#iPhone complaints | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aliensupastar · 2 years ago

Text

shouldn’t feel like a crime

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Carmy Berzatto/GN!Reader

Word Count: 2.1k

Summary: You finally try Carmy’s cooking. Follow-up to “not wrong, but not right”

Part I Part III

Warnings: minor angst, comfort, fluff, depiction of an eating disorder, food and eating, healing?

A/N: first off, thank you all so much for the love on the first part! i wrote it as a comfort during a difficult time and it was so nice to see people enjoy it. i didn’t intend on writing more for it, but a few people asked for it and i finally got an idea for a follow-up! as a disclaimer, i wrote most of this before season 2 came out and edited it afterwards, but there are no spoilers. gif by emziess <3

Carmy is a good boss. You know this, you’ve known it for months. His sometimes-abrasive idiolect aside, he runs the restaurant like he cares about every brick that built it, every burner the crew uses to make each dish, every ticket that comes through that god-forsaken machine on the expo station. It makes any screaming match easily forgivable, and any nightmare lunch rush endurable.

What you didn’t know was that Carmy could also be a good friend. Since your stint in the emergency room he’s made good on his agreement with you, without ever being overwhelming. He’s instead mercifully subtle. There’s a few bottles of lemonade kept in the office’s mini-fridge now, for when you get dizzy. He’s lent you that coat of his a few times, when the night air ends up chillier than you predicted that morning, and you’ve left your own jacket at home. And he never fails to give you a look, during the busiest hours at the restaurant, communicating quickly, and quietly: Are you good? And you know if the answer is no, he’ll let you take a breather without a single complaint, but you always respond with a quick nod and push through the rest of the shift.

In turn, you do your best not to worry him. You take vitamins and get better sleep and try to stop pushing yourself to the brink of passing out. You even eat one of your safe foods in front of him, at family while everyone else enjoyed the samosas Ebrahaim had cooked up that day, and for once it felt good to eat; the constant playful bickering and banter a welcome distraction from the usual stress that follows your meals.

It’s nice. Maybe you don’t necessarily feel like you’re getting better, just more… stable. Less like you’re in a free-fall and more like you’ve got both feet on solid ground.

When you go to leave after closing up one night and find that it’s raining, impeding you from making your usual trek to the train station, you turn back and head to the office. And a few months ago, you might’ve been too nervous around Carmy to even ask to stay in the restaurant an extra hour, preferring to brave the cold rain and let your clothes get soaked and heavy rather than hang around. You’re relieved, now, to find Carmy right where you left him when you said goodnight just a minute ago, ready to save you from a miserable trip home.

“What’s up?” He asks when he spots you.

“It’s raining.” You tell him, nodding your head in the direction of the back door. “Didn’t bring an umbrella. Do you mind if I stick around for a bit, just ‘till it stops?”

“Yeah, it’s no problem, I’ll be here finishing up for a while, anyway,” He says, then continues after a brief pause. “Y’know you really gotta stop relying on that iPhone weather app.”

You scoff, shaking your head at his teasing.

“You know I’m too lazy to start using another one.”

“I’m just sayin’.” He pushes out of his chair and walks past you, into the kitchen, grabbing a sponge and the container of soap water he uses to clean the countertops.

“You want help?” You offer, already taking off your coat and tossing it onto the office chair.

“Nah, you already clocked out. Don’t worry about it.” He replies, not even looking up as he begins to scrub, but you pick up a sponge anyway and get to work on the counter behind him.

You fall into a comfortable silence for a while after that, only broken by the sound of rough sponges scraping away at the grime and the faint patter of rain on the roof of the building, and part of you wishes you had more opportunities for this. More time spent with him, outside of the hustle and bustle of the restaurant, even if it’s spent cleaning. His presence has become something you’d rather not avoid, even if it makes your heart race; the unique scent of him on the coat you’ve borrowed is becoming familiar, comforting.

“Glad it wasn’t busy today.” Your train of thought is interrupted by his sudden comment, but you quickly nod.

“Practically a miracle, for a Friday.” You agree, hearing him chuckle behind you.

“Didn’t need that shit today, anyways, not while I’m on,” He says. He was working the stovetop today, alongside Sydney, making an efficient team as they churned out dishes quicker than the customers could file in. It made your day a little easier, the delicious aroma wafting from the kitchen while you savored the downtime granted by the slow day.

“I’ve never tried your cooking,” You say offhandedly, but your words make him pause and look back at you, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Really?” He asks, and you nod. “You’ve worked here for months, though.”

“I know.” You shrug.

“How come?”

That makes you stop scrubbing, turning slightly to look at him.

“Think you know the answer to that one, chef.” You tease, before continuing to work. He huffs out a laugh, but keeps staring at your back while you scrub.

“I could make you something.” He finally says, and it makes you truly stop, turning to face him fully.

“Y’all just cleaned this whole kitchen.” Now it’s his turn to shrug.

“I don’t mind.” You give him an incredulous look.

“I- If you think I’m gonna help you clean the stove and the plates again, you’re wrong.” Carmy just shakes his head, tossing his sponge back into the container of water and grabbing a few clean pans.

“C’mon, I can’t have you walking around saying you’ve never tried the food at the restaurant you work at,” He says. “You like spaghetti?”

He’s casual in the way he asks, but you’re still standing by the counter, eyebrows raised in shock. Your mind is starting to race, the way it does every time you’re faced with food, but Carmy’s already pouring olive oil into a saucepan and brandishing his chef knife to chop an onion.

You approach the stove he’s standing at carefully, like it might just burst into flames, and you can already smell the familiar scent of garlic and olive oil and god, he’s only been at it for a minute and it already smells like heaven in this kitchen.

“Smell good?”

“Yeah,” You practically breathe out. “Shit, smells amazing.”

He smiles at that, a rare thing to see on his face. He’s thoughtful for a moment, before saying:

“This is, uh, Mikey’s recipe, actually.”

Your eyes widen, a bit taken aback by his mention of his late brother. At least, his mention of Mikey to you.

You’d learned about what happened to Michael just a few weeks after being hired, after having witnessed the heavy silence that overtook the room when he’d been mentioned, and asking Marcus after work what all that had been about. Since you received your explanation, you’ve tried to mind your own business when the melancholy that came with Michael’s memory returned, giving those who seemed to know him best room to process before getting back to work.

Carmy’s never talked about Mikey to you directly; no one has. You’re not sure what to say.

“Mikey, that’s… your brother, right?” You ask hesitantly, even if you already know the answer before Carmy nods.

“Yeah. He used to run this place, before it was The Bear.” He tells you.

“Before?” Your confusion and surprise seeps into your tone. “What was it before?”

“Still a restaurant, but, quick service. Italian sandwiches. We weren’t called The Bear, we were-“ He chuckles, caught up in reminiscing. “We were called The Original Beef of Chicagoland.”

“No shit! This used to be The Beef?” He nods his confirmation and you’re instantly brought back, the memory faded like an old photo that’s been shoved into storage and forgotten. The only thing that wasn’t hard to recall was the sandwich you’d ordered, practically dripping with flavor, the exact kind of comfort food you’d needed that day.

“Been here before?” He asks.

“Yeah, I just- I didn’t recognise it.” You’d sat at a table across from the friend that dragged you to the slightly shabby establishment, silently relishing in the deliciousness of your food before the panic could set in, so enraptured by it you didn’t even care about the booming voice coming from behind a door that presumably led to the kitchen. Not even when the person it belonged to came out to the front and-

“Mikey, was he like, tall? Black hair?” You suddenly ask, gesturing how tall you’d remembered the man being, and now Carmy’s the one that’s confused.

“Uh, yeah. You- you knew Mikey?” He sounds a little breathless when he asks, but you shake your head.

“No, but when I came here before, he was still running the place, I guess. And just… loud as shit. Hard to ignore,” You look up and meet Carmy’s eyes. “Hard to forget.”

You both share a laugh at that, at the memory of his brother that he loved, and that you barely even knew.

“Yeah, that definitely sounds like him.” The sweet smile stays on his face as he chops and sautées, refusing to let you do more than start boiling the spaghetti for him. All you can do is watch the pasta and watch him as he navigates his brother’s recipe like it’s pure muscle memory.

As much as you like to steal glances at him during opening prep, you don’t get to see as much of him during service hours. You’re just as busy working front-of-house, keeping people happy and keeping Richie off your ass, as he is while he’s trying to keep up on dishes. You don’t get a ton of chances to see him like this, in his element. He plates the finished spaghetti perfectly, in two bowls, so you know he won’t let you eat alone.

Still, the anxiety in your stomach rises when you accept the fork Carmy hands you, and you can’t help but pause. He does, too, and you know he easily recognises the cause of your trepidation.

“What’s up?” He asks, his voice gentle. You shake your head, trying to rid yourself of the conflict in your mind, but you can’t stop yourself from saying it.

“Do you… just, maybe have an idea of-“

“I have no clue how many calories are in this.” He answers your question before you can even ask it, and you can’t help but let out a breath of amusement — at yourself, at him for somehow knowing.

It’s his gentle smile, one that lacks judgment or pity, that pushes you to finally swirl the spaghetti around your fork and take a bite and-

Oh my god.

You can’t help the moan that escapes you during that first bite, ignoring Carmy’s chuckle at your slight dramatics. You can see why he’s hot shit in the restaurant world; the dish barely looked fancy or complicated when he’d made it, certainly not as complicated as anything on the menu, but somehow it tastes better than any pasta you’ve ever had. You would say you’re in disbelief, but you don’t pause long enough to think about anything but this, how amazing every flavor bursting on your tongue is.

Carmy finishes his pasta before you do, but he stands next to you till your bowl is empty, before taking it over to the dish pit and beginning to scrub down all the dishware he’d used. And you stand there for a second, staring at his back, unable to process all the emotion filling you as he washes your bowl. The bowl he let you get dirty, because he wanted you to be able to try his food.

The utter warmth flooding your senses is almost overwhelming.

Then, despite your earlier protests, you pick up the sponge he abandoned earlier and get to scrubbing the stovetop down again. You ignore the few warm tears that escape your waterline in the process.

You mindlessly follow Carmy around as he walks through each room, shutting off lights and locking the front entrance and office doors. When you inevitably make your way to the back exit, you push open the door only to find that it’s still raining, worse than it was hours ago. You can only sigh and lean your head against the doorway in defeat.

“Need a ride?” Carmy offers easily.

You think back to the frame that sits on the countertop out front, holding a slightly crumpled index card: “I love you, dude. Let it rip.” Words you’ve seen nearly every day since your first on the job; you just now realize they’re probably Michael’s.

It feels like too much. The letting you stick around, the pasta, the… everything.

You nod anyways, accepting Carmy’s offer, letting him lead you to his car, and he lets you lead the way home.

#carmy berzatto #carmy berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto #carmen berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto x you #carmy berzatto fluff #the bear #the bear fx #the bear hulu #the shrimp that fried that rice #my writing

1K notes · View notes

melancholicstation · 18 days ago

Text

𓊆ྀི󠀠󠀠󠀠󠀠󠀠󠀠󠀠 ARCHITECTURAL DIGEST: OPEN DOOR! - a jack schlossberg one-shot. 𓊇ྀི

summary: your open door architectural digest interview with your husband jack schlossberg takes an unexpected, and downright sensual turn in your shared kitchen over the most innocuous citrus fruit. note: this is part of the husband!jack schlossberg universe, here are other works with wife!reader and husband!jack: like an american, husband!jack hc's, and comfort husband!jack hc's

warnings: orgasm denial (male), cunnilingus, smut, 18+

words: 1,830

"Hi AD, We're Jack and Y/n, welcome to our house"

Filming for Architectural Digest, as glamorous as it might look from the illustrious glow of a MacBook screen, was not all it cracked up to be. AD had been relentless in their pursuit, contacting both you and jack's agents on more than one occasion proposing the opportunity for you guys as a couple to be featured on their open door celebrity series.

Initially as a couple you had turned the opportunity down, with Jack working tirelessly on the campaign and you being busy with negotiations on your new book deal: it just wouldn't have worked. But after your wedding, which was featured in Vogue, the title "The Bride Wore Vintage John Galliano And The Groom Wore JW Anderson. Inside Their Cape Cod Ceremony" The open door offer came around once again and it came at just the perfect time.

A few weeks back you and Jack had been getting back into the grove of normal life after returning from an illustrious three week honeymoon in the Greek Cyclades: a honeymoon spent in mostly nothing—bar itty-bitty specs of linen as makeshift bikini's, and gucci by tom ford beachwear.

Getting back to AD, you'd woken up before Jack: which was funny because when you first entered the relationship Jack was always the one who got up early, maybe you've been a bit of a bad influence in that department. Nevertheless you spend about five to ten minutes neglecting to wake Jack up: instead opting to trace the sepia hairs littering the top of his neck while quietly leering at his chest hair—looking like an absolute creep, but I mean, he was your husband after all so—that's gotta minus at least 15% of the pervy factor, right?

When he did wake up—and subsequently clocked your staring contest with his chest, he proceeded to lean over like a total and utter drama queen to piously cover himself with the sheets like a 30s model getting a tasteful nude portrait of herself to give to a lover.

You neglected to do any makeup only choosing to smear some P50 lotion on you and Jack's face—you swore he was like a toddler sometimes always wanting to mirror whatever weird shit you put on your face. Once the hair, makeup, and stylist team for AD got there you and Jack were effectively separated for the next few hours, which you did not hear the end of via jack's incessant complaints about the distance between him and you over iMessage and many, many unhinged gif selections sent to your iPhone.

But alas, you two were reunited for the open door interview and it started off generally normal...

First, you two were situated on the front steps of your townhouse and asked when and why you chose the house,

Jack started for you, "We moved here about five years ago, and it was the second house we both had looked at ever in our whole lives, and it so happens that it was the first house we ever bought as a couple"

"Seems clandestine to me", the interviewer cheerily replies to which you both glance at each other playfully while he speaks.

Taking the hint to speak up, you share what drew you to the home adding, "I love the city, but I also love wood and I love light and I love antiques, so I just fell in deep love with the place. For us it struck the perfect balance of being in the city while not feeling like the city was breathing down your back all the time, it can be hard to find a place like that here."

Making your way into the apartment, you and Jack were told to take a short break for about 2 minutes while the videographer got a good layout of the place, and scoped out the best lighting angles to capture it.

Your home occupies the first floor of a Meatpacking District block, and is a few blocks away from the Hudson River—which more than encourages your Husband's borderline addiction to paddle boarding. But, hey you routinely get to see your man walking home in an ultra-tight swimsuit sopping wet, so who were you really to complain about such things?

Despite loving the city, you found yourself devoted to the charm of those old French farmhouse interior's that you'd looked at in your mom's old magazines. And it felt particularly poignant to you guys as a couple—being that your first couple of dates were in the south of France.

You and Jack didn't want the space to come off as just another midcentury modern sterile, ultra-functional flat. So, you opted for sheetrock to be removed from the walls and ordered a large pair of antique door double doors for the living space off 1stdibs.

Just as abruptly as the break had started, it subsequently finished and the cameras began rolling once again. The interview dragged on until you two had finally gotten to the kitchen which was the last room and the last portion of interview.

You started the space off absolutely waxing poetic about the olive-coloured room,

"This is our little kitchen, we painted it horribly together. And then needed to implore a professional painter to fix our many, many painting faux pas." you take a breath to giggle slightly with Jack at your shared delusional confidence that you could paint a whole room successfully.

It was then Jack's time to pitch in, while the camera man did a slow zoom across the decor littering the marbled countertops—causing you and Jack to both notice a certain stone bowl containing a citrus fruit that you know for certain neither of you put there before AD came. Weird you thought, you weren't notified that set-dressing came with the interview.

Leaning on the counter Jack laments, "I love baking, I cook a lot too. I love limes"—to which he dramatically takes a lime into his hands, spinning it between his large fingers, "They're great and I love them so much, and I like to present them like this in my house."

You try not to let the emotion of total bafflement present on camera at Jack straight up lying for the hell of it about the limes being an integral part of your shared household decor—he neglects to mention that they're set dressing and that he's moderately allergic to them.

Closing of the interview you fake lead the interviewer out of the house to close out the interview, only to let them back in seconds later. The interviewer, Mark, who seems to be a genuinely sweet guy thanks you and Jack for your time, informing you that the crew should be packed up in 10 minutes, and the camera guy only needs another 5 minutes to get b-roll footage.

Once all the pleasantries have been fulfilled you lead, or rather playfully drag Jack by his crisp collared Prada button-up into your kitchen.

"Jack, I mean seriously what the hell was that, truly? I know you know you're allergic."

"M'sorry it was just too good not to pass up! I mean what kind of weirdos just but a bowl of lemons out and nothing else? it's barbaric just from a feng-shui standpoint alone!"

"Godd you're such a weirdo. Come kiss me and make it quick so I can forgot that very fact, please" you beckon him to you, placing your chin on his chest with your hands on his chin. Which, by the way is blemish-less—god, you absolutely hated men sometimes.

"Oh come on! you only kiss me cause I'm a weirdo, let's be real." Jack chuckles yet fulfils your request. He kisses you like a man starved which was quite concerning since you had only parted from him today for two hours—absolute max.

The intimacy got more and more heated until well... maybe you currently had your loafer clad feet either side of jack's head while he ate his idea of a mid-afternoon desert.

The very motion of Jack placing the flat side of his tongue against your clit sent you into an absolute. fucking. meltdown. To the point where the moans you made no longer represented someone who was cognisant that they're were about fifteen people working for AD rooms away. You try to compose yourself, which provides a stark contrast to his relentless endeavour on your clit that seem to be ever increasing.

As if to praise your restraint of volume his thumb gently strokes the inside of your thigh—up and down... and up and down. Sensing your impending climax Jack speeds his motions and adds a digit that outright seems to antagonise you—almost trying to tease a mind-numbing orgasm from you. And because you're weak in the face of his machinations, you of course do.

On your come-down you notice a glaring visitor—a quite large bulge in his pants and decide to take pity on it and by looking at the saccharine, loopy look on his face, him as well.

But you wouldn't be yourself if you didn't make him work for it at least a bit.

Continuing your motions on his bulge: feeling it's twitches and reflexes as intimately as you feel him breath while sleeping on your chest at night—

That was until the door to the kitchen was knocked upon,

"Sorry to be a bother but could you guys get that bowl of limes?—the crew is absolutely swamped trying to pack up for the road."

It was at this point in your movements on his bulge that Jack was starting to get loud, a bit too loud for your current situation, so you did the one thing that could shut him up—bar actually suspending the current movements on his mound: but that wouldn't be half as much fun would it?

Quick thinking led you to quite forcefully shoving a medium sized un-cut lime into his mouth to drown out his moans: it sure as shit worked but his puppy dog-like eyes made you feel bad for your prior roughness—you settled on a quick caress of his hair as a pseudo apology.

"Oh of course it's no trouble at all, we'll go grab it now!"

Hearing the footsteps move further and further from the kitchen you glance at Jack: a pitiful, overstimulated sight really. But a sight you deeply enjoy no less.

Picking up the bowl of lemons you grab his hands, afixing each hand to a parallel side of the stone bowl,

"Why don't you go give them back that bowl of limes you love so much and then maybe we can get back to what we were doing?"

Overcome from the intense stimulation Jack nods, willing to do anything that brings him present relief,

"Good boy" you coy, swiping off your own juices from his mouth and chin, then finally taking the un-cut lime out of his mouth.

tags: @obsessedwithjohnjr @candyneckl6ce @rocker-chick-7 @ultr4v1ol3nt @violetharmonsfavgf @strip-weather-forecast @darcyspirits @fortheloveofjos @h-l-v-kennedy-blog @h-l-vlovesvintage @bluelancergirl @snowsgames @salvatoresablondie @dulcegal @kennedyism @bloxholden35 @kimcrystal123 @absurdlyvintage @jackiesgirl @chemicalw0rld @remotewatch @starsprangledgirl @strryhaze @beloved-angel

#12 days of melancholicstation #husband!jack #wife!reader #jack schlossberg fanfiction #jack schlossberg imagines #jack schlossberg imagine #jack schlossberg x reader #jack schlossberg x you #rpf #political rpf #kennedy fanfic #kennedy fanfiction #kennedy rpf #jack schlossberg rpf

82 notes · View notes

miss-oranje-disco-dancer · 23 days ago

Text

take your kid to work day

pairing: real dad! chris x reader

cws/tags: father/daughter incest, rough sex, p in v, oral m! receiving, piers featured, degradation

summary: chris finally agrees to take you to work with him, and in an attempt to get his attention, you flirt with a coworker of his. spoiler alert: it works.

a/n: this is a commission for an anonymous commissioner!

wc: 5k

this is ddne content. continue at your own discretion. you are responsible for your own content consumption beyond this point.

‘Take Your Kid To Work Day’ was a holiday you never got the pleasure of celebrating as a kid. You had to go to school and practice multiplication tables with the other kids who must not have been loved enough by their parents to be whisked away from the dullness of 5th grade and taken on an adventure into the adult world. It wasn’t that your dad didn’t love you. In fact, you’ve always been a bit of a daddy’s girl, which is why it made you more upset when your father refused to take you to work with him year after year.

Finally, as an adult, after begging Chris for weeks, he agreed to take you to work with him.

“Why do you want to go to work with me? You already have the day off.”

You have every day off when you’re unemployed. Or, between jobs, as you like to say.

“I just wanna know more about what you do all day.”

What you mean is: I just really wanna hang out with you all day ‘cause I miss you when you’re at work.

“Fine, but don’t complain when you find out how boring it is.”

When the day arrives you wake up early so you can get yourself all dolled up for the occasion. You don’t exactly have “work clothes”, but you manage to dig out something similar from the back of your closet.

You find a would-be-professional-if-it-wasn’t-too-short skirt, and a cute blouse that only shows some cleavage. You decide it’s tastefully teasing, and it’s not like anyone can see your nipples.

“You’re not wearing that,” Your dad says the moment he sees you.

“Why not?” You pout.

“I don’t work at a whorehouse.”

“Don’t call me a whore! That’s so mean, dad.”

He scoffs in response, giving you an eye roll that looks just like one you’d give him. Your sass must be genetic.

“Bend over,” he says, and though it’s an odd request, you do as he asks.

You always do as your dad asks.

“I can see your entire ass,” he says.

“Yeah, of course you can – you looked up my skirt.”

Chris sighs. “I don’t have time for this. Put your shoes on and get in the car.”

He doesn’t wait for you. He walks out the door without you and you worry you’ll have to chase him if you want to claim a spot in the car this morning.

You quickly step into heels that you’ve spent hours training yourself to walk correctly in, though it still takes you a moment to steady yourself as you walk outside.

When Chris starts the car, you immediately ask, “Can I connect my bluetooth?”

“No,” he’s quick to shut you down.

“Please, dad. I wanna listen to music.”

“Yeah, and the music you want to listen to is awful.”

“That’s your opinion.”

He always has his gripes about ‘kids these days’, and one of his complaints is that the music you listen to is trashy and kids shouldn’t be listening to songs that belong in a strip club. But you’re not a kid. Truthfully, he’s just stuck in his ways and doesn’t like the sound of the 21st century. It makes him seem older than he is.

At a stoplight, he digs out his phone from his back pocket and hands it to you. He’s never let you touch his phone before. It’s like being handed the keys to his world in the shape of an iphone.

“Only music,” he says. “Do not snoop through my text messages, my emails–”

“Okay, okay, chill.” Part of you thinks he’s just a private person, and he probably doesn’t have any juicy secrets to hide. He is kind of boring on paper. But then again, doesn’t everyone have at least one thing they’d take to their grave?

His Spotify liked songs would take you back to the 80s if you’d ever been there. It’s full of David Bowie, The Cure, and the Top Gun soundtrack.

You take a glance at him after you put on Don’t Stop Me Now, and Queen has him in a trance – it’s like putting on one of those stim videos for babies. He’s completely distracted.

Naturally, you look at his texts first, and as you suspected, they’re boring and sparse. Mostly coworkers plus Claire and occasionally Leon. Despite the fact that you’re on your way to HQ, you don’t care much about the ins and outs of the BSAA, and you doubt Auntie Claire and Uncle Leon have anything interesting to say.

You don’t even bother checking his email. You’re not interested in his meeting invites, discount offers and spam. If you really needed a coupon for 20% off at Michaels you’d snoop through an old lady’s purse.

His camera roll is basically empty aside from a few pics of the two of you together on your 21st birthday when Claire insisted on taking them. They are cute, though. You look like the perfect pair with matching smiles on your faces. You make a mental note to send them to yourself at a later date.

Now, his internet search history, that’s a different story entirely. You assumed he’d be looking up, well, anything but this: how to get over my attraction to my daughter.

Most girls in this situation would probably open the car door and throw themselves out onto the highway out of sheer disgust. You’re shocked, but not disgusted, per se.

You’d never really thought about him like that. But now that the thought has been placed in your head, you can’t get rid of it. Everything becomes covered in a sex-colored aura. Dad’s big hands on the steering wheel as he drives, his warm, calloused touch when his hand brushes yours briefly to take back his phone, his gruff tone when he asks you if you’re coming or not.

Not yet, daddy, you think. But you could make me.

You shake off the thought and climb out of his car. He walks slowly so you can catch up with him, or at least, that’s what you let yourself believe – really, he just needs to be close enough for his car to register him pressing the lock button on his keyfob.

He opens the door for you and it makes you feel special until he continues holding it for the woman who walks in behind you. You nearly sneer at her before realizing it’s Jill. Auntie Jill who you love to death – more than ever this morning, knowing that she only likes girls, which means she is no competition. Plus, if you’re being honest, you think she’s got a thing for Auntie Claire. You could be her sister-in-law, or she could be your actual aunt, or both. It’s all mixed up, but it doesn’t matter because the only thing that does matter is Chris, your dad. Your daddy who finally loves you enough to take you to work.

There’s a nameplate on his door that says ‘Captain Redfield’. Such a fancy title. It means little to you, but you know he must be a pretty big deal since he’s got his own private office. When he sits down in his desk chair, you look around his office and notice there’s nowhere for you to sit. It should make sense since you don’t work here, but still, you feel awkward standing around like a lost child.

“Am I supposed to sit on your lap?” you ask, half-jokingly, but also a little hopeful that he’ll say ‘yes’.

You watch as a look of horror - that he tries to hide – flashes across his face. Horror and guilt because he wants it. He wants you to sit in his lap and if only he knew how badly you want it too.

“No, you’re a big girl, and you can sit in your own chair.”

“Where?” You gesture to the room around you.

“Do I have to do everything for you?”

“Do you want me to wander around the office looking for a place to sit?”

“Honestly, if it gets you out of my hair for a few minutes, that’d be great.”

Fine, whatever, you’ll find something to do if that’s what he wants. Maybe you’ll come across Auntie Jill and she’ll be nice enough to let you sit in her office.

As you walk down the hallways of BSAA HQ, you remember what dad said about your outfit earlier that morning. Do you really look like a whore? How would other men feel about your ‘professional’ outfit? Would they think you look like a whore? Or would they think you look pretty?

You catch sight of a few men training in the gym, all sweaty and less clothed than one might usually be in the office. This might be the closest thing you’ll see to a naked man unless you can find your way into the men’s locker room – or into your dad’s pants – so you’d better savor it.

You lock eyes with a man who reminds you of your dad in the way he has a sort of permanent resting scowl on his face. Until he sees you, and flashes you a small smile, a sign that it’s okay to approach him, a sign that he won’t bite you. Though, maybe you’d like that.

He stands up from whatever fancy workout machine was giving him those nice biceps that are on display and says, “Hey, the women’s locker room is that way,” pointing to his right. “Unless you’re planning to workout in that,” he adds, giving you the once-over. He’s not subtle about it at all and maybe he doesn’t intend to be.

“What? You don’t like it?” you ask coyly, nonchalantly adjusting your posture to show off a tasteful hint of skin.

“No, I think it looks great. I figured it’s probably expensive, so you wouldn’t want to get it all sweaty.”

“It’s not that expensive,” you say, fluttering your lashes, knowing full-well that you bought it on sale at Forever 21. “But I’m not here to workout actually.”

“Oh? Then, what are you here to do?”

Hopefully, to get a little action, mystery man.

“I was just taking a little walk around the place since I haven’t been here before.”

“Really? First day at the BSAA?”

“I suppose.”

It is your first day at the BSAA. This attractive man doesn’t need to know why you’re there. If it makes him like you more, then you’ll be an officer or a secretary, even the janitor if that’s what he wants. You don’t have to be ‘Captain Redfield’s daughter’.

“I’m Piers, by the way,” he says. “I’d shake your hand, but I’m kinda sweaty.” He looks down at himself, and decides, “More than kinda, actually.”

You give him your full name, which was either your stupidest or smartest move, you realize almost instantly.

“Redfield? As in related to Chris?”

“Yeah, Chris is my dad.”

“No way,” he says, looking you over again as if you’ve changed in his eyes. “You don’t look like him at all.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you say.

“As you should...” He trails off, seeming a bit lost in thought. “So, he hasn’t given you a tour or anything?”

“No, he’s too busy for me.” You pout, hoping it’ll get you some sympathy, maybe something even better than sympathy if you’re lucky.

“Well, it’s a good thing that I know my way around this place, then. I’ll go get changed real quick, and I’ll give you the tour. Sound good?”

“Sounds great. So, should we start with the men’s locker room, since that’s where you’re headed?”

A hint of redness rises in his cheeks. “I highly doubt you’d want to see a bunch of dicks waving around their dicks.”

“I guess I’ll wait out here.”

The thought of dicks – specific ones – does not elude you. In fact, it inspires greater fantasies that you could get trapped in for hours if you let yourself indulge in them.

When Piers returns with damp hair, likely from a quick shower, your mind gets caught in a spiderweb of thoughts all leading to him being naked in the shower, and you realize your dad must use these same showers, meaning that he must get naked here too.

Piers takes you down corridors of offices with closed doors, displaying names you don’t recognize, he holds doors open for you, he tells you everything he knows though you’re barely listening, he even puts his hand on the small of your back to guide you.

“I’ve saved the best place for last,” he says, pushing open the door to a small, secluded courtyard. “Some people take their smoke breaks out here, but I don’t really smoke so I mostly just come out here when I need a moment alone.”

“I’m honored to be here in your special secret place.”

“It’s not much of a secret, but it is private.” He looks around, making sure the area is empty before saying, “So, now that we’re alone together…”

He’s going to kiss you, you swear it. Finally, some action, something other than business talk and people walking quickly from one ringing telephone to the next.

“Nivans,” you hear a familiar voice boom from across the courtyard.

Uh-oh. It’s dad, and although he addresses Piers first, you know you’re in bigger trouble.

“Yes, sir?” Piers answers him, retreating from you entirely.

“What do you think you’re doing with my daughter?”

“Nothing, sir. I was just taking her on a tour of the BSAA. She said it’s her first day here.”

When he approaches both of you, he looks like he’s about to punch Piers, but all he says is, “fall in line, soldier.”

Piers responds by scurrying away before your eyes can register that he’s gone.

You get the rest of your dad’s anger. He doesn’t ask questions, he just grabs your arm and drags you along with him. His office isn’t far, and you realize that if you open the blinds of the single window he has, you get a direct view of the courtyard.

“You think you’re clever, huh?”

“I was just–”

“Walking around here, looking like a whore and then slutting yourself out to one of my men.”

“He was just being nice to me.”

“Yeah, real nice. A little too nice.”

He swirls his office chair around and pats his lap. “Said you wanted to sit on my lap earlier. Now’s your chance.”

Dying for his attention, you take that chance he gives you even if you know it’s a trap.

“What were you planning on doing when you got out there alone? Were you gonna let him touch you?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? I think you do know. I think you were. I think it’s why you wore this tiny little skirt today.”

“I didn’t wear this skirt for him. I don’t even know him.”

“Exactly. You’re hooking up with guys you don’t even know.”

“We weren’t hooking up!”

“You planned on getting some attention today, though, huh?” He lifts you just enough to give you a harsh slap on the bottom. Your bare bottom since you decided to wear a thong.

The slap elicits a whimper from you. Though he’s the one hitting you, you have the urge to reach around and cling to him. But you don’t. You realize he’s gone silent and you have to wonder if he can tell. If he can read your mind and know that you want him too.

The next slap hits higher up, no longer a little spanking on your bottom like one might give their child. No, your dad just gave you a slap to the pussy, which is barely hidden behind your panties. He can feel it. He can’t read your mind but he can read your wet pussy.

��Did you really get this worked up over almost kissing Lieutenant Nivans?”

“No,” you admit. The truth is something worse.

“Oh, so who’s making you feel this way, huh?”

And god, you hope it’s rhetorical.

“You, daddy,” you finally say.

“If you wanted my attention, then why didn’t you just say so?”

“I did. I begged you to take me to work.”

“But this isn’t what I do at work, baby.”

At least, until now. It makes you feel good to know that he doesn’t usually do this, he doesn’t usually take girls into his office and touch them like this. It makes you feel special.

“I think I’m gonna have to make an exception, though, since my little girl needs to be punished.”

“Dad, no, please. I’m sorry.”

“It’s too late for ‘I’m sorry’.”

Maybe you should be scared of what he’s planning to do to you as punishment. Maybe you should be scared of other people overhearing and finding out about your punishment. But you’re not. You’re curious, yearning for his touch, for his attention even if it comes in the form of a slap to the pussy. Really, what you want most is to make him happy.

“What can I do to prove it to you, dad?”

“That’s a great question, sweetheart.” His harsh grip forces you to stand. “You can start by placing your hands on the desk for me and staying still.”

Your hands are flat against the wooden desk before you can make the conscious choice to place them there. Your body does before your brain can catch up. It’s better that way, you decide.

You can hear the sound of his belt buckle, then his zipper, then the shuffling of fabric as he slides his pants down just enough. You hope it’s not that loud, and it only sounds like it is because you’re so attuned to it. No one else in this office is expecting – dreaming of - what he’s about to do to you.

In the past few hours, you’ve imagined your dad kissing up your thighs, complimenting your soft skin and pretty lace panties, teasing you only lightly before diving in to taste your wet folds. You hadn’t imagined his hands squeezing your hips hard enough to leave bruises, his body behind you, bending you over the desk and shoving his cock inside you without warning.

He’s so big it hurts. You whimper in pain – you whimper in desperation, in disappointment that you don’t get to see his fat cock slide in and out of you.

“Maybe I should thank you for making it so easy for me to fuck you like this. I don’t even have to get you undressed at all, just had to pull your panties to the side.”

It’s not really praise, though, and you know it. You expect him to call you out on your slutty behavior, and you’re right.

“I should’ve known you’d be loud. Whores like you always are.”

“I’m not a whore,” you protest in an arguably whorish whine.

“Yes, you are.” He leans in to whisper in your ear the most important part, “but you’re my whore.”

A whine from you is an agreement and it’s also reason for Chris to clamp a hand down over your mouth. Knowing you’re forced to be quiet, his thrusts escalate from forceful to brutal.

Tears start to well-up in your tear ducts and your legs tremble, but Chris is barely fazed. The few grunts that escape his lips are music to your ears, praising you for your tightness, your wetness without a word from him.

But his hips don’t falter, his pace remains merciless, and you know he’s not breaking a sweat.

Yet, you’re coming undone, your knees would buckle if he wasn’t pressing you into the desk, you’re soaking wet, dripping down your own legs. You’re squeezing him tightly, inner walls beginning to pulse with your impending orgasm.

Just before you fall over the edge, he pulls out. This is the punishment, you realize. It’s not the rough sex – you were enjoying that a little too much for it to be a punishment.

“Why did you stop, daddy?” you ask with tears in your eyes.

“I think you know why,” he says, quickly zipping his pants back up and making himself look presentable.

You stand there, looking pathetic, nearly crying.

“Pull yourself together. We’re going home.”

“We’re leaving?”

“Yeah. I’m gonna have to tell everyone that my daughter is a little slut who needs her daddy’s cock so badly that she’s gonna cry if I don’t take her home and fuck her right now.”

“No, please, don’t tell them that.”

He almost laughs. “Do you really think I’d tell them that? I wouldn’t want to embarrass myself like that in front of my coworkers. I’m going to tell everyone that you’re feeling sick.”

So, he does. Auntie Jill tells you she hopes you feel better. You probably don’t look well with those teary eyes making your mascara smudge. You’re only sick in the head though – a little cockdrunk.

You see your dad shoot Piers a look of pure possessive wrath in response to his polite nod. He makes the right choice in keeping his mouth shut as you leave. You wonder if he knows. You consider the fact that maybe you’d like him to know.

On the ride home, you’re wishing you had music to cover up the tiny whimpers that come from you as you rub your legs together, helplessly trying to get any sort of friction to ease the ache between your legs.

“I don’t want you ruining my car,” Chris says, shoving one hand between your thighs and forcing them apart.

His touch makes you moan even though he doesn’t give it to you where you desire it most. It’s the thought of him touching you that makes you more aroused than anything else. You know he’ll give you something at home even if he only uses you for his pleasure. Even the idea of that is tantalizing.

When you make it through the front door, he lifts you over his shoulder and carries you to the living room, not even bothering to take off his shoes or his jacket at the door like he usually would.

He deposits you next to the couch and waits with his arms crossed, staring at you, waiting for you to say something.

“Daddy,” you start, “I’m sorry for everything. How can I make it up to you?”

“Get on your knees,” he says, simply.

You already know what he wants. You kneel in front of him and wait as he frees his hard cock from the confines of his pants.

You reach out to touch him, but he smacks your hand away.

“Do you think you deserve that?”

“No, daddy.”

“If you need me to stop, you can tap me on the thigh, but otherwise, I expect you to keep your hands behind your back the whole time. Got it?”

You nod, parting your lips slightly in invitation.

He rubs the head over your lips, letting you taste the precum leaking out.

“Open wider,” he says.

You do without hesitation.

He doesn’t shove his cock down your throat in one thrust as he did with your pussy. Instead, he gives it to you slowly, allowing you to adjust. It doesn’t stop you from gagging or tearing up.

“Breathe through your nose,” he says.

His advice helps, but he’s bigger than what you’re used to so you can’t take it all effortlessly. Still, you try, and you find yourself somewhat proud when you look up at him and see his head tipped back and his lips parted as he lets out shaky breaths.

When he dares to look down into your glossy eyes, you feel him twitch in your mouth, and you know he’s close. You’re prepared to suck him dry but of course he’d never let you. That’d be too easy.

He pulls out and smacks you on the cheek with his cock, and you can feel your own saliva on your skin, but you don’t bother wiping it off. You’re covered in it anyway as it drips down your chin.

He stops and studies you for a moment like he’s trying to decide what to do with you. You straighten your back and smile, making sure he knows you’re ready for instructions on how to please him.

He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he pulls you up off your knees and strips you of your clothes, leaving you in nothing but your ruined panties. He finally takes off his shoes and his jacket, but he doesn’t get fully undressed.

Chris folds you over the arm of the couch, putting you in a similar position to the one he had you in back in his office. Only now, the blood rushes to your head, making you dizzier than before. He swipes the head of his cock along your folds, gathering your arousal and watching as your hole flutters every time you feel him prod at your entrance.

He presses into you slowly, or at least, attempts to, but you’re so tight it’s almost uncomfortable. He knows he can’t last forever and he wants this to be good.

“Daddy,” you whine when he pulls out entirely.

“You’re so needy,” he says with a smack on your ass. “I’m going to make this easier for you.”

You don’t know what he means until two of his fingers pry your lips open.

“Suck,” he tells you.

You do more than suck on his fingers, you swirl your tongue around them, imagining his cock is still in your mouth. But, as always, he deprives you of what you want. The cry that comes from you is not one of disappointment at his fingers being taken from your mouth but one of pleasure when they enter your pussy.

“I know you looked through my phone, baby,” he says as his fingers stroke your inner walls.

He doesn’t need to see the embarrassment flash across your face to know it’s there.

“Do you really think I’d be stupid enough to let you search through it if I was really trying to hide something from you?”

You should’ve known. Daddy’s always one step ahead of you.

“I figured maybe you wanted something more than just my attention, and I wanted you to know that I was willing to give that to you.”

Your dad has always known you better than you know yourself. You hadn’t realized how badly you’d longed for him. Maybe the reason you’d wanted to be so close to him wasn’t so innocent after all. Did you really just want to hug him when he came home every night? Did you hope he’d slip up and catch your lips by accident when you kissed him on the cheek? Did you hope calling him ‘daddy’ would make him feel something more than affection for you?

“But then, you decided you had to go and parade around my office acting like a slut, willing to take any dick she can get.”

He slides another finger inside you, making you gasp at the sudden change.

“Did you think making me jealous would get my attention?”

Yes, you did. And you were right, weren’t you?

He doesn’t give you the pleasure of admitting that you did get his attention.

He flips you over and lets you have a moment of reprieve while he undresses, letting you gaze at him while you lie on your back on the living room couch.

“You better swear you’ll never let another man touch you before I give you this.”

Chris’ body looms over yours, caging you in, not letting you shy away from him.

“I promise, daddy, I’ll only let you touch me.”

“I know you will,” he says, lining himself up at your entrance, and you’re ready to beg him to fuck you. He must know by the look in your eyes – one of complete desperation – that you’ll do anything for him, and that’s enough for him to give himself to you. All at once, but not as harshly as before because he’s prepared you this time.

“You’d never let anyone else fuck you because you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you moan. “I only want you, daddy.”

For that, he kisses you for the first time – with a passion you’ve yet to feel with anyone else. Though his facial hair scratches you a bit, and will surely leave a bit of a rash, you can’t get enough of his lips on yours. They fit perfectly together, like you were made for each other. It pains you to pull away for air.

When his fingers meet your clit, giving you a jolt of pleasure that you hadn’t realized you needed, you feel your orgasm begin to build inside you.

“Daddy, daddy, daddy,” you cry out, over and over again, frantically searching for something to hold onto and finally settling on his shoulders, his arms, his back, digging your nails into his skin.

“Gonna cum for daddy?” he asks.

“Please,” you beg, using all your strength to utter a single word.

“Yes, baby. Go on, cum for daddy.”

It’s a good thing he lets you because you couldn’t have held back much longer anyway.

When you cum, you cry out for him, your walls squeezing him like you’re afraid he’ll leave you. You want to see his face more than anything but you can’t keep your eyes from closing or your head from falling back.

You struggle to catch your breath even after you come down from your high, and you can still feel your legs trembling when he pulls out and finishes himself off. You hear him groan out your name and feel him coat your stomach with his release.

“Daddy, do you love me?” you ask.

“Of course, I love you, baby girl. I’ve always loved you,” he says.

“I love you too.”

He smiles and kisses you on the forehead.

“And I’m so proud of you,” he says. “You were such a good girl for me.”

“Really? Does that mean you’ll take me to work again?”

“No,” he laughs. “I’m never taking you to work again. I’m keeping you all to myself.”

#chris redfield smut #chris redfield x reader

89 notes · View notes