#i know it was almost a week ago but still

[solrburst]

theirs — joel x reader x tommy

𝒮ummary: Joel's been with you for weeks, but when he catches the way you look at his brother, he decides it's time to share.

𝒲arnings: threesome, dirty talk, light degradation, unprotected sex, oral sex (f! & m! receiving), orgasm denial/edging, dom!joel, voyeur!joel, reader objectified (consensually)

𝒜uthor’s 𝒩ote: i swear to god this is the dirtiest thing i ever wrote but let me know if you want a part 2 bc i could do a collection or a whole book of them together

𝒲ord 𝒞ount: 8,4k

You’re on Joel’s lap the night it starts.

Half-drunk on cheap whiskey and the weight of his arms around your waist, you’re draped across him like you belong there. The porch creaks beneath your bare feet as you rock slowly in the old chair, his breath warm against your neck, and his hand resting low on your thigh, just under the hem of your shorts. A breeze carries in the sounds of Jackson’s quiet night—distant voices, boots over dirt—but your eyes are locked on one thing.

Or rather, one man.

Tommy Miller.

He’s sitting across from the two of you, laughing at something dumb Joel just muttered—God knows what, you’d stopped listening a minute ago. He’s got that easy grin, relaxed posture, tanned skin catching firelight from the lantern beside him. A couple buttons are undone on his shirt and his forearms are dusted with grime and work. And you?

You’re staring.

Hungry.

It’s not subtle either. You let it happen, cocking your head just a little, gaze dragging over the line of Tommy’s jaw, lingering where his neck disappears into his collar. You know Joel sees it. You want him to. All the time.

He shifts beneath you, breath catching just a little. His fingers flex tighter on your leg.

“Careful,” he murmurs, voice low in your ear. “You’re starin’, sweetheart.”

You hum, slow and syrupy, turning your head to glance back at him over your shoulder, lips curling.

“Can’t help it,” you purr, unbothered. “You Millers come in the same model—built tough, look good filthy. I got a type, what can I say?”

Joel’s jaw tightens, but there’s no anger in it. Just something darker. Slower. Watching you with that narrowed stare of his, like he’s weighing the shape of your words in his head. Behind you, Tommy’s too busy sipping his drink to notice how thick the air’s gotten.

Joel slides his hand higher up your thigh.

“You want him?” he asks, almost too casual. Almost.

You blink.

“What?”

Joel leans back in the chair, pulling you with him. You’re sitting square in his lap now, back against his chest, his palm splayed against your stomach.

“You look at him the same way you look at me,” he says, voice low and steady. “Been noticin’ it a while now. When we’re out on patrol. Dinner. Hell, even when it’s just the two of us here. Eyes all starvin’. So I’ll ask again.”

He nudges your thighs apart just a little with his knees.

“You want him?”

You laugh, soft and breathless, turning to face him properly now. “And if I do?”

Joel doesn’t blink.

“Then you could have him,” he says. “Long as I get to watch.”

The words hit you like a spark to dry tinder. Your mouth parts. Your breath stills.

You feel it between your legs immediately.

He sees it.

“Fuck,” you whisper, smiling slow. “You’re serious.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. His voice lowers.

“Dead serious.”

And from the other side of the porch, Tommy lifts his glass and calls out, easy and oblivious:

“Y’all whisperin’ secrets over there, or just bein’ gross again?”

You smirk.

Joel’s hand slides even higher.

“Maybe both,” you call back, eyes never leaving Joel’s.

The horses are stabled, boots are muddy, and the sky’s starting to dim again — that hazy, gold hour when the shadows stretch long and the air feels thicker than it should.

Joel tosses his saddle over the gate and wipes sweat from his brow. Tommy’s leaning against the fence post, drinking from his canteen, still catching his breath.

They’ve been riding quiet all afternoon — too quiet, for brothers who usually bicker just to pass the time.

Joel doesn’t look at him when he says it.

“You been starin’ at her too, haven’t you?”

Tommy’s halfway through a drink. He pulls the canteen away, squinting.

“…The fuck?”

Joel finally glances over, eyes steady beneath his brow. “Don’t play dumb, Tommy.”

Tommy laughs. A short, sharp bark of disbelief. “You serious right now?”

Joel just stares.

“You’re talkin’ about her?” Tommy adds. “The girl who’s been crawlin’ all over your lap for weeks? That one?”

Joel gives a slow nod.

Tommy shakes his head, smirking. “What, you wanna fight me or somethin’? ’Cause I looked?”

“No,” Joel says. Then, after a pause:

“Wanna offer her to you.”

The smile dies right there.

Tommy straightens. “Jesus Christ.”

Joel leans against the fence, arms crossed, voice low and even.

“She’s not mine. Not really. We fuck. We talk. She drinks my whiskey and runs that smart mouth of hers till I shut her up. But we keep it casual. She doesn't belong to me.”

Tommy just stares at him like he’s gone insane.

Joel shrugs. “I see how she looks at you. The same way she looked at me before she got in my bed. You ever notice how quiet she gets when you walk into a room? Or how she licks her lip when you talk?”

Tommy doesn’t answer, but his jaw tics.

Joel sees it.

“Thought I was imaginin’ it,” Joel says. “But last night? When she sat on my lap and you were sittin’ across from us? She didn’t even try to hide it.”

“She’s half your age,” Tommy mutters, shaking his head, still like he doesn’t quite believe this is happening.

Joel’s voice drops, quiet and rough. “And yours too. That stop either of us?”

Tommy goes silent.

Joel watches him.

“It don’t have to be a thing. You want her—I’m givin’ you the green light. She wants it too. She’s probably just waitin’ for one of us to say it out loud.”

Tommy laughs again, but it’s different this time. Lower. Nervous.

“You really okay with just… watchin’?”

Joel raises an eyebrow. “Who said I’d be just watchin’?”

That gets a look.

But Tommy doesn’t argue.

He looks away instead, out toward the mountains. Wipes a hand across the back of his neck. He’s quiet for a while. Too long. And Joel lets him sit with it.

Then, finally, Tommy sighs.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

Joel waits.

“I mean… yeah,” Tommy says. “I’ve looked. I’ve thought about it. Lot more than I should’ve.”

Joel nods once, like he knew it already.

Tommy exhales, shaking his head. “You’re a goddamn lunatic.”

Joel just smirks.

“Yeah,” he says. “But I’m not wrong.”

Joel’s place smells like cinnamon and sin.

He walks in first, boots heavy on wood, holding the door just long enough for Tommy to follow. You don’t look up right away — you’re elbow-deep in something sweet, hands dusted in flour, sleeves pushed up past your elbows, a pie crust laid out on the counter in front of you like an offering.

You hum to yourself, casual, barefoot, hips swaying just a little in the quiet rhythm of your own routine.

“I brought company,” Joel says from the doorway, voice unreadable.

You glance back, eyes flicking over your shoulder, playful smile already curling.

“Hope it’s someone I’d actually let eat my pie,” you say, sweet as honey and sharp as the knife on the cutting board.

Tommy snorts behind him. “If that’s the welcome, I might take my chances.”

You finally turn, arms folded, leaning your hip against the counter. The apron tied around your waist does nothing to hide the curve of you — the softness, the bare legs, the casual confidence. You’re comfortable here. Powerful in it.

And you know exactly what you’re doing.

“Well, well,” you purr, eyes dragging over him, slow and deliberate. “Didn’t know we were graced with royalty tonight. To what do I owe the honor, Miller junior?”

Tommy raises an eyebrow. “Joel’s idea.”

You shoot Joel a look, mock suspicion. “That so?”

Joel shrugs, already settling into his chair at the table like he didn’t just bring a loaded weapon into his kitchen.

“Said you were bakin’,” he says. “Figured Tommy might wanna see you with somethin’ sweet in your hands for once, instead of my cock.”

Tommy nearly chokes. You laugh.

“Oh my god, Joel,” you say, eyes wide, fighting the grin.

But you don’t deny it.

You look at Tommy again — this time slower, letting the silence stretch. He’s shifting his weight, trying not to stare too obviously. Failing. His eyes flick down, then up again too fast, trying not to look at your thighs, or the smear of flour on your chest.

“You bake, Tommy?” you ask, teasing. “Or you just good at eatin’ things other people make?”

He smirks, leaning against the frame. “I get by.”

“I bet you do.” You tilt your head. “You watch long enough, I’ll let you lick the spoon.”

Joel chuckles low in his throat, shaking his head, but doesn’t interfere.

Tommy lifts both hands like surrender. “You’re trouble.”

You turn back toward the pie, smoothing the crust into the dish, voice over your shoulder: “Only if you don’t know what to do with me.”

Behind you, Joel meets Tommy’s eyes — silent, subtle — and gives a single nod.

Tommy exhales slow, tongue running along the inside of his cheek.

“Pie smells good,” he says, eyes still fixed on you.

You smirk without turning.

“Better when it’s hot.”

You don’t look at either of them as you fold the last edge of crust into place, fingers moving with practiced ease. The room’s gone quieter, heavier, like the air itself knows something’s different. Joel’s sitting at the table with one leg stretched out, a glass of whiskey in hand. He hasn’t said a word in minutes — just watching. Steady. Measured. Like this is all part of some slow game he already knows the ending to.

Tommy lingers at the counter, just behind you now, arms crossed. Close enough to smell the cinnamon, and under it — your skin.

“Didn’t know you could cook,” he says after a beat.

You shrug, wiping your hands on a dish towel. “I like working with my hands. Keeps me out of trouble.”

“Pretty sure you are the trouble,” he mutters.

You glance back, smirking. “Then I guess I’ve been working overtime.”

Tommy chuckles, but it’s tight. A little shaky around the edges. He runs a hand through his hair and glances toward Joel, like he needs a read on the room — needs to know how far he can go without crossing something he can’t walk back.

Joel just lifts his glass.

“Don’t look at me,” he says. “You’re the one standin’ there, starin’ at her like you’re tryin’ to solve a goddamn puzzle.”

You laugh quietly, leaning back against the counter. The pie dish sits beside you, raw and waiting.

“Well?” you ask Tommy, eyes catching his again. “What’s so complicated, huh?”

He opens his mouth, closes it again. Scratches at his jaw.

“I dunno,” he says finally. “Feels like you’re messin’ with me.”

“Oh, baby.” You push off the counter and step toward him, slow and deliberate, bare feet silent against the floorboards. “I am messin’ with you. Doesn’t mean I’m not serious.”

He stands still as you pass him, brush by his arm — the heat of you so close, so casual. You walk to the sink, rinse your hands in cold water, stretch your arms high over your head when you’re done, knowing exactly how your shirt rides up, how Tommy’s eyes follow the motion even though he tries not to.

Joel watches it all with that quiet, unreadable look.

You turn, leaning one hip against the sink, towel still in hand.

“I see the way you look at me, Tommy. It’s cute. Like you’re tryin’ real hard to pretend you’re not imagining what I sound like moaning your name.”

Tommy swallows hard.

You smile, wicked and slow.

Joel’s voice comes in, low from the table. “She’s good at that part, too. That sound.”

Tommy shoots him a look, but Joel just sips his whiskey, calm as ever.

You walk back toward the counter, sliding the pie into the oven without breaking eye contact. Then you close it with a soft clink, straighten, and say:

“You gonna help set the table or just keep standin’ there tryin’ not to pop wood in your brother’s kitchen?”

Tommy chokes on air.

Joel laughs — deep, rough, genuine.

But you don’t wait. You’re already moving to the cabinets, humming some old song under your breath like this is just another Sunday evening. Plates clink. Silverware glints.

And behind you, Tommy finally takes a slow step forward.

Right into the deep end.

The pie cools just long enough for the scent to fill every corner of the room — cinnamon, brown sugar, heat.

You slice it carefully, the crust flaking under your knife just right, steam curling into the air as you plate each piece. Joel gets his first — always does — and you set his down in front of him like a ritual. Tommy’s next, though, and this time you place his on the table with a knowing little smile.

Then you move past both chairs.

You don’t sit in yours.

You sit in his.

Right in Tommy’s lap.

He freezes under you, fork halfway to his mouth. You wiggle just a little, getting comfortable, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Hope you don’t mind,” you murmur, your voice honey-thick and innocent.

Tommy swallows hard, one hand hovering mid-air like he doesn’t know where the hell to put it.

“You… uh,” he starts, eyes darting briefly toward Joel, who hasn’t moved. “You’re real casual, ain’t you?”

“Mm,” you hum, cutting into your own slice with his fork, then turning slightly in his lap to look at him. You feed yourself slowly, tongue catching the edge of the bite before pulling it in, licking a smear of filling from your lip.

Tommy just stares.

“Y’know,” he mutters, “you’re dangerous.”

“I’ve been told.”

Joel leans back in his chair, pie untouched for now, watching you two. Quiet. Patient. There’s a glint in his eye — not jealousy, not quite approval either. Something possessive in its own right. He’s enjoying this, you realize. Watching Tommy squirm. Watching you work.

Tommy’s hands finally find a place — one at your waist, the other resting gently on your bare thigh, unsure if it’s allowed to go further. You don’t flinch. Don’t pull away.

You just lean back against him and take another bite.

“Don’t let me make you nervous, Tommy,” you say without turning. “You’ve seen what this mouth can do.”

He huffs a laugh under his breath, but it’s strained.

“I haven’t,” he says, low.

You look over your shoulder. “Not yet.”

Joel’s voice cuts in then, calm and smooth:

“She likes bein’ watched.”

That pulls Tommy’s eyes back to him, startled for a moment — but Joel’s calm. Still. Like none of this rattles him.

Like he wants this.

“She likes pushin’ buttons. Likes takin’ control.”

You shift in Tommy’s lap again, slow, pressing back ever so slightly.

“Only if the man’s worth it.”

“You think he is?” Joel asks, voice even, measured.

You smile.

“I think he’s about to find out.”

The plates are empty.

Crumbs scattered, forks abandoned. The only sounds left are the creak of old chairs, the low tick of cooling metal from the oven, and the steady beat of breath — yours, his, Joel’s. The quiet isn’t comfortable anymore. It’s thick. Heavy with what’s next.

You’re still on Tommy’s lap.

His hands have found their place now — one splayed wide on your thigh, the other curled around your waist like he forgot it wasn’t supposed to be there. He’s warmer beneath you than he was earlier. A little tense. A little still.

And very aware of where you’re sitting.

You let the silence stretch.

Then you shift again — slow, subtle, but enough to drag your ass right over the growing bulge in his jeans.

Tommy inhales sharply.

Joel watches from across the table, his eyes dark, steady.

You glance up at him briefly, then back at Tommy, tilting your head like you’re thinking real hard.

“You always this quiet?” you ask, your voice syrupy, sweetened with a mocking lilt. “Or is that just ‘cause I’m sittin’ on something important?”

Tommy’s jaw ticks.

“You keep grindin’ like that,” he mutters, “and I’m not gonna stay quiet.”

“Oh?” You grin, resting your elbow on the table, your body still square in his lap. “Big talk for a man who hasn’t even tried to touch me proper.”

“You’re in my lap.”

“And fully clothed. Which, frankly, is a little rude.”

Tommy shifts under you again, hands tightening on your waist.

Joel, still lounging in his chair, finally speaks.

“You don’t have to hold back, y’know.”

Tommy’s eyes flick to his brother. “You sure about that?”

Joel lifts his glass, tilts it lazily.

“I wouldn’t’ve brought you here if I wasn’t.”

The implication hangs there, heavy and clear.

You twist around just enough to look Tommy in the eye, your legs straddling him now, knees on either side of his thighs. You’re close enough to feel the heat of his breath, to hear how shallow it’s gotten.

“You ever think about it?” you whisper. “Me. Spread out. Moaning your name. Begging for it.”

His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up.

“Yeah,” he says, low. “I’ve thought about it.”

“Good,” you murmur. Your hand slides up his chest, nails dragging lightly over the buttons of his shirt. “Because I’m done with pie. And I’m fuckin’ starving.”

Joel lets out a low breath — something close to a chuckle.

And Tommy?

Tommy finally moves.

You don’t wait for him to move again.

You lean in first — one hand still curled lightly around the collar of Tommy’s shirt, the other resting against his jaw, fingertips tracing the rough edge of his stubble. His breath hitches when you get that close. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe.

You tilt your head, just enough.

And kiss him.

Soft at first.

Just your mouth against his — light pressure, a test, a tease. He doesn’t move right away, but you feel the way his whole body responds under you, muscles tightening, breath catching.

Then he kisses you back.

Harder.

Hotter.

You pull away just enough to murmur, “Get up.”

Tommy blinks. “What?”

You slide off his lap, hand still in his shirt. “Get up.”

He does, and you move immediately, climbing up onto the edge of Joel’s kitchen table like you’ve done it a hundred times — like you were meant to be there. You sit at the edge, legs spreading slowly, heels hooking around the edge of the chair he just vacated.

You look down at him, still standing between your legs.

You smile, dark and soft. “C’mon, Miller.”

He steps in, hands going to your hips — tentative at first, then firmer when you don’t flinch. You pull him in again, fingers tugging at his collar as you press your mouth back to his, this time deeper, slower, lips parting just enough to let him feel the heat behind your teeth.

You kiss like you’ve been waiting for this.

Like you’ve already pictured exactly how he tastes.

And now?

You’re proving yourself right.

His hands slide down to your thighs, thumbs dragging along your bare skin as your tongue flicks against his. His breath comes faster, and the kiss turns rougher — no hesitation now, just heat. Hunger. His hips press forward without meaning to.

Behind him, Joel hasn’t moved.

You break the kiss long enough to glance past Tommy’s shoulder. Joel’s still seated, still drinking you both in with that quiet, coiled energy. His elbow on the table, fingers wrapped around a glass of whiskey he hasn’t touched in a while.

You lock eyes with him over Tommy’s shoulder.

Your lips still wet from his brother’s kiss.

And you smirk.

Then you whisper, low into Tommy’s ear:

“Tell me what you want.”

You don’t have to ask again.

The second your breath brushes Tommy’s ear, something breaks loose in him.

His hands slide up your thighs — rougher this time, fingers digging in as they rise. There’s no hesitation now, no caution. He’s locked in, focused, hungry. And you feel it in every inch of his touch.

He kisses you again — deeper, messier this time, mouth open against yours. His tongue pushes past your lips, meeting yours in a slick, heated grind that sends a slow pulse straight between your legs. You shift forward on the table, pulling him closer, the pressure between you sparking against the friction of your bodies.

His hands slip under the edge of your skirt.

You gasp into his mouth as his thumbs hook the waistband and drag them down just far enough to bare the curve of your hips, his fingers brushing heat and skin and nothing but you.

“You’re soaked,” he mutters against your lips, voice thick.

“Yeah?” you breathe, pulling back just enough to look him in the eyes. “Guess I do like bein’ watched.”

You glance at Joel again — still in the same chair, jaw set, eyes locked on the two of you, a muscle twitching in his cheek. He hasn’t said a word. His hand rests loosely on his thigh now, the other curled around his untouched glass.

He doesn’t interrupt.

Doesn’t look away.

Tommy’s fingers slip lower.

They find you.

And they don’t hesitate.

Your breath catches hard as he slides two fingers between your folds, slow and deliberate, dragging through the slick heat. His thumb brushes over your clit just once — featherlight — and your legs twitch around his hips, heels digging into the edge of the table.

You moan softly, back arching.

He watches your face like he’s trying to memorize it.

“You feel like fuckin’ heaven,” he mutters, voice raw.

You laugh — breathless, dark. “Better than pie, huh?”

Tommy groans, sliding his fingers deeper, your slick welcoming him with ease. The stretch is perfect, just enough to make your thighs tighten around him. Your hips roll into his touch without thinking.

Behind him, Joel shifts.

The sound is small — wood creaking under his weight — but it cuts through everything. You look at him again, lip caught between your teeth, his eyes burning into yours.

You can tell.

He’s hard in his jeans.

And he’s not touching himself.

Yet.

“You gonna keep watchin’?” you ask him, voice low, laced with heat and dare.

Joel leans forward just slightly in his chair.

“For now.”

Tommy presses deeper.

And you cry out — loud this time, no shame, no restraint — your body rocking into his hand as your head falls back.

The table creaks beneath you.

And Joel just keeps watching.

Tommy’s fingers leave you only long enough to push your dress up — slow at first, like he’s trying to savor the reveal. The hem catches on your ribs, and you lift your arms without a word, letting him pull it over your head.

It drops to the floor with a soft whisper.

You’re bare underneath.

No bra.

Tommy swears under his breath — not loud, just enough that you feel the heat of it where he’s staring. His eyes drag over your chest, lingering on the swell of your breasts, the way your nipples tighten under the chill of the room — or maybe under his gaze.

His hands slide up your sides, calloused and warm, thumbs brushing under the curve of your breasts. Then, without warning, he dips his head.

His mouth wraps around your nipple — hot and sudden — and your whole body jolts.

Your hands fly to his hair, fingers curling into it as he sucks deep, tongue swirling slow, drawing tight circles around the sensitive bud. He groans into your skin, the sound low and reverent, like he’s been waiting to do this — like he’s dreamed it.

Your head tips back with a sharp gasp.

“F-fuck, Tommy…”

He moves to the other, dragging his mouth across the center of your chest, stubble scraping sensitive skin. His tongue is hotter than his hands, mouth open, wet, taking you in like it’s the first real taste he’s had all day.

Your thighs flex around his hips, heels locking against the backs of his legs. You grind instinctively against the denim of his jeans, slick and aching, every nerve lit up from the way he’s devouring you inch by inch.

Behind him, Joel hasn’t moved.

But you feel him.

Your eyes flutter open long enough to look over Tommy’s shoulder.

Joel’s leaned forward now, elbows on his knees, his face unreadable — but his eyes are fire. Fixed on your breasts, on Tommy’s mouth working you. You watch his throat bob as he swallows hard.

You smile through your moan.

“Y’mind if I let him keep going?” you breathe, voice teasing, drunk with pleasure.

Joel’s voice is gravel, low and tight:

“Didn’t tell him to stop.”

Tommy’s hands slide around your back, pulling you tighter to the edge of the table as his mouth keeps working you — slower now, wetter, tongue flicking teasing circles while his fingers knead your waist, possessive and sure.

He lifts his head only for a second — lips swollen, jaw tight — and says, voice rough:

“You taste like fuckin’ sugar.”

Your laugh turns into a gasp as his mouth drops again, tongue lapping hungrily against your nipple before he takes it back between his lips, harder this time.

You cry out — back arching, head thrown back.

And Joel?

Still hasn’t touched himself.

But his knuckles are white around that glass.

Tommy pulls back, breath hot against your chest, lips glossy from where he’s been working your skin. His hands are still on your waist, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

You’re flushed, gasping, but the smile playing on your lips is wicked. Too smug.

You glance over Tommy’s shoulder again.

Joel still hasn’t moved — but his glass is half-empty now, the other hand resting on his thigh, his thumb tapping slow against denim.

He’s watching your mouth when you say it.

“You sure you’re okay just sittin’ there, Joel?” you purr, breath still catching between words. “You look like you’re gonna break that glass or start humpin’ your chair.”

Tommy huffs a laugh against your collarbone — but Joel doesn’t smile.

He lifts his eyes to yours, slow.

Dead calm.

“You’re real mouthy tonight,” he says, voice low and dry. “Feelin’ bold ‘cause you got someone else’s tongue on your tits?”

You grin wide, dragging a thumb across your nipple, still wet from Tommy’s mouth. “Might just invite the whole town next time. Start a little bake sale.”

Tommy snorts again, but quieter this time. Joel’s face hasn’t changed.

Just his posture.

He sets the glass down.

Stands.

His boots are loud on the floor as he walks over — slow, measured. You tilt your head up as he approaches, all smirk and challenge, legs still spread where Tommy left you on the edge of the table.

Joel stops right in front of you.

“You done?” he asks.

Your smile doesn’t fade. “You jealous?”

His eyes narrow.

Then his voice drops, dark and final:

“Bedroom. Now.”

You blink.

Then grin even wider. “Oh? Daddy’s done watching?”

He leans in — not quite touching you, just close enough that you feel the heat roll off his chest.

“No. Daddy’s tired of his brat running her mouth like she owns the room.”

That one hits.

You swallow.

And for a second, neither of them moves — just the sound of your breath, the silence between their bodies, and Joel’s voice hanging in the air like a struck match.

Tommy clears his throat softly behind you, like even he felt that hit a nerve.

You hop off the table slowly, feet hitting the floor with a soft thud.

Still smiling.

But your legs tremble just a little as you walk past Joel, hips swaying on purpose, your voice over your shoulder like a dare:

“Coming, boys?”

You reach the bedroom first — the door creaking open with a soft groan — and step in like you’re still in charge, like this is your space. But the second Joel fills the doorway behind you, arms crossed, blocking out the light from the hall with that dark look in his eyes, everything tilts.

He doesn’t step in fully.

Just stands there.

Commanding the room without needing to raise his voice.

“On the bed,” he says. “Hands and knees.”

You hesitate, just for a beat.

And that’s all it takes.

Joel’s brow lifts. “Don’t make me ask twice.”

Your mouth goes dry. You climb onto the mattress — slow, deliberate, still trying to hold some kind of power — and crawl forward. You settle on your hands and knees, back arched, hair falling into your face. Your skin’s flushed, still tingling from Tommy’s mouth, and the cool air brushes over where your shorts were peeled off.

Behind you, Joel’s voice stays low, easy.

“Start with your mouth, Tommy.”

Tommy lingers just inside the room, but Joel doesn’t look at him — just keeps his eyes on you.

“She likes that,” he says. “Being on all fours. Somethin’ about it makes her feral.”

You let out a shaky breath, fingers flexing against the sheets.

Joel steps just inside now, but still doesn’t come close — leaning against the wall, arms crossed, voice steady as ever.

“Go on,” he says. “Get on your knees behind her.”

You hear the soft rustle of Tommy moving — the sound of his jeans shifting, dropping, the faint thump as he kneels onto the mattress behind you. Then warmth — his hands sliding up the backs of your thighs, fingertips tracing the curve of your ass.

“She’s soaked,” he mutters again, almost like it’s for himself.

Joel chuckles, quiet and dark.

“Of course she is. Been starvin’ for it all night, runnin’ that mouth like she doesn’t want to beg. Show her how quiet she gets when she’s got your tongue on her.”

And Tommy does.

He grips your hips gently at first, then firmer, spreading you open beneath him — and then his mouth is on you.

You gasp — high and sharp, your head dropping between your arms. His tongue moves slow at first, licking a broad stripe through your folds, warm and wet and teasing. Then he finds your clit — flicking, circling, sucking just the way your body needs — and your legs tremble instantly.

Joel watches it all.

Eyes locked on the way your back arches, the way your thighs shake when Tommy’s mouth gets deeper, wetter, messier.

“Good,” Joel says softly. “She’s real sensitive. You’ll know when you hit the right spot — she’ll start whining like a fuckin’ toy.”

Tommy groans into you, and the sound sends heat lancing up your spine.

Your moans start to come faster, more broken, hips rocking against Tommy’s face without shame. One of your hands clutches at the sheets, the other fisting uselessly in the air.

“F-fuck, Joel…”

He hums, slow and calm, still leaned against the wall like he’s got all night.

“See?” he murmurs. “She’s still cryin’ for me.”

Tommy’s mouth doesn’t stop moving.

He’s deeper now, tongue sliding lower, licking into you like he wants to drown in it. His grip tightens on your hips, pulling you closer, holding you wide open for him, tongue flicking firm and fast against your clit. Each pass sends another jolt through your spine, your thighs trembling, the bed creaking under your knees.

Your breath breaks into moans — ragged, helpless, strung out in Joel’s name whether you mean to or not.

And Joel, still leaning by the door, just smiles.

“That’s right, baby,” he says, voice low and steady like it’s just for you. “Let him taste all that mess you made. You love this, don’t you? Gettin’ tongue-drunk while I stand here and watch you fall apart.”

You whimper, burying your face in the sheets, fingers curling into the blanket. You try to speak — to answer — but all that comes out is a gasped, desperate noise.

Joel steps forward a little, just enough for the light to catch the sharp line of his jaw.

“Use your words,” he says, slow and thick with command. “C’mon, girl. You got so much to say when you’re runnin’ your mouth. Now tell me what you want.”

Tommy groans into you again, his tongue circling your clit with maddening precision — and your hips stutter, your thighs twitching around his head as another cry escapes you.

“F-fuck, Joel—please—”

Joel’s smile sharpens.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “That’s my girl. You beg real pretty with your pussy stuffed full of tongue.”

Your moan splits into something higher — a whine now, helpless and wet.

Tommy’s mouth doesn’t falter. He flattens his tongue and drags it slow, firm, sucking you just right — and Joel watches the whole thing, eyes glued to the way your back arches, the way your legs shake.

“You gonna come just from that?” Joel teases, voice darker now. “Just from a mouth on you? On all fours like a bitch in heat? Yeah… you will. I can tell.”

“Joel,” you cry again, breath breaking.

Tommy tightens his grip on your ass, pulling you closer, pressing his face in deeper — hungry, worshipful, lost in you.

And Joel keeps talking.

“She’s close,” he says, like he’s proud. “Get your fingers in her, Tommy. Nice and slow — let her feel it. She needs that stretch. Needs to be filled while she falls apart.”

Tommy groans again — this time muffled by your body — and then his fingers are sliding into you, two at once, thick and slick, curling deep while his tongue keeps lapping at your clit. The stretch is perfect, the pace brutal.

You cry out, the sound cracking in your throat.

Your knees nearly give out.

Joel’s voice dips lower, rougher.

“Go on, baby. Let it break you. I want you screamin’ while his mouth’s on you and my name’s still the only thing you can say.”

You’re right there.

So close your thighs are shaking, breath caught in your throat, the sheets twisted in your fists. Tommy’s tongue is relentless, his fingers stroking you just right, deep and curling — everything perfectly timed, perfectly built to take you over the edge.

Joel watches, still near the doorway, arms crossed and mouth set in something close to satisfaction.

But then — suddenly — Tommy stops.

Everything.

His mouth pulls back. Fingers slide out, slick and slow.

You gasp, body jolting forward like someone yanked your soul out of it.

“W-what—?”

Your voice breaks on the word.

You glance over your shoulder, dazed, wrecked — eyes wide, lips parted, thighs soaked and twitching. You look like something ruined. Like a fire halfway extinguished and still burning underneath.

Tommy wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, chest rising and falling hard.

Then his voice comes — low, new, edged with something else now.

Something earned.

“On your knees.”

You blink. “What?”

He sits back, legs spread, cock straining thick and red between them — eyes dark and locked on you.

“I said kneel. Right here,” he says, tapping the space in front of him. “You wanna come? You earn it.”

Joel lets out a quiet sound — not quite a laugh, not quite a breath — more like approval. He leans back against the wall again, letting it unfold.

“She’s good at it,” Joel murmurs. “Once she shuts up and listens.”

You hesitate for only a second — not because you don’t want it, but because you do, too much.

You slide off the bed, knees hitting the floorboards with a soft thud. Your hands come to Tommy’s thighs automatically, steadying yourself between them. His cock’s heavy, flushed, glistening at the tip, and your mouth waters instantly.

You glance up at him — wide-eyed, breathless — and lick your lips slowly, still trembling from the orgasm they ripped away.

“Still hungry?” he asks.

You nod.

“Then open your fuckin’ mouth.”

And behind you, Joel’s voice comes again — rougher this time, deeper.

“Make it good, baby. You want that release? You better earn it with your throat.”

You open your mouth without a word.

Eyes wide, lips parted, tongue wet and waiting — hungry, desperate, obedient. You press your hands harder into Tommy’s thighs, steadying yourself, and lean forward until your lips brush against the flushed head of his cock.

He groans immediately.

Low and guttural, like the sound’s been building in him all night.

Your tongue slides out first — a slow, deliberate lick over the tip, tasting the bead of precum already there. Then another. Then you flatten your tongue and drag it down the length of him, slow and wet, watching his head tip back with a hiss through his teeth.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “She’s—Jesus—she’s perfect like this.”

Joel hums from across the room. “Told you.”

Your mouth wraps around the tip, and you take him in slow — inch by inch, steady, letting him feel every wet pull of your lips, every flick of your tongue under the shaft. Your throat opens bit by bit, eyes never leaving his, and Tommy’s hand slides into your hair automatically, not to control — not yet — just to feel.

Joel’s voice cuts in — calm, sharp.

“Don’t let her go too fast.”

Tommy looks toward him, dazed. “What?”

“She’ll try to get you there quick. Girl knows what she’s doing. Don’t let her. She doesn’t get to end this yet.”

Your lips curl around Tommy’s cock at that — around the moan building low in your throat.

Of course Joel would know your tricks.

Tommy grunts, hand tightening in your hair just a little, guiding your pace now.

You bob your head slow, mouth slick and hot, tongue swirling around the tip each time you pull back. You suck him deep, letting spit drip from your chin, eyes fluttering shut for a second as your throat stretches to take him farther.

“You see that?” Joel murmurs, voice thick. “Look at the way her jaw opens for you. Look how needy she is with her mouth. She’ll suck the soul outta you if you let her.”

Tommy groans, hips twitching forward involuntarily — and you let him, choking just slightly, loving the weight of him, the control you don’t have.

But Joel speaks again — firmer now.

“Pull out.”

Tommy grits his teeth. “What?”

“Pull out,” Joel repeats. “She doesn’t get to finish that. Not yet.”

Tommy looks down at you, torn.

You look wrecked — spit smeared on your lips, your chest rising fast, eyes wild and glassy, your tongue flicking out to chase every inch he takes away.

But he obeys.

He pulls back with a gasp, and your mouth falls open, a whimper escaping you as your hands tighten on his thighs.

“No—Joel—” you start, voice trembling.

Joel steps closer now, finally off the wall.

“Don’t whine,” he says. “You knew what this was.”

You sit there on your knees, ruined, mouth open, jaw sore, cunt throbbing — and still completely untouched where it counts.

Joel looks you over, eyes slow, deliberate.

Then he nods to Tommy.

“Sit her on the edge of the bed. Let her feel it without havin’ it. We’re not done teachin’ her patience yet.”

Your back hits the bed as Tommy hauls you up — strong hands under your thighs, spreading them wide, holding you open like you’re something to be used. He’s panting now, voice dark and wild in your ear.

“You’ve been teasing me with this pussy all fuckin’ night,” he growls. “Every time you looked at me, I thought about splittin’ you open. Now look at you — spread and soaked for it. Fuckin’ brat.”

He lines up — thick and heavy, already glistening from your mouth — and presses the head of his cock against your entrance.

You whimper, still oversensitive, still aching from the denial.

And then he pushes in.

Not slow. Not gentle.

A single, hungry thrust — deep, firm, greedy — and you cry out, hands flying to the sheets, your head snapping back with the shock of it.

“God—Tommy—”

“Oh, that’s right,” he mutters, hips grinding as he bottoms out, buried deep. “She’s tight, Joel. Real tight. Like her pussy doesn’t know who it wants to come for.”

Joel’s there before you can answer — right beside you now, his belt already loose, jeans undone. His cock’s out, heavy and flushed, and his hand finds your jaw like it belongs there.

“Open up.”

You do — lips parting, tongue already slick, already aching for something to fill it.

He slides in without hesitation, thick and slow, stretching your mouth just like Tommy’s stretching your cunt. The noise you make is guttural, strangled — your throat filled as your pussy clenches around Tommy’s cock.

Joel groans low. “Fuck yes.”

“Look at her,” Tommy snarls from between your legs, hips snapping forward now, fucking you in rough, steady thrusts. “All that attitude, now she’s just a hole on both ends. She begged for this.”

Joel holds your head in place, thumb stroking your cheek as he slides deeper into your throat, slow and controlled.

“She’ll keep beggin’, too,” Joel murmurs. “It’s what she’s best at.”

Tommy grunts, each thrust sharper now, driving into you with the full weight of his hips, skin slapping against skin. “Tight fuckin’ cunt, squeezin’ me like she wants to come — you feel that? She’s already there. We could ruin her right now.”

Joel pulls back slightly from your throat, letting you breathe just enough before pushing in again.

“We could,” he agrees. “But we won’t.”

Tommy groans.

You’re shaking under both of them — mouth and cunt full, no room for thoughts, just sensation and heat and pressure. Your hands claw at the sheets, at anything, but all you feel is the rhythm of Tommy’s thrusts and Joel’s cock pushing into your throat.

“Goddamn,” Tommy growls. “This pussy’s beggin’. She’s fuckin’ choking on you and she’s still clenching on me like she wants me to fill her up.”

Joel chuckles darkly, pulling back to the tip.

“Not yet.”

Tommy grits his teeth, thrusting deep once more, staying inside you.

“She don’t get it until she earns it.”

Tommy’s pace is brutal now.

His hands are wrapped around your hips, dragging you into every thrust, cock punching deep, relentless, hitting the spot that’s made your legs twitch and your voice crack for the last goddamn hour. He’s grunting with each slam of his hips, sweat slick between your bodies, his head low, eyes locked on the way you take him.

“Fuckin’ look at her,” he growls, jaw tight. “She’s clenching like she’s tryin’ to make me come just by beggin’ for it.”

Above you, Joel’s grip tightens on your jaw, guiding his cock deeper into your mouth, then letting you pull off with a wet gasp. He fists your hair in one hand, the other gripping yours — tight, grounding — fingers laced between yours on the bed.

His voice drops low, growled against your temple.

“Say it.”

You try, but your voice breaks into a moan — overwhelmed, ruined.

“Please,” you whimper, your throat raw, lips swollen. “I-I need to—God—please, let me—”

“Say who you’re beggin’,” Joel murmurs, thumb brushing over your spit-slick lips. “You want to come? You ask us.”

Tommy slams into you harder — so deep it knocks the air out of you.

“Beg for it, sugar. Or you’re not gettin’ shit.”

Your hand tightens around Joel’s.

“Please,” you sob, thighs shaking, cunt pulsing around Tommy’s cock with every thrust. “Joel. Tommy. Please, let me come. I need it—I can’t—I’ll be so good—just please.”

Joel groans — low, wrecked — as he fists his cock and presses it against your lips again, letting you lick and suck at the tip, sloppy and desperate.

Tommy’s rhythm stutters.

“She’s fuckin’ there,” he gasps. “I can feel her—she’s gonna come the second I do—”

Joel leans down, lips right at your ear, voice shaking:

“Now.”

Tommy slams in deep — one, two more thrusts — and with a strangled groan, he comes, buried to the hilt, pulsing thick inside you. His head drops to your shoulder, breath ragged.

Joel’s hand tightens around yours, and you open wide for him one last time, sucking him in deep, just as his cock throbs on your tongue. He groans hard through his teeth, spilling into your mouth, and you take all of it — choking, gasping, swallowing him down as your body finally, finally breaks.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a fucking storm.

Your legs lock around Tommy’s hips, your fingers nearly crush Joel’s, and you scream into Joel’s palm — throat raw, body shaking, cunt squeezing around Tommy’s cock like it’s trying to keep him there.

Everything pulses.

Everything floods.

Tommy breathes your name against your skin, hips still twitching.

Joel pulls his cock from your mouth slow, slick, spent, leaning down to press his forehead against yours.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, brushing sweat-soaked hair from your cheek. “That’s my girl.”

And you just lie there — wrecked, full, held between them.

Finally emptied.

Finally claimed.

Your body’s still shaking.

The climax hasn’t let you go yet — your thighs twitch with aftershocks, your chest rising too fast, lips swollen from sucking Joel down until your jaw ached. You’re stretched full, pulsing around Tommy’s softening cock, every nerve still lit up.

You barely register it when Joel brushes the hair from your face. When Tommy presses a soft, grounding kiss to your shoulder. All you know is warmth — inside and out — and the weight of hands that no longer hold you down, but keep you together.

Joel’s the first to speak.

Voice low, rough-edged from release, but gentled now.

“You did so fuckin’ good for us.”

He’s sitting at the edge of the bed, still close enough to touch. His thumb strokes over your knuckles, hand still laced with yours. “Took everything we gave you. Held it like you were made for it.”

You shudder softly, the words going straight to the sore center of you.

Tommy’s still inside you — slowly softening, but not in a rush to pull out. His hands rub up and down your waist, calming, coaxing your breath back to normal.

“You were somethin’ else,” he murmurs, lips near your ear. “Been thinkin’ about that mouth for weeks. But this—?” He kisses the side of your throat. “You just gave it. All of it.”

You let out a quiet breath, your voice hoarse. “Thought you were gonna make me pass out.”

Joel chuckles — warm, real.

“Almost did,” he says. “You should’ve seen your fuckin’ face.”

“She looked gone,” Tommy adds, still stroking you. “Goddamn beautiful. Messy, ruined, full of both of us, and still beggin’ like it wasn’t enough.”

You manage a smile, eyes fluttering closed, cheek pressed to the pillow. “Still might be.”

Joel hums low in his throat, thumb brushing your bottom lip.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “Say shit like that, you’ll get round two without a nap.”

Tommy finally slides out, slow and careful, and you whimper at the loss. He presses another kiss between your shoulder blades.

“Let’s clean her up.”

Joel’s already grabbing the towel from the nightstand — planned, prepared, always thinking ahead. He’s gentle when he wipes you down, cupping your hip with one hand to steady you, cleaning between your thighs like he’s done it before.

Tommy watches, then leans down to whisper:

“Hey.”

You look up.

He’s grinning, soft now, worn out and happy.

“You’re the best fuck I never knew I needed.”

Joel shoots him a look, deadpan. “That supposed to be a compliment?”

Tommy laughs. “Shut up, man, she knows what I mean.”

You smile again — sore, satisfied, soaked in praise and attention.

Joel tosses the towel aside, then climbs into the bed behind you, pulling you into his chest with one strong arm. Tommy settles in on the other side, hand stroking lazy patterns across your thigh.

“You did real good, darlin’,” Joel murmurs again against your hair. “Bratty, loud, filthy. Just how I like you.”

Tommy nods, fingers tracing the curve of your hip.

“We’ll keep you like this,” he says. “All soft. All ours.”

And in the dark, held between them, full and warm and safe, you finally let yourself drift.

The bathwater Joel prepared is hot.

Almost too hot at first — enough to make you hiss as your legs lower into it, thighs trembling from soreness. But Joel’s behind you already, one hand on your waist, the other steady on your back.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “I got you.”

Tommy’s in front, sleeves rolled up, crouched at the edge of the tub, watching with that lazy smile of his. He hands Joel a cloth, already soaked through with warm water and lavender soap.

You sink into the tub slowly, your whole body protesting in the best way — muscles aching, cunt sore, jaw tender.

Wrecked. Used. Worshipped.

Joel starts to wash you.

Carefully.

He runs the cloth down your neck, over your shoulders, across your chest like you’re something breakable now. The same hands that held you still earlier now glide over you like you’re made of silk.

Tommy just watches for a minute. Quiet. Soft-eyed.

Then he speaks, voice low, slower than before.

“Never seen anyone like you.”

You glance at him, brows raised, lips barely curving.

He leans in closer. “You’re wild, y’know that? Got a fuckin’ mouth on you. Make a man wanna ruin you. And then you turn around and melt when we talk sweet.”

You blink, your throat too thick to answer.

[hugheswho]

I Will Lay Me Down

Summary: You finally get to reunite with your boyfriend, Luke, after his shoulder surgery. Helping him recover proves to be a little more work than you thought. 

Pairing: Luke Hughes x Reader (any gender!)

Warnings: swearing, suggestive themes/language but no smut, luke being a drama queen, pet names, fluff, i think thats it but let me know if i missed anything 

Author’s note: Luke sign of life in the sling inspired me to finally finish this. This is my first posted writing sooo if its bad please lie to me…is english my first language? Yes. is grammar/punctuation my strong suit? Absolutely not. Enjoy! This is also really dialogue heavy because I’m not good at describing things lol 

Word count: 3.5k

“Wait, can you cut it the other way?” Luke asks before you start to cut into the sandwiches you prepared for the two of you. He sits across the kitchen island from you in his sling, still recovering from his shoulder surgery a few weeks ago. You were still at school when he had his operation, then had two weeks of final exams followed by senior week and graduation. This is the first time you’ve been able to see him post-surgery. Luke is definitely making up for lost time.

He follows you around like a lost dog and begs you to come with him when he leaves the room, just to return two minutes later. You, being the best partner in the world, put up with his shenanigans because how could you not when he gives you that adorable little pout? 

The sling doesn’t make life easy when you’re a 6’2, almost 200-pound professional athlete, which is why you are eager to help your boyfriend with all daily tasks. Luke adores that you take care of him while he recovers, but he definitely abuses the power. 

================================================

“Babe?” Luke calls out for you.

“What’s up?” you reply, walking out of the bathroom to see Luke sitting on the bed, shirtless and no sling, surrounded by clothes. 

“Can you please help me get my shirt and hoodie on?” 

“Yeah of course,” you answer while grabbing the loosest tee he has in the pile, some old Michigan hockey shirt that looks like it was bought decades ago and has seen some shit.

You gather the bunched-up fabric on the left side to slip his bad arm through first, then carefully mimic it on the right side, and finally over his head. 

“Good?” you ask, hoping you’re not hurting him.

“Perfect,” he smiles back at you.

Next, you pick up the hoodie, which is not as loose as the shirt, and let him place both his arms in their respective slots. You begin to pull the fabric higher to go above his head, his arms slightly raising. Luke hisses as his bad arm goes higher than he expected. 

You jump back, immediately pulling your hands off of him. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry!”

“No, it’s okay. It happens every time I do it myself,” he reassures you.

“You can do this yourself?” you ask, lowkey impressed. If you didn't have mobility in one of your arms, there's no way you could pull a hoodie over your body.

“Trust me it’s not that glamorous.”

Luke exhales and takes a moment to let the pain dissolve from his body. Once free from tension, he meets your gaze.

“Ready?” you ask. He nods and lets the hoodie engulf him. His head gets a bit stuck in the neck hole and you can’t help but giggle trying to see him wrangle free. Finally, he pops through and has his crooked grin plastered across his face. 

“Hi baby,” he breathes out before jetting his lips out, looking for a kiss.

You lean down and softly kiss his lips. You pull away for a few seconds, just to stare into his eyes. His eyes filled with warmth making you break out into a smile before leaning down to press another quick, tender kiss on him. 

“Hi Lu-ba-lu” you respond, his face turning red at the pet name. 

You make a mental note to get him a zip-up sweatshirt. 

================================================

“I think I’m gonna head up to bed,” Luke yawns and stands from the group hanging in the living room. He had a tough day with physical therapy and was feeling the aftereffects. 

“I’ll come with you bub,” you convey while getting yourself up from your spot in the corner of the couch.

“No babe I’m fine. Stay down here I know it’s early. 

“Well, how about I help you get ready for bed and then I’ll come back down here after?” you suggest, wanting to make sure Luke is comfortable. 

“That sounds great,” Luke smiles back at you. 

The two of you head up to your shared room. You begin to pull the comforter back and prop up all his pillows so he can sleep snugly and not bother his shoulder. Luke smiles to himself as he sees you adding pillows from your side, fully knowing how much you love your pillows. His heart warms at you giving up your own comfort for him. 

Luke decides to just leave his t-shirt on for bed rather than going through the whole taking the sling off, taking the shirt off, and putting the sling back on rigmarole. His breath hitches when you loop your fingers into the waistband of his pants and carefully drag them down his legs. You kneel on the ground and gently hold his ankles as he lifts each foot to step out of the pants. 

“Do you want other pants or just want to be in your boxers?” you ask, looking up at him. 

“Like this is fine, thank you baby” he replies, heart beating faster. 

You stand back up and let him settle against the mountain of pillows in bed. You feel kind of sad to leave him but also know that he’s going to knock out right away and you’ll still be awake for hours just staring at the ceiling. Nevertheless, you double check. 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?”

“I’m positive. Go back down, I'm going to fall asleep in five minutes anyway,” Luke answers truthfully, confirming your thoughts. 

“Do you need help with anything else before I go?”

Luke laughs to himself. 

“Well there is one thing…”

“What?”

Luke’s head lowers to look between you two. Your head follows him and finds the gazing point. His crotch. You look back up and find Luke’s pink-painted face and mischievous eyes staring back at you. You shake your head and scoff, amusement hiding behind your actions. 

“Do you actually want me to?”

“Like yes but I’m actually so tired I don’t even think I could get it up right now,” Luke confesses.

“I’ll make it up to you later. I don’t want to hurt my fragile boy.”

“Hey! I’m strong!”

“Soooo strong,” you hum, hand grazing his bicep before traveling up to cup his cheek. “Good night my love. I’ll be up soon. Just text me if you need something,” you murmur as you kiss his cheek and cover him with the comforter. 

“I will. Good night I love you!”

“I love you too,” you respond, shutting the lights off and closing the door behind you. 

Once you leave the room, Luke sneaks your pillows back over to your side. He’d rather have a sore shoulder in the morning than let you give up all your amenities. 

================================================

Showering with Luke wasn’t unfamiliar territory. You were both very used to sharing the water and helping each other clean up. So when he asked you to help him bathe after a day on the boat, you didn’t bat an eye. The water cascaded over the two of you as you finished lathering and rinsing his body. 

With Luke in no position to bend down and you not being able to fully reach his head to properly wash it, you both decided that Luke sitting on the floor of the shower would be the best option. 

Luke sat crisscross applesauce at your feet while you gathered the shampoo in your hands. You slowly began to lather the cleanser through his wet curls, gently dragging your nails across his scalp. Luke’s eyes fluttered closed as he rested his cheek against your thigh and let his good arm fall to hold your ankle. 

It was these gentle, intimate occasions that meant the most to you. The two of you knew neither had to say anything to let these moments speak the loudest. The quiet comfort proved just how strong your bond was. 

Sure, the two of you could yap to each other til the cows came home. You both love to playfully argue about something stupid and until you’re both yelling that the other person is wrong, fully in stitches laughing. There is no shortage of chaos in your relationship. But if someone were to ask what moments in your relationship truly defined you and Luke, it would be this. You both found solace in your silence. Neither of you ever felt awkward, or uncomfortable, or like something was being left unsaid. 

“Can you lift your head towards me please?” you say softly, not wanting to break the calm the two of you built. Luke turns his head to look up at you, eyes hazy from the comfort. If you hadn’t said anything, he would have fallen asleep against your leg. 

You pump some face wash into your hands and begin with his cheeks, letting your digits dance along his strong cheekbones. Your hands turn in and follow the curve of his nose, showing extra care to the freckle on its side. His forehead is the next to receive attention as you wash the space that contains the little lines that appear when he raises his eyebrows. It doesn’t matter what emotion Luke is portraying at the time, whether it’s shock, confusion, disgust…those lines are going to appear just the way you love them. Then finally your hands meet again at his chin. 

Luke is looking at you with so much love in his eyes you can’t help but lean over and place a small kiss on his nose which makes him shyly smile, almost as if he was just made aware he was caught staring. 

Once you rinse his face of the cleanser, you put your hands out for him to grab with his good arm.

“Come on big boy,” you encourage as he grabs a hold of you. You hoist him up and help him catch his balance when he stumbles. Your bodies are pressed close together and you can feel the goosebumps growing on his skin. Once grounded, Luke looks you in the eyes, a smile blossoming along his face. You are so in love with him. 

And then Luke had to go and open his big mouth. 

“Are you gonna manscape me?”

“You’d be brave to trust me with a razor down there right now.”

================================================

The sunlight slipped through the slats of Luke’s window blinds in the early morning. You stepped out of his bathroom to see the golden light draped across his sleeping face. Quietly, you walk over to his side of the bed and lean down to delicately scatter kisses across his nose and cheeks.

“You missed,” Luke mutters, eyes still closed and voice raspy from sleep.

“Oh did I?” you throw back, fully knowing what he means.

“Mhmm,” he nods before continuing, “can’t get up without my morning kiss.”

You laugh at Luke’s neediness but entertain his antics by pressing a long kiss to his lips. Once you pull back you see his eyes have finally opened and his lips curl upwards.

“Good morning lover,” you whisper just above his face.

“Now it is.”

You playfully roll your eyes as you pull back to stand up fully. 

“Come on, get up and get ready for the day,” you say while helping him up.

Luke grumbles something under his breath and rubs his eyes while you push him towards the bathroom. You continue to get ready for the day, brushing your hair when you hear the bathroom door open after only a minute. 

“I can’t brush my teeth” Luke states while standing in the doorway just staring at you as if what he said didn’t make your head shake in confusion. 

“I’m sorry?”

“My arm is out of commission. You need to brush my teeth for me,” he shrugs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world…which it would be if he only had one arm in total. 

You exhale before saying “Luke. You got surgery on your left shoulder. You’re a righty.”

“I shoot left.”

“Oh my bad, I didn’t realize the American Dental Association recommended shooting pucks along with the two minutes of teeth brushing. I must’ve missed that update in the newsletter.”

Luke has to bite his lip to stop himself from laughing. He instead pulls out his famous pout. 

“Come on pleaseeeee! You always say how much you love my smile! Would you really take part in ruining it?” 

You love all his smiles, but the ones where his teeth are showing are your favorite. Motherfucker knows how to play his cards. Next thing you know, you have Luke resting with his butt against the bathroom counter. With his toothbrush covered in toothpaste, you get to work. A grin forms across his face as you begin to brush his teeth. 

“I can’t believe I'm doing this right now,” you huff out as you work on his back molars. 

“You’re like the best person in the world,” Luke slurs, mouth full of toothpaste and saliva. You nod towards the sink, letting him know to spit. 

If someone offered him a ticket straight to the playoffs next season in exchange for looking away from you right now, he’d tell them to kick rocks. His eyes are full of admiration as he stares at the love of his life performing his dental hygiene for him. 

“Open and stick your tongue out,” you command, suddenly taking your job very seriously. You violently brush Luke’s tongue, making him gag in the process. 

“Babe oh my god,” he chokes out, eyes wide staring at you in shock. 

“Oops! My mistake!” you exclaim, playfulness gleaming in your eyes. 

“Yeah, that was a mistake alright…” 

“Oh, but when you make me do it it’s fine?”

A smirk dances across Luke’s stupid, pretty face. 

“Touché.” 

He can’t believe how lucky he is to have someone like you. You rolled your eyes when he asked you to do this, but you’ve made sure to get every single tooth in his mouth. Brushed his tongue. Kept your free hand against his waist to hold him steady, close. The request from Luke was ridiculous, but you did it. 

This moment is one he never wants to forget. The way you brushed a stray eyelash off his cheek absent-mindedly. The way you’re humming the song that’s playing distantly somewhere in the house without even realizing it. The concentration of your eyes. Luke almost wants to ask what you're thinking about in that beautiful head of yours. 

“The toothpaste leaking out of your mouth makes it look like you have rabies. I wouldn’t be surprised. You are feral.” 

Yeah, he’s gonna marry you one day for sure.

================================================

The rain had just started to die down in the evening. The group was originally meant to go on a night boat ride, but the guys didn’t want to wipe up all the water from the storm inside the boat, knowing no one was going to swim anyway. You all decided a bonfire would be the perfect nighttime activity. 

Bundled in your sweatshirt and holding blankets, you wait for Luke at the bottom of the stairs. He finally comes barreling down them and walks over to the shoe rack. 

The grass was all still wet outside so shoes were definitely encouraged. But it wasn’t completely drenched outside so you could still wear your sandals.

Luke, however, walks past all his easy slip-on shoes entirely. Crocs? No. Slides? Nope. Vans? No way. Instead, Luke reaches for his sneakers and turns on his heel to hand them to you. Without thinking, you hold them as you watch him sit on the stairs. You assume he just wanted you to hold them while he got situated so he could slip them on. 

Rather, he sits and waits, looking at you with his lips rolled inward, feet dangling off the stairs, waiting to be covered.

“Oh you’re just doing this on purpose now,” you gather, seeing his smile break out into a full grin. 

“I don't want my feet to be cold! Need to be fully covered!” Luke argues back, stifling his chuckle. 

“You can put them on yourself!”

“But I need your help to tie them!” 

WOW. This must be what it’s going to be like when you have a mini Luke running around one day. 

“Why do you even need them tied? You can’t just wear them loose?”

“Oh babe no way. These are brand new. Can’t be ruining the laces with the wet grass.”

“…..but we can ruin the shoe altogether?”

“…..just do it. Will you please?” Luke implores you, defeated.

And of course, you oblige. 

“You really are unbelievable, you know that?” you mutter while leaning down to slip the sneakers on his feet. 

================================================

You and Luke lay in bed, you scrolling your phone and he flipping through the TV channels. 

You speak up, “Oh by the way, I’m going to go home for just a little but then I’ll be back.”

Luke immediately whips his head towards you, pout gracing his lips. 

“Nooo don’t leave me!”

“Luke, I haven’t seen my home friends since before graduation. I’ll be home for two weeks and then I’m coming back. I promise you’ll be okay.”

“Who is gonna take care of me?” Luke whines, hands trying to grab any article of your clothing, proving he needs you near him. 

“You got surgery three weeks before I even got here. Who was doing it then?”

“Jack.”

“And why can’t he help you now?”

“I mean he could. He’s just not as pretty.”

You laugh out loud, making Luke break too. 

“I think he would take offense to that.”

Luke stays silent as he listens to your laugh slowly fade. His favorite sound in the world. 

“I’m just going to miss you,” he says shyly. 

“I know, baby. I’ll miss you too but I’ll be back to be your personal servant before you know it,” you console him, brushing your hand through the side of his hair. 

You smile softly at your boyfriend and go back to scrolling on your phone. Luke frowns at your statement. Not knowing what to say, he remains silent but lets his mind race for the rest of the night. 

================================================

Luke was starting to go a little stir-crazy. He was still stuck in the sling for the time being and he was sick of having to limit himself in everything. He still hasn’t been able to hold you in the way he desires. Nor has he been able to do anything for you, to make up for all of his mischief. 

You could sense his tension from the other side of the couch. Yes, you’ve complained about the nonsense he’s made you do while being here, but seeing him in distress truly breaks your heart and you’d do it all 100 times over to make him feel better. 

“Hey,” you start softly, “let’s go for a walk around the neighborhood.”

He turns towards you and just nods. You grab his hand to help him stand and aid in putting his shoes on, without him asking this time. 

The two of you walk silently for a bit, your hand interlocking his good one. Your thumb naturally strokes against his knuckles, something you’ve done a million times before. 

As you and Luke get further into your walk, he breaks the silence. 

“I'm sorry,” he says weakly. 

“About what?” you ask, truly having no idea what he could be apologizing about. 

“About making you feel like you’re my personal servant,” he explains while stopping in his tracks and turning towards you. “You’re more than that to me and I’m sorry if I didn't make it seem like that.”

His eyes stare into yours, trying to figure out what exactly you’re feeling. You’re taken aback by Luke’s confession. You meant that comment as a joke. You didn’t think he’d take it so earnestly. 

“Luke honey, it’s okay,” you tell him while squeezing his hand gingerly. 

“I’m serious. I know I’ve been hamming it up but your help truly means the world to me. This hasn’t been easy physically or mentally…” Luke’s voice catches on itself and he takes a moment to steady himself. “…but you being here and helping me with whatever I need, no matter how foolish, makes it all a little easier.”

You drop his hand so you can grasp either side of his face. You look him in the eyes for a few moments, not saying anything, letting that silence you love so much grow between you two once again. He knows this is your way of saying “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Finally, you find the words you need him to hear, “you know I’d drop everything for you, Lu.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. You’re letting him know this is true. This is real. This is us. 

A small smile appears on his lips as his anxiety leaves his body. 

“I’m so lucky to have you in my life,” he whispers, resting his forehead against yours. 

“We’re so lucky to have each other in our lives,” you lean in to kiss him, “plus it helps that you’re really cute.”

“The cutest.”

[barcapix]

if you are still talking requests could you write one where since pedri injured his shoulder in the match last week can you make it that he gets home from the match and is in pain and reader massages him and it’s just really fluff please 🙏🏻🫶🏼

✮ Sweet Lovin’ - Pedri González

pedri gonzalez x fem!reader

sy: after a unforgiving defeat to portugal, pedri comes home fatigued and in craving need of attention. you’re there to give it all to him.

a/n: i know this was a while ago but im always down for writing these type of comfort fics! do i care that there are already comfort fics for the loss? no. (hope it was okay that i altered this a little🙃)

warnings: no

the lock on the front door churns as it opens, then swiftly shuts, followed by a loud thump.

with the replay of the nations league match still present on the tv, you scramble up from the sofa and make a beeline for your hallway.

pedri is standing there, letting himself free from his training bag and slowly trying to remove his trainers.

he moves with a painful intent, wincing whenever he moves his shoulder to achieve in untying his shoelaces.

“here baby, let me help,” you offer, greeting him with a small kiss to his cheek. you unravel the knot from his laces, taking his trainers and storing them away.

“gracias,” he mutters, weakly squeezing onto your arm.

it seems as though he doesn’t have the energy, nor the pain tolerance to greet you the way he normally does—barraging kisses everywhere he could, no tight hug that left you trapped in his arms—but that’s the best he could do.

after watching the match from home, the unforgiving defeat of spain’s lost doesn’t come easy. not only does he seem physically fatigued, but mentally too.

his cheeks still withstood of his post match blush, his curls damp and tousled; you didn’t say it out loud, but he looks awfully spent. the usual brightness he leaves this house with, was no longer there. like all life had been siphoned out of him.

pedri tentatively goes to take another step toward the living room, but sways slightly, hand tightening around your forearm.

“stop trying to do it all yourself,” your lips part in a breathless whisper as he almost stumbles over until you catch him. “let your body relax babe.”

steadily, you guide him through the house, into your lounge. you make a small den with cushions on the sofa, carefully helping him down.

pedri winces a little, biting the inside of his cheek as he adjusts himself, trying to lean back without making his shoulder scream.

“here,” you mouth, delicately peeling his dampened jersey from his skin.

instantly, your eyes scan across his chest, noting the deep rise and fall of his breaths and the way his skin is cool and damp to the touch.

red bruises are beginning to bloom across his side, like ghost-like smudges of exhaustion.

you crouch down besides him. “are your muscles sore?”

“maybe a little,” he mumbles hoarsely. “when i move, it’s more achy than.. sore.”

you nod, your fingertips gliding around the taut muscles on his shoulders, down to his biceps. they feel beefy and tense beneath your touch, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

pedri’s jaw slackens just slightly under your attention. “does this hurt?”

the brunette hesitates, then merely shrugs. “no.. not the way you’re doing it.”

cautiously, he watches you through hooded eyes, clearly living for the attention, though you stay focused—still gently examining the muscles along his arm, careful not to press too hard.

you knead out a knot at the top of his shoulder, and he exhales like the weight of the whole loss is finally leaving his body.

you’re so absorbed in assessing the swollen pulse beneath his skin, that you don’t immediately notice the shivers he breaks into everytime you make a pattern with your fingers.

goosebumps, head-to-toe.

“pedri, you’re freezing,” your voice rises in a slight alarm. “i’ll get you a blanket wait—”

he’s always one to respond without words.

motionlessly, he stops you before you can quip; pedri slips his arm around your waist and pulls you into him.

your boyfriend, suddenly painfully aware, grits his teeth when realising perhaps using his injured arm to scoop you up—wasn’t the smartest idea.

“wrong arm?”

“mhmm,” his tone carries a slight laugh, making you hide the bubble of laughter into his good shoulder.

you know this embrace is just an excuse to hold you; it’s happened far too many times to count.

“can i atleast get an ice pack for you?”you try to convince. “considering you’ve undone all of the work, i’ve done for your muscles for the past ten-minutes.”

but you don’t fight your way out, despite contradictory suggestions. “i’ll be like ten seconds?”

“ten seconds too long. it can wait,” he insists—securely tucking his chin into your neck. “i’m not in that much pain.”

you allow yourself melt into him, settling in his lap as though he’d never let his grip falter. pedri, like this, so subdued and calm, is by far your favourite version of him.

the one who wants to burrow beneath your skin, to stay tangled with you until the dawn breaks.

pedri rests his head lightly against yours, eyes fluttering closed, the only sound in the room the muffled commentary from the forgotten replay still running in the background.

“i don’t want anything else right now,” pedri confides, leaving a kiss to your neck. “just you.”

“and you have me. for as long as you need,” you whisper back, returning a kiss to the shell of his ear.

his fingers find yours at his forearm, interlocking gently, as if to say thank you without speaking; as your warmth seeps into him and his breathing begins to slow, you know—without question, that this was all he wanted tonight.

pedri was a firm believer that you could fix anything. not necessarily with any tools or fancy gadgets, but just that your presence was more than enough.

your voice, your hands, your softness—all of it grounded him in a way nothing else could.

“i don’t really know how to explain it,” he murmurs after a long pause, his voice a gentle hum against your skin. “but when i’m with you.. everything feels quieter. like my brain isn’t yelling at me anymore.”

pedri shifts slightly, careful not to jostle his shoulder, his fingertips draw idle lines along your spine.

“i know we lost, but my mind went straight to you after that last whistle,” he adds. “and knowing i’d still get to come back to this—to you, made it easier to cope.”

your hand squeezes his a little tighter.

pedri exhales, slow but sure. “even if we’re stuck in a foreign country, thank you for making this feel like home, cariño.”

subconsciously, you raise your head from his shoulder, brushing his cheek, offering a smile—not the kind you wear for others, but the one that’s only ever belonged to him.

“always,” you hush. “that’s what i’m here for bebè.”

languidly, your fingers lift to card through the curls at the nape of his neck, coaxing him closer. he turns his face, just enough to nuzzle into your collarbone, lips pressing there once, twice—as if your skin is the only language he understands.

“you smell like lavender,” he hums, words barely audible against your skin.

“and you smell like sweat and grass,” you tease softly, drawing a laugh from him—the first sound that feels whole since he walked through the door.

you shift your weight just enough to cradle his head gently against your chest, hand still laced in his.

either of you don’t need to utter anything else.

because the way his hand curls around your thigh, thumb smoothing absent hearts, the way he lets out that soft little hum when you kiss the crown of his head.

that says everything.

🔖🏷️: @n0vazsq @hearzdiarx @paucubarsisimp @diarieeeelils @joaosnovia @httpsdana @universefcb @madamsoulette @mariejuli

[snail-day]

Shoko doesn’t exactly say you’re dating.

She doesn’t really do labels, thinks they’re kind of pointless, honestly. Why complicate things with definitions and conversations that only make people weird and nervous? She knows what she wants, and if she’s letting someone sleep over in her bed, steal her clothes, and hog all the snacks in her apartment, then clearly, that’s her person.

She’s busy. Her schedule is shit. Why waste what little free time she has sleeping with someone she doesn’t intend to keep?

Still… somehow, your little brain hasn’t quite caught onto that yet.

She notices it when you’re curled up on her patio one night, wrapped up in a sweater, hers, obviously. She’s standing a few feet away, shoulder leaned against the railing, cigarette burning lazily between two fingers. Her long hair is half-up in a claw clip, loose strands catching in the breeze as she exhales a slow puff of smoke, angled away from where you sit.

“You should go inside,” she mutters. “Secondhand smoke’s just as bad, you know.”

You don’t move. Don’t whine or pout like usual. Just stay quiet, and that’s what makes her glance over.

You’re chewing your lip. Hugging your knees. Your voice is soft, barely more than a whisper when you speak.

“I just… I don’t want this to be a situationship.”

Shoko stills and blinks for a moment. Once. Twice. Tilts her head a little, brows pinched together as she's trying to figure out if she heard you right.

A situationship?

There’s a long pause before she sighs through her nose, stubs out the cigarette on the balcony rail, and turns to you fully. Her expression is unreadable, but she’s mentally running the list: how many weeks it’s been since your toothbrush showed up in her bathroom, how many times you’ve dozed off in her bed, and she’s pulled the blanket up to your chin before crawling in next to you. She’s already memorized your coffee order. She knows which days your cramps hit worst. Your shoes are by the door. Your charger’s always plugged in by the bed.

She walks over slowly, crouches in front of your chair, and lifts your face with two fingers under your chin.

“There, there,” she murmurs, tone so soft it almost makes you cry harder, until she smirks. “You’re almost as dramatic as Utahime.”

You sniffle, cheeks burning. “You’re making fun of me.”

Shoko hums, brushing her thumb along your cheek. “Babe. I’m letting you drool on my pillow five nights a week. Who else do you think I’m doing that with, Satoru?”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Shoko watches your brain short-circuit and presses a quick kiss to the corner of your lips, all smug and warm and lightly amused by your ongoing stupidity.

“What made you think we weren’t dating, hmm?” she drawls, pulling you into her lap with practiced ease. “Didn’t I ask you to be my emergency contact? You think I give that spot to just anyone?”

You try to protest, something about assumptions and mixed signals and wanting to be clear, and she just rolls her eyes and plops backwards onto the patio couch, dragging you with her until you’re tucked under her chin, limbs tangled and noses brushing. Only the stars watching you both from above, the sounds of cars from the Tokyo streets from below.

“God, you’re exhausting,” she says fondly. “So needy. It’s cute.”

You sniff again, rubbing your face against her shirt. “You could’ve told me.”

She shrugs, unbothered. “You could’ve asked.”

You open your mouth to argue - try to argue - but it’s hard to hold onto indignation when her fingers are stroking slowly up and down your spine, warm and rhythmic. You melt against her chest, cheek pressed just under her collarbone, your body giving up the fight before your brain does.

Your eyes are already fluttering shut when she presses a kiss to your forehead, soft and final, like the punctuation on a decision she made weeks ago.

“We’re dating,” she murmurs against your skin. “You know that, right?”

You nod, barely.

“Good,” she says, a little smug again. “Now stop being a brat and let me take care of you.”

[palephilosopherautomaton]

[Interior – Air Force Hangar, Late Afternoon]

The metal walls hum with the buzz of activity. Sunlight slices through high windows, casting golden rays across rows of sleek F-22s. A group of pilots stand near the lockers, gearing down after a training sortie. The smell of jet fuel and sweat hangs in the air.

I’m peeling off my gloves, visor still up on my helmet when the rookie��fresh-faced, still trying to look tough in a helmet two sizes too big—sidles up.

“Hey, sir,” he says, voice cracking a little. “Can I ask something?”

I give him a look. “You just did.”

He stammers, flushing. “I—I mean... What’s with your call sign? ‘Pillow.’ No offense, but... doesn’t sound very, uh, intense.”

I hear chuckles from a few of the others nearby. One even drops a mock snore.

I sigh. Deep, long-suffering. Helmet comes off. I run a hand through my sweat-drenched hair, leaning back against the locker.

“Alright, kid. You wanna know? Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The rookie nods eagerly.

“It was three years ago, Red Flag training. I was fresh out of weapons school, cocky as hell, and trying to show off. We’re doing simulated night strikes over Nevada, low altitude, full blackout run. I’m flying solo. Halfway through the op, I’m in the pocket, everything’s smooth, and I think, ‘Hell yeah, I’ve got time to flex.’”

Pause. I glance around. The older pilots are already grinning, knowing what’s coming.

“So I turn off comms, flip on the autopilot for just a second—just one damn second—and recline the seat. You know, just to relax. Moment later, I’m out cold. Full-on REM sleep. Mid-flight.”

The rookie blinks. “You fell asleep?”

“Yeah. And stayed asleep. Long enough that the AWACS birds flagged me as a downed aircraft and scrambled a SAR team.”

He gasps. “Oh my god.”

“Oh my god exactly. I wake up to my jet practically on bingo fuel, alarms screaming, and a helo already en route to find my imaginary crash site. Spent the next two weeks grounded and doing paperwork. They almost court-martialed me.”

A pause. Then I add, deadpan:

“And ever since? ‘Pillow.’ Because apparently I’m the only pilot in the history of the Air Force to turn a multibillion-dollar stealth fighter into a flying sleep pod.”

The hangar bursts into laughter again. Someone tosses a travel pillow at my head. I catch it without looking.

“Coolest damn aircraft in the sky,” I mutter. “And I turned it into a Tempur-Pedic.”

The rookie tries to smother a laugh, failing.

“Just remember, kid,” I say, pointing a finger at him. “Doesn’t matter how badass you fly, all it takes is one screw-up to get stuck with a call sign that haunts you forever.”

He nods solemnly.

“Oh, and if you ever tell anyone outside this base? You’ll be calling me ‘sir’ from the inside of an ammo crate. Got it?”

“Yes, sir. Got it, Pillow—I mean, sir!”

You're a hot shot air force pilot, complete with a cool call sign that you're embarrassed by. Today, you're having to explain your call sign to the rookie, and why you hate it so much.

[spiderb00bs]

- MANCHILD

Sabrina Carpenter x (g!p) reader  

“Seeing your best friend get married was like a stab in the heart. But she was happy, right?"

warnings – fluff, angst if you squint, Implied sex, crack? (I don’t know how to be funny), romcom kinda

Now playing – Manchild, by Sabrina Carpenter  

“Man-child, why you always come a-running to me? Fuck my life, won’t you let na innocent woman be?” 

You never had any problems with Barry. You didn’t even care about him, in fact. He was a normal guy, a little too immature for his age, and too cocky for everything he was offering. But you never had any problems with him.  

You didn’t spend that much time with him; you saw each other at Sabrina’s events, birthdays, awards ceremonies, family parties... You knew Sabrina would never let you miss na important celebration, so if you can’t beat them, join them.  

Sabrina is your best friend, and you’ve always supported her in everything. And even though at first you thought Barry would be just another dumb jerk – you still thought so – who would break your childhood best friend’s heart, you couldn’t deny that he did a decent job in the relationship, since now Sabrina would soon be walking down the aisle with him. 

The gentle summer breeze blew against your face, carrying the smell of smoke away from you. From a distance, you watched Sabrina and her sisters with smiles on their faces as they danced excitedly around the place where the ceremony would be held. The wedding would take place in five days, and the whole family—and close friends—would be staying at the large mansion Sabrina had rented. 

You remember looking for the place with her, you remember how she always said she wanted to get married in a house overlooking the beach, and how she wanted all the people she loved to be together for days on end before the ceremony happened.  

You remember how her eyes sparkled when she saw the place, you remember how she took your hand and ran to the back of the mansion, showing you her dream coming true in front of her eyes. You also remember how she convinced you to lie down on the grass and watch the view from afar. You also remember how she tried to call Barry to show him the place, but he never picked up the phone.  

The cigarette burned slowly, almost as if it was feeling sorry for you, as if it knew that if that moment ended, you’d have to go back to the hustle and bustle. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t last forever. With one last puff, you stubbed out the burning tip on the sole of your shoe, taking a deep breath and preparing yourself for the sea of smiles you’d have to face.  

“That’s the sexiest way I’ve ever seen someone stub out their cigarette.” You heard the sweet, dangerously seductive voice you always heard when you were with Sabrina, Jenna Ortega. 

You knew the short woman, the two of you had never had a long conversation, but flirting was always involved. Although you thought Jenna was one of the most beautiful, elegant and sexy women you’d ever seen in your life, you never went any further with her. Nothing more than the exchange of harmless flirtations and a few discreet glances.  

Although Jenna and Sabrina were close friends, the blonde never really liked the idea of you two being close to each other. You weren’t sure why, but you thought it had something to do with the fact that Jenna was a player. She was never in a serious relationship, she had one-night stands with people she found interesting enough to spend time with, but never interesting enough to share her work time with.  

“I hadn’t seen you yet. I thought you weren’t coming,” you said, still looking at all the women excited about the decorations and the scenery. 

Sabrina’s mother was helping the blonde choose decorative flowers, Paloma and the other Carpenter sisters seemed happy playing with the new Golden Retriever that Sabrina had adopted a few weeks ago, and at a considerable distance, you could see Barry drinking a large glass of beer, talking to some of his friends about some nonsense.  

“And miss you dressed in a formal button-down shirt? Of course not!” Jenna retorted, causing your cheeks to blush slightly as you tried to get your face out of her field of vision.  

“You really can’t be fixed, can you?” Finally looking at the brunette, you turned your body towards her, taking a step forward.  

“Come fix me!” Jenna mimicked you, leaving the distance between your bodies almost non-existent. 

The look on her face was defiant and rude, she seemed to want you to put her in her place. Everything about her screamed for you, and anyone there could see how desperate she was for you to take her the way she really wanted.  

“Hey!” The velvety shout pierced your ears, pulling you out of the cloud Jenna had put you in.  

Quickly stepping away, you arrived in time to see Sabrina’s furrowed eyebrows, your best friend looking at the whole situation with a judgmental and suspicious look. You had seen that same look before, more specifically when the girls at school hit on you when you were both teenagers. You never knew what that look meant. 

“I... I need you for a minute,” the blonde said. 

Scratching her head in agitation, the younger Carpenter didn’t even wait for your response, taking your hand and dragging you as far away from Jenna as possible. 

“You know, we were having a conversation over there...” Your tone was playful, but you should have known that Sabrina wasn’t in the mood for jokes.  

“Yeah, anyone could see that. You two were practically having sex on the lawn!”  

The blonde finally let go of your hand when you reached the kitchen. As if on cue, everyone who was working there immediately turned around, leaving the room and closing the door with a silent click. Sometimes even you were afraid of Sabrina.  

“Wow, okay, Miss Edgy, we were just having a conversation.” you said, raising your hands in surrender, only to see the short blonde roll her eyes and start pacing back and forth in the kitchen. 

“Bullshit!” she said, her footsteps making you dizzy, and the commotion making you slightly nervous.  

“Hey, what’s wrong with you?” you asked, holding her shoulders as you made her look you in the eye for the first time all day.  

You knew Sabrina was going through a very stressful time with all the wedding planning. She was trying to get everything done while Barry lay around drinking beer and watching football games. She had barely had any time to herself since she started preparing for the wedding, so you understood when she exploded at you. 

Snorting, Sabrina just laid her head on your chest, grabbing your biceps like a lifeline.

“I’m exhausted!” Taking a deep breath, you moved your hands to her hair, stroking her blonde curls as you felt her relax into your body.  

“I’m here, I’ll help you with whatever you need.” Sabrina lifted her head from your chest, looking into your eyes with that sparkle she always had.  

“What do you need, Sab?” Smiling slightly, you asked, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear.  

“For you to stay away from Jenna.” Your smile faded. 

“ALL RIGHT, LOVEBIRDS...” The unfamiliar voice startled you both, causing you to jump away from each other. “Oh, sorry, I thought it was you and Barry, Sabrina.” 

“It’s okay,” Sabrina said, sliding her hand from your bicep to your hand, intertwining them. “Yn, this is Rachel. She’s going to make the wedding cake. Rachel, this is Yn, my best friend since childhood.” “It’s a pleasure,” you said, shaking the woman’s hand, making her smile slightly.  

“How polite. You don’t find many like that around anymore.” And Sabrina’s frown was back. “So, I assume she’ll be deciding the flavor of the cake with you?!”  

“I will?” you asked Sabrina. 

“She will!” Sabrina smiled, looking at Rachel with a proud smile on her lips. 

Night had fallen quickly, everyone too tired and drunk to stay awake past midnight. Still unable to sleep, you walked quietly through the corridors of the large mansion, down the stairs and toward the oversized pool that came with the house.  

The night was silent, and you saw no one as you approached the pool. Taking off your fancy slippers—which Sabrina insisted on giving as gifts to all the guests—you dipped your feet in the cold water, shivering slightly at the change in temperature. Closing your eyes, you rested your hands on the tiles beside your body, throwing your head back and taking a deep breath, trying to release all the weight that had been on your shoulders for the past few months. 

Suddenly, the silent bubble that had settled around you was broken by two hands grabbing your shoulders, and the scream that escaped your lips was muffled by the sound of laughter from the woman you knew better than yourself.   

Sabrina fell beside you, laughing at how loud you screamed. “My God, you probably would have woken up the whole house if that shit wasn’t so big.” 

Sabrina’s hands were holding her stomach, and you could tell her stomach hurt just by the way she writhed beside you. Her smile reached her eyes, which closed as the sound of her laughter entered your ears like one of the most beautiful melodies you had ever heard. That deep, broken laugh, which nevertheless ran free and whipped the air with grace. You had always loved the sound of her laughter. 

“Very funny, Carpenter. You could have given me a heart attack, you know?!” You watched the blonde get up from the floor, sitting properly beside you, putting her feet in the water, next to yours.  

“You’ve always been easily scared... ever since we were kids,” the blonde said, laughing and kicking a few drops of water lightly. 

“Yeah, and you used to scare me all the time.” You look at her. “It was annoying.” 

“It was fun!” Sabrina’s laughter fills the space again, making you roll your eyes and try to hold back the smile that wanted to escape your lips. 

Sabrina’s eyes rested on you, shining as always, attentive, almost as if you would disappear if she looked away. She had a slight smile on her lips and breathed lightly, feeling the gentle breeze coming from the sea a few meters away.  

It had been a while since you had seen Sabrina so relaxed, so focused on something that really calmed her down. She was usually nervous, worried, or too busy solving something that Barry couldn’t solve—or that he himself had caused. 

“I’m glad you’re here with me,” the blonde said, sighing once more. 

You were trying to figure out why her chest still seemed heavy somehow. 

“Of course I would be here. I mean, I understand that I’m not very sociable, but...” You began. 

“No...” She laughed. “I mean here, like, always being here with me.” Emphasizing the word always, Sabrina grabbed your hand, bringing it to her lips and kissing your knuckles. 

Your eyes met the deep blue of hers, and you couldn’t help but be mesmerized by the way Sabrina looked at you. You never understood it, but her eyes always seemed to say what she didn’t have the courage to say out loud. You dreamed of the day she would tell you all the things she had ever wanted to say to your face, good or bad. 

“I love you, Yn.” Her voice came out as a whisper. Low and velvety, just so you could hear it, as if those three words were meant only for you, as if she had never said them to anyone else in the world. 

“I love you too, Sab!” you say.  

Your mouth opened and closed, like a fish out of water. You didn’t blame Sabrina for supposedly not saying the things she wanted to say, after all, there were so many things you couldn’t say to her. 

The next morning was quiet. Decorators passed by with huge vases of flowers, pastry chefs worked on each little sweet and each layer of cake, and sewing machines worked on every detail of Sabrina’s dress.  

You stayed away, watching all the organized chaos from under a parasol, lying on a deck chair, facing the pool where you and Sabrina had been talking a few hours earlier. The cigarette between your lips made you more relaxed with each puff, and the expensive wine that Sabrina had served to the guests was one of the best things you had drunk recently. 

It was a beautiful sunny day, perfect for a family barbecue, or maybe a dip in the sea, or even in the pool in front of you. However, you preferred to just stretch your legs and put on some sunglasses—hoping that everyone would get the message and leave you alone.  

“You look very bitter from here.” It seems your plan didn’t work so well. Opening your eyes and looking over your dark glasses, you saw her standing in front of you like a superheroine, the kind who always shows up at na inopportune moment, when the victim doesn’t want to be rescued. Jenna.  

She wore a black bikini—which contrasted nicely with her skin—along with her attitude. You would never know if you found her frown attractive or scary. 

“I’m not bitter, I just enjoy my time alone,” you said, repositioning your sunglasses on your face as you laid your head on the towel and blew smoke into the air. 

“Oh, lone wolf... I like that.” Jenna took the spot on the lounge chair next to yours.  

You rolled your eyes slightly, but the small smile on your face said you weren’t completely upset by Ortega’s presence.  

I mean, Jenna is na attractive, intelligent, funny woman... You weren’t sure why you had never really given her a chance. Maybe it was the gossip going around town, you didn’t want to be just another woman in her bed. Or maybe you liked to follow your best friend’s orders.  

Either way, you thought it best to avoid closer contact. 

“You don’t seem like the happiest person in the world that your best friend is getting married...” Jenna began. 

“I am happy,” you cut her off quickly. 

“Come on, everyone is drinking and talking, having the time of their lives in...” Jenna paused, looking around and trying to find a way to call it what it was. “A kind of weird bachelorette party disguised as luxury,” she finished, waving her hands dramatically and pointing to everything around you two. “And you’re smoking by the pool, looking like the kind of lone wolf you’d see in a Lana Del Rey music video...” 

“I like Lana Del Rey,” you said, raising your wine glass to your lips. 

“That’s not the point!” Jenna raised her voice slightly. She put her hands on her head when she realized she had almost started yelling at the bride’s best friend. “God, you really have a crush on your best friend, don’t you?!” 

Choking on your wine, you got up from the lounge chair, sitting up quickly, facing the Ortega girl, who had sat down next to you. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Your expression made all the hairs on Jenna’s body stand on end. 

“Prove it to me.” 

Your back hit the mattress, breathing tired and panting, your hips burned, and the muscles in your arms were starting to ache. But the small hands on your chest distracted you from the nagging pain you felt, now fading into the background as Jenna lay down on your chest. 

You knew, deep in your bones, that you shouldn’t have done that to prove to her that you weren’t into Sabrina. But the way she looked at you, almost as if she would doubt you for the rest of her life, made your chest race in a bad way. 

Two pats on your chest woke you from the thoughts that consumed you. “You were wonderful, baby.” Jenna said, getting up from the bed and looking for the clothes she had thrown on the floor a few hours ago.  

You raised your torso, straining your sore arms and dragging yourself to sit up on the bed. “You too,” you said, embarrassed and scratching the back of your neck, looking for a hole to stick your head in and die of shame.  

Jenna gave you a friendly smile, but with that hint of sarcasm that you had learned the brunette had in her. “Tell her how you feel before she gets married.” 

Frowning and opening your mouth in shock, you stammered incoherent words, searching for anything your mind could force itself to find.  

“Wait, I proved it to you!” you said, getting up and putting on the boxers you found lying on the bedside table – the work of the little brunette in front of you. “I’m not in love with anyone, Jenna!” 

Sighing, the Ortega girl stopped what she was doing to look at you properly. Approaching, Jenna made each step she took seem like a movement a tigress would make before attacking her prey. You took a step back. Laughing at your movement, the woman pushed you onto the bed, making you fall back onto the soft mattress. Her hands went to your neck as she positioned her tanned legs on either side of your thighs. 

“Oh baby, you can’t keep lying to yourself like this...” She looked at you for a minute longer. 

Jenna left a pat on your cheek before kissing your lips, quick as lightning, and grabbing a piece of clothing behind you. Leaving you there, shocked and still a little horny, Jenna walked out the door, as if she hadn’t come to leave you with wobbly legs and a heavy heart. 

You took a deep breath before leaving the room, too stunned to pay attention to whatever was going on outside the room all this time. You walked outside, grabbed a beer from the ice bucket, opened the cap with your teeth, and downed the bottle.  

“My God, are you okay? Where were you?” Sabrina’s voice reached your ears like a distant voice, making you look at her over the bottle—its neck still stuck to your mouth.  

“HEY, YN!” The shout heard from a distance also sounded muffled, but for some reason you recognized Josh’s voice. One of Barry’s idiot friends. “Bro, isn’t that shirt Ortega is wearing yours?” He asked, putting his arm around your shoulder, as if you were old friends.  

You didn’t even bother to look at Jenna, but Sabrina did. One of her eyes twitched, her ears burned, and if you were in a cartoon, smoke would be coming out of her ears. Jenna was dancing with Sabrina’s friends, free, as if she had just had the time of her life.  

“Did you hook up with her?” Sabrina’s tone was irritated, and you could feel the confusion coming through even with the alcohol in your blood.

“FUCK!” Josh said again. “YOU’RE AWESOME, BRO!”  

Jumping with his arm around your shoulder, Josh took you close to where everyone was dancing, too excited to notice the deadly look Sabrina was giving you. Josh practically threw you on top of Jenna, making the girl cling to you as if she had something to prove to someone, as if she wanted to break na invisible line. 

Maybe she did. 

Aggressive banging on your bedroom door roused you from the fog of sleep you were immersed in. Still lying face down, you lifted your face from the pillow to groan in disapproval, before struggling to your feet and muttering a small "Coming" to whoever was pounding on your door.

When you opened the door, Sarah's fist froze in the air, and still rubbing your eyes, you caught a glimpse of Paloma and Jenna along with one of the Carpenter sisters. Hearing Jenna's whistle, you covered yourself with the door, remembering that you were only wearing boxers and a sport bra.

"What are you doing here so early?" you asked, trying to take the focus off your nakedness and your cheeks turning red with the attention.

"We need your help!" Sarah was the first to speak. "Barry is completely sick with a hangover, and Sabrina needs to go over her wedding vows with someone."

Frowning, you looked at the two women standing in front of you.

"Why don't any of you help her then?"

Opening and closing her mouth, Sarah stared at Paloma, who was doing the same. The wrinkles on your forehead appeared when there was no answer.

"Ah… I… I need to go to town, you know… take care of a few things for the wedding," Sarah said, taking a deep breath.

You looked at Paloma.

"I'll go with her!" the woman said quickly.

"Jenna?" you asked.

"I don't want to." Snorting, you narrowed your eyes at the short brunette, wondering what was going on and why Sabrina's incompetent future husband couldn't do anything right for once in his life.

"Give me ten minutes and I'll go downstairs." The girls agreed, disappearing down the hallway of the mansion and leaving you alone again.

When you walked into the garden, everything seemed increasingly hectic. Sabrina's wedding was tomorrow, and everyone seemed to be racing against time to make everything as perfect as possible. The altar structure was almost ready, and there were flowers everywhere. The wedding was planned for the morning, and everything had to be ready by nine a.m.

"Ah, there she is!" The man, whose name you didn't know, came up to you, intertwining his arm with yours and leading you to the altar. "It's a pleasure, dear, I'm Stephen, and come on, get up there, you've already delayed us too much."

The short man pushed you toward the altar structure, causing you to stumble slightly over your own feet. You hadn't spoken to Sabrina since yesterday, when she found out about you and Jenna, and even though you didn't understand why, you knew she might be a little upset with you.

"Hi…" you said.

"Hi…" The sound of Stephen clapping his hands brought you both out of the little cloud you were in, making Sabrina's cheeks flush and you scratch the back of your neck and look away from your best friend's blue eyes.

"We have to start! Sabrina, where's your speech?" The man asks, seeing no paper in the blonde's hand.

Sabrina's mother, who was standing nearby watching, spoke up for the first time. "Oh, she probably left it in her room, you know how she is." The older woman said, nudging the brunette sitting next to her with her shoulder.

"Jenna, why don't you try looking for it…"

"And lose all this, no way!" The brunette said quietly, hiding her words with a forced smile.

"All right, I'll get it!" Stephen stood up, running his hand over his bald head and heading toward the mansion, only to stop halfway there.

"While I'm gone… Yn, you can start."

"Wait, do I have to give a speech too?" you asked, confused and with a hint of panic in your veins. "But I don't…"

"COME ON, WE DON'T HAVE ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD!" The man shouted as he walked away.

Taking your eyes off the man's back, you looked at your best friend again. Her eyes seemed bright again, but the atmosphere had completely changed for you. Your heart was pounding in your chest, and the idea of saying nice things to Sabrina shouldn't be that difficult, considering she had been your best friend since you were five—when you met at the playground.

"I… I'm sorry, this took me by surprise…" You tried to say.

"I know." Sabrina came closer, taking your hand in hers and looking at you with those arms that could appease a war, those beautiful blue eyes.

"You don't have to do this if you don't want to… but I'm not going to lie and say I don't want you to."

You swallowed hard, taking a deep breath before smiling slightly and searching for the right words for what you wanted to say.

"I love your eyes," you began. "They always make me say things I don't want to say, they seem to hypnotize me every time I look at them." You laughed softly, making Sabrina laugh with you.

"Maybe you hypnotized me in that park when we were kids, because I've never been able to stay away from you since. I loved seeing every achievement and every little thing you accomplished because your eyes sparkled in such a beautiful way, you know?!"

Sabrina's head tilted slightly to the left, and even though you were able to read her so well, you didn't notice how she was about to burst into tears.

"I never thought, not even for a moment, of separating from you, because it meant you wouldn't look at me the way you look at me anymore, and I don't know if I could survive without that. Survive without you."

Still holding hands, you couldn't take your eyes off Sabrina, you couldn't see her mother almost crying, nor the knowing smile Jenna was giving you both. At that moment, it was just you and her.

"I've loved you since the first moment I saw you," Sabrina said, and the tears she seemed so desperate to hold back earlier were now rolling down her beautiful cheekbones. "From the first day, I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. Sometimes I feel like I'm making a mistake, sometimes I feel like none of this is for me. But with you, things make sense, with you, things seem to have color again, and I don't seem to be just another lost girl on earth, with you, things seem to have purpose, they seem right, and sometimes I still wonder why I'm so afraid. But the only certainty I ever have is that this fear always goes away when you're around."

Tears ran down Sabrina's cheeks, everything seemed so true and pure that neither of you questioned anything. It was just you, childhood friends, incurable romantics, who had strayed from the path and started walking down different roads without even realizing it.

Sabrina took a step forward—leaving the distance between you almost non-existent—and you leaned slightly—reducing the height difference between you. But the moment was cut short by loud, strong applause.

Stephen.

"BRAVO!" He said as he clapped his hands.

You and Sabrina jumped back, confused and with a burning sensation in your chest from things left undone, moments interrupted, actions not taken.

"You're more than ready to get married, dear!" The bald man said, before hurriedly dragging Sabrina away from the altar, rambling on about dresses.

And you stood there, watching it all unfold, your chest still pounding, the feeling of emptiness burning like never before. That wasn't for you, it was her speech to Barry. She was getting married, and it was time for you to get over it.

Sitting on the beach, you took another big sip from the bottle of vodka, the waves of the sea broke beautifully in front of you, and the salty breeze hit your skin like shards of glass. The drink in your hand didn't erase the bitter taste that the words you said earlier had brought, and your heart was still as tight as if it were tied to Sabrina's hands.

"You're going to catch a cold." Sabrina.

Her voice, sweet as honey, carried by the strong wind and brought directly to your ears. She was there, standing next to you, dressed in sweatpants and a jacket—which looked a lot like yours.

"I just needed some time alone…" You saw her approach out of the corner of your eye, before she quickly took your side, sitting cross-legged. "What are you doing here?"

Sighing, the blonde looked away to the sea, calm and slow, almost like everything that happened between the two of you. Almost as if the waves were mirroring your behavior.

"I had to keep an eye on Barry, you know…" She paused, almost as if wondering whether she should continue. "So he wouldn't get drunk again." You could hear her swallow hard.

"At least you made sure he'll be okay for the wedding," you replied, laughing slightly in an attempt to break the tension.

But Sabrina didn't laugh. She kept staring out at the sea, she kept trying to hold back all the feelings she had held tightly against her chest all this time. When she finally looked in your direction, her eyes were filled with tears, shining in a way you never liked.

"Tell me I'm doing the right thing." When the words came out of her mouth, you froze.

All you wanted to say was that she wasn't doing the right thing, that she was making the biggest mistake she could make, that she wouldn't be happy with that man, and that you would miss her every day as soon as she said "I do" at the altar.

"You're doing the right thing." Your chest burned. A sob escaped Sabrina's mouth.

"Then why don't feel like it?" Her question took you by surprise, but not as much as when she threw herself on top of you, crying like a child who was afraid of a monster under the bed.

Sabrina's body was shaking, and the only thing you could do was hold her tight, as if she would dissolve if you didn't.

"Sab…"

"I hate him, Yn! I hate myself for not being able to say no to him! I hate every minute of it!" She broke down completely.

The weight of her body falling on you reminded you of the weight you carried in your chest, and as much as you wanted to say that everything would be okay, you really didn't know how that would happen. She cried, enough tears to fill the ocean, and when she finally slept, you took her back inside.

Because it was always like that, you would always take care of her.

When you laid her in bed, Mrs. Carpenter approached you, patting you on the back before walking with you out of the room.

"I know when my daughter is happy, Yn…" The older woman began, causing you to stop in the middle of the hallway. "And this isn't one of those situations."

"I don't know what to do, I can't just tell her not to marry the guy she's been in love with for two years!" You said, frustrated with all these confusing signals everyone was giving you.

Smiling slightly, Sabrina's mother approached you, hugging you and kissing your cheek. "I've known you since you were a little kid." She took your hands. "You've always known what to do."

Walking toward her room, Mrs. Carpenter stopped suddenly, turning toward you with a gentle smile.

"Remember, dear, she didn't have any papers with the speech in her hand." It was the only thing she said before opening the bedroom door and disappearing from your view.

Being alone felt familiar to you at this point. You always seemed to end up alone when someone was about to reveal to you what to do, it was almost like a dream, where you would wake up at the most important part.

It was a sunny day, the guests were seated, the organizers were rushing around, and everything seemed ready to be perfect.

"Nice shirt," Jenna said, approaching you with a glass of champagne in her hand.

"Nice dress," you replied.

Watching the people, you saw Barry arguing with some of the people who worked on organizing the ceremony. He seemed nervous, irritated, as if something very important was about to fall apart. Before you could delve deeper into what was happening, the commotion quickly subsided, and you saw Barry being led away to prepare for the start of the ceremony.

When the music started, Barry entered with his mother, kissing the man on the cheek before sitting down with the rest of the guests. As the commotion began to subside, the bride's entrance music sounded over the loudspeakers, filling the room and clouding your thoughts.

You were a terrible friend! You were too selfish to share your feelings with your best friend, and too proud to tell her not to marry that boy. You felt wrong, you felt like trash in the middle of all those people.

"YOU!" The shout snapped you out of your cloud of thoughts. And you didn't have much time to think before you saw Barry coming quickly toward you.

Without giving you time to defend yourself, the man grabbed you by the collar, lifting you out of the chair you were sitting in and making a scene in front of everyone.

"WHAT DID YOU SAY TO HER?" He shook you, causing you to grab his shoulders and push him away forcefully.

"What are you talking about?" You smoothed out the wrinkles in your shirt.

"WHAT DID YOU SAY TO SABRINA?" He shouted. "DID YOU TELL HER NOT TO MARRY ME?" He continued.

"Are you going crazy?" You tried.

Then you realized, the music had stopped, Sabrina hadn't come in. She wasn't there.

"DO YOU THINK I DON'T KNOW?" He laughed in your face. His finger raised to poke your chest in defiance. "You think I don't know you're in love with my fiancée?"

"Barry, calm down, please…" Sabrina's mother tried to say.

"She would never be with someone like you…" Barry pushed you hard, knocking you to the ground.

"WHAT'S YOUR PROBLEM?" You asked, getting up and pushing the man back.

Barry didn't wait, he hit your face with his fist, making you stagger slightly backwards. "You're my problem, bitch!"

Recovering quickly, you punched him back, causing the man to stumble into some guests who were standing watching the fight. You didn't have much time to think, you just saw the whole situation, as if you were watching from outside your body. Barry's fist rising to hit you again, hard and fast. Everyone looked in shock, as if they weren't entirely sure what they should do.

"HEY!"

Sabrina's voice rang out, the arm dress she wore contrasting with the quick, sharp, and dangerous way she spoke, also contrasting with the punch she landed on Barry afterwards.

"FUCK!" The guests were shocked, and Sabrina stood there, clutching the hand that had delivered the blow while Barry was crying to his mother about the blood pouring from his nose.

"NEVER TOUCH HER AGAIN!" Sabrina said, pointing an accusing finger at the man who used to be her fiancé. Barry looked shocked, before finally breaking free from his mother's arms and quickly marching toward the petite blonde.

"Did you just punch me, you little whore?" Before he could get close to Sabrina, you acted, knocking him out with a strong punch to the mouth, and watching the man fall into the arms of his friends.

"Don't call her that, son of a bitch."

Before you could move, you felt Sabrina's arms around your neck, the woman quickly finding comfort from the chaos of the situation in your arms.

"I'm sorry I didn't realize it sooner," she said.

"I'm sorry I didn't do anything sooner!"

With that, you grabbed the blonde's face, sealing your lips with hers, and finally ending all the suffering that you both had tried to hide for so long.

Her hands caressed your baby hair, and she sighed during the kiss, as if she was desperate for you two to never let go. Your hands matched her desperation, pulling her closer by the waist, as if you two weren't already close enough to merge. Her lips tasted like strawberries, and you wondered why you hadn't just done this before.

Pulling away, Sabrina pressed her forehead against yours, listening to the applause and cheers of all your relatives and friends—who had realized your feelings even before you did.

"Let's go?" Sabrina asked, grabbing your hand and pulling you along.

"Where are we going?" you asked, even as you let her take you wherever she wanted.

"You'll see."

hey guys, I hope you're well.

i wrote this while i was in class, so i'm sorry if there are a lot of mistakes. Honestly, I had this idea and had to start writing immediately. The Manchild clip is just amazing, ever since I watched it I've been obsessed with the photography in this clip. it's just indie romcom movie energy, and I'm obsessed.

anyway, i hope you enjoy this. stay safe and drink water,

xoxo, spider.

[honeyhaeya]

can i request a jake from enhypen fic? 🫣 childhood bffs to lovers? yearning jealousy and all!!

(❤️‍🩹)🖇 ༘ ⋆"always almost yours"

' ╰┈ "i wish i knew you wanted me"

' ' 심재윤 x fem!reader

🎧ྀི 'ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : bad habits (steve lacy)

oneshot | fem!reader | childhood bffs to lovers | college au | soft angst | timestamps & flashbacks | wc: 2078 mdni : smut – dry humping, dirty talk, protected sex, fingering, cum play, desperate fuck, softdom!jake a/n: thankyou for requesting this, anon !! im not sure if this is exactly what you had asked for but i hope i wrote it well ㅠㅠ ★

present timeline

it's 10:37 p.m. when you get the text.

'jake [10:37PM]': can i come over?

you stare at the screen for a second longer than you should.

it's been three weeks. three weeks since you've last spoken-since that stupid fight about the party you never even wanted to go to. three weeks of pretending things didn't hurt when they did.

so of course, when you see his name on your screen again, your heart jumps the way it always does.

you shouldn't let him in. but you will.

10:52PM

he's standing at your door like nothing's changed. like you're still kids sneaking out to the 24-hour diner at midnight just because the silence felt too loud to sleep through.

"you look tired," he says quietly.

you shrug. "you look like you haven't texted me in three weeks."

he flinches. barely. but you catch it. you always catch it-because you know him.

"i didn't know if you wanted me to."

"i always do," you say. and you hate how soft it comes out. how small.

he breathes out like your words knock the wind out of him.

"then why does it feel like i lost you?"

you open your mouth to answer-but the past gets in the way first.

⏳ flashback - 3rd year of middle school

you're 13. jake's wearing mismatched socks and holding up his hands like he's just won gold at the olympics.

"i saved your spot on the swings," he grins.

"you didn't have to."

"i wanted to," he says. "besides. we're gonna be friends forever, remember?"

he holds out his pinky.

and you hook yours around his, because it's jake. because you always will.

🧠 back to now - jake's pov

he shouldn't have come.

you're standing in front of him with your arms crossed, hoodie sleeves pushed up to your elbows the same way you used to do during exam season.

his gaze catches on the chipped nail polish, the faint shadow of sleep under your eyes.

you've always been tired when you're sad.

he hates that he still remembers things like that. hates it even more that he ever made you feel like he forgot.

because how could he forget the way you used to make him playlists for long walks home? or the way you always waited for him at the front gates, even when you were mad at him?

jake swallows hard.

he wants to ask if you still have that stupid frog keychain he won you at the carnival three years ago.

instead he says, "i miss you."

your breath catches.

"you don't act like it."

the air outside is cooler than you expected.

or maybe it just feels that way because jake's looking at you like he wants to say everything he never did.

"i hate seeing him touch you," he says, voice low.

you laugh-sharp and humorless. "you don't get to say that. not anymore."

he flinches.

good, you think. let him feel it too.

"you think i wanted things to end up like this?" he says, stepping closer. "i didn't. i hated not talking to you. i hated knowing heeseung was around when i wasn't."

"then why didn't you call?"

"because i didn't know what to say without making it worse."

you look at him. really look. and god, he's still the same-same messy hair, same eyes that give too much away, same boy who held your hand the first time you cried over something stupid and said, i've got you, okay?

but he didn't.

not when it counted.

"i'm tired, jake," you say, softer this time. "i'm tired of being almost yours."

he swallows hard. takes another step. he's close now. close enough to touch. close enough to make it worse all over again.

"you were never 'almost,'" he says. "you were always-"

you don't let him finish.

because his hand's brushing your cheek now. and your breath hitches. and for a second, the whole world holds still.

his lips hover close-too close. your heart's beating everywhere at once. your eyes drop to his mouth for a split second too long.

he leans in.

almost.

but the door swings open behind you, and someone calls your name - laughing, loud, oblivious.

you step back.

jake blinks like he's coming out of a dream.

"go back inside," you say quietly. "we shouldn't have come out here."

he hesitates. "i-"

"don't."

the moment snaps.

you clear your throat, blinking hard, blinking away the heat behind your eyes.

and then you say it.

cold. steady. devastating.

"you don't get to break me and still want me."

and before he can respond, you turn around and walk back inside like your heart isn't splitting open.

you hold it together. you always do.

but the second the door swings shut behind you-out of his sight, away from that look on his face-your knees buckle slightly. your hand finds the wall to steady yourself.

you close your eyes.

and finally let yourself feel it.

he was so close.

and still not yours.

it's been three days.

three days since the party.

three days since you said it-you don't get to break me and still want me.

three days of avoiding him in every class, every shared circle of friends, every possible second you might break.

and he's been patient.

painfully so.

he hasn't texted. hasn't cornered you again. hasn't even looked at you too long when you passed him by, pretending not to care.

but you know he's not over it. not when his best friend sunghoon asked you if you were okay. not when jay told you jake's been moping like his dog died.

and definitely not when he shows up in your dorm hallway at 11:42 pm.

you almost walk past him. headphones in. hoodie up. pretending like you didn't see him sitting against the wall by your door.

but then he says your name.

quiet. like he's scared of what will come next.

"...can we talk?"

you don't move. don't turn to face him.

"what's left to say?"

he stands now. slowly. like if he moves too fast, you'll disappear again.

"everything," he says. "everything i should've said when you needed to hear it."

you stare at the floor. your heart's pounding.

"you should go."

"no."

you blink. look up.

his eyes are glassy. hurt written all over him like he's not even trying to hide it.

"i've spent days trying to figure out how to stop wanting you," he says. "but i can't. i don't want to."

you stay silent. so he keeps going.

"i thought i was protecting what we had by not saying anything. but all i did was lose you."

he steps closer.

"and it's killing me, not being able to call you mine when you were always the only one i ever-"

"don't," you whisper. "don't say that unless you mean it."

"i do," he breathes. "i always have."

you shake your head. "you don't get to come back and-"

"kiss you?"

he's inches away now. the hallway's too quiet. too late. too dangerous.

"...yes," you say. barely above a whisper.

and then he does.

he kisses you like he's making up for every second he didn't. soft at first. almost hesitant. like he's asking.

but then you kiss him back-fist curling in his hoodie, lips chasing his like your body's been waiting for this, like you're finally, finally allowed to feel it all.

when you break apart, you're both breathless.

you rest your forehead against his, eyes fluttering shut.

"i still hate you a little," you murmur.

jake laughs, voice shaky. "i deserve that."

"but i never stopped wanting you either," you whisper. "and that's what makes me so mad."

his fingers lace through yours.

"then let me try again," he says, soft. "let me show you what it's like when i don't let you go."

you look up at him, eyes glassy.

"just... don't fuck it up this time."

he nods.

"never again."

jake pulls you by the wrist, sneaking you into his dorm.

and when you both reach the room, he opens the door, his lips claimed yours like he was starved for it.

his hands were everywhere, your waist, hips, face. the kiss deepens fast, his tongue were already entering your mouth in a searing but heated kiss.

he lifts you by the hips like you weigh nothing, walking through the room and onto the bed without pulling away.

you straddled his lap, lips brushing his, and the way his hands held your waist felt like he'd been waiting forever.

when you shifted, rolling your hips just a little, his breath hitched-his forehead resting against yours.

"baby..." his voice was low, almost pleading. "you're driving me crazy."

the heat between you was unreal, even with layers of fabric in the way. it felt like your bodies were having a conversation of their own-every little movement a confession neither of you could say out loud.

his hands kept moving on your waist until you're fully gasping into his touch.

he pulls your pants and your panties, pushing it down until you were bare for him. he drinks in the way you looked, the way your pussy was dripping wet. his pupils were blown at the sight.

"i'm putting a finger in," jake warns. you nod. one finger slides in with ease. he's amused on how open you felt for him. and he puts another one in, stretching you open.

you choke out a moan, the feeling making you jolt. "j-jake... i think i-im cumming.."

"just a little more, baby," he replies, thumb circling your clit. and jake feels it. your walls clenching on him and you came on his fingers with a whimper. "good job baby."

jake kisses you again, lips moving slowly against yours. his hands moved on your waist, slipping through the fabric and touching you like you were glass.

your moans come in breathy, the way he takes your clothes off-so gentle yet so quick. your bra easily peeled off you, and he squeezes your breast, thumb flicking your nipple.

the feeling sent shivers down your spine, making those little noises and he was there to take it all in.

"that's it baby," he pulls away for just a moment to press a kiss on your forehead.

it took him one make out session with you before he's peeling off his own clothes, pants down, cock out as he distracts you with his intense kisses.

he pulls back for you to catch your breath, and you pant. you're looking at him like he's the only thing that mattered, and he's looking right back at you with his eyes dark.

"can i put it in?" jake asks, his cock was achingly hard, already fisting himself. and you nod.

that's where he loses it. he flips you beneath him, his tip brushing your pretty little cunt that's dripping for him before finally slipping it in.

your moans come out, chest rising and falling.

"fuck... you look so pretty like this," he pulls out and thrusts back in that made your back arch when his cock reached that one spot that made you whimper.

his thrusts were erratic, hips slamming into yours with aggressiveness.

you whimper, trying to catch air as jake slides in and out your cunt, pumping himself for your highs.

"y're doing good baby," he groans, pressing a kiss on your neck as he continues to slam his hips against you.

and he felt it–the unmistakable clench of your walls wrapping his dick. you were going to cum

"jake.. i'm cumming..!" you manage to moan out, and he grunts.

"just a little more baby," he replies, his pace going faster. slamming his cock desperately in you like he has nothing to lose. "kay, cum for me, baby."

and you did. milking his cock like it's the only thing you knew. he followed soon after, pulling his cock out as he spills on your stomach. warm and wet. while some gushes out of your pussy.

he collapses beside you, breath equally fast as yours.

the room was quiet for a moment, and jake broke it. "maybe i should coat you more with my cum."

you almost choked in your own breath before laughing a little. "asshole."

and that's how you both found yourselves spilling everything–from cums to confessions.

a/n: thankyou for reading :)) thankyou to my bff @kpoppiesofinternet for proofreading this one ♥

[lowrisemiller]

in honor of hitting 1k followers ── ⟢

i genuinely cannot think of any words to express how happy and grateful i am for all of you

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　 ⁺ 　 ✦🦢✦ ⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

joel miller , rick grimes , natalie scatorccio , arthur morgan , frank castle , ellie williams , bucky barnes , 𖬺 rosita espinosa

reacting to you wearing their clothes

────────────── ⟢

reader does have female anatomy making out, unprotected piv sex, semi-public sex, oral f!receiving, fingering, sesbian lex, riding, creampies, breeding kink if u squint, straaaaap, little bit of top!reader

total word count : 10k

ᴊᴏᴇʟ ᴍɪʟʟᴇʀ

The house is quiet, but the silence isn’t soft—it’s tense. Heavy. Like it’s waiting to snap.

Joel’s still sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight like he's holding back the urge to punch a wall. Or come after you.

You stormed off twenty minutes ago, heart pounding, cheeks hot with anger and something else you didn’t want to name yet. The fight hadn’t even been about anything important—just one of those things that spiraled. Misunderstandings. Short tempers. A whole week of tension packed into a single explosion.

But now? Now your chest aches in that ugly, hollow way that only happens when it’s him you’re fighting with.

You wander into the living room, arms crossed, unsure why you’re even walking toward him again. Maybe to say something—maybe to say nothing. But instead, you slip off the shirt you were wearing and pull one of his flannels off the back of the couch.

It still smells like him. You roll the sleeves up, button only the middle, and leave the rest open over bare skin. No bra. No panties. Just the soft cotton and that same, quiet defiance burning in your chest.

You step into the doorway of the bedroom, where he hasn’t moved.

“Joel.”

He looks up.

His jaw goes slack, just a second. Then it clenches.

His eyes drag down the length of you, slow, heated, and no attempt to hide it. His voice comes out low, almost dangerous.

“You wearin’ that ‘cause you want me to apologize... or 'cause you want me to lose my goddamn mind?”

Joel doesn’t move. Doesn’t stand, doesn’t blink—just stares at you like he’s trying to decide if he wants to kiss you or throw you over his shoulder and teach you a lesson.

You raise a brow. “What? You said I could wear whatever I want.”

“That was before you came in here lookin’ like that,” he mutters, voice rough.

You shrug, feigning innocence. “It’s just a shirt. Your shirt. Didn’t realize I needed permission.”

His eyes narrow. “You’re pushin’ it.”

You cross your arms under your chest, knowing exactly what that does to the fabric. “So what if I am?”

He stands now. Slow. Measured. Every movement is deliberate, like a predator making sure you know you're cornered. “You pick a fight with me, storm off, then come back wearin’ nothin’ but that damn flannel—and you want me to believe it’s not on purpose?”

You take a step back, just to provoke him. “Maybe I was cold. You ever think of that?”

Joel huffs a humorless laugh, dragging a hand over his mouth. “That right?”

“Yep.” You pop the P, lifting your chin. “Real cold. Thought your clothes might help. Not that it’s any of your business.”

He’s in front of you before you can blink—close enough to feel the heat of him, the tension vibrating off his skin. One of his hands comes up, grazes your bare thigh under the hem of the shirt. Barely a touch. Just enough to make you shiver.

“Then tell me this, darlin’,” he murmurs, voice a slow burn against your ear. “If you’re so cold… why’s your skin runnin’ so hot under my hands?”

Your breath hitches, but you don’t back down. Not yet.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Miller. Maybe I’m just mad.”

He smiles, dangerous and slow. “Mad, huh? Then why’re you still standin’ here lettin’ me touch you?”

You flash a sharp smile right back. “Who says I’m lettin’ you?”

Joel laughs under his breath, something deep and dark. “You think this is a game?”

You lean up on your toes, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “No, Joel. I know it is. Question is… you gonna play, or keep sulking over a fight you started?”

That does it.

The next thing you know, he’s got you pressed against the wall, hands sliding up under the shirt, mouth crashing down onto yours—teeth, tongue, heat, and all that pent-up frustration bursting like a dam.

His mouth crashes into yours, but there’s nothing soft about it. It’s teeth and heat and tongue—his hands already under the shirt, rough palms sliding up your sides like he owns you.

And maybe right now, he does.

Your back thuds gently against the wall as Joel crowds in closer, pressing his hips flush to yours so you can feel just how hard he is through his jeans. That low, gravel-thick growl rumbles in his chest as he breathes against your lips.

“Y’know exactly what you’re doin’, don’t you?”

You smirk, fingers threading into the curls at the nape of his neck, tugging just hard enough to make him hiss. “Maybe I wanted you to stop sulking and do something about it.”

“Is that what you call this?” he mutters, dragging his mouth down your jaw, over your neck. His stubble scrapes against your skin—raw and deliberate—while his hands explore every bare inch under the flannel. “You come struttin’ in here, wearin’ my shirt, drippin’ attitude…”

He licks a slow stripe up your throat, then sinks his teeth into that sweet spot just under your ear, hard enough to leave a mark.

“You knew what this would do to me.”

You gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. “I hoped.”

Joel chuckles darkly. One hand fists the hem of the shirt and yanks it up—exposing the full curve of your thighs, your hips, the soft heat between your legs.

“No panties,” he mutters, shaking his head like he’s disappointed, but the way his eyes darken says otherwise. “Jesus, girl.”

“I told you,” you whisper against his lips. “I was cold.”

Joel drops to his knees in front of you like he was meant to be there. Large hands wrap around the backs of your thighs, tugging you forward until your back scrapes against the wall and your leg is slung over his shoulder. His breath is hot against the inside of your thigh, and you swear he’s smirking.

“Then let me warm you up.”

His mouth finds you without hesitation—tongue flat and slow against your center, tasting every drop of slick already there. You cry out, one hand flying to his hair, gripping tight as he eats you like he’s starving.

He groans into you when you roll your hips against his face, and it sends vibrations straight through your core. He licks you open, tongue circling your clit, then sucking it into his mouth until your knees nearly give out.

“Fuck, Joel—” your voice breaks, breathless, needy.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down.

One thick finger slides into you, then another, curling just right. His beard is wet with you, his eyes locked on your face like he wants to memorize every twitch, every gasp.

“Look at you,” he mutters against your heat. “All that mouth earlier… and now you’re fallin’ apart on my tongue.”

You moan, thighs trembling, grinding down against his face shamelessly. You’re close—so close—and he knows it. He speeds up, sucking your clit hard while he fucks you with his fingers, stroking that sweet spot deep inside until—

“Joel—oh my god—fuck—I’m coming—”

Your orgasm crashes over you like a wave. White-hot and blinding. Your hips jerk, thighs clench around his head, and he doesn’t let up—not until you’re shaking and moaning and pulling at his hair to make him stop.

Only then does he rise—slow, towering over you again with his mouth still glistening and that smug look you love to hate.

“You done givin’ me attitude now?” he growls, undoing his belt one-handed.

You pant, still recovering, but your voice is steady. “Depends. You done makin’ up for earlier?”

Joel’s eyes flash, and the sound of his zipper coming down sends another pulse through your core.

“Not even close.”

ʀɪᴄᴋ ɢʀɪᴍᴇꜱ

The mirror’s still fogged when you pad barefoot into Rick’s bedroom, towel twisted in your damp hair, steam curling off your skin. The air smells like soap, his soap—cedar and grit and something old-fashioned. Masculine. Familiar.

His boxers hang low on your hips, the waistband loose from wear, the fabric clinging damp to your thighs. You didn’t grab a shirt. Didn’t need to.

You stretch, arms overhead as you rummage through a drawer. You feel his eyes on you before you even hear him.

Rick’s in the doorway. Leaning against the frame, arms crossed, chest rising and falling slow.

His voice is rough, sleep-graveled. “The hell are you wearin’?”

You glance over your shoulder. “What’s it look like?”

He doesn’t move. Just look. Eyes dragging over the curve of your back, down to the slant of his boxers on your bare ass, the way the steam still clings to your skin like dew.

“Looks like you’re tryin’ to make a problem for me.”

You smile. Turn around, slowly, letting him see everything, the damp skin between your thighs, the way the fabric of his boxers rides up, and when you shift your weight.

“Not my fault you leave your clothes lying around.”

Rick’s jaw ticks. He pushes off the doorframe like he’s fighting the urge to touch you. But you see it in the way his hands flex, how his eyes darken and drop to your legs again.

“You ain’t got nothin’ else under that, do you?”

You shrug, all fake-innocence. “Why don’t you come find out?”

Rick’s eyes are fixed on the waistband of his boxers hugging your hips. His tongue runs along the inside of his cheek, slow, as he steps farther into the room, shutting the door behind him.

“You think just ‘cause we’re behind walls now, I forgot how you act when you’re teasin’?”

You give him a sly grin. “Didn’t forget. Just thought you might be too tired to do anything about it.”

Rick chuckles, low in his throat. “Too tired, huh?”

You lift yourself onto the edge of the dresser, legs parting just enough for his eyes to drop—hungry, heavy.

“It’s been a while,” you say, soft but pointed. “With everything goin’ on. Fights, runs, sleeping with one eye open…”

You toy with the hem of the boxers, just to watch his jaw clench.

“Figured now that we’ve got real beds and warm water, we might finally have the time to enjoy ourselves.”

Rick steps between your legs, hands settling on your bare thighs. His thumbs stroke gently, but there’s tension under it. Like he’s holding back too much.

“You really sat there in that hot shower thinkin’ about how long it’s been since I fucked you?”

You grin, biting your bottom lip. “Maybe. You think I’m wearin’ these just ‘cause I ran outta clean clothes?”

He leans in, nose brushing your cheek, beard scraping warm against your skin.

“Nah. You’re wearin’ these ‘cause you wanted me to see you in ‘em. You wanted me to remember how long it’s been. How bad I’ve been missin’ you.”

Your breath stutters, but you keep your voice steady. “Then do something about it, sheriff.”

That earns a crooked little smirk. “You still callin’ me that?”

“I’ll call you anything you want,” you whisper, one hand sliding under his shirt, nails grazing the scarred skin of his side, “as long as you fuck me like you used to.”

Rick growls, hands gripping your thighs tighter now. He presses you back against the mirror, one hand slipping beneath the waistband of the boxers, knuckles brushing slick heat.

“Darlin’, the way I used to fuck you? That was survival.”

He kisses your neck—hot, biting.

“But now we got time. Now I can take my time.”

The hand he has cupped between your legs doesn’t move—not yet. He just keeps it there, pressed warm against you, while his mouth drags across your throat, tongue smoothing over the mark he bit earlier.

“Missed this,” he murmurs, voice husky against your skin. “Missed you."

You thread your fingers through his damp curls, tugging gently. “Then stop waiting.”

That’s all it takes.

His other hand slides up your back, tugging the towel from your hair and letting it fall. Wet strands stick to your shoulders, your collarbone, and Rick groans—because now it’s just you. Bare skin. Bare legs. In his boxers. Sitting on his dresser, looking at him like you’ve always belonged here.

He leans down and kisses you deep. No hurry, just his mouth moving slow over yours, tasting every gasp you give him. His tongue slides against yours, his hand pressing firmer between your legs now—rubbing slow circles through the thin fabric until your hips start to shift forward, seeking more.

“Been so damn long,” he rasps. “Need to feel you. Need you to fall apart for me, just like you used to.”

You moan into his mouth, breath shaky. “I’m already halfway there.”

Rick drops to his knees. Doesn’t speak. Just hooks his fingers under the waistband of the boxers and slides them down your legs, kissing the inside of your thigh like it’s sacred. Your hands brace behind you on the dresser as he pulls one of your legs over his shoulder.

Then he buries his mouth in you.

It’s slow. Gentle. Loving. Tongue flicking over your clit, lips soft and sure, hands holding your thighs like he’s anchoring himself there. And you feel it—that desperation barely held in check, the tenderness underneath. This is him worshiping you.

“Taste like heaven,” he groans, mouth wet and filthy between your legs. “Fuck, baby. Missed this pussy so much.”

Your head drops back with a moan. He takes his time. Licks you through every roll of your hips. Keeps his eyes on your face while he makes you shake with nothing but his tongue and the reverent heat of his mouth.

You come fast—overwhelmed from the buildup, the softness, the way he groans when you tug his hair and grind down onto his face.

But he doesn’t stop.

Rick stands again, breathing hard, mouth glistening. He kisses you through your panting, hand cradling your cheek.

“One wasn’t enough. Not tonight.”

He lifts you off the dresser, your legs wrapping around him instinctively. Carries you to the bed like you weigh nothing, like he’s not trembling with how much he wants to be inside you.

Lays you out gently.

Climbs over you slowly.

“Gonna go slow. Want you to feel all of it.”

He strips himself bare—shirt, jeans, boxers—until it’s just skin on skin, chest to chest. When he finally pushes inside you, it’s deep—long and careful, his forehead pressed to yours, your moans caught between shared breath.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “That’s my girl. You take me so good.”

He thrusts slowly. Deep. Not a rush. Not a fuck. He makes love to you like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground. One hand holding yours. The other stroking your side. His mouth brushing over your jaw, your neck, your chest.

“Been wantin’ this for so long,” he murmurs. “Couldn’t stop thinkin’ about how warm you feel around me… how you look when you come…”

You’re clinging to him now, nails digging into his back, legs tight around his hips. Every push and pull of him drags another moan from your throat. He whispers sweet nothings against your skin—how perfect you are, how much he missed this, how nothing ever felt like this.

When you come again, it’s slow and wet and messy. You shudder under him, gasping his name, and he groans, still fucking you gently through it.

“Gonna fill you up, baby,” he pants. “Gonna give you every fuckin’ drop.”

You cling to him, eyes wet, heart full.

“I want it. I want you. Always.”

Rick kisses you deep as he finally lets go—buries himself as deep as he can and groans your name against your neck as he pulses inside you, warmth flooding through your core.

He stays there. Stays in you.

Breathing hard, hand stroking your cheek, his lips never far from yours.

“We’ve got time now,” he whispers. “No more wastin’ it.”

ɴᴀᴛᴀʟɪᴇ ꜱᴄᴀᴛᴏʀᴄᴄɪᴏ

You’re already outside when she spots you—leaning against the chain-link fence behind the gym, one foot braced, eyes closed, smoke curling up from your mouth. Except… you’re not in your jacket. You’re in hers.

Natalie freezes mid-step.

Her leather jacket is swallowing you. Shoulders too wide. Sleeves pushed up to your elbows. And underneath? Just a tank top and that smug little look on your face like you knew she’d see you.

She’s holding her cigarette halfway to her mouth but doesn’t move.

“Seriously?” she calls, voice dry. “You tryna rob me and commit a felony with that face?”

You smirk, eyes sliding open. “It was cold.”

“Bullshit. It’s like seventy degrees.”

You shrug, slow and smug. “Smells like you. Kinda like it.”

Natalie walks toward you—lazy, hands in her pockets, like she’s not one second away from pinning you to that fence.

“You tryna get me in trouble, or you just tryna make me stupid?”

You flick ash to the side and toss her a look. “Little bit of both.”

She’s in front of you now, one hand braced beside your head, the other stealing the cigarette from your fingers. Take a drag without breaking eye contact.

“You like wearing my jacket, baby?”

“Yeah. You gonna do something about it?”

“Depends.” Her voice drops. “You wearin’ anything under it?”

You grin, letting your fingers tug the front zipper down a little—just enough to reveal bare skin and the hint of a bra strap slipping off your shoulder.

“Wanna check?”

Natalie curses under her breath. Stubbs the cigarette out against the fence without looking. Her hand curls into the collar of the jacket, tugging you forward until your lips barely brush.

“You don’t get to fuckin’ walk around like this and act innocent.”

Your mouth brushes hers, breath warm. “Who said I was innocent?”

You’re both caught in this tense stare down, Natalie’s breath just a little ragged from holding back, your jacket sliding off your shoulder just enough to tempt.

“You know,” she murmurs, fingers trailing from your neck down to the zipper, “if anyone saw us right now, they’d think you were getting arrested.”

You grin, biting your lip. “Is that supposed to scare me?”

“No,” she says, eyes flashing dark, “it’s supposed to get you wet.”

Her hand slips inside the jacket now, fingers brushing over bare skin, teasing.

You press closer, your breath hitching.

“You’re real dangerous,” you whisper. “Ever think about what’d happen if someone caught us?”

Natalie leans in, lips grazing your ear. “I like danger.”

“Me too.”

Before you can say another word, her mouth is on yours—slow, deliberate. Her hand tightens on your waist, pulling you flush to her body. The cool metal of the fence presses into your back, but the heat from her skin is all-consuming.

Her hands roam, one slipping beneath your tank top, the other keeping you pinned just so, teasing but never quite gentle.

“You’re so damn reckless,” she growls, voice thick. “But God, I love it.”

You break the kiss for a breath, smirking.

“Then let’s make sure nobody forgets who owns this jacket.”

And just like that, she presses you fully against the fence, lips crashing back to yours as hands start exploring, the world shrinking until it’s just you two—reckless, wild, and burning up right there.

You’re pinned against the cold metal fence, her body flush against yours, fingers digging into your hips through the oversized leather jacket. Her mouth crashes against yours again, fierce and demanding, tongue sliding in like she’s claiming you with every breath.

Her hands don’t waste time, one slips beneath the hem of your tank top, palm burning over your bare skin, fingertips tracing your ribs, dipping lower, while the other fingers the waistband of your jeans. You shiver when she catches the edge of your panties, tugging them aside just enough to press the pad of her thumb over your wetness through the thin fabric.

You gasp, breath hitching, but her lips silence you — hot, rough, sucking marks along your jaw, down your neck.

“You’re soaked,” she growls, voice low and ragged. “Did you think I wouldn’t feel that?”

Your hands clutch at her jacket, pulling it tighter around you as she presses closer, the heat of her body nearly unbearable in the chilly night air.

“Shhh,” she murmurs, slipping one hand between your thighs now, thumb rubbing slow, torturous circles over your clit. “Not here to make noise.”

Her other hand hooks into the belt loop of your jeans, tugging hard enough to pull them down a little. You lift your hips, giving her access, heart pounding from the thrill of being so exposed, so vulnerable.

Her mouth finds your collarbone, teeth nipping gently, hands slick and eager, never still. You arch into her touch, grinding lightly against her thumb, desperate for more.

The risk only sharpens the sensation — every sound, every breath, every slick press of skin is amplified in the quiet night. The faint rustle of a car passing down the street makes you both freeze for a moment, eyes locking with a shared smirk.

“Can’t stop now,” you whisper.

She growls, fingers sliding inside you, slow and deep, curling expertly as she sinks two fingers in with ease. Your back arches harder against the fence, nails scraping down her arms as your breaths come faster.

Her mouth moves lower, kissing down your neck, trailing teeth along your shoulder, and you’re dizzy — caught between the chill air and the fire blazing through your veins.

“Cum for me,” she commands softly, voice a rough caress. “Here. Now.”

You do. Shuddering, trembling, utterly undone as she rides your release, steady fingers coaxing you through every pulse, every wave. Her lips brush yours one last time, soft and hungry.

You both slide down slightly against the fence, breathing heavy, sweat mingling in the cool air.

“That’s mine,” she says, voice husky. “Mine.”

You grin, fingers tangling in her hair.

“Always.”

ᴀʀᴛʜᴜʀ ᴍᴏʀɢᴀɴ

The light in Arthur’s tent is golden, that low evening haze that paints everything warm and makes the air feel thick. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, wrists flexing as he wipes down the barrel of his revolver, boots planted wide, shirt clinging just a little at the chest. His jaw ticks every so often, sharp and focused.

He doesn’t look up right away — focused, meticulous, the way he always is when his hands are busy. But the second your boots scuff soft against the tent floor and he hears that little jingle of the holster strap, he glances up.

And freezes.

“The hell’re you wearin’?”

You tip his hat lower over your eyes and flash him a slow, shameless grin.

“Like it?”

He doesn’t answer. Just drags his eyes over you. The way the holster hangs off your hips, a little crooked; the familiar brim of his hat perched way too pretty on your head. His jaw flexes once.

You step closer, one foot between his boots, hands on your hips.

“Thought I’d play outlaw today. Steal from a real bad man.”

Arthur grunts — one sharp, low sound in his throat. He sets the revolver down slow. His hands are still a little dirty from the cleaning oil, but he doesn’t care. His fingers curl over the edge of the cot.

“You playin’ with fire, girl.”

You lean down, close enough he can smell your soap and sweat and something sweet under your breath.

“Thought you liked danger.”

He stares at you for a long moment, eyes dark, chest rising. Then finally, his hand slides up your thigh, rough palm against soft skin.

“Yeah,” he rasps. “I do.”

His voice is rough, low, and laced with threat — the good kind. The kind that makes your thighs press together. Arthur takes a step forward, and you instinctively take one back, bumping into the cot behind you. His hands are already on your hips, fingers brushing the leather of his holster wrapped around you. The air in the tent feels thick now — like you’re somewhere between a dare and a confession.

“You enjoy messin’ with me like this?” he mutters, nosing at your jaw as his hand slides behind you, grabbing a handful of your ass through your skirt.

You tilt your head, breath catching. “Maybe.”

“Girl, I been good. I been real good. But you keep walkin’ ‘round here in my hat, in my goddamn holster, makin’ them little sounds when you sit next to me…”

He leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Now you’re gonna sit right here,” he growls, giving your hip a sharp tug. “And take responsibility.”

And then he pulls you down into his lap.

You straddle him slow, letting your thighs spread over his strong, denim-covered ones, the wide seat of the cot creaking beneath you. He looks up at you now, sitting there all smug in his hat, eyes half-lidded, legs already trembling from the heat. His hands hold your hips still while his mouth finally, finally meets yours.

The kiss is hot, deeper than expected — no teasing, no games. He groans low in his throat as his tongue slides into your mouth, tasting you, claiming you, like he’s been starving for days. And maybe he has — the way he’s gripping you now, rough like you’ll disappear.

Your hips roll without thinking, grinding over the shape of his cock, already thick beneath his pants. He breathes hard against your lips, forehead pressed to yours, eyes squeezed shut.

“Christ, woman. You’re gonna kill me.”

You smile sweetly, rocking again. “Guess I better make it worth your while.”

Arthur’s hand slides between your bodies, shoving your skirt up your thighs until it’s bunched around your waist. He runs his knuckles up the inside of your leg, pausing when he finds your panties.

“Soakin’,” he mutters. “Already?”

You whisper, “Wanted you all day.”

He growls, then slips two fingers under the damp fabric, pressing them through your folds slowly and dragging along your clit, down to your entrance, back up again.

“Ain’t gonna last long if you keep grindin’ on me like that,” he mutters. “Hell, you keep lookin’ at me like that, I might fuckin’ beg.”

And then you feel him — hot and hard, straining against his pants, and your mouth goes dry.

“C’mon, cowboy,” you whisper, hand dipping to undo his belt, “let’s see how much trouble I’m really in.”

He groans when your fingers wrap around him, thick and leaking already. You push your panties to the side, brace yourself on his chest, and line him up.

“You sure?” he rasps, eyes locked on yours, voice cracking from restraint. “Here? Now?”

You smirk, hat tilted just right.

“Better hold on, Mr. Morgan.”

And then you sink down onto him — slow, thick stretch, your breath shattering as he fills you inch by inch. He curses loud, one hand grabbing your waist, the other behind your neck to keep your lips close.

You stay still for a beat, both of you trembling. Then you start to ride.

Not frantic — not yet. Just deep, slow rolls of your hips, your ass bouncing lightly against his thighs as you rock back and forth, taking him to the hilt every time. His hands slide down to your thighs, spreading you wider, guiding your rhythm.

“Fuckin’ hell, darlin’... you feel like heaven.”

You tug the hat lower over your eyes again, lips parted, and Arthur loses his goddamn mind.

“Gonna wear that hat while you cum on my cock?” he grits out. “Gonna keep ridin’ me till you can’t speak straight?”

You nod, too far gone to answer, chasing your high while the cot creaks beneath you both. His mouth latches to your neck, biting, sucking, like he needs you marked. Owned.

The rhythm gets rougher, wetter, needier.

“That’s it,” he groans. “Cum for me. Let me feel it — lemme feel all of you, sweetheart.”

You do — crashing down with a cry muffled into his shoulder, body clenching tight around him as he lifts his hips to meet you, chasing his own release. He follows a second later, gasping, holding you down while he spills deep inside.

You both go still — breathing hard, sweat-slicked, skin stuck together in the muggy camp air. The hat’s crooked on your head now. Arthur kisses your collarbone, lazy and soft, and mutters against your skin:

“You keep stealin’ my things, I’m gonna have to make you mine permanent.”

ꜰʀᴀɴᴋ ᴄᴀꜱᴛʟᴇ

It’s late at the safe house. Quiet except for the soft hum of a distant fan and the muted city noises outside the cracked window. You’re sitting on the edge of the worn couch, the only light coming from a flickering lamp in the corner, casting shadows across the room.

You’re wearing his dog tags, heavy on a thin chain that rests just above your collarbone, brushing lightly against your bare skin beneath a loose, slightly oversized shirt you borrowed from him earlier.

The weight of those tags isn’t just metal — it carries memories, pain, and everything Frank holds close. You feel it, too, and that’s why you slipped them on.

Frank steps in from the hallway, boots scraping softly on the floor. He freezes when he sees you. The dog tags, catching the dim light, swinging gently as you shift. His eyes lock on the necklace like it’s a live wire. For a heartbeat, there’s silence heavy enough to crush.

Then he moves, slow and deliberate, and kneels in front of you. His voice is low, almost a growl:

“You know what those mean to me.”

You nod, voice barely a whisper:

“I want to carry a piece of you, Frank. Keep you close.”

His fingers reach out, rough and steady, brushing against the chain. He doesn’t pull it off. Instead, he cups your jaw, thumb tracing your skin like he’s memorizing you.

“It’s not just a piece of metal,” he says, voice cracking with something almost like pain. “It’s all the things I’m tryin’ to leave behind... but I never can.”

Your eyes meet his, and the air feels electric — dangerous and tender all at once.

“Then let me help carry it,” you say, voice firm. “Let me help carry you.”

His hand slides down to wrap around your waist, pulling you closer until your hearts are almost pounding in sync.

“Goddamn, you’re mine,” he growls, voice thick with something raw.

You lean in, lips barely brushing his.

“Always.”

Frank’s hand lingers on your waist, thumb pressing small circles just under your ribs, steadying you against the storm inside him. His eyes never leave yours, dark and heavy, like he’s weighing every word, every inch of skin he can see.

You can feel his breath hitch as you slowly reach up, fingers grazing the chain of the dog tags. Your touch is gentle but confident, tracing the cold metal while your other hand slides up, fingers tangling in the coarse stubble on his jaw.

He swallows hard, jaw tightening, then tilts his head to give you better access. You press a slow, searching kiss to his rough cheek, tasting salt and something raw beneath it all. Years of pain, loss, and a desperate need to protect what he loves.

Frank’s hands find your hips again, gripping firmer now as his mouth drops to your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. His scent —a mix of sweat, gunpowder, and something uniquely him wraps around you, making your pulse thunder.

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes again, and there’s a flicker of something unreadable, hunger, maybe, but also caution. Frank’s been through hell; he’s not quick to let down his guard. But with you, the walls are crumbling.

Your hands trail down his chest, feeling the hardness beneath the fabric of his shirt, fingers curling into muscle. You brush your lips over his collarbone, slow and deliberate, your body pressing closer until there’s no space between you.

Frank groans low, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. He slides one hand up your back, fingers threading through your hair, pulling you into a bruising kiss that’s fierce and desperate —like he’s making up for lost time.

His other hand slips beneath your shirt, warm skin against yours, fingers tracing your ribs before dipping lower, teasing the curve of your waist. You arch into him, breath coming faster, hands clutching his shirt as the tension coils tighter.

Frank’s lips trail from your mouth down your jaw to the hollow of your neck, teeth nibbling gently before he bites down, making you gasp. His hands move with purpose now rough and possessive as he pushes your shirt up, exposing more skin to his hungry touch.

Your fingers tug at the hem of his shirt, eager to feel his bare skin, to close the distance that’s been burning between you both.

He pulls back just slightly, eyes dark and blazing, voice a low rasp:

“You want this? Here? Now?”

You nod, breathless, lips parted.

“Need you, Frank.”

His grip tightens on your waist as he lifts you effortlessly, carrying you toward the couch, your legs wrapping around his hips instinctively. He settles you down with a growl, hands roaming freely now, unbuttoning your pants with sharp, urgent movements.

The world narrows to the heat between you — the scent, the touch, the sound of your ragged breaths mixing in the quiet room.

Frank’s mouth claims yours again, deeper, more demanding as he slides his hands beneath your clothes, exploring, marking, making you his in every way.

You arch into him, hips grinding down with a slow, agonizing tease, until he’s groaning, pressing harder, finally bridging the last inch between you.

The fire ignites fully — skin on skin, heat and burning bright.

Frank’s hands roam boldly over your bare skin, rough fingers tracing every curve like he’s memorizing you all over again. His grip tightens on your waist, pulling you flush against him, his hardness pressing insistently against your thigh. The tension coils tighter with every heartbeat, every shallow breath shared in the dim light.

His mouth leaves yours to trail scorching kisses down your neck, teeth grazing and nibbling, making your skin flush and your pulse race. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging him closer, wanting to feel more, to taste more.

Slowly, deliberately, Frank’s hands slide under your shirt, thumbs stroking your ribs, teasing the softness there before slipping beneath the waistband of your pants. You shiver as his fingers brush over the bare skin of your hip, tracing downward to the curve of your ass, squeezing possessively.

You lean into his touch, hips grinding against his growing hardness, wanting—needing—to feel him, to let go.

With a low growl, Frank shifts, one hand supporting your back as the other slides between your bodies, fingers finding your wetness, slick and ready. He presses a finger inside, slow and teasing, dragging a soft gasp from your lips.

Your breath hitches as he circles inside you, fingers moving with expert precision, sending sparks through every nerve ending. You bury your face in his shoulder, needing to muffle the sounds you can’t hold back.

Frank’s lips brush over your collarbone, then down to your chest, teeth grazing your skin, sucking marks into your flesh as he works his fingers inside you. His other hand cups your breast, kneading it roughly, thumb teasing your hardened nipple.

The pressure builds fast, heat pooling deep in your belly. You arch your back, grinding down onto his fingers as a low moan escapes you.

“Fuck, you taste like heaven,” Frank mutters against your skin, voice thick and raw.

You grab the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head, fingers grazing the scars and muscles of his chest. Your hands slide down, wrapping around his thick, hard cock, slick already from his own need.

You pump him slowly, teasing, watching as his jaw clenches and his eyes darken with hunger. He growls, shifting under you, one hand sliding under your hips to lift you higher.

With a sharp breath, you guide him inside, the slow, deep stretch making you gasp. He holds you steady, letting you set the pace at first—each slow roll of your hips driving him deeper.

Frank’s hands grip your hips tight, matching your movements, the wet sounds of your skin sliding together filling the room. His mouth finds yours again, kisses bruising and demanding, tongues tangling in a fierce dance.

The rhythm quickens, hips snapping together as your moans grow louder, mixing with Frank’s low, guttural groans. You can feel the build, the pressure rising fast—your body tightens around him, breath coming in ragged gasps.

“Come for me,” Frank rasps, voice strained, hand tightening on your waist.

Your release crashes over you like wildfire, muscles clenching hard as you cry out into his mouth. Frank follows, groaning deep and low, spilling inside you as he holds you close, both of you trembling with the aftershocks.

You collapse against him, breath mingling, skin slick and warm. His lips brush your temple, soft now.

“Mine,” he whispers. “Always.”

ᴇʟʟɪᴇ ᴡɪʟʟɪᴀᴍꜱ

You’re crashing at Ellie’s for the night. She’s showering. You’re bored. Her drawer’s open — and there’s that one pair. The black boyshort-style panties with the faded waistband, maybe a little worn-in, soft as hell. You grin, grab them, and slip into them under your oversized sleep shirt like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

She comes out of the bathroom in just a towel, drying her hair with that chaotic scrunch-dry move. You’re pretending to read a book on her bed like you're innocent.

But she sees it. The slight rise of fabric through your shirt. The flash of that telltale waistband when you shift your legs.

Her eyes narrow.

“Are those... mine?”

You glance up, all fake-casual.

“Huh? Oh. Yeah.”

“The fuck you mean ‘yeah’?”

She’s already crossing the room, towel barely hanging on, steam still clinging to her skin. Her voice is somewhere between scandalized and turned the hell on.

“You digging through my drawer now, babe? Didn’t take you for a perv.”

You shrug, smiling like you want her to be mad.

“You weren’t using them.”

“Oh, I’m usin’ them now.”

She tugs your shirt up like she’s checking the fit — fingers curling in the fabric at your hips, knuckles grazing bare skin. She’s grinning now, that lazy, smug little smile that only comes out when she knows she’s got the upper hand.

“These look better on you than I wanna admit.”

“I know.”

“Take ’em off.”

“Make me.”

Her hands are already sliding up your thighs, eyes hooded, voice dropping to a husky whisper.

“You’re seriously fuckin’ evil.”

“And you like it.”

The tension in the room sharpens the second she drops her towel.

Ellie’s standing there, bare skin glistening from the shower, her tattoo trailing down her arm like a warning label. She’s looking at you like she doesn’t know whether to yell or drop to her knees — and god, it’s hot.

“You got a goddamn death wish, baby?”

You shake your head, eyes wide and sweet.

“I just missed you.”

She stalks forward, knees hitting the mattress as she crawls over you, body pinning you to the bed. Her mouth is at your ear now, her voice ragged.

“You think you can steal my shit and sit here lookin’ this fuckin’ good and I’m just gonna let it slide?”

You’re already panting, arching up into her, and she hasn’t even touched you properly yet.

Ellie pushes your shirt up — slow, reverent — revealing the curve of your hips in the dark fabric, the shape of you pressed so tight beneath her underwear. Her breath catches, and suddenly she’s not teasing anymore.

She leans down and kisses you —soft at first, like she’s afraid to push too far but it deepens quickly, her fingers threading into your hair, the kiss turning messy and slow and needy. When she pulls back, she’s flushed and glassy-eyed.

“Don’t move.”

She slides off the bed, and you already know what’s coming. You watch her walk to her drawer, pull it open, and take out the harness — black, worn, familiar. She straps it on with slow, deliberate movements, eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re gonna take it so good,” she murmurs. “Wearing my name. My fuckin’ scent. You wanted this, huh?”

You nod, heart in your throat, thighs already trembling.

Ellie climbs back onto the bed, kneels between your legs, and leans over you. Her fingers slip under the waistband, teasing, but she doesn’t take them off yet. Instead, she pulls them aside, her eyes glued to the way you’re already soaked for her.

“God, look at you.”

She leans in, lips brushing your inner thigh, trailing kisses so soft they make you ache. Then finally she lines the strap up and pushes in slowly. Inch by inch. Letting you feel every single stretch.

You clutch her arms, whining her name, but she shushes you gently:

“It’s okay, baby. You’re okay. You’re so fuckin’ perfect like this.”

She starts moving — slow and deep, hips rocking into you with a rhythm that drives you wild. Her hand finds your throat, her mouth kissing your jaw, your cheek, your lips over and over again.

“Tell me whose they are,” she whispers, snapping her hips just right.

“Yours,” you gasp. “Ellie, I’m yours.”

“Damn right.”

And when you come, legs shaking, face buried in her shoulder, she doesn’t stop. She kisses your hair, your temple, murmuring soft praises like she’s praying.

“That’s it. That’s my girl.”

You're still trembling when Ellie pulls out — slow, like she wants you to feel the way you clench around nothing. She presses a kiss to your belly, and then your hipbone, grounding you while you come down, your breath catching in little hiccups.

“Jesus,” you whisper. “That was—”

“Yeah,” she murmurs, brushing your sweaty hair off your forehead, “I know.”

You expect her to lay beside you. Maybe unbuckle the strap. Maybe pull that ruined pair of panties the rest of the way off and toss them to the floor. But she doesn’t. Not yet.

She leans back on her heels between your legs, tattoo flexing along her arm as her fingers spread your thighs open again. You’re a mess — slick pooling, thighs sticky, pussy raw and red from the way she worked you. But Ellie’s eyes darken like she’s seeing you for the first time.

“Fuck,” she whispers. “Look at you.”

You whine softly, hips twitching, overstimulation making your breath stutter. But Ellie just grins low and lazy and leans forward.

Her mouth meets the inside of your thigh, tongue dragging upward in one slow, wet stripe. You suck in a breath, but she’s already licking again, tongue flicking at the edge of your folds, tasting everything she left behind.

“Ellie—” your voice breaks. “Too much…”

“Nah,” she murmurs against your skin.

And then she dives in.

Not gentle now. Not teasing. She devours you — tongue circling your clit, then plunging inside, moaning like she’s starved and you’re her last meal. She holds your hips down with both hands, fingers digging in hard, nose bumping your swollen clit as her mouth works you.

It’s too much. It’s not enough.

You're clawing at the sheets, at her hair, babbling broken pleas and curses as your body tightens again, heat coiling fast and brutal.

“Taste so fuckin’ good,” she pants. “Could do this all night. Gonna make you cum again for me, pretty girl—”

And you do.

It hits like lightning white-hot, your back arching off the bed as you cry out, thighs locking around her head. She keeps going, tongue flattening and curling and sliding through everything, drinking it down like she’s desperate for every drop.

When she finally pulls back, her chin’s wet, her eyes heavy-lidded, hair a mess. She crawls up your body and kisses you deep — slow and filthy, letting you taste yourself on her tongue. You sigh into her mouth, dazed and blissed out and barely holding on.

She grins against your lips.

“Still wanna steal my panties?”

“Every damn pair,” you whisper. And Ellie just laughs — the kind of laugh that means you’re never getting out of that bed again.

ʙᴜᴄᴋʏ ʙᴀʀɴᴇꜱ

It starts in the training room. Just the two of you. No Steve, no Sam, no Natasha — just you and Bucky, circling each other on the mat, breath heavy, knuckles bruised, grinning like you’re both enjoying the hell out of this.

You’re a little too mouthy. He’s a little too cocky.

“You fight dirty,” he pants, brushing sweat off his brow.

“And you like it,” you shoot back.

He lunges, you dodge. You sweep his leg. He grabs your wrist, twists, pins you down with that infuriatingly hot weight and looks down at you like you’re his prey.

“Gonna tap out?” he smirks.

“Bite me.”

Eventually, you call it a draw. He hits the showers. You wander back to his room for a change of clothes (like you always do). But this time? You find the shirt. The one he wore during sparring. It's still damp. Still warm.

You slip it on.

His shirt is too warm.

Not in a bad way — in a him way. It smells like his cologne, and clean sweat. It sticks to your skin as you lean back on his bed, one knee bent up, stretching in a way you know makes the shirt ride high.

You don’t have to look at him to know he’s staring. You feel it — the weight of it, molten and low. You glance up, see him standing there, towel around his shoulders, shirtless, still damp from the shower. His chest is rising and falling fast.

 You glance at your reflection and smirk — and that’s when you hear the door.

“The hell are you doin’?” he asks.

You turn, hands on hips, full of mock innocence.

“Borrowing.”

His jaw tightens. His eyes drag over you — over his shirt plastered to your curves, the swell of your breasts, the peek of your bare thighs.

“That’s my favorite one,” he mutters.

“I figured.” You stretch, showing off the cling. “It’s comfortable.”

He’s already crossing the room, eyes dark.

“It’s not just comfortable, sweetheart. It’s dangerous.”

You lean back onto the edge of his bed, legs parting slightly — shirt riding up just enough to drive him wild.

“So take it back.”

He’s silent for a beat. Then—

“That’s not how that shirt’s supposed to fit.”

You shrug, a smirk playing on your lips.

“Fits me just fine.”

He stalks closer. You can see it in the way his jaw ticks — the slow burn crawling up his spine. You expect him to take the bait. To grab you, maybe toss you back and make good on all that fire in his eyes.

But he stops. Just stand there. Looking.

“Do you even know what you’re doing to me?” His voice is hoarse. Quiet. Reverent.

Your smile softens — but only a little.

“No. Maybe you should show me.”

He finally moves. Not rough — slow. Deliberate. He kneels between your thighs on the bed, fingers dragging up your bare legs, stopping just under the hem of his shirt. His eyes flick up to yours.

“You were tryin’ to get a rise outta me,” he murmurs. “Actin’ like a brat. You know I don’t like that.”

You grin, breath catching as his hand moves higher.

“Yeah. You love it.”

He exhales a short laugh through his nose — but there’s no humor in it. Just hunger. His metal hand presses against the bed beside your hip, while the other cups your cheek. His thumb traces your lips.

“You’re gonna ride me in that shirt,” he murmurs. “Make a mess of it. Make me clean it with my fuckin’ mouth after.”

The heat rushes to your core. You nod, barely able to breathe.

He leans in — kisses you. Not rushed. Deep. His tongue licks into your mouth like he’s tasting the words he wants to say. His hand moves lower, sliding beneath the shirt, dragging up the line of your waist.

“Look at you,” he says softly. “All worked up and I haven’t even touched you right.”

You whimper as he brushes your nipple with his knuckle — and then pinches, just enough to make your hips buck.

“Bucky—”

“C’mon, baby. Get on top. Let me feel how bad you want it.”

You straddle him slowly. He sits up, arms locking around your waist, mouth finding your throat. He pushes the shirt up just a little, exposing your thighs as you rock your hips down against the hard bulge in his sweats.

“You this needy from just wearin’ my clothes?” he mutters. “Shit. Gonna have to put you in my whole fuckin’ closet.”

You grind again, moaning his name, and he gasps — biting your neck, pulling you tighter, hips lifting just enough to press against your center.

“Take what you want, doll,” he groans. “You earned it.”

And you do. You sink down on him slow, your hands planted on his chest, his shirt hiked up around your ribs. His eyes don’t leave you — watching the way your body swallows him, the way the fabric clings tighter from your sweat, your heat, your movement.

“F-fuck, you wear it better than I do,” he pants.

You ride him slowly. On purpose. Every roll of your hips dragging a deep groan from his throat, his hands gripping your ass, then your waist, then cupping your face as he stares up at you like you’re a dream.

And when you finally fall apart on top of him shaking, gasping, and face buried in his neck and he flips you onto your back.

Your chest is still heaving, body buzzing from the slow-build orgasm that wrecked you, but Bucky doesn’t give you time to come down.

The second his shirt is peeled off your body, he drops it to the side like it never mattered — like you’re the only thing that does. He kisses your chest first, then lower, chasing the trail of sweat and slick down your ribs with his mouth, hand splayed wide over your stomach to hold you still.

“Told you I’d clean it up,” he murmurs, his voice low and ragged. “Gotta taste ya…”

You let out a breathy laugh that turns into a gasp as his mouth hovers over your cunt again, lips barely brushing your inner thigh.

“Bucky—”

“Shh,” he coos. “I know, baby. Just let me take care of it.”

And he does.

He devours you like he’s starving. Like you’re the only thing in the world that’ll fix the ache in his chest. His tongue licks through the mess he made earlier, slow at first — just a tease, just enough to make your thighs tremble — and then faster. More desperate.

His hands grip your thighs hard, pulling you closer, spreading you wider.

“So fuckin’ sweet,” he mutters against you. “Can’t believe you’ve been walkin’ around all day like this — wearin’ my shit, makin’ me crazy—”

You can’t respond. Can barely breathe.

He flattens his tongue against your clit and sucks, just once, and it’s too much. Your hips jerk. Your hands tangle in his hair, tugging hard, but all it does is make him groan and push in deeper, tongue flicking, curling, lapping like he needs every last drop of you.

“Gonna come again,” you gasp, shaking.

“Good,” he growls. “Wanna feel you fall apart.”

You do hard and fast. A cry rips out of you, back arching off the bed, thighs clamping around his head as he keeps going. Doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. He groans into your cunt, rutting against the mattress, grinding like he’s the one about to lose it.

When you finally collapse, spent and twitching, he pulls back slowly. His mouth is soaked. Chin wet, lips flushed, eyes wild.

He kisses your thigh once. Then again.

And then — without a word — he rises to his knees at the edge of the bed, grabs your hips, and flips you over.

“Oh my god—”

“No, sweetheart. Not yet.”

You’re on your stomach now, cheek pressed to the mattress, legs spread. You can feel him behind you — feel the weight of that metal arm sliding along your spine, the sound of his sweats being shoved down, the way his cock pressed to your entrance, hot and heavy.

“You take it so good,” he rasps. “Every time. But I need more.”

He thrusts into you in one smooth stroke — deep. You cry out, gripping the sheets. His hand presses between your shoulder blades, keeping you down, while the other wraps around your hip, holding you open as he starts to fuck you slow and thick and deep.

“You steal from me,” he grunts, pounding into you. “You get fucked like this.”

“Yes—yes, Bucky, please—”

His metal hand curls around your throat, not choking, just holding, grounding. His hips slam into yours harder, faster, filthy sounds echoing through the room. You’re soaked. You’re ruined. And he loves it.

“M’gonna fill you up,” he pants. “So deep it’ll be drippin’ down your thighs. That what you wanted, baby? Wearin’ my shirt like a little tease?”

You nod desperately, voice gone, fingers clawing at the sheets.

He presses a kiss to the back of your neck, breath hitching.

“Then take it. All of it.”

And when he comes — groaning your name, burying himself to the hilt — you feel it. The heat. The weight. The claim.

He collapses on top of you, chest heaving against your back, arms wrapped tight around your waist.

“Next time,” he murmurs into your skin, “I pick what you wear.”

“What if I steal your boxers?” you whisper, breathless.

He laughs, kisses your shoulder, and growls—

“Then I’m never lettin’ you leave the bed.”

ʀᴏꜱɪᴛᴀ ᴇꜱᴘɪɴᴏꜱᴀ

It’s too hot to do anything useful.

The sun’s beating down on Alexandria, making every surface shine, every shirt stick, every conversation lazier than usual. You’ve been doing laundry — or pretending to. Mostly, you’re just folding things while sipping lemonade and staring at the line where everyone’s clothes hang to dry.

And there they are.

Rosita’s green shorts. The ones. Tight, frayed, mid-thigh. Infamous. You’ve caught yourself staring at her ass in them more times than you care to admit. The shorts practically have their own reputation.

So.

Maybe it’s the heat.

Maybe it’s the way she smirked at you earlier.

Maybe you want attention.

But you grab them. Tug them on. They cling in all the right places, barely button, and ride up when you bend down.

And when you turn, Rosita is there. Arms crossed, one brow raised, smirk slow and deliberate.

“Interesting look.”

You freeze for a second, then recover, leaning back on the porch railing, pretending like your thighs aren’t burning and your heart isn’t hammering.

“What? Figured I’d give your shorts a spin. You leave 'em out, they’re fair game.”

She hums and walks closer, slow. Catlike.

“Yeah? You think you can just put those on and get away with it?”

“I don’t hear you asking for ‘em back.”

Rosita stops a foot in front of you, tongue in her cheek. Her eyes trail down, slowly — over your hips, the way the shorts dig into your thighs, up your stomach, across your chest. She lets her gaze rest on your mouth, then finally locks eyes with you again.

“Cocky little thief.”

You smile sweetly.

“Only when I know it’ll get me what I want.”

“What’s that?”

“You.”

She blinks, just once, and the look in her eyes changes — just a little. Less amusement, more heat.

“Yeah?” she murmurs. “It’s been a minute, huh?”

“Too long,” you agree, stepping closer, until your chest brushes hers. “We kept saying later… then we got safe here and—”

“Started playing house,” she finishes.

“Mmm.” You ghost your fingers along her waistband. “I missed touching you.”

“Well you didn’t have to steal my damn clothes about it,” she says, laughing breathlessly.

You lean in, lips brushing her cheek.

“I thought it’d speed things up.”

She kisses you first and it’s hard, like a bite. Her fingers grip your waist, tug you in. You cup the back of her neck, slip your thigh between hers, and when she ruts just slightly against it, the whole vibe shifts.

The air’s humid, sticky, charged. You press her back against the porch post, hands on her hips, lips locked with hers, and grind your thigh slow and deliberate. Her hands fist in your shirt.

“You gonna let me take care of you tonight?” you whisper.

“Just want you,” she rasps.

“I don’t need anything else.”

Her mouth tastes like lemonade and heat.

It’s a messy, breathless kiss, mouths sliding, teeth clacking, all hunger and pressure and hands gripping anything they can find. She rubs against your thigh like she needs it, like the week of late patrols and early meetings and pretending not to look at you has pushed her to the edge.

You pull back just enough to whisper:

“Let’s go inside.”

“Took you long enough.”

She grabs your hand, lets you tug her down the hall to your room, the door shutting behind you with a thud. She spins you by the waistband of her shorts — her shorts — and kisses you again, this time slower. More intent.

You let it happen for a second.

Then you flip it.

Push her back until she’s seated at the edge of the bed, legs spread, eyes wide.

“You’re not calling the shots tonight.”

She leans back on her elbows, a grin growing.

“No?”

You kneel between her legs and press a kiss to the inside of her knee.

“No.”

Another kiss, higher. She hums. Still smug. She thinks she can handle it.

You place one palm against her chest and push — not hard, just enough to make her lie back. Then you crawl up, straddling her hips. The little green shorts ride up even more as you grind down, slow and deliberate.

Her hands grip your thighs.

“Fuck,” she breathes. “You’re gonna be mean about it, huh?”

“Only if you keep talking like you’re not seconds away from begging me.”

She opens her mouth like she’s got a retort, but you roll your hips again and her breath catches. Gone.

Your mouth is on her collarbone, teeth scraping gently. Then down. You suck a mark into her neck, one that’ll bloom dark and satisfying. She groans.

“Get this off,” she mutters, tugging your top. “I wanna see.”

You pull your shirt off, slow. Let her look. Her eyes are greedy, hands already moving up to cup your chest — but you catch her wrists.

“No touching unless I say.”

She moans softly. Nods. Bites her lip.

You lean down, kiss her lips gently, then trail kisses lower — down her neck, between her breasts, down her stomach. Your fingers trying​​ to work open the button of her pants before she can catch her breath.

You tug them down and no underwear.

“Goddamn, Rosita.”

“What?” she says innocently. “It’s laundry day.”

You smirk.

“Mmhmm. You did this on purpose.”

You press a kiss right above her mound, watching her hips twitch. Then lower. Lower.

Your tongue swipes through her folds and she gasps — her head tipping back, thighs spreading further.

“Oh fuck—baby—”

You lap at her slowly, deliberately, hands locked around her thighs, keeping her pinned. She’s already dripping, already twitching under your tongue. You flick her clit, then suck it between your lips.

Her hands fist in the sheets.

“Please—please, don’t stop—”

“I’m not stopping until you come on my mouth,” you murmur.

She moans so loud you have to slap a hand over her mouth. She loves that — hips rolling, clit throbbing against your tongue.

You keep going. Circling her clit in slow, tight patterns, then flattening your tongue and dragging it up through the slick heat of her. Your fingers tease her entrance, but you don’t slide in. Not yet.

You want her to ask.

She whines, hands pulling at your shoulders.

“Need—your fingers—”

“Say it pretty.”

“Please. Need your fingers. Want you inside—”

You ease two fingers in. Just like that. Curl them slow. Press them deep. Your mouth never leaves her clit.

She’s a mess now — hips grinding, legs shaking. You let her fuck herself on your hand while your mouth works her over, letting every moan vibrate through her.

When she comes, it’s with a gasp and a shudder, clenching around your fingers so hard you nearly lose it yourself.

But you’re not done.

You crawl up her body, licking your lips, and kiss her slowly.

She’s breathless, dazed, her body limp beneath yours.

“You okay?”

“Mmm.” She smiles up at you. “Gonna have to steal more of my shit if this is how you act.”

You kiss her again, then settle beside her, dragging the shorts back up your thighs.“Oh, baby,” she murmurs, pulling you into her chest. “You can keep ‘em.”

────────────────────

divider by @cursed-carmine 🏷️ @zevrra @xodilfluvr @millersdoll @littlejoels @inbred-eater @grayandthyme @mybvalentine @mysticalgalaxysalad @moonstone2323 @blv3rd @cosm1c-babe @tokkiwrites @soapypits @annulmaelae @studioghibelli @funkycoloured @fckmebarnes @aj0elap0l0gist @bleed-4-bey @bvtchbait @bluevelvetpedro @deardev0teddelicate @ssssc0m @pandapetals @millers-angel @millersgirl44

[rooster-the-love-of-my-life]

Idiots At a Wedding pt1

Summary: Pretending to be Bob's girlfriend in front of his family had to be easy right? Right...??

Pairings: Bob Floyd x fem!reader

Warnings: slight unholy thoughts, self pitying, oblivious idiots

A/N: Tell a friend to tell a friend SHES BACKKK!!! I know it's been so long since I posted but I'm finally back, and this time I've tried something different. So please be kind and don't be a stranger. Enjoy!!!!

"Hey Bob, you got a date for the wedding yet?"

The whole squad was gathered around Rooster and Hangman's coffee table in their shared apartment, having their ritualistic Friday night dinner when Phoenix asked her backseater the question. After the success of your mission, you all were asked to stay back and become a part of a special task force led by Maverick. Everyone jumped on the opportunity, eager to see what the future held and delighted to see it with friends.

Bob, who as usual was sitting on the floor near the edge of the coffee table, snapped his head up upon hearing his name. "No, not yet." He mumbled with delicious chinese food stuffed in his mouth.

"What wedding?" You jumped into the conversation, eyes moving between Bob and Phoenix from the couch you were sat on, curious to know what they were talking about.

"Of course that piques your interest." Hangman butted in, putting a peace of chicken in his mouth. "The entire night you've been awfully quiet and suddenly when you hear the word wedding you almost burst out of your seat out of excitement."

"Shut up Jake." You rolled your eyes, shoving him with your left elbow, getting a soft grunt out of him. "Did your mama never teach you to not talk with your mouth full?"

"You didn't say anything to Bob when he did it." The blonde argued.

"What wedding?" You asked again, completely ignoring the man on your left, laser focused on finding out who was getting married and when.

Ever since you were a child, weddings had always been your favorite, maybe it was because of all the free food or maybe it was because of how good everyone looked. Nevertheless, weddings were your favorite thing in the world, and hearing someone from your squad was going to a wedding just excited you to the core.

"My younger sisters getting married next week." Bob explained. "I'm supposed to be the best man at the wedding."

"And supposed to bring a date." Phoenix added, nudging him with her knee as if to send him some secret message no one else understood.

"That too." He added, face a little flushed. "Haven't found anyone willing to go with me yet, so I guess I'll just have to endure my mama's wrath. Nothing I haven't handled before."

"Did you even ask anyone?" Coyote asked.

"No." Bob whispered as Natasha groaned in frustration.

"I told him weeks ago to ask someone but he still hasn't done it. Do you really want Mrs. Floyd to kill you?"

"She isn't going to kill me if I don't bring a date right." Bob said with confidence which wavered the second Phoenix raised an eyebrow and gave him a look which clearly said otherwise. "Right?"

"Talking from experience of having a Texan mother myself, I can assure you she won't kill you. But there is no way in hell she's ever letting you live it down." Jake added, trying to console Bob but failing miserably.

Bob groaned, running a hand over his face and through his hair. "What am I gonna do?"

"I'll go with you." You offered with out skipping a beat to no one's surprise. You were always one to jump on the opportunity to help someone, it was almost as if you were put on this earth for the sole reason of helping people. So when you offered to help Bob out, no one was supried. "I'll go to the wedding with you, I love weddings. Besides, Maverick has been begging me to use my vacation days, so I'll finally get to do that to."

"Yo-you don't have to." Bob stuttered out his words, looking down at his plate, the red blush creeping over to his ears.

"No I want to. I love weddings and I would love to meet your family too, you always talk about them so fondly." You repeated, smiling so brightly at Bob he feared he might be blinded by you.

"You don't have to Sunny, really. You don't have to come out of pity or anything."

"I'm not offering out of pitty." You reassured him with a soft smile. "I have no problem accompanying you to your sisters wedding. Unless you don't want me to of course." You added quickly, not having taken Bob's wishes into consideration.

"No no, it's not that. It just that I-" Bob started but you quickly stopped him, over taken by excitement.

"It's settled than, I'm going to the wedding with you." You said gleefully, getting up from your seat and towards the kitchen to get yourself a drink.

The night went on, everyone chatted normally and stuffed themselves full of food until they couldn't breath. For the rest of the night, your spirits were higher than ever. You were already known to be the yapper of the group, but now no one could get you to stop talking. On the other hand, Bob got eerily quiet, more quiet than he had ever been before, almost as if he was having a mini existential crisis in his head.

By ten it was time for everyone to go back to their homes. Having said your goodbyes, you were walking towards your car in the parking lot when Bob called out your name from behind you, jogging slightly to catch up to you.

"Hey, what's up?" You asked, leaning against your car as the blue eyed man approached you.

"I um, I wanted to talk to you about the wedding." He said, stuffing his hands inside his jacket as chilly winds rose up in the air.

"I'm so excited. You'll have to text me all the details." You replied, adrenalin pumping through you.

"It's not about that." He cleared his throat, looking down at the ground, clearly uncomfortable.

"Is everything okay? Did I say something wrong? Should I have not offered in front of every-"

"No no, it's not that. Not that at all." He quickly stopped you. "It's just that, my mother's a bit too much. She always nags me about everything and at times it gets a bit unbearable. A couple of months ago she was complaining about me not dating and was about to set me up with the daughter of someone from her bookclub. So to get her off my back and save myself from embarrassment I kind of told her that I'm already seeing someone else and now she expects me to bring that someone to the wedding."

You couldn't believe your ears as Bob's confession filtered out of his mouth. He had lied to his mother and told her he had a girlfriend when in reality he hadn't been out on a date in almost a year. And now his mother was expecting him to bring the woman who stole her son's heart to the big wedding and you had just accidently signed up to be that woman.

"So that means-" You started slowly, still processing what you had just heard.

"If you come to the wedding with me she'll think you're my girlfriend." Bob finished the sentence for you, red faced from his confession. "You can say no now if you want to."

You looked up at the man standing in front of you, looking like a puppy in the rain, and something inside of you just could not let you say no to him.

"It's fine Bob, I'll still go with you." You whispered, as Bob's head snapped up, staring at you with hope and nervousness.

"Really? But everyone would think you're my girlfriend. I just don't want you to be uncomfortable or feel as if you're obliged to say yes."

"No, I-I want to. I mean what kind of a friend would I be if I don't help you out in a tough situation." You said, giving him a soft smile.

"Oh thank god." He sighed, shoulders visibly relaxing. "Thank you, I know I've put you in a tough spot, but thank you so much for helping. I don't know what I'd do without you. Probably get a beating from my mama for lying to her at the ripe age of thirty."

"It's alright Bob, you don't need to thank me." You out your hand on his arm to get him to calm down and stop his rambling. "You can text me the details tommrow okay. For now just go get some rest, we'll figure it all out later."

With that you both went back to your apartments to get some well needed rest. But from the second you got into your car, your mind kept thinking about what you'd just done. Anyone who knew you could always rely on you to help them out id they were ever in a though spot, but this was a bit too much, even by your standards. Part of you thought it was just because you were desperate to go to a wedding, but deep down inside you knew the real reason. You would do anything for him, anything for Bobby.

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

Bob Floyd was freaking out. He was absolutely losing his mind, pacing back in forth in his apartment, flipping out in front of his best friend.

"Oh my god, what have I just done." He said, grabbing his head with both of his hands, still pacing. "What have I just done? What have I done Nat?"

"Hey, hey, calm down." She said, moving forward on the couch, resting her elbows on her knees. "Stop pacing, I'm getting vertigo just from watching you."

That made Bob instantly stop and stare at her with wide eyes and disheveled hair, waiting for her to continue.

"Now, listen to me carefully." Natasha started. "You haven't done anything wrong, you've just asked a girl to be your date. A girl you've had a stupid high school crush on for forever."

Bob blushed immediately upon hearing Nat talk about his crush on you. It wasn't much of a secret that he liked you. He had liked you from the moment he first saw you at the hard deck, laughing and playing pool with the rest of the squad, looking like an absolute dream. Since that moment, he looked at you with so much yearing that it didn't even take Phoenix a week to figure out her backseater was smitten by you.

You were the absolute opposite of Bob, extroverted, loud spoken, so vibrant, always the life of the party, always ready to lend people a hand even if you had just known them for a few hours, the literal embodiment of you callsign, Sunshine. Bob was someone who lived in the shadows, keeping to himself, and speaking only when spoken to. When you entered his life, it was as if he was taken by a storm, he had never seen someone so exuberant in his life and yet here you stood, as real as real gets.

"You just have to keep your cool and spend the week with her. Then you can go back to pining from afar. All the while pretending to be in love with her and hoping she'll give a convincing performance as well." She finished, adding the last part awkwardly, scratching the back of her neck, finally realizing that Bob may have landed himself in a sticky situation.

"Keep my cool?" Bob said, scoffing loudly. "Keep my cool, I can't even keep myself sane around her for an hour how do you expect me to be around her for a week?"

He slumped into one of the arm chairs, massaging his temple, clearly stressed. Natasha knew he was right, he couldn't even spend an hour with you and here he was, about to convince his whole family that you were in love.

"That's not even the worst part." Bob added, sounding defeated. "The worst part is that the whole time we're going to pretend to be in love, it's all going to be an act for her, but not for me. Not for stupid Bobby." He slapped himself hard on the back of his head as if to reprimand himself.

"Hey, stop it." Phoenix said, getting up from her seat, having had enough of Bob's defeatist attitude. "You are not going to be pitying yourselves, not on my watch. Now, what you are going to do is man the fuck up. You've liked the girl for forever, what could go wrong if you just told her?"

"She could hear me." Bob mumbled, being completely ignored by Natasha.

"And this trip is the perfect way to do it. You take her to the wedding, woo her with your country charm and bam she's yours." Natasha declared, standing in front of Bob with her hands on her hip.

"Um, no. I'm pretty sure it'll be more like bam she never speaks to me again." Bob mumbled. "And what country charm? My sisters inherited all the charm. She's going to realize this the second she meets them and figure out how big of a loser I really am."

"Bob, believe me when I say this, she does not think you're a loser. You're amazing guy, you don't need any country charm, you just need to be yourself. I get it can be scary telling someone you like them, but there are some points in your life you just have to take a chance and this is it. If she likes you back, it'll be the best thing that ever happened to you."

"And if she doesn't?" Bob whispered.

"Then it's her loss."

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

For the first time in his life, Bob finally understood why Garfield hates Mondays so much. The dreaded day was finally here, you were leaving for Texas on the afternoon flight and were going to return back on Sunday evening. A full week later.

Bob was sure he was going to die. Or spontaneously combust. Or throw up. Or all of those in that particular order- which would be weird- but definitely something that was going to happen. The coming week was going to be a torment, a humiliation ritual for him. Not only is he going to have to be glued to you the entire time, he has also got to pretend to be in a relationship with you.

Pretending wasn't the hard part, he had pretend to be a lot of things he wasn't in his life. No, the hard part was going to be making it seem convincing. Enough to fool his hawk eyed mother.

You on the other hand did not know what to feel. You were excited to be attending a wedding, feeling like a kid on Christmas day. But you were also riddled with anxiety. How were you going to pretend to be Bob's girlfriend. Of course you and him had had a vigorous conversation and had come up with all the details of how you met and started dating, but that was all theoretical. Practically pretending was going to be a different story altogether.

It was established early on that you two will have to share a room, possibly even a bed, which you didn't really have a problem with. You would also have to be close to each other the whole time, with a pinch of pda here and there to throw people off your scent. But the thing that scared you the most was that you would have to kiss him, even if it's just on the cheek, you would have to lean up to the tall man's rosy cheeks and press your lips on his soft skin, all the while trying not to jump his bone then and there.

It wasn't a secret how attractive Bob was, tall muscular with those stupidly cute glasses, anyone with half and eye would want him. But ever since you first saw him sitting quietly near the pool table at the hard deck, you were a goner. You had never seen a man so handsome in your life, for a moment you thought you were hallucinating. But then he opened his mouth and introduced himself in his charming southern accent, and boy were you screwed. No other man in the world mattered to you anymore.

You contemplated telling him multiple times on various sleepless nights, but eveytime your heart wandered down delusion street, you mind pulled you back to reality. Bob was respectful, always exchanging pleasantries with you, engaging in polite chatter while you both waited for the rest of the squad to show up, but thag was all he ever was. Polite. Polite and distant. The time you had spent with him coming up with a cover story was probably the most you had ever talked to him, much to your dismay. But once Bob had made it clear he wasn't one for mingling, you backed off.

By the time you arrived the airport, Bob was already there, waiting for you outside, looking devilishly handsome in his civil clothes. Sure you had seen him in cvs before, but this new laid back version of him was almost giving you a heart attack.

"Hey, hope I didn't make you wait too long." You greeted him, getting out of the taxi and moving towards the trunk to get you bags out.

"No not at all. I just got here myself" Bob lied, having arrived 25 minutes earlier. He moved faster than you, pushing open the trunk to take out your bags instead.

"Oh you don't have to do that, I can do it myself." You tried to stop him, but he just effortlessly lifted your heavy suitcase with one hand and your carry on bag with the other, muscles flexing under the white t-shirt.

"I wouldn't be too good of a boyfriend if I don't help you with your bags, now would I?" He replied, giving you the softest smile you had ever seen, melting your heart.

How in hell's name were you going to survive being with him for an entire week when he kept doing stuff like this. It was hard enough for you already to be playing his pretend girlfriend, knowing how much you actually wanted to be his, and now he had to go and be the best pretend boyfriend there ever was.

This was going to be a long week.

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

The flight was hell, hell in an airplane. There were not one, not two but four screaming babies on the flight, and as your luck would have it, three out of the four were all placed near you. You were already sitting in a cramped area when the man sitting behind you thought it would be a wonderful time to show off his soccer skills by nudging his knees into the back of your seat time and time again. And then finally, you were stuck between a fighting couple who made you their personal therapist for the entire plane ride, leaving you absolutely drained by the time you landed.

Thankfully, you didn't have to deal with Bob the entire flight, otherwise you might have just lost the plot.

"How was your flight?" Bob asked once you two were off the plane and making your way towards the baggage claim.

"Terrible." You replied, massaging your temple with a long sigh. "Every cranky baby on the plant seemed to be seated near me and the couple I was stuck between treated me like a couples counsellor the entire time. I was debating jumping off the plane halfway through."

"Oh, you should have told me. I would've switched with you." Bob said, looking at you sympathetically.

"Bobby, you can't even handle it when Rooster and Hangman are fighting, how would you have handled two strangers having a lovers spat." You raised an eyebrow, placing your hand softly on his shoulder as he ducked his head and chuckled.

"That's true." He nodded, before continuing. "But the baby sitting next to me was really sweet. Played with me the whole fight."

"It's parents must be really thankful." You commented.

"Yep, they slept the whole way through, even offered me the job of a nanny." He told you as you snorted with laughter.

"Bobby Floyd, the babies princess." You teased, giving him a cheeky smile that he returned with rosy cheeks. In that moment you swear you fell in love.

"Oh, there they are!" Bob exclaimed, suddenly grabbing hold of your left hand with his free one, guiding you through the crowd. "There's my sister."

A woman, who looked a bit older than Bob was standing at the arrival gate, accompanied by a man holding a toddler in his arms.

"Bob!" The woman squealed, throwing her arms around the pilots shoulders and pulling him into a big hug.

"Annie." Bob said through laughter. "How're you doing?"

"Oh, much better now that ma has someone new to torture." She replied, before turning towards you with a smile. "And who might this pretty lady be?"

"This is my girlfriend." Bob introduced you, and you would have melted right there if it wasn't for Annie pulling you into a warm hug.

"My, my. You never told me she was this pretty Bob." She commented, holding you're cheeks in her hand, inspecting you thoroughly.

"And he never told me his sister was so gorgeous either." You finally spoke.

"And a smooth talker as well, mama's gonna love you." Annie chuckled, wrapping an arm around your shoulder, turning towards the man with the baby. "This is my husband Jeff." She introduced as you shook hands with him.

"And this little menace here is Andy." Bob cut in, taking the little boy from his father's hand, softly tickling his tummy, earing loud laughs out of Andy.

"Uncle Bob's his favorite, isn't he." Annie stated in a baby voice before turning to help Jeff with the bags. You were about to reach out and help before she swatted your hand away. "Nope, we've got it."

You flashed her a thankful smile and turned to look at Bob, clearly enjoying the two year old company.

"You really are the baby whisperer aren't you?" You whispered, amused how children were so comfortable with Bob.

"What can I say, I am the chosen one." He joked, making you throw your head back and laugh. As horrible as the flight had been, seeing Bob home and happy was definitely worth it.

The car ride to his childhood home was short, during which he you learned that Annie was Bob's elder sister who had gotten married a few years back, and now it was his kid sisters turn.

"Everyone had always thought it would be Bob getting married before Lucy." Jeff commented. "But I guess she beat him to the altar."

"Oh I don't think we'll have to worry about that any longer." Annie whispered, just loud enough for you to hear.

The only response Bob gave was his classic red cheeks. The rest of the drive was filled with Bob and his older sister chatting, catching up on their lives while Andy quietly played with the aviator. You looked out the window for most of it, taking in the soft countryside, trying to memorise every inch of Bob's hometown. Upon arriving at his childhood home, you were immediately awestruck by it's beauty. It wasn't a massive house, you'd seen bigger ones then it, but something about it screamed home from the moment you laid your eyes on it.

All four of you were walking towards the front door, when an older woman, you figured Bob's mother, threw open the screen door. "Finally, took you long enough." She started, voice dripping with a heavy southern accent. "Now come here and give your mama a hug."

Bob ran up the stairs and right into the arms of this mother, the same way he used to as a kid. "Hi ma, sorry for the delay."

"Eh, don't worry bout it, atleast you're here now." She replied with a bright smile, kissing both his cheeks softly. "And you've brought me a guest." She moved to take a look at you.

"Pleasure to meet you Mrs. Floyd." You put your hand forward for her to shake, standing in proper military posture, trying your best to make a good impression.

"Mrs. Floyd was my husband's mother, please call me Mary dearie." She replied, pulling you into a hug with the same intensity as Annie. You figure this was a family problem that Bob hadn't inherited, though you would have minded getting a bone crushing hug from him.

"Yes ma'am. Mary." You quickly corrected yourself with a smile, feeling more welcomed with Bob's family in a second then you had ever before.

"Very well, now come in, let's get you both settled. There's going to be a small gathering in a while so why don't you go freshen up." She ushered you both inside the house and towards the steps right up to Bob's room. Jeff helps you with your bags as you climbed up to Bob's childhood bedroom.

"There you are." Jeff placed your bags in front of your door with a heavy groan, but there was no hint of disdain on his face. Rather all there was was happiness of having his brother-in-law back home. "I'll see you in a bit okay? Just holler if you need anything."

With that he went back downstairs leaving you and your fake boyfriend all alone for the first time. You both walked in, happy to finally be able to put your feet up. But upon seeing the size of the bed, all you desire to rest immediately vanished. It was already decided that you'd have to share a bed, but this one was barely big enough to accommodate one person, let alone two adults.

"I can take the floor, you take the bed." Bob spoke, snapping you out of your thoughts.

"You don't need to do that Bob, we can share the bed." You offered. "Or I'll sleep on the floor. This is your bed anyways."

"I've dragged you into this mess with me, the least I can do is give you the bed."

"You didn't drag me into anything, I offered to be a part of your mess." You pointed out, sitting on one side of the bed, patting it lightly, indicating Bob to come and join you. "Besieds, I think I'm already in love with your family. They're all so-"

"Overwhelming?" Bob butted in, making you roll your eyes playfully.

"So much like a family. I mean, everyone was so happy to see you. No one from my family has ever-" You stopped yourself before you got ahead of yourself, quickly reminding yourself that no one from the squad knew about your family and you weren't going to let it slip out now. "Anyways, your family is really nice, I can't wait to spend the week with them."

"Really?" Bob asked, actually intrigued by your excitement. For him this was all normal, infact this wasn't even the tip of the iceberg, they were a about to get much more overbearing. "I never really liked all of this. Sure it's nice to be greeted so lovingly, but knowing them, they're going to get really annoying real fast. And there are going to be so many people to interact with, I can already feel my cheeks hurt at the thought of all the fake smiles I'm gonna have to give."

"Don't worry bout it, I'll come and save you from all the fake laughs." You declared. "I'm great with people."

"My knight in shining armor." Bob replied bashfully. "I've always admired that about you, you know. How easily you can talk to anyone. Sometimes I get quiet jealous of that, I can't hold a conversation with a stranger to save my life."

The words coming out of his mouth seemed unreal. You just couldn't believe your ears, Bob admired somthing about you. Something you hadn't really liked about your own self. You always thought you talking so much must have annoyed people, but here was than man of your dreams, telling you it was one of his favourite things about you.

"You think my yapping is admirable Floyd?" You blushed, ducking you head down.

"It's one of your best qualities." He affirmed. "I'm gonna use the bathroom now of you don't mind?"

"No, not at all. Think of it as your own home." You joked, earning a hearty laugh form him before he disappeared into the bathroom.

Outside you were going insane. Was he flirting with you or is this all part of the façade? If it is the latter, then you're in for a heartbreak. And if it's the former, you might just die with giddiness. Inside the bathroom Bob was pinching himself. Had he really made you blush with just a small compliment? Where he had gotten this confidence from, he didn't know. But if this false confidence of his made you look like a tomato, then he'd happily fake it for life.

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[nightplvmes]

breakfast

caleb one shot (love and deepspace) birthday special pt 1 (fluff ver) ⋆｡° | caleb had brought you breakfast in bed many times but this time you decided it was your turn… and part of his birthday surprise ⋆｡° | pairing : caleb x fem!reader ⋆｡° | word count : 1.3k (1329) likes and reblogs are appreciated!! :) pt 2 smut ver (coming soon) ★ masterlist here

you weren't usually a person who woke up early. in fact, it was one of the things you hated the most because you were tired all day long, and then it seemed almost impossible to continue with all the things you had to do during the day. but that day had been the exception.

you had woken up early and slipped out of bed, taking great care not to wake your boyfriend. he seemed to have some kind of sixth sense that detected when you had left his side. somehow, you had managed not to wake him up and had turned off his alarm to let him sleep a few more hours. you had managed to get him the day off, after had several calls with people you didn't know but apparently were above him at work.

you had breakfast in bed planned. he had done the same for you before… actually, he had done it more than once, even though it wasn't your birthday. you didn't mind doing the same for him at all, besides, you had some surprises in mind for that night. you had cooked everything yourself and had even taken the time to make the orange juice yourself.

it was about an hour later when you finished arranging the things on the tray and to be honest, you were proud of yourself. you had never imagined putting so much effort into something for someone else, and yet, it made you happy to do even the smallest detail for Caleb. you remained silent for a few seconds, trying to organize your thoughts and figure out how you would do everything you had in mind. you had to find an excuse to get him out of the house for at least half an hour.

you sighed and decided you would fix that in a couple of hours. you took the tray and walked to the bedroom, walking slowly to avoid spilling the juice and the glass of water on the tray. you tiptoed to the bedroom and pushed the door open with your hip as you walked slowly, still holding the tray. Caleb was still sleeping peacefully. he wasn't wearing a shirt because, according to him, he slept more comfortably that way, but a few weeks ago, you had come to the conclusion he just did it because he liked the way you ran your fingers over his chest before sleeping.

you placed the tray on your side of the bed, making sure it wouldn't fall even if Caleb stirred and took all the sheets with it. you didn't want to wake him yet; he looked so peaceful. you had that perfect view of his back that made you want to kiss his skin and lie on top of him.

it took you several seconds to return to reality and approach him. your hands ran down his back, to his shoulders, where you lightly tapped him with your fingertips to wake him. "Caleb? wake up…" you nervously bit your lower lip when you watched him begin to stir in the sheets.

Caleb turned and rubbed his eyes. it took him a couple of seconds to realize what was happening around him; he was too sleepy. he ran his hands through his hair in an attempt to comb it, then turned to look out the window. it was sunny outside, and usually when he woke up, it was still quite early and just beginning to dawn.

"what time is it?" his sleepy voice made you smile, but you quickly went into a state of alert when you noticed his face change from sleepy to alarmed. you knew he was about to get up because of the time, and you placed your hands on his chest before he made a sudden movement.

"it's okay. I turned off your alarm," you replied, taking a seat next to him. "it's ten o'clock." Caleb opened his eyes in surprise. he would never admit he was mad at you, although at that moment you couldn't tell if he was angry or not, maybe a little surprised. "before you get upset… I asked for the day off, for you, I mean. that's why I turned off your alarm and…" you were silent for a few seconds. that certainly wasn't what you had in mind when you made breakfast for your boyfriend a couple of hours ago. you looked over at the tray, and Caleb repeated your action almost immediately. "I made breakfast for you. breakfast in bed."

suddenly, confidence and excitement returned to you. you smiled as you stood up, walked around the bed, and picked up the tray again. Caleb still looked visibly confused, probably because he was too sleepy. he shifted in the sheets and sat on the mattress, leaning his back against the wall behind him. "you made breakfast for me? you didn't have to do this."

Caleb liked cooking for you. although you were also a good cook, it wasn't your favorite activity because of the many smells that mixed in the air, and you ended up losing your appetite. on the other hand, Caleb liked seeing the satisfied smile when you liked something he cooked.

"it's your birthday. I wanted to do something." you shrugged as you placed the tray on his lap. "happy birthday, by the way." you smiled, leaning down to kiss his lips, but he leaned down to deepen the kiss before you pulled away.

his hand slid to the back of your neck to hold you in place, making you gasp into his mouth. Caleb abruptly pulled away from you, making you crave more of his lips.

it took you a few seconds to come back to reality; you could still taste his mouth on your lips. "umm… I have something in mind. we can do whatever you want. the party is on saturday, but I have a surprise for you tonight." you smiled excitedly, due to your own schedule. you'd never planned anything for a boyfriend on his birthday before, except for Caleb, and he could tell you got more excited every year.

you'd planned a surprise party for him a few days later, but it wasn't a surprise anymore when he found some of the things you'd written on a list, and you felt compelled to explain what was going on.

"can't we just stay in bed all day?" his lips slid down to your cheek, placing a kiss on his warm skin.

you giggled but shook your head, although staying in bed all day didn't sound like a completely bad thing either. "not yet. you have to eat breakfast first, and I have some things to do, but I'll be back, and we'll be in bed until late."

he nodded, but you didn't move away. you felt like you should take that moment to get away from him and do everything on your to-do list before Caleb dragged you back into bed. you leaned in to kiss his lips one last time and felt one of his arms wrap around you, about to pull you closer, and you knew if you let him, things would escalate quickly, so you pulled away without warning.

"eat your breakfast. I'll be back in a few." you quickly got up, moving away from him and took a few steps back.

finally, you turned to leave the room. you could feel your heart pounding; for some reason, you were still nervous from that kiss. how did he still make you nervous after all these years?

you still had to wrap the gift you'd bought for him… and another gift you had in mind, too. but for that, you needed an excuse to get him out of the house for at least half an hour.

you sighed as you started down the stairs, trying to think of a way to get him out of the house for a while. otherwise, your surprise would be ruined.

[mrs-delaney]

Then Ask Me Sometime

📩 request: joe and reader are exes who keep hooking up. one night he’s like “i miss knowing how you’re doing” and she’s like “then ask me sometime.” heartbreak! tension! yearning! 🔥💔

🏈 Joe Burrow x Reader | 2.5k words

🥲 this one got me good, not gonna lie. joe really said “i miss knowing how you're doing” and i haven’t known peace since. hope it hits you in the chest too 💌

🪷 read my masterlist here — full of feelings & joe burrow brainrot 💌

🎤 read hide here — music, mistakes, and a quarterback who falls hard 💌

📬 join my tag list — be the first to know when i post 💌

Joe sat on the edge of his bed, phone in his hand, staring at the message he'd sent twenty minutes ago.

You up?

Three dots had appeared almost immediately, then disappeared. Then appeared again. He'd watched that dance play out for five minutes before her response finally came through.

On my way.

No questions. No small talk. Just acknowledgment of what they both knew this was.

He set the phone on the nightstand and ran his hands through his hair, the familiar weight of anticipation and guilt settling in his chest. It had been a long day—meetings with coaches, film review, the kind of grueling preparation that usually left him satisfied. But tonight, sitting alone in the house as evening turned to dark, the accomplishment had felt hollow. The silence had gotten to him first, then the empty kitchen where he'd eaten takeout standing at the counter instead of sitting at the table they'd picked out together.

That's when he'd reached for his phone.

This had become their routine over the past four months—late-night texts that led to her showing up at the house they used to share, the house that was supposed to be theirs but now felt too big and too quiet with just him in it. It started three weeks after the breakup, when she'd texted him about picking up some clothes she'd forgotten. One thing led to another, and suddenly they had this arrangement that neither of them had ever explicitly discussed the rules for.

The living room still had her touch everywhere. The throw pillows she'd insisted on were arranged just so on the couch. The coffee table books about art and photography that she'd collected were still fanned out the way she liked them. He'd told himself he kept them because moving them felt like too much effort, but the truth was simpler and more pathetic: they made the house feel less empty.

The kitchen was worse. She'd organized every cabinet, labeled the spice rack, and insisted on keeping fresh flowers on the counter even though he'd argued it was a waste of money. The flowers were long gone now, but her coffee mug still sat in the cabinet, untouched because he couldn't bring himself to use it. Sometimes he'd catch himself reaching for two plates instead of one before remembering.

They'd bought this place together eight months before everything fell apart. Spent weekends walking through furniture stores, arguing about thread counts and whether they needed a dining room table that seated eight people. She'd won most of those arguments, and now Joe was grateful for it. At least the house had personality, even if it wasn't entirely his.

The worst part was how right she'd been about everything. The couch was comfortable for watching film. The kitchen layout made sense when he was cooking for the team gatherings she'd insisted they host. Even the paint colors she'd chosen—warm grays and soft blues that he'd thought were too feminine—somehow made the house feel like a home instead of just a place to sleep.

Joe stood and walked to the window, looking out at the circular driveway where her car would appear soon. The security lights cast long shadows across the property, and he found himself wondering what she told herself on the drive over. Did she hesitate before texting back? Would she sit in her car for a few minutes before walking to the door, the way she used to near the end, when coming home felt more like walking into a minefield than a sanctuary?

He remembered the last few weeks before the breakup, how every conversation felt like walking through a minefield. His schedule was getting more demanding as the season approached. Her growing frustration with always coming second to football. The way they'd started sleeping on opposite sides of the bed, even when they were technically touching.

The fight that ended it had been about something stupid—him missing dinner with her parents because of a last-minute team meeting. But really, it had been about everything else. About how she felt like she was building a life around someone who wasn't fully present for it. About how he felt like he was failing at everything that mattered off the field.

"I can't do this anymore," she'd said, standing in this same bedroom, her voice quiet but certain. "I can't keep pretending that this is working when we both know it isn't."

He'd wanted to fight for her, to promise he'd do better, but the truth was he didn't know how. Football was everything he'd worked for his entire life, and the demands weren't going to get smaller. She deserved someone who could give her more than the leftover pieces of himself.

So they'd had the breakup conversation like adults. Divided up their things, figured out who would take the house. She'd moved out over a weekend while he was at training camp, leaving behind only the furniture they'd bought together and a note thanking him for everything.

For three weeks, Joe had convinced himself he was fine. The house was quieter, sure, but he could focus better. No more scheduling his life around someone else's needs. No more guilt about missing dinners or working late.

Then she'd texted about the clothes.

She'd shown up on a Tuesday evening, professional and polite, gathering the handful of items she'd forgotten. But when she was done, instead of leaving, she lingered by the door. They'd started talking for the first time since the breakup. And when talking turned into touching, and touching turned into them tangled together on the couch they'd picked out, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

"This doesn't change anything," she'd said afterward, already reaching for her clothes.

"I know," he'd replied, even though some part of him had hoped it might.

That was four months ago. Since then, they'd developed this careful dance of late-night texts, brief encounters, no talk of feelings or the future. She seemed to have this whole thing figured out in a way that he didn't. Clean boundaries. No complications. Just two people who were good together in bed and smart enough not to confuse that with anything else.

Except he was starting to confuse it with something else.

He started noticing little things. The way she still kicked her shoes off by the door in the exact same spot, muscle memory from when this was her home, too. How she'd absently reach for the lamp on the bedside table that she'd picked out and placed there. The way she still moved through his kitchen like she knew where everything was, because she did—she'd organized those cabinets herself.

These weren't the observations of someone who was just hooking up with his ex. These were the observations of someone who missed her in ways that had nothing to do with sex.

Joe heard the soft hum of an engine in the driveway and felt his pulse pick up. Fifteen minutes. She'd made good time from wherever she was. He stepped back from the window, not wanting to look too eager.

The front door opened with her key; he'd never asked for it back, and she'd never offered, and he heard her familiar footsteps on the hardwood. She still moved through this house as if she belonged there, and maybe that was part of the problem. Maybe that was why he kept texting her.

"Upstairs," he called out, his voice rougher than he intended.

Her footsteps paused for just a moment, and he wondered what had caught her attention. Maybe she was checking her phone, or maybe she'd noticed something different about the house. It was a brief pause, the kind that wouldn't mean anything to anyone else, but he found himself cataloging it anyway.

Then her feet were on the stairs, and Joe felt that familiar tightness in his chest that came with wanting something he'd already lost.

* * *

She appeared in the doorway, and Joe's breath caught. Still beautiful. Still looking at him like she was deciding something.

"Hey," she said, leaning against the doorframe.

"Hey."

The silence stretched between them, not awkward exactly, but loaded with the weight of everything they weren't saying. She was wearing an oversized sweater and jeans, nothing special, but Joe found himself looking at her like he was trying to memorize something.

She pushed off from the doorframe and walked toward him, her eyes doing that thing they always did, taking inventory. When her gaze lingered on his shoulders, then dropped to his chest, he saw the moment she registered the difference.

"You've been spending more time in the gym," she said, not quite a question.

Joe shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. "Offseason training's been more intense."

She was close enough now that he could smell her perfume, the same one she'd always worn. Her hand came up to rest against his chest, fingers spreading over the muscle there, and he felt his breath catch.

"I can tell," she murmured, and there was something in her voice that made his pulse spike.

He caught her hand in his, thumb brushing over her knuckles. "You like it?"

Instead of answering, she rose up on her toes and kissed him. Soft at first, testing, then deeper when he responded. His hands found her waist, pulling her closer, and she made that quiet sound in the back of her throat that he remembered too well.

They broke apart just enough to breathe, foreheads touching.

They moved toward the bed without breaking the kiss, her fingers tracing the new muscle definition she'd noticed.

"Jesus, Joe," she breathed, her hands tracing the new definition in his shoulders, his arms.

He wanted to say something, but she was kissing him again, and then they were falling back onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and familiar desire. Her jeans hit the floor, followed by his pants, and then there was just skin against skin and the sound of their breathing in the quiet room.

Joe took his time, the way he always did with her. His mouth on her neck, her collarbone, mapping territory he knew by heart but somehow felt different now under his hands. She was responsive, arching into his touch, her fingers digging into the muscle of his back in a way that made him groan.

When she rolled him over and straddled him, her hair falling around her face, he found himself staring. She looked down at him with an expression he couldn't quite read, and for a second, he forgot how to breathe.

"What?" she asked, noticing him staring.

"Nothing," he said, his hands settling on her hips. "Just... you."

Something flickered across her face, too quick for him to catch, before she leaned down to kiss him again. And then they were moving together, finding that rhythm they'd never lost, the connection that had always been easy between them, even when everything else was complicated.

Afterward, they lay without touching, still breathing hard. The silence felt thick, full of things Joe didn't want to think about too hard.

She was the first to move, sitting up and reaching for her clothes, which were scattered across the floor. Joe watched her, noting the careful way she avoided his eyes, the practiced efficiency of someone who'd done this dance before.

"You don't have to rush off," he said, the words coming out rougher than he intended.

She paused, bra halfway on. "Don't I?"

There was a challenge in her voice, and Joe felt something shift in his chest. This was the part where one of them would usually make an excuse, pretending it was simple and meaningless. But tonight felt different. Tonight, the silence felt like it was asking questions he wasn't sure he was ready to answer.

* * *

She was already reaching for her sweater when Joe found himself speaking.

"I miss knowing how your day went."

He hadn't meant to say it out loud. Her hands stilled on the fabric, and for a moment, the only sound was their breathing still evening out.

She turned to look at him, something unreadable flickering across her face. "What?"

Joe sat up against the headboard, suddenly feeling exposed in a way that had nothing to do with being naked. "I said I miss knowing how your day went."

She pulled the sweater over her head, the motion sharp and deliberate. "Why do you care?"

The question stung. He watched her stand and reach for her jeans—the familiar routine of her getting dressed to leave—and felt something crack open in his chest.

"I'm serious." He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated by how hard this was to say. "I miss knowing if you had a good day at work, or if that thing with your sister worked out, or whether you're sleeping okay."

"You can't do this," she said, shaking her head as she buttoned her jeans. "You can't say things like that."

"Why not?"

"Because this isn't what this is." She gestured between them, her voice taking on an edge he recognized, the one she got when she was protecting herself. "This is physical. It's simple. It works because we don't do... this."

Joe felt something desperate rise in his chest. "But what if I want to know? What if I want this to be more than just—"

"Then ask me sometime," she cut him off, reaching for her shoes. "Out of this bedroom."

The words landed like a challenge, and Joe felt his mouth open to respond, but she was already moving toward the door.

"Where are you going?"

She paused in the doorway, not turning around. "Home, Joe. I'm going home."

"This used to be your home, too."

The silence that followed was deafening. When she finally turned to look at him, there was something in her expression that made his chest tighten.

"Used to be," she said softly. "See you around, Joe."

And then she was gone, and he was back to being alone in a bed that felt empty without her, the sound of her leaving echoing through the house.

Joe stared at the ceiling, replaying the conversation in his head. The way she'd looked at him when he said he missed knowing about her day. The careful distance she'd put between them with her words. The challenge in her voice: Then ask me sometime out of this bedroom.

The next morning, Joe found himself staring at a blank text message for twenty minutes, typing and deleting words until his thumbs were tired. Finally, he settled on something simple:

How's your day going? Can we meet up soon, not to hook up, but to hang out? It can be in public

He hit send before he could second-guess himself.

Her response came an hour later, and despite everything, Joe found himself smiling as he read it:

Give me a week of consistent communication that's not you trying to hook up with me, and I'll consider it.

Joe read the message three times, something warm and terrifying unfurling in his chest. A week. She was giving him a week to prove he wanted more than just her body in his bed.

He could do a week.

[littlewitchbee]

ロイアイの日2025 🕊️

(text below I know tumblr crunched the hell out of it)

R,

The swallows have returned. Hundreds and hundreds of small, jewel-bright flashes of blue and black that dart around the yard, catching garden insects on the wing before flitting back into the little nesting box above the back gate. Do you remember that old thing? It was one of the first things you ever made for the house.

You might not remember after all this time, so I feel comfortable in this confession: I hated you for it. You, with your haughty smile and father's affection hanging so loose and bright and easy about your shoulders. You shoved it into my arms and you said, “Here. You're always watching those birds,” before retreating into the study.

You were right, I was always watching them, but it wasn't affection that drew me to them, coaxed me to stand in the garden and stare as they danced around me. Some part of me hated them, too.

Small, delicate, beautiful things. They'd arrive in late spring, bringing with them the lush green heat of summer, and just when I'd grow to appreciate their arrival, they'd fly off again–south, to Aerugo, to the world beyond–leaving just me in my garden in my house where I was so alone despite the present company. Why on earth would they choose to return here of all places when they could fly anywhere?

But I hung that nest box. I made sure it was safe and secure. And every year I watched them return and leave once more. As I grew up, I learned that it is the nature of this world for people to leave. They left. You left. Eventually, I left.

I’ll tell you I was happy to see that the box still secure when I came back to set up the house. You'll think this is silly, and maybe it is, but I'm allowed at least one silly thing a week, and that box was one of the first things I looked for once I arrived.

The work is going well, though I (begrudgingly–please imagine my eyes rolling, perhaps a weary sigh) admit I could use your help. Why replace the kitchen beams myself when you could do it with a clap of your hands?

No. I'm glad to do it on my own. It is a blessing beyond imagination to have spent most of our lives rebuilding, using our blood-stained hands to fix and uplift in whatever small way we can. Fitting as well, I think, to spend the rest of our civilian lives here in the house that brought us together all those years ago.

I've spent the last few weeks airing it out, painting, and making it bright and cheerful in a way I could never have imagined as a child. I doubt you'll recognize it. In fact, I'm glad you won't. It's a blank canvas now, one last thing for us to build together.

I don't envy the work you're finishing up in Central. I hope it's going well, and I'm happy it's almost over. I'll ask you not to rush, though I know that's what we'd both like. Only a few more weeks, now, until your uniform can forever join mine in a box in the attic.

As for me, I think I’ll finish up in the garden, maybe hang new curtains in the study. (Your books arrived just yesterday. I'll let you sort through them.) I'll make tea every afternoon and sip it on the swing just outside the kitchen, right as the sun begins to set over the mountains, and the summer breeze surrounds me with the scent of earth and wildflowers. I'll wait for the sound of your boots coming up the drive; the dog’s excited barks as she realizes it's you; your laugh, weightless, effortless, once she reaches you. Mostly, though, I'll sit and watch the swallows dive in and out of the sunlight.

How could I ever hate them? I understand now.

Yours always,

R

[newrochellechallenger2019]

MANCHILD for @imperishablereverie

in any another circumstance, bumping into your ex twice a month would be considered stalking. unfortunately, when you and dodge had sat down in the diner for what would be your final date, you hadn't discussed who'd be getting the rodeos in the break-up. so, you both continued to travel up and down the country, horses in tow and all you could do was pray he wouldn't find some bullshit excuse to talk to you win you back.

arizona this week, texas the next. you pulled the reins tight and hopped off your horse, patting his flank in praise as you watched the scoreboards flash. allowed yourself a small smirk as your score rose above dodge's, putting you in first place and watched gleefully as he dropped down to second.

your prideful smirk doesn't falter as you leave the arena, your stallion's nose brushing against your shoulder, eager for his treat. as you are rounding the corner, a cowboy boot steps in your way and you sigh inwardly.

he looks good, almost too good for a man who'd been nearly thrown off a horse an hour ago. his cowboy hat was tipped low, like always but you could still see his blue eyes twinkling at you. however, the rest of his outfit made your nose turn up in disgust, dodge always looked like he got dressed in the dark, flannel shirts that were too big, jeans that were too tight and the colours never matched. when you were dating, you convinced yourself he did it ironically, but now you weren't so sure. but your gaze was drawn back to his face as his grin took up most of his expression, you weren't escaping this conversation.

'congrats.' dodge offers simply, still looking at you like you'd hung the stars in sky, not like you'd stomped all over his heart a year ago.

'thanks.' you say curtly, 'must suck to be so slow.' you couldn't help that comment, your sarcasm always seemed to slip out when you were around him, another issue you can blame him for.

his face changed then, eyebrows knitting together in surprise as he scoffed, 'seriously? i'm congratulating you.' his gaze turned hard, 'and i'm not slow.'

'no?' you tilt your head to the side mockingly, 'what word would you prefer? stupid? maybe useless?'

dodge's hands fall to his hips now, a sign of his growing anger, 'oh i get it. we're not talking about rodeos.'

'what the fuck else do i have to talk to you about?' you snap briskly, tugging your horse back towards his stall. dodge sidesteps so he's in still in front of you and you groan aloud this time, disinterest clear.

'c'mon...' he says, flashing his signature half-smirk that used to make you crumble, 'you looked so good riding that horse.' his voice has dropped to a gravelly whisper, an attempt at flirtation.

you blink at him blankly, 'that's what you went with? out of all the things to say to me, you chose that.'

dodge's smirk only grew, 'what's wrong with that? it's true!'

you shake your head, trying to ignore the familiar feeling curling in your stomach, 'whatever, dodge.' you push past him then, properly and lead your horse to his stall. dodge follows but doesn't say anything for a while, just watching you softly, leaning against the gate.

patting your horse and smiling at the way his lips smack as you feed him an apple, you turn to leave and dodge is still staring at you.

'jesus!' you startle, 'what are you doing?'

'waiting for you.' he shrugs, 'i wasn't done talking to you.'

'i was.' you mutter but there's nowhere you can go when he's leaning on the gate.

'can't we have a real conversation? enough dancing around each other and sniping every chance we get.' dodge pouted then, a rare sight, a failed attempt to garner sympathy from you.

you sigh, 'alright. one real conversation then we move on with our lives.'

he nods in agreement and as he goes to open his mouth to speak, you cut him off, 'how about when you told me your phone was dead when you were out doing god knows what with god knows who?' you held up a manicured finger and his jaw snapped shut, 'or how you'd always cum within seconds, pull out and fall asleep.'

'it wasn't seconds-' dodge protested uselessly, 'i don't think you made me cum once when we were together.' you reply stoically.

he frowned, 'you're exaggerating about this whole orgasm thing, like you exaggerate about everything and make me the bad guy to suit your little fantasy. i told you a million times that day that my phone died and you cling to this idea that i'm some cheat when you know i would never do that to you.'

'god you are such a manchild!' you snap, giving up on waiting for him to get out your way and vaulting over the fence in a less than dignified manner and storming off, but he was still hot on your heels.

'what does that even mean? because i screwed up a couple times? you think you're so much better than me, don't you? you love to act like i'm following you around like a lost puppy, like we were never dating! you think you've moved on but you always stop to talk to me, no matter how much you pretend it bothers you.' dodge rants as he storms after you, voice whipping in the wind and making the words inescapable.

you whirl around at that, curls bouncing, eyes glinting with unbridled rage. 'you don't what you're talking about.'

'don't i?' he taunts, stepping closer to you, hands ghosting over your waist. you hold his gaze, remembering how the brown in them made his eyes look even more endearing and almost hopeful.

you narrow your eyes as the tension crackles in the brisk air. before you can blink, his lips are crashing against yours in a desperate kiss, his hands cupping your cheeks and pulling you impossibly close. to your own surprise, you're not pushing him away or slapping him round the face, you're kissing him back with matched fervour.

dodge's hands are all over you now, running across your chest and your ass, slipping under your shirt to feel your lower stomach and you giggle into the kiss at how ticklish it feels. he bites your bottom lip, asking for entrance and you oblige, letting his tongue slide over yours.

the kiss breaks momentarily for him to pant, 'my truck-' and you're nodding without thinking, his arm sneaking around your waist and pulling to his side as you both half-run, half-stumble to his truck.

dodge's truck was such a familiar sight as you rounded the dirt track corner into the lot that your heart fluttered, though it looked a little more scuffed up then you remembered, a few more state stickers scattered across the back. your view is interrupted by dodge tilting your chin back to face him, smirking as he presses another kiss to your lips before you hear the sounds of keys jangling and the horse trailer door swings open. you freeze in place as dodge lowers the ramp and then turns to you.

'c'mon darling.' he murmurs casually, as if he does this all the time, extending his hand for you to take.

you stare at him slack-jawed, 'fuck off- no way-' you splutter yet dodge doesn't flinch.

'you don't wanna get caught with me, do you?' he shrugs but before you can protest, he's grabbing your arm and hoisting you into the trailer.

squealing, you stumble as he pulls you into his chest and you both topple into a pile of hay. dodge grunts but doesn't move you off him, instead attempting to dust himself off unsuccessfully.

'sorry.' you squeak and he snorts, 'you know what they say about rolling in the hay?' giving you a surreptitious wink.

you wrinkle your nose in distaste, 'you make one more crap joke and i'm leaving this godforsaken trailer.' yet, you're still unbuckling his jeans, letting your fingers brush reverently over his oversized golden belt buckle before tugging them down to his knees.

'let's just make this quick, yeah?' you whisper and all dodge can do is nod eagerly.

you free his half-hard cock from his boxers and your stomach flips, you'd forgotten how big it was. slowly, you let your fingers tangle in his bush and he nearly whimpers, head thrown back and cowboy hat sent flying, straw tangling in his dark brown strands. the tip of your tongue brushes the sensitive slit atop his dick and he definitely whimpers that time. your grin turns delicious as you carefully wrap your lips around the head of his cock. dodge moans and fists the hay beneath you two as you slowly take more of his dick in your mouth, your cheeks hollowing out as his tips hits the back of your throat.

'oh fuckkk.' dodge manages to muster as you finally take all of him, nose buried in his bush and inhaling the scent hungrily. gradually, you start bob up and down his length, cheeks hollowed out, and he moans, loud. 'that's it baby-' he whimpers in encouragement as you pick up the pace, slobbering all over his dick.

your tongue lavishes his tip, batting your eyelashes causing his moans to increase in volume. 'ah-ah- baby- you're killing me- ngh-' he whines, lost in the pleasure. you grin around his length, before swallowing more of it, tongue swirling. 'fuck- i'm- i'm- i'm-' his declaration a warning more than anything before you feel his salty sperm hit the back of your throat and you fight the urge to gag as it keeps coming, dodge's body shuddering beneath you, repeating yes deliriously.

after what feels like forever, the ropes of cum stop spurting down your throat and his body goes limp, he pants, grinning happily. you slowly slide your mouth off his cock, making sure to lick it clean of cum before swallowing diligently. 'let me see baby.' he grunts, flushed. you part your lips obediently, tongue out as proof. dodge chuckles breathlessly and lets his head fall back in the hay.

'still hate me? because that...' he gestures to his flaccid, dribbling dick, 'says otherwise, baby.'

you groan in mild annoyance, flopping down onto the dirty trailer floor, 'maybe i do like my men all incompetent.'

taglist: @gibsongirrl @glassmermaids @destinedtobegigi @blastzachilles @femme-lusts @glennussy @cha11engers @stanart4clearskin @artstennisracket @pittsick @jordiemeow @hyperloverofhyperfixations

[emakataken]

@rjwyatt9-1-1 the happiest of birthday gift to you. I promise to continue it as soon as Unseen Valor is finished.

Pairing: Sal/Tommy/Buck

Chapter One.

Buck lies on the floor.

Not in some meditative, calming sort of way. Just flat on his back in the middle of his living room, one arm over his eyes, the other still loosely gripping the envelope he pulled from the mailbox twenty minutes ago.

The fridge is making that dying-whale noise again. He should call maintenance. He won’t.

His phone buzzes somewhere out of reach. Probably another alert from the LA Fire Marshal’s office. Or maybe it’s Maddie. Or Chim. Or Eddie.

No. Eddie had stopped calling.

The envelope is still unopened, but he knows what’s inside: the retainer paperwork from Chase Mackey. The lawyer trying to build a case against the fire department. Just in case. A formal complaint, he’d said. Union backing. Maybe even a civil case.

Buck had barely managed to get through the phone consult without feeling like his skin didn’t fit.

He hates it.

The desk. The paperwork. The reports. The way no one looks at him like a firefighter anymore.

He misses the sirens. The adrenaline. The way the firehouse smelled like stale coffee and drying hose line. The way Hen would roll her eyes at his dumb jokes, the way Bobby would sigh and pretend he wasn't hiding a smile.

He misses knowing exactly what to do with his hands.

He misses his Jeep he had lost to the sea. He misses the freedom it gave him. If he tried to replace it now, he'd be laughed right out of the dealership. But it had been his, the same as the job.

Now? Now he's moving from building to building, clipboard in hand, checking sprinklers and extinguishers and trying not to let the ache in his leg slow him down too much.

He’s twenty-six and he feels like his whole goddamn life already happened.

Buck pushes himself upright with a groan and grabs his phone. Unlocks it. Scrolls. He doesn’t even know what he’s looking for.

Reddit. Instagram. Craigslist. Reddit again.

Anything not to look at the lawyer’s card on the table.

The ad appears between listings for used mattresses and dog-walking gigs. Clean font. Bold type.

Find your match. No expectations. Just generosity.

He snorts, but his thumb hovers over the link.

The app downloads faster than it should. Half the profiles are garbage. Hearts-and-dollar-sign usernames, gym selfies, greasy bathroom mirrors. He tells himself he’s just looking. Curiosity.

He doesn’t take new pictures.

Instead, he scrolls through his camera roll, thumb pausing over three.

The first is a mirror selfie, black tank top, a hint of a smirk, his arm folded across his chest like he’s pretending not to care how the light hits his jaw. He remembers taking it out of boredom one afternoon, the reflection clean, the muscle unintentional. He looks confident. Or close enough.

The second is grainier. Darker. He’s just stepped out of the shower, towel low on his hips, skin still damp. The flash flares across the glass, catching him mid-blink. It’s sexy but not posed. A snapshot from a life he doesn’t live anymore.

The third he almost doesn’t upload.

He’s behind the glass, caught in silhouette, steam crawling down the shower door. You can’t see his face, but it’s unmistakably him, broad shoulders, bowed head, fingers resting on the wall like he’s bracing himself.

Ali had taken it.

A week before the bombing.

Back when things between them had felt almost like love.

Before she left.

He uploads it anyway.

Username:

He stares at the blank field for a long time, thumb twitching over the keyboard. Then, with a flat little breath that might’ve once been a laugh, he types:

Firehose

It feels like an old joke. A bad one.

Bio: What the fuck am I doing? This is a bad idea, right?

He hits submit.

Then he leaves the room, because if he sits there and watches the inbox, he might actually lose his mind. This wasn’t supposed to be him.

But Buck 2.0 didn’t exist anymore. The rent really did need paid, and the sex addict in him was a little thrilled, even as his stomach coiled, bracing for the heartache that was sure to come.

Two days later, Buck opens the inbox.

He’s not proud of it.

He tells himself he’s just curious. Just checking. He’s not actually doing anything.

But really, he’s broke and tired. Bone-deep, soul-weary tired.

And he’s lonely.

His leg has been aching since noon. The stairs at the downtown inspection site were endless. The elevator had been out of service.

The microwave dinner from earlier is sitting in his gut like a block of cement. He’s still in the same shirt he wore to work. Still smells faintly of smoke from a faulty kitchen hood he red-tagged that morning.

He should be asleep. Or icing his leg. Or filling out the backlog of reports on his kitchen table.

Instead, he opens the app.

Sixty-eight messages.

He scrolls through the first dozen with a dull sort of resignation. Most are exactly what he expected.

Crude. Creepy.

One guy leads with do you like it rough?

Another opens with a full-body mirror selfie and a dick pic, complete with a winking emoji.

Some are slick corporate types offering luxury hotels and dinners, “just for conversation.” Those make his skin crawl more than the blunt ones.

A few treat him like a service. Giving him flat rates per night or weekends. No repeats. No strings.

One offers a car.

A handful read like personal essays. Too honest, too messy. Desperate in a way that makes Buck feel like he’d have to give more than he has to spare.

He should swipe out of the app.

Hi. This probably isn’t what you expected. It wasn’t what I expected either.

The username is plain: T.S.

No emojis. No flashy headline. Just the message.

Your bio made me laugh. Not at you. It felt honest. I’d like to buy you dinner, if you’re willing. No strings unless you want them. We can talk, or not. Up to you. ~ T

Buck blinks. Reads it again.

It doesn’t pitch anything. Doesn’t ask for more photos. Doesn’t even mention sex.

He scrolls up to the profile.

There’s only one picture.

A cockpit. Helicopter controls blurred slightly by motion. And in the foreground, two hands on the yoke. One resting gently over the other.

The first is large. Knuckles slightly scuffed. Forearm corded with muscle. There’s a faint tan line at the base of the ring finger.

The second hand is cleaner, more deliberate in its grip.

Not posed. Not polished. Just a moment. Two people mid-motion.

Something about it makes his breath catch.

There’s a second message beneath the first.

He’s underselling it. But he always does. Dinner still stands. We’ll cover the bill. ~ S

No emoji. No tagline. Just confidence. Just we’ll cover the bill.

Buck exhales.

It’s probably a mistake.

They’re probably weird. Or too intense. Or married, for all he knows.

But still, he doesn’t close the tab. His finger hovers over the reply button.

[rainrot4me]

i dunno if you listen to hozier, (that man is my pride and joy and im seeing him live for the second time this month iakwjekdks) but masky, and lowkey like, all of the creeps, remind me so, so, much of 'work song.' the fact that their ruthless murderers but y/n is able to see the human in them and understand their hurt, is SO hozier love coded. if youre not a big fan of his, i HIGHLY recommend getting into his music! its basically just poetry with a groovy beat!

I LOVEEE Hozier! I am so jealous that you get to see him live! His music is so gorgeous and beautiful and makes me want to crawl out of my skin with yearning. So, I took the initiative to headcannon the creep’s favorite/most relatable songs:

── .✦

✦ . jeff the killer

“Dinner & Diatribes”

Jeff thrives on chaos, violence, and the intoxicating high of adrenaline. But underneath the bloodlust, there’s a deep craving for someone who sees him and still wants to play with fire. D&D explains the desire for intimacy and closeness with a significant other, while also having to uphold expectations.

“Hell is the talking type / I’d suffer Hell if you’d tell me what you’d do to me tonight.”

Fast-paced, teasing, laced with lust and a little madness. The guitar feels like a heartbeat mid-chase, or the feet chasing behind you. Seems pretty familiar.

✦ . ticci toby

“To Be Alone”

Toby lives in noise: mental, physical, emotional, and he’s learned to become comfortable in it. But he’s also hiding in it. The line between comfort and pain is blurry. Hozier’s rugged vocals and the pounding rhythm mirror the overload Toby constantly lives with.

“But you don’t know the hell you put me through / To have someone kiss the skin that crawls from you.”

Electric, almost ritualistic. It feels like dancing on shattered glass just to feel alive, even when you know you won’t be able to feel the cuts on your feet no matter how hard you stomp.

✦ . eyeless jack

“In A Week” (feat. Karen Cowley)

This song’s haunting tenderness and obsession with mortality perfectly echo Jack’s strange, clinical intimacy. It’s about death, but also about staying with someone through the rot. Romantic in the most macabre way, just like him.

“I have never known peace like the damp grass that yields to me / I have never known hunger like these insects that feast on me.”

Slow, melancholic, and strangely serene. A love song for something dark and eternal. It’s more-so a want for mortality that he lost a long time ago, and imagining that sweetness of death with someone next to him.

✦ . masky (tim wright)

“Work Song”

Masky is made of restraint, guilt, and devotion to a being that couldn’t care less about him buried beneath a cold mask. This song is his heartbeat. It’s about love so powerful, so sacred, it transcends damnation. You are the only thing grounding him, even in death. Is it a savior complex? An obsession? Or just the desire to be wanted for more than his abilities.

“No grave can hold my body down / I’ll crawl home to her.”

A dark gospel hymn. Heavy, aching, and loyal to the bone. He’s not dead, but he’s not alive either. He does things that make him sick, but if he can have a warm hand to hold, maybe it’ll be okay.

✦ . hoody (brian thomas)

“Like Real People Do”

Hoody is a ghost of who he once was. This song is about loving after ruin—awkward, gentle, and sacred. Someone having the ability to look past his faults, forced or not, he desires that wholly.

“I will not ask you where you came from / I will not ask, and neither should you.”

Tender, breathless intimacy. Like whispering in the dark and not expecting an answer, but being pleasantly surprised when someone whispers back.

✦ . ben drowned

“Movement”

Ben is obsession, rhythm, and screen-central horror. Anything he enjoys, he enjoys so potently you’d think he couldn’t live without it. This song is raw, hungry admiration—mesmerized by the things he admires and having unwavering affection for it.

“When you move / Honey, I’m put in awe of something so flawed and free.”

Sexy, powerful, like watching a storm from inside the eye.

✦ . clockwork

“Foreigner’s God”

Clockwork is torn between her rage and the humanity that lingers beneath it. This song reflects her inner war—the feeling of not belonging, of worshipping something that feels too good to exist in her world. It’s the idolization of a better life.

“She feels no control of her body / She feels no safety in my arms.”

Holy desperation. A tragic reverence for love she thinks she doesn’t deserve, but craves wholeheartedly. There’s something so tragic about a girl destined to be hated now craving love.

✦ . laughing jack

“Someone New”

Jack is manic love, fast and unpredictable. This song’s whimsical tone hides deep loneliness—he wants to love, to feel, but it never lasts. Whether as the toy or as himself, he’s always searching for that perfect someone who will cherish and adore him above all else.

“To somehow escapes the burning weight, the art of scraping through / The dark caress of someone else, I guess any thrill will do.”

Bouncy, charming, and tinged with bittersweet ache. The age-old tale of a clown meant to perform, but getting tired of the performances. He wants something real and tangible, something more than the constant.

✦ . slenderman

“No Plan”

Slenderman doesn’t do emotion in the human sense—but this song speaks to his ethereal detachment. He watches the world fall and feels something ancient and slow stir constantly, but it’s always the same question of why. His purpose, his craving, his desire to tear apart and ruin.

“The screaming, heaving fuckery of the world / Why would you offer a name to the same old tired pain.”

Apocalyptic and majestic like a god feeling love for the first time in millennia. There is no reason for him, he just is, purpose only to wreck and destroy.

꩜ .ᐟ

[odileeclipse]

I have found the doodles I made as promised (it took a while because I was wayy busy irl and I did not expect that for almost the whole two weeks I was trying to file in my Uni applications (just graduated last year high school) because it requires as much information on everything about me as possible and a bit of going there and that but hey it was worth it! U.U)

Just as MC said a hopeless romantic streak indeed XD

I was probably high while doodling this or something- /j

But hey it was funnier in my head 😔

You can interpenetrate this as however you want..maybe as MC composing another poem about pineapples again-

This was like SOOO long ago it was when I was experimenting with his hair hshsjakahsksks

ANYWAYS I HOPE EXAM IS TREATING YOU WELL!!! ima send more later after I find them again ehhehehehe. Twin you're fr locking in this time and I'm proud, even though I'm starting to miss your pineapple rants <3<3

TWINNNN oh my god you have no idea how much this means to me 😭💛

I know things have been super busy for you, so the fact that you still took the time to send these?? I’m genuinely so touched. Like?? I’m saving these forever. The doodles are SO cute and funny I was smiling the entire time scrolling through. The donut investigation panel?? You’ve got comedy, romance, mystery it’s all there. I love it so much.

And that last sketch?? He looks so gentle?? Like a little daydream version of himself. You really made him look soft in a way that made my chest hurt a little (in a good way). And the hair!!! You ate. You always eat.

Also congrats on finishing up all that highschool stuff seriously, that’s such a huge milestone, and I’m so proud of you. I hope you’re finally getting some rest and being kind to yourself. And thank you for saying that about exams (I passed) it really means a lot. I’ve missed you too, like more than I realized I’ll be back to yelling about pineapples soon enough, don’t worry 🫶🍍

Please take care of yourself and know I appreciate you so much, always.