#fifth finger friday

[spamtonsometimes]

national holiday

[buwheal]

congratulations on Five Finger Friday becoming a national holiday!

[cheesycatz]

ITS FIFTH FINGER FRIDAY ‼️‼️

[buwheal]

F I V E

O N E

[mypuchiart]

I woke up to see that a horde of people had joined the Spamton Fifth Finger Friday too. I guess it's an official day now?

[jeonginsleftcheek]

By The Pool

pairing: hyunjin x afab!reader

genre: smut, strangers to ???

wc: 2.5k

warnings: unprotected sex, fingering, pinch of degradation, reader is called 'slut' once, cum tasting, creampie

a/n: since i found out he has a lifeguard license on skz code i needed to write this🫠

masterlist

You thought it was going to be another boring month at the resort.

It was a place you knew very well ever since you were a child, your parents always took you there, every summer was the same.

Even now, when you were a student and no longer living with them, you couldn't escape the three weeks they wanted to spend there with you and your brother as a family.

But, there was nothing boring about the eye candy you noticed by the pool.

Every year, there was a new lifeguard on duty and though they were all fit men and women, no one captured your attention like he did.

There was something about him and you made it your mission to seduce him, wanting to have some fun and spice up your summer.

Quickly, you asked around since you knew the staff well, finding out his name is Hyunjin, he's your age and here on a student job, and most importantly single (though you have no idea how no one has snatched him up yet).

You came to the pool every day, happy that you bought some cute swimsuits that revealed more than they covered.

You made sure to be right in his view as you put on sunscreen, slowly spreading the thick liquid all over your body.

You saw him staring and gulping, before averting his eyes and acting unaffected but the tips of his ears matched the red color of his swim trunks.

Of course, you amped it all up with bending over as you spread your towel over the deck chair, showing Hyunjin your cleavage.

Giggling to yourself when you saw his eyes twitch as he adjusted in his lifeguard chair, you lay down with your sunglasses on so you can feast your eyes on him the whole time.

Hyunjin did his duty well and you watched him like a hawk, any time he had to jump in, he would toss his shirt off and you loved to admire his muscles.

He was made to be in water, looked so natural as he swam and he did his job perfectly, making it obvious why he was hired.

By the fifth day, you got fed up with exchanging looks and nothing else so you decided to take matters into your own hands.

If he wasn't gonna approach you, you were gonna do it yourself.

It was a nice sunny Friday, not that you really cared what day it was since you were on vacation, the day was only important because you planned on having Hyunjin all to yourself today.

As per usual, you watched him work and he stole glances at you as much as he could.

After some kid was making a mess in the water and Hyunjin had to jump in to stop them, you watched his wet body, the clear droplets of water running down his back and shoulders as his muscles flexed.

The summer heat was nothing compared to the heat erupting inside you.

You waited patiently for another hour before his shift ended.

The other lifeguard then came to take his shift and you saw him and Hyunjin talking, which was your cue to stand up and run to the pool house where lifeguards usually leave their things and change.

You made sure no one was there and waited for Hyunjin to make his way to you.

You heard footsteps and with bathed breath you hid behind the wall like some stalker and almost laughed at yourself for doing so much for just some dick.

But it wasn't any dick.

You've never wanted anyone as much as you wanted Hyunjin.

Ever since you set your eyes on him, you couldn't stop fantasizing about him, every night when you touched yourself you imagined different scenarios and they all included Hyunjin.

You peeked and saw him get in and then you waited a few moments before knocking on the door and coming in just as he called out.

He probably thought it was one of the staff members, judging by the shocked look on his face when he turned around and saw you.

You giggled, as he gave you the elevator eyes, you were wearing your skimpiest bathing suit yet.

He quickly looked up as you cleared your throat, struggling not to look down at your breasts again.

"D-did you need something?" he stutters, clutching the towel in his hand.

Oh he is simply adorable, you just wanna devour him whole.

"Yes, you." you answer without even blinking and his face becomes red.

"Excuse me?" he swallows, his adam's apple bobbing up and down deliciously.

You chuckle and make your way towards him slowly and he takes one step back, colliding with the table behind him.

He quickly looks back at it, and you find the way he put his hair up in a little ponytail so endearing.

"I think you're hot." you state, standing in front of him now and his lips open and close a few times before he laughs awkwardly.

"Thanks. I- um think you're hot too." he says rather shyly, driving you even more crazy to taste him.

Your hand lands on his arm and you squeeze a little, before slowly dragging it up and down.

"Then, there's nothing else to discuss, is there?" you smirk and lean in, so close to his lips that you feel the shaky breath he lets out on your face.

"I- I- someone could walk in." he whispers and you chuckle.

"I don't care." you're quick to cup his face and crash your lips into his.

A surprised exclaim from Hyunjin gets muffled as you start kissing him and his eyes go from wide to fluttering closed as he returns your kiss eagerly.

Yes, he saw you by the pool every day and he knew what you were doing.

He wanted you just the same as you wanted him but he enjoyed watching you struggle and try hard to get his attention even though you already had it.

He smirked to himself as your bathing attire became more revealing every day and he knew you were slowly losing patience.

Hyunjin wanted you to hunt him down and now that you were here, he decided to reciprocate and show you how much he's been wanting you too.

As the kiss deepens, Hyunjin's tongue swiping over yours and tasting you, his hands slide to your waist and he squeezes before gripping you and swiftly moving the two of you until you were pressed into the wall.

You gasp as he leans back to look at you, a sly smirk on his face.

"You were tempting me on purpose, weren't you princess?" he said in a sultry voice, his hand caressing your cheek, fingertips sliding down to your neck to touch your sensitive spot.

"Was I that obvious?" you tease, letting your hands finally roam free on his hot shoulders, arms and chest.

"Mhm. Waving those tits in my face constantly. Wiggling your ass. What if some poor soul drowned because of your distractions, hm?"

"That wouldn't happen, you're too good at your job." you smirk and he chuckles.

"Sweet talking me won't get you out of this. You're gonna get exactly what you wanted, princess." Hyunjin smirks.

Before you could even realize what's happening, he grabs the strings of your bottoms and swiftly undoes them, letting it fall down and reveal your wet cunt to him.

You gasp, your heart beating hard in your chest in thrill as he hoists your leg up and you hook it around him.

"Is this what you imagined, hm?" he asks with the same smirk as he runs his fingertips on your wet folds, pressing them into your clit every time he comes up.

"Y-yes." you moan, chasing his touch as you rub against his hand and he chuckles, his other hand gripping your breast harshly.

You slide your hands back and undo the strings on the top part of your bikini and Hyunjin helps you with the strings around your neck, the item falling down on the floor as you keep staring into his eyes.

Hyunjin hovers over you, leaning in to kiss you passionately, his lips are so soft but desperate against yours, his tongue is wild like he is trying to remember the way you taste forever as his teeth nip into your bottom lip.

You moan when he starts pinching your nipples and playing with your tits, his fingers pressed into your sensitive clit, massaging it in circles.

You're going crazy as his lips lower to kiss your neck and you can't help grinding against his hand, your wetness spreading all over his fingers as Hyunjin bites into your skin, squeezing and fondling your breast.

"You want my fingers, princess?" he says into your neck before licking a stripe over the bite mark he left on your flesh.

"Yes." you whimper, gripping at his arm.

"Beg." he leans back to look at you and you want to slap him but you know you're too far gone to be snappy.

"Please, fuck me with your fingers." you bat your eyelashes at him and he smirks again, pushing his fingers into you immediately.

"Ah!" you moan as you take him in easily and he lets out a low chuckle.

"You're such a desperate slut. Letting some stranger finger you in a pool house." he laughs, fucking you semi-fast immediately and you moan loudly, meeting his thrusts and not giving a single fuck about someone hearing you.

"So good that you can't even speak?" he fucks into your sweet spot, his thumb pressing into your clit as he presses you against the cold wall, a contrast to your heated body.

"H-Hyunjin." you moan and he chuckles, of course you know his name.

"Say my name louder." he looks at you with a cocky smile and you stutter for a moment as he fucks you harder and faster.

Your legs shake and you hold onto him as he keeps scissoring you open for him, nothing coming out of your lips except his name.

"Cum on my fingers, princess." Hyunjin whispers in your ear as your nails dig into his shoulders, your whole body shaking against him as he keeps plunging into you, the squelching sounds of your arousal filling up the room.

"Ah! Hyunjin!" you whimper loudly as you squirt all over his hand, grinding against him to ride your high as he observes you.

"Taste." he pulls his fingers out, leaving you empty as he brings them to your trembling lips.

You wrap them around his digits instantly, sucking on them and licking them clean as he keeps eye contact.

As soon as he pulls his fingers out, his lips are on yours again, kissing you hungrily as he grabs your other leg, effectively lifting you up and making you squeal as he leads you to the couch.

You're thrown down on it, albeit gently before he quickly takes his swim trunks off and your mouth waters at the sight of his dick.

He is perfect everywhere, you think as your eyes roam all over his sexy body.

Hyunjin is quick to kneel between your legs with a smirk playing on his lips.

"I don't have any condoms." he chuckles at the reality of the situation.

Even though he knew you were trying to seduce him every day, it's not like he thought you were actually going to come in after him today and kiss him so he wasn't prepared.

"I'm clean. Please." you whine, your legs wrapping around him and bringing him closer.

Hyunjin chuckles again, he can't believe you are so desperate to have him.

"Okay, princess. You think you can take it?" he gives you another smirk, sliding the head of his hard cock on your soaked folds.

You whimper as you look at his length and nod quickly.

"Yes, I can take it." you're almost breathless and Hyunjin pushes in, making you moan at the feeling.

His fingers couldn't prepare you completely for his cock but the stretch is delicious and your pussy welcomes him eagerly.

"Shit, you feel so good!" Hyunjin whines as he bottoms out, pushing his entire length inside you and filling you up perfectly.

He leans down as his arms cage you, kissing you sloppily before he leans back and starts fucking you at a steady pace, making your orgasm build up already.

You gasp and moan, spreading your legs more as you take him, the sound of skin slapping against skin making you feel even hotter.

You've never been this wet, your pussy pulsating in arousal as you moan loudly, your body shaking and feeling like you're going to explode any second.

Hyunjin looks down at you darkly, low moans escaping his lips as he keeps trying to bury himself deeper inside your warmth, so close to losing control over himself as your pussy constantly clenches around him, gripping his hard cock.

Hyunjin grabs your breast and your thigh, bringing one of your legs over his shoulder as you whine loudly, the new angle making you feel like he's fucking his cock even deeper inside you and his eyes roll back as he fucks into you harder.

You're so loud that if someone passes by they can 100% hear you moan Hyunjin's name as you grab his ponytail and pull on it while you cum all around his throbbing cock.

"Fuck!" Hyunjin almost growls as his hips stutter, fucking you with even more fervor as he chases his high, his hand leaving bruises in the soft skin of your thigh.

"Gonna cum." he whines, wanting to pull out but you grip at him.

"Cum inside me, I want it so bad." you groan, your eyes filling up with tears of pleasure as the head of his cock keeps brushing against your cervix.

"Fuck, you're so dirty, princess." Hyunjin pants, the sight of him all sweaty and flushed above you takes you over the edge and you cum again, clenching hard around him, his name slipping off your lips once again.

His eyes widen as his cock twitches and he unexpectedly cums hard inside you, spurts of the hot liquid painting your insides and filling you up.

Hyunjin collapses on top of you as he feels you still clenching around his now soft member.

It's quiet for some time and just then you realize that you can hear all the sounds from the pool and some people walking and talking next to the pool house, making you realize that everyone probably heard you fucking.

Hyunjin lifts up to look at you and something tugs at your heart, making your stomach fill up with butterflies.

"What's your name?" he asks and you burst out laughing, realizing you never even introduced yourself properly.

"Y/n." you answer and he smiles.

"Y/n. Pretty name for a pretty girl." Hyunjin leans in to kiss you, his cock slipping out of you and you feel the trickle of his cum seeping out of your pussy.

"Are you free tonight?" he asks, his lips traveling on your cheeks, you jaw and your neck, making you shiver as you caress his upper back.

"Depends what you're offering." you smirk and he looks at you.

"Dinner, movies, a walk on the beach?" he asks and you giggle.

"With a happy ending, of course." you say.

"As many happy endings as you want, princess." Hyunjin chuckles.

"Then I'm free." you say and he smiles before kissing you again.

This is going to be a fun summer.

taglist: @moonchild9350 @janepg @velvetmoonlght @hwanghyunjinismybae @jehhskz @laylasbunbunny @porangporangmeong @jeonginslefthand @laughatdanger @sapphirewaves @simpforleeknaur @s3ungm1nxxl0ve @painterhyunjin @starlost-mochi-x @saintcosette @ooshyana @frehyun

[maskedbyghost]

Shadows of Obsession

TW: stalking, home invasion, emotional manipulation, obsessive behavior, Simon in his stalker era

The first bouquet of lilies appeared on her doorstep two months ago, crisp and white, with no note attached. At first, she thought it was a mistake. Maybe a neighbor’s anniversary or a delivery error. She even asked around, but no one claimed them.

The second bouquet arrived the following Friday, just as pristine and silent.

By the fifth, unease began to settle in.

Then came the notes.

The handwriting was precise, the words simple: “You looked beautiful today.” “The world doesn’t deserve your kindness.” “I see you.”

She told yourself it was harmless, a misguided admirer, nothing more. But deep down, she knew better. Each note felt like a pair of eyes on her back, a shadow stretching too close.

Simon was the last person she suspected.

She didn’t know him well—no one did. He was a phantom, his face always hidden beneath that mask. She’d worked with him a handful of times, enough to catch glimpses of a sharp mind and a colder demeanor. He was a man of few words, fewer smiles, and no visible vulnerabilities.

Yet somehow, he had decided she were his.

It started subtly: a fleeting glance that lingered too long, his voice softening when he spoke her name. Then the coincidences—running into him during her evening walks, finding him already at the café she frequented. Always nearby, always watching.

She tried to ignore it, brushing off the unease with excuses. But tonight, all those excuses evaporated.

She woke to silence, the kind that presses down on her chest and suffocates. Something was wrong. Her apartment, usually filled with the ambient hum of life, felt still.

Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, scanning the room. The shadows were where they should be, the clutter untouched. Yet the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

And then she heard it: a faint creak of a floorboard, too deliberate to be a trick of the wind.

Her pulse surged as she reached under her pillow, fingers brushing against the knife she’d started keeping there. She slipped out of bed, her movements careful, her breathing shallow.

The hallway stretched before her, the faint glow of streetlights filtering through the blinds. She followed the sound, each step a battle against the growing dread coiling in your stomach.

When she reached the living room, she froze.

Simon stood there, his skull mask catching the faint light. He was utterly still, a predator who had been waiting for his prey to notice him.

“Simon,” she breathed, the name heavy with disbelief and fear.

He turned slowly, his movements measured. His hands hung at his sides, empty, but his presence was suffocating.

“You weren’t supposed to wake up,” he said, his voice low, almost regretful.

Her grip tightened on the knife. “What the hell are you doing in my apartment?”

He took a step toward her, his head tilting as if she’d asked a question he didn’t quite understand. “Keeping you safe.”

“By breaking in?!” Her voice shook, anger and fear warring within you.

“You don’t understand,” he said, his tone soft. “You don’t see how exposed you are. How vulnerable. The world isn’t kind to people like you.”

Her stomach churned. “You’ve been watching me, haven’t you? The flowers, the notes—they were from you.”

Simon didn’t deny it. Instead, he stepped closer, his gaze boring into her. “Everything I’ve done was to protect you.”

“Protect me?” you spat. “You’re the one I need protecting from!”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, something flickered behind the mask—hurt, maybe. “I’d never hurt you,” he said firmly.

“Then leave.”

Silence stretched between them for a moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was almost pleading. “You don’t understand, love. I see what’s out there. I’ve seen what happens to people who don’t have someone looking out for them. You need me.”

“No, I don’t!” Her voice cracked, but the knife in her hand didn’t waver.

Simon’s gaze dropped to the blade, then back to her eyes. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped closer. She pressed herself against the wall, the cold seeping into her skin.

“You won’t use that,” he said. “You don’t need to. I’d never let anything happen to you.”

“I don’t trust you.”

He leaned in, his breath ghosting over her skin. “You will.”

The weight of his words settled over her like a shroud. She didn’t know whether to scream, fight, or collapse under the realization that Simon wasn’t going anywhere.

part 2

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

what do we think babess??

@daydreamerwoah @spicyspicyliving @blackhawkfanatic

[cobrakaisb]

day 'n' nite

summary: every friday night, like clockwork, the older counselors and campers waste their nights away at a party. usually you’re the one taking care of luke but tonight the roles are reversed and all the cards are laid out on the table.

word count: 3.1k

featuring: drunk!reader, happy luke + reader (hence the happy luke picture in the header), them being giggly and in love, a little sad at the end (but only a teeny tiny bit)

series masterlist ||| previous ||| next

giggles tumble out of your mouth, filling the already loud atmosphere with your pure joy. you clutch onto katrina’s arm, pulling her flush against your side, as your cheek rests on her bicep. she laughs at you, moving her arm to support your weight. 

you gasp, loudly, as her hand rests gently on your waist. “i have a boyfriend,” you snap, suddenly able to hold yourself up.

you stand, albeit a bit slowly, and move away from the girl. she does her best to hide her laughter, but fails. her laugh, however, builds up more anger in your chest, and you cross your arms.    

“oh he’s your boyfriend now? i thought you two didn’t do labels,” katrina teases.

you pout at her words, answering, “well luke says that not me. everyone knows we’re together.” 

“who’s together?” jade, a girl from the apollo cabin asks, sliding into the spot next to katrina.

you throw a nasty look in her direction, or what you assume is a nasty look. even in your inebriated state, you know that jade can’t be trusted. she was one of the first campers to hate on you, and she’s one of the few that continue to do so. once the novelty of hera having a demigod child wore off, most people left you to your own devices. there were still the occasional whispers and rumors, but jade and her friend group always seemed to be behind them. 

“none of your business,” you snap, turning your nose up at her like a fifth grader. 

she scoffs at you, “ugh whatever,” and walks away. 

you smile, a satisfied look on your face as you reclaim your seat next to katrina. she’s holding onto two cups, and you’re positive that one of them belongs to you. you reach for one of them, but she pulls it away, lifting it just out of your reach.

“i think you need a break,” she says, voice soft and caring.

“no ‘m fine,” you mumble, trying to reach for the cup again but completely missing. 

that’s the funniest thing in the world, and you burst into another giggling fit. katrina stares at you, a soft smile on her face. your hand comes up to cover your mouth, but your shoulders continue to shake with, now somewhat stifled, laughter. you can’t even register what’s so funny, but everything seems to have you in a giggly mood. one that only gets worse when luke walks across the way, followed by a group of boys who you know to be his friends.

“luke looks like a dragon prince,” you announce, pointing in his direction. 

katrina chuckles at your words; they make no sense. you, however, think they’re the most accurate description in the world. the orange and red hues from the large fire pit, courtesy of cabin nine, illuminate his features. he’s laughing at something one of his friends said, but his eyes are still deep and serious. the white scar tracing down his cheek shines brightly in the dark, and you wonder if landon knows he hurt his king. 

luke feels your eyes on him, because he turns and meets your gaze, smiling at you. you gasp as he throws you a subtle nod, like something out of a teen movie. your right hand clutches at katrina’s shirt sleeve, and you shake the material vigorously between your fingers. she looks to you, and notices the deep flush and dilated pupils. 

“he’s looking at me. i think he has a crush on me. oh my gods what do i do? i know my mother’s the goddess of marriage, but i’m not ready for this,” you ramble.

katrina laughs, again. luke looks your way, again. you start to panic, again. 

“relax,” katrina says, “he’s your boyfriend.” 

her tone is teasing, but you don’t pick up on it. all you feel is shock. your mouth falls open, and your head swivels between the curly headed boy and your best friend. 

“you’re lying,” you conclude. 

katrina shakes her head, “i’m not.” 

before you can refute her claims, the dragon king himself is in front of you. he slides into the empty seat on your left hand side, throwing his arm casually over your shoulder. there’s a can of something in his other hand, and he lifts it up to his mouth for a swig. you watch, with deep fascination, as his adam’s apple bobs while he swallows the liquid. when he’s done, he leans down to your ear, lips ghosting over the piercings that adorn it. 

“hi,” he whispers, pulling at your golden hoop helix piercing with his teeth.

you're stunned into silence. all that you can muster is a small gasp, and you turn to katrina, wondering what you should do. she’s already staring at you, but so are these other two guys, and a girl who you barely recognize. you point to luke with your thumb, asking a silent question. katrina nods, and one of the guys, another brunette, hides his laugh behind a red solo cup. 

you turn your head again, making eye contact with the cute guy next to you. you just stare at him for a while, and he holds your gaze the whole time. his right hand, you realize, is tracing circles on your exposed shoulder. the pad of his thumb is calloused and rough against your soft skin, but you like to contrast. you lean into his touch, shifting closer to him on the wooden bench. 

“ouch,” you mumble, lifting up your hand. 

“what’s wrong?” he asks, eyebrows furrowing in concern.

“i think i got a splinter,” you explain, holding up your palm for him to see. 

he inspects your hand, and there’s absolutely nothing there, but replies, “don’t worry. i’ll take you to the infirmary tomorrow.”

you nod, and he kisses your palm, right where the supposed splinter is. his lips are soft, you think, but then why is everyone giggling? you look around, but none of the four people surrounding the two of you provide any sort of explanation. 

“i know. my girlfriend makes me use this lip balm she really likes,” he says, and you’re still confused. 

“huh?” you ask, head tilting. 

“my girlfriend gave me this lip balm. it’s from glossy or something,” he answers, holding up the tube. 

you snatch it from him, looking at the label. even drunk, you know a high quality lip balm when you see one. 

“glossier! i love it there,” you exclaim.

everyone laughs again, even the boy next to you this time. you look at him, a shy smile on your face, as you unscrew the cap. you squeeze the tube, and lift the lip balm to your puckered lips. you rub them together, smacking them a couple times. luke doesn’t take his eyes off you; you don’t take your eyes off him. 

there’s relatively no distance between you two now, but you can’t bring yourself to care. luke doesn’t seem to mind either as he shifts his arm and way that pulls your body even closer to his. the little space that remained is gone, and your thighs are pressed together. you want to be touching him in some way, and lift your left leg to drape over his right one. you nudge his left calf with your converse, gaining his attention. you giggle at that, stifling your laughs with his shoulder. 

“she’s gone,” he observes. 

“oh i know,” katrina answers. 

“you smell so good,” you say, adjusting your head so that your cheek rests against him, and your eyes meet his. 

the two boys, the ones who you can’t recognize at the moment, burst out laughing. your eyebrows furrowed at that, a soft huff escaping you as you cross your arms and lean further into luke. you close your eyes for a minute, basking in his warm presence and the smoky undertones emitting from his shirt. 

“how many drinks have you had?” he asks, large hand rubbing up and down your back. 

“two,” you answer confidently, holding up two fingers. 

katrina scoffs, “try three cups of jungle juice and whatever else at the pregame.” 

“you pregamed?” luke asks, voice low against your ear. 

“mhm. cause what if they didn’t have any drinks i liked?” you reply, holding your hands up in defense. 

he chuckles at your words, humming in agreement as he kisses your forehead. that action, for some reason, registers as oddly intimate in your mind, and so you’re pushing him away. in your drunken state, you can't comprehend that he’s your boyfriend.

“i shouldn’t be doing this. katrina says i have a boyfriend,” you slur, shaking your head. 

“no, you said you have a boyfriend,” katrina replies. 

“well either way!” you yell, throwing your hands up in exasperation. 

“isn’t he your boyfriend?” one of the boys asks, pointing to luke.

“he can’t be. he’s too hot,” you answer confidently. 

everyone laughs at that, except for you and luke. luke’s cheeks are flushed red, but he looks at you with nothing but love and adoration in his eyes. he smiles at you, gently shaking his head in disbelief. 

you shrink back into yourself, slouching down in his arms so that the back of your head rests against his shoulder. luke’s hand fiddles with the hem of your jeans, fingers ghosting over your hips, and you squirm. you shove his hand away, covering your face with your own. 

“what’s wrong?” he asks, bending down so only you can hear him.

“i embarrassed myself,” you whine, peeking at him through a gap in your fingers.

luke chuckles, “it’s okay baby. i still love you.” 

you light up at his words, wrapping your arms around his neck. you pull his face down to yours, smacking kisses all over, only stopping to giggle from pure, unfiltered happiness. normally, you save the affection for the private confines of your cabins, but all of your reservations are out the window at the moment. 

luke smiles brightly at your actions, dimples and everything, as he squeezes your hips three times. it’s your silent code, an unspoken way for the two of you to communicate your love and appreciation for one another, and you smile happily at his use of it. you hug him again, burying your face into the crook of his neck. you can tell that he’s been smoking, and maybe that’s why his eyes are a little red-rimmed. you don’t mind, however, and opt to keep your head resting there. his arms wrap securely around you, cradling your body the way someone would hold a toddler. 

“tired?” he asks, rubbing a hand down your back.

you want to say no, but the giant yawn betrays you. 

“c’mon, i’ll bring you to bed,” he says, patting your thigh to signal for you to get up. 

you agree, holding out your hand for him to take. once your fingers are safely stowed away in his palm, you walk up to katrina. 

“goodnight tree,” you mumble, hugging her tightly. 

“g’night,” she replies, squeezing you just as tight.

with that, you let luke lead you towards the hera cabin as you focus on not tripping over your own feet. you stumble on the stairs, and luke squeezes your waist, holding you steady. he’s your rock, and you don’t know what you’d do without him. 

he opens the door, waiting for you to enter the cabin before following. you look around, and your eyes land on the giant statue taking up a majority of the room. you gasp, hands covering your mouth, as you meet your mother’s cold and calculating stare. 

“i don’t think she should be seeing me like this. can we go to your cabin?” you ask, turning to face luke.

“it’s a statue,” luke deadpans, shaking his head.

“but she’s all knowing,” you reply, pointing to the marble goddess. 

“you’re gonna be fine,” luke explains softly. 

you’re eyes are wide, and you continuously shake your head no. you grab onto luke’s hand, intertwining your fingers together. his hand is rough and worn from all the training he does, a testament to how long he’s been at camp. your mind wanders back to his position as king of the dragons, and you want to ask him if his hands are scarred from the claws of a rival. yet, it doesn’t seem appropriate, so you keep your mouth shut. 

“where’s you toiletry bag?” luke ask, letting go of you hand as he wanders around the cabin. 

“i don’t know,” you answer, following him towards the area you’ve deemed your bed. 

he huffs, standing back from the bed to monitor the situation. his hands are on his hips, eyes scanning the area for your bag with makeup remover, skincare, and other bathroom necessities. you find the pose extremely comical, and laugh. he looks at you over his shoulder, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 

“what’s so funny?” he asks.

“you look like my dad,” you wheeze. 

he pauses, mouth agape like a fish out of water. he opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, but ultimately comes up empty handed. just when it seems like he’s about to say something, you’re bounding over to your bedside table, grabbing a bag that’s clearly overloaded. 

“found it!” you shout. 

luke cringes at the volume, but takes the bag from your hands without further questioning. he marches over to your closet, the one he helped you set up, and grabs a small towel from one of the shelves. you smile at him. he’s so endearing, you think, how’d i get so lucky?

“let’s go to the bathroom,” he says, tilting his head towards the door of your cabin.

you nod in agreement, taking his outstretched hand. luke smiles at you, allowing you to lead the way, despite your drunken state. he admires your beauty in the moment, although he knows you’d argue you’re anything but. your makeup is messy, your cheeks are flushed from all the alcohol, and your top is falling off your shoulder, yet he still believes that you can rival aphrodite. he shouldn’t think that, he realizes, as she’s one of the only gods he still prays to, but he does. 

the two of you enter the bathroom, and you're surprised by how empty it is. however, the peace and quiet is nice for a usually chaotic space. you decide on a mirror and sink in the middle of the collection, and turn to face luke, waiting for his approval. when he sets the bag down, and removes the towel from his shoulder, you know you’ve made a good choice. 

“alright, let’s take your makeup off,” he says, patting the small of your back. 

you fumble with the zipper of your pouch, trying and failing to get the bag opened. you pout, holding it out to luke, with a pleading look in your eyes. 

“i’ll help you. you want to sit on the counter?” he asks.

you nod, and turn around so your back is towards the sink and mirrors. you brace yourself, ready to test your physical strength in your drunken state. you fail the first attempt, not even making it onto the ledge. luke watches, amusement clear in his eyes, because it’s not like you to ask for help. 

“need a hand?” 

“no i can do it! i’m a demigod,” you answer, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

he chuckles at your response, but goes back to digging through your bag for the cotton pads and micellar water. he also takes out your face wash, moisturizer, toothbrush, toothpaste, and other skin care items he thinks you might need. 

“luke,” you whisper, tugging on his sleeve. 

he hums in acknowledgment, turning away from the array of products to face you. 

“help?” you ask with a shy smile. 

“i thought you didn’t need it, cause your a demigod,” he teases, crossing his arms. 

you’re drawn to his muscles, flexing against his tee and you’re temporarily left speechless. he’s just so hot, you think. 

“gods i hope my mom answers my prayers,” you blurt out. 

“about what?” 

“us getting married. i really want to. i think…if we were in vegas, i’d drag you down to the chapel,” you reply. 

luke’s mouth drops open in shock, “you think about marrying me?”

“nonstop,” you answer, finally climbing onto the counter. 

he stands there for a minute, unsure of what to say or do. all he knows is that he thinks about getting married to you too. he envisions you, regal as ever, like the true daughter of the queen of the gods, walking towards him down an aisle. it’d be small. you, him, and a handful of close friends, but every single part of it would be meaningful. 

“let’s get you ready for bed,” he says, changing the conversation. 

“okay!” 

it takes him much longer than usual to get you through your bedtime routine, but he doesn’t mind if you don’t. and, you seem pretty content right now. you’re smiling and giggling, making goofy faces at him in the mirror with toothpaste smeared on your chin and a fluffy headband keeping your hair at bay. the whole scene feels oddly domestic, especially when he takes your towel and gently wipes the corners of your mouth. it’s serene. it’s perfect. 

“you’re perfect y’know that?” he asks, looking at you earnestly. 

you flush, turning away from him. 

“stop.”

“‘m not lying! you’re perfect for me,” he whispers, cupping your cheeks. 

you pucker your lips, and luke lays a gentle kiss on them. you burst into giggles, engulfing him in a hug. 

“i want to change. come back to my cabin? please?”

he agrees, following you to the end of the earth. it was an easy request, nothing too extraordinary.

“let me get my pajamas, and then i’ll be right back, okay?” he mumbles, kissing your forehead before leaving you alone with the eternal glow of hera’s flames. 

by the time he gets back, you're standing in one of his tee shirts and a pair of sleep shorts. he’s just wearing a tank top and flannel pants, put he comes up behind you to wrap you in his arms. you away for a minute, dancing to a song only you two can hear. then, you wiggle out of his grasp, climb into bed, and pull the covers up to your chin.

“come lie with me,” you beg, patting the spot next to you.

he wraps you up on his arms, pulling you flush against his chest. once your breaths even out, he sneaks out of the bed, waiting just a second to make sure you don’t wake up. quietly, he pulls the candy out of his pocket — two blue raspberry jolly ranchers.

“please hera, let me marry her. aphrodite, keep her by my side, whatever it takes. please.” 

and for the first time in a long time, luke castellan makes a genuine offering.

taglist: @percabethlvr @iwantahockeyhimbo @hottiewifeyyyy @loveryoushouldcomeoverr @maraschinocherry3 @used2beeeeee @harrysnovia @cami-is-reading @mxtokko @cxcilla @obxstiles

[anakinstwinklebunny]

PAIRING: hayden christensen x pregnant!reader

FLUFF ❦

It was 8PM Friday night when it happened. HAYDEN CHRISTENSEN'S house was all quiet, all warm from the fireplace your boyfriend set up. Lavender candle flickered on the coffee table nearby, filling the air around with something sweet and soft. A half empty bowl of popcorn sat beside it, long abandoned in the favor of the true battle.

Uno.

You and Hayden were cross-legged on the too comfortable couch, cards fanned out in your hands, the little plastic deck sitting between you both. He wore his grey sweatpants and a loose Henley, leaning back against the cushions with one arm draped lazily over the back of the couch and those tempting, long fingers tapping idly against his knee.

He was way too calm.

Too collected.

While you..heavily pregnant. Hormonal. Exhausted. Swollen. And now, for the fourth time, you’re one card away from victory—

Until Hayden slapped down a +4 card.

Your breath stopped in your throat. Heart fluttered in its place. Your gaze snapped from your carda to him, betrayal thick in your voice. “Are you serious right now?”

Hayden just smirked. “Rules are rules, sweetheart.”

Oh. Oh.

Your lip wobbled. Your eyes stung with soon to come tears. Your hormonal rage building in your chesr.

“You don’t even care about the game,” you whispered with the shaky voice. “You just wanna watch me suffer.”

Hayden exhaled through his nose, probably for the fifth time this hour “Baby, it’s Uno.”

You slammed your cards down on the coffee table. “It’s a personal attack is what it is.”

Hayden chuckled, his deep, warm, way-too-pretty voice not helping you at all.

“You think this is funny?”

He raised his hands in surrender, lips twitching. “I think you’re very cute when you’re angry.”

“i am not cute”

He grinned at that, looking entirely too amused. His hand shot towards to grab his mug of tea as if he didn’t just shatter your entire uno-world.

“You just ruined family game night.”

Hayden snorted. “Baby, it’s just the two of us.”

You blinked rapidly. “Exactly. That is the problem”

There was a bright moment of pure silence. A little beat. You don't know what really happened. You don't really knew how dramatic you could be. Like something was pulling all the strings on your emotions, causing you to react in ways you'd never do.. probably

A tear rolled down your cheek.

Hayden’s entire body froze in it's place. His smirk disappeared. His blue eyes widened.

“Baby—”

You sniffed, letting your arms cross over your belly as you dramatically shifted to face the opposite direction, making Hayden panick

He quickly stood up from the couch, immediately those toned arms reached for you, pulling you back without slopping the little homemade coffee table from the couch. He shifted you between his legs, arms wrapped around you as he buried his face in your neck.

“Okay, okay, I take it back,” he murmured, kissing your shoulder. “I’m a terrible person. I should’ve let you win.”

You mumbled something unintelligible.

Hayden sighed, lips tracing up to your jaw. “Come on, baby, don’t cry over Uno.”

You sniffed. Hard. “It’s not just Uno. It’s about the concept.”

Hayden chuckled, hugging you tighter.

And despite yourself, despite your weird outburst, despite his stupid, deep, pretty voice, his warm, strong arms, his soft, sleepy kisses; you melted like a little puddle

You grumbled into his chest, “I want ice cream.”

Hayden smiled, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I’ll grab the tub,” he murmured. “And you can pick the movie.”

You hummed, already content, already forgetting your induced heartbreak. While Hayden just shook his head, muttering fondly under his nose: "Hormones are scary.”

TAG LIST: @kingdomhate @divineani @haydensprettyprincess @skyguys-princess @catnipaddictt @heartscone @haydensbbg @inneedsoffanfics @jediavengers @babybell-cheese @anisluvrgirl @slutforfinnickodair @xhunnybeeex @fuckmyskywalker @gallerygourmet @ysrjune @anakinskwkler @cookybananas @emotionallybruisedx @diorvalentina @sevinax @throughparisallthroughrome @aniiuv @ritosparty @ninastyless @lily-strnlo @thesassypadawan @awhhayden @sydkneez @anisangeldust @l1ttle-misssunsh1ne @anakinca @rubiesarepretty @luluartpop @cloverina @nikiloveshayden @cherriies-snake @skywalkerssgirl @skyguytoast

[novascharms]

teach please me — tutor!reader x soccer player!rafe

reader's life is meticulously planned, from high school to becoming president of the country—she knows exactly where she's headed and every step to get there. but her airtight plan hits a snag when the principal ropes her into tutoring rafe cameron, the school’s star soccer player, who’s failing algebra and at risk of being benched next season. the team needs him on the field, and reader needs the principal’s glowing recommendation to secure her spot at her dream school. balancing her ambitious goals with rafe’s chaotic charm might just throw her perfectly crafted plan off track.

word count — 1.9 chapter index — prev. chap. — next chap.  masterlist a.n — ANOTHER ONE? i feel like dj khaled not gonna lie.

eighteen

friday, february 28th

you were sitting in the nearly deserted common area, the hum of quiet conversation and faint footsteps serving as the only background noise. your laptop was open in front of you, the screen aglow with the fifth slide of the powerpoint presentation you’d been meticulously crafting for the upcoming pta meeting. even though you didn’t have class on friday mornings, you always made your way to school as it was easier to stay focused here, surrounded by the muted energy of the school, than at home.

the quiet was a blessing, giving you the space to concentrate. earlier, rafe had been sitting beside you, devouring a breakfast sandwich while making you laugh between bites. but he’d left for his econ class, leaving you to the silence, though the warmth of his presence still lingered faintly.

you were so engrossed in formatting the slide’s text that the sudden motion of someone sliding into the booth across from you startled you. your eyes snapped up, narrowing at the unexpected intrusion. "topper," you said flatly, blinking in surprise as you instinctively reached for your phone. rafe wasn’t expecting you to text him, but if his best friend was suddenly here, uninvited, it felt worth a heads-up.

"can we talk?" topper’s tone was surprisingly earnest, catching you off guard.

your mind flashed to the biting comments he’d made about you in the past, and the instinctive urge to say no bubbled up. but then you remembered the way rafe had once spoken about topper, calling him a brother, someone who’d been at his side since elementary school. that memory made you pause.

"maybe you should just talk to rafe," you suggested carefully, already closing your laptop. rafe was meeting you here after class anyway; you could just wait for him outside instead of dealing with whatever this was.

but topper leaned forward, stopping you. "i have stuff to say to rafe too, but right now, i want to talk to you. i need to apologize," he said, his voice low and serious. the words were so unexpected that they left you momentarily speechless. you’d been bracing for another snide remark, not this.

"okay," you said slowly, settling back into your seat.

he nodded, leaning back and running a hand through his hair. "rafe’s been my best friend for over ten years," he began, his voice carrying the weight of those years. "we’ve been through everything together. and he’s been through a lot. if he’s serious about you—and it seems like he is—then i’m guessing he’s told you about sarah."

you nodded. "yeah, he did."

"the worst of it with sarah was not that long ago," topper continued, his gaze dropping to the table for a moment before meeting yours again. "i won’t get into the details—that’s not my story to tell—but it hit him hard. he went into this… dark place. he felt isolated and abandoned, and he leaned on me. a lot. when i wasn’t there, he’d self-destruct. sometimes it was just picking fights; other times, it was worse. hospital-worse."

his words hung heavy in the air as you fiddled nervously with your fingers. you tried to imagine rafe like that, spiraling and untethered, but it was hard to reconcile with the version of him you knew.

"i got used to the idea that we were kind of… intertwined," topper admitted. "like, if something happened to him, i’d be the first to know. and yeah, maybe we can talk about unhealthy boundaries or whatever, but that’s how it was. so when things got rocky between you and him… and he wouldn’t talk to me about it? it scared the hell out of me." his voice cracked slightly, the vulnerability in his words cutting through your initial wariness. "i was afraid he’d snap, that he’d go back to being that kid who destroyed everything around him because he didn’t know how to deal with his pain and emotions."

your mind raced, trying to process everything he was saying, trying to reconcile this part of rafe’s life with the person you thought you knew so well.

topper seemed to notice the wide-eyed look on your face and softened his tone. "i’m not saying this to make you feel bad, okay? really, i’m not. i just want to explain why i acted like such an asshole to you.” he explains, “when rafe shuts me out, i feel powerless. and when i thought you were hurting him, i went into defense mode. i see now that i was wrong, that you’re good for him. he’s more in control of his emotions, maturing faster than i thought he would. he’s happy, even if he’s still not talking to me. that’s all i want—for him to be happy."

you crossed your arms, nodding slowly as his words settled over you. "this makes a lot more sense now," you admitted quietly, your voice soft but sincere.

topper gave you a sad smile. "yeah, i figured it would."

"and… i appreciate the apology," you added, your lips curving into a small smile.

he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "i shouldn’t have acted the way i did. honestly, i drink way too much and should probably be banned from my phone when i do."

you let out a small laugh. "i did say that at the bonfire," you teased, a playful lilt in your voice.

topper’s brows furrowed for a moment before his eyes lit up with recognition. "you did say that shit at the bonfire. damn. you were right." he chuckled, shaking his head. "is it too late for dry january?"

you grinned, leaning back in your seat. "there's a ton of research and discussion that suggests new year's resolutions like dry january, extreme fitness routines, or restrictive diets are not always as beneficial as they may seem. experts even highlight that true freedom lies in understanding that the opportunity for change is not confined to a specific date and the essence of free will is recognising that you can choose to start new on any day of the year. whether that's january first or..i don't know, today. "

topper blinked at you, then smirked. "you’re like a walking wikipedia page."

"i’ll take that as a compliment," you replied, pressing a hand to your heart in mock pride.

"it is a compliment," he assured you. "or at least, i don’t mean it in a bad way."

"that definitely makes up for when you called me a ‘goody-goody prissy bitch,’" you teased, raising a brow.

topper grimaced, his hand flying to his face. "i’m really, really sorry about that," he groaned.

you waved it off with a smile. "all is forgiven."

before topper can respond, he’s yanked to his feet with a force that makes the table tremble. "what the fuck do you think you're doing?" rafe’s voice cuts through the air, sharp and angry, as he stands nose to nose with topper. you scramble up from the booth, heart racing as you reach out to steady the situation. "rafe—" you try to interject, your voice calm but firm, but topper shakes his head at you.

"i’m sorry, okay?" topper blurts out, words tumbling from his mouth like he’s been holding them back for days. "you won’t hear me out, and i know you’re pissed. i deserve it. but i had to apologise and explain myself—to you and her." he glances at you briefly before focusing back on rafe. "you know me, man. you know i only want what’s good for you. don’t sit there and tell me that’s not true."

rafe’s jaw tightens, his piercing gaze darting from topper to you. his voice is curt when he asks, "he said sorry?"

you nod quickly, your eyes searching his for any flicker of calm. "yes. we’re all good. it’s okay."

after a tense pause, rafe finally releases topper with a sharp exhale, though his stance remains rigid. "apologise again," he orders, the edge in his tone leaving no room for argument.

topper’s shoulders slump, but he complies without hesitation, turning back to you. "y/n, i’m really sorry. i was being a dick. you didn’t deserve any of it," he repeats earnestly, his gaze steady despite the awkwardness.

you soften at his sincerity, shaking your head as you murmur, "it’s okay." rafe’s hand slides into yours then, grounding you in the moment.

"and you’ll…" rafe starts, his voice trailing off before a smirk curves his lips. "wash her bike for her."

your head snaps toward him, incredulous. "what?" the word spills from your mouth in disbelief, but rafe doesn’t even glance your way.

you whirl back to topper, shaking your head insistently. "topper, you don’t have to wash my bike. that’s ridiculous—"

"he’ll wash your bike," rafe interrupts, his tone so matter-of-fact it’s almost comical. "he wants to wash your bike. tell her you want to wash her bike."

"rafe," topper groans, dragging a hand over his face, clearly over this already.

before either of you can argue further, rafe’s grip tightens on your hand, and he starts pulling you away. "no, no! okay! fucking hell, i’ll wash the damn bike!" topper calls after you, voice strained with exasperation.

rafe stops, glances over his shoulder, and arches a brow. "yeah? you’ll wash it?"

topper throws his hands up in defeat. "yes. i’ll wash it," he mutters.

you shake your head at rafe, disbelief mixing with fondness. "you’re unbelievable, you know that?" you tell him as he leads you back to the booth.

rafe just smirks, sliding in beside you and tugging you close. topper drops back into the seat across from you, his face a mix of annoyance and resignation. "yes, he knows that," topper says dryly, earning a quiet chuckle from rafe.

"you should be happy about this," rafe quips, leaning back like he’s already won. "didn’t you know cleaning can burn up to 400 calories an hour?"

your heart warms despite yourself, and you glance at him, surprised. "you were listening when i said that?"

he gives you a pointed look, one that’s equal parts teasing and affectionate. "you keep underestimating me. you know that?"

grinning, you nudge him gently. "shame on me," you reply, your voice light with humor as you tuck your laptop into your bag. "i’m gonna go say hi to hazel real quick. i’ll be right back."

you gesture for him to move so you can slide out of the booth, but instead, he loops an arm around you and lifts you over his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. you barely manage to stifle a surprised laugh as you land on the other side, shooting him a playful glare before walking away.

as you approach hazel, you’re trying—and failing—to act completely normal, though the light skip in your step probably gives you away. "hiii," you greet her, sliding into the seat across from her.

hazel raises a brow, glancing past you. "heyyy. is that freaking topper sitting with you and rafe?"

you laugh, shaking your head. "yeah. he came to talk to me about ten minutes ago when i was sitting alone. he apologised for everything."

hazel’s jaw drops, her pen frozen mid-air. "that’s… wow. what a turn of events. so, he and rafe are good again?"

you glance over at the two boys, now laughing together like nothing had ever been wrong. "all good. topper’s not as bad as i thought he was."

"who would've thought?"

your chin comes to rest in your palm as you stare at hazel, stupid grin on your face.

"stop smiling so much." she laughs and you can't contain your grin. "why not?" you ask her, "can i not be reallyyy happy?"

hazel hums thoughtfully, turning her attention back to paper. "of course you can. just be careful. but anyway, i was talking to gisele, and we came up with a great idea for the double-booking problem." she dives into an explanation, and you’re quick to join the discussion, feeling an odd sense of peace settle over you.

everything feels like it’s finally clicking into place, like it was always meant to happen this way. and the miraculous part? you get to keep rafe through it all.

chapter index — prev. chap. — next chap.

a.n — but do you reallyyyyyyy get to keep him? whooo knows. anyway, chapter 19 tomorrow and chapter 20 sat — epilogue on sundayyyyyy

taglist — @rafeysworldim19 @my-name-is-baby @pogueprincesa @fveapplestall @chalametlover444 @slutglimreqpers @uarmyhopeworldwide @junxe3 @bakuhoethotski @wintercrows @kinderwh0r3 @magicalflowerstranger @bigjuli444 @singlethreadofivy @stylestarkey

let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist & interact with post to remain tagged <3

[buwheal]

Mr. Spamton, have you ever tried sewing before? The patterns some people draft up are bamboozling to the mind, for sure...

-Silly woman who tried, but only managed to stitch together lopsided "pillows" from t-shirts and stuff them with cotton balls

[prettyboyeddiemunson]

what’s your favorite scary movie?

summary: porn star eddie is doing a halloween film with his costar, one that involves a certain mask.

pairing: porn star eddie x porn star reader

word count: 5.9k

warnings: being filmed, daddy kink, use of a realistic plastic knife (nothing weird with it, though), unprotected sex, creampies, choking, brief oral sex (m & f receiving), mentions of anal, breast play, anal fingering (f receiving), degradation, rough sex, kinda dubcon

a/n: im aware halloween is over, but its always Halloween in my mind! also, sorry if anything like this has been done. I just returned to tumblr, and haven’t read many fics here in like 8-9 months.

18+ ONLY. minors do not interact or follow, or you’re getting blocked.

————————————-

Ring! Ring!

The phone next to you was ringing its familiar ringtone, and you looked at it with an eye roll. Unknown number, typical. You were acting the part of someone who didn’t like spam calls, but you hated them just as much in real life, too. You turned your attention back to the TV, ready to forget all about it and delete any voice mail they may leave, when it began to ring again. The same number popped up, and you killed the call. They called again, and again, and after the fifth time, you’d finally had enough.

“What do you want?” you asked irritably.

“y/n,” a deep voice came over the phone. “How nice to catch you.”

“Who is this?” you asked. 

“That doesn’t matter,” he said, and you could hear a grin in his voice. “I was lonely, and thought I would give you a call.”

“Very funny,” you said. “Tell me who you are.”

“What’s the fun of that?” he asked. “Isn’t mystery supposed to be more fun?”

“Is it?” you asked. “You’re probably just someone I know, trying to play some kind of weird joke.”

“Am i?” he asked. “I don’t think I know you at all.”

“Then how did you know my name and my number?” you asked. “Answer me that.”

“Maybe I have my own methods,” he said. “Ever think of that?”

“Ha ha,” you said with an eye roll. You hung up, but the same number called again and you picked up. “Yes?”

“That wasn’t very wise of you,” he said dangerously. “You didn’t even let me ask my questions.”

“They’re probably something really fucking gross,” you said. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Now, now,” he said, tsking. “What do you take me for?”

“A pervert,” you said.

“You’re right,” he said with a dramatic sigh. “But that isn’t why I’m calling you.”

“No?” you asked with a chuckle. “Coulda fooled me.” 

“What’s your favorite scary movie?” he asked, and you could almost hear the grin in his voice.

“What the fuck?” you asked, sitting up on the couch. “What kind of question is that?”

“Are you going to answer it?”

“No, now goodbye–”

“Hang up again, and you’ll regret it.”

The threatening tone of his voice gave you pause. “Who is this?”

“What’s your favorite scary movie?” he asked again.

“Whatever,” you said, and dared to hang up. It didn’t last long until he called again, and you rolled your eyes as you answered. “What?!”

“I’m sorry for disturbing you,” he said. “I just wanted to talk to you.”

“I’m not gonna entertain you,” you said. “You’re a fucking creep.”

“Just answer my question and I’ll leave you alone,” he said.

“Fine,” you said with a sigh. “I really like Psycho, Halloween, Friday the 13th, The Exorcist.”

“I know you like Friday the 13th,” he said, and he laughed evilly on the other end. “I can see that you’re watching it right now.”

You froze, sitting bolt upright. “What did you just say?”

“Never mind that,” he said. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No..” you answered automatically, looking around the darkness of your windows for any signs of life. “How do you know what I’m watching…?”

“Just a guess,” he said.

You got up and turned on all the lights, looking around again to see if you could spot someone. “Look, I need to go–”

“Don’t hang up,” he nearly shouted.

“Look, this isn’t funny or cute anymore,” you said. “I’m really uncomfortable, so if you could please–”

“You look really sexy in your pretty lingerie,” he said. “I mean, I think that’s what it is. You’re wearing that pretty pink babydoll with a thong. You like to tease people, y/n? That isn’t very nice.”

“Fuck you, creep,” you said.

“You didn’t ask what my favorite scary movie is,” he said.

“I don’t care!” you cried. “Leave me alone!”

“It’s The Strangers,” he said, and you could swear his voice sounded different now. More echo, closer somehow. “You know, that movie where those people break into that house.”

“I’m–” you began, and your back collided with someone as you backed away. 

You played the part of terrified really well, and you could see the cameraman giving you a thumbs up as you kept the facade. You turned around slowly, shouting in surprise when you came face to face with a man in a mask. He was in all black, and the rest of his mask was black as well, except for the face. It looked like a ghost, its mouth agape in some kind of eternal shock. In his hand was a knife, but you knew it wasn’t a real one. It was plastic that was made to look like the real deal, something the director found at a joke shop for a little bit of nothing. You shrieked and tried to run away, but he grabbed you and held you against his back as he stroked your hair in a near-loving gesture.

“Shh,” he said in your ear, trailing the knife down your arm. “It’s okay. I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Could have fooled me,” you said, feeling yourself already starting to get wet as you felt him hardening against your ass. “Why are you here, then?”

“I was hoping maybe I’d get lucky,” he purred, moving the knife between your breasts as you shivered. “You’re so much hotter up close.”

“And what do YOU look like under that thing?” you asked, your voice conveying the whole “stall him” vibe that the director wanted you to go for. “It’s not really fair that you see me and I can’t see you. If you’re really not gonna hurt me, then why won’t you show me?”

“I’ll show you,” he said, and you could hear the smirk in his voice. “If you do one thing for me.”

“What?” you asked, turning your head so that you could look at him slightly. 

“Show me those pretty, perfect tits,” he said in your ear, running the knife between them again. “Outside of that baby doll.”

“And what would you do for me in return?” you asked, turning around in his grip and looking into that mask. “Let me live?”

“Maybe,” he said, looking you up and down. “But first, I’ll just show you my face if you do. Let’s start there, yeah?”

You smirked at him, lowering the thin straps of the baby doll and biting your lip. “You’re probably some total asshole under there. I mean, who calls random women at nine on a Friday night, stalks them, then breaks into their house?”

“Keep going,” he said, his eyes on your breasts. “Show me.”

“You’re a real pervert, you know that?” you said.

“And look what you’re doing,” he said smugly. “Giving into me.”

“You came here to kill me,” you said. “I know that to be true, but it seems like you changed your mind. Why?”

“Because why would I waste such a good set of tits?” he asked. “And I know that pussy of yours is also perfect.”

You swallowed, but smirked as you pulled the baby doll down. You exposed your breasts to him, and heard him suck in a breath. That wasn’t scripted; it was his genuine reaction. You bit your lip again, smiling as you stood before him. He took the knife and dragged it over one erect nipple, causing you to shiver and moan slightly. That also wasn’t scripted or an act, and you knew that whatever happened from this point onward, it was going to be genuine. Well, aside from the basic acts they wanted you to perform on each other, but the reactions? It would be all you, and him. 

“Like what you see?” you asked, shaking them a bit as he groaned.

“Fuck yes,” he said, his ringed hands coming up to grope them. You moaned a little, head tipping slightly as he massaged them in his hands. “I guess I need to hold up my end of the bargain, too, huh?”

“Mmm hmm,” you said, mewling as he gave your nipples a soft pinch. “Shit…”

He stepped back, and you whined at the loss of contact. He lifted the mask with one hand, revealing his face underneath. You acted as though you were surprised to see just how sexy he really was, and his pierced tongue came out between his lips with a devils-horn gesture at the top of his head. You smiled, moving closer to him and running your hands down his chest as he looked you up and down again. Soon, he was grabbing your head forcefully, and drawing your lips to his in a passionate, hard kiss. It turned sloppy, your hands wandering and his, too, finding purchase on your hips as he squeezed. Your tongue played with his piercing, and you could feel the presence of the cameraman in front of you both as you made out. One hand tangled in his hair, the other palming the big bulge that was forming in the front of his pants. His hands came up, grabbing your breasts hard as you moaned into his mouth. He tugged your lower lip between his teeth, moving away to start kissing down your neck. 

“You feel so big,” you breathed, mewling as his teeth found your sweet spot. “Fuck…”

“You have no idea,” he said, pulling your body to his before grabbing your ass. “I want you so bad.”

“Come on,” you said, taking his hand and leading him into the living room. You pushed him down on the couch, straddling his lap before grinding against his dick. “You know what I want you to do?”

“What?” he panted. 

“Want you to rip this thing off of me,” you said in his ear, tugging the lobe in your teeth. 

“Oh?” he asked, grabbing the back of it and tearing it down the middle. “Like that?”

“Mmm hmm,” you hummed, kissing his neck as he moaned. “And I want you to put the mask back on.”

“Okay,” he said, smirking before his face disappeared beneath the Ghostface mask again. 

“You know what else I want?” you asked, moaning as you continued to glide along his clothed erection.

“Hm?”

“I want that big, thick cock down my throat.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mmm hmm.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

You could hear the smirk in his voice, and it would have infuriated you under any other circumstances. Right then, though, you were too turned on to care. You moved from your spot on his lap to slide to your knees, keeping your eyes on him as you did so. You palmed the bulge in his pants again, feeling how hard he was and suppressing a moan. He watched you from beneath the mask, both of his arms stretched along the back of the couch as you pulled his pants down. His breathing picked up a bit as you put your mouth over his cock through his boxers, and soon, you were pulling those down, too. He was exposed to you now, all nine inches of his thick, pierced, flushed erection at your mercy. As per the script, you teased him a little, sucking on his piercing before swirling your tongue around his slit. He mewled, panting as you took the tip in your lips and sucked eagerly. His arms remained on the back of the couch, not moving yet as you started planting messy, noisy, open mouthed kisses all over the entire length of his cock. You moved farther down to take his big balls into your mouth as well, sucking on them with a moan as you jerked him off skillfully. He was panting a little more heavily now, and you traced his large vein with your tongue as you made your way back up his length.

“Don’t fucking tease me,” he growled.

“Sorry, uh…” you said. “I don’t know what to call you.”

“You can call me Daddy,” he said, reaching down with one hand to stroke your cheek. “And what shall I call you, huh?”

“Anything you want,” you said with a wink, spitting on his cock and jerking him off. “Such a big dick, fuck.” 

“What did I say about teasing?” he asked, tilting your chin up with the knife.

“Sorry, Daddy,” you said, opening your mouth and taking his entire cock.

You gagged for a moment until you got your reflex under control, which was something you’d gotten good at in the business. You could feel him in your throat, stretching, his piercing at the back of it as you drug your head up, then back down. He was moaning above you under the mask, his head tipped back as he tangled a hand in your hair. You looked up at him, bobbing your head slowly as you gripped his base in one hand. You began to jerk him off in time with your movements, ignoring the camera man as he came around to get some close up shots. It felt as if he wasn’t even there, that’s how into it you were starting to get. You could feel your pussy throbbing, wetness settling in the thong you still wore as you sucked him off.

“Fuck, baby,” he moaned, tugging on your hair as you hollowed your cheeks. “You’re so fucking good at that. You’re a filthy little cock slut, aren’t you? I mean, who else just gets on her knees for a man she’s just met, especially one who broke into her house to hurt her?”

You responded by twisting your wrist, eyes still on him as you sucked him off messily. Drool cascaded from his dick and onto the floor below, and your throat was starting to hurt a bit from his piercing. But he was so hot, THIS was so hot, and you couldn’t bring yourself to stop. His hips bucked upward with a loud moan, and you choked as more of his cock went down your throat again. He stroked your cheek tenderly, before yanking you off of his dick. Spit bridged your lips to the tip, and you looked up at him in surprise. Was this scripted? You couldn’t quite remember, but either way, it sent a fresh wave of arousal to your cunt.

“Rub my dick across your tits,” he said. 

“Those are one of my biggest insecurities,” you replied, but did as he asked as he moaned filthily. “But you like them, huh?”

“Fuck yes,” he panted, watching as you sucked his tip again. “You’re so hot.”

“Thanks,” you said, and you continued to alternate between rubbing his dick over your breasts and sucking him off. After a little while, he forced you to stop by grabbing your jaw. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re gonna make me cum if you keep that up,” he growled. “Did I say I was ready to cum yet?”

“No, Daddy,” you said, reaching out to jerk him off. “But I can’t stop worshipping this huge, perfect dick of yours.”

He grabbed your wrist and pinned it to the couch, causing you to whine. “Let me make you feel good.”

“You already did,” he said, grabbing your spit-soaked chin in one hand and forcing you to look up into his mask. “Now, it’s my turn.”

“What do you mean?” you asked, trying to take him into your mouth again, but you were greeted by a light slap to your cheek. “What?”

“I said stop it,” he said, pushing you away as he got up off the couch. “Sit up here for me.”

You whined, but did as he said. You sat down on the couch, watching as he lifted the mask again. He kissed you hungrily, sloppily, one ringed hand squeezing your jaw before it found your throat. He choked you for a moment, and you moaned as his hands found your breasts. He massaged them skillfully, his rings cold against your heated skin, his fingers rubbing your nipples until they were hard buds. He pinched them, tugged on them, swiped his fingers across them, all while you moaned hotly in his mouth. He grabbed his plastic knife, running it over & between your breasts before dragging it over your waist and stomach. 

“I’m going to show you just what I’m capable of,” he said, kissing down your neck after leaving a series of hickeys in his wake. He nipped at your collarbones, before he found your breasts. “You have the hottest body I’ve ever fucking seen.”

“All the other girls you broke in on weren’t as hot, huh?” you asked.

“Not even close,” he said, pulling one of your nipples in his mouth and sucking generously. “Such an amazing set of tits.”

“Fuck…” you whined, one hand in his hair as he tugged your nipple in his teeth. You knew the cameraman was probably getting a pretty good shot with that; Eddie was skilled, he knew what he was doing and how to work a woman’s body. You were reacting to him, wetness pooling in your thong, and you spread your legs for him as you grabbed one of his hands. “I want you to touch me. Please, I need it.”

“So needy, princess,” he said, giving your other nipple the same treatment as the last. He drug the knife down, running it over your cunt as he smirked. “I’ll bet you’re soaking wet for me, aren’t you? You’re such a depraved fucking slut, you know that? Putting out for me like this, soaking that pretty thong for me.”

“Touch me the right way and find out, asshole,” you challenged, and you could feel him grinning against your breast. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” he said, smiling up at you as he started to kiss his way down your stomach. They weren’t gentle, tender kisses; they were needy, hard, bruising. You knew you’d have some marks there tomorrow. “Just that you think it’s so funny and cute to be calling me names right now, when I’ve got the upper hand.” 

“Who says you’ve got the upper hand?” you asked, and he slapped your thigh hard as you yelped. “You didn’t have to do that!”

“Shut up,” he snarled, kneeling in front of you and spreading your legs as wide as they would go. He peeled off your thong, and the cameraman moved behind him to get a shot of your pussy. “Fuck, look at that. So fucking pretty and so goddamn wet.”

“I can’t help it,” you said, shivering as he ran the knife over your bare cunt. “Daddy…”

“I’m going to make you fucking scream, baby,” he said, and he immediately began to devour you.

You had never been eaten out like that before, either off camera or on. The way his pierced tongue moved through your cunt, so skillful and hungry, had you moaning loudly. You usually had to fake your moans, or at the very least, over exaggerate them. Not now; right now, every single noise that fell from your lips was genuine. He was devouring you, his tongue flicking your clit with every drag upward, his hands gripping your thighs tight enough to leave more bruises. You reached down to grab his hair, and he moaned as you pulled it roughly. His piercing dragged through your saturated folds, slowly and teasingly, before he pressed it tightly against your clit. More wetness soaked his face, and his fingers soon joined the mix. The cameraman was getting some great shots, and Eddie began to fuck you roughly on his fingers while his mouth did its magic.

“Fuck, you’re so good,” you gasped, rutting against his face as you clenched around his fingers. “I need more.”

“More?” he asked, his free hand dragging the knife over your thigh. “How much more? I’m giving you all I can, you greedy whore.”

“I want more,” you insisted, your eyes nearly rolling back as he started sucking on your clit. “Please…”

“Is this what you want?” he asked, gathering some of your wetness on the fingers of his free hand and pushing a finger inside of your ass. “Huh?”

“Yes,” you gasped, looking down into his big brown eyes as he started to eat your pussy again. “Fuck, please…”

He took his fingers out of your cunt, instead focusing on your ass. He shook his head back & forth rapidly, growling, his eyes still trained on your face. You kept looking down at him, playing with your breasts as his tongue swirled your clit. You tugged your nipples, and soon he was slapping your hand away with his free one to take over. He squeezed it, massaging it, pinching the nipple as hard as he could. You cried out, and you could feel the familiar sensation in your lower stomach that indicated an orgasm was imminent. He kept going, lapping at your pussy as if his life depended on it, shaking his head occasionally, using his piercing to his advantage. He began to fuck you on his tongue as he fingered your ass, moaning as more of your taste flooded his tongue.

“So fucking good,” he mumbled, moaning as he reached down to jerk himself off. “I’m going to fucking cum just from eating your pussy.”

“I’d rather you cum inside of me,” you said. “I wanna feel that big dick in my tight, wet pussy right now. Wanna feel you pumping me full of cum, and feel how good you are inside of me. Please.”

“You’d rather cum around my dick?” he asked, raising a brow at you.

“Mmm hmm,” you said. “But you gotta put the mask back on.”

“Tired of my face already?” he teased, pulling his finger out and putting the mask back on. “Alright, have it your way. How do you want me to fuck you?”

“From behind,” you said.

“Just like a disgusting fucking whore, huh?” he asked, slapping your ass as you stood up. “I’m going to make you feel so fucking good, baby.”

“Then do it,” you said. “Stop talking about it and just do it already, asshole.”

He slapped your ass hard, leaving a large red handprint in his wake. You yelped but giggled, wiggling your ass toward him as he spanked it again. He held the knife to your throat, pulling you up by your head as his mouth found your ear. You could feel his giant cock throbbing against your ass, and knew he was close already. But if everything you heard about his reputation was true, you knew that didn’t mean anything. He could apparently hold off for quite awhile, even that close, and you were looking forward to having him inside of you. In fact, you needed it more than you ever needed anything. You were tired of doing films with men who had average or below average dicks; they didn’t do anything for you, and you always had to fake it. But with Eddie? You highly doubted you would have that problem.

“Keep calling me that and I’ll slit your fucking throat,” he said in your ear, pressing the hard plastic a little more firmly to your throat. “You’re in no position right now to be a fucking bitch.”

“I think I am,” you said, grinning smugly at him as you pushed back against his cock. “You’ve got me right where you want me, right? So, instead of making empty threats and being a douchebag, why don’t you just fuck me?”

He slapped your ass hard again, dragging the knife across your throat ever so gently. “You’re fucking lucky I think you’re so hot. Otherwise, I would be ending this right fucking now by cutting you wide open.”

“Fuck me already!” you said. “You’re–”

You were cut off by a loud moan as you felt him pushing inside of you. You cried out as his thick length stretched your pussy, and you could feel his piercing deep inside. He held onto your hips to anchor himself, bending you over the couch as he pushed himself deeper. You nearly screamed as you felt that piercing on your cervix, but it hurt so good. You reached down and squeezed his hand, and you could tell that he was trying hard not to break character to hold your hand. He had to know how it felt, and you could tell that he was holding back, even still. The director seemed not to notice, though; he just instructed his cameraman to get a shot of his cock buried deep inside of your pussy. He was almost fully inside, and it took you a minute to adjust to how it felt. Never had you been this full, never had anything felt so good, and you weren’t sure how long YOU would be able to last. He was moaning behind you, and you felt his dick twitch. That caused you to moan filthily, and you looked behind your shoulder into his masked face, a smirk on your own.

“What are you waiting for, Daddy?” you asked, biting your lip. “Fuck me.”

He started to thrust, keeping them slow and shallow at first. The cameraman looked up questioningly, and the director simply shrugged and instructed him to keep filming. You moaned, feeling that piercing against your cervix again with every movement inward. He kept hold of your hips, and soon, he was fucking you a little harder. You knew that he was making sure you were okay first, something that he seemingly didn’t do with any of his other costars. Maybe he found a soft spot for you, or maybe the rest of them were used to taking dicks his size. Either way, you thought the gesture of going off script was rather touching, and you looked back at him with a smile. You couldn’t tell if he was reciprocating, but the sharp thrust inside of you somehow told you that he was.

“You’re so fucking tight and wet,” he said, starting to absolutely DRILL you as you nearly screamed. “Listen to that, can you hear it?”

You could. As he fucked into you harder, you could hear just how wet you truly were for him. His fingers dug into your skin, his breath in your ear, and you just moaned as you clenched hard around him. That caused him to groan, and you smirked as you did it again. This brought another loud crack to your ass, and you yelped as the knife made another appearance at your throat.

“Stop doing that,” he growled. “You needy bitch.”

“Sorry,” you said, but did it again.

He stopped thrusting, putting the knife down to grab your throat with his hands. He choked you for a moment, chuckling darkly as you kept clenching around him. He began to move again but kept his grip, letting go only when you started clawing at his hands. He reached around to grope your breasts, rubbing the nipples as he absolutely pounded you against the couch. He was panting and groaning, the sounds filling the air as the cameraman got another shot of him fucking into you. You could feel your lower stomach tightening, but you weren’t ready for this to be over yet. Fuck, he felt so goddamn good; you never wanted it to end. You would have been content going on forever just like this, with him inside of you as you whined desperately. He knew you were getting desperate, too; he reached down, rubbing your clit in hard, fast circles as you cried out. You clenched again, his hands now on your shoulders as you braced against the couch. He drilled your needy, soaking cunt, each bump to your cervix causing you to moan even louder.

“Cum for me,” he said. “Show me just how much you fucking love what I’m doing to you. Show me what a greedy whore you are for my cock.”

You moaned, and were shocked to see that he was pulling out of you. The director was about to intervene, but Eddie was pushing you onto your back on the couch. He lifted your legs to his shoulders and pushed inside of you again, causing you to moan hotly as he filled you up again. The director stopped and instructed the cameraman to keep going, and you looked up into his masked face with a look of pleasure on yours. You arched under him, writhing, your hands finding his clothed back and digging your nails into the fabric. He pounded you hard, the new angle causing him to hit into your sweet spot. He didn’t use his entire cock this time; instead, he decided to get creative, and fucked directly into your G-spot. The feel of the piercing against it was so fucking good, and you tore at his dark shirt as he pounded against you.

“That’s it,” he cooed, the strokes of his cock remaining shallow and deep as your mouth fell slack. “Cum around my cock, princess.”

“Fuck,” you whined, your jaw still open as your head tipped back. “I’m gonna cum so hard, Daddy.”

“Cum for me,” he coaxed, his fingers rubbing hard circles on your clit again. “Do it for me. Show me how desperate you are to let some stranger fuck you like this.”

Tears began to leak out of your eyes. They weren’t bad; it was just so much, so overwhelming. You could tell that he was having doubts, so you sat up slightly to bury your face in his neck. He groaned, thrusting harder before pushing you back down. He pinned you to the couch, both of his large hands holding you down as he mercilessly pounded you. More tears leaked from your eyes, and he laughed wickedly under the mask.

“What’s wrong?” he taunted. “Is my dick too big for you, you disgusting slut? Can’t take it all?”

“No, i can,” you said, trying to get out of his grip. 

“Then take it and cum for me,” he coaxed, fucking you as hard as he could. “Go ahead, show me you can do it.”

It didn’t take much more for you to cum. A few more strokes of his cock, a few more swipes with his fingers, and that was it. You screamed in pleasure, and none of that was exaggerated or fake, either. You squirted around him twice, and the director was staring in awe as the cameraman caught everything. You kept arching, moaning, bucking up against him as he continued to pound into you. He was panting above you under the mask, moaning as you felt him twitch inside of you. He was fighting hard to keep going, but you knew he was going to lose that fight very soon. You reached down and took his knife, holding it up with a smirk.

“You wanna hold this to my throat again?” you asked. “Maybe that would get you off.”

He took it and did just that, holding it on your throat as he pounded you. You moaned, clenching around him, bucking your hips up against his thrusts to aid him. He looked down at your breasts, then back to where the knife was held to your throat, and you felt him twitch twice. You knew it was coming and, sure enough, it did a moment later. He came hard inside of you, moaning through it, his head bowed as he allowed his orgasm to take him over. He continued to thrust until it was done, stopping and nearly collapsing on top of you before pulling out. But he wasn’t finished, and you already knew what was coming because of the script. He pulled you to a sitting position and opened your legs, eyeing your dripping cunt as he rubbed the knife between both of his hands. 

“Look at that,” he said, running his fingers through your sensitive pussy before he knelt in front of you. “I made such a mess of you, didn’t I?”

“Mmm hmm,” you said, moaning as he lifted his mask. “What are you gonna do about it?”

“I think you know,” he said, dragging the knife over your thigh again before he started eating you out once more. “I’m nowhere close to being fucking done with you, you fucking slut. If you think that I am, then you’d better think again.”

“So much for scary movies, huh?” you asked, moaning as he began to devour your pussy even more desperately. 

“I think this is much better,” he said, eating you out more feverishly. “You know what we should try? You know, since you’re such a filthy girl.”

“What?” you asked, moaning as he fucked you on his tongue.

“Giving it to you up the ass,” he said. “I think that would be fun, don’t you agree?”

“And cut!” the director called.

You whined as Eddie broke away from you, standing up as he helped you. The director was coming onto the set to talk to the cameraman, both of them seemingly pleased with what they’d gotten. Eddie sat the mask and the knife down on the couch, grabbing a water as someone on set offered one. He handed it to you, and you accepted it with a big smile. You took a drink, and Eddie’s hand was on your shoulder in a comforting gesture. He pulled his pants back up and gestured for someone to bring over your clothes. You slipped them on once they did, and Eddie wrapped your jacket around your shoulders for you with a smile. 

“Are you okay?” he asked. “I mean, I didn’t hurt you or anything, did I? I tried to be as careful–”

“No, I’m okay,” you assured him. “Really. I just wasn’t used to someone that big.”

“A lot of the women aren’t,” he said with an apologetic grin. “I always ask them to let me go in slow and careful, but they never really let me. I guess they don’t want to shatter the illusion. It’s just…you were crying, and i was so scared that i was hurting you.”

“Well, I can promise you that I’m totally fine,” you said, taking another sip of the water. “Do you think we did well enough for them?”

“Oh, I think we did,” he said with a chuckle. 

“Something tells me they’ll be asking us to do another one together very soon,” you said. 

“In that case,” he said, smiling as he leaned closer to you and offered an arm. “How about I buy you dinner? I know I’ve worked up a hell of an appetite tonight.”

You grinned, taking his arm with a nod. “Yeah, I’d like that a lot.”

____________

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[mypuchiart]

every friday is fifth finger friday!! every fifth finger is friday!! every finger is !!

[1800titz]

COME TOUCH ME TOO | Best friend’s dad

age gap. 11.2K on patreon

second part to LIQUID SMOOTH

You’d catch him over the sink sometimes. Or the stove. At the dinette, shirtless. Big bear, you thought, still only half-awake (starving), staring at his skin, swathed in ink that traversed limb, to torso, to limb. You’d catch the smattering of dark hair pooling over his sternum, and the hair beneath his navel, darker, more wiry, seeping into the band of his pajama pants. And later, you’d wonder if it was the substructure— torn out from you— that you were chasing (the surfeited rift between your ages, the sage wisdom you lacked), or if it was just the shape of him, the way he fit into your life, the subtle domesticity of a morning. The pantomime of a distant daydream. (Pretending this was your life you were living, and not taking a page from someone else’s.)

preview

The bar you’re at feels congested. Sticky, shoulders brushing shoulders, feet bumping feet, and the music is loud enough that you feel it droning along the skin of your bones. Past max-capacity; something you anticipated. Accepted on a Friday night— no sort of discomfort that couldn’t be waterlogged into an unconcerned bliss with enough alcohol. 

And that’s what it started as. 

One shot to ease the restless hypervigilance (when you shuffled in, sliding between clusters of bodies), that burned at the back of your throat, heat flaring across your crinkling sinuses. Then, a second, that radiated warmth along your chest, under your skin, that settled as a weightless feeling beneath the soles of your feet. Loosened the arc of your shoulders. 

(You never buy your own drinks.)

A third, cupped from a stranger’s fingers, with bright, powder blue eyes that lingered on your throat, the line of your jaw when you tipped your head back. Inkpools stuck to your tongue when you smeared it out across your lips, the bridge of your nose rucking. He gave you a wolfish, glimmering grin and told you what a pretty thing you are.

(And you think, staring up at him through the misting crest of intoxicant smog, he’s too young. Feels like a boy— one you can’t re-mold even in the haze of alcohol— in the absence of crows’ feet and shallow smile lines, the glinting, tawdry rhinestone stuck to his incisor. Skin speckled with ink that resembles zealous impulse rather than an aged, carefully-crafted tapestry. You doubt there’s any worthwhile story behind the dice in the nook of his elbow; RICH across the front, C and H tipped perfectly on their southern edges to show the S and K that could fill the word out, instead.)

(You can’t even pretend.)

You seldom find regret in the sea of a familiar gyre (the world spinning, and you, finally, spinning with it), but the spindrift crashes across in a misty fog of discomfort. The riptide lures you out to swallow you whole. You’re not sure when the euphoria mutates into anxiety— maybe somewhere along the fourth and the fifth— but it coagulates in your esophagus, in your stomach. Cakes in the warm, soft spot under your ribcage, until your bones feel like they’re wobbling with the pulse of your heart. Vibrating.

You showed up with a coworker. Admittedly, one you didn’t know too well, to a bar you haven’t been to before. But going out is going out, and a bar is a bar. You don’t need a babysitter, you don’t need to know her well, and you don’t need to scope the the pub, but—

Last you saw her, she was propped against the corner of the bar, and now, as you sweep your bleary gaze over the mass, she’s nowhere in sight. You’re alone. You’re alone, and the world is spinning, screaming, chattering over the pulsing base, and you feel like you can’t keep up. 

When you swallow, it lodges in your throat. You feel like you can’t breathe, nearly tripping over your own feet, brushing between tangled musculature, limbs like gnarled, warm roots for you stumble over. And you feel like you’re trying to part the sea to make room for your clumsy steps. Like you’re trying to move mountains. 

By the time you make it outside, your lungs are aching, and your shoulders are quaking. You don’t know where it’s coming from— what it is— but it feels like a flame licking its way up under your dermis, and you want to shed your skin off the bone. The gulp of air you take is welcome. Cold. Wet. 

It’s raining. 

Pouring. The gust drenches your bare legs in spittle off the sky, even under the awning. Helplessly, you pat around for your phone. 

And you don’t know what possesses you. You don’t know if it’s a clumsy swipe of your thumb across the glowing screen, or a cruel form of divine intervention, when you scroll and stutter along his contact. It’s a number you should’ve deleted. Haven’t pressed in months. 

You flung yourself out of orbit, and seeing his name feels like you’re a piece of star-shed that’s slipped too close— a hair from homecoming. It feels like the inevitable, crushing weight of gravity snagging you into the miserable ouroboros you’ve spent every evening running from. A tidal wave, reborn, swallowing you whole. 

And you know the repercussions— the potential there. The consequences of sticking wet fingers into electrical sockets, but you tell yourself, he won’t pick up. It’s too late. You’re too late. Too—

Your finger lingers. 

You don’t know what would be worse. Abandonment in another shape, or hearing his voice on the other end of the line. 

You call him. 

You regret it a split-second too late, staring down at the screen dialing. When you press the phone to your ear, with the rain spitting, the thrum of the bass behind the door— your heart rattling in your ears, your head spinning—

You barely hear the three rings before the line clicks. It’s quiet. 

And then—

“Hello?”

You suck in a gust of air. You expected his voice to hurt. To ache— you anticipated, maybe, a lot of things, with variegated hypotheticals spelled out in misty shapes through hours spent staring at your ceiling. 

But every chimera crumbles when the words stick to the back of your throat. Part of it is the slurry in your veins, the hard liquor, the way it’s all kicked in, all at once. And part of it is the realization that, despite the biramous conjectures you’ve crafted— the what if’s— it’s the heavy thought that all roads lead to this.

He sounds hoarse. Mean with sleep.

“Um. Hi.” The words sound garbled, like you’re underwater. Tinny, wet, strained. 

Eager in the shape of unrequited pining; a mangled fruition of all the nights you’d spent, thumb hovering over the call button, wondering if he’d pick up on the other end of the line, stockpiling the heap of broken wishes. The ones you cradled in your hands like jagged fractures of your rib bones, cracked from how hard your heart was pounding. 

(If only he could see the lovelorn tar in your marrow, leaking out in a rotting treacle and pooling in the crevice of your love-line; tragic, broken down a long gap right under the wedge between your pinky and ring finger.) 

The awning does a poor job of covering your toes, and they soak in the torrent that spumes from the midnight aether, shimmering against the wet asphalt. Silly, little girl— woman, nowadays— one ear corked with your forefinger to stifle the downpour spitting from the same sky you’d crane your neck and spill orisons at, the other fisting at your phone like a lifeline. Dangling onto the thread off this unspooled hope. 

You sound ditzy. Soporific. Lost. You wonder if he picks up on it on the other end of the line. “Are you, um. Are you busy?” 

The speaker crackles.

Finally, he rasps from the other end of the line— a thunderclap, like a gunshot, “You’re not callin’ me at one in the morning to ask me if I’m busy.” 

“I—“ the words stick to the back of your throat. 

Something seals up in your lungs with the breath you try to take. 

Bitter recrudesce, a reminder when it wakes back up in the slotted teeth of your heart— an ache, alleviated in his absence after time, that throbs at the sound of his voice. Your jaw quakes on what you want to confess, snarled in your throat. I love you— Please— I’ve loved you since—

Your lip wobbles. Teeth clack, staring at the wet asphalt. “Uh. Sorry.”

You settle for a middle ground— some compromise in the clouded welter of your docket— something you’ve been meaning to say for months.

(Sorry for being a silly, little girl that fell in love with you.)

You’re met with a beat of silence that eats into your marrow. Has your guts twisting, chest tight. Then, (solace) a sigh— surly— oozes across the crackling speaker. 

“Where are you?” 

The question reminds you why you called in the first place. That you’re sopping up dirty rainwater with your boots on the outskirts of town, outside some seedy bar you came to, to drown your demons (him) in burnt amber. A thunderbolt ripples across the pitch aether, zagging electric chalky across the swollen plumes. All at once, you…

Crumble. 

“I’m, um. Ah…” your chin quivers. You nod, “I’m here. At a, um. At a bar. Outside a bar.”

“Which bar? Who are you with?” 

The slew of questions nearly makes you laugh. 

The concern, there, throttles you and the tension in your shoulders like you expected anything less. You did. And you would laugh if hearing his voice, for the first time in months, wasn’t a sobering maelstrom on your psyche. Despite the way your tongue feels sticky, and useless, like it's caught on the roof of your mouth, you clear your throat.

“Um. It’s called, ah— Southbound,” your eyes slip shut. The wobble at your feet clicks in your knees. “I came with a— with a coworker. But I can’t find her. And I just— sorry. Fuck. Sorry. I got, um. I’m… sorry.”

You set your teeth and stare down at the rainwater speckling the toes of your boots. Gusting against your bare legs, and you don’t realize you’ve been hanging onto the phone with both hands cupped, like a lifeline, until his voice comes through.

“Y’alright?”

He sounds a little more awake. No doubt at the quiver in your tone. The way you can’t cohesively suture the words together. You roll forward on your toes. It’s a miscalculated motion on your part, because you nearly topple forward. 

“No. Yeah. M’really— um. I’m a little, um. Drunk. I think. So—“ you slur. Take a breath. “No. I don’t—“

The words come out small. Tired. There’s a crack in your voice, like you’re on the edge of keeling over the precipice. You feel it in the burn at the back of your eyes, raw in your sinuses, when you admit, softly, “…I wanna go home.”

He doesn’t say anything. You take another breath, and feel it against the enamel of your teeth. Expect the sear of ice. Your fingers feel strained on your phone. Crushing. Taut. You think about his next words before he says them. Before the surly crackle from the other end of the line hits you, imagine it— call an uber. 

I’ll call you an uber, at best. At worst…

You swallow. The line crackles again.

“Send me your location. I’m coming to get you.”

[buckets-and-trees]

Red, White & True: Boston & New York [14/17]

Characters/Pairings: Steve Rogers x curvy Millennial Female!Reader Word Count: 9.1k (yes, another long one!) Summary: On the eve of the election, nerves and emotions are high, but so are your hopes for the future as a tight race becomes impossibly tighter when so many people doubted a third candidate could make a deep run. Regardless of how things turn out, you're ready to face the fact that your life will never be the same again.

Content/Warnings: political/campaign policy and discussions, marriage of political convenience, slow burn, really the slowest burn, strangers to lovers, EXPLICIT SMUT finally (vaginal fingering, cock stroking, breast play, vaginal intercourse)

Notes: This takes place in a post-Endgame scenario where Steve stays and generally most of TFATWS happened.

Author Notes: I missed getting a Friday posting out, but that's because these two had a lot to do and say in this chapter. To be honest, if I cut out all of the side characters and political plot, we'd shave down significantly, but that's part of your story with Steve, too.

Previous Chapter | Series

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

[NOVEMBER 1 - LATE EVENING - COLUMBUS TO BOSTON]

The campaign plane hums around you, a cocoon of noise both soothing and maddening. You've been staring at the same paragraph in your briefing notes for ten minutes, the words blurring together as exhaustion tugs at the edges of your consciousness. Fourteen states in thirteen days. It shouldn't be possible, and yet here you are, somehow still standing—or rather, sitting—in the final stretch of the most grueling marathon of your life.

Two weeks. Two weeks of campaign schedules that have kept you and Steve apart more than together, crisscrossing the country like stars with intersecting orbits—occasionally aligning for campaign appearances together before spinning away again to cover more territory. 

You glance at your watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. Your motorcade was delayed in traffic, so you didn’t make it to the tarmac to board the plane to see Steve before his intelligence briefing started, and now it has already run twenty minutes longer than scheduled. The private meeting area at the front of the plane has been sealed off, transformed into a temporary SCIF—Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility—for the classified briefing, with Secret Service agents positioned like sentinels outside the door.

You make a conscious effort not to glare at the agents - it’s not their fault, they’re only doing their job. But inside you feel very huffy, knowing the precious hours together before landing in Boston are dwindling by the second.

You return your gaze to the briefing book in your lap, silently mouthing the words to force your tired brain to absorb them. Tomorrow's schedule in Boston includes a visit to a community health center in Roxbury, followed by meetings with healthcare advocates—you need to know these statistics cold. But the numbers swim before your eyes as the plane encounters a pocket of turbulence, jostling you in your seat.

Across the aisle, Sam catches your eye. He's been watching you fidget for the past half hour, his expression knowing as always.

"He'll be out soon," Sam says, his voice low enough that only you can hear it over the drone of the engines.

You sigh, closing the briefing book. "How can you tell?"

“I can’t, I’m just trying to make you feel better,” he replies with a wink. 

“It’s only working a little bit,” you say. 

Sophia is on his other side, and you smile a little, seeing that she’s managed to nod off, her head resting on Sam’s shoulder. She’s worked herself to the bone every day of the campaign, and she’s become such a rock to you. A rock and a trusted friend. 

So has Sam. So have so many of the campaign staff, the lot of you walking through fire day in and day out together for this brilliantly mad quest to try and get Steve elected. 

"Speaking of making me feel better," you say, suddenly struck by something you've been meaning to say for weeks, "I never properly thanked you." 

Sam raises an eyebrow. "For what?" 

"For all the interference you ran with my mom while she was on the campaign trail with us a couple of weeks ago." You lean forward slightly, lowering your voice even more. "You and Sophia did a lot to make her feel comfortable in this whole scene. She adored you, but I know you also took advantage of opportunities to shift her perspective on Steve and our whole arrangement.”

Sam's expression softens, a smile warming his features. "Your mom's great. She cares about you a lot - her worries were normal." 

You smile wider. “You did the same with me, too, the day before I married Steve. And you did it with Steve and Bucky for me back in September. You see people and you build bridges between people.”

Sam's smile turns slightly embarrassed, but his eyes hold yours steadily. "Just part of the service," he jokes, but then grows more serious. "Everyone deserves a chance to understand each other. Especially people who matter to each other." 

"Well, thank you," you say simply. 

"You're welcome." Sam shifts, careful not to disturb Sophia. "Besides, your mom was right about some things. This whole arrangement was crazy." 

You laugh softly. "Was?" 

"Is," he corrects with a grin. "But it's working out better than any of us could have predicted, isn't it?" 

Before you can answer, the door at the front of the plane opens. Steve emerges, followed by a somber-looking woman in a dark suit whom you recognize as Maria Hill. 

You straighten in your seat, drinking in the sight of Steve after three days apart. He looks tired—more than tired, something about his expression unsettles you immediately. There's a tightness around his eyes, a gravity to his movements that wasn't there when you spoke over FaceTime this morning. 

Steve's gaze finds yours immediately. His expression softens, but the tension doesn't fully leave his features. He exchanges a few final words with Maria, their heads bent close together, her voice too low for you to hear over the drone of the engines. 

You watch as Steve nods once, decisively, before Maria turns and heads toward the rear of the plane where some of the intelligence staff are seated. Steve makes his way down the aisle toward you, stopping briefly to speak with Jake and Elspeth. 

When he finally reaches you, the knot of concern in your chest tightens. Up close, the strain around his eyes is more pronounced, the set of his jaw rigid.

"Hi," you say softly as he slides into the seat beside you. 

"Hi," Steve replies, his voice low and slightly rough, as if he's been talking for hours. His hand finds yours immediately, fingers interlacing with a gentle pressure that feels almost desperate in its need for connection. 

You search his face. "What's wrong?" 

Most of the staff are either working, sleeping, or wearing noise-canceling headphones, but he still lowers his voice to a near whisper. "Nothing immediate. Just... concerning intelligence." 

The muscles in your stomach tighten. Since Steve became a serious contender in the presidential race, he's been receiving regular intelligence briefings—a tradition for major party candidates to ensure a smooth transition should they win. You've grown accustomed to the routine, to the way he emerges from these meetings with a thoughtful, typically troubled expression. Most of the information he’s given in those meetings is also highly sensitive if not outright classified. 

You take his hand in both of yours, bringing it to rest in your lap. "Is it something you can talk about?" you ask, keeping your voice equally low.

Steve lets out a long, slow breath, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as you hold his hand. His thumb traces gentle circles on your skin, a grounding gesture that seems as much for his benefit as for yours. 

"I can't discuss the details," he says after a moment, his voice barely audible over the engines. "But there are situations developing that will need immediate attention after the election." His eyes meet yours, troubled and deep. "No matter who wins."

You nod, understanding the weight behind his words. Steve has always carried the burdens of leadership differently than others—not as opportunities or challenges, but as sacred obligations to the people counting on him.

"Is there anything I can do?" you ask, knowing there likely isn't but needing to offer anyway. 

"There is," Steve says, his voice softening as he shifts closer to you. "Just be here." 

He leans back in his seat, his eyes closing briefly as he draws a deep breath. When they open again, there's something vulnerable in his gaze that makes your chest ache. 

"I've missed you," he admits quietly. "These past three days felt like three weeks." 

"I know," you whisper, squeezing his hand. "The swing through Wisconsin, Illinois, and Indiana was productive, but every event I kept thinking of what you would say, how you would handle it."

A small smile touches his lips. "And how did hypothetical me do?" 

"Not nearly as well as real me," you tease, drawing the laugh from him you'd hoped for. "But you would have been proud. Polling suggests we gained ground with suburban women in all three states."

Steve's smile broadens, some of the tension leaving his face. "I am proud. Especially of that interview you did in Indianapolis." His hand finds the nape of your neck, fingers gently massaging the tension there. 

You lean into his touch, your eyes briefly closing at the relief his fingers bring to muscles knotted from days of campaign stress. 

"I just answered honestly," you say, remembering the local news interview that had unexpectedly gone viral after you'd spoken candidly about healthcare access in rural communities. 

"That's what made it powerful," Steve says. His voice drops even lower, meant only for you. "Two days left. Can you believe it?"

You shake your head, still processing the whirlwind that has been your life since that fateful meeting with Pepper Potts in May. "Sometimes it feels like we've been campaigning forever. Other times, I can't believe how quickly it's all happened." 

Steve's eyes hold yours, something profound shifting in their blue depths. "I keep thinking about where we were six months ago. How impossible this all seemed." His voice is a gentle rumble that vibrates through you. "Now we're two days from potentially—" 

"Don't," you whisper, pressing a finger lightly to his lips. "No jinxing it." 

He smiles against your finger, then captures your hand and kisses your palm. "Superstitious now?" 

"Cautiously optimistic," you correct, feeling the familiar flutter in your chest that his touch evokes. 

The plane encounters another patch of turbulence, more pronounced this time. Steve's arm instinctively wraps around your shoulders, steadying you as the aircraft shudders. You lean into him, and the turbulence settles. 

"That's what I like to hear," Steve murmurs, his arm remaining around you even after the turbulence passes. "Cautiously optimistic is exactly where we need to be." 

You rest your head against his shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of him—that perfect blend of clean cotton, subtle cologne, and something that is uniquely Steve. Despite the exhaustion dragging at your limbs, despite the worry you'd seen etched in his features moments ago, this closeness grounds you in a way nothing else can. And once again, as the two of you quietly converse, tucked comfortably into one another, you fight but are unable to keep from falling asleep in his arms. 

You wake to gentle pressure against your temple—Steve's lips brushing a kiss there, his breath warm against your skin. 

"We're starting our descent," he murmurs. "You've been out for about an hour." 

Blinking away sleep, you straighten in your seat, embarrassed. "I didn't mean to—" 

"You needed it," Steve says, his hand still resting comfortably on your knee. Through the window, you can see the scattered constellation of Boston's lights growing larger below. 

"Did you sleep at all?" you ask, noting the lingering tension around his eyes. 

He shakes his head. "Too much on my mind." 

You reach up to smooth a strand of hair that's fallen across his forehead. "The briefing?" 

"That. The polls. Tomorrow's schedule.”

"The usual campaign insomnia," you say with understanding, your fingers lingering at his temple where you can feel the tension gathered there. 

"Something like that," he agrees, but there's a note in his voice that tells you it's more than just pre-election jitters. 

The pilot’s voice crackles over the intercom, announcing your imminent arrival. Around you, the campaign staff begin to stir, gathering materials, checking phones that had been silenced during the flight. You deplane and the team piles into a dozen vehicles waiting on the tarmac to take you all directly to the hotel to catch the limited amount of sleep you’ll be afforded before things start back up in the morning. 

[NOVEMBER 2 - BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS]

Morning arrives too soon, the pale November light filtering through the hotel curtains you forgot to fully close. For a moment, you lie perfectly still, orienting yourself in yet another unfamiliar room. Boston. The final day before the election.

The other side of the bed is empty. Though everything between you and Steve has changed, deepened, and grown, you are still dancing around sharing a room and a bed. After that night you asked him to stay with you in Tucson, your mom had come for those next few days on the campaign, and then your itineraries had split you up geographically, but even on the nights of overlap, there seemed to be this half-spoken avoidance. You have been hesitant of exploring the intimacy and domesticity of sleeping together routinely in this environment. There are so many things you and Steve have said to each other and about each other, but there are still things that have been left unsaid, and the endless circuit of the campaign cycle didn’t seem like the place to say any of it. 

The digital clock reads 5:47, and though you’re annoyed you’ve woken up before your scheduled 6am start to the day, you are glad for the precious few minutes of sleepy solitude you still have. You allow yourself the luxury of stretching, muscles protesting after weeks of constant movement and too little rest. The sheets smell of hotel laundry—a scent that has become almost as familiar as your old home.

Your phone vibrates on the nightstand. A text from Steve: Good morning. Couldn't sleep, went for a run. Briefing and breakfast at 7?

You smile at his predictability—yo’ve heard about his runs, and even on the precipice of potentially becoming the next president, Steve Rogers seeks clarity in the rhythm of his feet against pavement. You don’t expect it to change, regardless of how the election results go. You type back: Yes to breakfast. Coffee already necessary. Be safe.

The three dots appear immediately, then: Always am. Sleep well?

Better than expected, but not long enough, you reply honestly. Hotel pillows are growing on me.

Dangerous adaptation, he responds with a laughing emoji. Then, a moment later: Going to catch sunrise over Boston Harbor. Wish you were here.

The simple sentiment warms you more than it should. Six months ago, such casual intimacy between you would have been unimaginable. Now it feels as natural as breathing. 

Bed better than running, you send back.

His response is immediate: Debatable. Will bring you coffee when I get back.

You smile, setting your phone down and pulling yourself reluctantly from the warmth of the bed. The hotel room is elegant but impersonal, like all the others you've occupied during this campaign—luxury without personality, comfort without home. You've become an expert at navigating unfamiliar bathrooms in the dark, at finding the light switches and remembering which side of the bed you chose the night before. 

The shower helps clear the fog of too little sleep. As the hot water cascades over your shoulders, you mentally rehearse today's schedule: the community health center visit, lunch with healthcare advocates, an afternoon rally at Boston University, and then the massive evening event at Faneuil Hall. The final push before Election Day. 

By the time you emerge from the bathroom, wrapped in the hotel's plush robe, your phone is lighting up with notifications. Campaign updates, news alerts, text messages from Sam about last-minute scheduling changes. The bubble of morning solitude pops, reality rushing in with the force of a breaking dam. 

You dress quickly in the outfit laid out the night before—a carefully selected ensemble that projects both approachability and professionalism. The campaign's messaging team has fine-tuned every visual element of these final appearances, down to the color of your scarf, which matches the campaign's signature blue. 

A soft knock at the door comes just as you're fastening your watch. Through the peephole, you see Steve, looking refreshed despite the early hour, a cardboard tray holding two coffee cups in one hand. 

"Morning," he says when you open the door, his smile warming his tired eyes. He's showered and changed since his run, dressed in a navy suit that makes his eyes even more blue. "Coffee as promised."

"You're a lifesaver," you murmur, accepting the cup he offers. "How was the harbor?" you ask, stepping out into the hall to walk down to breakfast with him.

"Peaceful. Water was like glass. Sun coming up behind the city." He pauses, something wistful crossing his features. "Made me wish I had my sketchbook."

You take a long sip of coffee, savoring the perfect blend—he remembers exactly how you like it. "When this is all over, we should come back. You can sketch all day if you want." 

Steve's smile deepens, creating those little crinkles around his eyes that you've grown to love. "I'll hold you to that." 

The two of you walk in comfortable silence down the rest of the hallway to the elevator, Secret Service agents quietly flanking you. Steve's presence beside you is solid, reassuring. In the mirrored walls of the elevator, you catch glimpses of yourselves—a little tired, a little worn, but standing tall. The potential First Couple. The thought still feels surreal.

"Sleep well?" he asks softly as the elevator descends. 

"You already asked me that," you remind him with a smile. 

"I know. Just checking if your answer changes in person." His hand finds the small of your back as the doors open, a gentle, protective gesture that's become second nature. 

Another hotel conference room has been transformed into another campaign outpost, screens displaying polling data and schedules lining the walls. Campaign staff mill about, some already deep in conversation, others nursing coffee with the glazed look of people running on fumes and determination. 

Sam spots you first, raising his coffee cup in greeting from where he's huddled with Sophia, Bucky and Jake. You're about to head their way when you notice a familiar figure standing near the breakfast buffet—Maria Hill, the same intelligence officer from the plane. She's not alone. A man in an impeccable dark suit stands beside her, his posture military-straight, his expression grave as he surveys the room with calculated precision.

Steve's hand tenses almost imperceptibly against your back. You glance up at him, catching the slight hardening of his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes. 

"What is it?" you ask quietly. 

"Agent Calloway," Steve acknowledges with a slight nod, his voice carefully neutral despite the tension you feel radiating through his palm against your back. "I wasn't expecting to see you in Boston." 

The man—Agent Calloway—turns toward you both, his weathered face revealing nothing as he approaches with measured steps. He's older than Maria, perhaps in his mid-fifties, with close-cropped greying hair and eyes that seem to catalog every detail of the room in continuous sweeps. 

"Captain Rogers," he says, extending a hand to Steve. "I’ve been assigned to personally oversee the enhanced security protocols for these final campaign events." His handshake is brief, then his attention shifts to you with professional efficiency. "Ma'am," he says with a respectful nod.

You return the greeting, a sense of unease creeping up your spine. Enhanced security protocols. The words are heavy, unexpected. Should you be more worried?

You offer what you hope is a polite smile, but Calloway's steel-gray eyes catch the flicker of worry that crosses your face. His expression softens marginally—the change so subtle you might have missed it if you weren't studying him so intently. 

"Please don't be concerned, ma'am," he says, his voice dropping to a more conversational tone. "Enhanced protocols are standard procedure for the final days before an election. The heightened visibility, larger crowds—it's all part of the calculus." 

You nod, attempting to look reassured, but you can feel Steve's body beside yours, taut as a bowstring. 

"Standard procedure," Steve repeats, the words measured and careful. His face maintains the pleasant, diplomatic expression he's perfected during the campaign, but you know the mask. “It seems a bit unnece–”

“Captain Rogers,” Calloway interrupts, “sir, let me stop you right there. My men and women and I are more than aware of your capability to defend yourself. They assigned me because I’m the one who will take the least amount of pushback from you. We know you’re an Avenger. Should anything happen, we would not be surprised to have you fighting and defending alongside us.” 

You don’t even have to look, you can feel the frown emanating from Steve. You keep your eyes on Calloway’s face. 

“Our responsibility is to keep an eye on everyone and everything to keep you and the public safe. Your responsibility right now is to campaign. If elected, it will be to lead the American people. That’s why we’re here. Let us do our job so you can do yours.”

“This old man is retired anyway,” Sam chimes in, stepping up next to Steve and clapping him on the back, jostling him on purpose to loosen him up. 

The tension in Steve's shoulders doesn't fully dissipate, but his expression softens at Sam's intervention. He nods once at Calloway, conceding the point without quite relinquishing his concern. 

"I appreciate the dedication," Steve says, his voice measured. "Just make sure your team keeps my staff safe - I’m no more important than them."

"Consider it done," Calloway responds with crisp efficiency. "We've been briefed on all locations and have advance teams in place. They will monitor and update throughout the day.”

Maria Hill approaches, tablet in hand. "If you have a moment, Captain, there are some logistics we should review before your first event." Her tone is professional, but you catch the subtle urgency beneath. 

Steve's eyes meet yours, a silent communication passing between you. "I'll catch up with you," he says, his hand squeezing yours briefly before following Maria and Calloway to a quieter corner of the room. 

Sam stays beside you, his presence steady and reassuring. "Don't worry," he says quietly as you both watch Steve step away. "Extra security is normal for the final push." 

"Is it?" you ask, unable to keep the doubt from your voice. 

"Yes," Sam insists, then adds with a half-smile, "though having Hill still on site for national security and intelligence updates is... possibly not."

You turn to face him fully. "Sam." 

He meets your gaze, “I’m genuinely not concerned yet - I’m alert, but not concerned. Bucky agrees, he thinks whatever situation is developing is probably serious, but that Maria’s staying close more out of a personal sense of duty than any real safety concern.”

You frown. “Are you just saying that to make me feel better?”

“No. I’ve been around these heroes for years, and I know sometimes they try and save us regular folk from bad news, but in the end that never helps. I don’t think Bucky will hold back with you, and I don’t think Steve would intentionally either, but I can definitely promise I’ll bullshit you now and then, but I’ll always be straight with you when it matters.”

You nod, finding comfort in Sam's directness. "Thank you. I appreciate that." 

"Come on," Sam says, guiding you toward the breakfast buffet. "You need to eat something. Big day ahead." 

You follow him, but your eyes drift back to Steve, who's now leaning over a tablet with Maria and Calloway, his brow furrowed in concentration. The three of them speak in low voices, their expressions grave. The knot of unease in your stomach tightens. 

"He's concerned," you murmur, more to yourself than to Sam. 

"He's always concerned," Sam counters gently. "It's his default setting. Has been since I met him." 

You smile despite yourself. "I've noticed." 

Sophia waves you over to a table where she's sitting with Bucky and Jake, campaign materials spread between their plates. As you approach, you notice the dark circles under Sophia's eyes, the slight tremor in Jake's hand as he lifts his coffee cup. Everyone is feeling the weight of these final hours.

"Morning," Jake greets you, sliding a folder across the table. "Final numbers from last night's polling.”

"How's it looking?" you ask, opening the folder as you settle into a chair next to Sophia. 

"It's tight," Jake says. "The national polls still have Monroe up by two, but within the margin of error." 

"The battleground states are where it matters," Sophia adds, tapping a spreadsheet with her pen. "Pennsylvania and Michigan are looking good, but Wisconsin and Arizona are razor-thin with Steve biting on both their heels." 

You nod, scanning the numbers. Your stomach churns with a familiar mixture of hope and anxiety that has become your constant companion these last weeks. The race is close—closer than any of you had anticipated when this journey began. 

"Florida's polling is all over the place," Bucky says, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "Depending on which poll you believe, Steve, Monroe, or Peterson take the sunshine state, and it skews the board no matter which way it goes.”

“So, basically, we’re doing well, but no one knows how well?” you ask.

"It's an election," Jake says with a wry smile. "No one ever really knows until the votes are counted." 

Bucky leans forward, his metal hand tapping lightly on the table. "What matters is that we're competitive everywhere we need to be. Six months ago, no one thought an independent candidate could seriously contend. Now..." His voice trails off as his eyes drift to where Steve is still deep in conversation with Maria and Calloway. 

"Now we've got them scared," Sophia finishes, a fierce pride in her voice.

[NOVEMBER 2 - EVENING - NEW YORK CITY]

You and Steve are put into a car with Jake and Lisa once you touchdown in New York, getting off the campaign plane for the final time. Your campaign manager and press secretary want to use the short ride from La Guardia to the hotel in Midtown Manhattan to review final notes before the morning. 

"The itinerary is straightforward," Jake says, scrolling through his tablet. "Early breakfast with the New York campaign volunteers at 6 AM, radio morning shows from 6:30 to 7, then straight to your polling place in Brooklyn by 7:30. We want the images of you two voting to hit the morning news cycles."

"After that," Lisa continues, "it's a series of get-out-the-vote stops across the city. We'll hit all five boroughs by mid-afternoon.”

“Then we have a break for the two of you until dinner and a final event in Central Park at 7 PM, which should give us prime placement for the evening news for all time zones," Jake says. “It should hopefully pull in some undecided voters - the ones who are debating whether to go home after work or go to the polls, and those are the voters likely to sway to you.”

Steve nods, his thumb absently stroking the back of your hand where it rests between you on the seat. "And the rest of the night?"

"We've secured the Grand Ballroom at the Plaza for the watch party," Lisa says. "Doors open to supporters at seven, but we don't expect either of you to make an appearance until at least nine, when the first results start coming in."

“This is why we’ve got the afternoon siesta for the two of you,” Jake says, his tone straightforward, logical, leaving no space to argue, “you’ll both need to be public-ready.”

"And if it's a long night?" you ask, voicing the question that's been weighing on all of you. With such a tight race, a definitive result by the end of the night is far from guaranteed. 

Jake and Lisa exchange glances. "We have contingency plans," Lisa answers. “The event in Central Park will continue through the night as long as it’s viable. If there’s any need for a public address, we want you to make it to the crowd outdoors in the park.”

“Absolutely,” Steve nods, “it’ll be a cold, long night for them, and if there’s something to be said, I want to be able to show them how much they’re appreciated.” 

The car glides through late-night New York traffic, the city lights reflecting off rain-slicked streets. You feel the weight of tomorrow pressing down—the culmination of months of exhausting work, of speeches and handshakes and strategy sessions. Of a marriage that began as strategy and transformed into something neither of you could have predicted. 

"What about security?" Steve asks, his voice pulling you from your thoughts. 

Jake nods, his expression serious. "Calloway's team has coordinated with NYPD, FBI, and Homeland. The security presence will be significant but as unobtrusive as possible. We don't want to alarm voters or create bottlenecks at polling places."

The car slows as it approaches The Plaza Hotel, the familiar choreography of arrival unfolding once more. Secret Service agents radio ahead, confirming positions. 

Even though your home is in New York - the new home you have yet to truly live in yet with Steve in Brooklyn - you’re staying at The Plaza Hotel since it will be campaign headquarters for the next 36 hours, ready to go in the morning immediately with the campaign staff. 

The SUV pulls to a stop under the elegant awning of The Plaza, its golden lights glowing against the darkness. Immediately, the flurry of your arrival begins—Secret Service agents materializing from seemingly nowhere, forming a protective perimeter as hotel staff stand at attention near the entrance. Despite the late hour, a small crowd of reporters and curious onlookers has gathered behind barricades, camera flashes punctuating the darkness like artificial lightning.

"Ready?" Steve asks quietly.

“Let’s do this.” You nod, summoning a smile that feels genuine despite your exhaustion. This is the final push—one more night, one more day, and then whatever comes next. 

The moment the car door opens, the world rushes in—the cool November air carrying the scent of rain and the city, the sounds of late night traffic, the frenzied murmur of voices. Steve exits first, turning to offer you his hand. Camera flashes explode like silent lightning around you and Steve.

"Captain Rogers! How are you feeling about tomorrow?" "Any response to Senator Monroe's latest polling numbers?" "Are you confident about your chances?"

Steve offers a practiced wave and a warm smile that somehow manages to convey both confidence and humility. "We're focused on getting out the vote tomorrow," he calls to the reporters, his voice carrying just enough to be heard without seeming to shout. "Every American deserves to have their voice heard in this election."

His hand finds the small of your back, guiding you forward with practiced ease as the two of you navigate the gauntlet of questions and flashing cameras. The Secret Service forms a protective bubble around you, not pushing or shoving but somehow creating space through sheer presence. You've become accustomed to this dance—the careful balance of accessibility and security, of warmth and vigilance. 

The Plaza's ornate lobby envelops you in sudden quiet, the thick carpets and soaring ceilings absorbing the chaos that swirls just outside its revolving doors. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over marble floors, transforming the space into something from another era—a pocket of gilded elegance that has somehow survived the city's constant reinvention. 

The advance campaign staff move with practiced efficiency, checking in with each other in hushed tones. Several nod respectfully as you and Steve pass, their expressions a mixture of exhaustion and determination. These are the people who have sacrificed sleep, stability, and sometimes sanity to bring this improbable campaign to the precipice of possible victory. 

Amidst the quiet bustle, you spot Eric, your logistics coordinator. When she sees you, Eric breaks away from the hotel staff, his efficiency on display even at this late hour. He's been with the campaign since June, and his ability to coordinate the movement of hundreds of people across the country with military precision has been invaluable. 

"Captain Rogers, Mrs. Rogers," he greets you both with a quick nod. "Everything's set for tomorrow. Your rooms are ready—you’re on the fifteenth floor. The campaign staff is distributed across the fourteenth and fifteenth."

He hands each of you a key card in a small Plaza-emblazoned envelope. "I've had your luggage sent up. The 6 AM breakfast meeting will be in the Grand Ballroom. We've converted the Edwardian Room into our command center—all the polling data will be coming in there throughout the day tomorrow." 

"Thank you, Eric. For everything." The simple words feel inadequate for the months of meticulous planning he's orchestrated, transforming the logistical nightmare of a presidential campaign into something almost manageable.

"Just doing my job," he replies with characteristic modesty, but his tired eyes brighten at the recognition. "Oh, and Mrs. Potts called. She's arriving early tomorrow morning. She'll meet you directly at the breakfast event."

Steve nods, his hand still resting gently at the small of your back, like it’s always belonged there. "Perfect.”

Jake checks his watch and stifles a yawn. "It's almost eleven. We made good time. You two head up, Lisa and I will help Eric marshal the rest of the troops as they arrive.”

You suspect Steve agrees because then he can hold you to going up as well, and he always tries to take care of you and the rest of his team. The two of you cross the lobby to the elevators, and it’s only a few moments before one arrives. Two Secret Service agents file in with you. As the lift ascends, the subtle vibration beneath your feet seems to harmonize with the nervous flutter in your chest.

Your fingers fidget with the edge of your sleeve, a small tell that you've never quite managed to control when anticipation takes hold. Steve notices—of course he notices. Those observant blue eyes miss nothing, especially when it comes to you. 

"Hey," Steve's voice is gentle as his hand covers yours, stilling the restless movement. "You okay?"

You look up to find his eyes studying you with that particular intensity that always makes your heart skip—the look that sees past practiced smiles and campaign-ready expressions to the truth underneath.

"I'm fine," you say automatically, then catch yourself. After everything you've been through together, the practiced deflections feel wrong. "Actually, I'm a little nervous." 

His brow furrows slightly, concern deepening the blue of his eyes. "About tomorrow?" 

"No. Well, yes, of course about tomorrow, but that's not—" You pause as the elevator slows, the display indicating you've reached the fifteenth floor. The doors slide open to reveal an elegantly appointed hallway, its rich carpeting muffling the sound as the Secret Service agents step out first, performing their customary sweep.

"All clear, sir," one of them says, positioning himself discreetly near the elevator bank while the other advances down the hallway, you and Steve following behind. 

You watch the numbers of the doors as you pass, then stop when you get to room 1518. “This is me,” you say. 

He frowns briefly, looking at the number on his key card envelope. “Mine says 1518, too.”

“Mhmm,” you nod, looking up at him through your lashes.

The realization settles over Steve's face, his expression shifting from confusion to understanding. "Oh," he says, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I see." 

You hand your key card to the agent, who taps it to the door and enters to do a security sweep. 

"I asked Sophia to arrange it with Eric," you admit, heat rising to your cheeks despite your best efforts. "I thought… for our last night before everything changes one way or another, I just want to be with you."

Steve's expression softens and he steps closer, the space between you shrinking until you can feel the warmth radiating from his body.

"That’s what you were nervous about?" he asks, his voice low enough that only you can hear. "Asking me to stay with you tonight?"

You nod, feeling shy despite the months of growing intimacy between you. "We've been dancing around it. But tonight..."

Steve's hand finds yours, fingers intertwining. He doesn’t say anything, the way he looks at your face, you don’t need him to. Reassurance and longing are written and reflected there. 

A moment later, the agent steps out of the room. “All clear. We’ll be monitoring the floor.”

“Thank you, Roberts,” Steve says without looking away from you. 

You enter first, and the door swings open to reveal a spacious suite, elegantly appointed in the Plaza's signature style—cream walls, gold accents, plush furnishings in muted tones. Your luggage sits neatly arranged near the closet, and a small bouquet of fresh flowers brightens the writing desk.

Steve follows right behind you, the door closing behind him with a gentle thud that seems to seal you both away from the world outside. For a moment, neither of you speaks, the sudden privacy after days of constant company and scrutiny creating a bubble of stillness around you.

"So," Steve says.

The word hangs between you, heavy with unspoken anticipation. You turn to face him fully, taking in the sight of him—this man who has somehow become the center of your universe in the span of a few tumultuous months. The lines of fatigue around his eyes only enhance the intensity of his gaze as it locks with yours.

"So," you echo, a small smile playing at your lips. "Here we are." 

"Here we are," he agrees, his voice a low rumble that sends a pleasant shiver down your spine. He takes a step toward you, closing the distance until mere inches separate you. "The night before everything changes." 

You reach up, fingers gently tugging to loosen his tie. "Everything's already changed, Steve. Whatever happens tomorrow..."

"We face it together," he finishes, capturing your hand where it rests against his chest. His fingers envelop yours, warm and steady. "Just like we promised."

The weight of tomorrow presses against the edges of your consciousness, but here, in this moment, there is only Steve—his presence solid and real before you. The campaign, the election, the world waiting beyond these walls—all of it recedes as you lean into him. 

"I'm glad you arranged this," he murmurs, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek. "Us tonight." 

"I've wanted to for weeks," you admit. "But everything's been so intense, and there never seemed to be the right moment to..." 

"I know." His thumb traces the curve of your cheekbone, his touch gentle yet grounding. "And I’ve never wanted to assume or rush, but I've wanted it too." 

Your eyes drift closed as he leans forward, his breath warm against your lips just before they meet yours. The kiss is gentle at first, but as his arms encircle you, drawing you closer against the solid warmth of his chest, something shifts—urgency bleeding into tenderness, months of carefully banked desire kindling into something more demanding. 

Your fingers thread through his hair, fusing him to you as the kiss deepens. His hands span your waist, lifting you effortlessly until your feet barely touch the ground. The sensation of being suspended, weightless in his embrace, sends a thrill through you that has nothing to do with the campaign or tomorrow's uncertainties.

When you finally break apart, both breathless, Steve rests his forehead against yours. His eyes, when they open, are darkened with desire but still impossibly blue. His eyes hold yours, a universe of emotion swirling in their blue depths. He shrugs off his suit coat, you slip out of your coat, and Steve takes both and drapes them over a nearby armchair. Then Steve steps close to you again, his hands moving to frame your face, his touch reverent as his thumbs trace the curve of your cheekbones.

"I've been hungry for this moment," he confesses, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you where your bodies press together. "Being alone with you. Really alone."

"Me, too," you confess, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw and his well-trimmed beard. 

His smile in response is both tender and knowing, a silent acknowledgment of the journey that brought you here—from strangers to hesitant allies to something neither of you could have anticipated. His hands slide up your back, pulling you impossibly closer as his lips find yours again.

This kiss is different—deeper, unhurried yet purposeful. The careful restraint that's defined so much of your relationship begins to unravel with each passing second. His lips move against yours with increasing urgency, and you respond in kind, your body arching into his as if drawn by some invisible force.

Steve guides you backward through the suite with what feels like a dancer's grace, each step purposeful yet fluid. The world narrows to the points where your bodies connect—his hand at the small of your back, his chest against yours, his lips moving with increasing urgency against your own. The sitting room passes in a blur of cream and gold, furniture mere obstacles to navigate around as you drift through the space in this intimate waltz.

Your fingers work at his tie again, tugging the knot loose with fumbling eagerness. The silk slides free with a whisper against cotton, and you let it fall, forgotten, somewhere behind you. His mouth never leaves yours as you move together, his breath mingling with your own in the narrow space between kisses. Your shoulder bumps gently against a doorframe—the threshold to the bedroom—and Steve's arm tightens around you, steadying you against him.

"I've got you," he murmurs against your lips, the words more breath than sound. 

You feel the familiar pressure of his hand at the small of your back, guiding you through the doorway and into the bedroom. The soft glow of city lights filters through the sheer curtains, painting the room in muted blues and golds. 

Your fingers, trembling slightly with anticipation, move to the buttons of his crisp white shirt. The first button slips free easily, revealing a triangle of warm skin at his throat that you caress briefly before continuing your task. The second proves more challenging as Steve's kisses grow more insistent, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes focusing on anything else nearly impossible. You manage the third button just as the back of your knees meet the edge of the bed. 

At some point between the sitting room and the bedroom, Steve had evidently unzipped your dress, because now he quickly pushes the fabric down over your shoulders, and it falls to the floor, pooling at your feet. He turns you around in his arms, pulling you flush against him. Without missing a beat, his left hand comes up to collar your throat and turn your head to the side so he can continue devouring your lips with his own. His other hand slides over the roundness of your stomach and down into your panties, no hesitation

His fingers slide against you, finding you already wet and ready for him. You gasp against his mouth at the contact, your body arching into his touch. Steve's lips trail from yours to the sensitive spot just below your ear, his breath hot on your skin, and his beard scratching pleasantly against your neck.

"I've wanted this for so long," he whispers, his voice rough with desire. "Wanted you." 

You reach back, fingers threading through his hair as his thumb circles your most sensitive spot with exquisite precision. Your legs tremble, and he tightens his arm across your chest, supporting your weight as pleasure builds with each deliberate stroke.

"Steve," you breathe, the word half plea, half prayer. 

He turns you in his arms once more, then pushes you back onto the mattress. He’s quick to follow, hovering over you as you both slither further up the bed, capturing your mouth in that kiss that's constant hunger and heat. 

His shirt hangs open now, and you push it from his shoulders, murmuring, “Too many clothes,” desperate to feel his skin against yours. He shrugs it off, chuckling against your lips. 

"I agree," he murmurs, his hands moving to unclasp your bra with surprising dexterity. As he tosses it aside, his eyes darken with appreciation, taking in the sight of you beneath him. "God, you're beautiful." 

His palm cups your breast, thumb brushing across the sensitive peak as he lowers his head to press open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone. You arch into his touch, fingers working at his belt buckle with growing urgency. The metal clinks as it comes free, and Steve shifts to help you push his pants down his hips. 

The bed cradles you as Steve's weight settles over you, his body a perfect counterbalance of power and restraint. Every touch feels like a revelation, each kiss deeper than the last. His hands trace the curves of your body with reverence, as if mapping territories both familiar and new. 

"You're beautiful," he whispers against your collarbone, his lips tracking a slow path downward. "So beautiful." 

Your fingers explore the broad expanse of his shoulders, feeling the play of muscles beneath warm skin as he moves. When his mouth closes over your breast, a soft gasp escapes you, your back arching into the sensation. His beard creates a delicious friction against your sensitive skin, the contrast between softness and roughness heightening every sensation. 

He sucks and lavishes your nipple with attention that makes your head spin before moving his mouth to your other breast and delivering more of the dizzying pleasure. Only when he has you squirming beneath him is he satisfied. He moves back up your body, and his mouth captures yours again.

Your hands slide over the muscled planes of his chest, marveling at the contrast between the softness of his skin and the hardness of the body beneath. When your fingers trace the defined ridges of his abdomen, following the trail of hair that disappears beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs.

Steve shivers beneath your touch, his breath catching as your fingers dip below the elastic of his boxers. The hardness of him strains against the fabric, his physical desire for you manifested plainly. You trace the length of him through the cotton, reveling in the way his breath hitches, the way his eyes darken to midnight as they hold yours.

"I need you," you whisper, emboldened by the naked want in his gaze. "All of you." 

The words act like a catalyst. Steve moves with sudden purpose, stripping away the last barriers between you until there's nothing but skin against skin, heat against heat. His weight settles partially on you, one strong thigh slipping between yours as he claims your mouth again. You’re sure you’re going to forget to breathe, the way this man - your husband - kisses you in this moment. 

His hand skims down your side, tracing the curve of your hip before sliding between your bodies. When his fingers find your folds again, you gasp against his mouth, your body arching into his touch. He explores you with gentle thoroughness, learning what makes your breath catch, what draws those soft moans from deep in your throat.

"Steve," you breathe, his name a plea as tension coils tighter within you. "Please." 

He understands what you're asking for, positioning himself between your thighs, the hard length of him pressing against your entrance. His eyes find yours, intense and questioning even now. 

"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice rough with need but still so careful, so considerate. 

In answer, you wrap your legs around his hips, drawing him closer. The first slow push of him entering you draws a moan from both your lips, the sensation of fullness, of completeness, overwhelming in its intensity. He moves with deliberate control, giving you time to adjust to him, his forehead pressed against yours. 

"Yes," you whisper, tracing his cheekbone with trembling fingers. "I've never been more sure of anything." 

Steve's eyes hold yours as he begins to move, setting a rhythm that quickly has you both breathing hard. The world narrows to this—to the perfect friction where your bodies join, to the sound of his breath against your ear, to the weight of him above you, anchoring you against the rising tide of pleasure. 

His pace quickens, driven by your encouraging moans and the way your hips rise to meet each thrust. One of his hands slides beneath you, tilting your hips at an angle that has you gasping his name, your nails digging into the solid muscle of his shoulders. 

"Steve," you breathe, his name a prayer on your lips as pleasure builds within you, coiling tighter with each movement of his hips against yours.

"Let go," he murmurs against your throat, his voice strained with the effort of control. "I've got you." 

His mouth captures yours again and again, each kiss deeper than the last, as if he's trying to memorize the taste of you. 

The exquisite tension builds and builds until it finally breaks like a wave crashing against shore, pleasure radiating outward from where your bodies join. Your back arches off the bed as you cry out, fingers gripping Steve's shoulders as if he's the only solid thing in a world suddenly turned liquid with sensation. He follows you moments later, his rhythm faltering as his release claims him, your name a reverent whisper against your throat. 

For several heartbeats, neither of you moves, bodies still joined, breaths mingling in the narrow space between your faces. Steve's weight is carefully balanced on his forearms, his body a warm shelter above yours. When he lifts his head to look at you, the tenderness in his gaze makes your chest ache with an emotion too vast to name. 

"Hey," he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead with gentle fingers. 

"Hey yourself," you reply, voice slightly hoarse. 

As the aftershocks subside, Steve gathers you close, rolling to his side and bringing you with him. Your head finds the perfect resting place against his chest, where you can hear the gradual slowing of his heartbeat. His fingers trace lazy patterns along your spine as the world slowly expands beyond the two of you once more.

"That was..." you begin, struggling to find words adequate for what just transpired between you.

"Worth waiting for," Steve finishes, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Though I've been thinking about it since that night in Tucson."

You smile against his skin. "Only since Tucson?”

His chuckle vibrates through his chest and into yours, a warm sound that wraps around you like a blanket. "Maybe before," he admits, his fingers still tracing gentle patterns on your skin. "Maybe since that day in the garden at the DAR headquarters when you told me what you really thought about my speech."

"That long?" you ask, tilting your head to look up at him, finding his expression soft with memory. That had been a sweltering hot afternoon in mid-July - long before you thought he viewed you as more than an ally. 

"You surprised me," Steve says simply. "Not many people do that anymore." 

You prop yourself up on one elbow to look at him properly, drinking in the sight of him relaxed and unguarded in the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains. "For me it was the hospital visit in Chicago."

His eyebrows lift slightly. "Really? That early?"

"Not consciously," you admit, tracing the line of his collarbone with your fingertip. Chicago had been the very tail end of June. "But looking back, that's when everything started to shift. You were so you, even when no one was watching."

Steve captures your wandering hand, bringing it to his lips to press a kiss to your palm. “I love you,” he declares for the first time, no restraint, voice firm and warm. 

Your heart skips a beat, but you’re quick to respond in kind, grinning when you say, “I love you, too,” your face splitting into a wide grin. 

The moment hangs between you, weightless and perfect. Steve's smile widens, crinkling the corners of his eyes in that way that makes your heart flutter. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing tenderly across your skin.

“I love you,” he says again.

You settle back against him, content in the circle of his arms as the sounds of the city filter in through the windows—distant sirens, the occasional car horn, the ambient hum that is uniquely New York. Tomorrow looms beyond this moment, with all its uncertainties and possibilities, but here, now, there is only this—the steady rhythm of Steve's heart beneath your ear, the warmth of his body, the love you’ve been building together finally spoken aloud. 

"I've been thinking about this," he confesses, his voice still thick with emotion. "About tonight. About us. About what happens after tomorrow."

You flatten your palm over his chest, anchoring yourself against the tide of feelings his words evoke. "What do you think happens? After tomorrow?"

He’s quiet for a moment, and you wait. "I don't know what happens with the election. But I know what I want to happen with us."

Your heart beats faster, a flutter of anticipation rising in your chest. "Tell me."

Steve takes a breath, his hands sliding up and down your back, caressing your body with gentle reverence. "I want us to continue building our life together. The real one I feel like we��ve been nurturing—not just for the cameras or the campaign. I want mornings and evenings and all the moments in between."

The raw honesty in his voice catches at something deep inside you. This is Steve—the man beneath the mantle. 

"I want that too," you whisper, the words feeling like a promise. "All of it." 

His arms tighten around you, pulling you closer against the solid warmth of his chest. Outside, the city continues its nighttime symphony, but in this room, in this bed, time seems suspended—a perfect bubble of peace before tomorrow's storm. 

"No matter what happens with the election," Steve murmurs, his voice a low rumble against your ear, "this—us—is real. It's the most real thing in my life." 

You lift your head to look at him, taking in the sincerity etched across his features, the vulnerability in his eyes that he shows to so few. "Mine too." 

His smile in response warms you from the inside out. His hand cups your cheek, thumb tracing the line of your jaw with tender precision. "Get some sleep," he whispers. 

“You first,” you tease. 

He laughs softly before kissing you once more before you both drift off. 

next part: Election Day in New York, part 1

Did I include links for rooms at The Plaza, including the room type I decided I wanted you and Steve to spend the night together in? Yes. Yes, I did.

DID YOU ALSO GET TO FINALLY HAVE SEX WITH YOUR FANTASTIC HUSBAND? YES! THE THING WE'VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR! SLOWEST BURN OF ALL TIME, but I knew from the very beginning that I wanted your first time to be on the eve of the election, and even as the story gained more plot and put more and more chapters and developments between where we started and getting to this night, I'm so glad I stuck to that part of the original plan.

....can you believe I thought this story was only going to be six or seven chapters? 🤣

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[especially-obsessed]

Affection

affection - BETWEEN FRIENDS

“I’m laying on the floor, We’re drinking ‘cause we’re bored Oh, I’m looking for affection in all the wrong places And we’ll keep falling on each other to fill the empty spaces”

Summary: Bored, drunk, and lonely. Throw in the fact that the two of you had the house to yourselves?

Pairing: JJ Maybank x reader

Warnings: descriptions of inebriation (drunk JJ & reader), fluff, light smut?, infidelity (whoopsie)

Word count: 2.5

Masterlist | JJ's Playlist

The fifth of tequila falls from your lips and to the floor, leftover droplets staining the dirty floorboards of the Chateau. You can feel your body swaying, swimming, while you sit with your back against the couch. 

JJ sat next to you, his eyelids hooded. His body movements were relaxed and slow, completely unlike his everyday mannerisms. 

“Can I ask…ask you a question?” You slurred, turning your head to look at him. His face went serious for a moment, looking you in the eye. 

“I didn’t…do it…but if I did, I was…definitely drunk,” he said slowly, holding a straight face. The corners of his mouth started to lift before you both broke out into a fit of laughter. JJ rested his hand on your thigh, a natural movement that you were familiar with. 

“How come you never have a g’friend?” you blurted out. In the back of your head, you knew that you shouldn’t have asked that. It wasn’t even really what you had wanted to ask him in the first place. Your turned away from him, feeling your cheeks start to heat up. When he didn’t reply right away, you looked back over at him. He still had a smile on his face, not even phased by your question. 

“I’ve’ad girlfriends b’fore,” he shot back and squezed your thigh lightly. You just rolled your eyes at him, almost losing your balance as your body tried to follow your eyes. JJ held on to your thigh, helping keep you in place. 

“Nah, m’ybe for a week. Nothin longer than that. Nothin’... gone out on a date.”

“No? I’ve…I have taken a girl out on a date b’fore!” He raised his voice, still smiling. “What do’ya call surfin’ the surge?” He asked. 

“I’m not talking about us J,” you said, feeling heat rise to your cheeks again. “Some girl y-you find at the boneyard..” You use your arm and motion from the back room to the door. Your arms felt like jelly, which made you giggle. JJ didn’t respond to that, and his facial expression was unreadable. Suddenly, his hand was in front of your face, a finger pointing right at you. He brough it closer, and poked your nose. Both of you erupted into a fit of laughter again. 

His hand went back to your thigh.

“Okay, okay,” he slurred. “Fair ‘nough. Wha’ ‘bout you?” he asked. You just shook your head. Thinking through the brain fog, you weren’t sure what he was asking. The confused look on your face made him smile. “I’mean, Friday night, an’ Mr. Kook is nowhere to be seen. ‘Nd you’re here wi’me, the guy who can’t keep’a girlfriend. What’s wrong w’that picture? Hmm?” he hummed slightly, his own word vomit slightly surprising him. You let out a long sigh and threw your head back, resting it on the couch. 

“Mr. Kook is curr’ntly on figure 8 with Mrs. Kook Slut,” you replied. And it was true. He had told you he was going to be off the island this weekend. But it was a lie, and it wasn’t the first time he had done this. 

“Wh- what?” JJ asked, not fully understanding. 

“He’s out fuckin’ someone else J,” you said bluntly. You quickly perked up, not realizing the weight behind your words. “But it’s fine. He not very good at it anyway. Who needs’em? I’ve got you guys and a bottle of tequila!” you exclaimed. 

“Had a bottle of t’quila,” JJ replied, kicking the empty bottle at your feet. You let out a giggle, thinking about just how the two of you had managed to drink the entire bottle. The image of the two of you doing body shots off of each other brought a grin to your face. 

And while you were in your own little world, JJ was also letting his mind wander. Except, he wasn’t thinking about anything other than how his hand was still on your thigh. He started drumming his fingers, his drunken mind getting lost in the sensation of it. JJ could feel his head lolling to the side and breathed in heavily, trying to straighten himself. He overcorrected, and sent himself the other way, falling in slow motion and landing harshly on his shoulder. You giggled and attempted to to reach for him, but your arms just couldn’t reach. They felt like they were filled with jello; orange jello, to be specific.

JJ sat back up slowly, still swaying slightly. He slumped against the couch, running a hand through his hair. JJ smiled and looked at you. You were still giggling to yourself, and JJ loved to hear it. 

“Hey,” he spoke softly, 

“Hey ‘rself, handsm',” you mumbled back. 

“I was thinkin’…” he started. 

“We need more tequila? I was thinking the same thing!” you said. JJ started to say no, but you were already moving away from him. You started to stand up, stumbling on your feet and falling forwards. You landed on your knees right next to JJ’s hip. He shot his hands out to catch you, resting a hand on your hip and giving it a squeeze. You were giggling again. Your movements felt so delayed and your brain wasn’t catching up to your mouth before you blurted out: “Shoulda’ jus’ fell on ya.” You looked at JJ with a smile, and attempted to stand back up. 

But JJ had other plans. 

He used his grip on your hip to pull you forward towards him. As you fell towards him, you lifted your leg so it wouldn’t land on him. Instead, you landed perfectly on his lap, straddling his legs with yours, your knees resting on either side of his thighs. You looked down at JJ, who was staring back up at you, an unreadable look on his face. He looked almost…hungry. 

“J what’re ya doin?” you asked, placing your hands on his shoulders. 

He didn’t say anything, just moved his hands from your hips up the side of your body. He stopped at your neck, using his thumbs to stroke your jawline. You instinctively leaned into his touch. JJ cupped your face in his hands, staring at you through hooded eyes. You were drowning in him, your close proximity even more intoxicating than the tequila. You were unable to break his gaze, no longer feeling like you wanted to giggle. 

“We shoul’t,” you started, but he placed his thumb over your lips. 

“‘N why not?” he stared up at you. “I like you, y’know that. Yer boyfriend ain’t here. I don’ have any girls ‘round right now,” he slurred, his breath warm on your face. 

“Yeahhh, right…right now,’ you spoke softly. JJ leaned closer to you, arching his back off the couch ever so slightly. His hands moved back down to your hips. 

“Just t’night,” he whispered. “I don’ wanna be ‘lone again.” His eyes misted over, and you knew exactly how he felt. That’s why you came here tonight. You refused to sit at home alone while your boyfriend was out. You would’ve come over anyway if JJ hadn’t invited you. 

You brought your hands to JJ’s face and pulled him closer, connecting your lips with his. HIs grip tightened on your hips as you kissed. He pulled you closer to him, aligning your core with his crotch. You moaned into his mouth as his boner pressed into you. 

JJ pulled away first, smiling wide at you. He licked his lips, his grip unwavering on your hips. Your own smile faltered, a wave of sadness washing over you. You looked down, not able to meet his eyes. 

“‘M jus’ so lonely J,” you mumbled, surprised you were even saying the words out loud. JJ felt it deep in his chest. It was something he would never admit to anyone else. Not John B; not even the Pogues. 

“Me too, baby,” he whispered to you, cupping your face with his gentle hands. They trembled slightly. 

The room felt heavy — the kind of heavy that only comes when you’re too far gone, when the weight of everything you’ve been holding in finally catches up with you. The tequila had burned through your veins, but it wasn’t what was making your heart race now.

It was him.

JJ’s thumb brushed against your cheek, his eyes flickering between yours and your lips. His breathing was uneven, his hands still trembling where they held your face like you might slip away from him at any second.

"Don’t wanna be alone," you whispered, your voice cracking and slurring just enough to remind you both how far gone you were.

"You don’t have to be," JJ murmured back, his forehead falling against yours. His breath ghosted over your skin, warm and familiar, tinged with tequila and desperation. “Stay here. Stay with me.”

It wasn’t just the tequila talking — you knew it, and so did he. But the booze had blurred the lines, made every touch feel heavier, every glance more heated.

The space between you disappeared when his lips crashed into yours, this time more desperate, more certain — but still sloppy, still drunk. His teeth grazed your bottom lip, and you moaned into his mouth, the sound sending a shiver through his body. His fingers slid into your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp against his lips. He took the opportunity, deepening the kiss until you were completely breathless and dizzy, and not just from the alcohol.

Your hands fumbled with the hem of his t-shirt, your fingers brushing the warm skin of his stomach as you pushed it up. He broke the kiss long enough to yank it over his head, tossing it somewhere behind him. The sight of him like this — hair tousled, chest rising and falling fast, eyes dark and hungry — made your thighs clench around his lap.

"C’mere," JJ whispered, his voice rough and slurred as his hands found your waist and pulled you closer. You could feel every inch of him against you, the heat of his skin searing into yours even through your clothes. The hard press of him beneath you made your breath catch. "You’re killin' me, baby."

Your hips rocked against him without thinking, the friction making both of you gasp. His head fell back against the couch, his grip on your waist tightening. "Fuuuuck baby," he groaned, his voice wrecked. His hands slid under your shirt, fingers splaying across your back as he leaned in to kiss along your jaw, down your neck, leaving a trail of heat and tequila-flavored kisses in his wake.

"Tell me you want this," he whispered against your skin, his breath warm and shaky. "Tell me you want me."

"I want you," you breathed, your voice thick and needy, and there was no hesitation. JJ’s eyes snapped up to meet yours, glassy and dark with desire. For a second, everything else fell away. No more tequila. No more loneliness. Just him.

And then his mouth was on yours again, messier this time — teeth and tongue and breathless desperation. You were both lost in it — in the heat, the need. His hands roamed over you with a sense of urgency, sliding up under your shirt and dragging it over your head before his mouth found the newly exposed skin. You whimpered as his teeth grazed your collarbone, his lips following with soft, open-mouthed kisses. His fingers traced every curve like he was trying to memorize you, his touch sending heat pooling low in your stomach.

"You feel so good," JJ slurred against your skin, his voice rough and almost broken. His hands slid down your sides, finding the waistband of your shorts and tugging them down with impatient fingers. You helped as best as you could, both of you fumbling and laughing through it, the haze of alcohol making everything slower and more desperate.

When you finally settled back on his lap, your bare skin pressed against his, the heat between you was almost unbearable. You rocked against him again, and the sensation drew a low, needy sound from his throat. His hands gripped your hips tighter, guiding your movements as his mouth crashed against yours once more.

"Baby, you're killin' me," he groaned, his voice ragged and breathless. "I need you." JJ's eyes flashed with something dark and needy before he kissed you again, his hands and mouth claiming you in a way that felt like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. And you didn’t want to stop — not when the world outside felt so far away, and the only thing that mattered was the way you fit against him, the way his touch made you burn.

But at some point, the kisses slowed. The urgency softened. You don’t even remember when it happened, only that your body was heavy and warm and his arms were wrapped tightly around you.

When morning came, the sun slipped through the blinds, casting warm light over the tangled mess of limbs on the couch. You stirred first, the dull ache of your hangover settling in as you shifted. The blanket draped over you slid down, and you realized just how little you were wearing — JJ’s shirt, and not much else. 

Beside you, JJ slept soundly, his bare chest rising and falling slowly. His arm was still looped around your waist, his face tucked against your neck. The weight of him was comforting, even as the reality of the night before started trickling back. You didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to break the quiet peace of the morning, the warmth of his body still pressed so close.

But you knew things wouldn’t stay quiet for long.

The sound of voices outside the Chateau made your stomach drop.

"Shit," you whispered, your eyes snapping open fully. You shook JJ’s shoulder. "JJ. JJ, wake up." He groaned, burying his face deeper into your neck. "Five more minutes," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

"JJ, I’m serious," you hissed, pushing at his chest. "They’re outside."

That got his attention. His eyes flew open, and when they landed on you — your bare legs tangled with his, his shirt hanging off your shoulders — his face went pale.

"Oh, shit," he whispered, scrambling upright. The blanket fell away completely, and you both froze, staring at each other.

Neither of you could look the other in the eye.

"Where—where’s my shirt?" JJ asked, his voice rough and panicked.

"I’m wearing it!" you whisper-shouted back, yanking the blanket up to cover yourself. The sound of footsteps on the porch made your heart race.

"We need to—"

"Shh!" you hissed, scrambling off the couch and searching for your clothes. JJ did the same, both of you tripping over each other in your rush.

The voices outside got louder, and the doorknob started to turn.

"Shit," JJ whispered, his eyes wide as he dove behind the couch just as the front door started to creak open.

The last thing you see before John B steps inside is JJ’s panicked face, his bare shoulders still visible above the couch’s edge.

"Morning!" John B’s voice was way too cheerful for the way your head was pounding.

But the heat from the night before lingered, and you knew this wasn’t over. You slipped out the back door without another word. You were still wearing his shirt.

Masterlist

a/n: Do I make this into a series? 👀

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