandeliers in Pacifica’s room, including a teensy chandelier over her nightlight.) She buried her head in a velvet pillow and screamed for an inhumanly long time, then flopped over and stewed at the painted cherubs on her ceiling. It wasn’t FAIR. After everything she did for her parents- get up at 5 for fencing lessons, beauty pageants, fox-hunting, butler-hunting, cleaning up the black feathers after dads weird “grown up masquerade parties”- THIS is how they repay her? HER! PACIFICA ELISA NORTHWEST?!

It had been a rough summer for Pacifica- first she came alarmingly close to losing a Party Crown, then her golf skills were called into question, and now her parents grounded her for literally saving the entire family from a Category 10 ghost and shut off the spigot on her caviar tap for rest of the year. What was she supposed to eat now? Dog Food? She angrily opened her mini-fridge and pulled out an UpperCrustables™ brand snack pack and angrily spread the caviar on the tiny baguette. “Ugh, why does it come with this dumb little stick? The caviar always gets stuck in the CORNERS!”

She looked at a napkin where Dipper had written the shack’s phone number in case killing the ghost might have created a “double ghost.” Ha! As if she would put HIS number in HER phone.

Everything in her life used to make so much more sense before those PINES twins came along and screwed everything up. That stupid Mabel and her baffling, undeserved confidence. That know-it-all sweat stain Dipper who’s giant head was always butting against hers. Something about Dipper’s words had knocked over a domino in her mind that started a chain reaction that was causing her whole identity to come crashing down. He told her she had potential to change into…a better person? How do you become a better person when you’re already the best person? It didn’t make sense!

Thinking about it exhausted her, and soon, her eyelids began to droop.

Soon she was...

she was...

Zzzz...

In Pacifica’s dream, she was freshening up at a party washing her hands when she noticed something... red swirling in the drain.

In horror, she discovered her hands were covered in blood, and no matter how hard she scrubbed them, they wouldn’t come clean. On the mirror, words slowly started two write themselves on their own, as if by an invisible hand…

BLOOD ON YOUR HANDS

“NO, NO, IT’S NOT MY FAULT!”

An overpowering sense of guilt swelled inside as she fled to the ballroom for help, where she spotted her friends gossiping by a tapestry. She tried to flip them around, but when she grabbed their shoulders, they fell over, flat, They were... cardboard? She turned to her parents, and they fell over flat too. The entire party was filled with flat, 2D people, everyone was fake. Blood began to fill the ballroom, pouring from the clock, from the paintings, from the ceiling. Why was this happening?! She raced through her manor in a blind panic, when she discovered she was no longer in the mansion, but outside in Gravity Falls. When she looked down, she realized she was now 100 feet tall, and every step she made was wrecking the town. She knocked over the mudflap factory, polluting the river. She knocked over the orphanage, sending coughing soot-covered children out into the cold.

She kept apologizing, but she was too big, too public, every step hurting more and more people. Everyone could see that the town’s problems were her fault. She was a monster. She always had been. She always would be.

Pacifica started sobbing and suddenly, she was a little girl again, hiding behind the vine-covered tombstones in the graveyard behind the Manor after another one of her parents fights. The graves of her ancestors loomed above her like gargoyles, great Northwests in history. What would they say if they could see her like this?

One of the statues slowly turned to face Pacifica. It was Nathaniel Northwest.

“Get a hold of yourself. You’re a Northwest, people can’t know you leak shame-water.”

“You’re right,” Pacifica apologized, and hastily took out her compact to clean her smeared makeup. She cursed as she saw how dishevelled she was.

The statue watched her like a cat hungrily watching a mouse.

“You have a lot of anger, don’t you.”

“Anyone whose not angry is an idiot. There’s so much to be mad about.”

“Yes. Anger is good. Anger is useful. Who are you angry at, Pacifica?”

“Everything was better before the PINES came to town...”

“You know, I might be able to help with that... there’s something I want. The Mystery Shack is going to be getting some new merchandise very soon. A small snow globe, nothing anyone would miss. If you could shoplift it for me, I could guarantee things would change. You’d never deal with the Pines again...”

Pacifica closed her compact. Would that fix everything?

“It would be so easy... all you have to do to get your old life back is shake...my...hand”

The statue extended its stony hand. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

[IMAGE]

Slowly she reached out to shake- then abruptly stopped. Something was off.

“My old life... wasn’t really mine, was it? All I ever did was follow my mom and dad. Maybe... it would be better to...make a new one.”

The STATUE BELLOWED with RAGE.

“MAKE? HA! YOU INHERIT. YOUR FAMILY LEGACY IS ALL YOU’RE WORTH. YOU MAKE NOTHING. YOU CAN’T EVEN MAKE FRIENDS.”

This had always been true... in the past.

His hand extended toward her. Looming. Trembling. She remembered a time when a hand extended toward her, offering a free snack in the back seat of a car.

“MAKE THE DEAL YOU LITTLE FAKE BLONDE IMPENDING PATERNITY TEST”

Pacifica’s face relaxed. She knew it was cliché, but she knew she had to do it. She slowly extended her hand. Just as the giant lichen-covered hand was about to close around hers like a cage of stone fingers, she swung her arm up and behind her head.

“Sike.”

“WHAT?!”

“Too slow!”

“YOU WORM!!!! YOU WORTHLESS WASTE OF STOLEN INCOME!!!! YOU’LL NEVER AMOUNT TO ANYTHING. I SEE A FUTURE WHERE YOU’RE PENNILESS, WORKING AT THE DINER, YOU’LL HAVE NOTHING, YOU-”

The statue shook with rage, sending cracks from its hand all the way up to its shrieking head. It crumbled apart in front of her, screaming in pain.

GONG!

Pacifica awoke with a start, panting. The clock in the hallway had struck 3 AM. She was covered in sweat. What had she been dreaming about? She couldn’t remember. She didn’t want to remember.

She wasn’t quite sure why, but she removed a tapestry that she’d always had on her wall. Something her family had no doubt looted ages ago- of a glowing triangle over the mountains. She rolled it up and put it in the closet and locked the padlock. Maybe she should hold onto Dipper’s number just in case. She entered it into her phone and felt an odd sense of calm suddenly wash over her. It was quiet once again in Northwest Manor.

Pacifica slept better than she had in years.

VWDB DZDB IURP KHU FLSKHU. VKH KDV WKH SURWHFWLRQ RI WKH OXPEHUIRONV VSLULWV."

The last line is in caesar -3

Code deciphered: STAY AWAY FROM HER CIPHER. SHE HAS THE PROTECTION OF THE LUMBERFOLKS SPIRITS.