#how could be and should be to collect better results

[threeriver]

just need a win

jack abbot x samira mohan

7k | ao3

cw: explicit sex. dacryphilia. descriptions of trauma. MDNI

it's the blood on his shoes that does it, he thinks.

he's not well before that. (of course he's not, how could he be?) but he can keep himself in check when it's needed, when the team is falling apart and the closest thing they have to a leader is unraveling. so he holds himself together with copper sutures and staples, just as ad-hoc and reliable as the maneuvers he pulls throughout the night, results more important than his ability to justify them later. it works - on himself, on robby. on the fucking pelvic obliteration that should have never been.

it works until it doesn't really, blood on his shoe and robby's retreating back. he eyes the collection of young faces around him and sees that same hollow look he knows so well, the bravado that will only cover it for so long and the pallid resignation of those who've only now figured out the kind of lifetime they've signed themselves up for.

jack's in no better shape.

later, his therapist will tell him there's nothing wrong with this - that being of a level with day one residents just shows his humanity, means he's not grown calloused and immune to the endless suffering he's borne witness to. he knows this, truly, knows what a shit doctor he'd be without that reserve of sympathy he's taken with him his whole life - a baggage that felt too heavy in the aftermath of his tours, and his leg, and his everything.

that doesn't make it any easier when he's stuck on a park bench surrounded by people he's supposed to be some sort of mentor for and he can't even haul himself off the seat to have his breakdown somewhere private because they'll all see how his hands shake when he tries to reattach his prosthetic.

sometimes it's like this. often, it's worse. jack has the unique advantage of combat, of knowing where his career and his past overlap. he knows what it is, knows his therapist will disagree when he says the easiest ways around it are a fight or a fuck. (knows he almost had the prior when those fucking cops had tried to come for mckay, if only.) he knows when he sees it in others, too.

dr. mohan's eyes are red-rimmed and unfocused when she takes robby's vacated spot. she misses the beer when it's tossed her way, her fingers just as shaky as his. she's stiff in picking it up, hasty in opening. delayed in her laugh when it sprays across the chest of her sweatshirt. she's tired, undoubtedly; crashing from that last leg where she'd flit around the ED desperate to keep herself attached to the ground however she could - tied down by a tourniquet if need be.

she needs a rest, sure. and probably some food, too. she needs something else worse.

jack knocks his knee against hers when she goes three full minutes without so much as a sip from her fresh beer. she jumps before he can even get a word out, big dark eyes turning on him in some confusing mix of accusation and fear. more suds line the folds of her sweatshirt, fizzing out alongside her tension when he holds up a placating hand. "easy," he murmurs, low enough he's not sure she can even hear him, voice gone thin and ragged from years of tobacco use.

(he wishes he had a cigarette now, misses the way he could externalize his symptoms when the nicotine had him shaking and sweating worse than the trauma did.)

"can i -?"

help you, probably, pretty lips pursed in concern. he tells himself it's the aversion to making her help anyone else tonight that has his chest constricting. "how you holding up?"

it's like he's asked her what year it was, like he has reason to initiate concussion protocol and she's been left out of the loop. "how am i… holding up?"

jack nods, patient. dr. mohan drifts untethered for a moment as she considers his question. "i'm… okay."

his laugh is jagged, too abrupt even for his own ears; like it started in his finger tips and pulled all sensation with it as it rattled around his brittle costals and knocked some teeth loose on its way out. he swallows down the next batch, jaw flexing uncomfortably with the effort. he thinks, now, he's been on the edge of this ever since he first heard the call on the scanner - earlier, maybe, not quite slept off after robby found him on the roof.

he needs to get home.

"samira," he tries again, keeps his tone level like he's guiding her hands through another home brew angioplasty. she looks at him just the same, too; trusting, awed. it's the only thing that staves off the tic in his jaw he might be developing. "how are you holding up?"

she's pretty when she cries because of course she is, though words seem to get a bit difficult for her. she barely needs them, though, not when he knows. not when they all know, apparently, the group around them offering thin but appreciated platitudes. what she's got ain't nothing new, and she knows just as well as him that she'll be better come next shift, too brilliant and talented to be kept down for long.

that doesn't help tonight, not when she sits with him long enough for all the rest to fade away, quiet well wishes and 'sleep tight's offered in passing and all the while she shakesshakesshakes. she won't take his hoodie, not even when he points out she'll make herself sick sitting in that beer-soaked thing.

she just sniffles, tears finally drying, though he suspects that's more to do with dehydration than it is a genuine improvement in her mental state. "you're not cold?" she counters, and he shrugs.

"freezing."

she scoffs, rounds on him with that same manic intensity from earlier, if a little thinner; watered down by her own tears. "oh my god, robby was right, wasn't he? i do talk too much. oh, i'm so sorry! you must be exhausted! look how late i've kept -!"

he can't really feel her pulse when he manages to corral the arm that swings wildly toward his temple, a prospect that has his nerves frazzling ever further before he remembers how his extremities had been prickling earlier, that numbing itch that had left him clumsy and floundering. he's shushing her before he can think better of it, cringing because he knows in any other circumstances she'd rightfully hand him his head for doing so.

tonight, she just obliges, breath catching as she hangs on his every word. she knows what he'll say, clever thing. he tries not to think too much about what it does to him, knowing she wants to hear it. "you're okay, samira. you're fine," he mutters. (he might not want to think about it, but that doesn't mean he can stop himself doing it.) "you're not botherin' me."

"but, you -?"

jack shakes his head before she can even finish that thought, grip adjusting on her arm until he can feel it, that steady pulse hitched rapid and thready, running on fumes. "i'm right where i wanna be," he assures, watches her eyes track between his and the park bench with so much sudden clarity he'd be worried about his position come tomorrow if he wasn't also so tightly wound.

it's not what she deserves, but they both know the appeal of results over practice on nights like tonight.

"you want to be here?" she challenges, the first he's heard her voice so level since that last batch of wounded had been sorted.

he shrugs, palm scraping against his stubble. "guess i'd rather be home," he concedes, too many ways to tell her she's right tying his tongue.

"am i keeping you?"

she says it like a challenge, too confident to doubt her instincts, no matter how robby tries to ruin it. he'll make it up to her, piling on as he's about to. "your bag is on my leg."

it's strange how much he misses her eye contact, considering she only blinks away for a moment. there's a yelp and a quick shuffling. she springs from the bench with the sort of agility people train for their whole lives, graceful even here, at the end of her rope.

but not graceful enough to stop the clattering of his leg, carbon fiber clanging as it bounces off the pavement. her hands cover her mouth in shock, holding back the string of expletives like a dam, though it doesn't it apparently doesn't do much good as she can't seem to hear his laughter over her own embarrassment.

"i'm so sorry," she gushes again, bending to retrieve the appendage for him even as he leans to do the same. there's a small clambering of limbs, her fingers tangling in his as she continues to apologize, a litany of 'let me's.

there's a warm glow of streetlamps haloing her iridial ring, the fine curls around her face an untamed riot and yet still so soft, light enough to catch and pull in the night breeze, obscure her vision for a moment before being blown away with an impatient huff, as if she can't bare to keep her eyes off him another moment. he remembers how she'd held his gaze when walsh had been spouting off hesitations and the kind of stringent procedural processes that would have let their man die. he can practically feel her taking something from him, gives it to her just as freely now as he did then, and her lips part in wonder, just the same.

"samira," he tries, voice gone gritty and thin with the glass he's sure he's swallowed tonight. she blinks up at him slowly, and he wonders if she knows her fingers are tracing along his own. "you don't have to."

it puts her back in her body, at least, her brow pulling tight as her situation comes slamming back into reality. she seems to take a minute to collect herself, noting her position kneeling on the ground before him in the park just outside their place of mutual employment. there's problems with this, ethics and repercussions to consider above the mutual need for control and the lack of it. he doesn't bother outlining them for her, trusts she knows what she's doing here same as anywhere. everywhere.

and she does, of course she does; better than him, even, the strength of surety returning to her grip as she adjusts it, pulls his prosthetic fully from his own hands. he lets her, one hand falling to the bench beside himself as the other fists uselessly in front of him, the tic on beat with the agitated flexing of his jaw. dr. mohan knows better than to take it for apprehension, or worse. there's a bit of a learning curve to her fumbling, but he doesn't offer help. selfish, maybe, enjoying the feel of her dexterous fingers against the tight, dry scar tissue. mostly he just doesn't think she needs it.

"and risk my impeccable customer satisfaction score?" she quips, manhandling his leg into a position that suits her with the kind of strength and abruptness that makes the mark of any emergency care doctor. he's known practitioners who hand wring over things like this, sincerely believe patient autonomy trumps all else. it's a nice sentiment, but means little more than that when most of their patients cannot move themselves even if they wanted.

he'd be embarrassed by the snort it earns if they hadn't already seen each other at their absolute most basic functions tonight. "you're right. what would robby say?"

her smile is less manic as she pats his leg, encouraging him to inspect her work. her breath catches when he nods his approval and he does her the courtesy of pretending not to notice.

"excellent as always, mohan." a beat passes, another. even in the stillness, his skin feels stretched thin, drum-tight and trembling with each pulse. his jaw is flexing uncontrollably now, his fist following suit, but there's no amount of tremors that can stave off the numbness, his body confused about the cause.

"he's only just come around to my particular brand of care," mohan concedes. "wouldn't want to disappoint."

jack doesn't quite care for this train of conversation, though he struggles to articulate why. "i wouldn't worry about robby. he'll -."

"i don't think it's actually robby's opinion i'm worried about at the moment."

and brilliant doctor that she is, she sorts his twitchiness with enough ease. he watches her, while she patently avoids his gaze. it's not something he usually abides, but he won't ask her for more than she can give right now.

her own dark eyes draw across the skyline as if she's only just noticed that evening has come. "night shift," she comments blithely, the intensity of her glare cutting when she turns it back on him, well worth the wait. "in your hands now, isn't it?"

any other night and he'd make her say it, outline specifics and triple check their math before providing the assist. any other night, that type of studiousness would make a mass casualty event that much more massive.

his hands drive them back to his, white knuckles flexing the whole way. the steering wheel creaks under his grip, barely audible over the sound of the heater running. the weather's nice enough for an early summer evening in pittsburgh, but mohan's tremors rival his own, the adrenaline having eaten through every ounce of fuel her body could provide. if he were a better man he'd be thinking about how to get her restocked - what he could make her, where he could tuck her in. but that man, the one he's shaped himself into with meticulous care, pleached and inosculated, has been burnt away, too, the evening all-consuming.

(a controlled burn, his therapist will call it, probably. necessary for growth. he'll have to take notes to share with robby.)

and that might be true, but it doesn't help him tonight, roots exposed and sapped. he can make her cry so easily like this, monsoon in a drought, wants to see how far she can bend with all her bark stripped away; greenstick fracture, easily set.

there's an established flow to this, a give and take. check points they're skipping, but he trusts her. samirah mohan isn't in the habit of being rushed when she needs time; knows when to dig her heels in and is learning when to push when necessary. it means she trusts him, too, and that's -. that's…

she doesn't ask for a drink. she doesn't ask for anything. just stands there in his kitchen all wide-eyed and pretty, keeps his gaze as he deposits his keys in the tray, his bag and her sweatshirt onto the hooks next to the parka he really needs to store for the season. in his hands. his voice barely sounds human when he asks if she wants a shower, jumbled and thin from disuse, or too much use, or maybe just the fry of… everything, and perhaps she doesn't trust her voice either because she neglects to answer, simply tucks her fingers under the hem of her t-shirt and pulls it up over her head, expects him to get the message despite the sight of her taut belly rendering higher brain functions defunct. but it's little more than instinct to reach out, let his thumb follow the line of her iliac crest as he pulls her a half step closer. her shoes stumble over his own, the phantom pressure of her treading on toes which are no longer there. she knows better than to apologize, the words breaking off in a thready whisper, so close he can feel the shape of them against his lips.

she still hasn't looked away, eyes never once darting to catalog the jumping cords of his neck; that same undivided attention and devotion she'd given him when he'd held up a pigtail catheter and asked for her trust. jack thinks maybe they'd been doomed since the moment she nodded, crowded close so he could hook his jaw over her shoulder, all the better to guide you with, my dear.

he doesn't kiss her, takes a cruel sort of pleasure in the unmoored way her eyes widen when he tilts his chin up, lets his lips graze the soft skin between her brow as he tells her where she can find the restroom with a gentle push to her hip. "top of the stairs. on your left."

it's short-lived, as she's not someone often dismissed. "need one worse than me, old man," she counters, eyes flicking to the specks of blood he knows still mat the stubble under his jaw. it will take some adjusting to remember whatever control he might glean from her is only ever freely given. and he was going to see about that drink or maybe a snack, but he remembers how she'd ignored her beer so he jack takes her lead, more than earned, and hooks his thumbs into the back of his collar to pull it up and over his head. when he resurfaces, she's already moved on, hips swaying enticingly as she begins to climb the stairs he steadfastly refuses to have an aid installed into for another five years, at least, bum fucking knee be damned.

he stares too long, evidently, eyes darting up to meet hers when she turns to ask if he's coming.

with any luck.

samira isn't sure if she should be surprised by the quality product lining the tub or not. it's not that dr. abbot has ever appeared anything less than immaculately coiffed, she's just unused to men knowing anything other than five-in-one, let alone the secrets of proper curl maintenance. not that she expects she'll be doing a full routine tonight, but it's nice to know there are contingencies. she'd left the shower curtain open behind herself, expecting him to join, and can feel abbot watching her take it all in, unable to look away since she started stripping. before that, even.

he's… intense. the very model for that old school ER cowboy industry standard she's been working against her whole life. but that didn't stop him from being a damn good doctor, nor herself from being wrong about him. he's like robby, in that, though robby could stand to prove her wrong a few more times.

but she doesn't want to think about robby right now, finds she can't really when abbot's shirtless before her and staring at her like he wants to follow the line of runoff that flows down the valley of her chest with an oscillating saw, get to the core of her via entry points he himself would carve. it's strange, thinking she'd trust him to.

he needs a new water softener, the taste bitter on her tongue when she licks her lips and drops her gaze to his low slung waistband. he's a little hairier than she expected, a fine line of steel wool beginning just above his bellybutton and disappearing below his hem. his fingers thumb the button of his jeans, hesitant in a way she hasn't seen him all night and she shivers despite the warmth of the shower, scared he will simply leave her to it, drop a stack of linens on the couch and sleep away the rest of his off-shift holed up in his bedroom alone, resting easy with the knowledge his job will remain safe.

"fuck," he grunts when she shivers again, his pants pooling on the tile. he goes to step out and then sits on the toilet seat when he remembers his shoes, eyes still glued to her. she only remembers herself after he gets the first one off, bending to unclasp his prosthetic instead of bothering to unlace the shoe itself.

"let me-," she starts, water sloshing onto the tile as she goes to help him.

"stay," he commands, and following his direction has worked out well for her so far, so she does.

he's methodical as in all things. doesn't have a care for show or finesse. pants and sock (she braces herself for the inevitable double the milage joke she's sure she'll hear at some point if she's ever lucky enough to buy him a pack one day) shed, abbot stands and shucks his boxer briefs and doesn't give her so much as a second to appreciate him before he's leaning forward to grab the handles on either side of the stall, first one and then the other.

samira has no doubt he does not need the support, but she gives it anyway, appreciates the fact that he lets her. she helps guide him to the bench but he doesn't sit for another moment, lets himself sag slightly into her space and press his nose to her temple, the hand not currently anchoring him to the grab bar rising until he can cup the back of her head. she doesn't know what to do with the fact that he hasn't even kissed her yet; with the fact that he still doesn't. she's not sure if she's ever been wanted in this way.

his name feels strange on her tongue. it's a sharp name, all awkward, bludgeoning consonants; heavy with implication. she's too tired to care, just wants to know if it's okay to sink into him.

he doesn't respond in kind, simply falls away from her until he's properly seated, his hands staying rooted to her hips to pull her closer, position her between his spread legs. her hands fall to his hair when he rests his cheek against her diaphragm, the curls winding around her fingers without her conscious input, and time melts away a bit with the residue that clings to them - not wholly, still observable, but distant and diluted, a thin rainbow of disinfectant washing down the drain. it should be nice. should be a much needed moment of reprieve after one of the most trying days of samira's life. instead, she feels untethered without his eyes on her, without the rough edge of his voice reassuring her. samira shifts on her feet, trying to swallow back the panic that's been rolling like a tide in the pit of her stomach for hours now: here tame and low-level, revealing all the washed up debris for her careful inspection should she so choose; there overspilling the breakers, an endless well she's powerless to stave off herself.

it's building to the latter when abbot's palm slips up her side, presses firmly against her sternum. when she snaps back to focus, his eyes are heavy on hers again, protected from the spray of the shower by the curtain of her hair. she hadn't realized she'd bent herself so far over him. his hand slips higher, fingers framing her jaw, base of his thumb pressed flush against her carotid like a brand, somehow warmer than the water.

"i want to see you cry," he informs her simply, a depth to the request she can't quite plumb.

she thinks she might already be when she nods.

she thought she'd had enough of it, thought maybe she'd nothing left to give, even if the release had sounded appealing when he'd said it.

that was before jack abbot had her sprawled out on his bed with his fingers buried in her pussy, whispering a steady string of words against the crown of her head compounded specifically to take her apart.

it's not what she expects, though so few things about him are. he lets her take his weight as they stumble into the bedroom, his crutches not having made it to the bath with them. she straddles his thighs, her adductors trembling with the stretch and the stress, just to take stock of him, trail her fingers over the rolling dips of his impressive musculature until finally she plants her palms on either side of his head. he doesn't let her hover, forearms folding over her back to pull her fully onto him, bodies slotting together deliciously. he's only partially erect against her belly, though he seems in no great need to hurry things along.

one hand finds the side of his face, familiarizes itself with the stubble there. "can i -?" she manages before words fail her, and her finger slides over the ridge of his malar bone, down to brush feather light over his philtrum.

"of course, sweetheart," he murmurs, lips quirking like he's holding back a laugh - like the answer should have been obvious. "whatever you need, baby. you've earned it."

she may have miscalculated the nature of his request to see her cry, she realizes with a sudden, unfortunate lurch. raw, animal need for an outlet she can weather. intense, direct affection and praise -?

abbot gives her no time to reconsider, one hand skirting up her spine to grab her by the nape of her neck. she doesn't fight him and he rewards her with a sweet, chaste kiss, quiet approval leaking out the sides of his mouth whenever she tries to deepen it, desperate to distract him. did so good today. so fucking perfect. looked so pretty out there, in your element.

the swell of panic climbs up her throat, brackish water that chokes her, makes her gasp and sob before she even realizes it's upon her.

"that's it, baby," he whispers, his lips following the trail of tears with devastating care. "let it all out for me. i've got you."

and he does.

the worst (best) part is that he won't shut up, weak voice only made all the more jagged from the long night, and the quiet way he talks to her, trying to be gentle. she cuts herself on it anyway, words tearing at her softest spots - uneven sutures she'd applied long before she'd ever properly learned, reinforced with steri-strips and staples along the way. of course he finds the frayed edges, peels them back to check for infection. she's never been with another doctor. med students, yes, fellow fledglings who had been too distracted by their own make-shift care to notice her's. it's not that she believes for a second that abbot has sorted his own old wounds out completely, but she knows longevity starts with stability, and his hands are weathered enough to prove the effort he's put in.

samira watches them now, firm but careful on her sternum, between her breasts with his thumb framing the bottom of her left, as if supporting her heart. she wants to feel them pinching her nipples, but she likes how careful he is with her too much to stop him, especially when the things he says have her so..

"jack -."

"what do you need, baby? hm? tell me."

she needs him to shut up before she ruins the whole evening, breaks down worse than she did in the restroom earlier. "can i -? your mouth -?"

abbot's grin transforms his whole face, cheeks crinkling endearingly as his dark eyes bore holes into her. she realizes with a jolt of fear that he's still going to be able to see her - will probably keep staring at her the whole time with that unbearable intensity.

too late.

his hands turn insistent on her hips, pull her forward until her legs struggle to straddle the breadth of his chest. "you got it, honey," he grits, too much, too much, too much. "come here and take it. need me to kiss it better?"

and that's not something she can stand another word of, so she hauls herself the rest of the way with a strong grip on the headboard, and lowers herself unceremoniously onto his mouth.

and he moans like a whore.

in only seconds samira can tell she's never been with anyone who likes giving head as much as jack abbot. with his eyes closed she can almost stand it, the slight divot between his brows as he concentrates, his strong hands traveling up her back to keep her firmly in place. it's good - good - and she rocks her hips down, testing, and his eyes flick open to see - watch her move, check in, she doesn't know; doesn't matter when the effects the same - pinned in place for the hundredth him tonight by his unwavering gaze.

trusting, challenging. a dangerous cocktail designed specifically for her, has her drunk with it in record time.

"fuck," she hisses, and jack's mouth opens wide, sloppy, completely lost in it.

it's so different from how she's used to seeing him - intense, focused in a way that honestly intimidates her. here he's pliant, doesn't have much of a goal beyond making her feel good and enjoying himself as well, evidently. it's intense, in it's lack of intensity. she's unused to this languid speed, quick and easy trysts with partners she knew she wouldn't be keeping around never preparing her for this. it's a sobering amount of power to hold over a man like jack abbot.

(and not one he lets her keep for long.)

her hands land on his taut belly for leverage, hips working the firm line of his lips insistently. as she leans back, her fingers graze a familiar spot of stickiness and she cranes her neck to see, delighted to find him fully hard and twitching against his hip. it looks heavy, and samira takes advantage of her position to find out, lets her legs bear more weight as her fingertips skirt over the softened ledge of his inguinal ligament, flatten feather light over the heft of his cock. she hears him sigh into her cunt, breathy and unabashed, and she smiles in that way that only ever happens like this, stripped bare, the kind of openness that doesn't permit self-consciousness or smiles trained to hold the perfect amount of tooth-to-gum ratio. abbot's stomach twitches on her first stroke, and samira readjusts her grip, settling in.

it's an awkward angle, but worth it. like this, smothering him and working his cock, jack seems almost as lost as her. she revels in the change, watches down the long line of her own body to see his eyes go soft and unfocused, his tongue getting lazier and less coordinated until he gives up altogether, his grip changing to keep her locked in place just above him, her hips working against nothing as he stares - embarrassingly, reverently - up at her drooling cunt.

it gets worse when he remembers his mouth is no longer busy.

"samira." it shouldn't sound that good in his gravel-rough voice, lilting syllables turned clunky and grating. but dr. abbot's tone is soft as ever, private, something only for her to hear, and she knows - she knows - she shouldn't be thinking of anything but this moment, shouldn't be sinking herself further into that attending/resident cliche, but she remembers how he stepped between her and walsh earlier, close and broad enough to block out the whole room. just them and a man who desperately needed their help.

'you've got this,' when what he meant was, 'i've got you.'

it's not the first time she's heard it. not even the first time a partner has said it. but it is the first time she's believed it, and samira -.

of course he notices. the way he fucking stares, there's no way he'd miss it. one hand skirts up her thigh, palm settling against her mons as his thumb works her clit in the kind of tight, direct circles that she's helpless against and of course, he doesn't stop talking. "feel so fucking good, honey. so clever, aren't you? don't need to help you at all, hm? fucking perfect."

honestly, it's just not fair how easily that rips through her, pulls a sob with it as it goes.

she's flipped with the sort of ease she's ashamed to admit she didn't think him capable of, at least not with his leg still abandoned in the bathroom. but his hand plants on her chest pushes, and she feels the broad belt of his rectus abdominus flexing before he's even out from under her, and then his hand's there to cradle her head as she slips sideways, sprawled out on the bed with gangly limbs being tucked one by one under his body, cocooned in his hold with her hands trapped between their chests to prevent her from tucking herself away. not that there's any hiding form him anyway, not when his face nuzzles into hers, susurrations pressed into her cheek, nearly too quiet to make out. you're alright. i've got you.

she knows.

with one hand keeping her from turning away, the other drifts lower, calms her trembling with a broad, warm palm. it settles in the cradle of her hips - not pushing, just resting - and he waits, with all the time in the world, for her to meet his gaze.

"there you are," he mutters, thumbing the steady font of tears as if it hadn't been his singular purpose to earn them. his next question is pressed into the crook of her nose, chapped lips absorbing salty tears. "needed that, didn't you?"

she can only nod, distrusting her voice. the motion brings her mouth up to his and he indulges her, his tongue slipping easily past her lips to make her taste herself.

he doesn't let her settle into it, pulls away just to butt his forehead against her. "i'll make it better," he promises, before promptly making it worse.

he's just so unbearably close. doesn't even give her enough room to catch her breath properly. samira hiccups when he slides back in, yet still she doesn't force him away when she gets one hand free. instead slips it up his chest to cup his neck and pull him closer, pants into his mouth as he just keeps pushing.

"so pretty, samira. just let me in."

she's not sure how else she can without giving him the scalpel and outlining where to start the y-incision. she settles for hitching one leg higher, up and over his elbow. doesn't quite manage to suppress the tremor when he thanks her.

thanks her. she should tell walsh about that one. maybe when coherence returns to her, if ever that is. no time soon at least, not when he's got all the leverage he needed apparently, clever fingers crooking until she feels full, his thumb pressed tight against her clit. it's good, but his voice is better, a steady constant as he works her over, leads her right up to the edge and gives her the strength to fall.

"you're right there, baby. can feel it. you feel it too, hm? feel how tight you are around me? you've got this. i'm right here, let it go -."

she'd feel bad about the flood of tears that goes with it, if not for how eagerly he groans in her ear, leaning his whole weight against her to better kiss them away. he's too heavy, her breath forced shallow and ragged, but it takes her a moment to even notice because he doesn't stop, and she assumes the hitching and the shaking are because he's got his fingers set hard against that spot that makes her want to flinch away but he won't let her, keeps her pinned so he can lap up the tears streaming down her face and swallow down her sobs.

he pulls away when the fingers on his neck threaten to draw blood, a line of little crescents lining his levator scapulae she'll find it within herself to regret tomorrow. for the moment, it's beyond her.

then the realization he hasn't cum yet crashes through her come down like a bull through the hall. one moment she's basking in the breath he finally lets her catch, and the next she feels him, hot and heavy against her hip and she groans, her throat feeling ragged and raw.

asshole that he is, he only chuckles, breath huffing across her cheek because he still hasn't stopped peppering kisses over her face and if she thinks about that for longer than two consecutive seconds she'll start crying all over again, so she doesn't. just holds him close and enjoys it for as long as she can.

of course, he misunderstands. "we can be done," he offers sweetly, and samira kind of wants to choke him again, though it's hard to articulate why when her thoughts feel like wool being spun. too tender, maybe. too much. at the end of his rope and in need of a win of his own, yet unwilling to take it. he seems the sort, self sacrificing to a fault. she knows it well.

"i thought you were gonna make it better?" she challenges, makes no effort to cover the raw edge of her voice.

jack sighs and leans their heads together again, eyes unfocused with nearness and still unblinking. "yeah," he mutters, lining himself up. "i've got you."

here is the patience he didn't show before, fishing delicately to the bottom of an overused bedside drawer to find a condom before sinking into her so slowly she thinks he's maybe waiting for her to confirm every centimeter. might be, considering how much he seems to enjoy the high, thin whine he pulls from her.

"that's it, honey. let me hear you."

she can hardly do anything but, breath hitching when his hips do, making any hope of keeping herself quiet much too difficult to bother. she's rewarded with a warm palm tilting her chin up, his hips halting when he bottoms out. he takes a minute just to look at her, tuts when she can't maintain eye contact because he's just too much like this.

of course, he's not pleased with this. "you're gonna look at me when i make you cum," he threatens - promises. he thumbs away the tears that are already building along her lash line and watches as they disappear into the dry, flaky skin at the edge of his nail. she hadn't even noticed them falling, too tired to care. easy target.

it's easier to watch him like this, with his gaze lowered. she takes in his damp curls, threads of silver catching the low light filtering in from the hall, and the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, inviting where his rigid military bearing had once frightened her away. she can only nod when he looks back, tongue tracing the salt from his skin.

there's not much left of that kind attending when he begins to fuck her, the slow roll of his hips mounting quickly into something that leaves her scrambling to keep up, her pleasure building before she even realizes it's there. but she's helpless in the face of it, so full she swears she can feel his pulse.

she's close, somehow, jack's will winning out against her body's every natural instinct to just be fucking done already, and she snakes her hand between them to hurry it along, fingers barely even reaching the edge of her trimmed curls before he's dropping to his elbow, his weight dispersed so he can chase her hand away and crush it to the pillow above her head, a cruel chuckle ringing in her ear when she wails in frustration.

abbot's teeth graze her ear, voice so close she swears she can feel his humid breath on her tympanic membrane. "slow, mo."

she should shove him off. she should call him an asshole and storm out of here, crawl into her own bed and sleep for three months and wake up in a world where she no longer holds a position under him, or fucking robby, or alongside anyone else at that godforsaken joint; where she can find a new career helping marginalized individuals struggling to find effective care because of ER cowboys like the man currently making a name for himself inside her fucking womb, it feels like.

and she may yet. one day. tonight, she's gonna let him pick up the fucking mess he made because she certainly isn't in any shape to do it herself.

she thinks she manages to tell him to fuck himself, but it garners no reaction beyond a breath punched through grit teeth, so probably all she's accomplished is a garbled moan, and by the time she realizes that she's already forgotten what she was so mad about so she gives it up, her hips flexing futilely off the bed in an attempt to speed him along. still, jack goes at his own pace - brutal, but effective. results oriented.

"you can do it, baby. know you can. just like this, i'll show you, hm?"

english is hard to parse, his voice even harder. samira shakes her head anyway, instinctive.

then he's gone from her and that's worse, her hands following after to grip the strong forearm by her head, plaster flat against the soft wall of abs flexing above her, anywhere at all just to pull him close, within touch, keep his hands on her -

one finds her jaw, insistent but soft as he tilts her face up. she can feel the film of something between them. perspiration and something similar, the grit of saline. her diaphragm buckles when she tries to speak and she abandons the attempt just as quickly as it came, meeting his eyes instead and hoping he has enough words for the both of them.

devastating mistake.

"you've got this, samira."

and of course she does, because jack's got her.

it leaves her breathless, but it's more than just that, the gasps she can manage only making her spiral further. pleasure mixes with pain, her body run ragged. there's a desperate, panicked edge as well, her inability to draw a full breath leaving her shaking in confusion. but it's good. great. more than she can handle on her own, but he's right there, catching her. his hips still with a groan as he seats himself deep within her, little aborted thrusts timed with the way she can't stop trying to milk him. when he sits back, his hands run over her thighs, pull her closer by a firm grip on her hips.

he makes her wait until she can meet his gaze as best she can, her vision watery and unfocused.

"christ, you're pretty," he mumbles, almost to himself. the shape of him blurs until it blocks out the rest of the room, his body warm where he folds himself over her to pepper more kisses over her cheek. "hiding all these away in some bathroom, weren't you? next time you have a fucking breakdown at work, you'll come see me, hm? i'll make it better."

she wants to be snarky. yes, doctor. more than that, she wants him to be nice. her curls are gonna be a mess, scraped across his pillow as she nods.

"you gonna be okay if i get up, or do you wanna be held a bit longer?"

and that's a bold question to be asking when he's not even really holding her now, so samira reaches up behind him and pulls until he flops, considerable weight pressing her into the mattress. (firm. excellent back support. old bastard.)

jack doesn't laugh at her, just turns so he can kiss her cheek, her temple, his other hand threading into her hair to keep her close. "you're okay, samira. did so good today."

"you did too," she manages, sniffles abated just long enough to eek it out.

she expects resistance, robby's typical rebuff. but jack just presses a smile to her hairline, nods. she forgets sometimes how vocal he is about attending therapy. "we all did," he agrees. "hell of a team we got."

and she wants to ask if that's what they are, a team, but when jack pulls away he only tosses the condom and fishes out some sleepwear for both of them, tucking himself up behind her before setting an alarm on his watch that makes her cringe, and she reasons she'll have time to ask tomorrow when he tells her not to worry about it.

"not for you. just my morning run."

she hopes she never lives to handle shit like tonight as well as he does.

[cordidy]

Just needed to get this out of my head after Sylus's Myth so i hope you like it :)

TW : drunk MC, fluff, it's sad I guess ? No proof read cause i'm a savage, english is not my mother tongue

“......tail ?” 

“What did you just say kitten ?” Sylus asked, gently patting the back on your thigh while steadying you on his shoulder as you exited the elevator together, .

At first he had been quite surprised to receive your call.

Even more so when you bluntly asked him if he would be ok playing bodyguard and keep an eye on you while you indulged in a night of carefree debauchery at the club but hey, who was he to judge ? 

Besides, if you felt safe enough to be in such a vulnerable state around him, going as far as trusting him with your safety and your apartment key to make sure you would make it back safe and sound, he was not going to complain.

“I….I said…ooooh that spins…do…do you ever miss your tail ?” you repeated, your voice tired and slurred, words barely comprehensive despite your best effort.

Sylus couldn’t help the chuckle that came as you poked his lower back through his jacket.

You really were wasted…

But you had a good reason !

Your week has been shitty as hell.

Your nights were even worse lately, barely getting a couple hours of sleep only to wake up either with a sore throat, screaming or crying at something you could not recall.

And, on top of that, you were off duty as Zayne decided you needed a break and refused to sign your abilitation.

“Come on Zayne, look, I’m fiiiiiiiiine” you tried to convince him with a huge smile and so much concealer on your face you could open your own makeup shop.

“As your physician I cannot let you go on field with such results” he retorted not even looking away from your chart “You should be dead with such a high blood pressure”

“I’m a tough cookie !”

“And you’re going to have to stay in the jar until these get better. You’re not only a danger for yourself right now but also for your partner”

That was a low blow but he had a point.

Clearly, you needed a break, something to unplug your brain, something fun, a good night out to leave all your problems behind and get shitfaced to oblivion. What you did not need though was the unwanted attention a young woman alone at the club would probably get and, while you were very capable of handling those kinds of situations, you did not really want to have to be on the lookout constantly or end up in a cell for assault.

You tried Tara, back to her family for the Holidays.

Simone ? Night shift.

Xavier….doing God knew what God knew where….

So, with a heavy heart you picked up your phone and called your secret weapon…

“Not necessary,” Sylus finally answered in a calm, composed voice, as he opened your apartment door, being extra careful as to not bump you in the doorframe. Based on the current humming coming from you right now and your kicking feet, your head was already going to kill you tomorrow.

Better not add “commotion” to the list of your impending issues.

“To be honest, being half human half cat was quite annoying” he admitted, walking you toward your bedroom to tuck you into bed. “I don’t like not being in control of myself and beside, it was bad for business to be away from the N109 zone for so long...although…I kind of enjoyed having to hide here and spend time with you…” he added with his signature smirk, poking your side before tossing you onto the bed, making you giggle like an idiot as you plopped on your back. It was the first time you allowed him into your room and, although he did plan on being a gentleman despite what you could think of him when sober, he couldn’t help the loving smile on his face as he watched you mumble something about a potato bag while fighting with your plushies for room.

“I miss you tail” you retorted in your drunk voice, closing your eyes in hopes it would help with the dizziness while Sylus started to remove your shoes and socks.

“I quite remember you telling me how insufferable it was” the man said in a collected tone while making his way to the kitchen once he was done. 

“Yeah but it was sooooo pretty…I miss how you used it to grab me with it and…and toss me around ! That was funny !” you laughed, mimicking being tossed around like a ragdoll in the middle of your plushies as Sylus was coming back in your room, a glass of water in his hand.

He stopped in his tracks, a puzzled look on his face.

“I never use my cat tail to...toss you around” he corrected. His Evol, yeah, on a daily basis at some point actually, just to annoy you and enjoy those little lovely sounds coming from your mouth, threats mostly.

He had not been able to use it at all during the time those damn kittens from Hell had turned him into one of them though.

Your foggy brain did not hear him though and just kept mumbling in your drunken state, propping yourself on your elbows, trying to focus your gaze on him.

“You would think scales are cold and harsh…” you started, raising a finger to look all serious before falling back onto your pillow, not registering the look of surprise on his usually steady face.

“Kitten wh…” his voice was faltering as he looked at you getting all comfy like you had not just shaken his world upside down with your words.

“...but it was sooooo soft and sooooo warm…” you continued, grabbing your pillow to hold on tight as if you were looking for said warmth. 

Your voice was starting to fade as sleep was settling in.

“...felt safe when you wrapped it around me…I kept holding mine to sleep after…but…”

The glass in his hand fell to the ground, shattering as he froze in place, eyes wide open in shock. 

“…it was not…not the same…” you mumbled before losing consciousness, your body going limp against your pillow, before starting to snore.

______________________________________________________________ Pssssst, you liked it ? P2 is already up here :) https://www.tumblr.com/cordidy/770227784125677568/a-few-days-ago-i-wrote-this?source=share

[captain-huggy-bear]

Little Moments

Pairing: Jack Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Jack occasionally making more mature jokes cause he's just a silly guy

Summary: Jack finds out he's going to be a dad for the first time, maybe he's a little overexcited aka a collection of snapshots throughout your pregnancy.

Notes: Nonnie gave me the confidence to try writing Jack, I'm hoping it's okay...also the jelly cat mentioned is here

Nappies = diapers

Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :)

Writing Masterlist

When they ask you to take a pregnancy test at the hospital because you've been violently sick for 2 weeks, you scoff. You can't be pregnant because Jack and you haven't been trying and you've been using two forms of contraception. It's nigh on impossible for you to be pregnant, statistically speaking it's just not going to happen.

It's not that either of you don't want children, god knows you do, but you're recently married and you wanted some time to settle into that role and dynamic, the new house as well, without an additional person...especially because you knew without a doubt that once you had one, Jack would want another baby, and another, and another. You'd never be just Mr and Mrs Hughes again, it would be Mr and Mrs Hughes and their children.

It's the amount of care that you've both put in to avoiding pregnancy that makes you so certain you're not. So you expect the test to come back negative.

But, there you are...sat on the edge of a hospital bed, slippers almost falling off your feet because Jack couldn't find yours so he brought you his, staring at a pregnancy test with two clear, solid lines.

Pregnant.

Pregnant when statistically it should be improbably, nigh on impossible. Pregnant when you've been married a month...pregnant because your husband is clearly ridiculously fertile. Of course Jack would be, the amount he wants kids and family, it was probably some genetic advantage. Of course you'd marry the one guy who could knock you up when actively trying not to do so.

You don't look up when he enters your hospital room, arms full of snacks and drinks, cap on backwards keeping his hair out of his baby blue eyes. He looks far too cozy and far too sweet for a man who's about to put your body through some extreme changes.

"So, I got you some M&Ms and a orange juice..." Jack trails off noticing the way you're sat, hunched over, staring at your hands, "You okay, baby?"

"Um, I..."

"What's wrong?" Jack's quick to drop everything on the hospital bed, moving between your legs, hands smoothing up and down your thighs. His eyes dip down to the test in your hands, the two strong lines he can see, so strong that there's very little doubt what the result is. The dots starting to connect for him, you being sick for 2 weeks straight, you being tired all the time, wanting to eat foods you normally wouldn't...the ridiculous amount of sex you had on your honeymoon even though you both were using protection, "Are...are you..."

"Yeah..." You finally meet his eyes, the hopefully little look on his face makes you feel mildly better because you can see how hard he's trying to contain his excitement. It's clear from the way he bites his bottom lip, from the way Jack's fingers grip your thighs to stabilise himself.

"Well, fuck..." Even as he says it there's a little smile starting at the corners of his mouth, teeth starting to show, eyes starting to crinkle.

"Yeah,"

There's a beat of silence. You processing the fact that right now there is a human being growing inside you, part you, part Jack and him watching you for your reaction. Jack can't say he's not nervous, not when you don't look overjoyed and it's that apprehension that has him trying to get a laugh out of you.

"Guess I have strong swimmers, huh?"

"Jack!" You whack his shoulder with your hand and he catches it, thumb stroking over your wedding band even as you glare at him. He can't help but stand a little closer, your legs pushing further apart so he can fit.

"What? C'mon, that's impressive right? Condoms, the pill and you still got pregnant?" He's grinning at you proudly, like it's a badge of honour to have managed to knock you up despite trying to avoid that happening at all costs.

You groan out loud, head falling to Jack's chest, forehead pressing into the centre of his hoodie. His hands come up to the back of your head, stroking over your hair soothingly before trailing over your shoulders, down your back. He's gentle, soft with it and had you been able to see you would have seen his expression shift to one of anxious worry, apprehension at your less than excited reaction.

"A...are you...are you not happy, baby?" He's scared that you'll turn around and tell him you don't want the baby, that this isn't what you want. Sure you've talked about the possibility of kids in the future, but neither of you were expecting to have this happen right now. It's a lot for anyone, especially for the person who's body is doing all the hard work. He'd understand if you weren't happy, even though he desperately wants you to be.

"I...I'm just shocked. I want a baby with you, of course I do, you'd be such a good dad...but, I guess I wasn't planning on it right now and I'm..." You're mumbling into his chest as he strokes down your back, your arms wrapping around his waist tight to give you some sense of comfort as your entire world is turned upside down by the reality that you're going to be a mum sooner rather than later.

"You're?"

"Scared...what if I do something wrong? What if I'm a bad mum?"

"Angel, look at me," You finally look up at him, chin resting on his sternum and he looks down at you like you're talking crazy, big blue eyes wide and honest, "You are going to be amazing. You're going to be the best mum...and we're going to have a baby!"

It's his excitement, the grin that reaches Jack's eyes that has you finally cracking a smile up at him. That familiar giddy sensation of joy filling your chest because you're having a baby with Jack...with your husband and yeah, maybe this is sooner than you would have liked, but you still wanted a baby with him and...and he's so excited and he's so good with kids and you'd give him an entire hockey team of babies if he asked.

"Yeah, I hope they have your eyes." You smile up at him and suddenly all that fear, all that apprehension that you weren't going to be happy about this goes, suddenly he knows that it's going to be all good, all okay.

"Yeah, baby?"

"Mmm, you have such pretty eyes."

"Well, I hope they look like you...my pretty wife....and I'll teach them how to skate, and how to play hockey, oh and take them out on the lake in the summer!"

Suddenly it doesn't feel quite so scary, with Jack rambling about all the things he's going to do with your child and how he can't wait to tell his parents and his brothers. Leaning against him, just looking up and watching how excited he is, puts to bed any fear because you're not doing this alone, you've got your husband and it'll be okay.

Jack's got you. Both of you.

"What's that?"

"The results..." The envelope shakes in your hands as Jack comes in from the cold, taking his hat off and throwing his puffer jacket over the back of a chair.

"The...the sex of the baby?" You'd done a blood test 2 weeks ago to find out the sex of the baby, too eager to wait another 2 months for the ultrasound to be able to tell.

"Mmhmmm...I'm too nervous, you open it!" You shove the envelope into Jack's hands. Even though you'll be happy with a boy or a girl, there's something about the anticipation that has your stomach in knots. Were you going to be like Ellen and have a million baby boys or would you be the exact opposite and only have girls or would you end up having both at some point?

You watch him carefully, hands at your mouth, nervously biting on a nail as he rips open the envelope and pulls out the letter. His eyes scan the text quickly, giving very little away until...until there's a shift, a raising of his eyebrows followed by a bright grin as he looks at you.

"We're...we're having a girl..."

"A girl?"

"A girl!" He's so excited that the letter is dropped to the floor almost as quickly as his own knees fall to the ground in front of you with such a resounding smack that you wince on his behalf. He's pressing his cheek to your tummy in an instant, even though it's not very large yet at all, barely a noticeable bump.

"Hey, baby girl..." You can't help the tears that start to form as Jack starts to talk to your belly, to the baby, to your baby girl, "It's your daddy here...I'm going to teach you how to play hockey and we're going to get you in the NHL, show all those boys what for, right?" Your hands find their way to Jack's hair, stroking through it as he talks to your belly, his arms wrapped tight around your hips.

"Not the PWHL?"

"Uh, we're a family of record breakers, angel. She's going to the NHL like Manon Rheaume and she's going to be there until she retires." He grins up at you, teeth showing as you brush a strand of hair off his forehead and back out of the way.

"What if she doesn't want to play hockey?"

"Then I'll love her anyway..." He turns back to your belly, talking in a soft, sweet tone, "don't worry, baby girl, you can do whatever you want. I don't care if you hate hockey, as long as you're happy..."

You can't help the tear that slides down your cheek because how lucky are you? How lucky is your baby girl? To have a dad who doesn't care if she hate everything he loves, as long as she's happy, as long as she's healthy...god, she's so loved already.

"Okay, don't look, close your eyes!" You roll your eyes underneath Jack's palms.

"You're covering them, why would I need to close them?!"

"Just do it, angel!"

"Fine!" You close your eyes beneath his palms, trusting him to keep you from walking into a wall as he guides you through the house from the living room all the way to wherever his final destination is.

"Lift your foot, baby." He helps guide you up the staircase, hands on your hips that had started to grow wider as you progressed through your pregnancy. He always had a hand on you these days. He was trusting that your eyes were still closed as he ushered you up each step.

When you reach the top of the stairs his hands return to covering your eyes and you shuffle down the corridor until he tells you to stop. You listen to Jack opening a door, probably propping it open before his hands find yours, tugging you forward and to the threshold.

"Okay, open your eyes, baby." You practically gasp when you do, Jack standing proudly in the centre of a nursery. A nursery that was empty all of one week ago, as if he'd somehow clicked his fingers and filled it in an instant.

The walls are a soft pink, stereotypically girlie but you like it, you like that he was willing to make the nursery feminine for your baby girl, just as much as you know he'd change it if your girl decided she hated pink.

The crib is set up by the window, soft curtains diming the sunshine outside just enough. The walls have photos of you and Jack, a few from the start of your pregnancy, your wedding. There are photos of the rest of the family and some empty frames clearly waiting for photos of your baby girl when she arrives. He's even put a few copies of your first ultrasound up.

There's a rocking chair in the corner next to a small bookshelf already filled with books, a space for you to sit with your baby when you're nursing or to read her to sleep when she's being testy. A changing table is already stocked with nappies, baby wipes and powder.

It's sweet and girlish and so so lovely because Jack knows you've been worried about having the nursery done even though you have like 6 months until the baby comes. He knows you've been worried it would get put off because he's away a lot for the season. You'd been stressed that the baby might come without having a space to properly stay.

"How did you..."

"I got the guys to help, last weekend when you went out with my mom. That was a distraction!" He grins at you proud of himself, "Nico, Dawson, Luke, Timo and Jesper came round, we got it all sorted. I didn't want you to be worrying about it anymore, baby."

"Is that...is that why you wouldn't let me in here?" You're feeling teary already, hormones running high and emotions always on a knife's edge. It's so so sweet that he did it, even with months left, the fact he knew it was bothering you and decided to fix it even with his busy schedule? You didn't think it was possible to fall more in love with him, but it seems he's proven you wrong again.

"Yeah, didn't want to ruin the surprise and I had a few more bits to get so it was perfect."

"Jack..." You sigh out at him, face scrunching as you try to contain your tears. His proud little grin drops, Jack thinking he's upset you and maybe he's just made you hate the entire room. Maybe it's too pink? Or not pink enough? Or do you hate the crib?

"...Oh...you hate it?"

"No, no! I love it! I love you!" You step forward quickly, wrapping your arms around him as you start to cry into his chest because how could he think you hate it? It's the best nursery in the world and he's the sweetest husband in the world. You really can't stop the tears and Jack should be used to them by now, you've been such a cry baby since you found out you were pregnant, hormones doing a number on you and making you even more sensitive.

"Oh, okay! Oh, don't cry, baby!" He's smoothing your hair down, trying to calm you, but once the waterworks start it's seemingly impossible to stop.

"It's...it's the...hormones...'m sorry..." You sob into his chest, Jack pulling you tight against him and rocking you side to side to try and soothe you.

"Hey, it's okay, angel," He can't help but laugh because he knows you're not sad now and he knows how easily you've been brought to tears as of late. Jack presses a kiss to the top of your head, staying there for a moment to breathe in the smell of your shampoo.

At least he knows you like the nursery, he thinks, enough that it made you cry.

"God, I love you, baby..." He sighs into your hair and his words only seem to make you cry just a little harder because how did you get this lucky?

"Jack..." You waddle into the nursery, now feeling so much larger than before. Quite positively and obviously pregnant and finding moving harder each month. Even simply things are harder because you have a beach ball in the way, Jack tells you it's cute and that's the only thing keep you from crying about it.

"What?" He looks up from where he's arranging some toys in the corner. He's developed an obsession with picking up any adorable toy he finds out and about to add to the collection. There's even a cuddly Fin the Orca from Quinn sitting on top of the toy box.

"Why is there a demon in the crib?" You're staring at the bright red plushie, with big elflike ears, horns, pointy teeth and a curly q tail. Trying to figure out why it's there in the first place because it certainly wasn't there yesterday.

You rest a hand on your stomach and the other on the small of your back, watching as Jack picks the weird little plushie up and makes it wave at you with its little arm.

"It's not a demon, it's our baby girl's first jelly cat!"

"Why is it a devil? A gremlin?" You're not entirely sure what it's supposed to be, definitely some sort of monster or creature and obscenely bright in it's colouring. You have to admit it is kind of cute...in it's own way...

"Uh, because of the New Jersey Devils, obviously? Why would I get our special girl something boring like a bunny?" He places the little plush back in the crib gently, patting it on the head in a way that is so endearingly sweet that you can't help but smile at him.

"She's going to be a weird kid, y'know that? You're going to make our baby a weird kid." You joke knowing fully well that you weren't actually popular or cool in school. Jack closes the distances between the two of you, leaning down to talk to your belly, like he's been doing since day one. He yaps at your baby girl none stop, whether she can understand a single word he says or not.

"Don't listen to your mother, you're going to be amazing and awesome and totally popular." He whispers to your belly, hands coming to rest on either side gently stroking your stomach over your t-shirt.

"You want our baby to be a popular girl?" You raise your eyebrows at him and he looks at you in horror like that might be the worst fate imaginable, to have a stereotypical mean popular girl for a daughter. You think it's impossible for her to turn out that way with Jack as a dad, with Quinn and Luke as uncles and Ellen and Jim as grandparents. She's going to be surrounded by so many amazing, kind people that if she turns out mean you'll be shocked. If she's popular you know it'll be because she's kind.

"On second thoughts, be a weird kid, baby girl. Be into taxidermy or something." You feel her kick his hand in response and can't help but laugh at the pair because you already know they're going to be trouble. Your kid is going to be just like Jack, you have no doubt, and you're certain you're going to be constantly amazed by them.

"You're ridiculous."

You're sighing heavily, hands firmly on your lower back at the ache there as you look in the kitchen cupboard for something to eat. You feel so uncomfortable, so heavy, so big, so achy. Everything hurts, your belly is so heavy that it forces your back to arch and as much as you love your baby girl, you really hate how she's making you feel. Even most food isn't appetising at the moment.

"You okay, baby?" Jack watches you from the kitchen doorway, leaning deliciously against the doorframe. How does he manage to look so good all the time? It only makes you feel worse because you want him but don't feel like acting on it.

"No...back hurts, belly is heavy, I can't get comfy and I feel ugly and gross..."

"First off, you've never been more beautiful," Jack frowns at you, hating that you don't like yourself at the moment. He's certain you've never been more gorgeous than now when you're carrying his baby, your baby. But, he can see it, the way you stand uncomfortable and in pain, how that must weigh down on you as your body constantly changes. "Secondly, c'mere."

Jack moves to you, standing behind your back with his head on your shoulder. His arms come around your front, hands resting underneath your belly securely and in one slow move, he lifts and suddenly everything feels better, lighter.

"Oh, fuck..." It's like he's taken 10 pounds off your spine and you can't help but sigh and lean back into him, eyes closing at the feeling because you haven't felt this comfortable in a while.

"That feel good?" Jack grins into your shoulder, happy that he's helping, happy to feel the way you relax into him as he takes the entire weight of your belly into his palms. It's heavy and he knows his baby girl has been giving you a world of aches and pains.

"Mmhmmm..." You hum, sighing deeply with each breath as he just holds you like that, letting you lean your weight back into him and feel free for a moment, feel more like yourself.

"Well, let's stay like this for a little then, yeah?" He doesn't try to move away, not after a minute, not after 3 or 5. He holds your belly for near 20 minutes until your feet hurt from standing and even then he's considering when he can do it again, when he can help make this whole pregnancy just a tiny bit easier for you.

"What are those?" You point at the tiny little outfits that Jack is currently folding on the changing table in the nursery. The clothes you doubt are going to fit into the drawers you have because he keeps buying more baby outfits, what seems like every single day.

"These?" He holds a little onesie up innocently, grey, red and black, with a little New Jersey logo in the corner.

"Yeah, those? You do know she's going to grow out of them within a few weeks, right?" You keep telling him not to buy so many baby clothes because she's going to grow quicker than she can wear them, but he seems unable to resist.

"Then I'll just buy more..." He mutters continuing to fold the next item he'd brought.

"Jack..."

"But, they're cute! Look! It's a little New Jersey Devils snowsuit!" He holds up a big puffy snowsuit and you can't help but shake your head at him because the baby is due in June and there's no way she's going to be small enough by the time it snows to even wear it.

"She's going to be too big by the time it snows!"

"But, angel!" He pouts at you so badly that you can't help but laugh. Jack's handome, pretty, adorable, always, but there's something about fatherhood, about his excitement to provide for his growing family that makes him even more adorable.

"Okay, okay...they're cute and if it makes you happy you can keep buying them..." You concede, even as you know half the clothes aren't going to be worn by your baby girl.

"Thank you, beside, if it doesn't fit her it might fit the next one." His comment has you letting out a shocked laugh and you move closer to lean into him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder and holding your belly.

"How many babies do you want me to pop out?"

"Mmm, like a whole hockey team? Call the Hughes' Hockey Club? The Hughes Hornets? The Hughes Harlequins?"

"You're planning on killing me with babies?" You're already imagining how exhausting it would be to grow and birth that many babies...you'd do it for him, but...maybe stopping at 3 or 4 or 5 would be better.

"No, sex, obviously." Jack frowns at you and you gasp at his commentary, whacking his chest with a free arm until he grasps it and pulls you close.

"You're such a dick!"

"Hey, you love this dick." He smirks down at you, pressing a kiss to your hand.

"Jack!"

You're exhausted, 24 hours of labour has made it's mark on you. Your skin is ashy and sallow, dark bags under your eyes and sweat wetting your hair and skin to such a moistness it almost seems like you've just come out of a shower. But, you're beautiful to him, laying there with your baby girl in your arms, letting her nurse from you like that.

He's in awe of the way you shift her so naturally against your chest, the way you gentle rub the small tuft of dark hair on top of her head.

"You did so good, baby...look at her, look at you..." Jack is sat next to you on the hospital bed, he's been here for the entire labour, holding your hand and giving you water to drink. He's been amazing, and you know he'll continue to be as you face the challenges of post-birth.

He's gentle as he smooths the hair away from your sweaty face, getting the small strands out of your way as you smile tiredly down at your baby girl before looking up at him once she unlatches from your breast.

"You wanna...wanna hold her?" Your voice is raw, exhausted but no less sweet for it and Jack can't help his enthusiastic nod, arms already in position to take her like he practiced at home. His mum and dad giving him a run down with a teddy bear on how to properly hold a new born. At the time it had felt silly, now he's glad for the confidence it has given him.

You transfer your perfect little girl into his arms, sitting up a little more and shifting so he can sit with her more directly next to you. Your head leaning against his shoulder while he cradles her carefully in his arms like the most precious cargo he's ever had.

"Hey, baby girl...it's me, your daddy...God, I've been so excited to meet you. You're so perfect, just like your mommy..." Jack's finger carefully traces her cheek down to her little palm and she grips his finger tightly, trapping it in that notorious baby grip that has his eyes filling with tears, "I love you so much, both of you," He smiles over at you, pressing a kiss to your sweaty forehead before returning his gaze back to his daughter.

She doesn't even have a name yet, but he loves her so much already. He knows he'd do anything for you, for her and that's both terrifying and uplifting. To love someone so much you'd risk it all, do anything to keep them safe and happy and healthy.

"She has your eyes," You smile up at him, comparing his baby blues with your daughter's own as she yawns in his arms.

"She has your nose, angel."

"You think?" You squint at her, trying to tell if that really is your nose developing or Jack's more button one...it's hard to tell when she's this small, this young.

"Mmm, poor kid." Jack teases you, grinning, full of excitement, happiness, contentment. His wife leaning against him, his new baby girl in his arms, a sense of humour coming back now you're not constantly carrying around an extra weight.

"Hey!"

"I'm joking, she's beautiful just like her mommy." He presses a kiss to your forehead and you sigh into it, letting the tiredness take you knowing that Jack's got you, he's got you both.

[thatbadadvice]

Help! I'm A Private Person!

Neil Gaiman, Journal.NeilGaiman.com, 14 January 2025:

Over the past many months, I have watched the stories circulating the internet about me with horror and dismay. I’ve stayed quiet until now, both out of respect for the people who were sharing their stories and out of a desire not to draw even more attention to a lot of misinformation. I've always tried to be a private person, and felt increasingly that social media was the wrong place to talk about important personal matters. I've now reached the point where I feel that I should say something. As I read through this latest collection of accounts, there are moments I half-recognise and moments I don’t, descriptions of things that happened sitting beside things that emphatically did not happen. I’m far from a perfect person, but I have never engaged in non-consensual sexual activity with anyone. Ever.  I went back to read the messages I exchanged with the women around and following the occasions that have subsequently been reported as being abusive. These messages read now as they did when I received them – of two people enjoying entirely consensual sexual relationships and wanting to see one another again. At the time I was in those relationships, they seemed positive and happy on both sides. And I also realise, looking through them, years later, that I could have and should have done so much better. I was emotionally unavailable while being sexually available, self-focused and not as thoughtful as I could or should have been. I was obviously careless with people's hearts and feelings, and that's something that I really, deeply regret. It was selfish of me. I was caught up in my own story and I ignored other people's. I’ve spent some months now taking a long, hard look at who I have been and how I have made people feel.  Like most of us, I’m learning, and I'm trying to do the work needed, and I know that that's not an overnight process. I hope that with the help of good people, I'll continue to grow. I understand that not everyone will believe me or even care what I say but I’ll be doing the work anyway, for myself, my family and the people I love. I will be doing my very best to deserve their trust, as well as the trust of my readers. At the same time, as I reflect on my past – and as I re-review everything that actually happened as opposed to what is being alleged – I don't accept there was any abuse. To repeat, I have never engaged in non-consensual sexual activity with anyone. Some of the horrible stories now being told simply never happened, while others have been so distorted from what actually took place that they bear no relationship to reality. I am prepared to take responsibility for any missteps I made. I’m not willing to turn my back on the truth, and I can't accept being described as someone I am not, and cannot and will not admit to doing things I didn't do.

Dear Neil,

You, sir, are nothing other than fundamentally misunderstood — indicated in every sense by this, a smart and good post that you published on the whole-ass internet for literally the entire world to read.

The important thing is that you're learning! And you deserve infinite credit for that. Not nearly enough people appreciate how much you've learned about yourself in the course of ~ allegedly ~ committing sexual assault against multiple, probably crazy, women and the aftermath thereof. Less enlightened men would disregard the experiences of women who have highly specific and detailed accounts of being sexually abused, but you are open to the idea that the women who foolishly believe you assaulted them were simply mislead by your interminable charm! For which you cannot be held responsible! What a gift you are, friend; your generosity and open-mindedness are unparalleled.

Truly, whomst among us has not been where you find yourself now? Come, enjoy the company of friends who understand the brutal loneliness that results from being misunderstood by hysterical bitches who fail to appreciate the privilege of having your masterful fingers shoved up their asses without notice!

Again and again, women love men like you too much. They want you to be emotionally and sexually available! And that is just so, so much to ask. You have a lot going on! It's not a ding on them — of course they find you irresistible, being as you are an intellectual titan — and they may find themselves confused and intimidated by your sexual prowess, unaware that you exist in a world beyond pedestrian notions of consent. That is what makes your work so particularly meaningful and powerful.

You write about a man who does a bad thing, but you do the other good thing! You do a good thing, but in your work, a man does a bad thing! This is the stuff of sheer brilliance, capturing the sturm unt drang of the human condition — or, at least, of the humans whose conditions matter most, which is to say, men of your creative stature.

The sorry truth is that despite your best efforts, no one understands you, the author of 40-plus years of written work in which you had every fucking opportunity to emulate literally any character of your design who was not an unrepentant rapist. Whomst among us has not struggled with such quandaries? Whomst among us has not wondered: Should I rape women in the presence of my child, or should I just the fuck wait a minute and destroy my marriage by other means? Should I order a cinnamon bagel, or an egg sandwich? These are the questions men such as us must grapple with in a world where cancel culture has run rampant, and where people are liable to believe anything they hear from over half a dozen unbridled harpies (story idea! make sure Katee Robert doesn't see this, she seems like a bitch with designs) whose indeterminate fantasies have been aggressively fact-checked by risk-averse media legal departments.

You're right and everyone else is wrong, and that's exactly the take-away that everyone will have from reading this thing that you posted! Great work, great instincts, great writing. It's like Stardust, but hotter. You know what I mean.

A+ all around, no notes other than: you should share this with more people directly so they have the clearest possible idea of where you're coming from. Don't hold back, bud!

[szasfuckingwife]

Everybody Here Wants You

High school reunions are never fun. But you’ve been blessed to only reunite with the people you like. Nanami sits at the head of the table, Utahime sat next to you, Suguru sat on the other side and so did Shoko And opposite you? Gojo Satoru. It’s not really a reunion for you as just last night he was whispering sweet nothings in your ear whilst fucking you deep. His hands slithering all over your body as his lips press against your neck.

You hid the mark he gave you with your concealer but he knows. And the way he’s looking at you right now, with that bedroom stare, you can only imagine what he’s thinking.

And as he reach across the table for salt, he accidentally knocks your red wine all over your pants. The collective gasp earns a few stares from neighbouring tables. You look down, press your lips together and look up at Satoru’s (unapologetic) shocked grin.

“Oops..” He says.

Bastard.

Dinner quickly continues before a game of card roulette results in Nanami pays the bill for everyone. You all stand outside, the smell of tobacco from Shoko’s cigarette lingers in the air Unfortunately, the signal is acting up and your Uber app won’t load. “Fuck this, I’ll walk-”

Gojo scoffs, “I’ll drop you home. Least I could do after ruining your pretty dress.” No one else catches the wink he gives you. After saying some goodbyes, you sit in the passenger seat of Gojo’s Mercedes GLE as he drives you back to your apartment.

••

After he parked up outside the complex, Satoru swore he’d only walk you to the apartment door. But both of you knew better.

“So fuckinz’ messy..” He murmurs before focusing his tongue back on your clit. Your wine stained dress long discarded in the corridor and Satoru had you exactly how he wanted you : naked all for him.

Your freshly manicured fingers ran through his white hair as you moaned into open air. He knew exactly how to make you putty in his hands. “F-Fuckkk..!”, you moaned.

Satoru’s piercing cerulean eyes fixed its gaze on you, watching as he makes you buck into his mouth. He must love this.

Suddenly, the sensation stops and you are flipped on your stomach.nHe rubs his cock against your ass whilst you catch your breath.

“Everybody wanted you at that restaurant. I saw them staring…even Geto…” Satoru chuckles. “As they should…you’re too fucking sexy. Aren’t you? Nearly came when I saw you.”

He’s so vulgar. You hide your head in the pillow but Satoru is quick to hold your head up. He turns your head to the mirror, “See what Insee..? Hm..?”

You nod.

“Say you’re too pretty…go on..”

His words are met with silence, you’re testing him. “Say it or I’ll walk out right now..”

“Fuck, I’m pretty! Okay?!” You feel his breath hit your neck.

Satoru chuckles, “…No, no, no…I said too pretty. Say you’re too fucking pretty..”

“..I’m too-fffuckkkk..!” He thrusts inside you and pushes your back down to the bed. Satoru fucks like he’s got something to prove, and you love it. His hands grip your hips, watching your ass pound against his pelvis.

“…Pretty face, pretty pussy, pretty ass…” He whispers, “God, I can’t let this go..”

Being friends with Satoru has its perks!

(A/N: pray for me, fwb just told me his on his way. see yall in 9 months🤰🏾)

[anlian-aishang]

You had heard that he only got two to three hours of sleep per night, and as your overnights with him grew more and more frequent, then to the point of living together, you found that to be true, but misleading. Levi’s insomnia was indeed a persistent thief of his chances for a sound night of rest, but your relationship was his rehabilitation. 

tags: levi x reader, established relationship (spouses), fluff, ambiguverse, food mention, gn!reader word count: 4700

Spring mornings were now a household holiday. Whether it was a sunrise coffee together, a walk to the downtown bakery, or simply stepping outside to feel the warm air’s hug – no matter how varied the activity, the feeling was always the same. Never explicitly spoken, but mutually shared and understood, There was no better way to start the day.

One of those mornings, you couldn’t remember which exactly, you had ventured to the local library and each picked out a few books. When you got home, you set them on a window sill and murmured some vague suggestions as to when you might get to them. Who knows how long ago that was? Long enough to have collected dust atop the covers, to Levi’s discovery and dismay as he cleaned. “...Should probably get to these.”

That led you to where you were now, and where you had been for the last few mornings, each of you snared in your own cozy rope hammock. Close enough that you could catch glances of one another, but distanced such that you had to raise your voice a little to be clearly understood. You were putting the final touches on your latest sketch, Levi was reading one of the loans - the dark, dense novel that you had abandoned a couple weeks ago. You were absorbed by details. He was deep into the plot. The singsong of returning birds and the buzzing of awakening bugs, nature filled the silence between you.  

You were not sure how much time had passed, but you knew it must have been a decent while. The side of your hand had grown dark from all the back and forths along your sketchpad. The eraser you started with was hardly a nub now. The sun must have started to shine since, its warmth tinting Levi’s cheeks ever so slightly.

You sheathed your pencil through the loops of your sketchbook, at last satisfied with the final result. With one final look, you affirmed yourself and shot your glance to Levi, eager to flip the page around and show him your latest masterpiece. However, when you caught sight of him, you froze. Despite parted lips, the words stuck in your throat. Suddenly, your work of art seemed to lose its appeal. The greyscale of graphite was remarkably dull when it was the foreground to Levi Ackerman. His ivory skin had adopted a tan shade, overcast by a canopy of leaves. His jet black hair was somehow glowing, the sun’s spotlight haloing his head. Light winds sifted through his bangs and the wrinkles of his cotton half-sleeve, the pollen it carried causing him to lift his wrist to his nose now and then. The pastel aura of spring, brought about by budding flowers or perhaps rose-colored lenses, showed a side of him that few would see. Instead of shadows coating his rigid features, pure light showcased his best ones.

Without thought, you swung your legs over the side of your cot and left the sketchbook in your place. For those few steps from your hammock to his, you felt at one with the birds and the bees: light as a feather, warm and fuzzy all over, like you were flying to nectar after waiting all winter.

Together this long, you did not let your clumsy flop next to him embarrass you at all, and Levi was likewise unbothered by it. Your cheek was in soft opposition to his chiseled collarbone, as he looked down to you, his eyes aligned with the contact: gentle, yet steely.

“Weren’t you the one who insisted on buying two?” Feigned annoyance was offset by his movements, guiding his arm around your shoulders and pulling you to his side.

With your head soundly on his chest, you looked up to him, “They were on sale!”

His response was silent, but you could feel the brief exhale of his lungs, a tickled sigh.

Right side now preoccupied with securing his bunkmate, Levi propped his hardcover in his left arm, fingers folded over the top border, the crook of his elbow aligned straight with the book’s spine. Gradually, absentmindedly, the angle of the prose began to tip as his muscles relaxed. His head would tilt to accommodate and grant his eyes the appropriate angle. This cause and effect went on and on, and before either of you knew it, his head was completely laid on his shoulder, the book had drifted closed, and he had dozed off. 

It took you a while to notice. The rise and fall of his chest was as steady as it always had been. Awake or asleep, he was equally unbothered by any environment, calm in every storm. 

Storm? You lifted your head slightly, gently, so as not to disturb his rest, and looked to the west. The heavenly clouds were growing corrupted by the showers that would satiate the earth, but not without cost. You figured that the weather was far enough that you could afford to wake him gradually, he woke up with startle often enough. 

You draped your arm over his torso, hand cupped his shoulder, thumb at the crook of his neck. This all seemed to have the opposite effect, as you felt your insides awakening while he remained fast asleep. Through light and airy fabric, the chisel of his body was impossible to ignore. His chest was so symmetrically divided, his abdomen so mirrored, row after row of muscles. Your fingers acted on their own desire, tracing his middle from neck to waistline. If you pressed hard enough, you would feel the slightest damp of sweat, momentarily sticking his clothing to his skin. The times that he shifted or breathed somewhat sharply, you instantly snapped your hand back. It was as if you had forgotten what you were doing in the first place. Though your intent was to stir him awake, your nerves felt the opposite, as though you were trying not to get caught, stealing from the cookie jar or sneaking around past midnight. 

In the end, despite your efforts, you could not claim the credit for waking him successfully. Just a stone’s throw away, a low thunder roared and shook the ground beneath you. With the smallest twitch, Levi flinched awake. Always quick to recognize a situation, even faster to act on it, he flipped you both out of the bed, grabbed you by the hand, and ran you both inside. A handful of minutes later, just before the downfall, he returned to the yard, sprinting in bare feet, to grab the sketchbook you had long forgotten about. 

Summer afternoons outdoors together. While you planted flowers, he did the rest: pulling weeds, trimming the hedges, and sweeping the deck. Even with the long list of tasks he gave himself, your hours of gardening outnumbered his hours of handling everything else. It irritated him slightly, the idea of idling around while you were working hard - perched on sore knees, covered in dirt - he’d have to bathe you later. 

“Just let me help you.”

Stern voice rained down, his short stature cast a long shadow over your kneeling stance. As with everything, Levi chose to be deliberate, standing in a way that allowed him to shield your eyes from the glaring sun. 

With your soil-caked glove, you nudged him back. Levi clenched his teeth as your handprint stain soaked through his linen. Mud cool on his shin. “No thanks,” you smiled in earnest, “I’ve got this.”

Levi used the back of his hand to wipe a strand of hair from your eyes, he sighed with the recognition that it had been glued to your face in sweat. “I know you can do it, but you know it could be done faster.”

You tilted your head and countered, “Why would I want to be done faster? I’m in my happy place.”

Levi pinched his brows in doubt, it was hard to believe that something so laborious and filthy could be enjoyable. Although, he supposed the same could be said about him. Every week, he did the dirty work - scraping the gaps between tiles, scrubbing the floor on his hands and knees, dusting the spaces you forgot existed.

“Any other housework you’d like done?” Levi already knew the answer, for he had completed every other chore, aiming to finish at the same time as you, but despite his most thorough efforts, you were still working and refusing his help.

You turned, looking as though a lost thought had dawned on you, “Oh, actually, there is one thing you could do…” your smile opposed your words, “leave me alone.”

Levi’s eyes widened, “What was that, brat?”

“Oh, come on…” you teased and shoved him back even further, “Relax. It’s the weekend. You’re so high strung.”

Everyone seemed to label him that way, but your opinion was the only one he trusted and the only one he cared about. How long had he prioritized your happiness? At least all of today so far. Seeking confirmation, he met your eye contact, in which you communicated clearly: Thanks, but I’m fine, your job is to look after yourself, too.

“Well,” Levi opened his hip and started back towards the porch, “don’t hesitate to get me when you change your mind.”

“If.”

With his back to you, he rolled his eyes. Meanwhile, you did your best to silence your giggles with a bite of your lip. Who was really the brat here?

His gaze landed on your outdoor set, the one he had bought and assembled for you, but never used himself. Levi grazed his fingers along the armrests then pressed his palm against the cushion, Not bad. Inch by hesitant inch, he finally allowed himself to take a seat. Though he was pleased with the feel of the furniture itself, it also seemed as though each of his nerves was stinging, irritated at the sight of you working while he sat in the shade. Levi closed his eyes and took three deep breaths, and when he opened them, refreshed lenses viewed the scene differently. 

If Levi could tell his younger self that his life would turn out like this, well, he wasn’t even sure how that kid would’ve reacted, probably something like “fuck off” or “yeah, right.” Owning a home that overlooked acres, cabinets full of food, and a loving spouse to share it all with. Reflecting on all the aspects of his life that had made the 180 from dire to perfect, he had to gaze upon you to convince himself that this was real. In each passing second, his situation became more believable. The life beyond his wildest dreams - those in which he was warm, safe, and housed - had come into reach and landed in his grip. All thanks to you. 

A tired yet contented sigh fell past his lips, and despite the considerable space between his chair and your garden, you caught the lovely sound. Over your shoulder, you glanced back at him. Your worn sunhat and the willow’s leaves hid most of your figure, but with a narrow squint and dilated pupils, your playful wave and toothy smile shined through. His chest fell with a single huff, what you considered his chuckle, maybe you were right - he had been high strung lately. Wind carried the songs of swallows. White clouds blocked the harsh sun. A bit hot, but that was fixed with the unbuttoning of his shirt and the removal of his shoes. By undressing, the breeze complemented the perspiration that enveloped his chest and arms, beckoning another satisfied exhale. Just like that, there was nothing to be upset about, nothing on his mind, the most important condition for his chance at rest. 

The elbow cuff of his sleeve served as a cushion to the armrest. Cheekbone rested on the base of his hand. Wooden chair his frame, its canvas coating his mattress. Summer heat his blanket, overworked hand his pillow. Good enough, but he had already drifted off before that crossed his mind. 

Fall evenings in your ranch home. Apples from the orchard. Cider from the market. The hue of candle flames matched those of the sunset sky and leafy ground. Stew simmered on your gas-fueled range, ready for whenever one or both of you craved it. Wind whistled through your chimes, decaying tree branches cracked under its pressure.

Levi brewed the accompanying tea while you dashed the finishing spices into the soup. Fall was in the air - its cool temperatures, its cinnamon scent. Your home was illuminated in an unsourced golden glow. As the steam rose from the mugs, Levi tossed you a side glance and his trademark sliver of a smile. His happiness always incited yours, you thanked him with a wide grin. Wordlessly, you communicated the shared thought, What a perfect evening. 

Well, as long as the dinner tastes good. 

You clenched your teeth and cringed as you shuffled to the table. Mitted hands carried the cauldron, your latest concoction. “It’s a new recipe, it might not be good… I was kind of eyeballing -”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.” Levi reassured you, then caught himself, “You made dinner, I’ll never complain about that.”

“I dunno, I’d try it first before making that promise.”

And no, it’s not perfect, but it’s also your first try. Levi was not much of a liar, so he did not pretend it was the best thing he'd ever eaten, but his reaction was much more muted than yours.

“What the -?! This tastes terrible!! It tastes flat-out wrong!”

Yeah, he had to agree with you, but he did not have to voice it. Instead, his silver eyes drifted to the countertop, and at the sight, he tucked his teeth beneath his lip, “How many cloves of garlic did it ask for?”

“Just two!”

“Did you count cloves,” Levi’s voice dampened a little, a tone he mostly used with his subordinates, “Or heads?”

Fuck. That made sense, too much sense. You tried to convince yourself more than him, “No…”

Levi placed his palms on the table and pushed himself up from his seat. Fists clenched at his sides as he sauntered over to the trash can, finding the pile of food scraps smothered by flaky white paper. With his lips pursed, his trademark sigh was forced out through the nose. Calmly, he placed the lid back on the bin and swung open the doors of your pantry, fridge, and sliding glass door. From the cabinets, he found bread and buns and tucked them under his arm. From the fridge, a seasonal maple sausage and fresh figs. Then, he headed outside.

“What are you doing?”

Levi turned back, the look on his face said What do you think I’m doing? Instead, he opted for, “Plan B.”

When the puzzled expression on your face refused to fade, he tilted his head and offered, “Look, I know it’s not gourmet or anything. This was something I used to make as a kid. Didn’t require much.” He dipped his gaze to the floor and toed into his slide-on shoes, “I think you’ll like it enough.”

Your confusion turned to elation when you realized what he was doing, fixing your mistakes, as you so often did for each other. With a bright grin, you flung yourself up from the table and looped your arms over his shoulders and around his neck, leaning in -

“Ah ah ah,” Levi put his fingertips to your lips, “you reek of garlic.”

“We reek of garlic.”

He flashed you a slight smile before setting off towards his outdoor kitchen. “Grab two sweatshirts. Meet me back there.”

Sat on the stone benches around your fire pit, Levi had skewered two sausages and readied two buns. By the time you arrived, the links were almost cooked through. It was minute, somewhat silly, but you felt an odd admiration as you watched him plate the meal, unafraid of the fresh-off-the-fire temperatures. Moving swiftly and confidently, as though he had done this tricky maneuver a million times before.

“Almost done,” his gaze kept on his lap, his ingredients, as he spoke to you, “these’ll just take another minute.”

From the side of his hip, he flicked his knife from the small leather pouch. Suddenly, his nerves singed, causing a shudder to run up his shoulders - a shudder you attributed to the cool autumn night but was actually summoned by a long distanced instinct. Not in danger, just slicing figs. 

A slice of bread, some sticky fruit, and another slice of bread: a sandwich that was itself sandwiched by two metal clamps. Wordlessly, he held both makeshift desserts over the campfire, elbows rested on perched knees, moving minimally.

You could feel yourself salivating, and who could blame you? In your eyes, a perfect man making a meal for you, allowing you to relax and enjoy the view. The night’s clear sky allowed the stars to illuminate his skin. The light of the campfire both highlighted and shadowed his best features - the blue of his eyes, his sharp and angular cheekbones. Your earlier mishap had completely vanished, for if you had made such a huge mistake, how could you have wound up in such a flawless scene? 

As the minutes went by, and as your stomach rumbles grew increasingly louder, however, your gratitude for his cooking regrettably began to waver. Levi grazed the pies along the tips of the flames. This would take forever, and you were starving. “Here, let me help!”

His lips parted in instinctual dissent, but before he could object, you had already snatched one of the tools from him and stuck it in the heart of the fire. Needless to say, Levi ate your burnt pie. You enjoyed his immaculate one.

After the first few bites, he shot you a glance. Lifting an eyebrow, a silent ask for critique. You swallowed, “It’s really… simple.” For a moment, Levi bit the inside of his cheek until you continued, “And tastes really good.” You nudged his bicep with your elbow, “Why didn’t you make this for me earlier!?”

The truth was, after moving out of the slums, he figured that he never would have to cook these things again. Now, here he was, serving it to his spouse who was already asking for seconds. Funny how something that had symbolized such hardship for him was soldering into a fond memory with you.

That night was one of the first that he could fall asleep in peace. Usually, as he closed his eyes, traumatic moments of his past would snatch him from the brink. This time, though, it wasn't the bad times that visited him, but the better ones from his youth. The fresh scent that filled his room after his mom washed his linens. Sneaking out late with friends, being up to no good. Finally, he fell asleep with the taste of campfire desserts on his tongue, and you in his arms.

Winter nights were unexpectedly bright. The fresh, sparkling slate of snow combined with outdoor lights to replace the early setting sun. It was not quite the same light, but it was as if the earth was making the most of what it had. If the days were to be shorter, the nights would be kind to you. 

Just outside your home, technically a few yards away, a harsh blizzard was making its presence known. Trees bent at its will. Its vicious gusts caused white sprinkles to flee from the top layer of snow. Pounding ice and whistling winds attacked your windows. Outdoors, there was a war, but here - inside and together - you had never felt safer. 

The most you felt was just a slight draft, but you had a million ways to deal with that. You crossed your arms across your chest, blanket bundled in your hands, wrapping yourself tight in your sofa nest. On the braided rug, Levi stretched his legs - clothed in fleece - closer to the fireplace and caressed his warm ceramic mug. Black tea, as always. At this time of year, it was the best season to pair his tea with a dessert. Gingerbread and sugar cookies - your annual tradition. Come early afternoon, you two had spent a long time baking, but spent even more time cleaning up the mess it had made. That you had made. 

The food fight started with one party not knowing that it had started. A jar of all-purpose flour was tucked in the crook of his arm, a measuring cup in hand. He gathered the flour carefully, using the brim to flatten the scoop, but his pour was not nearly as delicate. Levi flung the ingredients into the mixing bowl as if he was in a cooking competition and the last minute was approaching. 

At first, it appeared somewhat magnificent, artful even. There was something satisfying about watching Levi work the kitchen. When he smacked his hands together, clapping them clean, you admired the tiny particles that dissolved in air. Simple ingredients somehow combined to create complexity: a familiar scent and a feeling of comfort. 

That was all just icing on the cake. What you honed in on was the calloused way Levi cupped his arm to roll up his sleeves, the steep flex of his forearm as he stirred the batter, knuckles white around the wooden spoon. Once everything was incorporated, he pressed the dough to the countertop, which he had of course covered with flour beforehand, and began to knead it. Veins rose, tendons stood as he forced the dough into shape. The objective was a perfect sphere, one that would ensure that each cookie had uniform thickness. Nothing raw. Nothing burnt. 

Looking down at his work, his brows lowered, eyes narrowed, more flour. This time, he grabbed a random spoon that happened to be in reach, and used it to add a likewise random amount of flour to the dough. 

A bit of wafted flour had gotten stuck in your throat, causing you to cough a couple times. You tried to clear your throat, take a sip of water, but only after a lengthy coughing fit were you able to breathe without struggle. Bent at the waist, hand clutching the countertop, eyes brimming with tears, it wasn’t pretty. Past the blur, you caught sight of your husband, and were shocked to see his lack of shock. In fact, it appeared he had not even shot you a glance, seeming to care about the baking more than the baker. 

“Ahem!!” 

Still, he showed no compassion, it was as if he did not even hear you. With your hand on your hip, you thought of one surefire way to get his attention. You poured some sprinkles into your palm, pinched them in your fingertips, and showered them on his head. Most fell straight to the floor, some went down his shirt, and one tiny snowflake managed to stick on him like a crown. Annoyed before, but you were laughing now. 

His voice was low and quiet. “You don’t want to start this with me.”

“You started it!”

At last, he afforded you his gaze, though it was more concerning than concerned. Over his shoulder, a side eye colder than the negative temperatures. Also over his shoulder, a fistful of powdered sugar that hit you head-on. Levi choked down his amusement at the ripple effect it painted on your face.

Despite his efforts to stifle, you still picked up on his inner delight. At this point in the relationship, you had too much intel for that. You used your hand to wipe your face clean, but then cleaned your hand by having it slide down his apron. 

Then was an exchange that could not translate to spoken form, a silent conversation that you had engaged in on a few notable occasions. 

Did you really just do that?

Yeah, you tilted your head, and I have no regrets.

Levi knit his brows and flashed a devious smirk. I’ll make you regret it.

Caramel sauce, honey, and syrup - you were one of - now two - people on earth who could rank them in order of stickiness. Mini chocolate chips made good explosions. Whipped cream cans could shoot further than expected. The textures of custard and condensed milk could take a battle to the next level. And no matter how hard you threw a marshmallow -

“Hey!” Levi’s determination dimmed to seriousness. “Knock it off! We need those!”

Again, a conversation that was best had silent. The perfect offense in hand, you offered him a puppy dog look. Levi clenched his teeth, affirming his command, but his palm lowered slightly. You flicked one more marshmallow at him, and this time, he did not retaliate, instead offering a ceasefire with a sequence of plain blinks. 

You tiptoed as you approached him, ensuring there was no surprise attack coming. Finally, the truce was solidified by your touch, not the traditional handshake, but a warm washcloth to his neck, its damp fresh from the faucet. Your contact was deliberately gentle as you wiped him clean.

Back then, from behind your cover, the dining room table, you were unable to see how much damage you had really done. This close, the casualties appeared one after the other. Bangs that were typically combed straight had become glued together with various confections. Beneath them, sprinkles shaped like trees and candy canes stuck to his forehead. Comedically timed in your eyes, though he was not laughing, a puff of whipped cream fell from his chin and onto the towel you were trying to clean him with.

It was then that you broke, laughing and blurting out, “You look ridiculous.”

“Tch…” Levi scowled, “and whose fault is that?”

For this aftermath, there was only one solution: your corner bathtub and his mop bucket. Hours later, you united in your living room, two entities at total peace. Perhaps that was a reason for his tire. Normally, Levi would not feel the effects of being on his hands and knees, scrubbing for hours, but the season’s premature sunset made the early evening feel like midnight. You were cozy with blankets, enveloped in the plot of the latest fiction. It was difficult not to sympathize, to find anything less than perfect in this moment.

Levi propped himself up with a grunt and gazed towards the kitchen. Your sugar cookies had 5 more minutes, but then they’d have to cool. Then, you’d have to frost them. Then, you’d have to get the gingerbread in, wait for that to cool, and -” 

Levi could feel himself nodding off, eyelids even heavier than usual. Energy dwindling, he strained to meet your eye contact. His tired, crackled whisper spoke to you, “You’ll let me know when they’re done, right?”

Definitely not. “Yeah!” With how hard it was for Levi to find sleep, there was no way you were going to wake him up just to take cookies out of the oven. “Just rest for now, I’ll let you know when they’re done.”

But he was already out by then, and the direction of the night was yours. You were deep into the novel, just a hundred pages left. It was the tangent of the plot’s climax and the winding down of the story, the gravitational pull to finish it tonight. A howl of wind, a tick of the timer, and the start of new chapters, they nudged you back to reality just enough. You were always relieved and content to find Levi sound asleep on the carpet. As the night went on, you had gradually set pillows and blankets at his side until he was surrounded. When he eventually stood, there would be a Levi-shaped outline on the rug, you bit your lip and chuckled to yourself.

There would also be an imprint of you on the couch once you were done with your book. There was no reason to get up, and you could not have imagined a better scene. Outside, snowflakes continued to pile on one another, finally able to settle at the blizzard's mercy. Levi’s inhales and exhales made a subtle harmony to the sporadic fireplace crackle. The smell of cinnamon was gradually fading, melting into a scent that was familiar. Too familiar?

You threw your book down and ran to the kitchen. The sweet aura was gone, replaced by grey fog and smoky fumes. Peering into the oven, you should have been grateful that there were no flames, but you were too overwhelmed by the dreadful sight of burnt discs. The white delicacies you molded should have looked like snowmen. Instead, they looked like the coals in your fireplace, the fireplace he was sleeping next to now.

You’d just have to make more tomorrow.

// masterlist //

[yuyusbabygirl]

hii, could i put a request in for sub!mingi being edged by reader's ass ? like it starts out by just grinding his cock between reader's cheeks and then it becomes fucking reader's ass and reader stops/slows whenever mingi gets close

thank youu in advance

Slow Down (18+)

pairing: sub!Mingi x fem!reader

genre: smut

word count: 1.9k

content warnings: SMUT MINORS DNI 18+, sub!mingi, mommy!reader, dry humping, anal, orgasm denial (male), praise kink, generally sweet, Mingi loves reader's ass, spit

author's note: thank you so much for requesting this. this is my first time writing male sub so I hope you like it. Not proofread.

The movie playing in the background was long forgotten as you sat on Mingi’s lap. His hands were running up and down your thighs as you two talked about your day. Your fingers were playing with the hairs on the back of his neck while you told him a story about your coworker.

“I mean, she could have at least thanked me. I didn't have to do the reports for her but she was whining about not being able to because of her children. But does she say thank you? No. And now I fear she'll see it as a given that I'll do her work for her if she plays the family card. Anyway, how was your shift? Is that one guy still sick?” you asked him.

Mingi tried to focus on your question but you talked very animatedly, especially when you were venting, and the wiggle of your ass on his crotch was making him a bit dazed. He looks up into your eyes as he remembers your question.

“No, he's back again but I think he'll quit soon. In the break I saw him on his phone looking for jobs. Can't blame him, the new manager is a bit of a pain,” his voice was a bit hoarse as he told you about his work day. His fingers tightened on your thighs as he felt you rest more of your weight on him. 

You noticed him getting distracted and judging by the building hardness pressing into your ass, you could tell catching up was done. His breathing caught a bit as you shifted your hips forward. 

“Why is your manager a pain?” you asked him, wanting him to keep talking while you moved on his lap.

“Uh… he w-wants everyone to hand in a time sheet every week, detailing o-our work load…” he stuttered a bit as you started grinding down on him, not enough to give him any actual friction. He knew better than to grip your hips and move you himself. Especially if he wanted to cum today.

“That doesn't sound very fair,” you murmured. You stood up and removed your shorts before sitting back down on his lap. You relished in the gasp he let out, how his hands flexed as he resumed his grip on your thighs. You ran a hand over his shoulder as praise for holding back. “What else does he do?” you ask him, keeping your voice light.

Mingi swallowed and moistened his lips. 

“H-he doesn't really care about the employees, he j-just sees the numbers and it's affecting the mood in the office. He a-also yelled at Janice two days ago about her desk,” he managed to stutter out as you moved your ass over his now completely hard cock. He wanted to beg you to give him more but he knew that would only result in the opposite.

“What was wrong with Janice's desk?” you questioned, the movements of your hips still slow while your hands ran over his shoulders and arms.

“She- fuck,” he whimpered as you suddenly reached between you and took his hard cock out of his sweatpants. You positioned him between your ass cheeks.

“Keep talking,” your voice sweet but the underlying command was clear. Talk or you stop.

Mingi took a deep breath but couldn't stop the slight twitch of his hips as he felt his cock between your ass. Your ass was probably his favourite body part of you. He could spend hours grabbing it, playing with it and seeing it jiggle. His favourite way to eat you out was from the back.

“Janice likes to collect little– shit– little knick knacks and she arranges them on her desk. No one minds, she's g-good at her job. And she's very sweet but the new manager sees it as a distraction, says she shouldn't waste office space on worthless crap. No one liked– ah– how he talked to her. She is very motherly, especially to the newer employees so I guess everyone took it personally. Fuck. Uh, but I don't think he'll make it long,” he managed to get through his story fairly well so you rewarded him by speeding up your grinding. 

You could feel his precum leaking from the tip of his cock and it mixed with your own arousal. You loved it when he was so good for you. Your big boyfriend being putty underneath you. 

“Why not?” you asked.

He let his head tip back for a second and whimpered. His cock was hard and aching. At this moment he didn't give a shit about work, he just wanted you to fuck him.

“Because our office is not getting any more efficient. If anything it's taken a bit of a hit. I think it won't be long before someone higher up will realise the– oh fuck– reason behind it. Just what happens when you take the– shit, please,” he couldn't finish his sentence because you suddenly spit on your hand and rubbed it over his cock.

“Finish your sentence.”

He whined but did as you commanded.

“It's just what happens when you take the personal aspect out of a workplace,” he gasped out.

“Good boy. Spit,” you held out your hand in front of his mouth. A wad of spit landed on your hand and you used it to rub your asshole, dipping your finger inside to prepare yourself for his cock. His gaze dropped between you and he bit his lip as he watched you finger your ass. 

“Tell me what you want, pretty boy,” you whispered in his ear.

“Please, can you fuck me? I want your ass, please. I'll be good,” he begged you. Finally he had permission to beg and he always begged you so sweetly.

“Anything for my pretty boy,” you praised him and grabbed his cock. You rubbed him against your pussy to lube him up a bit more. You looked into his eyes as you slowly positioned him at your asshole.

“Keep looking at me, baby,” you murmured, your other hand caressing his cheek. You smiled as he nodded obediently. You rewarded him by sinking down on him, inch by inch until your ass touched his thighs. The whimper he let out made your pussy leak onto him. You gripped his hair and pulled his head back. You licked a stripe up his throat until you reached his ear.

“You're so good for me, aren't you?” you whispered in his ear. His hand gripped your ass as his he nodded his head vigorously.

“Yes,” he whined. You gave a warning tug on his hair. 

“Yes, mommy,” he moaned out. 

“Good boy,” you bit his earlobe and straightened back up. You raised your hips up before dropping back down.

“Do you want mommy to fuck you, pretty boy?” you taunted him, your hips moving in circles.

“Please, mommy. Please fuck me,” his voice broke as he begged you.

“Shh, baby. Mommy's got you,” you caressed his cheek, swiping your thumb over his lip. You started to move up and down on his length, his big round eyes looking up at you with such a pathetic expression you couldn't help but clench around him. 

His hands desperately held onto your ass as he felt your tight ass around his hard cock. It had been a while since you let him into your ass and he savoured every minute. 

“How does it feel, baby?” you ran your hand over his chest as you sped up your hips.

“Feels so so good. I love it. Please don't stop,” he whimpered, his eyes glazed over. 

“I know. You're so hard, baby. Is this all because of me?” you teased him. Your hips started gyrating, making his hands tighten around your ass.

“Yes, yes, it's because of you. Always you. You feel so good, fuck, please.”

You started bouncing on him, his hard cock in your ass making you a bit unfocused yourself. You felt the tell-tale twitches of his hips bucking up into you and his breathing got heavier. You started to speed up only to stop right when he was about to cum. He whined and looked up at you. His impending climax started to recede.

“Aww, were you close, pretty boy?” you chuckled at how his lip quivered. He nodded desperately. You waited until his breathing had evened out before you started moving your hips again. You moved up and down, slowly building momentum. Your head tilted back and Mingi used the opportunity to kiss your throat. Your hand went to his hair, holding him to you. 

“Don't cum until I say so,” you demanded. He whined against your neck.

“Yes, mommy,” he choked out. His tongue continued to lap at your neck. You stopped all movement. He shuddered and held onto you. His head dropped to your shoulder. He was so desperate to cum, he wanted to beg and plead. 

“You're being so good, baby,” you praised him and he smiled against your shoulder. You took another moment to stroke his hair and started to move up and down again. You could feel him shaking beneath you, pulling you tighter against him. You moved your face to his neck and started sucking on his earlobe. His ear was sensitive and you knew that. You used it to your advantage quite frequently. His hips bucked up and you dug your nails into his shoulder to remind him who's in charge. You pulled your head back to look at him, his face flushed and his eyes glassy. You couldn't hold back your smirk as you looked at your boyfriend reduced to a whiny mess just by being in your ass. 

“Make mommy cum, baby,” you commanded him and he obediently slipped his hand between you. His fingers immediately found your clit, expertly flicking against it. You moaned out his name and he felt his chest swell up with pride. He loved making you feel good. 

“That's it, baby. Just a bit more,” you moaned out, your eyes never leaving his. The movement of your hips got slower but more intense. You were seconds away from cumming and you knew your release would trigger his. He was weak for you like that. 

“Make mommy cum and then you can cum, pretty boy,” you moaned. Your hips stuttered but he moved his fingers over your clit to make up for it. He wanted to see you cum. Not just because his own orgasm depended on it but because making his mommy cum was his favourite way to show you he loved you. With a few more movements of your hips and a particularly hard stroke of your clit, you came. Your asshole clenched around him, your pussy dripping onto his lap. As soon as he heard your finishing moan he spilled into your ass. His hips bucked up and his hand clutched at your ass. He twitched a few times and dropped his head to your shoulder. You both tried to catch your breath as you stroked his hair.

“That's my good boy. You did so good,” you praised him, your own voice still breathless. He pulled back from your shoulder and pressed a sweet kiss to your lips. You both giggled as you looked at each other. 

“Your new manager sounds like an ass,” you joked and he let out a breathless laugh. He held you to his chest and breathed in your scent. 

This was definitely his favourite way to talk about his day.

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

the right wrong number

pairing: pre/no outbreak!joel miller x soccer coach!female reader

rating: explicit (18+ MDNI)

word count: 6k

summary:

When Joel receives a dirty text from an unknown number, he gives into his curiosity and messages back.

He doesn’t expect the number to belong to his daughter’s summer camp soccer coach.

dear reader:

this work is a request and a birthday gift for my sweet baby @mydailyhyperfixations , who’s been one of my biggest supporters since i started posting my work on tumblr. ily, and i hope you love the fic! special thanks to @cutesyscreenname for helping me with some lil details to finish this surprise. support and mdni banners by @saradika

content warnings:

explicit sexual content (18+ MDNI), age difference (undefined, but references are made), pre/no outbreak!joel miller, identity porn, wrong number au, sexting, dom/sub dynamics, use of ‘sir’, pet names, praise, thigh riding, semi-public sexual activity, spanking, safe word discussion, dirty talk, p in v. let me know if i’ve missed any!

Unknown Number: I had a really good time at dinner tonight!

Joel stares at his phone in confusion. It’s past midnight and he’s been sitting on the couch nursing a beer and watching Indiana Jones. He’s been in the same spot since Sarah went to bed a couple hours ago. His phone beeps again.

Unknown Number: It’s too bad we didn’t have time to visit Noir.

Joel raises his eyebrows. Noir is a bar in downtown Austin known for its calendar of speciality kink events. He’s seen it come up in his Google searches of local bars and had considered going to an event or two but never worked up the courage. His kinks remain between him and his porn search history.

Unknown Number: Wanna see what you missed out on?

[Photo 01.jpg]

Curiosity gets the better of him and he clicks on the image attachment. He nearly drops his phone when a photo of a woman fills his screen, sweet curves hugged by black lace on white sheets. He should absolutely tell her that she has the wrong number. His fingers type across the screen.

Damn, seems a shame something that gorgeous is going to waste.

Unknown Number: Who says it has to go to waste?

Joel swallows nervously. He’s already hard in his jeans, cock pressing urgently against his pants. He palms himself, trying to collect his thoughts.

Unknown Number: I’m feeling a little needy over here.

[Photo 02.jpg]

Against his better judgment, Joel opens the second photo and has to bite back a groan at the image of the woman’s hand slipped beneath the waistband of the panties, fingers hidden from sight behind lace and silk.

You want me to tell you how to play with that pretty pussy?

Joel squeezes his eyes shut as he presses send. This is a colossally stupid idea. This is a stranger, and he’s not the intended recipient of these messages.

Unknown Number: I’d really like that, sir.

Fuck it, Joel thinks. In for a penny, in for a pound.

Start by circling those fingers over your clit. Nice and slow.

And when you feel like you could cum, I want you to go even slower.

Unknown Number: It’s too slow. I want more.

Be patient, baby. And aren’t you forgetting something?

Unknown Number: Sorry. I want more, SIR.

Joel presses a hand to the bulge in his jeans, the pressure offering little relief.

Now don’t start being a brat, sweetheart. You won’t like the result.

Unknown Number: Oh yeah? What would you even do?

I’d love nothing more than to bend you over the edge of the bed, ass ready to be spanked red.

Unknown Number: Fuck, that would feel so good. Bet your hands would feel amazing marking me up.

You still being a good girl and following my instructions?

Unknown Number: I think I forgot. Could you remind me, sir?

You’ll have to ask more nicely than that.

Unknown Number: Could you *please* remind me, sir?

Joel runs a hand over his beard before reaching for the forgotten beer on the coffee table and taking a swig.

You’re supposed to be teasing yourself for me. Nice and slow.

I want you to pinch your nipples until they’re nice and tight, too.

Unknown Number: Like this?

[Photo 03.jpg]

Joel bites his lip as he opens the third photo. You’ve got your bra pulled down to expose your nipples, hard and perfect and begging for his mouth. He unbuttons his jeans, tossing his phone on the couch only long enough to shimmy the denim down his thighs and free his leaking cock.

Just like that, baby. Such a good girl for me.

Unknown Number: Are you touching yourself, too, sir?

Of course I am, baby.

Unknown Number: Can I see, sir? Please?

Joel’s hand falters as alarm bells blare in his head. He should absolutely not open his camera. And he should definitely not find the perfect angle that doesn’t show his face. And he certainly should not grip his cock around the base, holding it steady as the shutter sounds and a new photo is saved to his camera roll.

No. He shouldn’t do any of that.

[Photo 04.jpg]

Unknown Number: God, your cock would feel so good in me right now.

Joel’s right hand moves at a steady pace up and down his length, left hand fumbling to type a reply.

Why don’t you fuck your little fingers and pretend it’s me, then?

Unknown Number: Won’t fill me up nearly as much, sir.

Be a good girl and follow my directions, baby.

Unknown Number: [Photo 05.jpg]

He opens the photo and his cock pulses in his fist. She has her underwear shoved to the side, two fingers plunged into her glistening pussy. His mind reels with an image of this faceless woman writhing on the bed reading his words, thinking about his cock stretching her open and he has to bite his lip to just keep the responding moan trapped in his throat.

Unknown Number: Can I cum, sir? Please?

Since you asked so nicely, yes. Make yourself cum for me, sweetheart.

Joel sets the phone aside on the couch, closing his eyes as he pumps himself with a tight fist while he imagines your desperate pussy clenching around your fingers. He cups his palm over the head of his cock as his release hits him like a freight train, hips flexing from the couch to chase the lingering sensations of ecstasy from his hand.

He stands, pulling his pants up without bothering to fasten them so that he can wash his hands in the kitchen sink. Guilt settles on his shoulders as he dries his hands with the dish towel while he stares at the couch where his phone is lit up with another message from a stranger he had no business seeing that much of.

He approaches the couch and sits with a sigh, running a hand over his face before picking his phone up to read her message:

Unknown Number: Easily my best orgasm. Hope it was for you, too. Don’t be a stranger xx

Feeling like an asshole, Joel deletes the thread and the wrong number for good, but it’s fine.

It’s not like he’ll ever meet her, anyways.

——————

You’re on the phone with your best friend, telling her about how the last guy you went out with about a week ago, a guy named Jeremy you met on a dating app, still hasn’t reached out to you again despite what you’d thought was a successful date.

“So he just never reached out to you after you sexted him all night?” She asks. “Men are so weird.”

You cradle the phone between your ear and shoulder as you zip up your duffel bag of equipment. It’s the beginning of June and the summer soccer intensive camp for junior league starts today. You’ve got a full registration for the girl’s 13-15 division and you’re excited to get back on the field and help these girls do their best in a sport you love.

“Nope. Maybe I came on too strong? I don’t know,” you reply.

“You did come strongly. At least, that’s what you told me,” she says with a laugh. “Well, that’s too bad. Maybe you’ll meet a hot dad coaching this year.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m not fucking someone’s dad.”

“Never say never, babe.”

“I gotta go find my damn cleats. I’ll talk to you later,” you tell her.

“Fine, I expect a full run down of every DILF you meet today.”

You hang up as she laughs, tossing your phone into your personal bag that you keep separate from the gear before you go in search of your cleats from your room.

——————

Joel and an over-excited Sarah sit in the parking lot of the soccer field that her summer camp is being conducted at, ridiculously early at Sarah’s insistence because she didn’t want to be late on the first day. They’re the only car in the parking lot so far, having apparently beat even the coach, and Joel sips at his travel mug of coffee in the hopes that it grants him energy.

Another car pulls up and parks beside his truck, loud music blaring from the open window. Sarah waves excitedly.

“That’s the coach,” she explains.

Joel watches you get out of your car and pop the trunk. You start pulling out bags of soccer balls and stacks of orange cones, bags of agility equipment and strength training aids. He opens the door to his truck and jogs over.

“Hey, you need any help with that?” He asks. You look over at him in surprise, eyes wide.

“Oh, uh, sure. That would be great,” you reply.

“I’m Joel Miller, and this is my daughter, Sarah,” he says, gesturing to the young girl. She gives a little wave and he extends a hand out to you.

You give him your name, shaking his outstretched hand. “Y’all are a little early,” you reply, hefting a bag over your shoulder.

“My dad’s always late but I didn’t want to be late for camp,” Sarah says. Joel narrows his eyes at her.

“Not a problem. You can help me set up the cones,” you tell her. His daughter gives you a bright smile and he almost forgives her for throwing him under the bus. “I’ll grab these two bags, you grab the cones, and Mr. Miller, could you grab the balls, please?”

Joel fights back his childish laughter at your request, grabbing the bags as instructed. “Just Joel, please.”

You smile at him and he feels a bit blindsided by how it makes his heart beat faster, his palms a little sweatier. You’re very pretty, fresh faced and ready for a day of work, wearing one of those quick dry workout shirts that clings to your curves and a pair of shorts that show off your strong legs. Some traitorous part of his brain wonders what it would feel like to have those legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer.

“Alright then, Just Joel. Let’s go.”

——————

“Thank you for the help,” you tell Sarah’s dad. You’re trying very hard not to let your eyes linger on the bulge of his biceps or the broad expanse of his back as he sets down the two bags of soccer balls and places his hands on his hips.

He’s a handsome man, older than you by at least a few years, with tan skin and dark hair and kind brown eyes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles at something Sarah says. His daughter has the same brown eyes and olive skin, her dark curly hair pulled into a bun.

Of course the first parent you meet this summer is a hot dad. It’s like you’ve spoken it into the universe.

“Not a problem. Glad I can be useful if I’m goin’ to be here this early,” he replies with a narrowed glance at Sarah, who is suddenly very interested in the stack of cones she carried to the field. “Anythin’ else you need me for?”

“Let me get you the game schedule and contact sheet.” You open your bag and pull out your folder of materials you like to give to parents, assembling a stack of papers for him. “On top you’ve got the emergency contacts sheet. Fill that out with your contact information and an alternate’s information, too, just in case I can’t reach you or someone else needs to pick Sarah up. You’ll want to have Sarah bring that back tomorrow.”

You flip the page. “The second page is just a welcome letter. It’s got my phone number on it, feel free to text or call if you have any questions or if Sarah can’t make it one day.”

“And then last we’ve got the camp schedule. The girls will have two tournament days where they’ll play against some nearby summer camp leagues. You can sign up to bring a snack by filling out the piece at the bottom. Do you have any questions?”

“I don’t suppose I do. You’re very organized,” he says, taking the packet from you. You can feel your cheeks heating.

“Thanks,” you murmur. “Well, I gotta finish setting up.”

“I won’t get in your way.” He calls out to Sarah and the young girl runs up to give him a hug goodbye. “Be good. I’ll see you later.”

——————

Joel Miller is the first at the field in the mornings helping you set up for the day and last parent to leave at pick-up, after he’s loaded your trunk up with the equipment, wiping the sweat from his brow as he grins at you.

His daughter is a great player, quick on her feet and smart as a whip, picking up the footwork skills you teach like they’re second nature. You’re telling Joel as much Friday afternoon in the second week of camp when Sarah bounds up and asks if you want to get ice cream with them.

“That’s a great idea, baby girl,” Joel says before you can decline. You blink at him and he gives you that lopsided grin that’s been giving you butterflies since the first day on the field. “But if you order mint chocolate chip, you’re buyin’ it yourself.”

“Good news, I’m a plain ol’ chocolate kinda gal,” you tell him with a laugh.

“Me, too!” Sarah says.

“I’ll follow you guys,” you suggest. Joel gives you a quick nod, herding Sarah into his truck and taking off toward town.

You follow them to a little ice cream parlor, the kind that sells old fashioned sundaes and thick milkshakes with red and white striped straws. You park beside them, watching as Sarah hops from the truck with a wide grin on her face and her dad comes around, slinging a strong arm over her shoulder and pulling her close. Your heart feels warm looking at them.

Once inside, Joel and Sarah end up ordering a sundae to split while you get a small cone of chocolate ice cream. You try to tell Joel not to pay for you, but he hits you with a look that has your mouth going dry, any argument disappearing as all your blood rushes south and makes you ache between your legs.

“I’ll go get us a table outside,” you offer, licking at your treat. You don’t miss the way Joel’s eyes track the path of your tongue.

You watch the busy foot traffic while you wait for the Millers to join you, the warm Texas air wrapped around you while you enjoy the slight breeze and your cold dessert.

A deep voice calls your name and you look around, finding a familiar face on the crowded sidewalk.

“Jeremy, hey. How are you?” You ask as the man approaches. It feels like forever ago that you went to dinner together and looking at him now you think he’s handsome but he doesn’t hold a candle to Joel.

“I’m good. Been busy. I gotta say, I was a little bummed I didn’t hear from you after our date. Thought we had a good time,” he says, running a hand through his hair.

“Didn’t…hear from me?” You ask nervously.

He tilts his head. “Yeah. Thought you said you would text me when you got home.”

“Uh…yeah. Sorry. I guess I just forgot.”

The bell dings above the door to the ice cream parlor, Joel and Sarah emerging with a sundae piled with whipped cream. Jeremy looks toward them, then back at you.

“I’m guessing another date is off the table?” He asks, slipping his hands into his pants pockets.

Joel looks between the two of you, brow furrowed as he sets the sundae on the metal table and Sarah takes a seat, digging in immediately.

“Jeremy, this is Joel and his daughter, Sarah. She’s in my soccer camp this summer. Joel, this is my friend Jeremy,” you introduce. Jeremy holds a hand out to Joel, who shakes it briefly, brows still pinched.

“I better get going. Nice seeing you, let me know if you want to get together again,” Jeremy says before turning to leave. When you glance at Joel, his shoulders are drawn up and jaw clenched tight as he stabs his spoon into his ice cream.

“What do you guys have planned this weekend?” You ask to break the silence. Sarah perks up and begins to tell you about how her Uncle Tommy, Joel’s brother, is taking her to a local carnival. You listen and nod along despite the fact that your thoughts are stuck on Jeremy’s words.

If it wasn’t Jeremy on the other end of your conversation that night…who was it?

——————

As the three of you walk back to your vehicles, Joel’s still thinking about that man who’d been talking to you at the ice cream shop and how it made his blood burn hot to hear him mention going on a date with you. His pulse pounded in his ears as he shook the guy’s hand, any information about the guy going right over his head. He didn’t even taste the ice cream or hear the conversation you and Sarah had about the weekend, lost in his thoughts about how between early mornings helping you prep for camp and late afternoons at pick up have all somehow allowed you to burrow into his heart.

A hand wraps around his bicep, halting him in his steps. He glances at your concerned face and suddenly all that tension leaves him in a rush. Sarah says her goodbye, hugging you around your waist before hopping into the truck, leaving the two of you alone.

“You okay?” You ask, taking a step closer.

“I’m great, sweetheart. Get home safe,” he says, eyes dipping briefly to your mouth. Your tongue pokes out, tracing your lower lip. He takes a step back before he’s tempted to lean in and chase the taste of chocolate and you.

“I’ll see you Monday?”

“Bright and early.”

——————

Sarah spikes a fever Sunday night and spends the night curled around the toilet while Joel coaxes some water into her and keeps her hair out of harm's way. When it seems that the worst of her nausea has passed, Joel leaves her to rest in her bed while he goes downstairs and grabs the contact list you’d given him at the beginning of camp.

He starts a text, letting you know that Sarah’s sick and won’t make it to camp, at least for today. When it’s sent, he heads back upstairs, armed with a sleeve of crackers to deliver to his daughter.

Maybe he can squeeze in a little bit of sleep for himself.

——————

Hey, it’s Joel. Sarah’s sick and won’t make it to camp today.

You stare at the text, mind reeling. Not because a parent is texting you, that’s pretty common and you hope Sarah is doing okay, but because you already have a thread with Joel.

One where you’d called him sir and told him his cock would feel so good inside of you because you’d thought you’d been texting Jeremy. Your cheeks feel so hot you worry spontaneous human combustion could actually be a thing.

What are you even supposed to do in this situation? Do you tell him about it?

Hey, Joel. No worries. Thanks for letting me know, hope she feels better soon. Oh, also, you’ve sent me a picture of your dick.

You delete the last line immediately, hitting your phone against your forehead like doing so might make your thoughts make sense.

Hey, Joel. No worries. Thanks for letting me know, hope she feels better soon. Any chance you can make good on that promise and bend me over the bed?

You delete the last line again with a groan.

Hey, Joel. No worries. Thanks for letting me know, hope she feels better soon. There’s something I want to talk to you about. Would you be able to meet with me after practice this week? Or sometime this weekend?

You hit send before you can back out, tossing your phone in your bag as you get ready to head out the door.

——————

Joel wakes later in the morning and reads your text message. His mind races with what you could want to talk to him about. Maybe you noticed how he reacted to your friend and wanted to tell him you’re uncomfortable? Or maybe something to do with Sarah?

Fuck, he thinks, scrubbing a hand over his face. He reads the message a few more times but it doesn’t reveal any additional clues. He types out a message, pressing send before he can overthink the contents.

She seems to be doing better. Should be back to camp tomorrow. I can meet you somewhere for dinner on Friday after camp? My treat.

——————

Joel’s text plays on a loop in your brain for the rest of the week. Unlike the previous weeks of camp, he and Sarah don’t show up early. In fact, he’s been dropping her off almost at the last minute and picking her up promptly when camp ends, always managing to show up when you’re already pulled into conversation with another parent and driving off before you have a chance to talk with him.

On Friday, Joel is at the field early, leaning against his truck as he talks to Sarah. You park beside them, and he helps you unload your car and set up for the day, just as he had the weeks prior, making small talk like he hadn’t just spent the week dodging you after suggesting dinner. When everything is unpacked and Sarah is kicking a ball around, you follow Joel to his truck under the guise of needing one more thing from your car.

“Hey, are we still on for dinner?” You ask him. He runs a hand through his hair and you try not to let yourself zero in on the way his bicep flexes with the motion.

“‘Course. How ‘bout I meet you at that diner downtown? The one with the—“

“All day breakfast?” You finish. Joel grins.

“Yeah, that’s the one. Is six good?”

“Six is great.” You smile back at him, lost in the way his eyes crinkle in the corners and his mouth lifts slightly higher on the right.

“Coach!” Sarah yells, making you jump.

“Guess I better get out there,” you say, shifting nervously.

“Yeah, I’ll uh…I’ll see you later?” He asks.

“Looking forward to it.”

——————

To your surprise, it’s not Joel that picks up Sarah that afternoon, but another man with familiar brown eyes and dark curly hair. You grab your folder from your bag as Sarah greets the man, flipping through the pages until you’ve found her emergency contact form.

“Hey there,” the man says, a grin lighting up his face. “I’m Sarah’s Uncle Tommy.”

You shake the hand he’s held out towards you and introduce yourself. “Nice to meet you. Mind if I check your ID for alternate pick up?”

“Go right ahead,” he replies, pulling a worn brown leather wallet from his jeans and handing you his ID from its contents. “Don’t judge the photo, alright? It’s old.”

A younger version of the man in front of you is pictured on the card, his curly dark hair buzzed short and a grim expression on his face. You note the name THOMAS MILLER beside the picture and check it against Sarah’s emergency contact form.

“Thanks, Tommy,” you tell him, handing back the ID. There’s a brief silence where Tommy seems to be assessing you.

“So…,” he says, rocking on his heels, “you’re the girl that’s got Joel all tangled up, huh?”

You blink. “Uh—“

“Uncle Tommy! Let’s go!” Sarah shouts from the parking lot.

“Hold your horses!” Tommy yells. He gives you one last knowing smirk. “Have fun with Joel tonight!”

You watch him jog over to the truck and get behind the wheel, Sarah waving at you as he pulls out of the parking spot. You wave back, but your mind is stuck on Tommy’s words, the implication of them having your stomach doing backflips.

——————

Joel’s fingers fidget with the straw wrapper, ripping it into small pieces that build in a pile on the laminate table while he waits for you to arrive for dinner. He’s still not sure what this is all about and that uncertainty has had him stuck in his head to the point where Tommy was giving him a hard time at work about it.

“Let me know if you need me to stay with Sarah overnight,” Tommy had said as Joel checked himself in the hall mirror one last time before leaving the house.

“It ain’t like that,” he grumbled back, but there was no changing his brother’s mind.

“Sure, you keep tellin’ yourself that.”

The bell above the diner door rings with a new customer, pulling Joel from his thoughts. You’ve just walked in wearing a dress, a far cry from the soccer shorts and t-shirt he’s seen you in every day this summer. His gaze is pulled to the tantalizing glimpse of your chest he gets from the deep neckline and the way the fabric swishes against your thighs as you approach.

“Hi,” you say, sliding into the booth across from him. “Thanks for meeting me.”

“Sure,” Joel says, giving you what he hopes is a confident smile but he’s almost certain it’s more of a grimace.

A silence settles over the table as you both look at the laminated menus like they hold the secret to the universe. The waitress swings by and takes your orders - chocolate chip waffles for you and a medium rare burger for Joel.

“How’s Sarah doing with the camp?” Joel asks.

“She’s doing great. Easily one of the best players I’ve got this year,” you reply.

“Good that’s…good. You used to play for UT, right?”

“Yep, starting forward until I tore my ACL,” you tell him. “Now I coach because you can take the girl out of soccer but you can’t take the soccer from the girl.”

“That’s impressive,” Joel comments. “Is coaching your full time job?”

“No, I work in marketing for an instrument production company.”

“Really? You play anything?”

“Some guitar, a little piano. Nothing crazy. Do you?”

Joel laughs. “Been a while, but I got a guitar stashed away in a closet somewhere.”

The waitress returns with your food, setting the plates in front of you and asking if either of you need anything else before leaving the two of you to your meals.

Joel is a few bites into his burger when you set your fork down and say, “Look, I’m just gonna come right out and say it. You’ve sent me a picture of your dick.”

Joel nearly chokes, sputtering for air around his burger and grabbing his Coke, desperate for relief. He chugs the beverage, tears in his eyes.

“Are you okay?” You ask, wide eyes full of concern.

“No, I’m not okay, what do you mean I’ve sent you a picture of my dick?” He hisses, looking around the mostly empty diner.

“About a month ago I went on a date with that guy I ran into at the ice cream place, Jeremy? We met on a dating app so we were messaging through there and he gave me his number at the end of the night,” you say quickly. “And I texted the number with some…racy photos. And messages.”

Joel feels the rising panic in his chest. No, there’s absolutely no way that random number could have been you. There’s no way he sexted his daughter’s soccer coach.

“I didn’t find out it was you until you texted me about Sarah being sick. I still had the chat with your number,” you finish, reaching into your bag and pulling out your phone. Joel watches with building dread as you tap on the screen and set the phone on the table, sliding it toward him.

You’ve opened the chat with him, the innocuous messages at the bottom about Sarah missing camp giving way to photo attachments he doesn’t dare click on but remembers vividly. He looks up at you.

“I…I’m so sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have replied, the messages weren’t meant for me.”

“I’m not mad,” you assure him. “A little embarrassed, maybe. But also…can I be completely honest?”

“Of course.”

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about your messages.”

Joel’s mouth drops open in surprise. “You…really?”

“Yeah. And knowing it’s you…,” you say, voice trailing off. Your eyes are dark, a little smirk playing on your lips that has Joel’s cock twitching with interest. “Well, that makes it better.”

“It does?” Joel asks. You nod, picking up a bite of waffle with your fork, a moan of appreciation leaving your lips.

“It does,” you confirm.

Joel turns around in the booth and flags down the waitress.

“Check, please!”

——————

After paying for dinner, Joel walks you to the parking lot, his broad palm on your low back directing you to where his truck is parked.

He’s got you pressed against the passenger door, his chest grazing yours with each breath he takes. He lifts a hand to your cheek, his thumb rubbing across your bottom lip. His gaze grows dark as you dart your tongue out, flicking it against the digit.

“Such a fuckin’ tease,” he says. Gone is the man who was mortified to find out he’d been sexting you and in his place is the man behind the screen. “You wore this little dress because you knew exactly what you wanted, isn’t that right?”

“Maybe,” you murmur. “You don’t like it?”

“Mm,” he hums, “Ain’t a matter of not likin’ it, trust me.”

His hands grip your hips, the fabric bunching in his fists as he moves a thigh between your legs. The sudden friction of his jeans, even through the barrier of your underwear, has you gasping.

“Joel,” you whimper, grinding over the muscle of his thigh. He kisses along the length of your neck, lips right over your racing pulse. “Come on, take me home.”

“You can ask more nicely than that,” he says, hands guiding the movement of your hips, forward and back, across his thigh. You moan, louder than you intended, too loud for the parking lot of a busy diner at dinner rush.

“Please, sir,” you whisper. “Please, take me home.”

“Cum on my thigh and we can leave,” he replies. “Leave a nice little wet spot on my jeans and then I’ll take you home and make you scream my name as loud as you need to.”

Joel’s lips capture your own, swallowing the curse that was ready to spill from them at his demand. His kiss is rough, demanding, his stubble scratching your skin and his tongue tangling with yours as your hips continue to rock over his leg. You dig your fingers into his hair, holding tightly to him while the knot of need in your belly tightens.

“Come on, baby,” he says when he lifts his head, lips still pressed to your neck. “Make a mess, come on.”

You go still in his hands as your orgasm washes over you, your muscles stiff as your pussy pulses desperately over his thigh. Joel pulls you in for another kiss, this one slow and sweet to bring you back to reality.

When you’ve caught your breath, he steps back, adjusting the skirt of your dress back over your thighs. He looks down at his pants and then back at you, a smirk on his handsome face. You look down, face heating with embarrassment as you notice the dark patch of denim.

“Get in the truck, baby.”

——————

You give Joel directions to your apartment, his warm hand on your thigh the whole way there. Your nerves are buzzing beneath your skin again, the effect of your first orgasm wearing off and your desire building rapidly with each mile closer to your apartment.

He parks in the visitor parking and you move to open the door, but a tan arm reaches across and tugs it shut. Confused, you watch Joel jump from the truck and jog around to the passenger side to pull open your door and hold a hand out to you.

You’re laughing as he helps you from the truck and shuts the door behind you, your giggles persisting as you lead him upstairs and his arms circle your waist while you try to unlock your door. He hustles you across the threshold, kicking the door shut behind him and flipping the deadbolt.

“Bedroom?” He asks.

“End of the hall,” you reply.

Joel pulls you along behind him, a man on a mission. Once inside your room, you flip on your bedside lamp and Joel steps in close, framing your face in his hands and giving you another kiss that has the butterflies in your tummy going wild.

His fingers are curling into the hem of your dress, dragging it up your body and breaking the kiss long enough to pull it over your head and toss it to the floor. His lips are back on yours while his hands map your curves, calloused fingers catching on soft skin and making goosebumps erupt in their wake.

“Get on the bed,” he commands. You turn, crawling onto the mattress slowly, a wiggle in your hips. You look over your shoulder at the older man and find his gaze fixed on your ass. He grins. “You remember what I said last time you teased me?”

“No. I think I need a reminder,” you tell him. He huffs, shaking his head.

“Teasin’ me and gettin’ mouthy? Think that might earn you a punishment.”

Joel palms the cheeks of your ass, pulling them apart in a rough grip that has you gasping his name. His fingers dig into the flesh, the ache of them already making your head spin.

“Five ain’t enough, but it’s all I’ve got the patience for right now,” he says. His tone changes as he asks, “You got a safe word? If I need to stop?”

“Apricots,” you say easily. He tilts his head. “It’s from a TV show. New Girl?”

“Never heard of it,” he says. “Alright, apricots it is.”

He pulls your panties down, leaving them around your thighs. His thumbs spread you apart and the vulnerability of this position, your ass in the air and everything spread for him, by him, has you feeling like you’re on fire.

“Pretty little pussy,” he murmurs. “But I already knew that. Because you’re a dirty fuckin’ girl who sent me pictures just because I told you how to cum. Ain’t that right?”

“Mhm.”

An open palm lands on your right ass cheek, hear blossoming on the spot as you gasp, lurching forward. His hands pull you towards him and he presses down between your shoulder blades, your back arching.

“Don’t move,” he commands. “That was one. You count the next one.”

Another smack across your other cheek, more sharp pain that shifts into dull ache as you mumble, “Two.”

He doles out two more in quick succession, each other making your pussy clench with need. You’re drooling into sheets, a whimpering mess as he runs his fingers through your soaked folds and lets out a deep groan.

“Baby, you’re soaked,” he says. “Fuck, one more, okay? One more and then I’ll have you wrapped around my cock.”

You nod your head, bracing for the final blow across your sensitive skin. The sting of his palm as it lands makes your eyes roll back, the line between pleasure and pain so blurry you don’t know which side you stand on.

His hands leave your hips and without the support, you slide flat to your belly. Distantly, you register the opening of your nightstand drawer and the sound of Joel rummaging through the contents, followed by the muted thump of clothes being discarded to the floor.

Joel maneuvers you to your back in the center of the bed, pulling your panties off. “You did so good, sweetheart,” he praises. You smile at him.

“Do I get a reward now, sir?” You ask.

“‘Course, baby. Good girls get what they deserve.”

His hips press between yours, his cock sliding through your wetness and catching on your clit. He positions the thick head at your slick entrance, pressing in the slightest bit. You take in the sight of him, his broad chest held over you by strong arms, the muscles of his neck tense.

Joel slides in slowly, your body accepting him gratefully. The stretch borders on painful but the fullness has you digging your nails into his back, a moan falling from your lips. It feels like ages before his hips as flush to yours and all you can feel is Joel Joel Joel.

“Fuck,” he groans, forehead dropping to yours. “Christ, you feel so fuckin’ good.”

He pulls back slightly, thrusting forward with a sharp snap of his hips. As he starts to set a rhythm, he sits up on his knees, lifting one of your legs up with a hand on the back of your thigh and pressing it to the side. The position opens you up further, letting him get impossibly deeper, and all you can do is allow him to use your body to his liking.

It’s not long before you’re screaming his name, as promised, the knot of pleasure in your core pulling tight and getting ready to snap.

“You gonna cum again for me?” Joel asks, breathing labored as his pace doesn’t falter. “Come on, baby, cum on my cock. You’re such a good fuckin’ girl, I know you can do it.”

“Joel!” You shout, that last thread snapping as your orgasm rushing through you, stars bursting behind your eyelids as they snap shut with the force of it all. Your pussy clenches around him, his hips stuttering and growing sloppy until he’s pressing in deep with a groan of your name.

He collapses on top of you, a heavy weight but not an unwelcome one as you both try to catch your breath, sweat cooling between you. After a moment, his softening cock slips from your body and he rolls to the side, gathering you to his chest.

“Holy shit,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” Joel whispers back. He sits up, leaning over the edge of the bed and grabbing his jeans, pulling his phone free.

He taps on the screen and brings it to his ear, a distant ringing audible through the speaker.

“Tommy? Yeah, everythin’s fine,” Joel says when his call connects. He takes a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Could you stay with Sarah tonight? Shut up,” he grumbles. He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “I’ll be back in the mornin’. Thanks, brother.”

Joel hangs up and you raise your eyebrows at him.

“You’re staying?” You ask.

“Yeah, baby. I ain’t finished with you yet,” he replies, pressing a flurry of kisses to your face, neck, and shoulders, sending you into a fit of giggles.

——————

1 Year Later

“Alright, great job, girls! Let’s get your snacks,” you shout as your summer league girls jog towards you from the field following their third tournament game.

The girls crowd around the cooler that Joel’s prepared, grabbing small bottles of Gatorade or water and a bag of orange slices. They lounge around the sidelines and you step up beside Joel, bumping him with your hip.

“Thanks for the snacks,” you say. He grins at you.

“‘Course. Gotta take care of my girls,” he replies. He pulls one last bag of oranges from the cooler. “And one for coach.”

“How’d I get so lucky?” You ask, looping an arm around his waist.

“What can I say? You texted the right wrong number.”

Joel Miller Masterlist

[kiwicopia]

MDNI | Themetober: Scarecrow

Shapeshifter!Simon x Fem!Reader

CW: brief mentions of stalking, brief mentions of voyeurism/reverse voyeurism, mentions of death/corpses/blood, brief cunnilingus, biting/marking, mentions of begging, some degradation, mating press position, squirting, creampie.

tags: @sweetchildcloud

Themetober Masterlist

You were never close with your grandfather on your mother’s side, with him becoming estranged even before her passing. Which was why it surprised you to get a letter in the mail one day, detailing that he had left you a sizeable piece of land in his will. The little farm he lived on was rundown and in desperate need of repairs, which came easily due to the assistance from local neighbors. The only issue, however, was the scarecrow in the cornfields.

A raggedy thing, you thought, with a hulking body that could easily frighten any creature that wandered onto the property. If it weren’t for its graveyard keeper appearance, and the fact that your bedroom window faced the cornfields, you would’ve thought differently about it. Still, against better judgement, and with it keeping the crows from taking what little corn you were able to grow, you decided to keep it where it was—perched up against a large, steady plank of wood that doubled its own size. 

Honestly though, you should have read the letter entirely instead of skimming it. Perhaps if you did that, then everything that followed would make more sense to you. It would have made sense knowing what it was, and had been, to your estranged grandfather. 

The half-buried animal carcasses on the property, the strange grunting noises outside your window at night—along with the milky white substance in the grass below your window—the large paw prints that littered around the edges of the property—sometimes along with dried blood—and the eyes that would watch you from the shadows, only to vanish the second you blinked. Not to mention how, during visits into town, either a crow or a large, black dog—or what you assumed to be a dog—would follow you. The entirety of it was all so strange, and it did little to prepare you for when he finally came to collect what was owed. 

Unbeknownst to you, and due to the skimming of the letter, your estranged grandfather had a deal of sorts with a certain creature—the scarecrow—which you came to find out a little too late one night. “Been waitin’ for ya,” he huffed. His tongue lapped at your cunt, feasting on it like a wild and starved animal. You tasted even better than he had originally imagined, and the soft and sweet moans and mewls that spilled from your lips caused his cock to throb painfully beneath torn jeans. 

Simon groaned, his patience having worn thin with the needless wait as he pulled back and finally freed himself from the confines of his pants. He was hard and ready, with the tip angry and red while weeping small globs of precum. His large hand wrapped around the shaft, pumping once, twice, three times with achingly slow movements. The nights of watching you through your window as you pleasured yourself while he fucked into his hand—in tune with your soft and tantalizing noises—were over. 

“The old man promised.” He lined his cockhead up to your slit, smearing the tip in your slick before impatiently pushing past the folds. “Fuck,” he groaned. You took him so well, with gummy walls hugging his dick tightly. His body pressed against yours, pushing you down further into the bed of hay as his lips kissed against your neck feverishly, resulting in a whine falling from your lips. 

Simon’s cock twitched at the sound, and his hips pulled back before slamming against yours. The sudden movement pulled a sharp cry from you as he repeated the motion. Faster and faster, his pace relentless as his teeth nibbled on the soft flesh of your neck before biting down. He was marking you as his, and in more ways than one. After all, your grandfather made a promise. 

“S’too much,” you whined. Still, his pace remained as it was as he ignored you. The shifter had waited this long for what was owed to him, and he was taking it without any further delay. Simon’s hands were tight on your hips, his fingers pressing into the plump flesh, keeping you still as his cock bullied your pussy. Your soft whining and pleas for him to slow down faded, having been replaced with neediness as you begged for more. 

“Fuckin’ slag,” he growled, his breath hot in your ear as he bit the lobe. His hips snapped against yours once more as he buried himself to the hilt again, and again. “Makin’ me wait f’ya. Makin’ me ‘ear that old man tell me over ‘nd over ‘bout ya.” He hated that. 

Honestly, Simon was glad for his death because it meant getting you. It was a deal made back when he first arrived on the farm, back when he was a walking body without a purpose. Oh, but your grandfather gave him one. Keep the farm safe and he would receive a reward for his hard work. When that reward became you, his sweet ‘ole granddaughter who lived like the man never existed, that was what kept Simon going—and now he finally had you. 

His hands moved from your hips as his body pulled back just enough to shift you into a mating press. The shapeshifter could reach deeper now, with his cockhead bumping against your cervix with each thrust, earning sharp yet delicious sounding cries from your lips. Simon couldn’t be gentle now, not when he finally had you in his grasp. He waited too damn long, with too many nights of fisting himself to the mere thought of you beneath him like this. 

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” he growled, again. You tightened around him, causing his dick to twitch every now and then as your velvety walls coaxed him towards his release. The harsh slap of his balls smacking against your skin echoed in the barn, and you whined at the sting that accompanied it. “Little more, almost, almost.” Oh, he was close now, with only a few more thrusts until he came undone. 

When your cunt fluttered around him, that was the last straw. Simon pressed his face into your neck, teeth clamped down in a harsh bite that caused you to scream out and squirt around him the same time he spilled into you. His hot, creamy seed mixed with your juices and dribbled out and down the back of your ass when he pulled out of you. 

“Look a’ ya,” he smirked. “Fuckin’ mess now.” You stared up at him with half-lidded eyes and panted hard before leaning your head back to rest. The man mumbled something along of being his mess, but the pounding in your ears from being utterly fucked out had muffled it. 

Maybe you should have read the entire letter, or perhaps you should’ve had a better grandfather. One that didn’t offer you up like a steak to a starving mutt. Too many could haves and should haves for you to care right now. At least you had something akin to a guard dog now, even if the reward was a good fuck. 

[sayhoneysiren]

Which 48th Law of Power, should you apply to your situation for success?

{Collab with @lavendergoddesstarot}

Pile 1 is on the left side. Pile 2 is on the right side.

Welcome Sirens! This reading is for entertainment purposes only based on the downloads I receive. Do not attack me if the message doesn’t resonate. Keep in mind this is a collective reading, not a individual one. With that being said, enjoy!

Honey $iren🍒

>Join for weekly Tarot Readings here<

⸻⊱༺  🩸 ༻⊰⸻

Pile I

(1st part of your reading here)

When it come to success, you may have the habit of oversharing your ideas with others. Spirit is saying, learn to keep your goals private. You have ideas that are absolutely GOLDEN, but unfortunately, there are bitter and jealous people around you, who want to sink your boat. Your success is a threat to them and when you yap to them about all your ideas, you give them your blueprint to destroy you. The Wheel of Fortune came out for you last, which shows me that when you learn to reserve your ideas or share only fractions of information, luck will be on your side and the wheels will turn in your favor.

~ LAW 24 - PLAY THE PERFECT COURTIER ~

(The numbers 24, 2, 4, or 6. may be significant to you. It could be your birth date number, current age or a significant number to you).

Quote from the book 48 Laws of Power, "The perfect courtier thrives in a world where everything revolves around power and political dexterity. He has mastered the art of indirection; he flatters, yields to superiors, and asserts power over others in the most oblique and graceful manner. Learn to apply the law of courtier-ship and there will be no limit to how far you can rise in the court." - Robert Greene

There's an old saying coming to mind, "Never let anyone see you with your head to the ground." We all have weaknesses and our weaknesses should always be kept to ourselves, until we overcome them. The message for you is to Master you Emotions. Handle your messy business privately. Don’t rant to people about your problems, even if they’re friends. Show a professional, strong face to the world, even when you feel worried. Stay motivated on the end goal, even when you feel defeated.

You may also have difficulties with wanting to prove yourself as worthy or intelligent to others (which causes you to debate, argue, overshare or overextend yourself). Learn to hold back. There's no need to cast your pearls to swine.

ADVICE

Master your emotions. Don't allow insults and threats to pierce you.

Find creative outlets to release your energy into. (If you’re a writer, write to release your thoughts and feelings or to creative stories.)

Learn social protocol, discreetness and etiquette with others.

Trust no one.

Let your actions and results speak louder than the need to prove people wrong or right.

⸻⊱༺  🩸 ༻⊰⸻

Pile II

(1st part of your reading here).

There was something said to you, that made you feel insecure about your self image or your abilities to succeed. You are hanging on to this, and because of this you are not allowing yourself to move forwards and become your greatest. For many of you, it was a person close to you, that you deeply trusted, who hurt you with their words or actions. Here’s what to do. Cry about it, journal about it, meditate on it, THEN LET IT GO. (And if it's better, let them go too).

Your value is never determined by anyone else, it is determined by you. To become your successful self, own all that you are, in body, spirit, emotion and mentality. You are not a mistake. Don’t be fooled by the people who cannot see your value yet.

You are a very grounded and practical person, who holds immense wisdom within'. Your intuitive powers are off the charts! 

These toxic people around you, don't see your power or how your ideas can come into fruition but don't let that stop you from carrying on. You have the ability to manifest like a God or Goddess on Earth and you will be a wealthy person very soon.

LAW 28 - ENTER ACTION WITH BOLDNESS

(The numbers 28, 0, 1, 2, 8, or 10. may be significant to you. It could be your birth date number, current age or a significant number to you).

Quote from the book 48 Laws of Power, "If you are unsure of a course of action, do not attempt it. Your doubts and hesitations will infect your execution. Timidity is dangerous. Better to enter with boldness. Any mistakes you commit through audacity are easily corrected with more audacity. Everyone admirers the bold; no one honors the timid. - Robert Greene

Don't be the victim, be the successor. Push through all negativity until you are successful. Learn to stand up for yourself with boldness and walk your path audaciously. When you speak, speak with firmness and a assured tone. When you have ideas, create and pursue them with confidence. The cards are telling you, that your ideas are brilliant and that they are going to be greatly received by the world (fame is highly likely for you), so don’t feel insecure about yourself. Just trust the process.

ADVICE

Learn not to take criticism personally.

Work on your self value and self esteem.

Work with the Lion totem or the Goddess SEKHMET to be more courageous.

Cut toxic people out of your life.

Create boundaries and stand up for yourself.

Do Solar Plexus practices. Sunbathe. Get an Aura Reading.

[apas-95]

I’m an anarchocommunist that thinks a lot of other anarchists are stupid. For example, I don’t think that most people will just make insulin or do garbage collection/processing out of the kindness of their heart, and I also don’t think if it was genuinely done out of the kindness of their hearts that it’d work great. My idea is that for the “getting people to do the shitty jobs” question, the people that do those jobs should be compensated better in some way. Maybe a larger/nicer house, I’m not sure on the details. But other anarchists will say “all labor is equal”, and while I’d like to agree in the “work is hard” sense, I think things for the obvious common good, like teacher or garbage man or doctor deserve some sort of reward over other jobs. And for the efficiency of the labor, I think *specifically for labor* there needs to be some sort of organization, and we can use what’s worked before. We don’t need to have bathtub insulin if there’s a factory right there, and if there’s no connection from the insulin factory to doctors/pharmacists and truck drivers then it won’t work either. Really, my main problem with Marxism/Leninism or Stalinism or Maoism or any combination of those is that there are specific people with far too much power over others. I’m ok with light power in the way of “man you gotta drive the firetruck to the burning building even though you hate the dude that lives there”, but I’m not ok with the idea of a supreme leader or representatives in a political sense due to as I’ve amounts of power obviously corrupting people.

Really I’m sending this to you to get your criticism of my ideas- I think you’re pretty smart, and even if I disagree with you on some issues, I think I agree with you on others. I also want to say that not all anarchists are… like that.

So, years ago, before I started reading any Marxist theory, this is about where I was at politically. If you think about any of the practicalities, you come up to points where, very clearly, the maxim of 'no authority at all' conflicts with being able to do anything. If you're seriously considering how society could be better organised, if this is something you actually intend on bringing about, then you make some amount of concession to reality - as you did with the firetruck example!

Now, myself, I went on like this for a good while, coming up with methods of truly democratic organisation that wouldn't be susceptible to the types of totalitarianism I'd heard about, ending up very similar to your position. I was interested, however, in how these 'failed experiments' that I'd learned devolved into bureaucracy started out, and I started reading up on the history, and realised, with some discontent, that what I'd developed, once I'd made all the concessions for reality that would be necessary if this system were to be the actual one real human beings lives depended on, was essentially identical to the Soviet system.

From there, I read up on Marxist theory, still basically wary that this had all, at some point, been taken over by an evil dictator, but able to see that the earliest stages, at least, had been exactly what I was imagining, but put into practice. Reading the theory, reading how their experience experimenting with different forms of organisation, and the failures of some types, had led them to discover what did and didn't work, and adjust accordingly, made me suddenly appreciate why certain things were done certain ways. The harsh experiences of civil war had revealed certain dynamics and mechanics in the way society and production worked, which translates into political theories that bore out results I wouldn't have expected (and neither had the communists who had discovered them through practice!).

Eventually, with some chagrin and a significant deal of excitement, I realised that much of what I'd passively absorbed about socialism, many of the common-sense maxims that I'd been taught by capitalist society about the nature of power and so on, were very much artifacts of a decades-long war against these communists and the system they'd built, carried out by exactly the corporations and empires I had thought myself opposed to.

I won't critique any individual point of yours, but I will enjoin you to try out some Marxist theory - Dialectical and Historical Materialism, or Socialism, Utopian and Scientific, or Principles of Communism, or even the Communist Manifesto, and to read between the lines of whatever capitalist source you read on socialism, to notice every [citation needed] and wonder what actually happened such that someone felt the need to make something up.

[pursuitseternal]

“I wanted to hear you whimper…” ✨Update to “Bites in the Night”✨

Act 1 Astarion x f!Reader | E | 3K

Summary: After fighting your way out of the Githyanki Crèche, your vampire has a raging… ego. And you need to check it, to remind him his place… and to hear him whimper.

CW: Subby Astarion, Whimper alert, mild bondage, inappropriate use of grasping vines, begging, brat taming, face sitting, anal fingering, oral sex

Ao3 link | series on ao3 | Masterlist

“Well…” he purrs, that aspirate ‘h’ somewhere in the middle of the word making you bristle with irritation. “I thought they’d never leave…” Astarion grins, spattered in Githyanki blood as he casually licks his blade clean.

He’s the image of cool and collected… as if you all didn’t just fight your way out of the entire Crèche in the Rosymorn Monastery. As if Gale didn’t almost die three times and as if you didn’t get your favorite weapons disarmed from your hands twice. “Leave?” you snap at him. “They’re dead!”

Astarion sheathes his blade and starts to suck the blood clean from under his fingernails. “Seems hardly a difference worth fighting over, darling. Same result.”

“No, it’s a result of your big… fat… mouth,” you snip the words, closing the distance to poke him in the leather armored chest with every word. “And you defaced their painting of Vlakith! You’re lucky your undead guts aren’t being used for training targets.”

Astarion just gives that same conceited, shit-eating grin. “My guts are perfectly fine. Theirs are spread on the ground… and, since you seem in a feisty mood…” he leans in close to purr in your ear, “perhaps you’d like your guts rearranged, dear?”

“Ugh!” you gag in disgust at the suggestion. “You arsehole. You should be apologizing for that smart mouth of yours.”

“Darling, I rarely apologize, and I never do when I’m in the right. Thanks to me, we can leave this mausoleum.” He comments with a flick of his wrist, ignoring your enraged glare and heading for camp.

That’s when something snaps inside you. The other companions are already well up the trail from the Monastery. And, by now, when you and Astarion disappear, they know better than to come looking… and Shadowheart usually has her hands already glowing with Lesser Restoration. A nice treat for after feeling the blood loss on your end of your trysts.

But not this time.

“You’re a proper bastard, aren’t you?” you hiss at him, heart racing with the need to fight.

But he just flashes you that cool, collective seductive smile. “Such a mean spirit, you wouldn’t want me to have to teach you some manners… would you?” His lean frame crowds you, one arm reaching to cage you in against the tree behind you. “I’m feeling rather good right now… all that Githyanki blood has given me quite the raging… affliction. I could use your help…” his eyes flash dangerously seductive as he grabs your wrist and guides your hand to his clothed erection.

Tearing your hand away, you cuss at him. “Fucking arrogant Elf,” you hiss, grabbing him by the top of his flushed and pointed ear. “You’re going to learn manners, not me!”

Astarion crumples between your pinching fingers. Knees buckling, voice cracking, eyes tearing… you’d think you had kicked him in the balls with how pathetically he’s reacting now. “Ow, ow, ow,” he whines as you drag him off the path into the sunny woods of the Mountain Path.

You have to reach high to grab it, that pink tip of his ear, but the ache in your shoulder is worth it for how he instantly cows to you. He’s sputtering curses and calling you names, but it’s hard to take them seriously as his voice breaks with shrill whines.

Like a boy in puberty, every word cracks in his voice.

“Cheeky little… argh!” He squeals as you squeeze harder, making his feet stumble. Just in time. You find what you’re looking for.

Grasping vines, a nice little patch.

“You, my vampire, have been insufferable long enough today. Apologize,” you command.

He scoffs, trying to reach for your punishing fingers on his most tender of spots. “I won’t apologize for killing our enemies in battle. They had it coming, those Gith…”

“Hmmm, guess what, my dear,” you cup his bloodied cheek with your free hand, bringing him in for a kiss. His lips tremble against yours, his ear is still nabbed tightly in your grip, after all. You whisper in delicate and threatening tones against his mouth. “Now you’ve got your own thing coming as a result.”

He gasps, cool breath on your face as you guide him to the ground by his ear. “Hands above your head, and if you’re a good boy, I’ll even let you come.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” he snarls, trying to jerk his ear free as he lies in the grass and dirt, but the pain only makes him hiss and relent as you hold fast.

“Oh I dare, Astarion. I dare because you’re being an obnoxious, unbearable… louse!”

“I think you mean leech,” he tries to giggle, a snap of his fangs beneath you. “I have more in common with leeches.”

Your withering glare gives him just enough pause, those hard lines of his eyes softening, gaze widening as he realizes you aren’t joking.

“Hands above your head, leech,” you give your icy command.

Those elegant hands move in obedience, slender, skilled digits twitching slightly as they extend across the forest floor until…

…with a creaking groan, the grasping vines do their job, locking his wrists and upper arms neatly in place.

“Wretched hells, you have to be joking,” he growls, fighting against the vines as anger flares in those crimson eyes. “You have got to be joking, darling.”

“Serious as death itself,” you smirk down at him. “Now all you can use is your smart mouth, and until you apologize, I’m going to give it something to do.

You pull off your leather armor and underthings slowly. A smile turns your lips as you watch Astarion try to slip his hand from the vines unsuccessfully. A sweat is dotting his brow, eyes roam your exposed skin and follow your hand to where your fingers slide themselves to bury into your own cunt.

His fangs catch in the patches of sunlight through the canopy. Pupils blown wide, he watches your hand, his pink tongue wetting his lips at the sight. It doesn’t take any effort to perceive the prodding, twitching erection in his leathers. “Are you going to apologize for being a proper twat?”

“As I demonstrated today with our Gith friends, I’m not one to back down from a fight… darling….”

Oh, that smug grin on his face, that tongue teasing the corner of his mouth… you want to smack it from his handsome face, you want to… to…

You step over him. Feet framing his chest, you lower yourself to your knees, fingers parting your folds to show his hungry eyes your swollen little clit. “If you insist on being a cunt, you can taste mine…”

He smirks wider, purring and stretching beneath you. Proud of himself. “Oh darling, I…”

The groan that comes from your mouth as you cover him with your folds is so loud, birds startle from the trees. You grind, slow rolls that push his prominent, aquiline nose right against your aching clit. Finally, that tongue that has caused you nothing but trouble today is put to good use as it thrusts in and circles around your channel. His laughter tickles up your spine from your sex, and you can almost feel his self-satisfaction as you positively drench his face.

But this is supposed to be retribution. A lesson to tame his brat behavior. So you grab a fist of his perfect, blood-streaked silver hair and yank. “Mmmph,” he whines loudly into your folds. Desperation and pain. It’s high pitched, pitiful. And you shake him a bit, your breathing ragged from being driven so close to your release already.

“This isn’t for you, Astarion, it’s for me,” you snap, watching the twinkle of mischief flash in those crimson depths. “You’ve been naughty… intolerable. And now you’re going to pay for it.”

“Oh I quake in my boots,” he thrusts his hips up behind you into the air, miming what pleasures await. “I’m all a-quiver with fear,” he sniggers.

You fist your hand tighter in his hair until he hisses and whines that you’ll ruin it. “Just remember, it’s a good thing you don’t need to breathe.”

Those eyes widen at your implied threat as you sit firmly on his mouth and nose and chin. His skin already slick with your arousal, he works his head and tongue inside your folds for far longer than any mortal would survive. You grind slowly, careful not to let in too much air, savoring all the friction he can give you.

And he… he knows his duty. All fangs and tongue and lips as you roll your clit on his nose. Your walls flutter around his tongue, your pulse thumping in your ears now, no longer from rage but from hot, desperate arousal. “I’m close,” you gasp, and you know he hears you as his pointed ears twitch. “Make me come, and I just might let you, too.” You give a low, threatening laugh, “eventually that is.”

That’s when you feel it on your clit, his face sliding in your folds as he catches your bud in his front, blunted teeth and nips.

You groan, voice breaking in a scream as you come around nothing. Holding yourself up with your fist in his hair, you can’t just let yourself pitch forward or you’ll end up in the vines too. So you shake in your bliss, braced against his face and scalp as your tremors wrack through you.

Raising up, you move to kneel beside him, pulling out a rag from your bag of holding to wipe his face off.

“You just can’t keep your hands off me, even after you’ve come. Isn’t that right, darling?” He gives you that arrogant asshole of a smirk, and you mirror it. Slowly, you pop open the fastening of that blue and burgundy leather armor until his cream undershirt lies damp against his skin. You can feel his belly clenching under your feather light touch, watching it rise and fall with ragged breaths.

As your hand brushes gingerly over the rock hard bulge in his leathers, he hisses, a low giggle of a laugh in his throat. “I’ve made you feel good, haven’t I? I think I deserve a treat,” he sasses you, another roll of his hips to push his erection against your palm.

But you’re not done, and you give his cock a punishing squeeze through his leathers. “Hush,” you snap. You reach into your bag again, pulling out an eagle feather and a bottle of oil. “Now, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll open your mouth to do one of two things: apologize….” You lean forward to place a gentle kiss on his lips, “or beg.”

He laughs, catching you off guard as he bites your lips until you taste blood. “You know by now, I never beg,” he growls, pride dripping from his words.

“First time for everything,” you hiss, pulling your mouth out of his reach and licking your blood from your lips. Reaching for the feather, you tickle it over the sharp, mouthwatering line of his jaw. “We’ll start with something soft, I think…” Just that downy tip traces the lines of his chest, the chiseled muscles underneath flex and constrict as his belly clenches.

“Fuck,” he gasps, his breathing light and rapid. You hear his hands straining against the vines, their growth creaking as he fights for freedom. “Mmhm,” you hear him whine, that feather tracing the line of his waistband as his cock remains twitching.

Untouched.

His eyes are blown, pupils wide and dark as his body undulates under your teasing touch.

“I think I heard you speak, but not to apologize or beg…” you taunt, leaning over him, setting aside the feather in favor of a single finger. Your isolated touch trails the same pattern, those ridges of his abdominals are a map you know by heart now. “So you’ll have to suffer having me touch you like this ‘til you ask nicely…”

Your finger wanders to his hips, just brushing the outline of his cock. He bucks into nothingness, into open air… his breathing rough, his belly rapidly rising and clenching repeatedly. “Eugh,” he whines, your finger tracing that prominent ridge at the base of his cock head.

“Ready to apologize or beg?” you lean down to whisper in his ear, but by the way his fang bites his bottom lip, you can see he’s still clinging too tightly to that insufferable pride.

“Neither,” he says bravely, but the sensation of your hand reaching into his leathers makes an open-mouth whine rip from his mouth. You force your hand into that waistband. It’s snug, especially with how hard he’s gotten. And all you have room to do is squeeze, pulsing your fist around his shaft. You can feel the slow thump of his undead heart in his dick, so hard and so aroused as he is. “Hells… fuck… damn you…” he whines something new with every squeeze you give him.

“Just say ‘sorry,’ or ‘please,’ and all this can go much faster,” you taunt, a singsong in your voice as you release him to unlace his pants. He just gives a pathetic sigh as his cock is freed. You know it aches. All that blood from the Gith, all your teasing has made him flushed and hard and leaking precum profusely. His crimson eyes stare at your lips as you lick them, his whole world narrowed to their wet promise of release and the aching tingle in his cock. It takes a second to shimmy his leathers to the tops of his boots and to uncork the bottle of oil.

A generous amount on your hands and you smile at him. “Come on, you rascal. After all the trouble you caused, don’t you feel the least bit sorry?”

His fangs bite his lower lip tighter again, the sharp lines of his face set, determined to prevail.

Your mouth quirks to one side, hand wandering a single oily finger up his taut thigh, then between those pert ass cheeks of his.

His voice cracks in a whimper, fangs piercing into his own skin as you tease one, single finger around the tight ring of his hole. He tries so hard to snarl, to buck his hips as if he has any control. His cock just juts into the air, twitching and leaking, as you tease inside that ring of muscle just a little more… and more. The oil helps to slide your finger in, just the one digit you thrust in and out. He voices his rapid breathing, quick fire noises that sound so pathetic from his throat, you’re almost tempted to give in and bring him the sweet release you both crave.

“By the hells,” he opens his mouth, whining like a child, “you’re going to really make me pay for just being myself, aren’t you?”

“And just who do you think you are?” You snigger, all those feelings of sympathy evaporate, and suddenly you have two fingers knuckle deep in his ass. Jamming them in slowly, you crook over and over until you find that spot inside him that makes him shudder and writhe. “Ha… huh…” he’s huffing with each stroke you make inside him. “P….p….”

“Is that a ‘p-p-please’ that’s starting to finally form on your irritating tongue?” you chide him, pressing your lips on the spasming plane of his belly even as your fingers fuck him. “And don’t fool yourself, I’m making you pay not because you’re insufferable… or mischievous… or down right maliciously cruel…”

Your fingers continue their torture in his tight walls. Another kiss on his stomach, a flick of your tongue below his navel and more along those deep v cut grooves over his hips, and you hear the most divine noises from his lips. “Just so we’re clear, I’m doing this to show you your place… to remind you, you need to be a member of my party… and just because I want to hear you whimper.” You lower your mouth, his eyes almost black with lust as they stare at you. He watches you lick your lips slowly only to just breathe warm, damp air on his cock. He grunts, fangs and teeth grit as it jerks widely from the promise of contact. “Beg for me, dear…”

You can hear his little swallowed growls in time with your fingers that are still thrusting inside him.

“Beg for me to let you come…”

His breathing comes in rapid succession, hissing between his clenching teeth. Until… finally… he opens them for a single word. “Please…”

But you just laugh, low and rough in your throat. “Louder, you proud, arrogant bastard.”

“Hells, just…. Fuck me… please!” He finally breaks, voice high and breathless as he bucks his hips into the air closer to your face. A desperate attempt at contact. Any contact.

You stick out your tongue, a teasing lick up the underside of his shaft to clean the mess of precum that’s positively dripping in streams. His cock twitches away from your tongue, a mind of its own. And you laugh, letting your lips and throat vibrate as you slowly suckle him down. Your fingers prod just right, and those warm, tight muscles inside him pulse and tighten… until his cum fills your mouth. He erupts with the most pathetic sounds yet… all rapid whines that crack his voice box until he can only grunt in time with his cock spasms. He fills you; the taste is familiar, but his seed is strangely warm on your tongue. Perhaps it’s from positively gorging himself today. Maybe that’s one thing that you could enjoy because of his arrogance. You smile as you swallow, savoring the look on his sweaty face. You pull your oiled fingers free, cleaning you both with a rag.

“Still feeling like a brat?” You taunt him, as you wipe his softening cock.

“I’m hardly ever a brat, darling…”

You scoff, throwing the rag on his face. “Maybe I should leave you like this until the vines decide they’re tired of your attitude too.”

“Gods, no, please,” he adds quickly. And you just smile down at him, naked and triumphant as you say two more words…

“Good boy.”

[chaoscreaturewrites]

Call of duty, ghost, birthday, cute meet

The perfect gift

Summary:Price's wife gets Ghost the perfect birthday gift, and a date.

WC:1.1k

Ghost's birthday is coming up, he's always so hard to buy gifts for but Price's wife magically gets it right every time so they go out to find him something. 

Price's wife recently went to a pottery night with her friends and saw so many cute things she wanted to buy, so she takes Price there hoping to find something for Ghost and herself.

They walk around enjoying the gallery then head to see the items for sale. So far nothing for Ghost until they see an artist putting out new cups for sale. They both know it's the perfect gift when they see the oversized tea cup, it's deep blue with gold details, it looks like it had just come off some royal British high tea table. 

A complaint Price has heard over and over from Ghost is how his hands are just too big for standard tea cups, the handle too dainty he feels like he'll snap it with one grip. So Price knows this is the perfect cup for him, it's everything a teacup should but just sized up for his lieutenant and the handle looks much sturdier as well. 

He stands back while his wife talks with the artist who is delighted for a sale and the ladies sweet compliments. His wife disappears Into the women's studio chatting away, apparently she'll gift wrap it for them to, perfect.

While they are busy he looks around and finds something for his wife, another cute statue for her display wall. Usually the items on that wall are things he brings from missions around the world but he saw her eyeing this.

He comes back just in time and they head home with the perfect gift for his tea loving  lieutenant. On the ride home his wife raves about the artist and how the work in her studio Is amazing, how the cups are for making a living, how she's so cute and single. He wonders how she learned that last fact, but his wife is a better interrogator than most professionals and she does it all without you even knowing. 

She left out one detail from their conversation, how she quickly talked up Simon. And how her quick pitch worked resulting in the nice lady slipping her business card in the bag with her number on the back. So this year Simon will be getting a beautiful cup and hopefully a date. 

This isn't the first time Price's wife has tried to set up Simon, so over the years she's honed her pitch, hopeful one day he'll find someone to fill his home and give him a warm welcome after a rough misson. She's seen the state of the boys come back, some tires worse than others but Simon there's already darkness in him so when it's also surrounding him he can get stuck in it and he needs a warm light. 

She has acted as that warm light many times, cooking the boys a big feast and having them all over for dinner to lighten their spirits and fill their bellies, but Simon needs someone, he needs a light stuck by his side to clear away his clouds. 

[Ghost's birthday]

He never used to like birthdays until Price's wife started throwing them for all the guys. She knows he doesn't want it to be a big deal so she keeps it simple, a nice home cooked meal, gifts and drinks with the guys after. 

The meal was delicious, they are all stuffed as they sit in the living room for gifts. Soap goes first handing over something he obviously wrapped himself, he opens up the oddly shaped package and finds a 3 pack of pocket sized WD40 and a candle the scent of gasoline. Gaz gifts him a chocolate grenade and another switch blade for his collection.  

Next Price's wife hands over a bag, he wonders what's in it since she's practically been littering the whole time waiting for her turn.

He carefully unwrapping the tissue paper and finds a beautiful tea cup and it fits his hand perfectly. He's never seen anything like this a real tea cup for his gaint size and a handle sturdy enough he could actually use. This will be the shinning star among his cupboard. Just drinking from this will lighten his day. He thanks Price and his wife the best he can. He spends a few solid minutes just staring at the cup, cataloging ever detail. 

As he's re-wrapping it he notes a card in the bottom of the bag. He's thrilled to know where he can get more cups because just having one will make his other cups look sad. He goes to put the card in his wallet when he notes the number handwritten on the back. 

“ what's this?”

“ it's the number of the cute lady who made the cup”

Over the years he's gotten many numbers slipped to him by Price's wife but this is the first time he's actually thought about calling and not just for another cup. No, he wants to meet the person who made this, wants to see their other work, maybe he'll even ask her out, maybe. 

[ 2 years later]

His cupboard is now full of elegant and eclectic tea cups all hand made by the Lil bird who's now sleep in his bed. 

2 years ago he went to her studio and met her, and that was it at first sight he was hooked. The flutter of her voice, the sparkel of her eyes, her round cheeks, hair up in a messy bun, hands covers in clay and a few spots smeared on her face. He walked in while she was working, doing something he now knows is called throwing on the wheel.  Even though he interrupted her, she enthusiastically chatted with him about the cup he got and her work and that day they planned their first date. 

Now they have been together 2 years and each time he comes home he gets that same feeling he did when he walked into her studio for you first time. 

[littlelovelunette]

this one isn’t smut, but could you do vi and reader having an argument, and vi raises her arms in exasperation, and the reader flinches and has a panic attack because of past childhood trauma, and vi comforts reader and makes sure they’re safe

Promise Me

Contains implied PTSD, trauma, mentions of abuse, sensitive content

This one feels personal…

Vi had been letting go of herself, pit fighting and getting drunk, it made you sad.

You knew she was suffering deep inside and she was hurting but acting the way she did, hurt you as well. You just wanted her to put things in the past and move on with her life but she didn't seem like she was interested in doing that anytime soon.

You both weren't in an exclusive relationship, it was more like a random hookup where you both caught feelings somewhat and now live together. It was weird but you never found her sober enough to talk it through.

You were watching Vi stumble into the living room, clearly drunk as the bottle of alcohol fell out of her loose grip. The bandages she had on her arms and the chest bindings were all soaked with blood and sweat. She looked awful.

“You're drunk. Again.” you said, your tone clearly fed up and angry.

Vi only hiccuped a little and slurred a response back, “Looking so pretty while so angry.”

You rolled your eyes and walked over to her, sitting down at the couch, pulling her by the wrist so she would sit down beside you. “I don't understand. I'm trying to help you but you're not letting me. You're ruining yourself going down this path of painless self destruction.

While I wouldn't exactly say it's completely painless.” You pointed out the bruises and cuts she had from the fights.

You hated her being like this. She was just as good as an alcoholic by now.

“Stop nagging me,” Vi simply said, getting off the couch instead of letting you patch her up like she usually allowed while she was drunk.

You got up, now even angrier than before. “Vi,” you called, “I'm not nagging, I'm only saying you should take care of yourself. How do you even tell yourself you love me if you can't even bring yourself to love you?”

Vi groaned a little, “Blah, blah, blah, I'm too tired to go through your shit right now. Can't I just go to my room and take a fucking nap?”

“No, we need to talk about this.” You pressed despite knowing she was drunk. She was drunk pretty much all the time. What difference would it make if you questioned her about it now?

Maybe she would change, maybe she wouldn't. Instead of waiting longer for pretty much no results, it was better to just know now.

Vi huffed and crossed her arms, eyes bloodshot due to the alcohol, “What do you gotta say? Spit it out.”

“You need to stop all this fighting drinking, it's not a healthy coping mechanism,” you said, crossing your arms as well as you eyed the other woman.

“Healthy coping mechanism?! Look around! We're in the Undercity! Nothing’s healthy here if anything!” Vi yelled, her voice raising, making your heart pound against your chest almost painfully. You hated seeing her so drunk… and verbally hurtful.

“Do you wanna be like all the junkies we see out on the road?” You asked, trying to maintain a calm collected tone.

Just then Vi raised her hands in exasperation and you took a step back, flinching and hiding your face. Vi completely paused seeing you do that.

“Love,” she said, her voice an octave lower, she walked closer, hand hovering over your shoulder as if scared to break you, “Love, what's wrong?”

“N-Nothing,” you pushed her away and walked into the shared bedroom, trying to collect yourself.

Her raising her hands like that brought back bad memories. Pain. Screaming. Begging. To just stop. It felt like something was stuck in your esophagus and you couldn't breathe properly.

Forcing yourself to swallow the growing lump in your throat, you stared at yourself in the mirror. A small, barely visible scar on your left eyelid, the bruises that littered your legs. It was like every other memory you tried to bury deep away, away from your everyday day and mannerisms, they were coming back to haunt you again.

You could almost hear the screams and the begging behind your eyes, somewhere in your head and you weren't sure if you were being sane right then.

Something was bothering you…

“Sweetheart,” Vi walked into the room and cupped your face making you look up at her, “Tell me what's going on.”

You let out a breath, a shuddering breath as the imagery of blood, darkness, tears flashed through your brain at once making you flinch and try to pull again but Vi didn't let you.

She wrapped you up in her strong arms, hands caressing the soft locks of your hair and even if she was sweaty, bloody and reeked of alcohol you couldn't help but find love within her hug. And acceptance.

You knew she was always there but it was harder to open up about something so sensitive if you've buried them deep long enough.

“I'd never hit you. Never.” Vi said, kissing your head and making you look at her again to ensure that you understood what she said.

“Pinky swear?” you managed to ask in a low voice.

It broke Vi’s heart that you needed that much reassurance despite her saying she wouldn't hurt you ever, making her wonder just how many levels of hell you had been through in the past.

“Pinky swear…”

[probablyasocialecologist]

Disco Elysium's setting was formerly the site of a communist revolution that established the Commune of Revachol. It didn't last long. The Coalition of Nations brutally put the communists down, divided the city among themselves, and enforced a free market capitalist system. The results are depressingly apparent in Revachol's dilapidated district of Martinaise. "The literacy rate is around 45% west of the river," Joyce Messier, a negotiator sent to parley with Martinaise's striking union, tells our protagonist. "Fifty years of occupation have left these people in an *oblivion* of poverty." This state of affairs is overseen by the Moralist International, a union of centre-left and centre-right parties that professes to represent the cause of humanism, but whose primary concern is transparently the preservation of capitalist interest – a Coalition official happily tells us that "the Coalition is only looking out for *ze price stabilitié*", arguing that inflation in Revachol must be prevented, comparing it to a heart disease that could block the "normal circulation of the economy". The people of Revachol don't matter. Their suffering and oppression is only significant as a necessary symptom of the system functioning as intended.  The most biting aspect of this critique of capitalist exploitation can be found in the cynicism of those who represent Moralism, or at least, its interests. The aforementioned Joyce Messier is its perfect embodiment. She does not believe in the facade of humanity Moralism presents to the world, and is under no illusions about what it has done to the people of Martinaise. She tells you how bad things are, freely admitting that the pieces of legislation put in place by the Moralist Coalition to govern Revachol are there to keep "the city in a [...] laissez-faire stasis to the benefit of foreign capital". This corrosion of belief via cynicism, this depiction of a system that continues to operate unimpeded despite few believing in it, feels all too familiar.  This critique of liberal capitalism's hypocrisy, cynicism, exploitation and deep-rooted connections to colonialism, is particularly powerful in recognising the precarious position it finds itself in. It has reached a stasis that seems, paradoxically, both insurmountable, and on the verge of collapse. Moralism relies on this contradiction. It's unofficial motto, "for a moment, there was hope", underlines the degree to which its dominance depends on the preclusion of the idea that a better world is possible, that there is no alternative, echoing the End of History sentiment that created the (rapidly disintegrating) political consensus of our lived reality. Despite growing dissatisfaction with the status quo in the real world, it has, indeed, proved difficult to imagine an alternative. The oft-repeated phrase attributed to literary critic and political theorist Fredric Jameson, that is is easier to imagine the end of the world than it is the end of capitalism, has almost become a cliché. However, the mistake Joyce makes, and one that we should avoid, is to assume that this means an alternative won't emerge nonetheless.

[...]

In a world where everyone is encouraged to look out for themselves, Disco Elysium suggests we should remember the value of collectivity, camaraderie and community. The Deserter has forgotten that though the communism he identified with is dead, the values that brought people to its cause in search of a better world remain as valid as ever. Bleak as it is, those values exist in Martinaise. They exist in us. Their latent power has the potential to lead us towards better horizons.