#i could go on and on about how fucked this is not to mention the politics of how we got here

[classyrbf]

thinking about classmate!gojo who has no idea that the shy, nerdy girl in his class is secretly a perv who has a massive crush on him and has been trading nudes with him. From the moment you saw him in your lecture, glistening blue eyes and fluffy white hair, you immediately could feel your heart pounding. He was so cute, so handsome, and god his muscles drove you crazy, not to mention his smile. He’s only glanced your way a few times, though, but it wasn’t until you went on your fake account and began sending such lewd pictures of your body to him that he started noticing you. To your surprise, he actually sent one back and from there on out, you chatted every day.

You shouldn’t have been shocked to find out that he had a pretty cock too. Lengthy and thick with a pretty pink tip, just waiting to be sucked and fucked. Everytime you scrolled through your chats, your hands always found a way in your pants, rubbing at your little aching clit. You’d get so worked up, so wet, sending him videos of your dripping pussy, fucking yourself on your fingers just for him. He’d send a video back, jerking his cock, his heavy breathing and soft moans in the background. “God, baby, you have such a pretty pussy, you know that?” He chuckles. And the next morning, you’re both back to being complete strangers. He’s sitting in his seat on the other side of the room, obnoxiously tapping his pencil, completely unaware that you’re fawning over him, getting wet just thinking about him.

Sometimes you even leave class to slip into the bathroom, pulling your skirt up and snapping a picture of your cunt or unbuttoning your shirt to snap a picture of your tits just to hit send to him. And when Gojo gets the notif in class, the professors words going in one ear and out the other while he hides his phone to stare at the pictures you sent, his cock growing hard. And still, he has no idea that it’s you.

gojo: send a video of you playing with yourself for me, yeah?

Without hesitation, you listen. You’re in the bathroom stall, skirt hiked up while you quietly finger your soaked cunt, showing your slicked coated fingers to the camera. And a few minutes later, you walk back into class, watching gojo look down at his phone, trying so hard to pay attention but failing so miserably.

Later that night, Gojo is in his bed, fucking his fist to your pictures and videos, scrolling through your chats and messages, his cock throbbing in hand. “Fuck, I wish I knew what you looked like,” he muttered under his breath, pressing play on a video of you fucking your dildo, your ass bouncing up and down on the silicone. “I could fuck you so much better, baby. Have you screaming, begging, crying for my dick,” he grunted, following your pace. His eyes are fixated on your pussy, drooling over how it grips the toy, your juices dripping down it while your ass jiggles. Just as he’s about to cum, he clicks off your video and presses record, making sure to capture the moment to send to you. “Look at what you fucking do to me,” he rasps, and seconds later he’s cumming all over himself, moaning, grunting, swearing under his breath.

All you can do is smile when you get the video, giggling to yourself. His toned abs flexing underneath the light when he cums, throbbing veins decorating his thick cock. He’s just so perfect to you. A few seconds later he messages you.

gojo: when you gonna let me see your pretty face?

you: you’ve already seen it <3

[whosmariaaa]

— part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4 !

college! sukuna spend that same night in his bed, searching for your instagram. your account was a hard find. it took him 60 minutes of his life to even find one of your friends, who had coincidentally tagged you in their recent photo dump. in that same photo dump was a cute picture of you and your friend. you were glowing, a pretty smile on your face, and sukuna immediately took a screenshot to save for himself.

then, he went to your account. you hadn’t posted a single thing, and your profile picture was black. he had spend 30 minutes searching for basically nothing. but, he still followed you.

the notification “r.sukuna is now following you” popped up on your screen around 1 AM. how the hell did this guy find you? you were genuinely confused.

you didn’t have any classes with him the next day, so you came up to him at lunch. not caring about the girl placed in his lap, kissing his neck. sukuna looked awfully disinterested in her.

“did you do your part of the project?” you asked suspiciously. he turned his head to you, and rudely pushed the girl off before getting on his feet. the girl looked at him in shock, and then shot you a glare, as if you stole her man. that girl could definitely have him, for all you care.

“nah, but you don’t mind, do you?” sukuna replied condescendingly, “besides, it’s only due in three weeks.”

you simply sighed. you can not with this man. he was purposely getting on every single one of your nerves. “it’s due in three weeks because it’s a big project half our grade, you massive dick,” you scowled. a stupid smirk made a way on his face.

“so? you’re smart, right? you’ll figure it out,” he responded.

his comment somehow doubled your irritation. “you’re either helping with this, or i’m asking the professor to kick you out. take a pick,” you hissed back. then, his smirk disappeared ever so slightly.

“you’re really a fucking bitch about this, y/n,” sukuna huffed. he broadened his shoulders slightly, narrowing his eyes in irritation. you rolled your eyes back at him, “go cry about it. take a fucking pick.”

he watched you a for a few moments in silence as he straightened his back slightly, seeming even taller. he looked threatening, sure, but you were too pissed off to care.

“…fine, but don’t expect me give a shit about it,” he decided. another beat of silence, of the both of you glaring at each other. you decided now would be a good time to mention him suddenly following you, since the silence was getting a little too intense for your liking.

“oh yeah, why did you follow me on instagram? how’d you even find me?” you asked.

his smirk returned, and he raised his eyebrows in amusement. “just came across your account. am i not allowed to, sweetheart?” he taunted. he spend an hour looking for it, but you didn’t need to know that. you just scoffed, “weirdo.” and then walked off, making sure to shove him with your shoulder.

sukuna stared at you until you left through the doors of the cafeteria. the girl that was in his lap before, got up from her seat. “who was that?” she asked in irritation. he returned his eyes to her, but then a disgusted scowl added to his expression.

“mind your own fucking business, you bitch. and why don’t you get the fuck out of here while you’re at it?” he snarled. the girl flinched slightly at his harsh words, but then muttered something under her breath before getting up and leaving.

“damn, what crawled up your ass and died?” toji asked. sukuna stared at him, his expression dangerous.

“i think he’s still down bad for that girl. what was her name? y/n?” gojo laughed, “y’know what, if you don’t get with her, i will,” he added tauntingly. for some reason, him saying that made sukuna even more pissed off than before. why the hell was he suddenly in his business? you were off-limits, he had made that very clear before.

“watch your fucking mouth, gojo. i won’t hesitate to make an end to your pathetic life,” sukuna threatened.

“man, you’re pussy whipped. what’d she do to make you all in love like this?” gojo teased. sukuna just scoffed and sat down again, ignoring his infuriating friends while in thought.

yeah, what did you even do?

──★˙🍓̟!! hi guys, i’m so sorry i’m still figuring out tumblr, but maybe in the future i’ll be doing a taglist!! ☺️ and @elizabeth-von-winken-universe in my inbox, yes i’ll definitely be doing more parts for sukuna, thank you sm!!! and for the other person in my inbox, i love you to death may God bless u too and keep u and ur family safe💗

[trekbec82]

I've lived in Australia my whole life (42 years and counting), and my own gallbladder caused me more pain and suffering than any of our wildlife ever has.

It's really simple if you follow the number one rule of not being a fucking dumbass - if you leave it alone, it will (generally) leave you alone. There are some exceptions to that, but you should still be leaving them the fuck alone, just from further away - unless you're trained and know what you're doing, and are doing it for a good reason, like science.

On a related note, I fucking despise the phrasing "shark infested waters" and "croc infested waters" - that's their home, those waters are human-infested. If you don't want sharks or crocs having a nibble on your flesh, stay out of their house!

Also you should do a first aid course, because knowing what to do if shit goes sideways can save a life. Whether that's bites, stings, drowning, heatstroke, car accidents, or your kid falling out of a tree when trying to see a koala better. Get your first aid certificate!

Getting back to positives though, there's some absolutely stunning landscapes to consider, and I don't just mean the beaches and rainforests (we have both tropical and temperate). Central Australia is made up of several distinct deserts, which are home to both unique biodiversity not found elsewhere on the planet, and people (though not many of those, according to census data). It's not empty - it's just not full in the way cities are, and that's a good thing!

I remember twenty-ish years ago, an American (now former) friend suggested we build desalination plants around the coast, and use ocean water to irrigate Central Australia to make it "habitable". It's! Not! Fucking! Empty! And even if it was, how much damage would it do to the Great Barrier Reef, and other ocean life, to take that amount of water? I shit you not, if I could have strangled him through my dial-up internet connection, he'd be dead and I'd be a convict like some of my ancestors.

Do most people live within 100km of the coast? You bet. But sparsely populated isn't empty. Different isn't necessarily deadly. And when it is, it's probably because you fucked around and now you're finding out. That's on you.

(Did I just realise I barely mentioned the adorable marsupials? Yes. But everyone knows about the adorable marsupials, and if you don't, consider this your cue to go look them up. Also apologies for how rambly this is I just noticed it's 3am.)

I went to an exhibition on the history of migration and colonial rhetoric in Australia and it really helped me to pinpoint my exact issue with the way non-Australians (and. tbh. some aussies) talk about this country

this map is a piece of propaganda from 1921. honestly what shocked me about it was how little of Australia is marked out as “uninhabited”. I have seen maps shared around on this website that basically mark out the entirety of non-coastal Australia as “empty”. fucking colonialists from 1921 were more generous than some of you

the history of colonial Australia is a history of “taming the untameable land”. this has been reinforced through narratives that this country is:

inherently dangerous

uninhabitable

empty

this rhetoric survives in both the way Australia is imagined by non-Australians and in the self-image of Australia. the (white) aussie battler conquers the unconquerable. the outback is imagined as a post-apocalyptic hellscape. our fauna is categorised as uniquely hellish and unwieldy. so when non-Australians make joke after joke about how scared they are of this place. well you can imagine why it fills me with the kind of rage that can only be generated by the understanding that You Are Reinforcing Colonialism

[yanderedrabbles]

This is a thought I’ve had ever since i read your yandere outlaws story: what if you (try to) run away with one of the outlaws…could you even do that…. Would the poor guy even survive if you two get caught

Which of the yandere outlaws would run away with you?

CW: noncon, violence, knife play

You can't exactly ask the boss to run away with you. He's got responsibilities, authority. His men rely on him. If he wasn't the boss though? Yeah, in that case his loyalty would stretch very far at all.

The gunslingers absolutely would. But is it really a good idea? Without the boss around, there's no one keeping them in check. How much tighter will their grip be, with no one to scold them for the bruises?

They're the type to make you earn their help, and then force you to keep paying off that favour for the rest of your life.

"Mighty dangerous thing you're askin' pretty."

"How you gonna compensate us for our trouble?"

The wrangler absolutely wouldn't. Which is a real pity, since he's probably the only one with the skills to evade tracking. But he's also loyal to a fault.

"I wish I could beauty, but there are some debts that can never be repaid."

The kid, hmm. Yes. Maybe. It depends on how much time they give him. The outlaws know he's still soft, so I don't think they'll leave him alone with you for too long. He's young and guilty. You can definitely manipulate him.

"I'll...I'll do it. Just don't tell anyone, 'kay?"

The second in command, the man who claims to love you. You'd think all it would take is batting your pretty eyes and asking him to take you away from all this. And you'd be partly right. If it was any other gang, he'd be gone with you by morning.

But despite all their flaws, these outlaws are his brothers. He owes the boss his loyalty.

He's also a practical man. He knows it will be considered a betrayal. And the boss isn't one to let that slide. Even if he did make it out with you, he'd spend his whole life looking over his shoulder. And what kind of life is that?

"No. You belong here. Nowhere else."

But let's ignore all of that and assume you do manage to run away. How will the outlaws react to you and the traitor?

The boss will shoot them. It doesn't matter who. And then he'll bend you over the nearest thing and fuck some sense into you. Rough this time. Not holding back. You've proven kindness is wasted on you. Anal probably, dry and unprepped.

You realise for the first time exactly how thin his patience is. How cold and terrifying his anger. He'll be clipped and curt the entire time. "Move it." "C'mere." "Suck it." No sweet pet names this time, no treating you like his little girl. You want that softness? You're going to have to earn it back.

The gunslingers will make a game of it. Say whoever finds you gets to have you all week. They'll kill the traitor slow. Maybe leave him out for the ants and coyotes. And then they'll tell the boss you need to be punished.

They're the kind of bastards who'll slap a knife against your pussy just to see you shiver, scrape the tip against your inner thighs. Never drawing blood but always getting oh so close. 

Double penetration too, until you're too cock drunk and hurt to even think about running.

The wrangler is the one who can track you down the fastest and also the first one to figure out if you're plotting something. He won't tell the others. He'll just follow you and come out of the dark like a ghost. Shotgun levelled right at your heart. He won't kill the traitor, but the cold glint in his eyes shows you exactly how close he is to doing it.

When he gets you home, he'll make you sleep in his bed. So if anyone mentions your absence, he can say you were with him.

He won't be angry with you. Instead, he'll just hold you. His chin on the crown of your head as you sob into his chest.

"I'm sorry beauty. But there really is no way out. Wherever you run, I will always find you."

If it's the boy who finds you, it's a toss up. He might let you go, might remember how much you cried that first day. He might still be a good person at heart.

Or, he might see this as his opportunity to finally earn the rest of your body. That's what the gunslingers said, remember? If he wants to fuck you, he needs to earn it. And what better way than to bring you home?

The second in command almost never gets angry, but this time? He doesn't even bother with a gun. He kills the traitor with a knife. Rips his throat out and leaves him to bleed out on the desert sand.

He's explosive. Grabs you by the jaw and throws you against the wall. Kisses you before you can fall, ripping your clothes off with one hand. He's the worst of them all when it comes down to it. His anger making him twice as cruel and thrice as callous.

He fucks you with the other man's blood still splattered across his face.

"You wanna be like that? Don't like it when I'm nice? Fine."

He'll fuck you dry, his hand around your throat the entire time. His lips just the tiniest bit away from yours, just watching the fear and the tears. Revelling in them. When you're done, he shoves you down on the bed.

"Open your fucking mouth."

He'll make you suck the blood and come off his cock, pulling your hair so hard it gives you a migraine.

He'll grab your jaw so hard the bones ache, and yank you up to his lips.

"I'll fucking kill you next time."

You believe him. 

[suiana]

yandere! loser who's chronically online and thinks that the world is ending because he can't find love. or rather, can't get a lover because wdym he's had a crush on you for five years and is STILL single!!!

bro's the type of guy to complain on reddit about being single and not do anything afterwards even if people give him advice. bro's the type of guy to say he's going to die alone and continue sitting in his room while watching lego building videos. bro's the type of guy that... also stalks you intensely after one single conversation where he thinks you're his one and only.

this guy probably thinks he's tough shit or something but cannot for the life of him, ask you out on a date like a normal person. forget that! he can't even get out of his house!

he lives off of his parents money (thank goodness they're rich) and doesn't work. why? because he says his dream job is to be rich and unemployed (successfully done btw). sooo no, he's probably not gonna be inheriting his father's company and be the hot rich alpha ceo you were dreaming of.

you'll get this weirdly obsessed loser though.

he's the ultimate loser! and in this ultimate loser pack you have gacha addict, fucked up sleep schedule, virgin, 70 different hyperfixations, reddit user, stalker, 4chan user, compsci graduate, have i mentioned stalker? yeah, definitely stalker.

stalking... heh, guess you could say he has a job... that is, if you count stalking and watching over you 24/7. yeah, that's right. the feeling you get that you're being watched even at home? that's him.

sure, he might be jacking off to surveillance footage of you, watching gf/bf asmr and pretending it's you talking to him... oh and also he might've built a mini shrine with things he 'borrowed' from you...

but really, you should just be glad he isn't doing more heinous things. for all you know he could be doxxing or manipulating you to be with him! god, that would be horrific. especially because we all know what 4chan and reddit users can be like.

like he's... weird to say the least. but it could be worse than just obsessed, crazy, and delusional. yeah, so what if he's thinking of scenarios that don't exist? scenarios that involve you, to be specific?

you don't even remember meeting him but he's gone and created a life for the two of you in his head already. for five years, if i must add. like... that's bloody crazy innit?

and he's also british.

yeah so😝

don't worry, he's crazy devoted! some might call him a yearner, others say he needs to be amditted to a hospital. whatever! they just don't understand him.

but you do, don't you? you have to! you're his one and only (one sided)! he's already planned the both of your weddings out, bought you TONS of gifts- you received his presents before right? yeah, those new headphones you wanted? you got it a few weeks back. your college debt? remember how it was mysteriously paid off? yeah, and the fact that you were happy about it must mean that you accept his advances!

yeah! g'luck mate you're going to be called darling REAL soon 🤑 hopefully. jost hope you don't get asked out on a date... he might do a little shanking 😵☝️

[lurkiestvoid]

A tag mentioned 'where the reddit stockbros at' and ... well anyways, for those asking how to help without directly trading:

- Loudly and frequently remind everyone how he didn't found Tesla, he bought the right to call himself the founder, and then ruined a great thing.

- Loudly and frequently discuss how absolutely shit quality Teslas are, using as many specific examples as possible. One of my faves was an old TT where an auto assembly worker went over as many details of a Tesla as they could, pointing out aaaaall the shoddy craftsmanship and cut corners, badly installed gaskets, etc.

- Loudly and frequently discuss Tesla deaths. Especially things like how Mitch McConnell's wife lowered vehicle safety standards and then her sister got drunk and reversed her deathtrap into a pond.

- Bonus points if you can put these comments in relevant places, like say, Yahoo Finance, relevant tags on ANY social media, and under finance/market news and blogs.

- Same goes for SpaceX and Starlink, anything and everything negative you can say about them especially backed up by facts, statistics, or other reports

- Consumer/market sentiment is closely monitored by the industry, regardless of how they spin it in media. No one on the internet actually knows whether or not you own any of these products.

- If you're feeling really edgy, go to whatever subreddits/Yahoo comments section/wherever relevant and pretend to be a Tesla/etc shareholder who gave up and sold. Don't tell others to sell, that shit usually gets shut down pretty quick, but just be 'disgruntled' and 'disappointed' or even scared. "idk guys I'm really worried, this isn't getting better, I just really think it's over, I'm selling"

- If you or anyone you know has any kind of 401(k) or other externally-managed retirement portfolio, mention to them you really hope they don't have any Tesla/etc in there, maybe they should double check/call their broker/whatever

- pressure your banks/universities/etc to divest any Elon-related tickers, stressing things like "volatility," "market sentiment," "bad optics," and "risk"

- never go the Gleeful Troll route, it just gets ignored. If you want to convince people, play the Concerned Consumer/Shareholder angle

- Report Elon Musk's market manipulation to the SEC. They won't really do anything, maybe a slap on the wrist at most, a paltry fine of 0.001% of profits or something, but it's fun and it's free.

The stock market is paper-fucking-thin and fearful sentiment is contagious. It can absolutely be used to an advantage.

IF YOU HAVE NEVER TOUCHED THE MARKET BEFORE, DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES ATTEMPT TO START NOW. DO NOT GAMBLE ON TESLA PUTS NO MATTER HOW SURE YOU ARE THAT IT WILL CONTINUE TO GO DOWN NOR HOW MUCH ANY STOCKBROS TELL YOU IT'S SAFE. ANY DEATH-THROES OR SPIKES COULD CAUSE EXPONENTIAL DEBT.

Anyways, a small note: margin calls are not nearly as cut-and-dried as implied. Organizations with millions or billions of worth and assets can easily juggle things to rebalance their risk, a margin call does not automatically force liquidation unless that risk cannot be balanced.

Here is your mission.

[jhyoos]

Save A Horse , Ride A Cowgirl

bronc rider abby x buckle bunny reader

mentions : modern au, cocky abby, reader linedancing, romance, smut, fucking in the trunk of a truck, cunnlingus and fingering (r!receiving both) ellie, dina and jesse mentioned

summary : your friends bring you to a actual rodeo instead of a country bar.

notes : I watched footloose leave me alone. i updated the name of what abby does. i got educated by my country ass friend.

You were the daughter of a rancher, but you had no interest in the backbreaking work that came with it. The scent of hay and manure, the early morning calls to feed the livestock, the endless dust kicked up by galloping horses—it was never for you. Why wrestle with a stubborn cow or chase down a loose chicken when your father had a crew of seasoned ranch hands to handle it all? You preferred your boots scuffing up a dance floor rather than trudging through muddy fields.

Between college classes and your job, your free time was sacred, and you spent it exactly how you wanted—with Dina, Ellie, and Jesse at your usual country bar. The neon lights buzzed overhead, the whiskey burned smooth, and the music thumped through your veins as you laughed, danced, and drank to your heart’s content. You weren’t just another ranch girl—you had a sharp tongue, a sharper eye for a pretty face, and a taste for the type of women who could rope a calf and toss you over their shoulder just as easily.

And while you’d never be caught dead tending to a ranch, you sure as hell didn’t mind the idea of marrying someone who would. You had a thing for the cowgirls who carried themselves with a quiet kind of confidence, their denim worn in all the right places, boots tapping to the beat of a country song. You flirted shamelessly, usually with success, leaving the bar with a strong arm slung around your shoulders, a lingering kiss pressed to your lips, and a number saved in your phone—just in case they rode back into town.

When Jesse even mentioned the idea of going to a rodeo, you shut it down immediately. The thought of dust clinging to your clothes, the overpowering stench of manure, and the general discomfort of being out in the heat? Yeah, not your scene. But when Dina casually mentioned the kind of girls who’d be there—tough, confident, and probably looking damn good in their cowboy hats and Wranglers—you suddenly had a change of heart.

If you were going to endure a rodeo, you were going to do it right. You slipped into your best outfit—a black, off-the-shoulder crop top with long, billowy sleeves that hugged your arms just right, paired with fitted blue jeans that sat snug on your waist, accentuated by a bold, engraved silver belt buckle. You topped it all off with gold jewelry that caught the light with every move. A swipe of gloss over your lips, one last mirror check, and you were ready to turn heads.

When you arrived, the sheer number of people caught you off guard. You hadn’t expected a rodeo to be this packed, but the energy in the air was undeniable. The smell of fried food mixed with leather and dirt, country music blared over the speakers, and the crowd buzzed with excitement. You, Dina, Ellie, and Jesse weaved through the sea of cowboy hats and boots, somehow managing to score a prime spot right up front. The view? Perfect. And not just of the rodeo—because as soon as your eyes landed on a group of rugged cowgirls leaning against the fence, smirking and tipping their hats in your direction, you knew this night was about to get interesting.

The rodeo kicked off with the usual fanfare—dust flying, cowboys racing across the arena, their lassos spinning in perfect arcs as they wrangled cattle with practiced ease. The crowd hollered in approval, the announcer's voice booming over the speakers, hyping up each event like it was the main attraction. One by one, the cowboys showed off their skills, wrestling livestock and maneuvering their horses with expert precision.

Then came the performances—trick riders, ropers, and even a few stunt showcases meant to keep the energy high. But you were barely paying attention. You were here for the real show, the one part of the rodeo that actually piqued your interest: the bronc riding competition.

The first few riders stormed out of the gates, gripping onto the backs of angry, bucking horses that twisted and kicked violently beneath them. It was pure chaos, all muscle and movement, the riders desperately trying to hold on for as long as possible before getting thrown into the dirt. People cheered wildly, but you? You were clearly uncomfortable. The unpredictability, the way the horses thrashed about, the sheer force of it all—it made you shift in your spot, crossing your arms as you tried to keep yourself engaged. The next few cowboys followed in suit, each lasting mere seconds before being flung to the ground, some landing harder than others.

Then, the energy in the arena shifted. The next rider wasn’t a cowboy.

A tall, muscular cowgirl strode out onto the field, commanding attention without even trying. Her frame was solid, powerful, her presence undeniable. A black cowboy hat rested low over sharp, determined eyes, and a thick golden braid trailed down her back, catching the arena lights as she moved. There was a confidence to her—a steadiness in the way she approached, like she had done this a thousand times before and could do it in her sleep.

“Who’s that?” you blurted, turning sharply toward Ellie and Jesse.

Jesse smirked, barely looking away from the arena. “Abby Anderson. One of the best bronc riders in the country.”

Your eyes flickered back to her, taking in every sharp feature, every flex of muscle as she adjusted her gloves, rolling her shoulders like she was warming up for battle.

“She’s hot,” you muttered under your breath, already moving forward before you even registered what you were doing. You stepped up to the gate, hands gripping the metal bars as you leaned in, trying to get a better look.

Dina snickered but followed right behind you, standing close at your side. “She is cute. Can't say much my girlfriend is behind me," she says as you both looked back at Ellie before bursting into laughter.

The announcer’s voice rang out across the arena, calling Abby’s name like she was a legend among mere mortals. The crowd erupted, a mix of cheers and whistles, and you swore you even heard a few people chanting her name. It was clear—this wasn’t just another rider. Abby Anderson was the rider.

She adjusted her grip on the reins, rolling her shoulders once more before nodding toward the gate crew. The second they threw it open, the horse exploded out like a firework, muscles coiling and kicking as it fought against the weight on its back. But Abby? She moved with it like she was born to do this.

Her thighs clenched around the horse’s sides, keeping her steady as it bucked and twisted wildly beneath her. One hand gripped the reins, the other shot up into the air, fingers curled like she was commanding the damn beast itself. Every sharp movement should’ve thrown her off, sent her crashing into the dirt like the riders before her, but she held on—easily. Like she belonged there.

You could feel your breath hitch, fingers tightening around the gate as you leaned in even further. Your heart pounded in time with the hooves slamming against the earth, dust swirling around Abby like some cinematic moment straight out of a western.

Dina nudged you with her elbow, grinning. “You’re drooling.”

“Shut up,” you muttered, unable to tear your eyes away.

The horse gave one last monstrous buck, its front legs kicking high into the air before slamming back down. But Abby was unshaken. The buzzer rang out—she had lasted long enough to qualify, but instead of immediately dismounting, she took a slow, victorious lap around the arena, tipping her hat toward the crowd.

When she finally rode back toward the gate, you swore—for a split second—her eyes flickered toward you. Your stomach flipped. Maybe it was your outfit, or the way you and Dina were shamelessly staring, but Abby definitely noticed.

As she hopped down from her horse, handing the reins off to a nearby handler, Jesse leaned in close to your ear.

“You should go talk to her.”

Your mouth went dry. “What? No.”

Ellie smirked, throwing an arm over Jesse’s shoulder. “What happened to all that confidence you had back at the bar, huh? You scared now?”

Dina laughed, slapping your back. “Come on, Miss I-Flirt-With-Every-Cowgirl-I-See. This is your moment.”

You swallowed hard, watching as Abby removed her hat, shaking out her braid as she wiped the sweat from her forehead. God, she was even hotter up close.

Maybe they were right. Maybe this was your moment.

And hell—if there was ever a time to test your luck, it was now.

Your heart pounded as you slipped away from the stands, your feet moving before your brain could even catch up. Dina and Ellie sent you off with teasing whistles, and Jesse just muttered a smug "Go get her, cowboy killer."

You ignored them, eyes locked onto Abby as you weaved through the crowd, making your way toward the gate where she stood. She was deep in conversation with what looked like her coach, arms crossed, posture relaxed but focused. Even after all that riding, she barely looked winded—just a thin sheen of sweat along her forehead, her braid slightly looser than before.

She saw you. A flicker of recognition flashed in her blue eyes, but she didn’t immediately acknowledge you, too caught up in whatever her coach was saying. So you waited, leaning casually against the gate, arms folded on top of it like you had all the time in the world.

Finally, after another few words and a firm nod, Abby turned toward you, a slow smirk tugging at her lips as she mirrored your stance, resting her arms on the gate.

Up close, she was even more breathtaking. Strong jawline, piercing eyes, sun-kissed skin that made her look like she lived in the outdoors. And then—just when you thought she couldn’t get any hotter—she opened her mouth.

That slight country accent in her voice? Yeah, that was going to be a problem.

“You don’t look like you belong here,” she drawled, eyes scanning you with something that felt dangerous.

You raised a brow, playing along. “What gave it away?”

Abby tilted her head slightly, grinning. “The way you dress. You look like a buckle bunny.”

You scoffed, lips parting slightly in surprise. “A buckle bunny?”

Her smirk deepened, like she was waiting for you to react. Before you could throw back some sarcastic remark, she reached up, plucked her hat off her head, and—without a single ounce of hesitation—placed it right on top of yours.

The heat from it was still there, lingering against your skin like she had claimed you in front of the entire damn rodeo.

“I’ll see you tonight, beautiful,” she murmured, voice thick and smooth like warm honey.

Before you could recover, before you could process the way her words sent a shiver down your spine, Abby pushed off the gate, stepping down with effortless ease. She didn’t wait for a response, didn’t even look back as she strolled toward her team, leaving you standing there, gripping the brim of her hat with your pulse hammering in your throat.

Dina, Ellie, and Jesse were definitely going to have a field day with this.

You stood there, gripping the brim of Abby’s hat like it was a sacred artifact, heart still stumbling over itself as her words replayed in your head. I’ll see you tonight, beautiful.

What the hell just happened?

Dina, Ellie, and Jesse wasted no time. You barely turned around before Dina was right in your face, eyes flicking up to the hat on your head with a wicked grin.

“Oh my God,” she gasped, grabbing your arm. “She claimed you.”

Ellie choked on a laugh, while Jesse just crossed his arms, nodding in approval. “Yeah, that was smooth as hell.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to play it cool, but the warmth on your face betrayed you. “She did not—”

“Oh, she definitely did,” Ellie cut in, mimicking Abby’s smirk. “She saw you, decided you were hers, and now you’re walking around with her hat with her initals on it.”

You groaned, pushing past them, but Dina was relentless, looping an arm around your shoulders as you all started heading back toward the main area. “So, when’s the wedding?”

You shoved her off with a laugh. “I hate you.”

Jesse shook his head, amused. “Nah, you love us. Now, what’s the game plan for tonight? Because there’s no way we’re letting you fumble this.”

You huffed, adjusting Abby’s hat on your head as you thought about it. The rodeo after-parties were notorious—loud, rowdy, filled with music, cheap drinks, and reckless decisions. You hadn’t planned on staying, but now?

Now you had a reason.

You chewed your lip, eyes scanning the area where Abby had disappeared. The confidence, the smirk, the way she had just claimed you in front of everyone—it did something to you, something dangerous.

“…Guess we’re staying for the after-party.”

Dina clapped her hands together, grinning. “Oh, this is gonna be exciting.”

The after-party was in full swing by the time you and your friends got there. The barn-turned-dancehall was packed—cowboys and cowgirls stomping their boots to the music, neon beer signs flickering over the wooden walls, and the scent of whiskey and cheap cologne thick in the air.

You and Dina wasted no time hitting the dance floor. The second a fast-paced country song came on, you were grabbing her hands, twirling her around, laughing as you two stumbled into step with the line dancers. The beat was infectious, your boots sliding against the polished floor in perfect rhythm.

Ellie and Jesse had immediately disappeared to the pool tables, which—judging by Jesse’s hollering—meant they were already a few drinks in. Dina and you, on the other hand, had made it your mission to dominate the dance floor, giggling and spinning each other around even when the song slowed.

Then it happened.

Country Girl (Shake It for Me) started playing, and you whooped, excitement bubbling in your chest. This was your song. One of your all-time favorite line dances.

“Oh, this is happening,” you said, grinning as you took your place in the formation.

Dina laughed, holding up her hands in surrender. “I’m getting a drink. You got this, buckle bunny.”

You rolled your eyes at the nickname, but you were too into the music to argue. As Dina made her way toward Ellie and Jesse, you threw yourself into the dance, moving effortlessly with the crowd, your body swaying, hips moving in perfect time.

Then—mid-turn—you saw her.

Abby.

Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, her cowboy hat back on her head like she never gave it away. The dim lighting cast shadows over her sharp jawline, her muscles flexing slightly beneath her fitted t-shirt as she observed the chaos in front of her.

Your body froze for just a second—barely noticeable to anyone else, but enough that you felt it. Your feet faltered, your breath hitched, because damn, she was looking right at you.

Not just watching—studying.

The song kept going, the people around you still moving, but for that brief moment, it was like the whole damn bar faded into the background. Just you and Abby.

You tilted your head slightly, smirking, challenging her to keep looking.

She did.

That smirk of hers made a slow return, a knowing look in her eyes as she pushed off the wall.

Your pulse skyrocketed.

Was she—?

Was she coming toward you?

Your breath caught as Abby pushed off the wall, her smirk never wavering as she weaved through the crowd with that damn confident stride. It was like the sea of drunk cowboys and rowdy line dancers parted just for her.

You tried to play it cool, tried to keep your body moving in rhythm, but your feet felt heavy, your chest tight with anticipation. She was coming straight for you—eyes locked, hat tilted just enough to cast a shadow over her gaze, making it all the more intense.

When she finally reached you, the music was still blaring, the floor still shaking with the stomps of boots, but all you could focus on was her.

She leaned in, her voice cutting through the chaos, laced with that irresistible country drawl.

“You dance like a city girl,” she teased, hands slipping into her pockets.

You huffed a laugh, tilting your chin up slightly. “Yeah? And you ride like a show-off.”

Abby grinned at that, but her eyes flicked over you, taking in every detail—the way your body still swayed slightly to the beat, the hat she had given you still resting on your head.

Without missing a beat, she extended a hand. “C’mon, buckle bunny.”

You raised a brow, arms crossing over your chest. “And what exactly are you asking?”

Abby leaned in just enough that her scent—leather, sweat, and something distinctly her—wrapped around you like a lasso. “I’m askin’ if you can two-step, or if I gotta teach you.”

Oh, she was good.

You bit your lip, considering. The answer was obvious—of course you knew how to two-step. You were raised on a ranch, for crying out loud. But there was something about letting her lead that made your stomach flip in the most dangerous way.

So, instead of answering, you took her hand.

Abby wasted no time. She pulled you onto the dance floor with a firm but easy grip, guiding you into position. One hand clasping yours, the other settling low on your waist.

And then, she started moving.

It was effortless—her steps precise, her body firm against yours as she led you through the motions. Slow, slow, quick-quick. Over and over, your feet following her lead as the music pulsed through the floor.

People were still dancing around you, but all you could focus on was the heat of her palm, the way she held you with such confidence, like she had done this a thousand times before.

You met her gaze, heart hammering. “So, what happens after this?”

Abby smirked, her grip tightening slightly as she spun you—so sudden, so smooth, that you barely had time to react before you were right back against her.

“That depends,” she murmured, voice low and teasing. “How long you plannin’ on wearin’ my hat?”

Your heart stuttered as you stared up at her, the weight of her words settling over you like a thick summer heat. Abby’s grip on your waist was firm, her fingers pressing into your skin just enough to make you feel her, like she wasn’t letting go until she got an answer.

You smirked, tilting the brim of her hat slightly. “Depends,” you echoed, voice light but laced with something undeniably flirty. “How long do you want me to wear it?”

Abby huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking her head slightly as she pulled you in closer, her breath warm against your cheek. “Darlin’, you keep lookin’ at me like that, and you won’t make it through another song before I take you outside.”

Your stomach flipped, heat rushing straight to your face.

And Abby saw it.

That smirk of hers deepened, eyes flicking between yours like she was committing every reaction to memory. The two-step slowed between you, but neither of you broke apart. The music had changed, but it didn’t matter—every part of you was hyper-focused on her, the way she held you, the way she spoke like she already had you wrapped around her damn finger.

The music pulsed around you, the bass thrumming under your feet as you and Abby moved in sync. She was leading, but there was no doubt you were giving her a run for her money—your body brushing against hers just enough to tease, your fingers lingering when they met.

Abby had confidence, sure, but you could see the way her grip tightened on your waist, the way her breath hitched every time you let your fingertips skim her arm, her shoulder, the hem of her shirt. She was trying to keep it together, to stay cool, but you weren’t making it easy.

And you loved it.

“Damn,” she murmured as you spun back into her arms, her voice low enough that only you could hear. “You always dance like this, or am I just lucky?”

You smirked, letting your hands settle against her shoulders, your body pressing closer than necessary. “Maybe I just like the way you dance.”

Abby’s jaw tensed, her eyes flicking down to your lips, and that was all the confirmation you needed.

Without hesitation, you closed the gap, pressing your mouth against hers in a way that left no room for second-guessing.

And Abby?

She melted into it.

Her hands locked onto your waist, pulling you flush against her, her lips moving with a slow, deliberate hunger that sent heat straight to your core. The music faded, the crowd around you blurred, because in that moment, all that mattered was her.

You deepened the kiss, fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt, and Abby groaned softly against your lips—so quiet, so subtle, but fuck, it sent a shiver straight down your spine.

When you finally pulled back, Abby was staring at you like she couldn’t quite believe what just happened. Like she wanted more. Needed more.

You licked your lips, tilting your head slightly. “You gonna keep staring, or you gonna follow me outside?”

Abby exhaled sharply, her fingers flexing against your waist. “You sure?”

You took a step back, reaching for her hand, lacing your fingers through hers. Then, with a slow smirk, you leaned in just enough to whisper, “Come find out.”

Abby didn’t hesitate.

She let you lead her through the crowd, her grip firm, her pace matching yours as you wove between drunken cowboys and couples lost in their own worlds. The night air hit your skin as you pushed open the door, the scent of beer and sawdust fading into something crisper, fresher.

But you didn’t care about any of that.

Because the second you were outside, Abby was pressing you up against the nearest wall, her hands bracing on either side of you, her breath warm against your cheek.

“You’re trouble,” she muttered, her voice a little rough, a little breathless.

You grinned, your fingers trailing up her arm, your nails barely scratching her skin. “And you like it.”

Abby huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Yeah,” she admitted, eyes dark with something dangerous. “I really do.”

Abby’s truck rumbled softly as she drove, one hand gripping the wheel while the other rested on the center console, fingers flexing like she was resisting the urge to reach for you. The tension between you two was thick, the air charged with something electric. You could feel her glancing at you between turns, that small, knowing smirk never quite leaving her face.

When you texted Dina, a simple "I'm good. Don't wait up." her responses came almost instantly with a string of suggestive emojis. You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the grin tugging at your lips.

Abby pulled off the main road onto a gravel path, the truck bouncing slightly with each bump in the road. Eventually, she slowed to a stop at an overlook—a vast, open space with a perfect view of the night sky stretching endlessly above. The stars were brighter out here, away from the haze of town, casting a soft glow over the landscape.

You raised an eyebrow, turning to her. “When you said somewhere private, I was thinking a hotel. But I’ve done it in public before, so…”

Abby chuckled, shaking her head as she reached into the backseat, pulling out a thick blanket. “Of course you have,” she murmured, that damn smirk widening as she met your gaze again. Then, she leaned in just slightly, her voice dipping lower, huskier. “But have you done it in the trunk before—under the stars, bunny?”

Your breath hitched, heat pooling in your stomach at the way she said it—slow, teasing, like she already knew the answer but wanted to hear you admit it.

You tilted your head, watching her through half-lidded eyes. “No,” you said, voice dripping with challenge. “Think you can make it worth my while?”

Abby’s tongue flicked over her bottom lip, her eyes darkening as she studied you. “Oh, sweetheart,” she drawled, unbuckling her seatbelt and leaning in close enough that her breath fanned against your cheek. “You have no idea.”

Then, without another word, she pushed open her door and stepped out, making her way around the back of the truck. You sat there for half a second, your pulse hammering, before quickly following her lead.

The night air was cooler than before, sending a shiver down your spine—but you had a feeling Abby was about to make you forget all about that.

Abby spread the blanket across the open bed of her truck, smoothing it out with practiced ease. You leaned against the side, watching her, the dim glow of the moon highlighting the sharp edges of her face, the strength in her arms. She moved with an easy confidence, like she had done this before—but there was something in the way she kept glancing at you, like you were the one thing she wasn’t quite sure how to handle.

Once she was satisfied, she turned, resting a hand on the truck bed as she met your gaze. “Well?” she said, tilting her head. “You just gonna stand there, or you gonna let me show you how girls like you do it?”

You smirked, stepping closer, your fingers teasing at the hem of her shirt as you brushed past her. “Guess I’ll let you try.”

Abby let out a low chuckle, shaking her head as she watched you climb onto the blanket. She followed right after, settling in beside you, one arm propped up as she leaned on her elbow, facing you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The stars above stretched endlessly, the only sounds the rustling of the wind through the trees and the faint hum of cicadas in the distance. But even with all that space around you, everything felt small—like the only thing that mattered was her, was this, was the way her fingers trailed along the inside of your thigh, just barely there.

“You look real pretty under the stars,” she murmured, her voice low, intimate.

You tilted your head, fingers brushing against the collar of her shirt. “You gonna keep sweet-talking me, or are you actually gonna do something about it?”

Abby’s eyes darkened, her smirk turning downright wicked. “Oh, bunny,” she drawled, leaning in until her lips hovered just over yours. “You’re gonna wish you never said that.”

And then she kissed you—slow and deep, like she had all the time in the world. Like she wanted to savor you.

Her hands roamed, fingers gripping your waist, your thighs, your hips, pulling you closer, pressing you against the solid warmth of her. You could feel the strength in her hold, the way she wanted you but was still holding back, still giving you the space to set the pace.

But you didn’t want slow.

With a teasing roll of your hips, you grinned against her lips. “C’mon, Anderson,” you murmured. “Show me what those hands can really do.”

Abby huffed out a breath, her grip tightening. “Careful what you ask for, beautiful.”

With a wicked smirk, Abby shifted, gripping the hem of your shirt and pulling it over your head in one smooth motion. You weren't wearing a bra. The night air sent a delicious chill across your skin and nipples, making them erect. But before you could react, her hands were on you again, mapping out every inch like she needed to know you by touch alone.

She got on top of you before putting one of your nipples into her mouth, playing with the other one, twisting it between her thumb and pointer finger.

You let a small moans as she moved onto the other nipple. She moved her hand down to your pants, buckling them.

She seemed to be struggling with you belt as she unlatched from your nipple and focusing on unbuckling your belt. You propped yourself up on your elbow as you looked down at her stuggling. You couldnt help but giggle.

"Do you need help?," you asked teasingly. Abby looked up at you as she managed to unbuckle the belt, taking out the loops of your pants and tossing it somewhere behind you.

She then buttoned your jeans, pulling them down and taking them off, your thong leaving nothing to the imagination.

She used one finger, hooking onto them before taking them off of you.

She pulled away admiring you "Fuck...all of you is beautiful," she mumbled.

She wasted no time getting in between your thighs, licking a long stripe up your cunt, making you gasp.

Just one taste and she was pussy drunk.

She attacked your clit, taking your senstitive bud into her mouth, sucking and licking.

"Fuck abby," you moaned out as your hand made its way to her head, your fingers digging into her hair.

Abby moved down to your entrance, putting her tongue inside , fucking you with her tongue and slurping up your juices.

You grind against her tongue as you bite your lip, trying to reach your climax.

She soon pulled away and replaced her tongue with her finger, immediately curving it into your g-spot. It was clear she was wasting no time.

Her fingers with thick and long, just one was alot. But at the same time it wasnt enough.

You whined and moaned as she thrusted her finger into you, your walls tightened around it.

"Such a tight pretty pussy. Do you want more, baby?," she asks, looking at you.

You nod frantically "Yes please, Abby. Put another finger in me," you begged.

She pulled her finger out, using two to tease your entrance before inserting the both of them inside, not holding back as she expertly thrust her fingers into you, using her thumb to rub your clit.

Your moans got louder and Abby puts a hand over your mouth. "You gotta be quiet, bunny," she says "Unless you want us to get caught..."

Her thrust became harder and faster as she curled them into your g-spot again, making your back arch in response as you moaned against her hand. The truck moving from her movements.

It was too much, but you didnt want it to stop.

Before you knew it the feeling in your stomach started to approach and the tightening of your cunt became tighter which Abby noticed.

"You must be close. You're cut the circulation to my fingers...this is my riding hand, babygirl," she says.

The feeling in your stomach finally snaps and it hits you like a freight train. You were seeing way more stars that what was in the sky.

Abby removed her hand from your mouth and replaced it with her lips, muffling all the moans coming out of you.

Abby helped you come down from your high, slowing her fingers before pulling out when you've calmed down.

Abby pulled away from the kiss before looking at you with a teasing smirk. "You cum this hard from my fingers? Imagine with my strap," she says before putting her fingers in her mouth, licking off your juices.

Fuck...

taglist : @rhian88 @abbyslvrrr @hell0-ki55y @spritelova @abbyscoochiecruncher @smaugayra @chaikichainsaw @femme-historian

part 2?

[jesuisstay]

Listen… I’m ovulating so this post isn’t my fault

✨Christopher x housewife!reader (AFAB)

Contains: smut, breeding kind, dirty talk, lactation kink (hinted), mentions of an existing child

MINORS DONT INTERACT (I will tell your legal guardian)

“Chrisss! Baby!” The words barely scrapped out with the effort to keep all other sounds at the minimum.

The ache of your legs was starting to seep in, but with the vibration of the dryer under you and the way your husband was moving in and out of you dulled the ache to near negligible.

”Let me hear you, pretty girl. No one’s gonna hear us. Not over the washing machine and Delta’s noise machine.” His sultry trance kept you locked in as he lowered his forehead to your’s. No time to worry about the pristine image you had crafted as he had your skirt rucked up to your stomach and perspiration on your brow.

The rough pad of his finger was ruthless on your clit, sending you clench erratically around him. His grunts were intoxicating whenever the slipped between the magnetic pull of his lips on yours.

”I come home to my girl all pretty. Pretty as the day I first saw her. Only now I can do all the things I dreamed about to ya.” Another chuckle at the shiver of your body. “You’d let me do what I want, right baby? In the state your in?”

Some form of a mangled moan left your hips as you buck into him harder.

“How about another baby?Oh fuck baby don’t clench too hard. I bet we could just make another baby right now. Make Delta a big sister. What do you say? Let me fuck another one into you?”

“oh fuck baby. You’re so fucking tight. Don’t worry baby, I’m gonna make it so good. Gonna bury myself so deep in you that none of it will be wasted. Fuck just thinking about you swollen with my cum and my child.”

“You’re tits are leaking baby. You’re body s’already knows what’s coming. Don’t worry Delta or I won’t let it go to waste while we wait on our next little ones.”

“Come with me baby. I want you clenching around me when I fill you up.”

[minswriting]

need a spencer version of pulling him into the bathroom and holding onto the straps of his fbi vest

something about that man in that vest just really does it for me

nsfw | mdni | spencer reid x reader | post prison spencer, semi-public sex in a police station, typical criminal minds violence mention.

hotch version

the case had been a tough one. the unsub had almost shot one of the police officers and therefore, died suicide by cop. the situation had been tense and high adrenaline. and the only thing you could think about after such situation was how good spencer looked in his vest. you knew it wasn’t the time to do that but you just couldn’t help yourself.

as you guys walked back into the precinct, you subtly grabbed spencer’s hand and b-lined to the bathroom, locking the door behind spencer. “what-“ spencer began but ultimately stopped when you put a hand on his crotch.

“here’s the deal,” you said, palming spencer through his trousers. “you look so good in your vest that i just can’t help myself. so you’re going to fuck me.”

spencer raised an eyebrow before ultimately agreeing. which is how you ended up pressed against the bathroom wall with spencer pounding into you frantically. you held onto the straps of his vest, looking him up and down.

he was so incredibly handsome.

your cunt had been throbbing with need all day while he’s been in that stupid, uncomfortable vest. and now that his cock was finally inside of you, you couldn’t help but relish in it. it had been days since the two of you slept together and so, you were kind of needy.

“you’re so wet,” spencer whispered shakily as he moved his hips. “all for me?”

you nodded your head. “all for you,” you whispered back, trying your hardest not to moan.

it was hard for both of you to be quiet. whenever you and spencer had sex, neither of you shied away from making noises. you both would whine, moan, whimper, and talk dirty to one another. but that was hard when you were in the bathroom of a police station.

spencer leaned in, pressing his lips against yours as he pounded into you. the slight change in angle caused you to gasp against his lips as you gripped the straps of the vest tighter. he moved one of his hands down to your cunt, rubbing your clit.

it didn’t take long until you were cumming, the feeling of spencer rubbing your clit while fucking you overcoming you. as you came, you pulled away from the kiss, resting your forehead against spencer’s as you tried your best not to moan. spencer continued to fuck you, his movements a bit more desperate as he chased his own high and after a few more thrusts, he buried his head into your shoulder as he came inside of you, filling you up with his cum.

and when you were both finished, he pulled out, clearly dazed from his intense orgasm. as were you. you took a second to collect yourself before pulling your pants back up and fastening them, spencer doing the same. and then you looked at one another as you saw the goofy grin on spencer’s lips.

“see you in a moment?” he murmured, pressing his lips against yours once more.

“see you in a moment,” you replied, kissing spencer back. and with that, you left the bathroom, leaving spencer alone as you thought about the fact that you just fucked your boyfriend in a police station bathroom.

[elliesanqel]

Oh being mean to loser ellie is so hot maybe im an asshole but she would be over my knee so often and then id act innocent and sweet asking her why shes limping and wincing to sit the next day (plz write anything about it)

spanking sub-ellie ⋆˙⟡

warnings; dom!fem reader, sub!ellie, spanking obv, mdni.

a/n; i just wanted to say a bigggg thankyou for 300+ followers! ur all my babies❤️ theres sooo many reqs in my inbox for sub!ellie so i’ll be posting them for a while…anyhow, here’s a lil’ drabble with the beloved subby ellie while i work on some oneshots💋 ➝ masterlist

~

you’d always have ellie over your lap if she did something wrong. answered you back? over your knees. rude to you? over your knees. let another woman flirt with her? over your knees. it happened so often that honestly, she’d misbehave on purpose because she started to like it. she felt dirty for actually liking it. if it was fully up to her, which you never allowed, then she’d actually bend over your knees herself when she wanted it, but you’d never let her take control, and, she didnt want to look like some needy loser—even though thats exactly what she was for you.

you loved the noises she made too; the moans, the desperate sighs, the curses, the often ‘mmfff fuuuuck. just like that…’ it was like music to your ears, and seeing her bare ass over your lap, the red marks it’d leave, pure bliss.

“babe, c’mon, you seriously need to chill out. another girl touched my arm, its not really that big of a dea—” she rolls her eyes, but wasnt able to continue. “no big deal?!” you snap, not even letting her finish. no big deal? she wont be saying that when shes getting a good spanking, will she now? your eyes narrow—scoffing as you shake your head, looking at the floor. you slowly shift over to the bed, sitting down on it. “fucking get here, now.” you demand, voice leaving no room for arguements. her reaction left no room for any either, as her head fell slightly and she trailed over, pretending as if she was hard done by, but deep down she was jumping and cheering in excitement. swearing she could already feel the wetness pooling in her boxers. within seconds her jeans and boxers were pooling at her knees, her ass facing up as you had her bent over your knees, hand rubbing her plump cheeks before pulling back and landing a smack on them. “oh fuck—fuuuuck, babe…” she whined desperately.

thats pretty much how it went every time—and not to mention, the next day you’d feel the need to act completely nonchalant and innocent, just to tease her further.

you were sat on the sofa, reading a book as ellie dragged out of the bedroom, softly limping. she trailed over to you, going to sit next to you but when she does, a sharp wince left her throat, causing your ears and eyes to perk up and look at her. “awh, are you okay, baby? whats wrong? are you in pain?” you ask innocently—a pout on your face as you ask. her brows furrow as her eyes roll, she knew what you were doing, but deep down she loved it.

taglist: @valeisaslut @elliesfavtoy @ttspenny @ellieswrath @willurms @slutt4ellie @stvrluvrrpres @elliescoochieeater @les4elliewilliams @eveyuyy @starwilliams @eriiwaii @vahnilla @ellieputellas

[arcanefox207]

The Wolf You Feed (6)

Joel Miller x Female Reader Part 6 (Ongoing) | Rated Explicit | 6.5k WC | Series Masterlist | Read it on AO3

Summary: Set in a fictional New England town, you fall for your handsome, intense and outdoorsy neighbor while renting out your parent's vacant summer home during a brutal winter.

Chapter Warnings: ANGST. Smut. POV-Switching. Rated Explicit. 18+ MDNI. (CHAPTER SPOILERS AHEAD) Some possible triggers including mentioning death of a child and contemplated suicide. Smut includes P in V, oral (female receiving). See series masterlist for general warnings.

A/N: Hang in there my loves, I'll ease your pain by the end of this chapter (with smut, of course) 🧡 Also my inbox is always open if you wanna talk about TWYF / ask questions! Or anything really. It really means the world 🧡

JOEL

“No, Tommy. I really did fuck it up.” He sighed into the phone. Defeated and sad. 

Joel had reached out to his brother when he was at his wits end. He didn’t recognize who he was becoming and needed to talk to someone before his anger just consumed him whole. 

He broke down and told Tommy everything about you. The one person he really could confide in, and once he opened his mouth he couldn’t stop. 

For the most part Tommy was trying to be understanding but also was caught off guard. Tess was practically family as far as he was concerned. He thought you might just be an indulgence for him. A shiny, new toy for him to play with. He didn’t really see you as a viable partner. Joel didn’t dare tell him how young you were, but Tommy seemed to pick that up on his own the way he talked about you.

“You can probably still work it out with Tess.” Tommy pushes.

“I aint interested in working out anything with her.” He snapped.   

“Ok. Ok, Joel.” He conceded his last attempt to bring things back to normal. He realized that Joel was a different person now. They were not close like they used to be, but he never realized just how much Joel was struggling. Lost. He needed someone on his side, not against him. 

“Look, man. Just give her space. Don’t be a hot head and scare her off.” Tommy tries to reason with him. Tommy always was the one who was more of a people person. His successful life with his wife Maria was something he embraced proudly. It changed him in a way that made him more responsible. 

As they grew older, it was strange how things were shifting. Joel was always the protective big brother, but now Tommy was  starting to fill that role with his grounded life experiences giving him more wisdom. 

“A real help you are.” Joel mutters and throws his phone onto the table and taps his fingers, agitated. Not exactly at Tommy, but he was letting his anguish escape however it needed to. He knew Tommy would understand that he was acting more like a wounded animal that was scared.  

He was finally acknowledging that after all his shitty behavior this is the hand he was dealt. He couldn't sweet talk you into forgiving him and he no longer had Tess on standby to console him. Tommy was trying to be supportive but he just didn’t know how.

When he tried to sleep all he could see was the hurt in your face. It didnt matter what he did or didn’t do because you were hurt and it was all his fault. 

He hurt you and he wouldn’t be able to change that. 

—

YOU

Days go by in silence and you’re not sure how to feel about it. Part of you wanted Joel to fight, but the other part was glad he obeyed. Respecting your demands to leave you alone. 

The nights were the worst. You almost gave in to calling him on several occasions. Even if he did wrong, something about him still called to you. A relentless need that you had no control over. 

You were nearing the two month mark living in Kineo, and Joel had been present in almost all of it. Your fresh start to independence unexpectedly had a co-pilot, and one that you weren’t ready to fly without.   

You kept it all to yourself. Marlene never brought it up and you put on a smile at work. It felt like you were just floating through the week with no real purpose or direction. You had paid little attention to anything beyond what was right in front of you. 

The snow was falling quickly, and in the last few hours of your Thursday shift nobody was out buying coffee. There was a major snowstorm that was just starting to ramp up. You had heard many customers fretting about it over the past few days, but didn’t give it much thought. Apparently it was a big deal and you should have been more prepared, but you would figure it out. 

Tess stopped by and your stomach was in knots. She looked numb and business focused, like this was also a distraction she was leaning on to get by. She scuffed the snow off her boots in the doorway and called out to you both. In too much of a hurry to go past the door. 

“Ladies, close up and go home. We’re closed tomorrow too.” She left after you both acknowledged and you were so grateful that it was a quick encounter. You weren't ready to face her just yet, and keeping a secret from her was taking its toll. It felt wrong, and it was slowly eating away at you. 

The ride home was treacherous and you could barely see out your windshield. This was the first real brutal winter storm you encountered since moving and regretted not preparing for it at all. As you got closer and closer to your house you noticed how dark it was. The ominous grey storm clouds blocking whatever little light was left for the day. The only lights you saw were the flashing orange on the upcoming plow truck. 

The house is icy and dark. You go to flick the switch just to confirm the power is out. You use the flashlight on your phone to stumble into the kitchen where you find a few candles to light. 

This was going to suck.

Headlights shine into the front window and you see a truck parked at the end of your driveway. 

Joel.

You answer the knock at the door. Your pulse beating with intrigue, as if your body finally settled on needing his presence more than not. 

You open the door halfway, wanting to be angry at him but finding yourself enamored with how the snow was sticking to his perfectly tousled hair. 

Of course he couldn’t give up the neighborly act and you wondered his true intentions. 

“Don’t mean to bother you, but the power is out and it’s gonna get real cold tonight.. over here.” He puts his hand on the door to push it open slightly wider as he steps forward. “I’d like you to stay at my place.”

His sincere eyes searched yours, looking for any sort of indication how you were feeling about his offer.  

“Won’t get in your way, I promise. Just helping out… a neighbor.” He hesitates on the last words. “And I promised your dad.” he admits sheepishly.

You roll your eyes at that. Your mom and dad were always getting into your business. You had ignored their calls all week so it wasn’t a surprise that they reached out to him.

His offer seemed genuine and you were getting concerned about how cold the house already was. Your candles and flashlights would only do so much.

“Ok.” You agree, giving little emotion. You didn’t want him to think you were conceding easily. You were just being practical. 

Truthfully, you could only suppress the way your body still ached for him for so long.

You feel that heat inside you try to ignite the smallest flame. The feeling that just wouldn’t die despite it all. A spark waiting dormant at any chance to catch. As much as you tried to ignore it, it was still there.

Joel looked relieved that you agreed to it. His protective nature was called into action and he didn’t want to have to force you to do anything. Even if you were icing him out, he still felt a duty to make sure you were safe. Of course, he hoped in time you would forgive him, but for now this was all that really mattered. 

“And I gotta bleed the pipes so they don’t freeze. Told your dad I’d take care of his place.” He pushes the door open even more as he steps forward, and you can smell the coldness radiate off his body along with the leathery scent from his jacket. The fleeting thought of wrapping your body around him and inhaling his scent was overpowering.  

His bullish advance felt intrusive but also non-negotiable as he snapped you out of your delulu. 

You step aside so he can come in. You just now notice his bag of tools and industrial flashlight. Contractors. 

It doesn't take him long and you keep your distance, sticking to your bedroom and packing a bag with the essentials. After a few minutes he knocks on the door to get your attention. You don’t open it, and let him speak to you through the door. Trying to establish that you still have boundaries and your bedroom is one of them.

“What?” you ask with a forced annoyance.

He pauses for a moment and then his husky voice seeps through the cracks.  

“I gotta plow a few houses before it gets much worse. Get your stuff together and let yourself in. The fire is stoked and the house is warm.”

You hear his footsteps as he walks away after waiting a moment. That spark inside burns hotter. A want. You missed him, and you needed him but you had to stay strong. 

Damnit, Joel Miller. He was making it so hard to stay mad at him. 

—

His home was so warm and inviting. The wood stove was so practical and cozy. You started to feel like a character in one of your books in some remote cabin in the woods. You had added a few logs to keep it burning. Joel had them neatly stacked nearby and it wasn’t too difficult to figure out. 

A few hours passed before Joel returned home. He entered the house with nothing but a polite nod to acknowledge you made it over safely and an approving glance at the freshly stoked fire. 

You had been reading in front of the wood stove, wrapped in a blanket. He kept his word and left you alone for the most part. He spent most of his time up in his loft after telling you he fixed up the bedroom for you to sleep in and implied that he would resign to the couch when he was ready to sleep. 

The comforting smell of the burning wood and the crackle the fire made was peaceful. There were a few lit candles giving the cabin an authentically rustic feel. Even if they were there to be practical, it felt romantic. 

For reasons you couldn’t explain, you felt a pang of disappointment in how much of a gentleman he was being to you. It made you feel guilty for being so cold towards him, and annoyed at how respectful he was being to your boundaries. He was doing exactly what you asked him to, and yet you were realizing it wasn’t what you expected. Pushing him away didn’t make you stop wanting him. It was just the safest way to protect your feelings. It was lonely.

The longer you sat in solitude, the more you reflected on what you really wanted. Still, you felt paralyzed to take that next step, riddled with guilt for Tess and a wavering disdain for Joel. You wanted your Joel back. The one that was rough around the edges. The one that made you come alive in ways you didn’t know were possible when he had you under his weight. The one that took what he wanted and left you fucked out and wanting more and more. Ruining future men forever.  

You could have him back, if you just forgave him, but that would also mean coming to terms with the aftermath of what happened. Talking about it. Making it real. 

—

JOEL

He kept to himself quietly in the upstairs loft, trying to keep himself calm. You were right there, content and safe, still not speaking to him beyond what was necessary. Having you so close and still so out of reach was eating him alive, but at least you were there. 

Not having electricity for a hot shower didn’t help his mood. He was able to freshen up with a washcloth, deodorant and change into a clean shirt. The heat rising from the wood stove made the loft extra toasty. The worn loveseat where he often strummed his guitar was welcoming to his tired body. It sucked in his weight and creaked in protest as he shifted to prop his legs up over the arm and lounge back. 

The day took a toll on him. An early start doing 10 hours worth of contractor work and then spending many more plowing and shoveling snow. He was tired and his muscles ached, but it was nothing in comparison to how heavy his heart felt. 

He swiped through the final photos you sent to him, as he did every night, admiring everything about them. Beyond the obvious, it was the look in your eyes. The happiness and longing for him that you once had. 

He felt his jeans tighten as he focused on your perfect breasts and your swollen clit, begging for his touch. Remembering how your body felt as if it was made to take him. He needed to be inside you again and then hold you forever and never let you go.  

You were too good for him. You deserved more than a washed up old man who couldn’t even be honest with you. 

And still, he needed you. Craved your body and your warmth that your smile radiated. Craved that innocence you had that he loved to corrupt. The way that you made him feel when you needed him. You were so smart and capable, but he saw how your eyes lit up when he did things for you. He made sure to be there for you before you ever asked. He wanted to take care of all your problems. Protect you and make sure you never wanted for anything. The way your body called to him. How right you made his world feel. Now that you were part of it, how could it be any other way?     

Honesty. It was all he had left to give if you would let him. 

Joel looked at a worn photo that he kept in his wallet. He had to make things right. He had to try.  

—

YOU

Joel had used the gas stovetop to heat up some canned soup and it was the first time he interrupted you, offering a bowl. 

After awkwardly navigating around each other in the kitchen, you thank him and resign to his bedroom, alone. You leave the door slightly open so the heat from the wood stove would warm the room. A double wick candle he thoughtfully left for you on the nightstand flickers the room in soft glow. 

Despite the warm balsam scent from the burning wax, the room smells overwhelmingly of Joel. Clean. Masculine. His woodsy cologne that never overpowered but always made itself known. The same blue comforter that you laid under before but a fresh pair of gray colored sheets. They were perfectly smooth. Unwrinkled and untouched since he placed them on the bed for you. It filled you with a sadness as you balled your hand into the sheets, mourning the beautiful memories.

God damnit, Joel. 

You were getting settled in, wrapped up in another blanket and reading your book by candle light when you heard a knock on the door frame.

You lock eyes with him. There is a heavy sadness in them. 

“Can we talk for a second?” 

It was his house after all. You felt you owed him at least a conversation. Even if it was that conversation. 

You close your book as you hesitantly swing your legs over the side of the bed. The door creaks open wider and he stands in the doorway with a hand on the knob, looking for permission to come in. The way his t-shirt was straining against the flex his biceps made you flutter. It wasn’t fair how attractive he was without even trying.

“I guess.” You concede and quickly bring your gaze to the floor. Afraid your body would betray you as your heartbeat quickened.  

Joel enters slowly and walks over to the edge of the bed, sitting a respectable distance away from you. Close enough to touch you, but not invading your space.  

“I uh, don’t know how to say it exactly.” he nervously starts. He was acting differently. Lacking that confidence he so expertly wielded. Vulnerable.     

He pulls out a worn and folded paper and opens it gently to reveal a little girl. She looked young. 11, maybe 12. 

He slides the photo into your hands as you study it, unsure what he was getting at.

“That's my baby girl, Sarah.” His voice is low but heavy with emotion. His hands clasped between his legs and thumbs fidgeting. 

“You have a daughter?” you ask, completely caught off guard. Nothing in Joel’s world left any clues to him having children or a family. You approach this new knowledge with trepidation, noting how old the photo was and wondering where she is now. “Shes beautiful.” 

You can see some similar features when you look closely, except that she was smiling big. Something Joel rarely did. 

He isn’t crying but you can see that glossy look over his eyes. This was a memory that hurt. Your chest tightens, picking up on his pained hesitancy to speak his next words. 

“She was twelve when… when she died.” he says as he takes the photo back into his hands with an unsteady grasp.

Oh my God. His revelation hurts to hear. He looks down to the floor, hunched over slightly with his hands gripping the edge of the bed on each side of him. 

You rest your hand on top of his and feel his skin go taunt over his knuckles as he balls his hand into a fist. Trying to keep his composure. 

“Tommy and I were there by her side. She was sick and the doctors didn’t know how to make her better.” He paused. “I… couldn’t save her.” His voice just above a whisper and you wonder if he meant to say it out loud, as if he had been harboring that guilt for years. 

“Joel I… I’m so sorry.” You wipe the tear that falls down your cheek. “I had no idea.” 

You sit in silence with him, letting the news wash over you both. Unsure what to do other than be at his side while he was lost in his painful memories. 

“S’been almost 20 years, but a day don’t go by I don’t think about her.” He folds the photo and puts it back into his pocket. His voice steadies and he takes a breath as if a huge weight was lifted off of him. 

You felt privileged that he was sharing this piece of his life with you. It was clearly not something he went around telling everyone. It put things into perspective, too. 

He was a dad. 

“Before you start wonderin’ it.” He looks at you knowing full well you are going to be thinking about his history sooner or later. “Raised her myself since her mother left us when she was barely a year old.” He hesitates to say more, like that part didn’t matter. “Sarah was my entire world.”

You feel at a loss with what to say. The more he opened up the more silent you were. He had experienced so much that you never knew about. A single dad. Losing a child. You settle with just closing your hand on his and moving closer to him. What could you possibly say? No, you needed to just listen. He was opening up in a way he never had before, and you suspected rarely would again. 

“M’ telling you this because there's more.” He pauses. “I tried to move on, but I couldn’t stay in Texas. Wasn’t home anymore without her there. Tommy and I went to Boston to start over. He had nothing tyin’ him to Texas either and we can be contractors anyplace. Thought it would help.” He skoffs at that, mimicking how naive he was. “It didn’t.”

You could feel the shift in the room. The feeling that he was about to share something else vulnerable. 

“I… I didn’t see the point in livin’ anymore.” he says with a blank stare, lost as if he was reliving that moment of hopelessness. Ashamed of his weakness. 

“You don’t have to-” you try to interrupt, not wanting him to feel he owes sharing this story with you when you can see how much it hurts him. Part of you is uncomfortable with the rawness of his past he was exposing. Not because it is hard to think about, but because it hurts to imagine him being so desperate and lost that it was his only option.    

He held his hand out towards you, fingers fanned wide, urging you to let him finish before he drops it back slowly to his side.

“Then I met Tess. The night I was going to... be done with it all.” He stumbles over his words, battling with the crudeness that he couldn’t stop from pouring out of his mouth. 

“Joel..” you plea. Not sure if you were strong enough, worthy enough, to hear all this. Until you realized he had to get this story out. Who knows how long he had kept it bottled up to himself.  

“She gave me a reason to keep going. Became my rock. The only person that understood that pain… because she lost her son too. Two people at the end of their rope.”

You never knew Tess had a son. It was so easy to see how two headstrong people could connect and bond over the shared traumatic experience of losing a child.  

“We helped each other… survive.” he sounds unsure about the word choice. “We moved here intending to live separate lives but we clung on to each other. It worked for a while, but we lost sight of where we started… and where we were going.”

He didn’t need to say any more. You knew exactly what he meant. Their entire relationship was built on empathy and survival. They became codependent on each other. 

“I’ll always be grateful for what she did for me. I owe her my life.” He nods, agreeing with his words that he was perhaps speaking out loud for the first time. 

“It doesn’t make anything that I did right. M’not telling you this for pity. Tess will always be someone I love, but we are not the same people we were back then. We were holding onto each other because we were too scared to be alone. Took me a long time to figure that out. Too damn long.”

You detect that annoyance returning to his voice. A resentment.  

“And Tess… she aint got there yet. Don’t think she ever will. And I can’t keep livin’ like that.”

It didn’t make his actions hurt you any less, but it gave you a new perspective. You didn’t know how deep their relationship went and you didn’t realize he felt an obligation to her that he was just starting to understand. 

“And I’ve been feeling this for a long time now, well before I met you. Just go’in along each day with no direction. Not givin’ a shit.”

He stops and looks you in the eyes, intense and deadly serious.

“Was you that made me realize I had been searching for this.” He flips his hand over and his fingers weave with yours. You can feel the desperation and the want in his touch as his thumb grazes over yours. His brow softens.

“Knew it when I first met you and I couldn’t stop thinkin’ bout you night after night. That I had to take back my life. That existing aint the same as living.” 

You wrap your arms around his waist and pull yourself into his chest, breathe in his warm scent and want nothing more than to be in his arms again. Right or wrong you don’t care anymore. This is what you want. You want Joel.   

He wraps his arms around you and envelops you in his heat. You can feel his heartbeat singing into your ear with a heavy thud. Strong and resilient. His safe embrace silently apologizing for hurting you along the way. Promising you he wouldn’t ever hurt you again. 

His honesty made him less of a mystery now. His hardened exterior was built up over the years of living with this horrible hand he was dealt. Now that you knew the truth, you could finally start to make sense of everything.

Forgive him, even. At least try to. 

“I’m sorry.” he presses a kiss onto the top of your head and holds you. “I’m so sorry.” 

—

After holding you for a few moments Joel untangled from you and left you to your privacy, continuing his respectful act. Giving you time to process everything he said. Your mind was racing, analyzing everything. Calculating what happens next.

You knew if you crossed that line you would need to forgive him for what he did, and come to terms with sneaking around and indulging in a forbidden romance. At least, if you wanted to keep your job and the only other friendship you had going. Your parents could never find out either. They would never approve of you being with someone almost as old as them, let alone enable it any longer by allowing you to live in their home. You would have to cross that bridge later. This wasn’t about anyone else though. This was about you and Joel and what you wanted. 

Your next steps were heavy weighing your options, but also so very clear. No longer could you deny the way he made you feel and the way he made you ache for him when apart. He was remorseful for what he put you through. You could see it in his eyes. Hear it in his voice. Feel it in his touch.

Forgiving Joel would also solidify your relationship. It would be you and only you going forward. No more questionable lines of what you were and what you weren’t. 

You made your way out to the living room and saw Joel sitting near the wood stove, wearing reading glasses and a worn book opened in his lap. You didn’t take him for a man that would read for pleasure, but then again you can only do so much without electricity. He looked so peaceful with the glow of the fire illuminating him. A peace that only came with being so open. Everything between you felt lighter, like this was what needed to happen to get to this point.   

He looks up at you as you make your way over to stand in front of him. 

“Promise me.” you beg. “Promise me that you won’t hurt me...” You pause. “Ever again.” It was an absurd demand, but it was what you needed to hear from him. 

He takes off his glasses and closes his book, standing up to join you. His wide and towering body over yours made you feel so small in his shadow. Helpless against him but always safe with him. 

His greys caught the light of the fire, reminding you how much older he was and how much it turned you on. His well kept form only made him more and more attractive to you. Everything about him made you want him. An insatiable desire that you couldn’t deny any longer.  

“I promise, sweetheart,” he says as he sweeps your hair behind your ear and tenderly holds his palm against you. It makes you feel weak. 

“And… Tess?”

“Only you.” He says gently as he takes your hands in front of him. He repeats softer and pushes his forehead into yours as he leans over you, whispering “Only you.”

His hand comes up to cup your cheek and cranes your jawline upward to match your gaze. “I’m yours, if you’ll let me.”

Now you were a goner. 

His lips press into you and you melt into him. His tongue wastes no time to push inside and ravage your mouth. You give in to him, letting him consume you and relishing in his neediness to have you. 

His hands roam under your shirt, pulling it off hastily over your head. Your lips part only briefly. His roughness on your skin is welcomed as he thumbs at your waist band and urges you to step out of your lounge pants. 

You return the urgency, tugging at his shirt to make it disappear. His broad chest was a sight you would never tire of. Wide shoulders that could wrap you up effortlessly. 

Joel tore from your lips and trailed his mouth along your jawline. Nipping at the supple skin and gently biting at your neck as he removed your bra. He slid out of his jeans and boxers while he distracted you with his mouth.

You tip your head back as he goes lower, scruff scraping against your collarbone. Trailing lower and lower, dragging along your breasts. He took you into his mouth, letting his tongue dance lightly over your hardening nipples. Sucking with increasing ferocity until he released you with a wet pop and repeated the same on the other side.

He dropped to his knees with his hands firmly grappling your hips he pulled you in close to him. His hot breath tickled as he thumbed your panties down to expose your cunt.

“This is mine” he declared with a wicked grin as he slid your panties down your legs. His possessiveness couldn’t help but show itself and it was something that drove you wild. A pillar in your relationship that he was establishing and leaving no room to question. You were his.  

He wasted no time, nudging his nose into your clit as his tongue made quick work of your needy mess. Muffling his face into your heat with a hunger.

Your legs were unsteady but he had such a grip on you, holding you firmly against his face while he devoured you. His scruff getting damp while you started to drip for him. His rough patches sent shivers through your body as they grazed your softest skin while his lips and tongue pleasured you. He rubbed himself against you like a feral cat. Letting your wetness mark him. 

He couldn’t get enough of you. His muffled moans vibrated against you exquisitely as he tasted you and moaned in delight.  

Your hands found a home in his grey locks of hair, grabbing tightly with each flick of his tongue making you come more and more undone. He knew exactly how to touch you, drawing moans and gasps from your lips while he buried himself deeper. Pausing on the spots where you reacted the most with expert precision.

He started to take his time, relishing in your sweetness and giving you more and more with each tug against him. He was mindful of making it last as long as possible for you, practicing some restraint that he often ignored. This was about you. Apologizing with his tongue in a way that his words could never.

You tried to hold on as long as you could as your muscles weakened and your breathing shallowed. You cried out his name as your orgasm washed over you. He lapped up your sweetness as you rode the wave. 

He gently guided you down to join him on the floor, leaving sloppy, open mouthed kisses against your belly.   

You were gasping for breath as your heartbeat slowed. He leaned forward, pressing his lips into yours and plunging his tongue inside. You could taste yourself on him. He pulled away and gave a pleased smirk as his eyes narrowed over his nose. 

You sat back on your haunches  with your legs spread open. He eyed you up and down like you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

“I don’t deserve you.” he says almost in disbelief. 

“I know.” you tease.

His cock looked painfully hard. You reach a hand towards him and wrap your fingers around his girth. He was so impossibly thick. His veiny shaft called to you like a siren song that twitched under your touch. 

He wrapped his fingers around yours, engulfing them as you pumped his cock together. Slow and intimate. The increasing tightness of his skin made you feel guilty for having come already when he was so on edge. You could feel how ready he was and how disciplined he was behaving. You were anxious to have him inside you again as you brushed your thumb over his slit and felt his wetness beading.  

“Turn over, sweetheart.” he reluctantly pulls your hand away from his throbbing heat. Your finger drags along the tip as he pulls it off and is wet with his precome. You bring your shiny fingertip to your mouth and lick it clean as you stare at him. The filthy display makes him groan through gritted teeth.

You then obeyed, maneuvering yourself so you were on all fours with your backside to the fire. Grateful for the fur throw rug that was soft on your hands and knees.  

He stifled a groan as he shuffled up behind you, sitting up on his knees. He reached around to your front and pressed his fingers to your opening, pleased to find you still wet and begging to be filled. He dipped just his finger tip inside to tease you, reminding you how thick his fingers were, and how much they paled in comparison to his cock. You pressed back against him and let out a needy moan as he plunged his middle finger in deeper. Your desire to have any part of him inside you was overwhelming.

He pulled all the way out and circled your clit with his wet fingertips, making you whimper. You were still sensitive and swollen from moments before.

“Gonna fill you up, sweetheart. Promise.” his Texan accent came out thick.

He pressed his hips into you as he looked down your back, settling himself between your legs. His hands grabbed your hips and he lined up with your entrance, taking his time. Relishing in your shared bodies once again. His fingers kneaded you gently, holding tightly. Afraid if he let go he would lose you again. 

He slid a hand up your spine, pushing you down the closer he got to your shoulders, urging you to relax while he held you up at your hips. Your fingers curled into the fur carpet as his cock nudged you. 

Oh, how you missed it.

The wait was agonizing. Facing the window, the world looked so peaceful. A black mirror reflecting only the shimmer of the falling snow catching the light from the fire. It was quiet, calming and isolated. For this moment, all that mattered was you and him.

He split you open on his cock as he thrust in, slowly. You could feel his broad head catching on you as he pushed in and out. Working himself a little deeper with each push forward. It was agonizingly slow and you could only imagine how difficult it was for him to be patient. His raspy moans caught in throat with every thrust as your tight walls choked him. 

He was fully sheathed inside you, his hips flush with your body as he held you there for a moment. You were filled to the brim with him and it felt intoxicating to have him inside you. His entire length being strangled by your cunt. You could feel his neediness growing, and his desire to lose himself in you. His throbbing cock begging to come. 

He wanted more.  

He pulled your hips back as he pushed into you, stuffing as much of him inside as he could and being present with how tight you were. 

He was relishing in having you again. His right hand left marks as it clawed into you and you could feel his desperation build while left hand slapped onto your ass and firmly gripped you. He pulled you into him and held you still and he could feel your pussy clenching him, begging for friction. Swallowing him as deep as he could go.

“Joel… please.” you beg him to move with your delirious whines. 

Then he fucked you. Slow. Hard. Desperate to make it last. Controlling his urge to lose himself until you were moaning and begging for him. Every thrust into you an apology and a promise.

It didn’t take long. 

When he came you could feel his heat spilling inside you. Pumping you full of his devotion. You cried out as you rode the wave with him, taking in every drop of his spend as you writhed on his cock. 

You fell forward as he pulled out of you, gasping for air. He leaned over your body, his softening cock dragging against you as he leaned down to kiss your neck. Then he collapsed to the side of you.

He reached to the couch to grab a pillow and the blanket that was hung over the side. It wasn’t the most comfortable, but there was no place you wanted to be other than in his arms, engulfed by his heat and filled so much that cum was leaking out of you. Surrounded by the warmth of the fire and smelling sweat and pine. 

He pulled you tight against his body with his bicep curled under you to support your head. The length of his body pressed into your backside as he held you close, never wanting to let go. Never wanting to lose you again.

He kissed the top of your head again gently and used his free arm to rub your side soothingly as you both caught your breath. 

Joel caressed your sides up to your shoulder until you were fast asleep, stealing secret moments to press a kiss to your body or breathe you in. Holding you so tightly to his body that nobody would dare try to take you away from him. Possessive and determined to prove to you everyday how sorry he was and how important you were to him.

Tonight was something different. It was an intimate side of Joel you had not seen on this level before. You had no doubt that his rough dominance would return with a welcome vengeance, but tonight he was showing you a different part of him. Coming to terms that he was being vulnerable with you because he trusted you.

You faded in and out of sleep, each time comforted when you felt his heat against your body and his heartbeat thumping against your back. 

Despite what happened in the past, this moment felt right. Joel Miller had you hook, line and sinker.  

To be continued...

A O 3 | M A S T E R L I S T | N O T I F I C A T I O N S

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[punkssavior]

better than sex.

cm punk x fem!reader

part two of 'tired of you'. i decided to give these sweeties a prequel since you guys seemed to love their relationship as much as i do (before it ended, duh). this fic is also much fluffier than the last. ur fuckin welcome ;)

link to 'part one' is here. this fic takes place 3 years prior.

tags! @xkittypunkerx @idaisyy @ringoffiction @reebs-luvs-rhodes-and-wrestling @eringobragh420 @meadow-field

content warnings: mentions of blood/violence (very brief!), hookups, oral (f!receiving), car sex, occasional pet names.

wordcount: ~12k

Nights out were supposed to be fun.

Right?

What originally began as a multi-club run and bar hop quickly turned into a mishmash of fallen through plans, after the group of college friends you’d decided to meet up with began acting out of line.

“You told me to meet you at Aurora!”

“I’ve been standing out here for at least thirty minutes!”

“Well— can you tell him to hurry up please? I’m freezing my ass off out here!”

You hugged your brown, faux fur jacket tightly to your chest, walking out of the thumping New York City nightclub named Aurora. Your friends told you to be there at 10:30 sharp, which you were, after taking 2 trains and a taxi to get you there.

Surely your ‘friends’ weren’t intentionally trying to swindle you, leaving you standing out in the cold as they spontaneously decided to shake up the meeting plans.

Surely that wasn’t the case, you hoped.

The weather was unforgiving, that small fur coat and matching boots barely keeping your body at a livable temperature. You always hated going out in the winter, especially since none of your clubbing outfits were suitable for harsh winds and possible snow.

God, this was a drag.

The strip that Aurora was on was very secluded, resembling more of a dark alleyway than a place for bustling nightlife. As much as you hated to admit it, in order to prove to yourself and your parents that moving back to New York by yourself was a good idea, you were a little bit scared to be alone right now.

There was an event happening in the venue down the block, and you could tell from the colorful lights beaming out of the small glass windows and the neon sign at the entrance. But other than those two leakages of light, you hadn’t a clue what was going on.

With yet another huff of frustration, you pull out your phone once again and dial the number of your friend, Cassie.

It goes straight to voicemail.

“Cass,” you sigh into the microphone, “If nobody’s coming to pick me up, just fucking say it already. I mean, I’ve been standing out here for what, an hour? At this point, I might as well walk home! Y’know what, yeah! How about this, I’ll walk home so you and your stupid friends don’t even have to worry about getting me a ride! Take your dumb, fucking clubbing plans, and shove them up your—”

“You okay?”

You shriek, the feeling of a cold, rough hand resting on your shoulder by your neck causing you to whip around. Without thinking, you wind up your fist, and whack whatever, whoever, it was, square in the nose.

“Shit!”

The now embodied voice falls limp in agony, breathing heavy from the practically lethal blow as you take a step back.

Woah.

You gasp quietly, covering your mouth with your hands. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry—”

The man doesn’t answer; instead, he’s keeled over, now resting his hands on his knees. You stare down at him for a moment, in pure shock at the way you were able to just swing around and punch this poor guy in the face. You supposed it was a good omen for your survival skills.

“Don’t— don’t sweat it,” he finally answers you, his raven-colored hair hanging above the ground and over his features as he collects himself. You can see him gathering his breathing, his shoulders moving beneath his tight, dry-fit athletic top when he shakes his head.

“Are you okay?” your voice betrays you, as you take a step closer to his crumpled up figure. You knew deep down that stepping this close to a random guy on the street was one of the first things they taught you not to do in grade school— but you felt particularly bad in this situation.

Beneath where his face was parallel with the ground, you see a drop of blood hit the pavement beside your feet. You take a step back, to your original position.

“I’m fine. Happens— more often than you’d think,” he says, slowly coming to and standing up straight.

When he looks at you, you almost feel the need to gasp. The lower half of his chiseled face was doused in blood, caught in the crevices of his now forming smile. You admire him in a moment of utter shock, your gaze bouncing between a pair of hazelish eyes and a lip ring.

“Do you— get punched in the face by girls on the street often?” You attempt to lighten the mood, now feeling like a mouse as you notice just how much he towers over you.

“Girls on the street? No, never. But grown men in speedos? Absolutely, all the time.”

You wanted to speak again, but were stunned by the growing amount of blood that poured from his nose. But he took it like a champion, using the white tape dawning his wrists to sop up some of the flow. You also couldn’t help but notice the red X’s drawn on that wrist tape, now stained with crimson.

“You sure know how to pack a punch with those little ass hands,” he chuckles wryly, glancing down at the hand you’d punched him with. You follow his eyes, noticing a small speckling of red across your knuckles. “Might I ask why your first thought was to lay one on me?”

“May I ask why you thought it was a good idea to approach me on a dark street corner?”

“You were yelling into your phone. Seemed agitated.”

A smile fights its way onto your cheeks, and you shake your head, “An agitated young girl cursing someone out on the phone seemed approachable to you?”

“Curiosity killed the cat.”

You laugh, still taking him in. He was built, surely some kind of gym rat or athlete. You assumed he’d just gotten done working out, evident from the way his forehead glistened with sweat despite the rapidly dropping temperatures outside. He also carried a confident air to the way he shot back up after being punched in the nose, a catty smile and eyes that were green enough to kill a man.

You were now simply infatuated with looking at him.

“I’m Phil, by the way. I’d shake your hand but I don’t think you want any more of my blood on your person.”

Hot blush falls across your cheeks, but you take his hand anyway, absolutely unbothered. “I’m Y/N. And I’d take looking like a crime scene over turning down a handshake from the first man I’ve ever punched in the face any day.”

Phil smiles, and it’s more warm and inviting than you’d ever expected from a man who looked like him. His jet-black hair was a stark contrast to the olive tones of his complexion, only making those damned green eyes pop out at you like a picture book.

“Y/N,” he repeats, savoring your name on his tongue, “Do you work out?”

“I don’t.”

“Hm.”

You cross your arms over your chest, ignoring the small spatter of blood on your hand in order to tuck it away from the harsh cold. “Why do you ask?”

Phil shakes his head, pressing an index finger to his temple, “Still just reeling from that absolute roundhouse to my nose.”

“Did it hurt?” you inquire, wincing as you notice the blood continuing to drip onto his black shirt.

“Would you believe me if I said I barely felt it?”

“In your dreams, maybe,” you scoff, watching Phil as he digs into his pocket to pull out a crumpled up tissue, “You think you’re tough or something?”

Phil laughs, a hearty, genuine chuckle that almost felt like he was mocking you. You fold in on yourself slightly, unable to pull your stare away from the way he was delicately wiping his scarlet coated, busted nose.

“Some would say I am. But it’s up to you to believe that.”

“Are you picking a fight with me, Phil?”

Looking mildly offended, he scoffs, “I don’t fight chicks. In fact, I typically let them swing at me with little to no consequence.”

You harumph at his comment, shaking your head. The nerve of this guy to act like your first ever punch didn’t hurt him? How dare he.

“Well, it seems to me like that blow to your nose knocked a few screws loose in that pretty head of yours.”

You expect him to fire back with a witty comment, anticipating the ping-pong of banter. But instead, his smug smile pokes dimples into his cheeks.

“You think I’m pretty?”

Silence falls over the two of your bodies, the winter winds now whipping around you as you froze in time. You were completely speechless, Phil just standing haughtily before you and allowing you to take in his question.

“I, uh— I didn’t— didn’t think…”

“Didn’t think? About what you said? You had that quip ready and loaded.”

“It was an expression,” you feign innocence, your eyes growing wider by the second, “Y’know Phil, I don’t appreciate your tone.”

He laughs, just laughs. Everything under the moon tonight seemed funny to this guy and you hadn’t a clue why.

“It’s weird hearing you say my name this many times within the span of five minutes.”

You raise a curious eyebrow, slowly getting the feeling that a facade was being dropped, “You’re not used to people saying your name?”

“Not necessarily. Most people call me Punk.”

Punk. How fitting, you thought. Fitting enough for a man who has let his nose bleed for the better half of ten minutes while dressed exclusively in black. You push your lips to the side, mind still reeling about what exactly he was hiding behind that nickname.

And, respectively, what he was hiding beneath that tight ass shirt.

“Punk. Would you prefer it if I called you that instead of Phil— ‘er whatever?”

“Whatever floats your boat,” Phil, Punk, shrugs, his arms mirroring yours crossed against his chest, “Do you have a name that you’d prefer me to call you?”

Immediately, your mind went elsewhere. Far off elsewhere.

“I don’t think so, no.”

He takes a moment to think, his pupils enlarging when his eyes scan over your figure and eventually stop down at your brown fuzzy boots.

“Bunny.”

“What?”

“Those boots. Looks like you skinned a rabbit for those babies.”

You press your hand to your chest, awestruck by the abrasiveness of his words, “Heeeey! They’re fake, asshole!”

“Fake or not, they remind me of bunnies. That’s just how it’s gonna be.”

Punk looks back down at your boots, and you can’t help but cross your legs and stand at ease like a soldier. You wished you’d had gum to smack or a bubble to pop; for he had you feeling like a complete amateur in a battle of wits and compliments.

“So that’s the script we’re sticking to,” you mumble, trailing off, now self conscious of whether or not your jacket and boots actually look like you were compliant in animal cruelty.

“You tell me, Bunny. How does it sound coming out of my mouth?”

His words snap your eyes back to attention on his face. He juts his tongue out to wet his bottom lip, and you can’t help but notice the piercing that sat directly in the middle of it. You freeze at the sight of it, which you seemed to be doing a lot the more you noticed the smaller details of his person.

“Sounds nice,” you hum, satisfied. A bit distracted by his attractiveness and the small gap between his front teeth.

You were still telling the truth.

“Perfect. Now that we’ve gotten the semantics of politeness out of the way— care to explain why you’re out here alone on a cold winter night in a miniskirt?”

“I’m surprised it took you this long to point out that I was wearing a miniskirt, actually.”

Punk chuckles dryly, “I was concerned about the loud, hurtful obscenities you were yelling into your phone and here you are thinking I’m a shallow pig.”

You sigh in defeat, having lost the battle of wits once and for all. Punk seems to notice the sudden deflate in your ego, as you look out into the street.

“I was supposed to be clubbing with my friends— but they fucked up all the plans and now here I am. Standing outside in the cold. Just so happen’ to also be in a miniskirt and boots that apparently make me look like a bunny.”

“They left you here?” Punk asks, the concern laced through his voice far more prominent than the sarcasm.

“They didn’t even show up.”

The more you mulled over your unfortunate plans for the evening, the sadder you felt about how it all went down. You didn’t think that those low-lifes ditching you would have such an effect on you, but you just decided it’d be best to choke it down.

“That’s fucked up. I’m sorry, Bunny.”

“It’s fine. No skin off my teeth.”

Punk’s sharp face softens for a moment; you still can’t help but stare. The juxtaposition of a soft brown rabbit, Bunny, standing meekly before a tall, raven-haired, vampire was driving you insane. The thought of his blood splattering across your knuckles, the thought of him wiping up the mess, amused by the collateral damage and completely unphased by the pain.

Anyone else would run off, terrified of leaving their fate in the hands of a hard-headed stranger they’d met on a poorly-lit street corner.

Anyone else would be scared.

But not you. You weren’t scared of Punk.

In fact, you rather liked him.

“You cold?” He breaks the silence, sniffling as if to regain the sensation and feeling in his nose.

“Very.”

You take a deep breath in, remembering the little clutch purse that you’d brought that held all of your clubbing essentials; a singular tampon, a wallet, headphones for the train, the keys to your apartment and a loose cigarette.

Y’know, in case of emergency.

Soon enough, that cigarette is between your lips. You fish around the bottom of your tiny handbag as Punk just stares you down, nailing your furry brown boots to the pavement.

“Fuck,” you grumble, rolling your eyes, “Do you have a lighter?”

“I don’t smoke.”

“Bummer.”

After looking down at your purse for so long and almost forgetting that he was standing there, you catch Punk’s gaze. With a straight face, he reaches up, and plucks the cigarette from your mouth.

“And you shouldn’t either.”

Your shoulders slump, a whine stuck in the back of your throat, “Can’t a girl take the edge off?”

“Every time a pretty girl smokes a cigarette, an angel loses its wings.”

It was still very cold. But the way Punk so graciously and spitefully took the cigarette out of your mouth and tossed it into a nearby subway grate made the pit of your stomach grow warm. You couldn’t deny the effect he was having on you. He was ballsy— fearless. Ten minutes into knowing him, you’ve already grown quite fond of this dynamic.

“Fine. No smoking. But can we at least go somewhere warm if you’re gonna keep asking me questions?”

“Is my body heat not enough for you?” Punk quips right back, somehow closer than you remembered him being.

“Standing here with you has been fun, but—it’s thirty degrees. Take me somewhere warm or else I’ll start screaming that you’re an axe murderer.”

Amused by your empty threat, Punk smirks. He took a moment to think to himself, before reaching into the pocket of his sweatpants and pulling out a set of car keys.

“I’m parked in the garage. I assume you need a ride. No way Bunny’s gonna hop on home all by herself.”

“Bunny would’ve gotten home just fine.”

Your arms are still crossed against your chest, attempting to subdue the chattering of your teeth. But rather than leading you towards the garage in question, Punk stays still. His eyebrow raises at you, his lips pushed to the side.

“Well? Aren’t you gonna lead the way?”

“Aren’t you missing something?”

“Missing what? I have all my shit—”

You begin to frantically tap at your pockets, feeling silly once you remember that damn miniskirt.

“Here, I’ll make this easy. What’s the magic word?”

“Oh come on.”

Punk stands his ground, his teeth now sunk into his bottom lip, “I’m not going anywhere until I hear you say it.”

You huff like a child, stomping your foot against the ground out of pure instinct. The weather was taking over your senses, making your hands freeze up and the back end of your jaw clench.

“Fine—Please, Mr. Punk? May I please go sit in your nice warm car so I don’t get hypothermia and die?” You have your own fun, and let your eyes go wide and shimmery.

“Only since you asked so nicely.”

You could tell that the little show you put on made Punk stiffen up, a slick attempt to play it cool left him digging his hands into the pockets of his sweats before turning to lead you to his car.

Good call, Punk.

“So, now that you know my reasoning for standing outside of a nightclub with my ass out, how about you tell me what you’ve been up to on this fine Friday night?”

As the two of you walk towards the parking garage, shoulders occasionally knocking in time with the clunking of your boots, you turn to admire his side profile. He walks, looking straight ahead, almost as if he were attempting not to get sucked back into those eyes of yours.

“I actually had a match tonight.”

“A match? What are you, a boxer or something?”

“Every time you take a guess about me, you get closer and closer to the actual answer,” says Punk, sparing you a sideways glance, “One more guess and you’d be right on the nose.”

“The only thing that I can think of when you say ‘matches’ is boxing—”

“—Wrestling,” he jumps the gun, “I’m a professional wrestler.”

Oh.

“Makes sense why my punch didn’t hurt.”

You pout dramatically, feigning for a reaction out of him while the two of you walk through a practically empty parking garage towards a beat up Chevy Malibu in the very last spot.

“Why the long face, Bunny?” he asks, his car honking as he unlocks it, “Did you want it to hurt?”

That comment in particular makes you blush. You felt small enough next to him as is, but his wordsmithing abilities left you breathless. He smiles at you, rounding the hood of his car to hold open the door for you. There was something a little more complex than pure satisfaction hidden beneath those eyes of his.

You wait until the two of you are sitting side by side in the car before answering, thinking the thrill of anticipation is what’s getting him going, “No. I didn’t expect to punch anyone tonight at all. Just— kinda bummed that my first ever punch was square in the nose of a man who gets punched for a living.”

“You’ll get there someday. Maybe next time I’ll cry a little bit— just to make you feel better.”

You scoff, reaching over to push him in the shoulder. He takes it lightly, but you’re stuck on the firmness of his bicep.

“You keep implying that there’ll be a next time. What if I never see you again after tonight?”

Punk leans his head against the car seat, his eyes fluttering towards the windshield as his Adam’s Apple bobs. An open, empty parking lot with a singular flickering light really set the mood for the circumstances.

“Is that what you want? To never see me again?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But it was implied.”

Your face pinches. You wished you had that cigarette right about now. Punk’s face was unreadable, and you couldn’t stand it. This entire situation left you feeling a bit dizzy.

“You’re such a jerk,” you blurt out.

“And you’re kind of a brat. ‘Suppose it’s a match made in heaven.”

Feeling defeated, you huff, and fold your hands in your lap. You don’t think you’d ever met someone who could keep up with all of your quips. You were smart, but he was smarter. You were snappy, but he left you tongue tied.

“Wanna get milkshakes?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

There it was again. That ping in your stomach every time he shot you down. It was getting to be amusing— the more he deflected and kept up that cocky attitude, the more you wanted to push his buttons.

“It’s late,” he mumbles behind a half-lit smile, reaching down to fiddle with his wrist tape, “Any more sugar in you and you’d be wound up like a toy.”

“You don’t know that,” you defend, mimicking his movements and twisting the costume ring on your middle finger.

“You’d be surprised at how well I can read people. Especially clever girls like you.”

You were a button pusher by nature, but Punk was made of rubber. Everything you had to say bounced right off of him. You couldn’t stand it, he was perfect. He was so fucking hot that it made you want to claw at walls and break through windows. It was absolutely infuriating.

“What are you doing to me?” you ask; once again, not thinking, moving your hands animatedly, “It’s like you’ve got a forcefield on my brain or somethin’.”

Punk scoffs, eventually reaching the end piece of his wrist tape and beginning to slowly unravel it, “I’ve been told I have a weird effect on people.”

“Weird is a fucking understatement.”

You were telling the truth. The chokehold that Punk held over you loomed like a storm cloud— his eyes, his moody face, that thick, toned body and that damn black hair. You were a sucker for an emo boy, but you didn’t think that obsession ran deep.

Until right now.

A brief silence passes, and it’s tense. You keep sneaking glances at him as he waits for the car to warm up. He keeps catching your eyes every time they wander down to the little sterling silver ring pierced into his lip.

“So,” he begins to say, turning up the temperature dial all the way, “Finally warm enough for me to ask some more questions?”

“Well yeah, I guess… God, you make it sound like I’m in the interrogation room.”

“I meant that sincerely, dick. I was asking if the temperature of the car was to your liking.”

Although having met him under an hour ago, a comfortable smile slides across your face. You sigh dramatically, kicking up your feet onto his dashboard and letting your furry jacket fall open to reveal your cute little clubbing top.

“Sure, I’m warm. Hot, even. Might start sweating soon. This jacket’s a bitch and a half.”

“A cold-blooded woman. I like it.”

“It’s one of my most redeeming qualities,” you retort, gaining back some of that confident spark you lost in the crossfire of Punk calling you a brat, “So, what? Are we playing twenty questions?”

“Twenty questions?” Punk repeats, his sentence trailed with laughter, “I’ve been out of the scene for a long time— didn’t think it was long enough to have to resort back to icebreakers.”

“Hey, don’t laugh! It’s a good way to get to know someone! Here, ask me anything. No holds barred.”

Punk rolls his eyes begrudgingly, his massive ego somehow bruised at even the mention of such a childish game. He thinks to himself for a moment, ultimately caving when he looks over and sees your newly exposed chest.

“Alright, fine. I’ll bite. What’s your favorite color?”

“Lame,” you blow a raspberry at him, “it’s blue.”

��Y’know, I’d like to see you ask a better question.”

You sit up slightly in the car seat, uncrossing your legs from the dash and putting them back in their correct place on the floor. In one last attempt to commandeer the power dynamic in your favor, you place your elbow on the center console, and stare deeply into his eyes.

“Thought this one would’ve been a no-brainer, but— do you have a girlfriend?”

Punk scoffs, as if he were offended that you’d even assume, “A girlfriend? No.”

“Hm. Good to know. I’ll keep that on the back-burner.”

“Must be my turn again,” The cheeky expression lingers on his face— you could tell he was amused just by looking at you.

“Yep. That’s how the game works.”

“Okay,” he puffs, mimicking the batting of your eyelashes and the little twinge of flirtiness in your smile, “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Nope. Not a boyfriend for miles.”

He nods, his lips pursing, “As you said, it’s really just— good to know.”

Twenty questions was an awful game. Despite being the one to suggest it, you were also the first to admit it. There was so much nothingness to be discussed when it came to getting to know someone— and asking mundane questions seemed far too manufactured for the way you typically liked to handle things.

Punk already seemed to take a liking to you, it was evident in the way he acted thus far. His body language, the way he was teasing you. It was just so comfortable. And comfort was a good thing in most cases.

But in this case, comfort wouldn’t do.

“My turn,” you blurt excitedly, repositioning your legs back up onto the dashboard, “I’d like to take this question to address the elephant in the room.”

“Elephant—?”

You smile at Punk, watching his eyes follow your movements, the tail end of his sentence getting lost somewhere in his distracted mind.

“You keep on staring at my legs, Punker. You wanna get your head between ‘em?”

“Pardon?” he asks, his Adam’s Apple bobbing as he swallows.

“You heard me, pretty boy.”

In a flash, Punk’s body is strewn across the center console. He’s kissing you.

Holy fuck, he’s kissing you.

His lips are soft and inviting, a stark contrast to the heavy breathing and wandering tongues between you as he presses his chest into yours. It was a whirlwind, you could barely keep up with him. You decide to pull away for a moment, honing in on those beautiful Kelly greens.

“Shit,” Punk laughs, his palm cupping your cheek and letting the remnants of wrist tape scrape against your skin, “I’m sorry.”

“What the hell are you apologizing for?” you breathe out, feeling like your back was superglued to the leather.

Punk retreats back to the driver’s seat, running a hand through his hair. He’s panting, that wicked smile still painted across his face, “Nothing, nothing— I just—”

And just like that, you’re attached at the lips once more.

You figured the less time spent talking right now would be for the better; getting to know someone was just semantics, anyway. If you think someone’s hot, and that person shares the sentiment, you firmly believe that you should get into their pants as quickly as possible.

Especially when that someone is a suave, punk wrestler who had some sort of bionic force field over your mind.

You deepen the second kiss, practically dislocating your hip as you stretch over the center console. You want to get closer— the inside of the car and the lowness of its ceiling preventing you from positioning yourself in the ways that you want.

“Get on top of me. Right now.” Punk’s words knock against your now plump lips, raw from all the teasing.

You oblige without another word, hoisting yourself over the console and straight into his lap. You think you have it all under control, despite the wobbling of your knees each time you look into his eyes.

“You’re very demanding,” you tease.

“And you seem— insatiable.”

Once you lower your hips onto his lap, a collective sigh fills the car. Not much was released from the tension in your lower half, but you fit into his lap like the last piece of a puzzle. He spread his legs comfortably beneath you, wasting no time in attaching his broad, blistered hands to y our waist.

Punk chuckles to himself, watching you adjust your ass so that it wasn’t digging into the steering wheel.

“What? What’s so funny?”

“This is just— an odd situation we’ve gotten ourselves into,” says Punk, reaching up to run his hand across your chest to the nape of your neck, “We met less than an hour ago. Now you’re straddling me in my car.”

“I’m a woman that knows what she wants as soon as she sets her eyes on it,” you whip back, taking your pointer finger and finally getting to run it across that dastardly handsome lip ring.

“I like you more and more each time you open your mouth. Makes me wonder what else it can do.”

Punk’s sentence trails off when his hand slowly snakes its way into the back of your hair. You smirk at his gentle quip, a subtle push in the right direction.

“Wanna find out?”

He pulls you back in, breathing in deeply as he nips at your bottom lip with his teeth. You moan at the feeling of his hand in your hair, tugging at the roots like he was trying to pull you away, but couldn’t stand to be far from you for longer than a second.

You swivel your hips against his, the tight biker shorts beneath your miniskirt leaving zero room for the imagination. When your hip makes one last dig, Punk’s entire body jolts— he takes that pent up frustration out on your soft flesh, nipping at your jaw towards your neck.

“Fuckin’ Christ, you’re—”

“Everything and more?” you gloat through heaving breaths as he starts a trail of love bites down towards your clavicle, “Super hot and amazing?”

You can feel Punk laughing beneath you; as if he hasn’t let himself enjoy life like this in a long time.

“You’re— unreal.”

With his words, you scoop up his face in your hands. It was hard not to just talk his ear off and shower him in praise for the foreseeable future, he checked every box for you as far as a man goes.

“What? What about me is so unreal?”

“Just— everything,” he hums, his eyes foggy and in a daze, “Can’t really put my finger on it at the moment.”

“Why not?”

“You’re like a fuckin machine gun. Loaded with questions.”

“Kiss me harder,” you purr, lifting your hips and planting them back down firmly onto the growing bulge in his sweats, “Maybe that’ll shut me up.”

Soon enough, you’re back in the game. Punk had taken the liberty of shrugging you out of your fuzzy jacket— the one he liked so much that he pulled a nickname out of his ass for.

He took time showering you in kisses; one would think a man of his stature wouldn’t be so delicate. But he treated you like he was picking petals off a daisy— and you were more than satisfied with that.

“Wanna take this to the backseat?” Punk grunts as your hands start to grasp at the hem of his shirt, he notices your struggle.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

“Figured you’re tired of the steering wheel digging into your ass.”

You smile warmly at his cute little quips, wanting nothing more in this moment than to pinch at his cheeks, “Why thank you for being so considerate, Mr. Punk.”

You grace him with one more searing kiss, letting him linger in the aftermath before rising from his lap. Making it to the back with grace, you slide into the seat behind the passenger as Punk stares at you from the front.

“I would have opened the door for you. You didn’t have to pull out a whole gymnastics routine.”

With flushed cheeks and a smile, you shrug, “It’s more fun this way.”

“Whatever you say, Bunny,” Punk chuckles, shaking his head as he pushes open the driver’s side door.

You sit timidly in the backseat for the few seconds that you’re alone, your body pumping with adrenaline. It was hard to believe the turnaround of how this night was going— from shitty, fallen through club plans, to meeting someone who may or may not be the love of your life. It was all happening so fast, you could barely keep up.

“So.”

Punk’s voice and the slamming of the car door snaps you out of your spaceout. You turn to him with an amused face, instantly brought back down to earth when you notice how he’d comfortably spread his legs. A silent invitation.

“Sooo…”

“Come here often?” he jokes, drumming his fingers against his knee and eyeing your figure.

“That was so fucking corny. You’re such a loser.” You laugh, mimicking his eyes and traipsing them down his frame.

Dear God, he was divine.

“Quit the name calling and c’mere, you fuckin’ minx.”

As if his words were a wish and you were a genie that granted them true, you slowly crawl over to him, softening your eyes and tossing your hair over your shoulder as you once again get comfortable onto his lap.

The kiss from earlier picks back up— it felt almost redundant to do so. But you couldn’t get enough of the taste of his lips, and he couldn’t stand resisting the scent of your vanilla perfume.

“How far do you wanna go?” You breathe out, not entirely thinking with your head screwed on while he claws tightly at your hips.

“As far as you’ll take me. Seems like you’ve got the energy.”

“What? Can’t keep up with me?” you pout, leaning in to nip at his jawline and graze his stubble with your teeth, “So much for being an athlete.”

Punk snorts, you’d almost forgotten how strong he really was. He pulls you closer to him, your chest fully flushed against his.

“Don’t test me. Just because you’ve got the libido of a rabbit doesn’t mean I can’t keep up.”

“Ahhh, I don’t know— you got that kind of stamina in the bedroom? Or do you save the real show for when you’re in the ring?”

“Bunny wants a show, huh? I’ll give you a fuckin’ show—”

Like flipping on a light switch, Punk’s entire demeanor changes. The oozing sense of a desire to be in control clouded the small Chevy Malibu like smog. His hands detach from your waist, with one hand cupping your face and the other sliding up towards your throat.

You were loving this energy— he was like a leech. Feeding off of your lust like it was keeping him alive. When his hand eventually clamped down against the sides of your throat, you moaned out, pushing out a weak smile through newly forming tears in your eyes.

“Punk—” you squeak, but it wasn’t loud enough to grab his attention. He was kissing you with so much fervor and passion that it almost knocked the wind out of you.

Your position quickly switched. He was now on top of you, crammed into the backseat of this entirely too small sedan, his hips meeting yours and causing friction in your lower half. The bulge in his pants was making you want to take whatever he was willing to give.

It was almost desperate at this point.

“Shirt. Off. Now.” The odds were seemingly back in your favor. You’ve been wanting to see what was hiding beneath that tight athletic top the moment you saw how his back muscles contorted beneath it, illuminated by the streetlamp after you whacked him in the nose.

“Help me,” he huffs, struggling to reach between your bodies towards the hem of said shirt, “Help me get this damn thing off.”

You chuckle at his eagerness, the clumsy fumbling in an attempt to peel off Punk’s shirt allowed you to see a bit more of the sparkle in his eyes as he laughed along with you. Once the shirt was off, the most you could do was stare.

Tattoos. So many of them. You wanted to run your hand across all of them and paint along the colorful, traditional style. He was truly a work of art.

The heat of the moment had never left, but for a second, it felt as though you and Punk were the only two people on this planet. He hovers above you, panting at the sight of lust in your eyes. His dark hair was like a set of blackout curtains that framed his face just right. You couldn’t help yourself. You pushed a lock of that hair behind his ear, catching what you assumed to be a bashful, blushed grin.

“What? What are you smiling at?” you ask through giggles, letting the back of your hand trail his jawline.

“Nothing, nothing— you’re lookin’ at me stupid right now.”

“I’m sorry,” you hum, “I can’t really help it. I—didn’t know you had tattoos.”

“I’ve got quite a few, yeah,” he nods, speaking to you as if his bulge wasn’t millimeters away from where the both of you needed it to be, “Glad you like ‘em.”

“I don’t have any tattoos, sadly. ‘Wish I did. The adrenaline rush of a needle getting shoved into your skin over and over again seems like it would be better than sex.”

Punk’s eyes flicker with desire, his gaze firmly planted onto your lips as you spoke. He was one track minded, from what you could tell. Though you weren’t sure which track he’d been focused on running.

“Better than sex huh? You say that like I don’t have you here, pinned to my backseat.”

“It was a euphemism, jackass,” you snarl, craning your neck to reach up and peck him on the lips, “Doesn’t mean I don’t still want a tattoo. Or, to be pinned to your backseat.”

“Maybe tomorrow we’ll go get you a tattoo, eh? Set you up with an artist and everything. That way you can really tell me if being under the needle is better than sex.”

The kiss picks back up for the hundredth time, though it was the fiercest kiss of them all. Soon enough, Punk was shimmying you out of your miniskirt and biker shorts, and pushing your knees towards your chest.

“Is it fucked up that I’ve been thinkin’ about seeing you like this since I laid eyes on you?” He takes his time with you, settling to the best of his abilities while crammed into the back of his own car.

The only sound you could muster was an airy giggle, his blistered hands rubbing circles atop your knees as he slowly started to spread you wider.

“Tell me. Tell me right now if it’s fucked up and I’ll stop.”

“What? Are you crazy?” you say, propping yourself up on your elbows to get a better look at him, “I should punch you again for thinking that way.”

“Mmmh, I’d like to see you try.”

You understood why Punk kept implying that there’d be a next time. Because the way his gaze roamed down every dip and curve of your body and stopped to linger on your clothed core…

…You couldn’t imagine being here, in this moment, with anyone else.

“Can I just say— you’re fuckin’ heavenly,” Punk grumbles, his hands finally finding the lacy trim of your underwear.

“All these compliments are gonna start getting to my head, Punker. Choose your next words wisely.”

He chuckles, knowing full and well that he was holding the reins. You had him, basically, in a headlock. Your ankles clasped around the back of his neck, keeping him hostage towards the center of your thighs.

“Want these off?” he asks, pulling at your waistband.

You think for a moment, letting Punk take a second to drink you in, in all of your aphrodisiacal glory.

“Mmmh, no. Kinda’ wanna see you work for it.”

His eyes suddenly narrow with challenge, a newly formed drop of sweat beginning to roll down his forehead at the sheer impetuosity of his current position.

Face first towards your pussy.

Punk doesn’t say anything. Instead, his eyes lock with yours— your head begins to spin as he lowers his, not breaking his stare for even a second. He takes his rough-padded fingers, and pushes aside the dainty lilac colored fabric of your underwear.

“Work for it,” he mutters, scoffing under his breath as he feels your entire body jolt, “Yeah fuckin’ right.”

Punk dives into you with expertise and precision, his tongue initially dragging a long, torturous swipe up between your folds. The pressure of his tongue against your now aching core felt like you were just launched into the air from a slingshot.

You gasp. You whine. Your legs had suddenly gone limp and dropped beside him. You attempt to claw at his colorful, painted shoulders but instead, end up reaching all the way to his back to dig your nails straight into his spine.

He hums in what you assumed to be delight, ripples from his vocalization sending a shock wave through your body, whilst he continues to prod at your entrance with his tongue.

“Holy fuck—” you breathe out, the sensation of his nimble tongue causing your legs to spasm, “Fuck— fuckin’— shit!”

With his head still buried between your thighs, Punk laughs. He simply can’t help it.

“You’ve got a mouth like a goddamn sailor,” his eyes pop up to look at you momentarily, but that wouldn’t do.

“Keep your comments and questions reserved for after the show, thank you.” Shaking your head, you push his mouth back down to where the attention was needed.

After all was said and done, you still couldn’t believe you were here right now. It seemed far too early into the evening to call any shots, though it was far past midnight now, but there was a stirring feeling in your gut about Punk.

The stirring could've been attributed to the agility of his tongue between your thighs, but the bigger part of you knew that this feeling could only be described as butterflies.

Butterflies. That’s exactly what it was. From what you knew about him so far, Punk was a gentleman. Treating you delicately like he was pruning a rose bush, but with just enough of that rough, jagged edge that made you swoon.

Back to the present. You’d been digging your nails into Punk’s toned back for so long that you started to notice red etchings in the place of your hands.

“Oh my God,” was all you could muster. His tongue flicked mercilessly at your sensitive clit— the way his head dipped and swiveled only proved the attention he was paying to you.

He really was working for it.

“Keep goin’… fuck, please keep going. I’m— so close.”

With your words, Punk’s head pops up. He replaces his mouth with his fingers, immediately pushing two of them inside you and stretching your walls along with it.

“What’s that? You’re close, you said?”

His eyes shot through yours like bullets, his face now morphed into, possibly, the most determined expression you’ve ever seen. He takes those two fingers and curls them deep inside of you, the sounds of your arousal suddenly echoing throughout the car.

“Yes— yes I’m fuckin’ close… Are— are you mocking me?” you pant, weakly chuckling at the mercy of his fingers.

“Mocking you? C’mon now,” he interrupts himself with a grunt, his voice rich and sticky like honey, “I just wanted to clarify… and hear that pretty voice while you cum for me.”

Stars begin to cloud your vision. Your heart rate was picking up at rapid speeds, chanting yes yes yes yes yes over and over again as if it were some sort of demonic hymn. Punk had you hypnotized, borderline possessed. His face melts in time with yours, studying your expression as you chase your orgasm towards the finish line.

“Punk, oh fuck. God, yes. Faster. Faster!”

“Give it to me, Bunny. Gonna cum all over my fingers like a good girl? Yeah.”

Punk nods to you, as if it were a sign to let loose. He was coaching you through this like he was born to please you, hitting all of the correct spots with his large digits and occasionally ducking down to lap up your juices.

“So fuckin’ wet for me, baby. So fuckin’ good. I know you’re almost there.”

Seconds later, he does the unthinkable, and presses his palm flat against your lower stomach. You whine at the now building pressure, still cursing and surprised at the fact that you hadn’t drawn blood from his shoulder blades after grabbing them so roughly.

His body shifts upwards, keeping his balance by still pressing deeply against your abdomen. He muffles your moans with a searing hot kiss, biting at your bottom lip to heighten both the pain and the pleasure.

“Cum all over my fuckin’ hand, baby. I wanna’ make a mess of such a sweet, pretty girl.”

You do as you’re told, naturally, your body jolting in pure bliss as release crashes over you. Your legs stiffen, and go weak once again, letting Punk grace you with one last dirty kiss before pulling away to ease you.

“Holy shit,” you breathe out, your body still in a state of shock.

“Mmmmmh,” Punk hums as he massages one of your thighs, still coaxing you through your high with his two fingers, “That’s it, Bunny. Let it all out.”

You finally get a second to relax your shoulders, your neck falling limp as you rest your head against the car door. It was hard to believe just how fast your heart was beating— that was probably the best orgasm you’ve had in months.

“Feelin’ okay?” Punk breaks the heavy, sweaty silence, abruptly pulling his fingers out from you and making you gasp. He seemed to be extra cautious now, making sure your lightheadedness wasn’t too much of an issue.

“I— Shit… Fuck, I’m sorry. Don’t really— have the words.”

He chuckles softly, taking it upon himself to reach out and lift you, propping you upright against the carseat. “I’ve rendered the chatterbox speechless? Never in a million years…”

“Oh shut up,” you whine, feeling the remnants of slickness between your thighs, “It’s gonna take a lot more than that to get rid of me.”

After a few tender moments of giggles, swatting at each other playfully, and threatening to punch Punk once more, you had resumed the position onto his lap. While still crammed into the back of the Malibu, his large, blistered hands roamed your sides and sent shivers down your spine. He had also asked you’d be opposed to keeping your skirt off for the time being.

Of course, you didn’t mind.

“Where’d you learn that shit, Punker?”

“Hm?” Punk seems to be lost in you, his eyes wandering down to the love bites he’d left on your neck.

“Oh come on. You just whipped me through fucking space and time and you’re gonna act all humble about it? Where’s your pride?”

“I don’t think it’s anything to brag about. Real men make girls cum. It’s as simple as that.” He punctuates his thought with a kiss to the tip of your nose, his eyes narrow and hazy with adoration.

“Oh, so you save all your gut-punch-trash-talking for the ring, huh?”

Your comment makes him laugh. It’s hearty, and rich; he’s so lost in your eyes that you’re afraid he wouldn’t be able to find his way back.

“If you came to one of my matches, you’d find out. But why don’t we save the shop talk for another time and get you home? It’s getting late.”

Your chest aches, the words echoing against your skull. Take you home? The thought of going home after one of the most exhilarating nights of your life so far felt like an arrow through the back. You didn’t want this to end, you didn’t want to leave this car. You didn’t want to leave this parking garage.

You didn’t want to leave Punk.

“Do you have any plans tonight?” you ask softly, the first time you’d put your guard up since you were standing on the sidewalk.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Come home with me. Stay the night.”

You blurt it out faster than you could process your thoughts— though you always were a firm believer in trusting your gut.

“You serious?” He tucks a rogue strand of hair behind your ear; he seemed to have put his guard down for a fleeting moment, too.

“Serious. I’ve got a nice king-sized bed all to myself and a vinyl collection that’ll make your dick hard.”

“Once again, unreal…” Punk chuckles, shaking his head. You feel his body rumble along with it and can’t help but hold onto him tighter.

“…Sure. I’ll stay the night. But if you’re lying about that record collection, I’m driving back and leaving you out on the sidewalk where I found you.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal. If you don’t have a raging boner the second you step into my place, I’ll sell you my soul.”

“A deal with the devil,” Punk smiles warmly, before pulling you in for one last kiss that’s as sweet as molasses, “Prettiest damn’ devil I’ve ever seen.”

—

After a playful, sexually tense car ride that seemed to last an eternity, Punk finally pulled up to the front of your place. Throughout the entire duration of the drive, his hand was anchored to your thigh, rubbing slow, soothing circles that occasionally veered off between your legs; you talked his ear off about work, friends, and all of the other quirks that made your life worth living.

He also told you more about his wrestling career, and how he was working small indie shows in hopes to sign a bigger contract. You listened to his ramblings about what it takes to be a wrestler, not without asking him a million questions, of course.

You learned that his full ring name was CM Punk. And quickly realized that the ‘CM’ could stand for just about anything— Cookie Monster, Curtis Mayfield, Car Muffler. The possibilities were endless for you. But truthfully, hearing you talk and joke around was the only thing that mattered to Punk.

Your curious mind and nonstop motormouth quickly became one of the things that Punk liked most about you.

But he wouldn’t admit that aloud.

“So, this is the place huh?” Punk hums, tossing his head back at you with a bit of tension from before that still lingered, “The place that’s supposed to blow me away with a rockin’ record collection and a promised king-sized mattress.”

“Mhm. Welcome to my dojo. Usually there’s no boys allowed— but tonight, I’ll make an exception.”

Soon enough, Punk opened the car door for you, allowing you to slide out and stand beside him on the sidewalk in front of your apartment. You lived in a duplex in Brooklyn, in a somewhat seedy neighborhood that you quickly took a liking to after living in it for almost half a year. Your neighbors were kind, considerate, and never asked questions.

You hoped that’d remain true after tonight.

The two of you walk up to the porch, laughing playfully at the misfortune of your miniskirt before reaching the door. But before you fish out your key from your clutch, you spin around, and press your back against the screen.

“What’s the password, Punky Brewster?”

His eyes widened with challenge, a smug expression on his face, “How should I know? It’s my first time here.”

“I can give you a hint if you’d like,” you purr like a cat, trailing your index finger down his chest as he steps a smidge closer.

“A hint, huh? Lucky for you, riddles turn me on.”

You laugh heartily— you haven’t laughed this much in months. He was surely a spitfire for the ages; the only person for miles who was willing to keep up with your attitude for this long. You couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes seemed to shimmer as he gazed down at you, the overhead lighting of your porch giving him a faux halo.

Fitting.

“This isn’t a riddle. It’s simple. You have something that I want. And I need you to give it to me.”

“Something that you want— interesting. Is it a physical object? An action? C’mon Bunny, cut me some slack. My brain’s fuckin’ fried.”

A desperate chuckle passes his lips, and he just can’t help but reach out to caress your cheek. Still reeling from previous events, you nudge your face right into his palm.

“I feel as though I’m being fair. You have something I want, and I need you to give it to me.”

You were implying that you wanted a kiss. It was simple. Merely because you couldn’t stand the thought of your lips being detached for longer than the time it took to walk up your front porch.

After thinking to himself for a moment, your cheek still cradled in his palm, the lightbulb flicks on in Punk’s mind.

“Oh. You fucker. I know what you want.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you shrug, chewing on your bottom lip.

“Only ‘cause you’re greedy. C’mere.”

Leaning in to kiss him for approximately the fifteenth time tonight still felt like slow motion. It wasn’t until your lips finally reconnected that the tension left your shoulders.

‘Mrrrrooowww’

A loud mewl from behind snaps the kiss. Punk stares at you in shock for a moment, but you knew exactly what that sound was. “What the hell was that?”

‘Mrrroowww’

At your feet sits a little tortoiseshell cat. The neighborhood stray.

“Jesus Christ, scared the shit out of me.” Punk steps back, teetering with uncertainty in an attempt not to step on the animal. You didn’t think such a small creature would knock a big man off his balance so easily.

“Scared?” you scoff, bending down to scoop up the familiar cat, “Of this little guy?”

Punk’s eyebrow raises, curiously admiring your Snow White-esque way of going about this. “Is he a friend?”

You chuckle at his sarcasm, petting the purring feline and letting him rub his head in your palm. “I guess you could call him that. This is Channing Tatum. Mr. Tatum, Tater Tots, Tater for short. He comes by every morning and night to hang out for a bit. I think we, uh, interrupted his busy schedule.”

“No shit. That’s his fuckin’ name?” Punk guffaws, crossing his arms in disbelief, “Who named him that?”

“Who do you think?”

Punk chuckles, running a hand through his hair, “Naturally.”

“Yeah. I feed him n’ stuff,” you rattle off like you were born to, still petting Tater and watching as he cocks his head towards Punk in curiosity, “He’s put on a few pounds since I moved here, but I plead the fifth. This dude’s got hookups at every house on this block.”

“Smart man. He’s a hustler.”

It took Punk a moment to reach out and pet Tater, the tattoos on his knuckles catching the light of the porch. DRUG FREE was scrawled across his hands in black ink, making your mind race with even more questions to ask him. But you didn’t want to bore him, or piss him off. So instead, you just soaked in the moment.

“What do you feed this guy? He’s got buff shoulders and a toned bod. Might have to hijack his diet.”

“I’ll give him a combo of wet and dry food every day,” the two of you were now petting Tater simultaneously, and he was loving every second of it, “plenty of water, too. Hydration is important for cats, you know.”

The loud purrs disrupted the peaceful silence between you and Punk. You catch his eyes in a sideways glance— he wasn’t looking at Tater anymore.

He was looking at you.

“I give you cat people a lot of credit. Cats usually hate me,” Punk smiles, leaning in to hear the loud, rumbling purrs coming from such a small creature, “This one might be special.”

“He’s pretty good at feeling people’s energy. He gets it from his mama.”

“Didn’t realize I was signing up to be a step-father.”

An airy chuckle leaves his chest, but you clam up. For no particular reason. “Why don’t we go inside? I’m still fuckin’ cold.”

There’s a pause in space and time. You set Tater down gently onto the porch and watch him scurry off, knowing he’ll be back promptly at eight in the morning for breakfast. But the way you clammed up just then didn’t go unnoticed by Punk, you just assumed he chose to ignore it.

You led him over the threshold of your apartment, tapping the tips of your fuzzy boots on the side of the door to rid them of any dirt, mud, or grimy New York snow-sludge. Punk mimicked your actions, as if he’s been here before.

“Shoes off?”

“Shoes off.” You repeat, pulling off one boot at a time as your ass hits the floor. Punk slides out of his Nikes, propping them up against the wall beside yours.

“Your place is nice,” Punk whistles, his hands on his hips as he admires your living room/kitchen combo.

“It’s not much, but it’s all me.”

“No roommates?” He asks, shuffling towards your kitchen island and poking his nose into one of your drawers.

“Nope. I got a discount on this place because the roof was caving in on my side. My dad’s a contractor, he came down from upstate and fixed it for free.”

“Jesus,” he glances at you on the floor, you were now sitting criss-cross applesauce. He can’t help but stare as you unzip your fuzzy coat, haphazardly tossing it onto the back of the couch.

“Meh, it’s no big deal. Knowing that the roof may cave back in any day now really keeps me on my toes. Gets me motivated, you know?”

Your dry humor makes Punk laugh, the gap in his teeth catching beneath the kitchen lights. When you finally stood up, and walked over to him to stand at the opposite side of the kitchen island, the two of you were now in a face-off.

The energy switch was minuscule. His eyes narrowed, as did yours, as you braced your hands against the granite.

“Want anything?”

“You know what I want.”

You scoff, “I meant like, a glass of water. Or something of that nature.”

“A glass of water, sure,” Punk agrees, watching you vigilantly as you round the corner into the kitchen where he was. He was standing in front of the fridge, causing your back to slide against his when you went to open it.

The energy between you was like static— it was jarring and abrasive, sending little shocks down your spine. He doesn’t waste much time, spinning around to hold you from behind.

“Punk,” you say, your throat now gone dry.

“Hm?” His face had moved towards the crook of your neck, lips hovering behind your ear, “what’s up, Bunny babe?”

“You’ve got a real personal space problem.”

“Not like you mind it,” he retorts, lips finally connecting to your neck as he leaves soft kisses in their wake.

“I don’t. Just trying to be a good host. That’s all.”

“Am I invading your space? Do you want me to stop?”

Punks hands move from your waist, scooping up your breasts to massage them, all in one motion. The action makes you whine, and clench the glass of ice cubes in your hand. He was licking and biting at your neck, nearing the spaghetti strap of your clubbing top.

“No, no. I don’t want you to stop.”

“That’s all I needed to hear.”

Punk spins you fully to face him, leaving the refrigerator door open and idle. The cool air hits your back and meshes with the contrast of how hot and searing his lips feel against your neck.

He really loved to bite at you, maybe he was a vampire.

In one motion, Punk takes the glass from your hand and sets it down on the counter behind him, pulling you into his waist as he rests his back against the granite. It was a ridiculously slow, methodical dance he was pulling, his breathing heavy against your ear as he can’t decide whether to hold your hips, or your ass.

You take your now free hands and lace them around his neck, finally able to fully flush your body against his without being restricted by the confines of a backseat. He hums in delight when your tits press against his chest, and pushes you away to get a better look.

“I don’t know what it is, but you’ve got me whipped. Not gonna lie, it was taking everything in me not to pull the car over and fuck you on the side of the highway.”

You blush at his admission, “I wouldn’t have been mad at that. Though I don’t know how fucking in that small ass car would’ve went.”

“Anything is possible. We could’ve made it work,” Punk smirks, brushing a lock of hair out of your face, “I’ll keep it in mind for next time.”

Making out with someone against your kitchen counter wasn’t particularly a dream of yours. But the way Punk held you tightly and let his hands roam across your ass beneath your miniskirt, sans biker shorts, made you want to fall asleep and never wake up.

You moan into his mouth, letting the rough, sloppy kiss take over your senses. Punk moves you fluidly, whisking you away from the counter towards the wall.

“P-Punk—” you sputter, due to his hand hovering around your skirt.

“Yes?” He asks softly, almost too sweetly.

“Can I just—show you around?”

Punk sighs, pulling away from you to scratch his neck. His hand slaps his thigh when it drops, motioning for you to ‘go ahead’ with a lazy smile.

You slither out from his hold, making sure to sway your hips and drag your hand along the granite of the kitchen island, “So. This is the kitchen. Obviously. We’re standing in it.”

You point around, and his eyes follow, occasionally reminding you of his presence with an “uh huh” here and there. Once you make it towards the stairs, you stop and spin to face him.

“You don’t care at all, do you?”

Punk’s cocky expression doesn’t falter. He’s leaning on the wall, his strong, tattooed arm hovering beside your head, which is how he was standing while you pointed out every single knickknack on your shelf.

“Bunny. Baby. You think I don’t care?” he clutches his chest, feigning hurt, “I bet I can recite everything you just said back to you.”

“I don’t fucking believe you,” you retort, crossing your arms with a pitiful pout, “You’ve been staring at my ass for so long to the point where it’s got bullet holes.”

At that moment, Punk wanted nothing more than to run the pad of his thumb along that plump bottom lip, but he kept his inner monologue at ease.

“The cat statues were a housewarming gift from your bitch friend Cassie, the one that ditched you tonight.”

Your eyes widen as Punk leaves the wall, stepping back over to the shelf. “The matchbox is from the restaurant that you worked one shift at— and then quit on the spot after a customer said your top was too low cut.”

“You found the bottle caps on the street in Queens, bought that seashell from a neighbor, and stole that pool ball from a billiard bar—”

A stammer gets caught in your throat as Punk, quite literally, repeats your words verbatim. “—Am I missing anything?”

“I—”

“You wanna tell me again that I’m not listening?”

“Oh fuck you,” you say sternly, but are unable to hide your smile when Punk pulls you beside him to take a gander at your trinket shelf.

“I’ve been trying, baby. But you’re not easy and I know that. If asking you about your frequent yard sale visits is what it takes to get you in my arms, I can do this all night.”

Smooth. He was so goddamn smooth. To spare him the satisfaction of giving him what he wanted the moment he asked for it, you slide out of his grasp once again, and scurry up a few stairs. The stairs that lead towards your bedroom.

“If you’re looking to do this all night, we’re already halfway there.”

“Time is a construct,” Punk scoffs, crossing his arms with that same lethal stare and mimicking your posture, “Show me to the bedroom, please.”

What started as a slow ascent quickly turned into a game of cat and mouse. You giggled as you flew up the stairs, hearing Punk’s heavy, socked footsteps gaining on you from behind.

“Stop it! You’re fuckin’ scary!” you shriek, clipping the corner of the stairs towards your bedroom door.

Your back is pressed against the door now, with Punk slowly creeping towards you. His broad shoulders grow taut against his athletic top with each eerie step.

“So I scare you. You’re admitting it?”

“What?” you raise an eyebrow, face flushing of all color, “you don’t scare me. You were just—running at me like it’s hunting season.”

“I wasn’t tryna’ scare you. But I mean, I could be scary if you wanted.”

You swallow. Hard. You’d only seen certain facets of Punk’s personality in the three hours of knowing him. And despite your curious nature and the inexplicable magnetic grip he held over you, the thought of him scaring you never really crossed your mind. You wondered what it was like to actually be threatened by him.

You wondered if he’d even give you the chance to know it.

“Really?” you stammer, your voice betraying you and fleeting off when he reattaches his hand to your waist, “You’d be scary for me?”

“Well, of course I would. It’s all an act. I can be whatever you want me to be, Bunny baby.”

A sinking feeling reaches the pit of your stomach, your insides growing warm and fuzzy with each passing moment.

“You’re quite the talker, aren’t you?”

“I’ve been told I have a magic mouth. Tongue included.”

You shake your head, chewing at your bottom lip whilst your eyes flick between his facial features, a stirring sense of God knows what clouding over your mind.

“Can I be honest?”

Punk nods solemnly, at full attention.

“I uh, haven’t done this in a while. I know I’ve only known you for like, three hours but— I don’t know. Don’t wanna mess this up.”

His face softens at your admission; you couldn’t quite get a read on him, but his expression had yet to reach this level of vulnerability. The steel cage that guarded that pretty, tough face seemed to snap, the corner of his lips tugging up into a sincere smile.

“Hey, it’s alright. I know I lay it on kinda thick when it comes to all the flirting but— truth be told, it’s been a while for me too.”

“I just— I wanna see you be scary. I wanna see you get mad. I wanna feel your jaw tick whenever you get irritated.”

Oh God, you were feeling yourself near the start of a class-act ramble. Shut up. Stop talking, you thought, for the love of fuck, stop talking.

“But I’ve also had so much fun making you laugh. And— calling you dumb names like Punky Brewster. I didn’t wanna leave the sidewalk. I didn’t wanna leave the car. I didn’t want you to just— take me home.”

“Shit,” Punk laughs, just as you mentioned, “you’re such a damn sap.”

Your body language grows more timid. Almost as if you were moving backwards from the progress you’d made whilst out on that sidewalk or in the back of that busted up Chevy. But truthfully, you didn’t want to mess this up. You had finally felt as though you’d found someone who was your perfect fit. A match made in fucking heaven.

“Is that a bad thing?” you mumble, looking down to muddle with your thumbs.

Before he speaks again, Punk sighs, tutting you with a click of his tongue before reaching up to pull your eyes back into his.

“No. It’s not a bad thing. And please, don’t you ever give me those sad puppy eyes again, ya’ hear?”

“I know, I know. I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you admit sheepishly, “forget I said anything?”

“Oh, fuck off. Are you kidding me? That was just about the sweetest damn thing that’s ever been said to me, and you want me to forget it? Y/N, seriously. It’s okay.”

When he speaks your name, something about him snaps you back to reality. Maybe it was the fact that the emptiness that you felt in your chest from getting ditched by your friends filled right back up the moment you gazed into his eyes, but Punk genuinely had a hold over you.

And from the way he was taking in all of your babblings and praise, you could assume that he was feeling it too.

“Don’t get all pouty on me. I fucking hate that you’re not smiling right now,” says Punk, rubbing your chin with his thumb. You force out a smile that was hidden behind your own self doubt, starting to slowly feel comfortable again.

“Can I show you my room?” you hum, the nervous chewing of your lip morphing into a sultry gaze.

“You can show me anything, anytime.”

After the short lived grand tour, you and Punk made it to your bed. The promised king-sized mattress seemed satisfactory, getting rave reviews all around. It didn’t take long for Punk to sprawl across it, with your head seeking refuge on his chest.

“I’d kill to have a bed like this,” Punk says, running a hand across the side of your face, “I’ve got a fucking twin back at my place.”

“A twin? Jesus fuck. You’re like, six feet tall. There’s no way you can sleep comfortably in that.”

“You’d be surprised. Usually I’m so tired after my matches that I just— crash without thinking. I’ve got a roommate too, but he's never around. Always out doing fuck all and coming home at four in the morning.”

You shake your head, hearing the soft thumping of Punk’s heartbeat meshing with the mellow Led Zeppelin record that you’d chosen to play on your stereo. “Having a roommate must suck.”

“It isn’t exactly a dream, but he helps keep the rent paid. That’s all that matters to me.”

“Y’know— if you just stayed here all the time you wouldn’t have to worry about roommates.”

Punk laughs, his chest rumbling, “Wouldn’t that make you my roommate?”

“Well, to quote a great and honest man; I can be whatever you want me to be.”

“Using my own words against me huh? Damn, you’re good.”

A lazy smile spreads across your face as the two of you laugh, completely consumed with the moment. And each other. The scent of his cologne mixed with the sweat and adrenaline from hours prior— you were debating offering him a shower. You were also debating whether or not you ever wanted to let him leave.

You’d soon find out that the answer was never.

“Y’know Bunny, you’re alright.” Punk breaks the peaceful silence, sitting up and leaving your head to go with it.

“Just alright?” you tease, letting out a sigh and running your hand through his dark locks, “I thought I was heavenly. Unreal. Whatever other fuckin’ SAT words you pulled out on me tonight.”

“You told me the compliments were getting to your head.”

“That didn’t mean I wanted you to stop.”

Punk pulls you into a kiss; it’s the most fiery, the most passionate one of the evening. It was getting far too late now— you could almost see the sunlight peeking over the horizon through the coin slots in your curtains. You’d officially stayed up all night.

But you wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

[insomniadreamzz]

Pleeeease I beg of you continue the Jinx bladder stuff

Your wish is my command 🤌🏼

———

Jinx x Fem!Reader smut

Usage of strap on, squirting, piss kink, sub!Jinx, overstimulation

Having Jinx on top of you was your favorite. You could see her expressions whenever your strap slid inside of her with each thrust, seeing how beautiful she looked while riding you, enjoying the way her hips moved, your hands resting on her waist to keep her in place.

„Hng…fuck you‘re so fucking deep inside of me…“ She moaned out softly. You could see her tummy bulge, seeing exactly how deep your strap was buried in her which made you groan at the hot view. „Mhm…you take me so well baby…“ You encouraged her, your hands gently stroke up and down her sides, sending shivers through Jinx’s body.

You purposely didn’t let her go faster, wanting to see her struggle as you made her ride you painfully slow, the squelching sounds of her dripping cunt telling you how much she wants more. „P-Please…faster…“ Jinx begs with a soft little whine, you coo in response, using your thumb to gently brush against her clit, making her twitch at how sensitive she was, another soft whine leaving her lips. „Are you deserving it? I am not so sure…you’re still holding back.“ You mentioned, making her blush deeply. Her bladder was full, you could see it by the bulge in her lower tummy. The fact that she had to pee made her even more sensitive but you didn’t think about stopping to fuck her, wanting to pleasure her as much as possible until she had to let go.

You used a little more pressure as your thumb rubbed her clit while she slowly ride your strap, making her bite down on her own lower lip. On one side Jinx wanted to escape this embarrassing moment but on the other hand it felt too good to stop. The sensation of your thumb playing with her sensitive hard clit just made it harder for her to keep herself from cumming. „F-Fuuck…I-I cant…ugh!“ Her hips twitched as she came, squirting all over your strap, making a little mess on you which only made you smile in satisfaction. You got her right where you wanted, thrusting your hips up harshly, the tip of your strap hitting her cervix with each hard trust, making her fall forward, her painted nails digging into the skin of your shoulders as she moaned out loudly.

The fast pace of your thrusts after her orgasm made her lose it, being overstimulated and a moaning mess, Jinx wasn’t even able to form a proper sentence. „Ah! A-..hah!“

She couldn’t hold it anymore, the pleasure being too much, especially when you used your hand to press down on her lower stomach, feeling her full bladder. Jinx let go as she came again, squirting once more and then you could feel her warm piss on you, draining the sheets below you and your lower stomach. You didn’t stop fucking up into her dripping wet cunt, the wetness making incredible nasty sounds. „Good girl…you‘re my good girl…“ You praise her, the fabric of the belt of your strap rubbing against your own clit with each thrust, making you reach your own orgasm as well, making yourself cum and shake under her.

After the last hard thrust Jinx let herself fall completely on top of you, her sweaty naked body resting on top of yours, both of you panting softly.

„Mhh…nasty girl…“ You heard her whine, hiding her blush as she buried her face into your neck, making you chuckle in response. „I know you like it“ You respond and that made her lean up, crashing her lips against yours into a heated kiss, almost making you horny again as your tongues moved against esch others but you knew better, smirking as you parted, a string of saliva connecting your lips as you looked at each other with a lustful gaze. „I love being your nasty girl…“ Jinx whispered before you kissed again.

[aangarchy]

Opinions. I have them and I want to share them. On the Netflix live action specifically.

It's a little over a year since the release of Netflix ATLA and since then I've kind of just been stewing on it angrily as if it's insulted my mother or something, and there's more things that I've been meaning to say that I never mentioned in my original reviews, specifically on why I think this live action is doomed to fail. It all has to do with media literacy, because these writers don't seem to fucking have any.

An example I want to talk about is the waterbending scroll. I want to bring this up specifically because this is a mistake m night shyamalan's movie also made. I will be referring to them as Natla (netflix atla) and tla (the last airbender movie).

Both natla and tla have the waterbending scroll in their story. I'm sure the writers gave themselves a pat on the back for including this important story element. But what is very apparent is that they do not understand why this scroll is in the story, because in both live actions Katara gets handed the scroll by someone. In tla she gets it handed by strangers who tell her it was stolen from her people by the fire nation and that she should be given it back. In natla, she gets handed the scroll from gran gran. In both of these instances this scroll can be replaced with literally any other object. It could be a rock that strengthens a bender, it could be a letter written by someone, it could be a stick. In both versions, the narrative reason for the scroll being there in the first place is missing completely.

In the original show, the scroll is specifically part of the story to develop Katara's character, because she doesn't just get it handed to her, she steals it. And it's a decision she makes herself without discussing it with anyone else. Katara going out of her way to steal the scroll from pirates, and not really seeing an issue with it because the pirates stole it from someone else first, tells us a lot about Katara's moral compass and how she sometimes likes to twist her ethics to fit her own narrative. In any other instance Katara would tell people stealing is wrong. Literally later on in book 3 she tells Toph something similar, that she can't just scam people just because they were scamming her. But because this scroll is something she desperately wants so she can improve her own waterbending, she tells herself it's fine to steal this because it didn't belong to those pirates in the first place. She believes as a waterbender she has more right to own this scroll than those pirates do. It shows us how committed she is to learning waterbending and connecting to that part of her culture, because she's willing to go quite far in order to achieve this. Later though she gets faced with the consequences of her own actions, because stealing the scroll lead to the pirates teaming up with Zuko and chasing her and her friends, which ends up endangering Aang.

In this episode she also obsesses over the scroll to a toxic degree. One of the excuses she uses to justify her stealing it is because she wants Aang to learn too. But it becomes obvious that this is just an excuse, because she tries to claim the scroll for herself by saying Aang can have his turn after she learns, even though it's kind of more prudent for Aang to learn first as the Avatar (because the episode before this we literally just learned about the comet and our end of summer deadline to learn all four elements). It shows that Katara isn't some goodie two shoes, and that she has some ugly sides to her. She can be sneaky, selfish, stubborn, immature, and has difficulties letting go when she has her mind set on something. Then when Aang gets caught by Zuko she realizes that she caused all of this, and she apologizes to Aang who then tries to be a good boy and tell her it isn't her fault, but then Iroh kind of throws it back in her face that yeah, this is in fact her fault.

This episode also shows us development between Aang and Katara's relationship. We learn that Aang being naturally better at something is a difficult thing for Katara to swallow, and while Aang tries to make her feel better by encouraging her and telling her she's a great teacher, he doesn't manage to solve the problem which is that she feels inferior to him here. Later on, he acknowledges that just like him, Katara is a waterbender. She doesn't just know some waterbending moves, she IS a waterbender. Then they work together to escape, this makes Katara feel better, and it strengthens their bond.

This entire plotline is the reason for the waterbending scroll existing in the original storyline, but all of that is missing from both live actions even though they also have the waterbending scroll in their story. I'm sure these live action writers don't see the problem, they probably think the pirate episode is just filler they can cut without consequences, because the scroll is the only thing that's retained in the rest of the story after this episode. But that's simply not the case. This episode is much more consequential, even though it's not immediately obvious or visible, and that's what these live action writers do not seem to grasp, which is what I mean when I say they lack media literacy. They think the only thing that makes that episode worthwhile is the object that is obtained, and because they don't want to go through the hassle of adapting the whole pirate episode the only element they keep is the scroll. But everything about this scroll and why it's narratively necessary is removed.

This lack of understanding of character development and how to write a good story is why Katara's character is so bland in both live actions. All her agency gets removed. She doesn't decide to steal the scroll, she doesn't decide to help Aang save the world, she doesn't decide to ignore Sokka's instincts on Jet, she doesn't decide to deliberately ignore the northern watertribe's customs on bending.

The worst part for natla specifically is that the writers seem to understand that certain moments in the show need to happen, but they don't understand why. Katara needs to fight Pakku because she's so angry about the northern watertribe's sexism, this ties in to Sokka's sexism earlier in the season. She went through the trouble of traveling all the way to the north, stealing a waterbending scroll, getting burned by Aang on accident to discover her healing abilities, and now she's being told she can't train to fight simply because she's a girl? She's been confronted with sexism her whole life and she knows she's capable of more, so she's done succumbing to it, she fights the patriarchy by fighting Pakku. In natla she fights him too, but her anger lies solely with Pakku not willing to teach her, and not with sexism as a whole. She didn't fight that whole season in natla in order to learn waterbending, she just simply trained a bit and got better because boys told her she was strong, so there's no anger for her to feel towards Pakku because there's no buildup. The writers know the Pakku fight needs to happen but they removed everything in the story that leads to Katara fighting Pakku.

A similar thing happens with certain side characters. The writers understand that Teo and The Mechanist are important characters, and we need to add them so we can have them show up for the invasion too. But they don't understand what their purpose was in the original show in the first place, which was character development for Aang. Similar with Jet, he was there for Sokka's character, this episode showed us Sokka is intuitive and intelligent, but doesn't get taken seriously because he's the goofy nonbender older brother. That also gets removed in natla, because Sokka doesn't even interact with Jet more than once. He doesn't even get told Jet's name at all!

This is the biggest writing flaw that is recurring throughout the whole first season of natla, and probably won't be solved in the next seasons. I've seen a lot of people say natla is good because they got more things right than tla, but imo natla is just as bad as tla with similar reasons. Just because the costumes looked more like the original, or because they added more things that happened in the original than the movie did, does not mean natla is good whatsoever. I'd argue it kind of even makes it worse, because natla shows the trouble these people went through to have more accuracy than the shyamalan movie, and yet they still missed the mark this badly. I'm honestly angrier at this live action than the movie, and I might not be the only one.

[leahkenobi]

porch light

frank castle x reader

word count: 1.4k

summary: inspired by porch light by josh meloy. frank made a promise: come hell or high water, he would always come home to you. he intends to make good on that.

warnings: mentions of blood, partial nudity, slightly self-loathing frank. mostly fluff.

a/n: well well well. fulfilling the fanfic author cliche of “i have literally been through hell since my last update. so sorry i fell off the side of the earth for awhile.” to keep it vague, losing someone really made me lose my desire to write. while the wound will probably never heal, for the first time in so long, i’ve felt like i could do this again. and who better to bring us back then frank motherfucking castle. please excuse the writing it’s been so so long. but, if you would like to be added to a frank taglist, lmk and i will happily add you. no promises of how often i will make updates bc school is actually kicking my ass, but i’m trying!

picture was taken from pinterest! credits to the owner!

with the wind knocked from his lungs and blood still dripping from his face, frank had one mission left to complete before he could collapse: get home.

he made the promise long ago when you had moved into the quaint house in the suburbs with him.

no matter how ugly it was, how badly he was injured or how empty he felt, he would make his way home to you. night after night, he kept his promise, only breaking it when he was away for a multi-night event, like this past one.

but he had sent you the text, so he couldn’t go back on his word now.

i’m coming home baby. leave the porch light on.

his bones felt like lead as he heaved himself into his truck, a two hour drive ahead of him until he would see you. his reason, his heart, his everything.

———

your past few nights were hauntingly quiet. no sounds of clatter from the kitchen as frank cooked for you both, no soft hum of the television as he watched one of his documentaries, no quiet breaths as he slept next to you.

on nights without him, sleep almost always evaded you. it’s not that you didn’t want to, it’s not even that you were particularly worried about frank.

of course, there would always be anxiety with the line of business he was in. but you knew him. not even a bullet to the head could take him out. a symbol of strength and perseverance, he was nearly indestructible in your mind.

it was the lack of his heat that kept you awake until the wee hours of the morning. the absence of his smell, so strong of cedar and masculinity that made it impossible for you to find rest. the missing arm that he draped over your waist as you slept, a constant weight and reminder that even in sleep, he would never let anything get to you first. he would throw himself over your body and take a thousand shots to his back before so much as a shot gun bead could penetrate your skin.

around eleven, as you lie lounging on your couch, caught up in one of frank’s many books, the familiar buzz of your phone startled you out of your story.

a message from an unknown number sent anxiety through your bones. until you opened it.

you saw the words and relief passed through your body.

i’m coming home baby. leave the porch light on.

you knew who it was instantly. a small smile spread across your lips.

you typed out a short message back.

will do.

———

the two hour window between the text and frank’s arrival felt like eternity. your mind filled with questions.

would he be covered in blood?

would ahe be silent like he always was after a particularly rough night?

did he succeed on his little quest?

finally, the firm sound of boots on your creaky old steps fell upon your ears and interrupted your constant internal monologue of questions. you were instantly on your feet, reaching the front door in record time.

you stared at him. even from your poorly lit porch, you could see the sheen of blood on his face.

he lifted his head and saw your familiar silhouette.

god, he’d fucking missed you.

“hey baby,” he graveled out.

“frank, honey…” you started as you went to meet him on the third step.

you reached him in a second, hands instantly coming to his face. you needed to feel the rough stubble of his beard and the contrast of his soft skin.

“hey, hey..” he whispered, gently removing your hands from his face and placing them on his shoulders instead.

you leaned into him, head resting against that stony chest of his, absorbing the heat of his body, enraptured in the scent of gunpowder and blood and him.

he kissed the top of your head, seamlessly melting back into the man he was with you. the patient, gentle man who’s only wish was to keep you safe and tend to your every desire.

“missed you so fuckin much baby. couldn’t get here fast enough,” he softly said, gently pulling you out of his chest and tilting your chin up to him.

your eyes met his, melting that roughness he had carried back with him with your one look.

“missed you too frankie. cmon let’s get inside,” you said, grabbing his hand and leading him off the porch and through the front door.

the smell of home nearly made his heart burst as it reached his busted nose. the flowers he had bought you before he left, his favorite pasta dish you had likely made for dinner, the laundry that you had folded up neatly now lying on the couch and you. he nearly groaned as he felt it all surround him.

he dropped his bag just after you had closed the door behind him, letting the weight of the past few days slip off him.

“let me,” you said, bending to untie his dirty old boots.

“i got-“

“no frank. let me take care of this,” you told him.

a small grin graced his face. of course you wanted to tend to him. always giving, always soothing. how could a man so thoroughly fucked up as himself ever deserve you? ever deserve to come home to all of this?

you tapped his ankles, indicating your completion of the task. he slipped them off and reached down to grab your hand.

“thank you,” he said, “you don’t need to-“

“you stubborn, stubborn man. just let me help you,” you smiled.

god he shouldn’t be this lucky. not after all he’s done.

“kay baby,” he relented, letting you do what you always did for him. make him feel.

———

you led him upstairs and into the bathroom and turned on the hot water for him.

he unfastened his belt and dropped his pants. as you turned back toward him, you gave him a soft smile.

“c’mere,” he let out, pulling you back into him. he couldn’t get enough of this. feeling you against him. warm, safe, home.

you slid your hands underneath his black henley. he allowed it, let you pull it up over his head. allowed you to run your nails over his tight abs as his muscles tensed.

“get cleaned up. i’ll go warm up the leftovers-“

“nah don’t worry about it. not hungry. just want you,” he said meeting your gaze beneath his, keeping his arms around you, his bare skin against your clothed form.

a yawn crept out of you, your darkened under eyes becoming noticeable to frank as he looked at you closer.

“go get in bed sweetheart. be right there,” he said as he released you. you let him be, closing the door gently on the way out. you knew he needed that time alone, needed to let the heat of the shower wash away his newest sins.

———

you stripped from your clothing, clad only in your underwear, and slipped under the sheets.

after a few minutes, frank opened the door attached to your bedroom and came out in his boxers, the steam from the shower wafting out after him.

he saw your form bundled beneath the thick comforter and felt everything fade from him. every ache in his body, every pain in his heart, all the rage he kept buried inside. it just… dissipated. because there was his girl. sleepy eyes locked on his, trying so hard to stay open. body wrapped in god knows how many blankets because you were always “so cold, frankie. you’re my heater.”

this was what he came home for. this angel of a woman, the beat in his fucking chest.

he slid under the blankets, exhaling a sigh of relief.

it took him less than a second to reach for your body and pull you into him. he indulged his desire to have your skin on his.

you nuzzled your face into the crook of his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of irish spring soap. you’d lost track of how many times you’d told him he needed more than just one bar of soap for everything.

he kissed the crown of your head and another yawn escaped you.

“i got you now, baby. just sleep,” he said.

“g’night frankie. so glad you’re home,” you said sleepily.

“no where i’d rather be,” he responded quietly, slowly shutting his eyes and allowing sleep to overtake him.

taglist:

@crumbledcastle28

[boosandbirds]

Hey ches, I saw your post asking for prompts how about this:

Ship: dead on main (Jason Todd X Danny Fenton)

Prompt: Wing Au, Jason has only one wing left/one wing and a half left from the explosion even lazurus pit could not heal them, Danny's wings are unusable since the accident, only hanging down he can't even fold them to his back, as phantom he has only the skeleton of wings and can fly with them, how about a meet cute or one of them has a bad day (phantom pains) and the other helps them (with cuddles and such)

Thanks in advance

By the time Jason gets back from patrolling the Alley, it's long passed two in the morning.

Not the latest he's gotten back, not by a long shot, but he still feels the ache in his muscles and bruises refusing to be ignored. Jason swears his wings weight at least a ton, missing chunk and all, and he wants nothing more than to peel off his gear and sleep for a week.

But there's a wing thrown over the couch, and he catches a glimpse of another one on the floor. Jason's tired, but even during his worst days, he hadn’t been heartless.

If there's anyone that understands this kind of tiredness, it's Danny.

His boyfriend might not be a hero anymore -- hates the idea of it, really, and goes deathly pale at the mention of it -- but it's not something you forget. Jason doesn't think it's something anyone can forget. Being a vigilante does things to you, and there's no going back from it.

Jason will never back the missing parts of his right wing. In his human form, Danny can barely move his wings at all.

"Oh, Spaceboy," Jason sighs, stepping around the corner. "I've told you not to wait up for me."

Danny groans, propping himself up on his elbows. It can't be a comfortable position, wings sprawled out across the furniture, wood digging into feathers and not providing nearly enough support for how much they weigh. Danny’s wings aren't small, after all, not when you take his short stature into consideration, and this isn't the first time Jason has found him like this. Still, if it bothers him, Danny doesn't let it show on his face.

He smiles like he doesn't have a care in the world.

"Yeah, well," Danny says, wearing a mock pout, "You’re not the boss of me."

Privately, Jason doesn't think anyone's the boss of him unless Danny let's them be. Danny might be looked down upon -- it's shitty for people to judge his broken wings, but Jason has long since learned not to make a big deal out of it -- but he's as free as can be. Doesn't give a shit what people tell him not to do, because if he thinks it's right, Danny will happily do it anyway. The only exceptions may be Jazz Fenton and Sam Manson.

Jason pushes the thoughts away with a quiet laugh. He closes the remaining distance between them, then carefully wraps his hands around Danny’s upper arms. "Up we go," Jason says, lightheartedly, and Danny laughs as he's helped to his feet. "The bed is big enough for both of us to stretch out."

And he's not exaggerating.

Perks of being one of Bruce's kids, Jason can afford the biggest bed on the market. He'd originally gotten to sprawl out after patrol, but after starting to date Danny, it truly became a luxurious thing. Two birds fit on it perfectly, and there were few things Jason more than wrapping his ghost up in his wings.

"I can't see the door from the bed, idiot," Danny mumbles, "I wanted to ask how your patrol went, but hypocritically, I fell asleep and forgot to change forms. So hypothetically, I might have gotten stuck on the couch."

"Hypothetically, of course," Jason says, smirking, "because the great Danny Fenton would never get stuck on a couch."

Danny glares at him playfully. "Fuck off," he says, "maybe I was waiting for my knight in dirty leather."

Jason grins, and just for that comment, he makes a show out of sweeping Danny into his arms. "Well, your Highness, your knight has arrived."

"Dick!"

"Wrong bat," Jason says, and he leans in to press a kiss to Danny’s lips. Then, careful that his wings aren't dragging, he starts walking towards the bedroom. "Now, I don't know about you, but unless Gotham’s about to explode, the rest of them can fuck off. I'm taking my ghost to bed, and not moving an inch until morning."

Danny pokes his face. "Sure," he says, "whatever you say, Zombie Boy. Whatever you say."