#it was so worth it. i love it every time i get to see the blorbos together in game :)

[myfictionaldreams]

⁀➷ Beneath the Bubbles // Poly!Marauders x F!Reader

Summary: A playful bet between her three boyfriends turns an innocent pool day with friends into a secret game of distraction, control, and quiet desperation—and she has no idea she’s the prize.

Requested by: @fictionalgoddess -- thank you so so much for this request! I absolutely loved writing this, I hope you enjoy!

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, dom marauders, sub reader, big dick!Remus (!!), public sex, cockwarming, praise kink, teasing, size kink (!), dirty talk

Words: 3.1k

my masterlist 📚 AO3 Link

The bag sitting by your family's fireplace had been packed and ready for days. It had also been packed and repacked multiple times to help pass the time.

“Why so glum, love? Only another ten minutes.”

You tried to fake a smile as you stared down at the two-way mirror in your hand, staring at Sirius's relaxed expression. He was lying in bed, arm behind his head, and hair curling over his forehead. The mirror was a creation of Sirius and James. It was used initially to talk while Sirius was home with his hellish parents; however, now that he was living at the Potter mansion, you were the safe keeper of the mirror.

It had been great over the last couple of days when missing your boyfriends, though Remus’ face was still one that you needed to see, missing the sound of his calming voice.

Now, you were becoming unsettled. You wanted to be in their arms, smell their bodies, and feel the warmth of their skin rubbing against yours.

“Ten minutes is a long time,” you explain with a defeated tone, shoulders hunching over from where you’re waiting on your sofa.

“Aww Darling, I know it is. But it’ll be worth it, and we’ve got to make sure Moony gets here first so you both don’t clash in the floo network. I don’t want to risk  your pretty little head.”

“Hmm.”

You’re being grumpy, but really, you’re excited. Seven days seems like such a short amount of time to be away from your boyfriends in the grand scheme of things, but having been at Hogwarts for months, waking in their arms, constantly being attached to one of them, it was easy to fall into a comfortable routine. 

Sleep had been difficult to come by, and the amount of masturbating you’d been doing was probably unhealthy. But once again, you were going to put it down to the fact that you’d been having sex with three men daily, and now, you had a large appetite for all things pleasurable.

“PADS HURRY UP! MOONY IS HERE!” came the distant shout of James in the background, where Sirius was.

“Coming!” he shouts with a handsome grin, his eyes lighting up with excitement as he sits up on his bed. “See, I told you it wouldn’t take long, Darling. Safe travels, see you in a couple of minutes. Say hi to your parents for me.”

“Will do! See you soon!” you say with rejuvenated motivation. Rushing from the sofa, you say your goodbyes to your parents and collect the bag you’d been staring at for too long.

You’ve barely had the chance to step out of the green flames in the Potter’s dining room before you are wrapped in a blur of bronze skin, wild hair and frantic voices.

James was the first to tackle-hug you, arms circling your waist as he picks you up and spins in a circle as you cling to his neck. “You’re here! Finally!”

You laughed even as your feet planted back onto the floor again, only to be pulled away by Sirius, who practically buried his face into your neck, fingers digging into the back of your shirt as your hands moved into his hair. “A week without you? Torture, Honey. I almost set fire to the Potters’ kitchen again to feel something.”

“I thought you said seven days wasn’t that long!” you exclaim, looking back into his pouting face.

“Fine, I lied. I missed you every single second. " With a soft kiss to the tip of your nose, he finally releases you to allow the tallest Marauder his reunion.

Remus steps forward, calmer as always compared to James and Sirius, but you could see in his eyes how they softened when he looked you over. His jaw had a subtle clench like he’d been holding something in all week. He didn’t say anything. Just stepped up, taking your face carefully in his big hands, and kissed you slowly, steadily, and so full of longing that your knees nearly gave out.

“Hi,” you whisper as he pulls back, in a daze and breathless.

“Hi, love.”

When I was back with them, everything fell back into place—the laughter, the comfort, the safety. It was just right. However, James’ parents were only away for the weekend, so the four of you took the opportunity of an empty, beautiful home to host a little gathering with your friends.

An hour later, the mansion is buzzing with life. Lily and Marlene have brought drinks, Dorcas, Mary, and Alice are setting up the music on the back patio, and Frank has thrown pool floaties everywhere.

James’ parents' house was always breathtakingly beautiful, no matter how many times you visited. Despite its size, it still felt homely, thanks to Mrs Potter’s effort. The garden was really the prize, though, with freshly cut green grass that spread for acres, surrounded by a thick forest. More towards the house is a sizeable pool, with a hot tub to one side that bubbled away and the patio that stretched the width of the house.

You were lounging in one of James’ quidditch shirts, your bikini underneath, leaning against Sirius on a pool chair while he ran his fingers up and down your arm. Remus sat beside the two of you with a book, one hand always resting on your thigh, which was pulled into his lap.

James, meanwhile, had energy to burn. He was shirtless and loud, tossing a quaffle with Frank, and flexing his arms and abs every time he caught your admiring eye.

“I’ve decided”, James announces loudly, making sure he’s heard over the music, grinning. “I’m the hottest person here.”

“Not even close, “Sirius deadpanned, leaning over to take a sip from your drink. “Look at this face.” He points at his own smug expression.

“Look at her face, “Remus interrupts, not looking up from his book. “Much better view.”

Your face warms immediately as you pull your shirt collar up to hide your face, and the others laugh at your embarrassed response.

Hours later, after the shared butterbeer, a failed BBQ attempt ends with charred food and pizzas ordered instead. Everyone is having a good time, catching up on each other's summers, giggling, laughing, and singing. The sun has since set, which means that the floating orange lights gently illuminate the back garden with the help of the now roaring fire. It’s a memorable evening with friends.

You didn’t think twice as Remus began to pull on your clasped hand, dragging your body towards the hot tub portion of the pool.

“We’ll only be a minute”, Remus calls over his shoulder to where the others were dancing around the fire. “She���s cold.”

You thought it was an odd excuse considering that Remus had perfectly kept you warm as you rested in his arms, laughing at your friends, but you went along with him, glad to have some quiet time with him.

After removing James’ shirt from your body, Remus helps you into the warm, bubbling water. The water was surprisingly loud, and you struggled to hear your friends even if they were only a couple of meters away. Remus then eases himself in, sitting on the bench in the tub, pulling your body into his lap.

Sighing into the touch, your fingers dig into his forearms, which curl against your waist as his chin rests against your shoulder. It was calm and serene, and you could still smell his aftershave over the chlorine.

The dainty touch of his lips against your shoulder causes a full-body shimmer, despite not being cold. Remus smiles against your skin, moving further up the slope of your neck as you tilt your face towards him.

Your noses brush together as you tune his arms. You lean in to close the final distance, but he holds himself back. “I want you to keep looking in the direction of our friends. Do you think you can do that?”

Biting your lip, you hum in response, turning back to your friends. You notice Sirius and James moving animatedly now, whilst the others are resting on the seats surrounding the fire.

“I missed you,” Remus speaks into your ear, his voice just above a whisper so that you could hear over the noise of the hot tub machine. “I’ve missed your voice, your smell, those little giggles when you’re embarrassed. It feels like I’ve been lost with you.”

The words had emotions soon rising as you wiggle in his lap, trying to hold onto him tighter, needing to feel his entire body on yours.

With one arm still secured around your waist, the other moved to the inside of your knee, helping each of your legs onto the outside of his thighs so that when he stretched out, your legs spread, upper body slumping back against his chest until the waterline hovered up to your collarbones.

“And I know you’ve missed us, haven’t you? Sirius told me about your late-night chats, my poor needy girl,” Remus continues, his lips hovering by the shell of your ear. Your body shivers once more for an entirely different reason now as you think back to those nights when Sirius had talked you through touching yourself using the two-way mirror.

“Tell me, Sweetheart, do you want me to look after you? I think you’ve been patient enough these last seven days. Let me help you.”

Swallowing hard, you nod.

“Use your words, Love.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good girl.”

You;d expected his fingers, maybe some teasing strokes–but what you didn’t expect was the way he shifted beneath you, the slow grind of his hips, the subtle press of his hard cock beneath the water.

“Remus,” you breathe, eyes darting toward your friends. Laughter. Singing. James is yelling about rules in a game whilst Sirius attempts to do a cartwheel dangerously close to the fire.

No one was looking.

And Remus was easing his shorts lower on his hips.

The bubbling water distorted the view so if anyone did look over, they wouldn’t necessarily see that his swim shorts were just pulled down enough that his cock was freed.

“Got to stay nice and still for me, can you do that?” Remus encouraged as his fingers ghost along the seam of your bikini bottoms.

“Yes, sir.”

The rush of water against your bare pussy was comforting for a moment. Then Remus’s bare cock is sliding between your thighs. Thick. Hot. Heavy.

And so fucking big.

Remus hears your quick breath as his thumb brushes comfortingly against your side. “I know,” he said softly, already moving your hips so that he’s able to press the tip of his cock to your clenching hole. “I know how much it hurts, baby. You always need a minute to take me.”

Because he was he biggest, Sirius may be the wildest. James might be the loudest. But Remus? The man was obscene.

He was the one who went last when you were all intimate together, had to go last, because you’d be too sore for anyone else after. You swore it didn’t even make sense how he fit, how he stretched you so wide you were surely the evidence of his cock would bulging your tummy.

And now, with your friends just a few feet away, he was sliding inside you.

Slowly. Deeply. Until your walls burn, clenching in a way that makes it feel like your body was trying to push him out of you because it was just too much.

“F-fuck,” you whimper, nails digging into his arms as your eyes flutter close, legs moving to shut on instinct, but his thighs keep them open.

“You can take it,” he encouraged, kissing your cheek sweetly. “You always do. Just sit pretty, Sweetheart. That’s it. Take every inch for me. Keep those eyes open for me, nice and quiet.”

Your eyes widened as you looked back towards your friend, now able to hear Sirius and James shouting at their friends jokingly.

You couldn’t move. Not with the stretch, the perfect and devastating stretch, pinning you open, gaping, holding you still.

Remus didn’t thrust. Didn’t pump his hips, just simply stayed inside of you. Deep and full. And already you were aching.

“You’re stuffed so tight, huh? Squeezing my cock like it’s your lifeline, Love. Bet they’d all know if they looked over what’s inside of you, there’s no hiding that pretty little face when you’ve just been fucked.”

Remus, as passive and laidback as he was with most day-to-day activities, was in charge of sex and relationships. Whether it was with you, Sirius, or James, he was the leader, giving orders, making sure you’re all in the right headspace to keep going, and that aftercare was enough.

It was difficult staying still, staying quiet. Even if you weren’t sure that you’d have the energy to move up and down on his big cock, even just not squirming in his hold was difficult to do.

Seemingly reading your mind, Remus speaks firmly, “I’m not going to fuck you, I don’t want to break you, Love. I just want to reward you. I’ve missed being inside of you. So that’s what we’re going to do. With all of our friends just over there, we are going to sit here, me inside you, nice and deep, whilst you get all wet and desperate for me.”

You were already ruined, needy, clenching repeatedly around the thickest cock you’d ever taken.

“Look at you, taking all of me without making noise. I’m so proud of you.”

Those praises had you feeling lighter, like your body was made of clouds, ready to float away.

“JAMES, YOU CANNOT THROW A BEER AT ME MID-BACKFLIP–”

“OH I ABSOLUTELY CAN SIRIUS–LOOK MARLENE, WATCH THIS!-”

Your boyfriends were being obnoxiously loud, caputinrg your friends attention and you’re so fucking thankful for this.

Warming his cock with your pussy, you eventually run out of energy, slumping further back in his hold. To anyone else, it would look like you’re falling asleep in his arms, but Remus knew it was because you were exhausted from teetering on the edge of orgasm for so long.

You were too full, too hot, too aware of Remus pulsing inside you, his cock thick and unmoving, buried to the hilt. Every breath, little shift, made you clench down violently in a helpless reaction.

He knew you were balancing on that very limit. Your thighs were trembling non stop, the fierce dig of your nails calming but only because your energy was directed to your cunt, to the muscles that were pulsing and clenching around his dick.

“Please,” you finally whimpered, tilting your head to lean back against his shoulder, face nuzzling into his neck. “Remus, sir, I can’t-”

“You can”, he gently rubs soft circles along your stomach. “You’ve been doing so well. You just need a little push, don’t you?”

You nod desperately, never having been so wound up before in your life. 

Then you felt it, his fingers dipping between your thighs, resting heavily against your clit. There was hardly any movement, just a subtle nudge, but it was enough to send you flying.

You choked on a gasp, biting on the inside of your cheek painfully. The orgasm was blinding, hot, your body quaking and clenching down. Your breath stuttered, your orgasm rolling through you like a slow, devastating tide with each squeeze of your internal muscles. 

“Good girl, my best girl. There it is. Let it out, baby. I’ve got you.”

Your head is spinning by the time you can catch your breath. The ache between your legs now from the emptiness as Remus eases out, having found his quiet release whilst you were holding on for dear life.

The others were still laughing, loud and clueless as Remus readjusted both of your swim suits.

Later, when you are wrapped in a fluffy towel, cuddled against the patio sofa with your cheeks still hot to the touch and legs wobbling. James plopped beside you, arm curving around your shoulder until you’re pulled against his chest.

“You good, baby?” he asks casually, giving you a comforting squeeze.

Tilting your face up to stare at his, you answer, “Y-Yeah.”

Irius sat on your other side, his hand resting on your thigh, grinning like he could see into your soul. “You looked like you saw Merlin himself over there.”

Your eyes widened. “I- what?”

“You came, baby”, Sirius said with a low, teasing laugh. “We saw.”

Your face lit up in horror, but before you could bolt, assuming that it meant that all of your friends saw the same thing, James reached out and gently tugged your towel tighter around you.

“Relax,” he cooed. “They didn’t notice. Not the way we did.”

Remus walks up just in time, handing you a bottle of water and a couple of blocks of chocolate.

“You said no one would notice,” you hiss with embarrassment.

Remus squats down, smirking before kissing your head. “They didn’t.”

“But they did,” you say, nodding your head towards James and Sirius on either side of you.

“Oh, Darling,” Sirius purrs, squeezing his arm under your knees and pulling your body into his lap. “How could we not?”

“You were absolutely fucked out,” James teases, moving closer to your back that now faced him. “All dazed, little pout on your lips, still clenching your thighs together like you are trying to hold him in.”

“And let’s be honest, only Remus’ cock could do that to you. Our girl always looks ruined after he’s been inside her.” Sirius kisses your temple as his arms tighten around you.

“You’re not the only one who needs comfort after him,” James adds with a wicked grin.

“Oh my god,” you groan, hiding your face in Sirius’ shoulder.

“Don’t listen to their teasing, Love. You were perfect,” Remus reassured.

You peek at him through your lashes. But James’ cheeky face pops into your eyesight as he leans over your shoulder. “Okay, so small confession time.”

Sirius chuckles as Remus rolls his eyes. “There was a bet. Remus had to make you cum without anyone noticing, so me and Sirius helped to keep the others distracted.”

Your jaw dropped, “You what?”

“You won,” Sirius said proudly. “You were so good for him, Darling. Took him so deep, didn’t even move. And then when you had to hide your face as you were cumming, just beautiful!”

“I hate you all,” you declare into Sirius’ chest, where you were hiding your face.

“Do you though?” Remus asks as his hand massages your thigh. “You looked very happy sitting on my cock.”

Your face feels impossibly hot, but you don’t move from Sirius’s lap. You just sigh softly as one of them kisses your forehead.

“Love you,” James murmurs as he leans against your shoulder.

“Love you too.” Because even if they were smug little shits, you were happy and content being in their arms.

[missadangel]

MAKE HIM DISLIKE LOVE YOU

Harry Castillo x Reader (The Materialists)

Chapter 8: Trick or Threat

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Chapter Summary: You and Harry are officially together, and everything’s going really well. However, something else is on the horizon… What could it be? Warnings: 18+ (smut, MDNI) kinda romantic comedy stuff, fluffy, angst, lying, soft and caring Harry Castillo, Lucy as his ex, John as Lucy's ex, wealth, expensive gifts, drinks, money, cars, language, sexual tension, oral sex, p in v sex, kissing, slow burn, power imbalance, I might have missed some warnings; I will update them in due time. Chapter Word Count: 9,5k, SMUT & ROMANCE & INTRIGUE, feelings!!! fluffy, rom-com, lust, passion, jealousy, dirty talk, love triangle, intrigue, funeral, mention about death, car, racing authors note: Thank you all for your support, asks, comments, reblogs and likes. I appreciate each and every one of you! Love you all!

"When I returned from France, I took the reins of the business. Gerardo, Maria's husband, had managed things in my absence, but I could tell it was tough given their divorce. We're still piecing things back together."

In the morning, you two were lying in bed, just chatting and trying to unearth the smallest secrets lingering between you and Harry. 

“So, was work really the reason you went to France or was it all about Lucy?” 

Harry propped himself up on his elbow, looking deep into your eyes. “I can’t deny it; I was hurt. That much is true. But it didn’t last long. I threw myself into work to keep the melancholy at bay. But then I realized how unfair I was being to myself. Why should I mourn someone who wasn’t worth it?” His hand glided over the cream satin sheets. “So, I decided to move back to New York, even though Maria was always pushing me.”

“What about the matchmaker thing? What prompted you to feel such pressure to get married immediately after returning?” 

He smirked. “Maria... You see she has always been like a sister to me since I was a kid. She was convinced I needed to tie the knot ASAP and organized everything. I went on five blind dates before I met you, and trust me, they were all disasters. It seemed like all they cared about was what I could offer them for a comfortable, luxurious life—totally loveless and insincere. Maria and I agreed to one last date, and if I didn't find what I was looking for, she promised to cut me loose.” He gently stroked your cheek. “When I saw Melanie Johnson’s profile, I was so relieved; it felt like just the evidence I needed to convince Maria. But when I came across your photo, something felt off about the information. Your appearance warmed my heart. I felt like there had to be a mistake, so I took a chance and wanted to meet you in person.” 

You laughed. “Wow, looks like your instincts were right.”

“I think it was the best decision I’ve ever made,” he said, smiling as he slid his hand down your shoulder and along your arm, finally cupping your hand and leaning in to kiss it. 

Your fingertips danced delicately across his lips, tracing their curves. "What about that Stella, the girl in the photo Maria baited me with?"

He sighed, a hint of a frown crossing his face. “I promise, it was nothing serious. That lasted just a week. She was always caught up in the modeling world, and honestly, I think I was too old to keep up with her glamorous lifestyle.”

“Well, now you’ve got me wondering—how many women have you been with? I’m almost afraid to ask,” you teased, narrowing your eyes playfully.

He tilted his head, clearly thinking it over. 

His thinking phase made you tense.

“Too many to even remember.”

Your jaw dropped in mock horror. “Slut,” you teased again, nudging him with your shoulder. 

Well, he was a really handsome guy—why would that surprise you?

He chuckled. “Okay, your turn, baby. Spill it.” His voice was low and teasing as he traced his nose along your cheek to your chin.

“Hmmm, way too many to count; it’s like counting grains of sand on a beach.” 

Suddenly, he stopped, looking at you with a serious expression. You couldn’t help but chuckle a little at how intense he looked. “Stop giving me that look. I’m just joking with you—relax.” You wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed his temple.

“That was worse than I thought,” he murmured with curiosity in his tone. “So how many?” 

“Only three,” you admitted shyly. “All back in Atlanta—if you count high school. The second was a summer fling gone wrong. And the last one, three years back, was just toxic—emotionally draining, like an automatic routine... It felt like there was something essential missing. It had zero—”

“Passion,” he cut in for you, finishing your sentence.

You locked eyes, an electric connection sparked between you. “Yeah, exactly,” you murmured, your gaze dropping to his lips.

At that moment, he pulled you in closer and kissed you, pouring all his hunger and desire into it—just the kind of passion you’ve been talking about.

Yeah, passion was the word.

What a powerful force it was.

It felt like you were meant for each other, completely in sync. Being with him brought a sense of happiness you’d never experienced before. He didn’t just want your body; he craved your voice, your scent, every little part of you. It was like he found a piece of himself he thought he lost, and he was beyond thrilled about it.

What more could he ask for?

“So you're a chaste little kitten, huh?” he said, his lips brushing your collarbone. “Considering the dirty sounds you make with me, I was expecting something different.”

“Mmm, like what?” you teased, playing with his curls.

“I kind of thought many guys from your past would pop up.”

You chuckled lightly. “Nope. I’ve been so caught up with work that I barely have time to think about love. And let’s be real, I’m no beauty queen or model or anything—I’m not exactly turning heads everywhere I go.”

He pulled back slightly to meet your gaze, his eyes alight with sincerity. “Are you kidding? You’re heartbreakingly beautiful. I’ve never told this to anyone before, but the first time I laid eyes on you, it felt like I was struck by lightning.”

You giggled, a playful spark fluttering in your chest. “That sounds like something straight out of a movie, or maybe even a cliché.”

“I know it does, but it’s the truth, believe me. I really appreciate the real Melanie for bringing us together, even if it was in a pretty strange way."

Your smile widened. “Same here.  And about those sounds I make, I have to admit, no one has ever made me feel this alive before.” His lips tugged into a teasing smirk. “Now I’m the one sounding like a cliché, right?”

"I’ll gladly accept that as a compliment.”

"You should," you laughed and pressed your lips to his ear. "Because in my previous experiences I have often "pretended". But with you it's all real you slutty ol'man."

He laughed darkly. "I fluttered, baby," he said as he lifted the sheet off you, exposing your body to the sunlight flooding the room. He pressed you down on the bed with his weight, pinning your wrists over your head with one hand and holding your chin in the other. You swallowed hard, blinking repeatedly as waves of ecstasy and exhilaration surged through you. "I really hope you won’t be mad at me for doing my best to make you this old man's little slut." He leaned down, grabbed your lips, and sank forcefully into your mouth, spreading your legs with his knee.

"Harry." Fluttering your eyes open you searched his face silently pleading with him to ease the bubbling sexual tension built between you. 

Pinching hard on your stiffened breasts he listened to you yelp. “Be a good girl and tell me.” He rubbed the tip of his hard cock against your slit, causing you to writhe and moan with ecstasy. Your body on fire, your breath filled with heat. “You wanna be my little slut?” He whispered sweetly.

With your body trembling, cheeks burning with heat, back arching, biting your lower lip you nodded frantically. “Yes,” you breathed harshly. Your body shuddered and flushed in anticipation at the thought of being filled by him.

And you were out of patience.

Your eyes flashed with a glint of mischief, pulling down your teeth crashed hard into his neck as you sucked roughly on his skin until you felt his hand leave your chest and clasped around your throat.

 “Naughty kitten,” he purred with delight.

The sound of you moaning and mewing like a real kitten into his ear sent a churning sensation through his stomach, sending him dangerously over the edge. 

Not so soon, he thought himself, eager to make it last longer.

He turned his head to find your lips once more and pulled them close to his, devouing your mouth eagerly, passionetly. Grabbing your thighs tightly, he plunged himself deep with your dripping pussy. “Fuck-” he groaned “-that never gets old.”  He started into a pulverizing rhythm of pulling himself almost completely out and then pushing himself as deep within you as your bodies allowed.

It was that moment of struggle again, he felt incredible inside you, he felt alive, indestructible, but he couldn't wait to get to the grand finale, eager to spill himself inside you, desperate to feel your walls close around him, and once again, he was caught in the middle.

It felt like he could never get enough of you, not at all.

Egged on by your gasping for breath he switched his hand positions from your waist to your hips to bring you both closer to the edge.

Your eyes glazed over with ecstasy watching the muscles on his arms and chest flex as he pounded into you mercilessly. You loved the way his brow furrowed in concentration as you made love. His body was perfect, like a statue sculpted by the many hours spent. 

“Mmmh—I don’t mind being your slut—if this is the view,” you choked between his brutal thrusts, gripping his biceps wildly. “Fuck your little slut harder!"

“You’re so—mmh—you’re so fucking dirty, baby. I love it. Gonna come—.” Letting out a loud groan he felt your walls contracting hard around his throbbing member. His arms wrapped around your waist, lifting you off the bed, pulling your body close to his.

“Me too,” you replied breathlessly, wrapping your arms around his neck, your nails dug into the back of his neck. Hopping onto his lap violently up and down caused your nails to graze his skin painfully, and he groaned loudly.

However, he didn't even mind if you almost made him bleed.

You could do whatever you wanted with him; he was yours to take.

Ragged breathing halted as he poured himself into you. His movements slowed as you held onto one another. He leaned your bodies back down to rest against the bed.

Your lips sucked softly against his flesh, tasting the glistening salty tang that coated his body. Gratefully, he returned the favour, licking your neck up to your chin, biting, sucking, savouring your sweet taste and the moment itself.

Feeling his heart beat returned to its normal steady rhythm you looked up to see his face looking down smiling at you. "I love you, baby," he purred.

"I love you too, Harry."

He smiled before leaning down to kiss you. “Shower?”  

“Count me in,” you said, laughing.  

His mouth broke into a playful, cheeky grin this time. "How about a hot shower?"  

He asked as if you hadn't just had incredibly hot sex.

You widened your eyes in surprise. "Seriously? It’s been like 5 or 6 times since last night, and you're still being greedy, mister."  

He buried his nose in your hair, breathing you in. “You bring it out in me, baby.”

"Okay, but let’s make it quick; I need to be ready for work soon."  

He lifted you effortlessly into his arms. "It’ll be the fastest and hottest shower ever—buckle up!"  

You both giggled all the way as he carried you to the bathroom.

As Harry dropped you off at the hotel around noon, a wave of relief washed over you. Alan wasn’t lurking around, and that was a small victory. You couldn't bring yourself to share the weight of what Alan had told you last time—not yet. The prospect of creating unnecessary tension made your stomach churn. Besides, he would surely come to understand the seriousness of your relationship in time, and he would give up, wouldn’t he?

Before saying goodbye, Harry mentioned he had a special event to attend that evening and invited you to join him. Your instinct was to decline—after all, you had a million things to do—but his persistent charm won you over. You didn’t want to disappoint him, so you reluctantly agreed. That meant you had to cut your work short to prepare, which sent you rushing into the hotel, straight to the kitchen.

In the midst of the chaos, Bruno reminded you about the upcoming fair. His eyes sparkled with excitement as he explained that if you launched your own bakery brand in time, it could be the perfect opportunity to promote it. That news felt like a double-edged sword. On one hand, you had promised Harry you would leave your cleaning job behind, meaning you’d spend the entire week at the hotel—including those dreaded Mondays and Thursdays. Your internship was finally nearing its end. But on the flip side, the thought of starting your own brand meant you’d need to open a shop soon, which required financial support. Harry was eager to help, but you felt a deep sense of obligation that made accepting his generosity uncomfortable.

And, of course, with your renewed schedule, you’d definitely run into Alan more often.

Just what you needed.

Shaking off the worry, you reminded yourself that you were close to achieving your dreams; patience was key. But the moment you spotted Alan in the dining room, anxiety flared up again. The memory of your last conversation haunted you, and just seeing him sent your nerves into overdrive. Then you noticed Maria seated across from him, her expression growing increasingly troubled. Each time she glanced at him, her frustration deepened, and when she abruptly stood up, you felt compelled to go after her.

“Maria!” you called out, sprinting after her. She turned around, and your heart sank—she looked on the verge of tears.

“Are you okay? What happened?” you asked softly, touching her shoulder gently.

“It's nothing, really,” she replied, pulling a handkerchief from her bag, but her eyes revealed a different story.

“Come on, Maria. You look awful. What’s going on between you and Alan?” 

Her lip trembled as she fought to mask her anger. “He’s an asshole—a truly wicked, evil man.”

“What do you mean? What did he do?”

“Just forget it, okay? I’m begging you, please don’t tell Harry you saw me here, especially with Alan.” 

“But if he asks me—”

“Please,” she interrupted, almost pleading.

Seeing her like this was shocking; she was usually so strong and fearless. “Okay, of course, I won’t say anything,” you assured her softly.

She pulled out a compact mirror, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’ll catch you at the reception tonight,” she said, turning towards the exit.

You watched her leave, your mind swirling with questions about what had happened to upset her so deeply.

After work, while waiting for Harry to pick you up in the hotel lobby, you decided to give Zoe a call. Thankfully, her ankle had fully healed, and she told you she'd be back at work on Monday. 

“Oh my God, I can't believe you two are finally official!” Zoe's excited voice rang through the phone. 

“Yeah, it's about time,” you laughed. “So, how did everything go with John?” 

“It went amazing! Just so you know, we're officially a couple now. Our first date is lined up for next week.” 

“That’s fantastic, Zoe! I’m so happy for you.” 

You couldn't help but wonder if John had shared everything with her. You knew you should ask her in person instead of over the phone. 

“Since you’re at your boyfriend’s place now, when do you plan to pick up your things?” 

“Whoa, I’m not moving in just yet. Honestly, I’m not sure I’m ready for that. Wait a sec... Are you trying to rush me or something? Or is John thinking about moving in?”

She fell silent for a moment. 

“Babe, don’t you think this is all moving a bit too fast? It feels kind of early, right? I mean, does it really make sense to move in together when you’ve just started dating?” You were running your fingers through your hair when you suddenly noticed someone next to you. You hung up just as you caught Alan giving you this awkward smile. “Call you back…” 

What the hell? 

How long had he been standing there, and did he hear any of that?

Avoiding his gaze, you got up, acutely aware of his eyes on you.  

“We didn’t get a chance to talk today. How have you been?” 

The jerk acted as if nothing had happened.

Why would you want to talk to him anyway?

That was the real question.

"Fine," you replied coldly, looking away, your tone sharper than intended, fingers tightening around your bag's strap. Just then, he reached out, his hand clasping yours.

“What happened to your hand?” 

Oh right, when you were rushing around in the kitchen, you accidentally splashed hot oil on yourself.

Bruno had treated the burn, it wasn’t serious but still.  

“It’s nothing,” you said, trying to pull your hand back, but he held on tight.  

You looked away as he examined your hand, and your heart nearly stopped when you caught sight of Harry through the glass windows at the entrance. Panic surged through you, and you tried to tug your hand free from Alan's grip with all your might. Immediately, you regretted it—the sudden burn stung painfully against his skin, and you couldn’t help but let out a soft moan.

At that moment, Harry spotted your expression and strode through the revolving door toward you, shoving Alan away.

Alan stumbled back, initially shocked but then laughing angrily.  

"What the heck are you doing to her?"  

"Harry, calm down."  

But he didn’t hear you; the two men were locked in a tense, unwavering stare. Alan casually adjusted his tie. “Don't be so dramatic, Castillo.” 

Harry turned to you and stepped protectively in front of you. “Why are you always lurking around her? What's your problem?”

People in the lobby were watching intently, all eyes glued to the unfolding scene. 

“Don’t be ridicolus. This place is mine. It’s my hotel, and she’s my employee.”

"I wonder if you’re equally concerned about your other employees?”

You grabbed Harry’s arm, “Harry, please, let’s just go.” You tugged at him as the curious gazes around you felt more pressing.  

But seriously, he wouldn’t even look at you.

What the fuck?  

“I warn you. Stay away from her.” 

“And if I don’t?”  

Harry was fuming, and you gripped his arm tighter.  

"Alan, cut it out!" you snapped at him. With all your strength, you pulled Harry toward the exit. “Let’s just get out of here. Everyone's staring at us.”  

“Keep away from my girlfriend, Finnigan,” he warned, pointing his finger at him, his voice low and threatening.

“Did you bother to mention your family background to her? I’ll bet she’ll walk away the moment she finds out.”  

That crossed the line for Harry. He grabbed Alan by the collar, his fury erupting. “You say one more word, and I'll make you regret it.”  

Alan shot back with a smirk, “Ooh, I’m really scared, Castillo.”  

You stepped between the two men and pushed them both apart with an assertive shove.  “Enough! Just stop it!”  

They turned to look at you, along with the doorman and a few others. “I don’t know what’s going on between you two, and frankly, I don’t care. But I’m not going to stand here and watch this nonsense,” you declared, pivoting on your heel and striding toward the exit.

Harry shot Alan a glare, pushed him aside, and quickly followed you outside. “Wait, please,” he said, reaching out to grab your wrist and turning you to face him. “Let me see your hand.”

You turned away from him. “Oh, now you’re concerned? I guess you were too busy bickering with Alan to notice.” 

He sighed heavily. “I’m sorry, but when I saw he was touching you, it really ticked me off.” He examined your hand. “What exactly happened?”  

“It’s just a little burn,” you replied with an exasperated huff.

But as you saw the worry on his face while he tended to your wound, your anger began to wane. “This is becoming really tiresome, Harry.” 

He looked straight into your eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I want you to explain what’s going on between you and him. It clearly goes back a long way.”

He glanced at your hand again. “There’s nothing to explain.”

“Oh yeah? It certainly doesn’t look that way to me.”

He brought your hand to his lips, planting a gentle kiss over the bandage. “Baby, I promise I’ll tell you everything later, but right now, we really need to go. Come on,” he said, taking your other hand and leading you to the car.

Harry stood behind you in the softly lit dressing room, carefully helping you zip up your dress. The fabric clung to you perfectly, and as you turned to admire yourself in the mirror, you felt a rush of excitement. He stepped closer, his presence both calming and electrifying. He gently brushed your hair back, a tender gesture that made your heart flutter. He fastened a delicate pearl necklace around your neck, the cool beads contrasting with the warmth of his kiss on your cheek. “You look absolutely stunning, darling,” he whispered, his lips brushing tantalizingly against your shoulder. His gaze locked onto your reflection, and he frowned slightly. “Are you nervous?”

“A little,” you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper.

He placed his hands on your shoulders, his thumbs gently caressing your skin, sending shivers down your spine. “This is our first formal event as a couple, and there will be many more to come, so you might as well get used to it." His lips brushed against your ear as he spoke. “Maybe someday you’ll be attending as Mrs. Castillo?” He grinned at your reflection.

You turned to him, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I would love that."

With a grin broadening across his face, he leaned in for a kiss that ignited a fire within you, passionate and consuming. His strong hands slid from your waist down to your hips, pulling you against him, trapping you between his body and the wardrobe door.

You pulled back, gasping for air, your heart racing. “Harry, we really should stop, or we won’t make it to the reception at all.”

He chuckled, his laughter rich. “Right,” he said, reluctantly releasing you and stepping back.

“It’s a good thing my lipstick is waterproof,” you joked, shooting him a playful smirk.

He licked his lips. “I loved the taste.” 

“Strawberry,” you said, linking your arm through his.

“Mmm, that's nice,” he replied, amusement dancing in his eyes. “But nothing beats your own taste; you’re ever so much more delicious.”

You covered his lips with your hand, giggling softly. “Shut… up,” you whispered, feeling your cheeks heat up. “You’re about to get me dangerously wet, ol' man.”

He kissed your palm before gently removing it from his mouth. “So, we’ll continue where we left off later?”

“Deal,” you giggled once more.

Before leaving the room together, he wrapped an arm around your shoulders and whispered in your ear, “Can’t fuckin' wait, baby.”

“Everyone's staring at me,” you murmured, feeling your heartbeat quicken as you stepped into the hall where the event was taking place, with Harry right beside you. 

“Of course they are; you’re the most beautiful woman here,” he whispered in your ear. It was sweet, but it didn’t do much to calm your nerves. 

The room buzzed with chatter, the light baroque music playing softly in the background, glasses clinking, and the upper crust exchanging eye rolls. Harry was right—it was a scene you’d have to get used to being with him.

But it was a struggle...

As you and Harry made your way to the center of the hall, heads turned and eyes lingered on you. Some of Harry's friends approached, chatting you up. Harry beamed with pride as he introduced you, one hand gently tracing your back, warmed by the exposed skin of your dress. His touch calmed you, reminding you of his presence. You couldn’t keep your eyes off him as he spoke earnestly to the others; he looked so handsome and charming in his suit. You could feel the jealousy of the other women in the room directed at you.

“Where could Maria be?” Harry murmured, his eyes darting through the crowd.

She said she was coming, you thought, almost speaking out loud before recalling that you had to keep quiet about seeing her at the hotel earlier. Just then, a familiar face approached—his friend from the last wedding, the groom himself.

“How’s it going, man?” Harry greeted him with a hug.

“Hey Harry,” he replied with a smile, then turned to you. “Aren't you the waitress from my wedding?”

“Yes,” you replied, feeling a bit embarrassed.

“I owe you one. I heard from Lucas that you saved the wedding cake. Harry, you’re lucky to have such a diligent, versatil girlfriend,” he laughed heartily.

Harry turned to you, “I really am.”

Your cheeks flushed with warmth at his words. 

“So, are you a chef or something since you're so talented?” he asked.

“Kind of. I'm doing an internship to become a pastry chef right now,” you said with a smile.

“That’s awesome. I bet you make some really tasty scones.”

“She totally does. They all taste amazing; you wouldn't even believe it,” Harry added with a proud smile. “My amazing girlfriend will have her certificate soon and plans to open her own shop.” He gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze, and you smiled shyly.

Suddenly, a figure caught your eye—someone famous. Excitement surged through you as you recognized him. “It’s Sebastien Loeb, oh my God!” You turned to Harry, “Can I meet him, please?”

Harry squinted in that direction. “He’s a rally driver, right?”

“Yes! Nine-time WRC champion. His iconic car: The Citroën Xsara, but I can’t decide between the C4 and the DS3. I have to ask him how he aced that course in his last race.” You started moving toward him, leaving Harry momentarily behind. 

His friend, clearly impressed, leaned in close to Harry. “She makes great desserts, watches rally racing, and knows about cars? Harry, you'd better marry her.”

Harry chuckled. “I absolutely will.” He winked at him before maneuvering through the crowd to catch up.

“Hello,” you greeted when you reached Sebastien.

“Hello there,” he replied, offering a friendly handshake. You gave it a squeeze. Just then, Harry showed up behind you, and he and Sebastien did the handshake thing too.

“I’m a huge fan, Mr. Loeb. It’s too bad you’re no longer racing. We need more talent like yours,” you said admiringly.

Sebastien laughed shyly. “I was surprised to see a lady watching the races; I’ve been surrounded by men all night,” he said, glancing at Harry, who smiled but seemed a bit uneasy. “May I ask what your favorite race is, ma’am?”

“Rally de France, bitche 2—your 60th victory and 7th championship, of course. What an incredible finish, passing Dani Sordo at the last moment. Racing in all that mud must’ve been challenging.”

“It certainly was; it was a memorable yet tough rally—I’ll never forget it,” he leaned in closer. “Between you and me, that race is my favorite too,” he said with a wink.

 "What was your setup at that race btw?"

He rasied his eyebrows in surprise but continued. "Well for the alignment (Rear) Camber Angle -1.00 °. And brakes, force was 3030 Nm. And gear..."

"6th I presume?"

"Exactly."

"Perfect."

"Wow, I've never encountered a woman so enthusiastic to learn about car setup," he laughed.

You couldn’t help but giggle.

Harry forced a smile, but inside, he was drowning in jealousy. 

Was Sebastien flirting with you?

“Darling,” he said, pulling you closer. “How about we grab a drink over there? I’m sure Mr. Loeb has plenty of people to chat with, right?”

Sebastien nodded. "Meeting a woman who knows so much about cars and is genuinely excited about them is a rare treat. You’re quite fortunate, Mr. Castillo."

Harry's grip on you tightened. “Absolutely—it’s fantastic to have such a unique woman. You can’t imagine how special she is to me."

You sensed the rising tension and extended your hand to Sebastien. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Loeb. You’re a legend and always will be,” you said, shaking his hand again, but Harry was pulling you back toward him.

“The honor is all mine. Just call me Sebastien next time we meet, and I really hope it’s soon.” He gave your hand a friendly shake.

“All right, Sebastien,” you replied, waving goodbye.

As some guys walked up to him, you turned to Harry while Sebastien was still chatting with them. “What's up with you, ol' man?” you asked.

“Are you seriously just going to talk to him all night?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’re getting jealous.”

He shrugged and grabbed a couple of champagne glasses from a tray held by a waiter. “I'm not.”

You took the glass he handed you. “Harry, he’s a 52-year-old married guy with a kid.”

“Good,” he replied, looking away while taking a sip.

You laughed, took a sip yourself, "I can't believe it." Then leaned in a bit closer, your fingers lightly brushing his collar. “You know... That’s actually kind of hot,” you said playfully, giving him a flirty look.

Harry met your gaze. “If you keep looking at me like that, baby, I might just scoop you up and dash out of here without caring who’s watching.”

You chuckled playfully and leaned in closer to him, bringing your lips near his ear. "And if you keep talking like that, mister, I'll get so wet I'll might have to take my panties off."

He swallowed, and you grinned at his look. "Fuck," he said quietly, realizing he was becoming hard. When you noticed what was going on, you put your hand to your lips and giggled. "Oops I didn't mean that."

"Naughty kitty," he said, laughing. "I have to punish you when we get home."

You playfully brushed against him with your thigh, a teasing smile on your lips. "Hmm, I can’t help but wonder what kind of punishment you have in store ol' man."

He reached back and squeezed the part of you that was touching him, his voice low and sultry. "I’ll be thinking about that all night long, baby." He followed up with a lingering kiss on your cheek, sending your heart racing.

Fortunately, people began to approach, chatting and mingling, which helped ease the sexual tension between you and him a bit.

Melanie and her mom made their way over, and even though you tried to tune them out, they invited you to join them. You decided to go along while Harry caught up with some friends for business. Still, even from a distance, you and Harry exchanged smiles and playful winks, the sparks between you never quite fading.

Melanie's mother, as usual, didn’t hold back in her uncouth and disrespectful manner, leaving your pride wounded as she continuously pointed out that, among other women, you worked as a housekeeper in her home. After excusing yourself, you stepped into the women's restroom, glanced at your reflection in the mirror, sighed deeply, and muttered to yourself that you had seen this coming, reminding yourself to stay calm. This was simply how the world worked, and it always would be; nothing truly mattered as long as Harry was by your side. Yet, your pride still stung—after all, there was no shame in earning a living through hard work.

Did they truly build their fortunes through their own hard work and determination?

Nope.

Some got lucky by being born into rich families, while others just married someone wealthy.

Those ruthless bitches.

Just then, the last person you'd hoped to see approached the sink next to you—Lucy. She turned on the faucet and caught your eye in the mirror, her expression a mix of complexity and calm. “You must be having a tough time,” she said while washing her hands.

“Excuse me?” You refused to meet her gaze as you dried your hands off.

“Those women—they're all about high society, luxury cars, opulent homes, and designer clothes. Their conversations make it feel like you come from a different world, right? It must be hard for you. Even though you dress like them, you don’t quite fit in,” she remarked, glancing at your dress and necklace while opting to dry her hands with a paper towel.

“Nothing changes with what you wear or where you live; it all comes down to who you are. If your heart is in the wrong place, you can drape yourself in the most beautiful outfits and still be ugly inside.”

She let out a laugh, one filled with disbelief. “You can preach all you like, but that doesn’t change reality.”

“I’d rather hold onto the truth I believe in,” you replied.

“There you are!”

You both turned to Melanie’s voice. She was glaring at Lucy, fury radiating from her. “You little snake! Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

“Melanie, what are you doing?” you interjected.

Ignoring you, she zeroed in on Lucy. “This bitch is trying to set Nate up on a date. What is it? ‘Perfect match’? Now I'm going to make your face perfect match with my palm!” she shouted as she lunged at her.

You quickly grabbed her arm.

“Are you out of your mind? Your parents are right here! You need to snap out of it. Whatever issues you have with her, just try to talk it out.” You attempted to calm her, but she remained agitated.

Lucy quickly shook off her shock. “I’m just doing my job, helping my client, Miss Johnson,” she explained.

“Really? He’s my boyfriend, you bitch! Do you honestly believe he wants to marry? He’s just looking for a hookup!”

Well she had a point, it was Nate after all.

Lucy tucked her purse under her arm and glanced back at her before stepping out of the restroom. “I don’t know; he seemed sincere to me. Besides, he’ll definitely want to get married when he meets the right match I’ve found for him. I’m confident in my skills,” she said with a smug smile.

"You bitch!" she barked.

You grabbed her again but she was hard to restrain.

"Don’t yell! People will hear you. Do you really want to make a scene?"

She looked at you and asked, "Why are you covering for her?"

"I’m just looking out for you and your family. I don’t want you to embarrass your dad."

"Right. That girl you're defending was just talking to your boyfriend."

You stopped and pulled your hands away as she laughed, adjusting her dress. "Oops, huh? I heard they used to date. You’re mad at her, aren’t you?"

"There has to be a reasonable explanation," you insisted, though your frustration was hard to hide. "Keep on being reasonable, polyanna, but I'm gonna kick her ass," she said it and took off after her.

“Melanie! You really…” you called out, chasing after her.

Despite all your efforts, Melanie, as immature as ever, lunged at Lucy from behind, grabbed her hair, and yelled, acting like a cheap prostitute. At that moment, everyone turned to look at Jack and his wife. Anger, annoyance, and frustration were etched on his face, matched by the condemnation in the gazes of those around them. He didn’t deserve this.

Just as you were about to intervene with Melanie, a hand grasped your arm and pulled you back.

“Stay out of this; let her parents handle her,” Harry said, his voice as firm as his gaze. But it softened when he turned to you. "I think the night is over. How about we head out now?"

You looked at him and nodded. “Yeah,” you agreed. He wrapped his arm around your waist as you walked together toward the exit, but your eyes were still on Jack, Melanie, and her mother.

The people who had been focused on them were now absorbed in their drama, and you couldn't help but feel a little sad for them.

As the driver took you to Harry's house, a comfortable silence filled the car, even though your hands were intertwined. You were about to break the quiet and ask him about his conversation with Lucy when he turned to you at the same moment, both of you beginning to speak simultaneously.

"Lucy—"  

"Why—"  

You both chuckled at your coincidental timing.  

"You go first."  

"No, you tell me first," he replied, flashing a smile.  

"Alright, I was curious about what you and Lucy talked about," you said, pressing your lips together, pressing your lips together, feeling a mix of nervousness and curiosity.

"Actually, that’s what I was gonna say."

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Is that so?"  

‘Look, I generally brush her off in situations like this, but this time, it was about you, and I let her speak.’  

"What did Lucy say about me?"  

"She said there was something going on between you and Alan, and that it was messing with their relationship." He looked at you, his face serious.  

"Harry, I—" You tried to argue, but he interrupted you with a gentle touch to your hair. "I know you wouldn’t do anything like that, and I get that he’s got this weird interest in you, but I really wish you would’ve said something."  

"Harry, there’s nothing to say. He’s my boss, and I’m just putting up with it until I leave his hotel—nothing more."  

"What do you mean, 'putting up with it'?"

Oops, wrong choice of words.

Damn it.

"So until my internship is over—"

"Did he say something inappropriate to you?" His tone turned angry. 

You took his hands in both of yours, "No, don't worry, it’s nothing like that."

He seemed to search your eyes for the truth, remained unconvinced.

“But it’s not fair.”

"What’s not fair?"  

"You want me to spill my secrets while you keep yours hidden. You said you're gonna tell me everything between you and Alan."  

He let out a deep sigh. "You’re right. Alright, then I’ll share. Our families have known each other for a long time—our fathers were good friends until some tension grew between them." His expression shifted, as if he dreaded what he was about to reveal. "His father had feelings for... my mother, or at least that’s what my mother has said. She doesn't want to talk about it much. My father passed away when I was ten, so I never learned the whole story from him and I'm not sure about the details."

"Alan’s father had feelings for your mother? Was he married at that time?"  

"Yeah, I was six—I have only faint memories of his father, and Alan was around my age."  

"Well, that certainly clears things up."  

"Every time we crossed paths at family gatherings, events... whatever they were, there was this fragile veneer of civility, yet beneath it, the tension simmered, thick and palpable. The gossip—my mother weathered so much of it. That’s why she hasn't stepped outside since my father passed. And since..." His voice quivered, breaking as shadows of the past lingered in his eyes.

 In that moment, your heart ached for him. "Since what, Harry?"  

He released a long, shaky sigh as if trying to exhale his sorrow. "Since my sister's death."

Your eyes widened in disbelief, a chill running through you. "Harry, I... I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry."

He looked fragile, a storm of emotions battling just beneath the surface, and without thinking, you slid closer, wrapping your arms around him, offering solace. He bowed his head, pressing a tender kiss to the top of your hair, grounding you both in that moment. "It’s alright, baby. I was young; it’s been a long time." His fingers grazed through your hair, a comforting gesture, before he lifted your chin to meet his gaze. A faint smile broke through the sorrow. "I should take you to meet my mother. She can’t leave the house, but we can go see her."

You froze, feeling a rush of tension. "Don’t you think it’s too soon?"  

He caressed your cheek with his knuckles. "Too soon for you, perhaps, but late for me. I’m an old man remember? I don’t want to miss a single moment with you, darling. We should embrace everything life has to offer, fast and fully as a couple.” His voice lowered to a whisper in your ear, filled with sincerity, before he leaned down, capturing your lips with a soft kiss. "You’re my everything.”

The week flew by, and at last, Chef Bruno announced that you would be able to wrap up your internship the following week. A wave of relief washed over you—not only would you finally be free from the daily trek to the hotel for work, but you also hadn’t seen Alan in days.

Now, the focus shifted to working hard until the fair, where you planned to build your brand by creating original desserts and baked goods to showcase. Thankfully, your billionaire boyfriend Harry had a spacious kitchen that you could use. Since you were planning to move in with him anyway—especially after Zoe and John's relationship sped up your decision—the transition felt exciting.

The day you left home with your suitcase to move into Harry's penthouse could easily have been the happiest day of your life. Both of you seemed thrilled that your relationship had reached this milestone, and everything was going smoothly. 

Throughout the week, while Harry was at work, you were busy at home, baking as many desserts and pastries as possible. When he returned, he devoured them all and offered his critiques. 

On the weekend, you realized you were low on supplies and had to hit up the supermarket for a big grocery run. Harry stepped in to help, and you both went to the mall together, like a married couple. 

He also mentioned that he wanted to try baking cupcakes for the first time, which you found cute and encouraged him to do. While you were busy whipping up the cream, the oven timer chimed. Harry slipped on his oven mitts and carefully pulled a tray of cupcakes out of the oven. “Here’s my first solo batch,” he said with a proud smile.

As you looked at the cupcakes, you noticed they were a bit too light in color. “Hmm, babe, don’t you think they look a little undercooked? They probably need more time in the oven,” you suggested.

Dipping your finger into one of the cupcakes, you lifted it up to find the batter still runny. Licking your fingertip, you joked, “Here’s a little advice: if it’s still runny, it’s not a cupcake; it’s a beverage.” With a chuckle, you returned to whipping the cream on the counter.

“Alright, I’ll pop these ‘runny’ amigos back in the oven,” Harry said, putting the tray back.

“And please increase the time,” you said without looking at him. 

But he couldn't help but gaze at you from behind, admiring how you looked while cooking. Out of the blue, he wrapped his arms around you and showered your cheek and neck with quick, playful kisses.

“Harry, stop! You’re going to make me spill the cream. What are you doing?” 

He gently swept your hair to one side, revealing your shoulder, and you felt his lips caress your skin. “I can’t resist; you look stunning, whipping up delicious treats in my kitchen, like you're already my wife,” he murmured softly, making you giggle.

His hand slid up your thighs beneath your skirt, lingering just above your hem. "Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to keep my hands to myself when you’re wearing that dress?" 

Your heart began to race. "Harry..." you murmured.

He lifted the hem of your dress and pressed himself against you. You gasped as you felt how hard he was. You almost dropped the cream container.

He suddenly wrapped his arms around your waist, spun you around, and lifted you onto the counter. Before you could even process what was happening, he pressed his lips against yours. What started as a sweet kiss quickly turned into something much more passionate, and without thinking, you instinctively draped your arms around his neck, spreading your legs for him. He leaned in closer, drawing you to the edge of the counter. One hand rested on your hips while the other gently traced its way along your thighs. He let out a soft moan as you wrapped your legs around his waist, his clothed cock teasing you in a delightful way.

Now you were as eager as he was, consumed with a sudden desire. 

What a beautiful persuasion, what a beautiful surrender. 

"All right," you said, breaking the kiss with difficulty. "But let's hurry, there are lots of cupcakes and desserts to make." you said as you tried to take off your kitchen apron, but his fingers had already reached behind you and untied the apron string.

"We've got 15 minutes." 

His hands reached under the skirt cupping your ass,  picked you up, then turned you around, reset the timer, and turned the heat down a bit. "Make it 30," he said with a smirk

You raised one eyebrow, "Slow cooking... Hmm, that could totally be a new way to get a better crust. I can’t wait to try these."

"Me too but first, I want to relish on that sweet pussy of yours," he said kissing you again, sending delightful shivers through your spine.

His words were enough to turn you on.

It was hot... so damn hot..

With that, he carried you in his arms to the bedroom, taking your panties off and throwing them only-god-knows-where on his way.

Your moans and giggles echoing around the hall.

“Now, get ready guys… here comes the red velvet cake—the angel on the outside, the devil on the inside.” You proudly presented your dessert to everyone gathered around Harry's large table in the dining room, where Maria, Mia, Oliver, Zoe, John, and Harry were all eagerly tasting and voting on the treats you had whipped up throughout the evening.

Maria was the first to raise her hand. “I’m giving this dessert an 8, darling, I’m not a fan of the sweetness from the white chocolate.”

“I’ll try adding agave next time; I’d love for you to give it a shot,” you replied with a smile. “How about you all?”

Oliver chimed in, “I’d give it a 9.”

Zoe followed, saying, “I also give it a 9.”

"I think it’s a 9 for me too," John added, sharing a smile with Zoe.

You turned to Mia. “What about you sweetheart?”

“I think it’s a 9 as well,” Mia said.

All eyes shifted to Harry, waiting for his verdict. “I’m giving it a 10, it’s fantastic. Can we even go higher than that and give it an 11?” He grinned at you, and you laughed, leaning in to give him a quick kiss.

Maria rolled her eyes. “You’ve been giving everything a 10 that your girlfriend has made tonight. I’m not sure how objective you’re being.”

Shrugging, “But she did make everything amazing,” Harry said, lifting your hand and kissing it softly. “You’re going to shine at that fair, baby.”

"Yeah, I know you’ll do great," Zoe added supportively.

“Did you find the brand name?” Maria asked. “Mia and I put together a list for you, didn’t we bunnie?”

“Yeah, here it is,” Mia said, pulling out her tablet and setting it on the table. You quickly glanced at it. 

“Wow, this is all fantastic, ladies. Good job, It's tough to choose, though.”

“Honey, we should probably get going,” Zoe said as she stood up.

You looked at her, “Okay, thanks for coming, guys,” as you hugged both her and John.

“Good luck at the fair,” John smiled at you.

“Thank you John."

“Good night, everyone! See ya,” Zoe called as the others waved goodbye.

“See you later,” Harry said as you followed them towards the door. 

“Thanks for being cool about John coming along,” you said to Harry as they stepped into the lift.

“When I say ‘let me into your world,’ I mean that John is part of it since he’s your cousin’s boyfriend. It’s all good. Besides, everything between us is just a minor blip from the past,” he said.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and sighed, “I love you so much.”

“I love you too, mi amor,” he said softly, pulling you close and kissing you.

Just then, a throat clearing interrupted the moment. You both pulled back and turned to see Maria standing there, her phone in hand. 

“Harry, you need to see this,” she said, handing him her mobile.

The smile faded from Harry’s face as he glanced at the screen before returning it to her. 

“What happened?” you asked, feeling a knot of worry forming.

“Alan…” he mumbled.

“His mother has passed away,” Maria added.

Silence hung in the air as you studied Harry. “Are you going to the funeral?”

“No, it wouldn’t feel right for me to go,” he replied.

You gently touched his arm. “But you’re not responsible for what happened in the past, Harry. Besides, it’s a funeral.”

“Still, I don’t think I’d want to see him if I were him,” he said.

“Harry is right, I’ll go,” Maria suggested.

Sensing an undertone in Maria’s voice that left you uneasy. She was somehow keeping something from Harry about her conversation with Alan earlier that day, and it made you feel uneasy.

Finally, the day you had eagerly anticipated arrived. It was the end of your internship, and Chef Bruno was set to hand you the letter for your certification. Harry had been called away from the company early that day, so you decided to go on your own.

The walk wasn’t far anyway. 

Upon entering the hotel lobby, you were taken aback by the sight of a crowd gathered there. You recognized the doorman and approached him. “What’s going on? Why is everyone gathered here?”

“Mr. Finnegan,” he replied, his voice laced with distress. “He’s declared that no one can enter the bar or dining room, and the customers are absolutely furious.”

“Is he okay?” you asked, remembering he had just lost his mother. You understood the pain of loss all too well.

“Honestly, I've worked here for 20 years, and I’ve never seen him like this before,” the doorman replied.

“Is Bruno around?”

“Not yet.”

“Alright, I’ll wait in the kitchen, thanks.” 

As you made your way toward the kitchen, murmurs of anxiety rippled through the air, the tension palpable. You pulled out your mobile phone, scrolled through your contacts for Bruno’s name, and pressed call. As it rang, you took off your coat, draping it casually over a chair, while casting glances at the other waiters, whose faces mirrored the stark worry that filled the room. They were nervous about Alan, how he had secluded himself in the dining room for hours, demanding solitude. When Bruno called to say he would be late, your anxiety heightened.

What a last day at the hotel!

It was supposed to be a celebration in the air, but instead, there was worry, sadness, and frustration.

You started to feel bored waiting in the kitchen with the other waiters. You decided to glance through the door to the dining room, and it shocked you. Alan sat at a table, his clothes disheveled, hair in disarray, and clearly upset. Despite your previous feelings toward him—you clearly didn't like him—a wave of pity washed over you.

Marvelous.

After a while, he called out to the waiters, who exchanged worried glances. No one seemed brave enough to approach him in his current state.

You made a decision that you suspected you might regret later. “I’ll go,” you said, trying to reassure them while putting yourself in a highly tense situation.

As you stepped into the dining room and walked toward his table, he didn’t look up initially, but once you stood beside him, his gaze met yours, surprise evident on his face.

“I’m really sorry for your loss,” you said softly, barely above a whisper but sincerely.

You felt uncomfortable under his intense stare and quickly looked away. 

“Please, sit down,” he urged, almost pleadingly.

Usually, you wouldn’t have done so—after all, he wasn’t your boss anymore. But given his distress, you took a seat. 

“Alan, you really need to gather yourself,” you said coolly.

He nodded. “Yeah, I’ll be alright soon. Don’t worry.”

“Not that I’m worried, but your actions are really causing a stir among the customers, and the staff are starting to feel uneasy. And let's not even get started on the reporters hanging around."

“Do you really think I care about them? I’m done caring about anyone or anything,” he said, his tone stern as he focused on you. “Except you.”

You rolled your eyes. “Please, don’t start that again.”

“Oh, honey, I haven’t even begun yet, trust me.”

Your arms crossed defensively. “What in the world are you talking about?”

He leaned in closer, his face getting serious. “Just end things with Harry.”

What the fuck?

What on earth was he saying?

“Alan, I think you should—”

“You won’t? Fine. Then I’ll ruin him.”

Your eyes widened in shock as you tried to comprehend his words. “What are you even talking about?”

“My mother died because of his mother.”

“Harry isn’t to blame. This is something that happened ages ago.”

“My mother fought cancer for years; she couldn’t cope with my father’s betrayal. She meant everything to me. Now I’ve lost my mother, my all, and he will lose everything too.”

You stood up abruptly. “Look, you’re clearly too upset and possibly drunk to understand what you’re saying.”

“No, I’m completely clear-headed. I’ve waited years, held back by my mother’s presence, but that’s over now.” He rose, taking a step toward you. “I’m going to make the Castillo family pay for what they did to mine.”

Anger bubbled within you; this was too much. “Alan, snap out of it. You aren’t solving anything this way. I get your pain, but this is excessive.”

He laughed hysterically. “Excessive? Is that what you think?” Then he grabbed your shoulders. “Do you have any idea what it’s been like to watch my mother suffer in the hospital for all those years?” he shouted, startling you.

Just then, Bruno entered the dining room. "Mr. Finnegan."

“I’ll be there in a minute,” you said nervously.

Bruno took in the situation with a disapproving look but nodded and returned to the kitchen.

But Alan wouldn’t let you go, gripping your wrist tightly. “Let go of my arm, now,” you said through gritted teeth. 

Instead of releasing you, he tightened his hold and leaned in close to your ear. “Don’t forget, every moment you choose to stay with him only brings more trouble for him. I’ll make sure of that.”

You jerked your arm free from his grasp. “Your eyes are clouded with anger. You’re not thinking clearly. I love Harry, and nothing will come between us. I'm not leaving him, no matter what you do, understand?”

A wicked smile crept onto his face. “Oh, I wouldn’t be so confident, honey. You have no clue what I’m capable of.”

“Do your worst,” you shot back. 

“I will,” he replied ominously.

You couldn’t despise him more at that moment.

Throwing him a disgusted look, you turned away and strode out of the room with quick, determined steps. 

Yet, deep down, an unsettling worry clung to you like a shadow, gnawing incessantly at your thoughts about Harry and his family.

After you left, Alan took his cell phone out of his pocket and called someone. “Start foreclosure proceedings.” After hanging up, he let out a soft, almost sinister chuckle to himself.

“You’ll have no choice but to come to me, sweetheart.”

Thanks for reading! I really appreciate your comments, likes, and reblogs. I'd love to hear what you think about the chapter!

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[slut-for-slutty-fictional-men]

saw you were looking for requests!!

ive been thinking of how lando would be sooo gentle with a reader who hasnt ever been loved properly like he would absolutely spoil her till the end of the world even if she refused

like he'd get her favorite flowers and take photos of her all the time and tell her he loves her 24/7

omg yes, I love this! He would be so sweet and caring without even thinking about it! I wrote this pretty quick, but I'm pretty happy with how it turned out.

Like You Deserve

Pairing: Lando Norris x Reader Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Soft Romance Warnings: Mentions of past emotional neglect, low self-worth, crying, healthy relationship dynamics, tooth-rotting fluff Word Count: ~1200 Summary: You’ve never been loved like this. Not gently. Not completely. Not without strings or apologies. But Lando? Lando loves you like it’s the easiest thing in the world — and slowly, impossibly, you begin to let him.

Masterlist

The first time you cried in front of Lando, it was over something stupid.

At least, that’s what you told him.

It had been a long day. One of those heavy, dragging ones where everything feels just slightly off. You got the wrong coffee order. Your boss snapped at you. Someone bumped into you on the train and didn’t say sorry. Nothing huge, nothing tragic — just little paper cuts you’d bled from quietly.

And then you got home, and there they were.

Peonies. Your favorite.

A bouquet in your favorite color, sitting in a glass vase on the kitchen counter. No note. No announcement. Just waiting.

You stared at them like they might disappear if you blinked.

And when Lando came in from the other room — curls damp from a shower, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows — and smiled at you like you mattered, you burst into tears.

He crossed the room in seconds. “Hey—hey, love, what’s wrong?”

You shook your head. Covered your face. You didn’t want him to see. You didn’t want to ruin the moment. You didn’t want to need this as badly as you did.

But he didn’t get frustrated. He didn’t sigh, or say you were being dramatic, or ask if you were hormonal.

He just wrapped his arms around you, warm and firm, and said softly:

“I’ll get you flowers every day if it means you cry like this less.”

You laughed — wet and broken — into his chest.

You’d never been loved like this before.

Not gently.

Not without earning it first.

You try not to talk about your past much. It’s messy. It makes people uncomfortable.

But Lando notices things.

He notices how you flinch a little when he raises his voice — even if it’s just from laughing too loudly.

He notices how you apologize three times for interrupting him, even when you didn’t.

He notices how you never ask him for help, even when you’re clearly overwhelmed.

And worst of all, he notices how surprised you look every time he does something thoughtful.

“Stop acting like I brought you the moon,” he says once, when you gasp at the takeout he brought after your long shift.

You smile tightly. “Sorry. I’m just not used to this.”

“To being fed?”

“To being… seen.”

He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t look away.

Instead, he cups your jaw, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “Then get used to it, love. ‘Cause I’m not going anywhere.”

He starts taking photos of you when you’re not looking.

You notice it one morning, scrolling through his phone while he’s in the shower. A whole album labeled with your initials — filled with candids.

You sipping coffee on the balcony. You in one of his hoodies, asleep on the couch. You laughing at something off-camera, head thrown back, eyes bright.

You look beautiful in all of them.

You don't recognize yourself.

When he comes back in, towel around his shoulders, he sees you looking.

Your voice is small. “You keep pictures of me?”

Lando blinks, confused. “Course I do.”

You set the phone down like it might burn you. “I just… no one’s ever done that before.”

He crosses the room. Presses a kiss to the top of your head. “Then they were idiots.”

One night, weeks later, you break.

Not in the loud, dramatic way. Not like glass shattering. More like a hairline crack that finally gives way under pressure.

You’re lying in bed, curled into his side, his fingers playing absentmindedly with yours. Everything should feel perfect. Safe.

And still, you ask:

“Why do you love me?”

Lando’s hand stills.

You almost wish you could swallow the question back down. But it’s out there now. Ugly and trembling and raw.

“Sorry,” you mumble. “Forget I said anything.”

“No,” he says, firm. “Don’t do that.”

You can’t look at him. “I just don’t get it. I’m a mess. I’m anxious. I second-guess everything. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be—”

“Stop.”

His voice is low, but not angry. Just steady.

He tilts your chin so you have to meet his eyes.

“I don’t love you in spite of those things. I love you because of who you are.”

You blink, throat tight.

“I love that you care too much. That you remember the name of every mechanic on my team. That you leave me little notes when I travel. That you’re still soft after everything life’s thrown at you.” He swallows. “I love you. Full stop. No conditions. No fine print.”

You’re crying again.

This time, you don’t try to hide it.

And when he kisses you, slow and reverent, you let yourself believe — just for a second — that maybe you’re not too hard to love after all.

You stop apologizing so much.

You start texting him first.

You let him buy you flowers without flinching.

You even let him take a photo of you on your bad hair day, after whining for a full ten minutes about how awful you look.

(He posts it anyway — captioned, “Cutest human alive, don’t fight me.”)

And when he tells you he loves you — casually, easily, every day — you finally start saying it back without fear.

Because he never makes you earn it.

Because he says it like it’s your name.

Because he means it.

Later that night, you’re tucked into the passenger seat of Lando’s car, the city lights flickering past like fireflies. His hoodie swallows you whole — sleeves too long, hood up, wrapped around you like a second skin — and your legs are folded beneath you, socked toes pressed to the leather seat.

The radio’s playing softly. Something nostalgic. His hand finds yours without looking.

He does that now — reaches for you without needing to think.

And you let him.

Your fingers settle into the spaces between his, perfectly matched. His thumb rubs gently across your knuckles, slow and soothing. You watch the motion like it might slip away if you blink.

“I think I’m starting to believe you,” you say after a long stretch of silence.

His eyes flick to you, quick and warm. “Believe what?”

“That you love me.”

The smile that blooms across his face isn’t wide or showy. It’s quiet. Soft. Reverent, almost. Like he’s been waiting to hear that from you.

“I’ve never said anything truer,” he murmurs.

You turn your head, studying him in the warm dashboard glow. One hand on the wheel. One hand in yours. The same boy who brings you flowers without a reason. Who kisses your shoulder in passing. Who sees you.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” you whisper, voice barely a breath.

Lando squeezes your hand. “You don’t have to do anything, love. You deserve it just by being you.”

You blink fast, throat catching. He doesn’t look away.

“Let me keep showing you, yeah?”

You nod, heart thudding hard. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time in your entire life, you believe it.

A/N: i really loved writing this, felt very healing (I need therapy lmao) anyways please send me requests! I love reading yall's ideas! also feel free to ask me any questions if you want hehe :)

[harrows-soup-kitchen]

I think about Harrow and Crux a lot actually and I need to talk about it a little bit or I might scream. because like- Crux sucks right?? we all agree on this, he is an awful, wretched old man who was abjectly abusive to one of two little girls left in his care after the deaths of their primary care takers.

but then his relationship with Harrow in specific makes me insane bc he loved that girl SO MUCH. that was his daughter!!!! maybe even more so than she was Priamhark and Pelleamena’s she was his!!!

and HE KNEW just like they did exactly what had to be done to create her, he watched her grow up reviled by her parents and he looked at that little girl and just… loved her? no questions asked, no morality hang ups, she was worth every sin committed to get her.

because that’s the thing about Crux i think for me, the moment he conceived of Harrow’s existence she was what he was loyal to, not the ninth or the reverend parents or even god just his kid; the rest of the ninth loved Harrow because she was The Reverend Daughter, Crux loved Harrow because she was Harrow. and because she was Harrow she was literally more important than anyone else.

and what does that do to a person? because I can guarantee right now that it was not good for either of them, like at all. Harrow was traumatised, fundamentally hubristic and a literal actual child, with a very confused moral compass, who by age ten had become fully complicit in the abuse of the only other child she had ever met!!! she did not need yet another grown adult enabling her to become worse!!

not to mention that he did abuse his position as the final arbiter of her reality to lie to her on more than one occasion, including but not limited to that one time he deadass killed two whole people for going even slightly against his special little lady (not to mention the several times he seemingly tried to kill Gideon without Harrow noticing)

an idea I see thrown around a lot when discussing the potential kiriona-John dynamic that I think works really well and is also interesting when applied to Harrow and Crux, albeit in a slightly different way is : what if your dad was the worst man in the universe and also literally the only person who really wanted you? how do you contend with that?

ALSO the fact that in Nona we find out that half his grudge with Gideon is that she didn’t die for Harrow!! her parents fear it but Crux is BITTER about it!! he’s so angry that she, in his eyes, has been failing to do right by Harrow her entire life because she could never die right!!

anyway, all this to say I can’t wait to see Harrow try to navigate her grief over Crux’s death in AtN while contending with the fact that he was fundamentally complicit in her continued abuse of Gideon for years and years, which ultimately led to gideons degradation of self and set the groundwork for her sacrificial suicide.

not to mention yet another person she desperately loved dying in a way that is unquestionably in service of her continued existence, unasked for and without giving her a snowflakes chance in hell of saying goodbye. again.

[bloodybreakupscene]

-> 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐃.

robert (bob) reynolds x reader

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ [desc.] :: although he isn't aware it's even a thing, you're bob's comfort person, his safe space.

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ [a/n] :: haaiii this is just fluff and cuteness i love bob he deserves the world,,, go watch thunderbolts* for this cutie 💔

bob has always struggled with his self confidence, from youth to the age he is now he's never felt really.. worth it. he always figured he was just there, no real purpose. however, after the whole, void-sentry thing, he's felt fine, content, basically, but there's some days where he feels as if he's better than he is, and most of those days are with you.

“your hair looks nice today.” you say, both of you at the kitchen sink together.

“wai- what? me?” he asks, pointing at himself as if there's anyone else in the room with you.

“mhm,” you nod, putting your washed plate on a rack so he can dry it with the small towel in his hands.

“i, wow, thanks, hehe,” he giggles, small smile on his face, “you look, nice too. well, you always do.. that was corny, sorry.”

he tilts his head back down, face flushing red as he rambled for a bit. “thanks for helping me by the way.”

“it's no problem, i really don't mind.” facing back to the plethora of utensils you've been washing. he faces his feet but all he can think about is you, which he finds stupid now because you're literally right there.

“since everyone's out right now… wanna go like, watch a movie?” you ask, walking up next to him, body nearly up against him.

you don't notice but he surely does.

“i.. uh .. yeah. yeah i would.” his hands fidget with a towel as he follows you into the watchtower living room, like a puppy trailing its owner.

you sit on the couch and grab the remote, bob sitting next to you, you ask if there's anything specific he wants to watch and he shakes his head, “no, no, i'm fine with whatever,” smiling in that goofy way he usually does.

he tries to disregard his pink dusty cheeks but it's hard when he physically feels his face heating up. he loves talking to you, he loves listening to you, just everything, he thinks.

this feels nice, being around someone, back when he left the vault, he was so consistently on edge, that there was danger around every corner. which granted, there was, but now its all a distant memory; something he can shove– “no, can't do that anymore”

“huh?” you turn your head away from the screen.

“oh, nothing, sorry,” his eyes looking at the screen instead of a blank spot on the wall. he feels so safe with you, also very sleepy. he swears he wasn't this tired when you were both doing dishes, what happened?

his head leans over to the side and he slouches down more. he's never felt so comfortable before. did we get a new couch? he thinks.

not even five minutes pass and he's leaning on your shoulder, legs nearly half off the couch like he's some sort of house cat. your body is so comfy, comfy and warm.

he must've been sleeping for at least an hour because when his eyes open again credits are rolling and his head is on your lap. if he was more awake he would've apologizes profusely but he couldn't really care less right now. not when your hands are in his hair and you're massaging his scalp.

your hands play with little parts of hair and he feels so relaxed. his arms are splayed over your legs as well and he shifts his own legs onto the rest of the unoccupied couch. he thinks you fell asleep too because the moving hand remains still but still intertwined in his locks.

“OUR TEAM BOND IS STRONGER THAN EVER!” alexei declares–loudly, as he always does when he sees his two favorite valued team members passed out on the couch.

the others pour in nearly a hundred times quieter than alexei and groan at the volume of his voice for what seemed the 34th time that day.

bob doesn't flinch or even stir in his sleep, the warmth and contentment being enough to keep him in slumber. however, the same could NOT be applied to you. eyes blinking open staring at the Thunderbolts*™ that just entered the tower.

“team bond? what? what the hell were you guys talking about?”

“nothing, nothing. go, continue with..” ava takes a swig of water from a cup, “your little cuddle sesh and whatnot.”

“were not..? like barely..” you roll your eyes, now feeling the weight of your friends eyes on you, “ok whatever.”

john snickers, “pfft, we all know where that'll go,” he leaves the room, the others pour into their respective rooms but yelena stays.

“i'm glad you two have each other,” her voice uncharacteristically soft.

“even if it's not like that,” she teases, “i give it two weeks– confession, heartfelt, whatever shit they do in the movies.”

“okay–thanks yelena, you can leave now.”

[iamthatonefangirl]

YOU WANTED more thoughts?? here i am.

mean n possessive dads best friend bucky whose always known you have a crush on him

OR (and?)

also you yapping n overthinking and bucky stopping you by fucking you

-@nevereclipse

sneaky - nsfw dbf!bucky barnes

please be warned this is... deranged. uncle kink. (not actual uncle because it's dbf) BOTH ARE FULLY GROWN ADULTS 18+ OKAY. you have been warned, read at your own discretion.

~~~

sneaking around with your dad's best friend probably wasn't the best idea you'd ever had.

what made it worse? every time your dad referred to him as your "Uncle Bucky." you cringed every time you heard it.

yeah, that's who he was to you your whole life. but hearing it now, knowing what you knew...

it put a bad taste in your mouth. a reminder of what you absolutely should not be doing.

but the way he fucks you isn't worth giving up just for peace of mind.

you wonder, sometimes, if that's what people who cheat on their partners think. that no matter how wrong it is, how many people you hurt, it just feels too goddamn good to give up. they're willing to go to insane lengths to keep the secret and keep their families together. they want to have their cake and eat it too.

because even though neither of you are cheating on anybody, that's exactly what you're both doing.

~~~

"fuck, that's my girl," he groans as you get down on your knees in front of him. you'd been sitting on his couch, watching something on netflix, anything, when you got carried away. only thirty seconds into the show.

maybe you're just insane, but there's something about being on your knees for him, bowing down to him, knowing how wrong this is...

he's supposed to be a father figure in your life, and what are you doing? you're blowing him with no remorse for your actions. you've done it before, and you're looking forward to doing it again.

his hands massage your scalp, encouraging you, "come on. be good. you can take it all," he says, pushing further into your throat and holding your head there, making you take it.

"love seeing you take all of me. love knowing I'm the only one who gets to fuck this little throat, huh? ain't that right? my own personal call girl?"

you nod as best you can while he holds you in place.

"yeah. my little girl. all grown up now, such a slut for her uncle, huh?"

your face warms so much you feel like you're sitting in front of the furnace. he loves rubbing this in your face, reminding you of what you're doing, forcing you to get off on it.

"that's right. you know your place, I know you do. I taught you so well."

he holds you there for you don't know how long, massaging your scalp down to the back of your neck, before bringing his hand to the front of your throat and pressing on where it bulges, thanks to him.

"my girl," he hisses. "none of those little college boys can fuck you the way you need. you needed someone you know, someone you trust, ain't that right?"

you might cry from how embarrassed and turned on you are right now.

"that's right. so needy for my cock, every fucking time, knowing how stupid you're being. you just can't get enough."

you're startled when his phone rings. he doesn't bother moving you, making you sit there while he looks down at the screen to see who it is. when he ignores it, you finally relax.

"you know I've been taking care of you your whole life, darlin'. course I'm gonna take care of you now. gotta take care of all your little needs cause no one else can, not like Uncle Bucky can."

and then, your phone rings in your pocket.

"fuck, is he calling you now?" Bucky groans.

and that's when you freak, shoving yourself off of him and falling backwards onto your ass on the floor. you reach for your phone in your back pocket.

Bucky asks you, "the hell are you doing? you're not done."

your voice is fucked when you quickly tell him, "my dad knows I'm with you! I told him we were getting dinner!"

Bucky's eyes widen. normally you tell him you're at a friend's place.

he nods and you hurry to answer.

"hey, Dad..." you try, clearing your throat, trying not to sound like you're absolutely wrecked.

"yeah, no we got takeout... yeah, Bucky's outside... yeah..."

you eventually hang up the call, both of you sitting there, startled.

no matter how much Bucky taunts you about it, it's not fun when you're reminded of the reality.

"he asked me why we didn't invite him and my mom," you tell him quietly from your spot, still on the ground.

you're both silent for a minute, the tv still playing in the background as you the awkward moment drags on and on.

you eventually both decide it's best to call it a night.

~~~

you both know better than to be reckless at this point.

but sometimes, you just can't help it.

you were trying to hop in the shower one afternoon, turning on the water, waiting for it to steam up the room. minute after minute ticked by as you stood there, naked, pleading the water to get hot.

you curse the universe when it doesn't, because it's just your luck that your dad isn't home to fix the problem.

so you shut off the water, wrap a towel around yourself, and go sit on your bed while you make a call.

"hey you, what's up?" he asks.

"can you come fix my pipes?" you tease.

Bucky stutters for a moment. "wow, that's... bold of you to say. I take it your folks aren't home?"

"you're right, they're not. but no, I'm being serious, the hot water won't turn on. can you come over and take a look at it for me?"

"yeah, sure. be over in a few."

you don't bother putting on any clothes, waiting around for the knock at the door still clad in your bath towel.

when you answer the door, you can't help yourself.

"oh, mister, however am I supposed to repay you?" you ask, pretending to be distraught, but it's ruined by the fact that you can't stop laughing as you say it.

"you're insufferable," he teases, stepping inside and yanking the towel from your form as he walks to the closet where the hot water heater is.

"hey!" you yell, reaching for the towel again.

"nothing I ain't seen before. besides, it'll encourage me to do my best work if I got an incentive for payment, don't ya think?"

that's how you end up in the shower together, hot water fixed, thirty minutes later.

he's got you pinned against the ice cold tile wall, hooking one of your legs up and around his waist. his fingers trace the skin of your thigh, his other hand behind your head to keep it from hitting against the hard wall.

"yeah, that's it. gonna let me use you, aren't you?"

"yes, yes, Bucky," you whine. he's teasing you, running his tip up and down your folds. he stares down at the sight, working you up to make you so desperate you'll do whatever he wants.

you start begging way too soon. "please, Bucky, I can't wait. please," you say, drawing out the last syllable.

he has no mercy, continuing to tease, before pulling back entirely.

"Bucky!" you cry, the only word in your mind.

"you know what I want to hear," he whispers in your ear.

he did this on purpose. he always does this on purpose, goddamnit.

"please, Uncle Bucky?"

he groans in approval, finally pushing himself into you, opening you up for him once again.

except it doesn't last long, because with the water raining down on the both of you along with the force of his motions, neither of you can keep your feet in place, and you keep slipping.

"god, least we tried," he laughs, turning off the water and picking you up bridal style to take you to your bedroom.

he barely gets the chance to lay you down when you hear the front door unlock downstairs.

you make eye contact. you're fucked, you're fucked.

"go put on your clothes. spray your shirt with the shower nozzle, tell him I sprayed you after you fixed the hot water," you whisper to him, pushing him off of you.

you both scramble to put on your clothes. Bucky does as you instructed, and you freak out when you see your sheets covered in water. you didn't bother using your towel, which clearly, was a bad move.

you're pretty sure your dad buys the excuse.

~~~

a few weekends later, your parents invite Bucky over for family dinner. he texts you before coming over, "wear a skirt for me, pretty girl."

now, as you sit at the table eating dinner, you know why.

he sits there, trailing his prosthetic fingers up and down your thigh under your skirt, all while your parents talk to him like normal. there's very little for you to contribute, so you're lucky you can focus on keeping your shit together while he messes with you, occasionally pinching your skin to keep you on edge.

"Bucky, we have something to ask you about," you hear from across the table.

his hand stops, and your jaw freezes in the middle of chewing.

"uh, what's that?" he asks them.

"we think there's something you're not telling us. and we think it's something you're both keeping from us."

you're fucked. you're done for. it's over.

"it's not what you think-" he begins, only to be cut off.

"have you started seeing someone? you've been happier lately. and knowing our daughter, she's probably already figured it out, but you've sworn her to secrecy, right?"

you let out a sharp exhale.

you're safe.

"yes, yeah. that's exactly it," he tells them, continuing to make excuses that he didn't want to say anything yet, it's still new...

his hand begins moving under the table again.

~~~

later that evening, you express a craving for ice cream.

"I'll take her," Bucky says before anyone else responds. "and I'll have her home before curfew."

you feel a pang in your chest when your dad assures Bucky, no need. we trust you with our daughter.

you know Bucky feels the guilt hit, too.

it doesn't stop you, though, from finding an empty parking lot and getting in the back seat as soon as possible.

"fuck, what would you have done if they'd found out, hmm? would you have admitted you had a thing for your uncle, baby?" he taunts, moving your hips down on his as you straddle him, riding him the way he likes.

the windows are already coated in condensation, the both of you so eager and pent up from the stress of the evening.

"no," you pant, tossing your head back.

he brings a hand to your throat, making you look at him.

"nuh-uh. you're gonna watch me while I fuck you. you're never gonna forget who it is that's fucking you like this, you hear me? I'm never going to let you forget."

~~~

when he drops you back at your house that evening, your mom asks, "vanilla?"

"I'm sorry, what?" you ask, confused.

"you get vanilla? you got some white stuff right there," she points to the corner of your lips.

you don't tell her you didn't go for ice cream.

~~~

guys I am sorry for this one... I had to

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[marblehazel]

Deeper

dbf!Joel Miller x f!reader

Part Two of Sitter

After nine months of no contact since the night Joel spent at your house, you run into him again over winter break.

Tags: Explicit MDNI, no outbreak, age gap, hurt/comfort, lots of feelings and tensions and arguing, which eventually lead to, car sex, unprotected penetration, fingering, first kiss (yay?!!)

Word count: 8.1k

You wake up disoriented.

The first thing your brain registers is how hot your face feels. After blinking a few times, you squint and look around. Sunlight is pouring through the window to the room, hitting you with what feels like a gigajoule worth of heat right on your cranium. You yank the blanket that is covering you away, cursing at how hot and sweaty you are under.

Supporting yourself up with your elbows, you plant your feet on the floor before sitting up straight, stretching your back and arms and groaning while doing so. You scare yourself hearing how nasally your voice is. Your mind runs, dissecting the events from the previous night.

Oh, right. You were sick last night. You slept in front of the TV after taking some medication. You remember the ache in your muscles and joints, the debilitating fever. How you embodied a person in Victorian times on their deathbed, pale and sickly, and all they wanted was to see the garden for one last time. You touch your forehead, and then your neck. Seems like the fever has gone away, leaving your skin sticky with sweat. Your nose isn’t stuffy anymore. And the sore throat is almost gone. You should send a love letter to Vicks headquarters.

While rubbing your face, you are hit by the sudden realization of this strangely vivid dream you had about Joel. It was definitely a wet one, on top of how it was obviously strange and came out-of-nowhere. The kind of dream only fever and probably too much Benadryl can produce. You remember that in the dream, you were watching TV with Joel, and it escalated to going down on him before he went down on you. Fuck, that was embarrassing. And so… porn-y. Straight out of a cheap adult video production company. Ooh, look at me, I’m sick and I’m alone and my dad’s hot friend came and ate my pussy out. What’s next, a plumbing guy? A pizza delivery boy?

Going upstairs is a chore. Your joints are stiff and the knob of the upstairs bathroom’s door gets stuck from time to time, and apparently today is the time. After almost kicking it down, you run the tap and give your face a good wash with cold water, resuscitating your brain cells from doxylamine-induced coma. After that, the very much needed teeth brushing.

You glance at the mirror, cringing at how disheveled your reflection looks. Maybe you should take a hot shower while you’re at it. Toothbrush still in mouth, you run your fingers through your hair, feeling the oily scalp under your fingertips.

And that’s when you find the proof of Joel’s visit. His release, not even fully dried up, is lodged between the strands of hair near your forehead. You pick at it and bring the sample to your nose, half hoping it’s snot. One whiff and it’s confirmed. The dreamy sequence of Joel Miller eating you out was, in fact, not a dream.

The realization hits like a truck. Your body is ahead of your mind and before you realize it, you’re already halfway downstairs, almost tripping and splitting your skull on the staircase. You turn the living room upside down, trying to find your phone. Eventually, you find it after digging in every crook and corner of the couch. It’s dead. You quickly plug it in and wait for the home screen to appear. 4 missed calls from your father, 2 from Amy. A bunch of texts.

Dad

Sweetie? I was asleep. I am so sorry you’re going through it alone. I called Joel. He should be on his way.

Is he there yet?

Didn’t hear from Joel and I can’t reach you. Please call me ASAP.

I hope you’re just asleep. Rest up and text me when you’re finally awake, okay 👍

Sweetie?

Amy

Your dad and I are worried sick. I hope you’re feeling better! Say hi when you’re up

Make some lemon ginger tea if your throat still feels awful

Ignoring the fact that you are pretty much shaking, you scroll until you find Joel’s contact, checking if he has left any message before leaving. The last conversation was from him last year on your birthday, to which you said thanks with a bunch of emojis. Nothing new. You check around the house, thinking maybe Joel left a note. Also nothing.

The house is eerily clean from his trace. In the kitchen you find everything is where it should be, and he even took the trash out. The front lawn seems unchanged, too. No tire marks on the driveway, no flattened grass, no dried mud in the shape of the sole of his boots on the porch. It’s like he was never here.

If you hadn’t found the remains of his semen on you, you would totally believe last night was just a dirty fantasy that somehow managed to override your brain while asleep.

You’re not sure what to do, or even how to feel. Guilt? Disgust? You guess it wouldn’t have bothered you that much if not for the fact that Joel tried his best to pretend he never visited. It makes your stomach churns.

Your phone rings. Dad.

“Sweetheart?”

“Dad,”

A relieved sigh from the other end. “How are you feeling?”

“Better. I can run a marathon.” you let out a breathy laugh. “Sorry I left you worried last night. I took some NyQuil and slept,”

That was technically not a lie.

“Yeah? I figured. Did Joel come? He said he would check, but we haven’t heard anything—”

Fucking pussy, you mouth. “Uh, I was probably asleep when he came. If—he came.”

Not only did he come figuratively, he also came metaphorically.

A faint ding sound, and your father pauses to read the notification. “Ah, there he is! Sorry… Car broke down… Phone died… Couldn’t find the damn charger. Ha!”

You chuckle dryly, heart sinking. “Yeah, it was storming last night, too, so…”

“Ah,” he gasps. “Well I sure do hope he wasn’t in the middle of the road when his car broke down! Did I tell you about that one time a chair—“

You can’t hear anything past that.

.

Joel is scared.

He hasn’t stopped thinking about what happened since the second he left your house. He doesn’t even remember driving home. One moment he was grinning as you skipped your way to the land of dreams, the next he was pulling on his jeans with shaking hands, and then he was standing in the middle of his kitchen staring at the microwave clock, heart thundering like he just ran ten miles.

What the fuck did I do? It plays in his head on a loop, over and over again. Not the way your mouth felt, not the way your voice cracked when you begged, not even the way you looked up at him with those wet, feverish eyes like you needed him more than air. No. None of the good stuff. Just the guilt. The sinking, oil-thick weight in his chest when he looked down at you and remembered who you were. Who your father is. What you meant to him before last night blurred all the lines.

At work, he drops a box on his foot. Snaps at someone who didn’t deserve it. Spends a full ten minutes staring at a power drill someone hands to him to fix, unable to remember what the fuck he’s supposed to be doing. His head isn’t screwed on right. It’s full of images he doesn’t want to replay, and feelings he doesn’t know what to do with.

You text him mid-afternoon.

Thank you for last night. I hope you have a good day at work.

He sees it pop up on his screen while he’s staring blankly at the schedule of the construction, unable to assess whether it’s on track or not. He doesn’t open the message. Doesn’t reply. Can’t.

Another one comes two hours later.

Can we talk? I was thinking maybe dinner. At my place, or yours, or anywhere you want. Please?

He turns his phone off and tells himself it’s the right thing. That not answering is kinder than… indulging you. That if he keeps quiet, maybe it’ll just fade. Maybe you’ll forget. Or at least catch the hint.

He spends the rest of the day in silence. Takes the long way home. Opens a beer and leaves it on the counter untouched. Stares out the window until the sun goes down and he’s just a silhouette in his own house. Feels like a coward. Because he is.

He knows he should regret it because it was wrong.

He does regret it.

But with each minute passing, it comes to his mind that he doesn’t regret making you come apart in his hands as much as he regrets—and realizes —how badly he’s wanted it for longer than he should have. How despite him trying so hard to deny and fight himself on it, the first word that came to his mind when you looked at him like that last night, all flushed and needy and trusting as he spent himself on you, was ‘finally’.

Back at your place, you sit curled on the couch with your phone in your hands, screen glowing against your knees. You check it every few minutes. Nothing. You start composing a message, delete it. Try again. Delete that one too. Eventually, you just set the phone down and bury your face in your hands.

You don’t even know why you’re crying. Maybe it’s the way he left. Or the way he’s pretending it didn’t happen. Or maybe it’s just that being sick and alone is already shitty enough without adding heartbreak to the list.

Heartbreak? You laugh at your own thoughts, but nothing comes out of your vocal cord.

You eat some stale bread over the sink for dinner that night, tears still running down your cheeks.

.

You make up your mind around noon, halfway through a cold cup of tea you never meant to finish. The ache in your chest hasn't dulled, not even after crying yourself to sleep and waking up three separate times just to check your phone like some pathetic addict. No new messages. No missed calls. You drive over to his house like a goddamn lunatic, cursing yourself when you keep checking yourself on the rearview mirror like Joel would care.

You wait. Hours pass. The sun shifts. You scroll. You text Amy some bullshit about feeling “a little better.” You rehearse what you're going to say and then un-rehearse it because you know damn well you’ll go off-script the second you see his face.

Every truck that drove by had your heart in your throat, but none of them were Joel’s until now. You see the familiar beat-up Ford come up the street, slow into the driveway. Your whole body goes still. His expression passes through surprise, confusion, resignation. Then he gets out, slams the door, and approaches.

“What are you doin’ here?” he says, cautious. Almost gentle.

You shrug like you just happened to be in the neighborhood. “Thought we could talk.”

Joel doesn’t say anything at first, just exhales through his nose and unlocks the door. “C’mon in.”

The house is dim, cooled by the late afternoon. Lived-in, but quiet. He toes off his boots at the entryway. You follow suit.

“Been out here long?” he asks, not looking at you.

“Just a bit,” you lie.

He nods like he knows you’re lying. Heads to the kitchen, opens the fridge.

“You hungry?”

“No.”

“I got leftovers. Chicken and rice. You could eat.”

You smirk, bitter and tired. “I gotta say, you have a very interesting modus operandi. Feed me, eat my pussy, then act like I don’t exist, and then feed me again. By the pattern I guess you’ll eat my pussy again after this? Can’t wait.”

Joel closes the fridge, slow and quiet. Doesn’t move. “Quit it, kid.”

“Quit it, kid,” You parrot him, leaning against the counter, trying to keep your cool. “Oh sorry, you know, for having the balls to talk to your face.”

His face doesn’t shift, not even the tiniest bit, and it only pisses you off more. “The way you were just, gone, and all. Didn’t even leave a note or something. Lied to my dad, saying you didn’t even come over. Like it was so disgusting you don’t even want to remember. Like I was disgusting.” Each word is delivered sharper than the last without you meaning to.

He sighs. Deep, guttural. Like this whole thing is dragging something out of him he’s spent years trying to bury. He finally looks at you, and you wish he wouldn’t. There’s too much in his eyes. Grief, guilt, something like longing, but dulled at the edges.

“It was a mistake,” he says, low.

You hold your arms across your chest like they might catch you if you fall. “You didn’t stop me. You could, but you didn’t. You wanted it as much as I did, Joel.”

“I know.” He takes a small step toward you, then stops himself. “And I ain’t proud of that.”

“Why?” Own it, Joel, don’t take it back, you want to say, but your voice cracks before you can voice the rest of it out loud.

“Because you’re you,” he echoes, pain blooming in every syllable. “Because I’ve known you forever. Because I used to sit on that porch with your dad talkin’ about you. Because I care about you and that means I shouldn’t want you the way I do.”

You blink fast. The weight of it lands too heavy in your gut, and you both stand in silence for what feels like years.

“You know,” you say, forcing levity. “It’s not like I was about to ask you to marry me.”

Joel exhales through a tired, pained laugh. “Didn’t think you were.”

Joel looks at you for a long, long moment. And when he finds you silent, processing, his voice softens again—dangerously soft, like the floor’s about to give way.

“You’re beautiful. You’re strong. One day you’re gonna have someone who sees you and knows exactly what you need and gives it without all this…mess.”

“But it won’t be you.” you look at him, fighting the feeling of barbed wire closing around your throat.

“No. It won’t be me.”

The way he said it. Soft. Like he was trying not to scare a stray duckling away. Like he was mending pieces of a broken vase and loud noises would make it shatter again. He knows you. You know he’s not trying to hurt you. But it still stings, opening an old wound somewhere that you can’t locate.

The silence after that is unbearable. You hate that he said it kindly. You wish he’d screamed, or thrown something, or just been a dick so you’d have a reason to stay angry. But no. He just says it with that same sad softness that makes your chest cave in.

You force a brittle laugh. “Well. I guess I’ll go let someone else ruin my life, then.”

Joel’s mouth twitches like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t.

You move to the door. “Take care, Joel.”

“You too, kid.”

“And. Sorry.”

“Oh, don’t. My fault as much as yours.”

“Yeah. I hope you, uh, go find someone that’s not… uh,”

“My friend’s kid?” Joel cuts, filling in the blank.

“Yeah,” you laugh dryly.

“Right,” Joel concurs. “Someone that’s not, uh, affiliated with me, I guess.”

.

You don’t see Joel again after that. You don’t tell a soul about what happened, either.

After that conversation with Joel, you drive your blue Pontiac Vibe back home, all teary and snotty. Two days after that you spend in front of the TV, eyes pointed at the screen but mind elsewhere. Your tears dry soon after, and you ridicule yourself for reacting so strongly over the whole thing like you are going through a divorce or something. You blame it on the hormones.

Your father and Amy come back home later that week, all tanned and radiant. They bring back a vintage jewelry dish for you and a leather wallet for Joel, plus a couple bottles of artisan wine. Your father suggests inviting Joel over for dinner before you go back to school, but before you get to find a convincing excuse to not have to participate in said dinner, Joel declines the invite, saying he is busy handling a big project. While setting the jewelry dish on your vanity, you lament how you should’ve probably gone to Italy instead of staying home.

That weekend you drive back to college. Nothing really changes. Same old routines of going to class and the library, occasional hangouts with friends. By three or four weeks, you have forgotten how seemingly serious the whole ordeal was. The days stretch out, lazily unfolding into summer.

Your father proposes to Amy in July. They send you pictures of the ring and them smiling. Amy cries tears of happiness on the phone, and you discuss the best time to hold the wedding and where, what color and theme, which friends and acquaintances should get invited, and if you’d bring a special someone. You laugh it off.

One day late summer your father sends pictures of him and Joel fishing. Joel is wearing a baseball cap in the picture, biceps flexing as he’s holding the biggest bass you had ever seen, its green scales glistening under the sun. God, he is insufferable. Isn’t bass hard to catch during this time? Even a fish finds Joel irresistible, it seems like. Your father puts his classic goofy smile while having his arms out, holding a phantom fish. In the other picture is Tommy with a catfish. “Day out with the boys 👍” your father captions.

.

Summer goes by, and fall doesn't stay long. You don’t go home for Thanksgiving, opting to take a few small jobs around the school while taking care of your roommate who landed on her ankle wrong trying to copy a girl from the cheer team.

When winter break starts, she’s picked up by her family and you drive back to your hometown, the two hour trip spent singing and pointing at things around the highway to yourself.

You hug your father and Amy first thing after stepping out of the car. The first meal you have together is warm, fun, familiar. You do the dishes and plan to catch up with old friends in town before Christmas.

The next day, you go out to go Christmas shopping. You have secured a really nice silk scarf for Amy after seeing a same one worn by a friend in school that you think would totally go well with her purse, but nothing yet for your father. He’d be satisfied with a tie or a pair of socks, but maybe you’ll get some air dry clay and sculpt something to keep on his nightstand.

After copping some art supplies, wrapping paper, and ribbons from a chaotic Hobby Lobby, you walk around the mall and get a few books your father might like. Next stop is a makeup store, and you swatch some lipstick on the back of your hand before checking out two, one for yourself and one to fill Amy’s stocking.

You catch up with an old friend in the afternoon, drinking smoothies instead of margaritas because she’s apparently pregnant. Baby Daddy? Your crush in middle school. They didn’t know each other until last January, when she hit his truck trying to parallel park and exchanged numbers to give him her insurance information and they allegedly “fell in love at first sight”. It’s not like you and this guy had ever progressed past stealing glances in the hallway, but it still hurts your ego and quite possibly starts a premature existential crisis. Quarter-life crisis, if you will.

You say goodbye and decide that you need a drink. In the area is a sports bar, and for a brief period you think any kind of bar will do as long as they got liquor. But inside the bar there are far too many people occupying a limited space waiting for the game to begin on large TVs mounted over the bar, and it doesn’t seem suitable to drink and maybe cry while people are cursing over a missed field goal. You quickly go back to your car, feeling suffocated, and flee the scene.

The road was surprisingly clear, as is the sky, but the radio plays the most obnoxiously ill-sounding songs that get to your temper. You smash the buttons, almost hitting the curb. Twenty curse words don’t satisfy you and you turn the car and rear into an empty parking spot in the back of a bar that looks quieter than the one you previously visited. You ditch your sweater, leaving out a padded tank top that shows your outline in the best way, thinking maybe you can at least get somebody inside to notice—maybe even fuck the feeling of being left behind out of your brain in the parking lot. Anyone. Anything, really. Maybe the universe will feel bad and throw a fall-in-love-at-first-sight there for free, too.

Your eyes sweep the vicinity upon entering. It’s quiet inside. Even the jukebox is playing on a low volume. Under ten people are scattered around the tables and bar, some of them conversing, a tall man playing pool by himself, the bartender straightening bottles on the shelf.

A familiar figure is sitting alone on the stool by the bar, his shoulders stretched to the front, posture almost slumped, but it doesn’t hide the broad that his frame is. Your heart sinks when you realize who it is.

“Joel,” You call from behind him. Upon hearing his name, he slightly turns his back and his eyes find yours.

“Kid!” He raises his eyebrows in surprise, teeth showing behind his almost-too-long beard that he likes to grow out every winter. He stands up and almost opens both of his arms to embrace you before he visibly realizes something, pulling you into a side hug instead, giving a couple pats to your arm.

“Been a while,” he says as he sits back down. You take a seat on the dark wooden stool beside him, placing your purse on the bar.

He asks what you want to drink and gestures to the bartender after you tell him you’ll have what he’s having. He then slightly faces you before asking when you arrived in town.

“Couple days ago,” you fidget with the bottle just set in front of you. It’s cold under your fingertips, and you can feel the condensation forming. “You looked so gloomy. Can’t find someone here that is not affiliated with you to take home?” You gently nudge his shoulder, teasing.

Joel chuckles, shaking his head before taking another swig of his beer. 

“Eh, just usual shit day at work,” he shrugs.

“People still renovate this time of the year?” you furrow your brows.

“That’s the thing—They’re pushin’ for everythin’ to be done in one night before family comes over like I'm a genie in a lamp.”

You chuckle sympathetically before taking a sip of the beer. The smooth rounded glass mouth touching your lips, your lip gloss staining the already foggy surface. You feel Joel staring, and you would prefer it if it wasn’t true. But you don’t check to confirm. The carbonation is sizzling weakly on your tongue. Hops and malt are not exactly your favorite. But what wouldn’t you give to appear more relatable in Joel Miller’s eyes? When you set the bottle down on the bar, Joel is looking at his own bottle.

“How’s the old man?” he asks, shifting in his seat.

“Oh, the usual.” You smile. “Did Dad invite you over for dinner on Christmas Eve, yet? If not, you’re invited.”

Joel smiles. Your father did, and he said no, but he lets himself enjoy your courtesy, avoiding declining your invitation blatantly. He then asks if you’re on track to graduate next year, to which you spoil him with the stories of things that had happened to you during the nine-months of no contact with him. He listens intently, chuckling as you go, at one point supporting the side of his head using his hand with elbow on the bar. You look so lovely under the warm overhead light, and Joel suppresses the urge to focus on how your eyes gleam instead of your story.

You don’t change at all, he thinks. Still as sweet as ever. He’s amused by how you seem unaffected by whatever happened between the two of you. The cheerful optimism, almost naive way of thinking that is only wasted on the youth. Or maybe it just didn’t mean that much to you, he reckons. 

Somehow the thought breaks his heart.

In this new angle his eyes catch the pool player eyeing you before moving to him. Joel’s pretty sure the stickman furrows his brows before looking at you again, an unreadable expression on his face. Like questioning.

Like accusing.

Suddenly he becomes hyper aware of how this looks again, of his age, of your age, of how he’s betraying the only person he can call a friend, of how he’s ‘preying’ on the young or something. His shoulders are getting tense, his spine leaning ever so slightly away from you.

He’s being paranoid. He’s not even touching you. The last time his skin touched your skin was almost a year ago. But he can’t help himself.

“…and they said they are probably gonna get married next year when the baby’s here, and it’s not like I’m angry, or jealous, you know? It’s just—“

“Sorry, I’m gonna, uh, use the restroom.” he clears his throat before scurrying away. You mutter a quick ‘okay’ before fidgeting with your bottle again, wondering if you killed the vibe by telling him the old friend old crush situation. Maybe that kind of story is best reserved for a person like your roommate and not a fifty something year old contractor that you fucked once. Well, you didn’t exactly fuck him. But.

You sigh and stare into the neck of your bottle. The soft hum of the jukebox continues, a Teddy Pendergrass song now drifting in like fog. You tap your nail absent-mindedly against the glass, annoyed at yourself for rambling, for oversharing, for hoping too much again. Not to mention how acutely aware you are of how cold your shoulders feel now, how your exposed arms—meant to be a silent dare to the universe—now just make you look lost. Just a sad and lonely fool looking for some quick-relief, when you know deep inside that’s not what you want at all, now that you’ve seen him again.

You feel... stupid. Joel might not even come back—he probably has left the bar now for all you know, not being able to handle this again. You reach for your purse, pretending to search for something to stop yourself from thinking.

A voice interrupts.

“Trouble in paradise?”

You turn slightly. The pool player—tall, maybe late twenties, shaggy hair and a smirk that tells you everything you need to know—has approached and is now leaning one elbow against the bar. Too close. To think that you would’ve been waiting for this moment if not for meeting Joel…

And, god, he’s not it. Not even close. All you can see now is how un-Joel he is. You’re offended you almost let yourself settle for this. You straighten a bit. “Excuse me?”

He gestures loosely toward the empty stool beside you. “Mind if I sit?”

“I do.”

That makes him chuckle, but he sits anyway. “Didn’t mean to overhear, but sounds like you and your... old man had a disagreement.”

You blink slowly, then roll your eyes. “He’s not my dad.”

“Oh,” the guy replies, his eyes shifting a little like he’s just caught the scent of blood. “So... that older guy isn’t your father. Interesting.”

“Not really,” you say coolly. “He’s just someone I know.”

“Sure. Someone you know.” He lets the words hang in the air, thick with implication. “Well then. I was gonna say, it’s a shame someone like you is wasting your night sitting next to—what is he, your boss or somethin’?”

You push your bottle away, now entirely uninterested in the drink or the conversation. “Do you want something or are you just trying to see how many wrong assumptions you can fit into a minute?”

He leans in just a touch, eyes gleaming like he thinks this is all flirtation. “How about we step outside? Get some air. I know a place not far from here where you can actually hear yourself think.”

“I don’t need air,” you reply evenly. “I need you to get lost.”

The guy’s smile falters for a second, just enough to show what’s underneath—the entitlement, the ugly little bruise of a rejected ego.

“You sure? Doesn’t look like that guy’s coming back anytime soon.”

You don’t get to answer.

“She said she’s good.”

You both turn. Joel’s standing just behind the man now, tall and still, a hand resting loosely at his side. His expression is deceptively calm, but his eyes are hard, unblinking.

The pool guy sizes Joel up for half a second, like he’s thinking of saying something else—but he doesn't. He just shrugs and backs off.

“No harm meant, man,” he mutters, walking off toward the tables again.

Joel waits until the guy is fully gone before he turns to you. “You alright?”

You nod once, your face hot. “Yeah. I was fine.”

Joel doesn’t say anything. He just settles back onto the stool beside you and places his bottle down, fingers wrapping around the glass with a quiet tension.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

You glance over. Joel’s jaw is clenched. His thumb moves idly over a drop of condensation on the bottle. You want to say something to lighten the moment, but your throat is tight. There’s something about the way he’s sitting—close but not too close. Like if he touches you he’ll lose the reins completely. But still, he stayed. Still, he came back.

“Thanks for stepping in,” you say softly.

Joel turns his head to you then, eyes meeting yours with that unbearable softness he reserves only for the moments where he’s too tired to hide it. He looks like he wants to say something but doesn’t trust himself to do it.

“I’d do it again.” he says.

The jukebox changes to a quieter track. You wonder if he knows what he just said. If he knows what he means.

“Ain’t you cold in that?” Joel gestures toward you with the heel of his bottle. He takes a quick gulp right after, like the words tasted too vulnerable coming out and need to be drowned fast.

You blink at him. “Oh—this?” You look down at yourself, arms bare, chest rising in the tight tank top. Suddenly you feel exposed, and not in the sexy, power-holding way you imagined when you ditch the outer layer of the outfit. “Left my coat in the car. Thought it’d be warmer in here.”

Joel’s mouth presses into a line. He nods like he accepts that, but it bugs him. You can tell. He drains the rest of his bottle and taps the bar for the check.

You step outside a few minutes later together, the door shutting behind you with a low mechanical thunk. The cold hits instantly. You cross your arms in front of your chest, trying to fake composure, but it bites through the fabric quick. Joel walks beside you in silence, hands deep in his pockets, his boots heavy against the pavement.

“You sure you’re alright to drive?” he asks, voice low.

“Yeah. Only had the one.” You shrug, still not looking at him.

The parking lot’s near empty. His truck and your car sit apart, like siblings who got into a fight and were told to face opposite corners. Nine months, wasted down the drain. You could’ve lived a very different life if he didn’t push you away—maybe today would’ve been an illicit date instead, your arms linking, his jacket on your shoulders. Alas.

“Guess this is where we say goodbye again,” you mutter, half-laughing, but it lands bitter and brittle in the cold air.

Joel exhales, annoyed. “Don’t start.”

“What?” You turn to face him now, jaw set, but the disbelieving scoffs can’t stop making their presence known, and you’re halfway to freeze to death yet the glacier encasing your anger, your sadness, is melting down out of nowhere. “You don’t like hearing how it felt like shit?”

Joel blinks. “That’s not what I—”

“No, I know what you said,” you snap, stepping closer, heat rising in your throat. “You said it wasn’t right. You said it shouldn’t have happened. I heard you the first time, Joel, pretty much the only thing I could think about for the past nine months, by the way.”

He closes his eyes briefly, like he’s trying to shut it out. “Shut up, for god’s sake, just, cut it, it’s not—” He stops himself, lips pressing into a hard line.

“It’s not right? Yeah, it’s not fucking right alright, Joel. Sorry I manipulated you into agreeing to get your dick sucked or something. My fault.” You throw your hands in the air, desperate to leave, to drive and step on the gas, yet your feet are unbudging.

“Kid,”

“I’m not a kid!” you snap, eyes burning. And you fucking hate how much you’re the only one ‘furious’ and ‘emotional' here, essentially proving yourself to be as immature as Joel probably thinks. It makes your head spin with rage. He says something, but you keep shooting. “Stop calling me that. I came into that bar tonight thinking maybe, maybe, I could move on—and then I saw you, because of course, of course of all places and all fucking time in the entirety of Austin County you had to be there—and I knew. I can’t.” 

“You’re bleeding,” he says again, clearer, louder.

You blink. “What?”

“Your nose. It’s—shit—” He fumbles in his coat pocket and pulls out a napkin, stepping forward to press it into your hand. “Here.”

You touch your nose and wince at the warm stickiness trickling down your lip.

“Goddammit,” you mutter, tilting your head back, suddenly humiliated. You swipe at it, annoyed, feeling foolish and hot all over. The cold, maybe. Or your body just caving under the weight of it all.

“Get in the truck,” Joel says.

“I’m fine,” you mumble, eyes stinging.

“Get in the goddamn truck.” he says again, and you finally move.

The inside of the truck is still warm. You climb in stiffly, heart still pounding from the fight, blood still trickling into the damp napkin. Joel gets in a second later, slamming the door, rummaging through the console for something better than the now-soaked paper.

The silence is thick.

You sit there, breathing hard, your throat tight. Joel shifts in his seat, jaw ticking, hands clenched on the wheel like it's the only thing keeping him tethered. You dab at your nose with a fresh tissue, watching the red smear dull across the paper. You're still simmering, blood still hot, even as your face feels cold and clammy.

“I’m sorry, Joel,” you whisper, voice hoarse. “But you can’t blame me for feeling.”

He turns then. Slowly. Like if he moves too fast, he might break something. His eyes are molten, locked on yours, full of restraint barely holding.

“You think I don’t feel?” he says, voice low and rough, like gravel sliding down a slope. “You think I don’t—every fuckin’ day—I try not to think about it. About you.” His chest rises like he’s swallowing a scream. “You walked in that bar tonight and I swear to god—”

The air goes taut.

Something in him snaps.

One hand reaches across the console, rough fingers curling around the back of your neck, the other on your thigh, hauling you over the center divide like the whole world is breaking under him and you’re the only thing he needs to hold onto.

And then he kisses you.

His mouth crashes onto yours with months of hunger behind it, years of guilt and need unraveling all at once. It’s not careful or measured—it’s needy, punishing. Teeth clashing, lips bruising, breath stolen. You gasp into his mouth and clutch the front of his jacket like you’ll die if he pulls away.

Your legs are halfway in his lap now, the cold forgotten, the bloody napkin crumpled under your thigh. His hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head just how he wants it, deepening the kiss until your moan slips free—and he lets out a low sound from his throat, like he’s been starving and just remembered what full tastes like.

When he pulls back, just barely, your lips are slick, swollen. You chase him, whimpering, desperate for more, but he’s just looking at you.

“This is wrong,” he murmurs, voice shaking.

“Then stop,” you whisper back, eyes locked on his.

His breath stutters. His mouth opens. But the words don’t come.

Because he can’t.

The second kiss is worse—worse because it’s better. Hotter. Deeper. There’s no hesitation in it now. No breath between. Joel’s hand cradles the back of your head as your mouth parts under his, teeth catching on his lip before he swallows the sound you make. It’s a kiss meant to punish both of you—for the months you lost, for the things unsaid, for the heat neither of you dared acknowledge until now.

You shift closer, knee on the seat, hands fumbling for his jacket to drag him closer. Joel grunts, half in surprise, half in surrender, pulling you practically across the console. His large hands span your back like he needs to anchor himself to your body or else spin out.

When you roll your hips forward, testing the waters, he chokes out a low, broken noise that sounds like something breaking in his chest.

“Jesus, kid—”

“I’m not a kid,” you breathe. “Not with you. Never was.”

He exhales sharp through his nose, forehead still pressed to yours like he’s trying to restrain himself. But the restraint is dying fast. He palms your waist, thumbs dragging along your ribs like he’s memorizing them.

You kiss down the side of his jaw, your breath warm against his scruff, the beard tickling your lips. He smells like old leather and pine, like beer and smoke and winter air. It’s dizzying.

“Fuck,” he murmurs when you nip at the sensitive spot beneath his ear. His fingers twitch on your skin. He grabs the back of your neck and pulls you back in—no more space, no more questions. Just mouths and hands and breath. The kind of kiss that’s nearly a collision, like two storms crashing into each other.

You don’t even remember when your legs end up straddling him in the seat, your thighs bracketing his, but suddenly he’s beneath you, hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise, and you grind down on him with a gasp you can’t swallow.

Joel curses, low and rough and reverent. His head falls back against the seat as your lips trail down his throat, and he lets you, lets you taste him, own him, just for a moment. His hand slides down your lower back, wiggling its way through your almost-too-tight pants, trembling just a little as it curves over the swell of your ass. You reach down to unclasp the button and give him more space to work with.

His mouth finds yours again, sloppier now, breathless. Your nails scrape his chest through his flannel, and he groans into your mouth like it’s killing him. And maybe it is.

You rock against him again, slower this time, deliberate. Joel exhales like he’s in pain. Not from you, never from you—but from everything else that makes this wrong when all of it feels so, so right.

You tilt your hips again, more confident now, and feel the press of him through his jeans, thick and straining. Your tank top clings to you in places now, damp from the heat growing between you, and Joel’s hand slip up beneath the hem, palms callused and warm as they coast up your spine and then over the swell of your chest, the other still fondling your ass. He breathes in sharply as his thumbs brush your nipples, and you arch into him like a lit fuse.

It’s quiet in the truck except for the rush of your breath and the sharp inhale he takes when your hands find the waistband of his jeans. Your fingers tremble only a little as you pop the button and lower the zipper. You feel him hard against your palm, feel how he flinches when your hand grazes him through his briefs.

“Jesus,” Joel murmurs against your shoulder, voice hoarse. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

You smile into his neck, nipping lightly at the stubble there. “I think I do.”

His laugh is strained, like it’s breaking on the way out. His hand dips lower, over your ass, fingers curling under the waistband of your pants. “These gotta come off,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

You rise up just enough to shimmy your pants down—tight denim making the motion graceless, awkward even��but Joel helps, dragging them over your thighs with a touch far gentler than it has any right to be. You tug the fabric from your ankles and throw them to the backseat. Joel reaches down, kissing your lower abdomen as he pulls your panties down, almost impatient.

“Jesus,” he says again when you’re bare from the waist down, pulling you back into his lap, one hand palming your breast through the thin cotton of your top, the other settling between your thighs like it belongs there. You’re already soaked, and he groans when he feels it, followed by your own gasps and restrained moans.

“You’re killin’ me,” he whispers against your collarbone, and then you kiss him again—messy, open-mouthed, full of teeth and need. He kisses you like he’s starving. Like he wants to memorize every corner of your mouth. Like he doesn’t want to ever come up for air.

You both know this can’t last. That this little world, this heat and ache and dizzying need, exists only for now. That when it ends, things might not be the same. But none of it matters when he finally pushes his briefs down and you both freeze for just a moment—because this is the point of no return.

You meet his eyes. They’re wide and dark and a little scared, same as yours.

Then you sink down.

A gasp breaks from both of you, raw and involuntary. His hands clench hard at your hips as your bodies connect, slow but sure, the stretch pulling a sound from your throat that you try to smother against his shoulder. Joel swears again, under his breath, grounding himself in your skin, your heat.

He buries his face in your neck, breathing you in like a man on fire finally finding water.

You move in a slow rhythm. Not rushing, not taking, just being. Registering the shape of his cock inside you and the sweet symphony of squelch every time you sink back into him. His hands map your torso, breath uneven like he’s three inhales away from dying, but he’s smiling.

“Can’t believe you’re here,” he mutters. “Can’t believe I’m…”

You shush him gently, fingers threading through his hair, tugging. “Just feel. Don’t think.”

But he does think. You can feel it in the way he holds you, in the way he kisses the base of your throat like an apology and a promise all in one.

He doesn’t last long. The build-up, the months of repression, the way you move over him, how warm you are, how soft. It’s all too much.

You feel it before he does: the subtle tremble of his legs, the catch in his breath. He comes with a low, guttural sound against your neck, holding you to him like the act alone might stop time. It’s filling you up, warm and strange and by all means should make you panic, but it doesn’t. Instead, you impossibly feel the organs inside your ribs soften, the muscles of your walls clenching around him greedily, as if trying to hold onto him forever.

You go still, still joined, breath shallow and skin damp. His eyes close, jaw tight.

“Shit,” he says, guilt setting in immediately. “I—I didn’t mean to. I didn’t…”

“It’s okay,” you murmur, brushing sweaty hair from his forehead. “It’s okay, Joel.”

He doesn’t look at you as he lifts you up and turns your back to face him, your cunt already missing his softening cock. You position yourself on his lap, cheek touching his equally sweaty cheek as he holds your frame with one arm in place, the other reaches down to the still pulsing, overall sensitive skin.

“I got you,” he whispers, voice strained, remorseful, full of something you can’t name.

His fingers are slow and sure, working with grit and determination despite the narrow space and nearly awkward angle, and you reach to grab his arm.

“Joel, Joel,” you whine. The pleasure builds up, stronger this time, like it’s an arm reach away. He pins you into place, the pad of his thumb not losing its steady pace on your clit, the others somehow pushing, slightly curling inside you, covered by his own spend and your juice. You buck your hips forward, swallowing screams, it feels hot, hot, hot, your legs twitching and kicking and—

It’s like a blitz, showering you with bliss and pleasure and your body arches, chasing it like a bow.

The next thing you know, you’re limp against Joel, sweat and cum pooling on the seat.

.

“Safe trip, sweetie,” Amy hugs you one more time while your dad asks if you didn’t miss anything for the fourteenth time.

“Yes, Dad,” you sigh. “Print a checklist next time so we can both check and spare me the headache and anxiety, okay?”

You kiss his cheek and pat him on the shoulder. “Bye, guys.”

You’re releasing the clutch when you hear your dad shouts again, “Did you say goodbye to Joel?”

“Do I have to?” you laugh lightheartedly, putting your best acting attempt to look nonchalant.

Your dad shrugs. “He did give you a nice Christmas present. Be nice.”

“Yeah, alright.” you tap the steering wheel. “I’ll send him a text.”

.

The sun’s barely up when Joel shuts the trunk of your car.

Your duffel sits heavy against the bumper, almost not being able to zip up from yesterday’s clothes you crumple on top of the folded pile. The car breathes cold in the early morning air, engine idling low, your playlist queued up but not playing yet. It’s quiet. Too quiet for a goodbye, but maybe that’s the point.

You hand him his coffee back and he leans against the side of his own truck, arms folded. He’s got his jacket on, but his collar’s still turned wrong. You almost fix it, but you don’t.

It was definitely a crime to say goodbye to your unsuspecting parents and drive your car straight to Joel’s driveway, but you don’t really care about that right now. Neither does Joel, apparently.

God, you can still feel the ghost of his hands, how they held you close this morning, the fine arm hair you traced under your fingertips.

“You got everything?” he asks.

“Yeah. Got what I need.” you nod. “But if I did, I’d have a good excuse to come back.”

He chuckles. Finally, he sets the coffee on the truck bed and steps toward you.

“You drive safe, alright?” his voice is soft and almost impossible to hear as he pulls you for a quick hug.

“I will.”

His hand hovers near your waist for a second too long, like maybe he wants to pull you in again, kiss you senseless in the driveway—but doesn’t. Instead, he just looks at you like he’s memorizing something he can’t say out loud.

“Call me when you get there,” he says.

You smile. “You know I will."

[erwinsvow]

being popes wife while he’s in prison means the most world shattering sex when he gets out he is not gonna stop for HOURS you really would just have to let him get it out of his system and fuck you into a coma

this actually made me like almost faint i'm not even kidding. i'm just gonna set aside the internal worry i have that nothing i write for him makes any sense or is out of character and just write about this for a minute thank you -> i wrote this like a week ago and never answered and look how far we've come so i'm gonna post it because this is the anon that started it all!!!! wherever you are thank you!!

in my perfect little world he would go to his old apartment first, before going to the house. you, his perfect little wife, would be the devoted type who came to visit him once a week, once every two weeks if you really had to. it's a really long drive but it was always worth it to you. the type who without fail asks his family if anyone wants to come with you this week. in my little au i would make her a nurse who works three on, four off and she uses those four to go visit pope, sometimes staying overnight in some hotel and then visiting again the next day before she drives home. as much as it means to pope that you would drive so long to see him week after week, i don't think he would like it. he would think it's too dangerous for you to drive eight hours by yourself, that it's dangerous to visit him when there's so many leering, unbelieving eyes that this is the wife that pope's been hiding back at home. and i think he wouldn't want you to see him like this, even though you're just moping at home, that this is the part of each week you look forward to. i don't know, maybe even after a year of marriage before he got arrested and the time you've been going to visit him, pope can't process that there is someone in his life who loves him this much. that he's not a burden, that you're not scared, that you do all of this willingly just to see him and hold his hand for a couple of hours, that you're always in tears when it's time for you to go home, that you answer his calls immediately, even if you're at work.

so you can imagine the kind of loyalty he has to you, since he's seen firsthand the kind of love you have for him. so when he gets parole, he doesn't tell you about it. doesn't want to get your hopes up like he did last time, and then he had to break the news to you over the phone and listen to you cry for the rest of the allotted time, and go back to his cell with the realization that you're still at home crying and there's nothing he can do to help you. so he keeps it quiet, drives himself home with the windows rolled down so he can hear the ocean again, thinking about the face you'll make when he's in front of you again. and fuck if it doesn't live up to every expectation he's had in his head for the last three years. the way you look in the comfort of your shared home, not just dressed up for him inside the barren prison. you're probably doing something that's part of your routine, the one he's had memorized since the two of you got together, cleaning up from breakfast and baking something since it's saturday.

you freeze when you hear the door open. pope's brothers usually tell you if they're swinging by, but they normally never come around unless they need you to stitch one of them up or something. you don't think they had any jobs planned for today, but then again, you could be wrong. but it's not loud enough to be them, you'd hear cursing and shouting and screaming if it was. a little stupidly, you step out of the kitchen towards the front door, without so much as a weapon to defend yourself. but you have this hope, that one day your husband will walk through those doors again like you haven't been living alone for the last three years.

today is the day your wish came true. and he does love your expression, wants to memorize it so it can never truly leave his mind. but what's better is when the two of you get into bed because he has no intentions of getting out of bed, because he has a lot to make up for. three missed birthdays—yours and his, three wedding anniversaries (and three other anniversaries, the first day you two met). all the times he should have been there for you when you had a bad day at work or got anxious around his family or needed him there, like when your car wouldn't start or the breaker short-circuited and the power went out. i've talked enough about pope and wifey's sex life, but same as the show, he goes to smurf's house after. someone asks him where you are. "i'll bring her by tomorrow. she couldn't walk."

EXCUSE-

[dancingaliensfics]

I've seen a lot of people talking about dominant Remmick but I just think he's desperate. He'd let you do whatever you want to him just so he could touch you or taste you. I don't doubt that he'd get down on his knees and beg for you, just so he could savor and worship every inch of skin.

You are completely right.

That man is so desperate he would do anything. He would bark like a dog if you told him. He will beg, plead, you can slap him around, he will cry if you ask him to. He is into anything and everything and he will be at your beck and call. You know that scene from Brooklyn 99 where he's listing all the things they can do to him? Yeah that's remmick.

But now onto a more serious note, his self worth is very low and he is so lonely that I think he would let people treat him very poorly in a sexual environment. And don't get me wrong, he will do it too absolutely, but I think he would let you do terrible things to him. Which is why we should treat him good! So onto that!

He loves being overstimulated. I don't think he'd admit it necessarily and I'm not sure he actually understands the reasons behind it but to me it's like this: it makes that little bit of his brain that hates himself and thinks he deserves to die alone turn off. It also makes that part of him that's desperate and lonely and so sad feel warm and happy. Nothing makes him feel more safe and loved than being made to cum so many times that he's shaking, drool all over his face and neck, tears running down his cheeks, unable to remember his own name.

I also think that he believes he has to earn certain things from you which is why he loves it when you make him prove to you he's good. He struggles to understand why you have such affection for him sometimes, he's a gleeful killer, undead and he wants to drag you down with him. So it helps him when he can do things to prove his devotion to you and 'earn' your love. Of course you care for him anyway but you like to see him on his knees following orders.

Speaking of, imagine him crawling towards you, clutching at your legs and pressing his face into your stomach. Begging you to let him make you feel good. Showing you just how well he can take orders. Sitting in front of you, touching himself while you tell him when to change speed and how tight to grip himself.

Yes, remmick is very desperate. He just wants your love and affection and he will do whatever he has to to get it. It's not particularly hard to get him to beg. He's very impatient and just swatting his hands away from you legs a few times is enough to get him to start pleading with you.

Ah I have so many thoughts, I need to do a longer post on this. Right now it's all very disjointed because I'm just typing things as they come to me so sorry about that. But i love this concept so I will be writing more about it in the future.

[goldfishinaplasticbag]

Here are the memes!

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

Tim: takes one (1) break

Scarecrow: *appears* no can do

Tim thinking of giving the greatest detective a fair chance to figure his identity since he discovered his at nine: *giggles internally*

Oracle: asks Angel for his informant’s contact.

Tim thinking about how he could roast the Bats: yeah, sure.

The Bats trying to understand Angel’s motives: *squinting suspiciously*

Tim, a real life angel basically, doing things from the goodness of his heart: ?

Tim: thinks he’s “acting” when he’s really just behaving like the real fanboy he is.

Me: I’m not going to cry, no.

Jackson: sends Oracle a little description of his relationship with Angel that screams problems in bold capitals.

The Bats: power dynamic and manipulation or a preoccupied brother/father figure? Vote now: 1, 2 or leave a comment with your theories!

CHAPTER 3

Tim reflecting about how he’s black-haired and blue-eyed like all the Waynes: “I’m just some random kid who looks just like any other Gothamite.”

Batman: takes out the adoption papers discreetly.

Tim: um…whatcha got there, Mr. Batman?

Batman: …a cookie.

Tim: cannot buckle his seatbelt for the life of him.

Bruce: fatherly instincts activated

Tim: *confused noises* ?

Tim hearing Batman’s “hn”: okay, let me see what my memory book, obtained through obsessive stalking, says it means.

Batman: *grasps Jackson’s shoulder*

Jackson: *flinches violently*

Batman: *jaw tightnening and squinting suspiciously*

LATER

Nightwing: do you know our agreement with Angel?

Jackson: yeah, this is a loan situation, no?

Bruce: *jaw tightening more and squinting more suspiciously*

Tim when meeting the Red Hood: dying to get as tall and beefy as him would be worth it.

Jason if he could hear his thoughts: wtf, kid.

Me: if I had a nickel for every time Tim thought about committing suicide in chapter 3 I’d have two nickels, which isn’t a lot but it’s disconcerting that it happened twice.

(Firstly when he couldn’t buckle the seatbelt, then when he forgot to remove the Bat-stickers from his laptop)

Dick after discovering about Jackson’s existence: proceeds to delude himself, in every way possible, that he's not a child.

Dick thinking about how Angel called him “Mr. Nightwing” and now Jackson is calling Bruce “Mr. Batman”: they must be brothers.

Dick in another universe possibly:

Dick and Jason: awwwww the kid has a fake Bristol accent he tries to emulate from his brother/father figure.

Tim, the lying liar who lies (by omission): yeah, totally. This is so my real hidden accent. I prommy, guys.

The last two are spoilery for chapter 15!!!

Tim in chapter 1: thinks that he would die of joy hearing Dick say his real name.

Me: (:

Tim in chapter 15: actually gets crushed by a chandelier with Dick screaming his name.

Me: ):

Dick: thinks that kids like Jax should be happy and safe.

Jax in chapter 15: (;

i am yelling at EVERYONE who likes 1-800-GOTHAM to look through all these memes. i definitely want to draw some of these (originally, i was going to answer with some things already drawn but i want everyone to see these memes first). i love these. they're so, so good. thank you!!!!

[thehigherseekerastro]

I said it once, and I'll say it twice (I actually said it multiple times)...

Be careful what your read on this site or hear on TikTok.

None of those "angry astrologers" is doing you any service.

Be CAREFUL WITH YOUR ENERGY. Careful what — WHO — you allow into your mind.

Those "Harsh astrology opinions", "Roasting astrology placements", "Honest astrology opinions", "Calling out astrology placements" etc

and all variations of astrology posts that just spew hateful things about people, that generalize things, that accuse people of being things with certainty based on an astrology placement and, specially, that offend, curse, insult people based on astrology placements ARE NOT DONE OUT OF GOOD CHARACTER OR INTENT.

Anybody worth half their weight, anybody who takes astrology seriously, would not reduce anyone to something so small, because they understand that a birth chart is huge and full of tiny little details that paint very individual pictures.

People who perpetuate stereotypes, and generalize things WITHOUT LOOKING AT YOUR BIRTH CHART, shouldn't be telling you who you are (or other people) in an "honest" way!

"Honest" according to WHO?

Saying that insulting others is being "honest" implies that the person thinks kindness is a lie. RED FLAG!!!! Means they don't believe good things — specially about themselves — and they want you feeling that way too.

Notice how the astrologers on here who actually make good, informative, substantial content are never the hateful ones; are never the angry "honest" "harsh" ones. The ones who make good material are usually either on the neutral side, or very gentle and kind.

And that is not out of fakeness. It's because those people actually understand that what you say to others matters and affects their energy. And also they understand that once you know the extension of a birth chart, you can't be reducing people to "Libras are fake", "Sagittarius are arrogant", "Pisces are manipulative."

I'm sorry, who died and made them the zodiac police?

A fake Libra CAN exist, but that's a very specific, unique person. I can't go online and type out that Libras are fake, and make every single Libra who comes across my post wonder why and how they are fake, if they aren't.

People who don't know you don't get to talk about you as if they did.

Long story short...

When you see those posts, just scroll past them.

Don't give them your time or your energy.

And don't let them enter your mind either.

Realize that the person writing those hasn't even learned to truly love themselves, so they won't be able to provide you with anything nourishing.

And 12/10 times those people use those "innocent" and "honest" posts to spill out their own personal hatred and grievances with the people who they are criticizing. So I bet you a Sagittarius hurt the person making a "harsh" posts about how all Sagittarius suck. I bet you a Virgo hurt somebody making a "calling out" post in which they lay it into Virgo placements.

It's just bitterness.

Have a good, safe, blessed day, and don't put onto others what you wouldn't want put on yourself. ❤️

[melled42]

Does Narinder often flirt with Ewen? Or is Ewen just the one who does everything?

Ewen would flirt a lot early on, even when narinder was still a God. Deep down they really didn't expect it to go anywhere, but they were obsessed with him and it was a good way of needling their way into his brain and getting attention, positive or negative. Narinder didn't "flirt back" so much as just stated exactly what he was thinking, which, including some unintentionally naughty stuff, really threw the poor lamb off lol.

Ewen talked a big game but they just wanted attention and to be close to narinder as much as possible, so it's actually narinder who initiated the physical interactions. First kiss and the first time. I often joke you can see ewens little brain trying desperately to calculate whether letting their relationship grow deeper is worth exposing more of themselves or loosing what they already have with narinder at the time. Whether lust or love wins out over that fear, I'll leave you to decide.

Most of their interactions before the confession I have Ewen just harassing narinder until they make a physical move, it's like foreplay to them. Ewen can't make that final physical jump, and narinder is too stuffy to start the conversation

Post confession narinder is far more flirty than before, he's got nothing holding him back anymore. Ewen is actually the more shy and awkward one, because now every comment actually means something and they can't hide behind it as just being a little slut anymore lol. I like to think narinder also ups the affection because it gives him more power in their little foreplay sessions. But when Ewen breaks down and says or looks at him with full love and sincerity its like looking into the sun and he can't handle it

[unnatural-happenings]

Of Capes & Billionaires

Took a break from staring at my Persona drafts again to write this instead lol. Would be the first part to this if I decide that finishing the future drafts is worth the time spent away from the Persona fic (ie if I enjoy it)

Fandoms: Batfam x Reader x Avengers

Characters: Damian and Loki. Some of the Batfam and Avengers are here too, but the focus is mostly on them

Notes: Reader is They/Them, Loki is here because I want him to be, Reader is a kid of Bruce Wayne, While this isn't a neglectful!Batfam fic the relationship is still tense atm, for Marvel I try to stick to MCU personalities but a little bit of comic or cartoon quirks might make it in

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈✁━━━━━━━━━━━

Living with Bruce Wayne has always been frustrating. The rules, the expectations, the press, galas, and vigilante nonsense makes for an extremely stressful environment. Adding family drama on top of all that is a surefire way to make you slip away at the nearest convenience.

Your second home with the Avengers is more carefree—less brooding, way less pretending, and always welcomes you back with open arms… and maybe a drink or two. They're your safe haven, and you'd love nothing more to keep it that way.

Unfortunately, your family has never been good at letting secrets stay secrets.

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈✁━━━━━━━━━━━

Damian could not believe this farce you're playing is still ongoing. You continue to vex him even in your absence and make his evening worse.

It had been a long day. School was as dull as usual, the teachers not teaching anything new and his classmates completely vapid, he'd taken care of every one of his pets, already got Grayson to spar with him, the rest of his brothers have vanished, and patrols wouldn't start for another hour.

He was as free as can be and it left him annoyed beyond measure. His go to option for filling up dead time wasn't available—to his complete ire—so he spent time in his room trying to draw while Alfred the cat curled up next to him. Though he could barely focus on what he was actually putting to paper, as his mind kept drifting to the one person responsible for his current lack of activity.

Stewing within his head and staring at a sheet of paper filled with mindless doodles is when his phone buzzes next to him. It's in a familiar rhythm that has him instantly pick it up to check the notification.

Fury is the only acceptable word for what Damian's currently feeling.

His sketchbook is haphazardly thrown onto the bed as he gets up—annoying Alfred—and makes a beeline for the door. He storms through the manor, every step fueled by a deep, aimless frustration as he throws open one of the many entrances to the Batcave.

Everyone's already arrived before him—or it's better to say they were all already there, and all strewn about the place. Though he cares little for their positions when Drake is the only one that can provide any answers.

Damian's eyes dart to the Batcomputer to see what you just posted to your social on one of the bigger screens, and Drake typing away on another. It was a picture of you standing on the snowy peak of mountain—drinking hot chocolate, along with some blonde guy that definitely didn't deserve to stand in your presence.

"Drake."

"I know, I know, I'm already on it."

He stands there and watches as Drake goes through file after file, checking as much surveillance footage as possible and putting the unknown's face through every registry he could think of. By the end, everything comes back negative and he slides downwards in his seat with a groan.

Todd puts down the gun he was cleaning, obviously barely paying attention to what was happening on the screen having resigned himself to lack any expectations.

"Let me guess, nothing again."

Drake runs a hand over his eyes and Damian scoffs when he notices his leg start bouncing, "He still shows no results and they're no longer in that location anymore. This was posted long after they already left… Again."

He can't believe what he's hearing. To have gone this long without finding a single clue leaves Damian doubting Drake's skill altogether.

"I thought you were supposed to be the computer genius of the family. How come you still haven't found a clue as to where our sibling is located?"

Drake lets out a sharp exhale, "We've been through this ten over times now and every search has ended the same. They post the pictures when they're already out of the area, they have location tags and their GPS turned off, despite clearly being all over the world their profile always signs in from Sydney Australia, their email isn't real, they're using a highly encrypted device even Oracle is struggling to deal with, every purchase they make is either in cash or using another persons card, and somehow, not once have they been caught on camera by any surveillance."

He goes on to mutter under his breath, too low for Damian to make out any words, but it further irritates him anyway.

"Are you positive you're even trying? It's not like they're not some elusive figure."

Drake spins in the chair to directly face Damian, his extreme irritation made know at his prodding, "I wouldn't even slack during an investigation for Kite Man, to think I'd do so for any member of our family is insulting. I want to find them as much as you do. It's also necessary to learn how they've been able to avoid detection for so long—"

"Well it sounds like you're only searching because they hurt your ego."

"Are you hearing yourself—"

"Enough."

Their father calls out from the side. He doesn't do anything else other than stand their and stare, but it's enough to instantly silence both of them and keep them from continuing. He gestures with his head towards the screen, and Drake rolls his eyes before spinning back around.

From behind the bat, Jason speaks out while cleaning one of his firearms, "So what? Either he continuously wipes every database in the world, or he doesn't exist?"

Grayson also finally decides to join in with a comment of his own, "Could he be photoshopped at all?"

He walks closer to the screen to get a better look at the man you're posing with in the picture. Cain follows behind him, carefully studying the photo as well, but not adding anything to the conversation as of yet.

Drake sits up in his seat, his anger fading into exhaustion with another sigh, "No." He starts another scan of the blonde's face through a meta/mutant database, "Both options are seemingly impossible, considering they go everywhere together with no evidence of photo tampering. One moment they're on the beaches of Denmark and the next they're skiing in Canada!" He mutters under his breath, "Not to mention they didn't even take enough money to go on all these flights. I have no idea where they're getting the funds for this."

He slumps over again when the results turn up negative, just like every other.

Todd strolls over like he has no care for the outcome, but it only takes looking at his face to see how this is affecting him. His jaw tense as he glares directly at the light-haired man, no doubt trying to burn his appearance into his memory. Damian has also done this himself. but truly, he doesn't think Todd's earned the right to be as mad as he is at your disappearing act, and it makes his own blood boil even more.

"Tch. We wouldn't be going through such troubles in the first place if they took their phone with them. We should not be learning about their location through second hand sources."

That was merely meant to be a statement regarding the inconvenience of their search despite being family, but Todd felt the need to add to it and make it more personal.

"We wouldn't be trying to find them at all if they didn't run off without saying anything, then start hangin' out with a guy we can't track."

"They wouldn't have even left if you all didn't—"

"Are we really doing this now?"

This time, their father doesn't interfere as Damian starts another argument, merely grunt in disapproval. Cain takes one last look at the picture and leaves Grayson's side—who in particular is wondering if he should step in to stop the increasingly violent fight—to walk up to Bruce.

He acknowledges her with a nod and she gets right to he inquiry, "… What about Superman?"

Cain's interjection causes Damian to put a pause on reaching for the nearest batarang to fling past Grayson at Todd. He needs to hear if the Super family has any word on your whereabouts. They should, but if for some reason they know nothing or refuse to help, it shouldn't be to hard to get information out of Jon.

"He refuses to tell me anything, and has made a conscious effort to not report any potential leads to their location in Justice League systems."

Drake turns towards everyone again in the chair, "Conner hasn't said anything either."

Grayson's in the middle of picking up batarangs lying about the cave and putting them in his inner jacket pockets, "They don't want to be found that bad huh…" When he's collected all that he can see he steps in front of Todd—ignoring the hard look he's getting from him, "At least they seem to be doing okay for now."

Todd rolls his eyes and makes his way over to his bike, "Why are we even trying this hard to find them in the first place?"

Damian turns his attention back to Todd with a glare, baffled by the idiocy and his seemingly short-term memory loss. Before he could remind him again that this whole situation is partly his fault, Drake replies

"You were on B's side weren't you? You know why."

Todd looks back towards the group, and for a moment Damian could see how tired he actually was. His shoulders slouched and the bags under his eyes became more prominent, though the frustration at the world—or maybe just towards their father, is still clearly evident.

"I really don't anymore." And just like that he was back to acting indifferent about everything. He hops on his motorcycle and starts the engine, then digs through his bag for his helmet, "Goin' on patrol. Anyone joinin'?"

Already in her suit, Cain is quick to jump on the back of his bike. She accepts the spare helmet Todd hands her without question and swiftly locks it in place as he revs the engine.

Father steps forward, his tone stern as he watches them prepare to leave, "It's not—"

"It's already dark out. Don't start this again, we're still dealing with the consequences of the last one." Jason snaps back. With that, they take off out of the cave without another word.

Grayson leans over Drake to scroll through the rest of your pictures. Multiple of the recent pictures include the very same man that none of them are able to put an identity to. Drake and Damian also scanning each photo they go through, hoping for anything to make sense about the mystery man. In every picture you're happy and don't seem worried about him at all. None of your expressions seem fake either, if only a little exaggerated in some. You act like you've known this guy for years, so why hasn't anyone heard of him before?

Drake runs a hand over his face a d huffs out his next words, "This guy bothers me."

Grayson leans his arm on Drake's shoulder, ignoring his attempts to swat him off, "I know right? He's blonde, that just spells trouble."

"… That's not what I meant at all."

Damian tunes out the chatter from the peanut gallery and turns to his father to inform him on his plans, "I will ask Jon if Kent has informed him of anything, or if they know where they are already."

Drake snorts and lets out a quick 'good luck with that'. Damian has to fight the urge to turn around and insult him for even daring to laugh at his attempts. At least he was still doing something, unlike some of the others.

Then he thinks back on the argument that got you to leave unannounced in the first place and he changes his mind. Half of this family isn't good enough to go searching for you anyway. He's sure if you spotted them, you'd make sure you're never found again. All this over something so idiotic.

Whatever. Once he finds you he'll make sure something so asinine won't happen again, so you won't have to feel like you need to escape again. He'll beat it into everyone's head over and over to never look down on you again if it meant you'd tell him what's going on.

Maybe he should deal with that unknown with you as well. Whoever he is, he's way beneath you, and you shouldn't be giving your time to him at all. What would make you stoop so low as to hangout with random civilians over your own family?

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈✁━━━━━━━━━━━

"I swear to God if you throw that blue shell—"

"Too late."

You can do nothing but curse as your position is threatened. All you have is a green shell with a single coin in your back pocket, with no item boxes nearby to try for a boombox. Within seconds you're screaming as the blue shell reaches you and blows you into oblivion. You watch the entire race pass you while waiting for your kart to stop spinning out, ignoring the cheering from the God of Thunder and the victory lap the archer is currently doing around the room. By the time you can drive forward you have no hope of catching up to the front of the pack with no items and no coins, and come in 7th place. You fall off the couch to kneel on the floor, muttering about how you've disgraced your entire linage.

Natasha nudges your back foot from her position on the couch. She doesn't look up from the book she's reading, but obviously is addressing you with her next words.

"You still won the grand prix. Clint isn't even close, and Thor wasn't really competition to begin with."

You shake your head and lean back onto your knees, "You don't understand Nat. Every loss is a severe scar on my record. A stain. Something to be held over my head for years to come. I need to make up for this failure by setting the new world record on the track I've let best me in a moment of weakness."

That's when she looks up from the book she's reading, her brow quirked, not even trying to hide her amusement at your misfortune, "Aren't you already the world record holder?"

"It's obviously not good enough."

"You only lost because of a blue shell."

Suddenly you're being lifted off the floor. Extremely muscular arms wrap around your middle and pull you into a toned chest. Along with the deep laughter coming from the man behind you, and noticing the missing God of Thunder on the couch, you're easily able to identify Thor's the one to pick you up.

"You did splendid! You're mastery has indeed improved since we last versed one another, as have mine! Though Barton…"

Both of you bring your attention back to the archer to see he's still doing victory laps around the room.

"'Twas but a cheap trick. I assure you his proficiency is far below yours."

"A cheap trick means nothing. I still lost, and to him."

Thor only responds with more laughter.

Clint finally stops his self congratulatory dance to… correct your very wrong opinion of him, "Hey, that was not cheap! I worked hard to drive that Blue Shell to the front of the race!"

You wiggle until Thor puts you down, not wanting to argue held in his arms, "You're bagging tactics are cheap and lame!"

"Bagging requires skill—Wait you were bagging our last race! Why are you getting mad at me!?"

Suddenly a book slams closed, cutting off your oncoming rebuttal and drawing everyone's attention to the corner of the room. Another god sits in the corner, his displeasure made evident through the scowl resting on his face and the closed book on his lap. He stands with a level of grace only a spoon fed, self righteous royal could attain, causing you to grumble under your breath—assuming he's only acting this extra because he either wants something, or is planning something.

He shoots you a glare before addressing everyone in the room, his voice underlined with irritation, "You lot are trying my patience with your incessant howling. Attempting to put up with this noise any longer may cause severe damage to my own sanity."

You're heart sinks a little as he makes his way to leave, but on his way past he grabs the back of your clothes and drags you with him without a second thought.

"H-HEY! LOKI WAIT! THE GAME!"

The others do nothing to help you, all used to you acting as the mischief maker's shadow, whether willing or not. You make sure to flip them off before you turn the corner, seeing Natasha shrug and go back to her own book and Thor wave with one of the largest smiles you've seen on him. Clint only laughs at your predicament, so you mentally note to make him your target the next time you play a party game.

Once you're far enough away and Loki has slid his hand from the back of your clothes to your wrist do you speak up.

"You could just ask me to walk with you y'know?"

"So you wouldn't have thrown yourself to further rot away by the hands of that game to accomplish some arbitrary award that grants you nothing but bragging rights?"

"… No?"

"Don't lie to me."

You don't respond, and it's silent as you let Loki take you to wherever he's going. Soon enough you find yourself in front of your bedroom, Loki letting go of you and easily phasing through the door. With a roll of your eyes and complaints under your breath you follow after him.

He's already taken a seat on the egg chair you have next to the bookshelf and opened his book. You huff before looking around for things to do. There isn't much in the room, you never stayed long enough to bother personalizing it, but you do spot the Gamecube Tony bought for you as a joke. He was getting tired of you not doing anything, so he got that and a shelf full of games—said he was buying you a personality.

"Do not tell me you're still going to play that aggravating racing game?"

You continue to set up the console as you reply to him, "It's only aggravating when I'm playing with Clint, and is the one thing I have over Tim, so I gotta make sure I stay better then him." You look over to him and see he's still got his head in his book, "And you're reading! what else do you want me to do!"

Loki ignores most of what you said, only focusing on one thing, "If you are that keen on thinking about your family through every action then why are you still here? I thought you hated them."

"I just need time away." You sigh as you're thoughts drift a little more to the rest of your family, "That house is suffocating, but that doesn't mean I love them less. They're just being annoying."

A laugh escapes you when you think about how annoyed some of them must be right now due to your recent stunt, "That, and it's really funny being petty."

Loki let's it go as he chuckles himself, "Speaking of being petty, where's our next photoshoot? I'm sure they enjoyed seeing our last in the mountains."

You laugh more freely now as you bring your attention back to the game, pushing aside the more troublesome thoughts, "I heard Tony owns a private beach house. I'm sure he wouldn't mind us dropping by for a couple pictures."

[spcherryygirl]

✦ . 𝐓𝐎 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄, ᯓ mark grayson didn't want you. but at the same time, he wanted to want you. you became his want. & eventually, you became his need.

ᝰ ┆ 𝓓rabble .ᐟ : : gn!reader

⨟ ooc (?) grammatical errors

notes : : 𓏔 fbi!reader x dc p2 will be out,, soon !( hopefully ) && will try my best to make it gn!reader this time

he doesn't say it the first time that he knows it.

he doesn't even really notice it's love until it smacks him right in the middle of something ridiculous, like you laughing at yourself over your own joke at the food court, mouthful of fries, while he's still just trying to wrap his head around how to be a superhero & how not to flunk physics.

& you’re just there. smiling at him like he’s not a complete mess. like he didn’t just show up ten minutes late with a black eye & ketchup on his shirt. & he thinks, god, i’m in love with you.

but he doesn’t say it. he just reaches for your hand & holds it like it’s the only thing keeping him from floating off into space.

he loves you the way he describes his mom to you. not the grand announcement sort of thing. not like "hey i'm in love now."

but the little things. you pop up in his stories by accident.

"they sent me this meme in class, i almost laughed."

"they like this band, i think you would like them too, mom."

"they made me take a break today. told me i was doing too much."

& debbie just smiles, always, like she knows he's head over heels before he does.

he loves you when he takes off to get your go-to takeout at 11pm because you're fretting over a paper( it was your chapter three for research ). when he gets it exactly right with how you like your coffee.

when he leaves you voice memos that begin with "hey," & continues with "okay, uh… never mind. i just wanted to hear your voice."

he loves you in the silences, too. such as when he passes out on your floor, injured, battered & silent, & you do not ask questions. you simply bandage him up with hands softer than he believes he deserves.

& when he does finally speak, it is in a whisper. "i didn't know where else to go."

& you tell him, "you're home." & that word lingers in his ribcage for hours. days, even.

mark grayson is a mess of a human being.

he runs behind schedule. he loses focus. he bites off more than he can chew & occasionally attempts to save the world before responding to your text.

& he knows that. he despises that.

he tells you, one evening, voice trembling,

"you shouldn't have to wait for me. you shouldn't have to worry all the time."

& you simply shake your head & say to him, "you're worth it." & he stares at you like you just rewrote every law of physics.

like perhaps this ━━ you & him ━━ can't actually break.

he loves you like the world is ending. because sometimes it is. sometimes he's out there, seeing buildings fall & skies burn red & people scream, ,& die, & get hurt. the only thing that keeps him sane is thinking of you.

your voice.

your ( not )stupid texts.

the way you got him to watch pride & prejudice despite him swearing he'd hated it, & then found him rewatching the hand flex scene three days later.

he loves you like you are human.

like him, too.

like the suit & the powers & the viltrumite blood don't count when it's just you sitting beside him, stroking his hair & saying he smells like the wind. he chuckles at that.

"what does the wind even smell like?"

& you smile,

"you. it smells like you."

& the galaxy doesn't seem so large all of a sudden.

“sweaty.”

“hey!”

he doesn't tell you "i love you" until it's almost bursting his ribs.

he whispers it. barely audible.

not because he doesn't mean it, but because he means it too much. because it frightens him.

how real it is. how real you are.

how this isn't a comic book moment, not a save-the-day line. this is him, raw & bleeding & full of emotions he doesn't know how to carry.

"i love you."

he says it like an apology & a vow at once. he says it like he's giving you every broken piece of himself.

& you don't flinch. you take it. you take him.

& you say it back.

& that's what shatters him, honestly.

not a villain.

not an alien.

you. loving him back.

choosing him.

the version of him that's still figuring it out.

him who is still learning.

him who is still scared.

he loves you like it's the only thing he knows how to do right.

& maybe, sometimes, it is.

© spcheryygirl

[fligniuz]

hi here’s the drabble i wrote for luigi’s birthday this one goes out to my insecure artists who like making things for people but doubt the value of their work💪😳

sfw

tag list : @mangionebabymama , @mangobabygirl , @jenisaswift13 , @mangionesdaisy , @iinfinitelimits , @daydreamingwithluigi , @mrs-cactus69 , @mashkatzi , @straw8berry , @bean-is-reading , @theloverfiles , @luigis-wetdream , @difensore-del-popolo (comment to be added)

Luigi is home.

Luigi is home, and he is one year older—although he certainly doesn’t look it. If anything, he’s more youthful than before. He is home from work, and you are holding his gift in your warm palms, and it’s nothing, nothing at all. Just a stupid knick knack you made.

But it’s all you have to give.

“Baaaabyyyyy,” he chimes from the foyer.

It’s better than nothing at all.

You emerge from your shared bedroom, the gift cupped in your hand and hidden behind your back. Luigi smiles wide when he sees you, transferring what looks to be a boxed cake to the granite kitchen counter as you approach.

“There you are!” he exclaims. “Look at what everybody at the office got for—what do you have behind your back?”

Well, shit. You hoped this could have been a bit more ceremonial; you already wished him a happy birthday this morning, so to give him your gift now feels a bit like a strange choice. Whatever. Better late than never.

“Um,” you start, “I didn’t have much to splurge on you—”

“Oh, baby, please,” he sighs, grimacing. “You really didn’t have to get me anything. I told you just getting to spend the day with you is enough!”

You shake your head. “No, that’s the problem. I didn’t get you anything. I—I really wanted to, and you know I would have if I—”

“Stop it!” he interjects, not at all angry. “You’re perfect and I love you.”

“—but I still wanted you to have a present from me, so…Um…Imadeyousomething.”

The words hardly come out as a sentence. You’re surprised your gift hasn’t melted in the sweat practically dripping off your hands.

“You made me something?” Luigi repeats.

You nod.

“Well, let me see, baby!”

Carefully, you take a deep breath and pull your hand away from your back, bringing it forth and unfolding your fingers to slowly reveal what’s hiding in your clammy palm.

Your gift. A handmade sculpture, depicting a mushroom-like creature with sharp feet and a bulbous tail, carefully painted pale green and hints of pink. It is small—small enough to fit snugly beneath your clasped fingers. Days of work, spilled into one tiny creation that you hold in your hand.

His smile is almost immediate, spreading to his ears as he reaches forward to hold your gift in his own hands. When you pass it to him he looks closer, examining its detail with cute squinty eyes and pursed lips. He is exceptionally cautious.

“You made this for me?” he asks, seemingly in disbelief. “Like, with your own hands, you made me my own little Breloom?”

“I thought maybe you could keep him on your desk, or something,” you blurt, as if to explain yourself. “Do you like him?”

“Baby…”

Luigi waddles over to the counter and ever so gently sets down your art on its mini pointy feet—and then he turns back toward you and engulfs you in a tight hug, squeezing you so hard it almost sucks the air from your lungs.

“I love you. I love you so much,” he whispers into your hair. “Thank you. I’m gonna keep it forever.”

You sigh in relief.

Before he pulls away he kisses you on the cheek.

“How long did that take you?” he asks.

You shake off the question. “It was worth every second.”

“I love it,” he says. “Thank you so much, il mio tesoro. You’ve made my year already.”

Shrugging, you smile slightly.

Luigi pinches your cheek. “Breloom can be a ‘she’ too, by the way. All Pokémon can.”

“You sound so woke right now,” you quip.

He pulls you closer to him by your waist, this time kissing your lips.

“Whatever you say,” he murmurs. “Are you gonna eat this cake with me, or what?”

il mio tesoro = “ my treasure”

[xoln04f1xo]

Warnings: Mentions of self-harm + relapsing, mental health, depression, and recovery.

A/N: This is really a really heavy fic, please read the warnings above first. This fic contains journal entries and text messages. Please talk to someone you trust if you are struggling with anything. My DMs are also ALWAYS open so just text me whenever! 🧡

Pairing: Lando Norris x Reader

WC: 1.3k

Divider Credit: @enchanthings

💐 Journal Entry: Apr 3rd

I don’t feel like myself. Or maybe I do, and that’s the scary part.

I didn’t answer Lando’s texts today. Or yesterday. Or the day before. I can’t tell him. He’d leave if he knew. I’m already too much. I hate that I broke the promise again. Worse - I feel numb. Like I’m watching myself through a screen.

What if I just... disappeared for a while?

💬 Text Messages

Lando [3:12 PM]: Hey, haven’t heard from you. Just checking in. Everything okay?

Lando [5:48 PM]: You don’t need to reply. Just let me know you’re safe, yeah?

Lando [8:06 PM]: I’ll come by tomorrow. I’m worried. Please don’t shut me out.

You didn’t mean to leave your sleeves pulled up, but you were tired. You forgot.

When Lando showed up the next day, hoodie slung over one shoulder and soft panic in his eyes, he didn’t greet you with loud cheer or nervous energy. Just a quiet, "Hi." And then, after seeing the faint marks, even quieter:

"Can I sit?"

You nodded. You were trembling.

The silence sat between you like an old friend. You tried to speak but choked on the words. So instead, he leaned forward and gently placed a small box on the coffee table: Your favourite biscuits. A note tucked beneath them.

You opened it later that night. His handwriting was slightly messy, but clear:

“You are not a burden. You are not broken. I don’t need you to be okay - I just need you to let me stand beside you when you’re not.” – L

You cried. But for once, it didn’t feel like weakness. It felt like relief.

💐 Journal Entry: Apr 11th

I told Lando. All of it.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t tell me to “snap out of it.” He didn’t try to fix me with false hope.

He just held my hand. He asked questions. He listened.

He listened.

A few weeks later, you were sitting outside together on a bench near the track during one of Lando’s breaks. He was fiddling with a bottle cap, eyes flicking between you and the ground.

“Would it help to talk to someone?” he asked. “Like... someone professional?”

You hesitated. “I don’t want to be put on meds and locked away.”

He shook his head. “Therapy isn’t about that. It’s just... space. With someone who knows how to help you sort through the noise. You deserve that.”

You looked at him for a long time. “You think I can get better?”

His answer was immediate. “I know you can. And I’ll be right here. Every awful day. Every win. Every backstep.”

You squeezed his hand. You didn’t say it, but in that moment, you believed him.

💬 Text Messages: A Month Into Therapy

You [10:31 PM]: Hard day. But I didn’t hurt myself. Even though I wanted to.

Lando [10:33 PM]: That’s huge. I’m proud of you. Every time you choose to stay, even when it’s hard - you’re fighting. And you’re winning.

You [10:36 PM]: I don’t feel like I’m winning.

Lando [10:37 PM]: Then let me remind you until you do. One breath at a time.

💐 Journal Entry: May 7th

Today, for the first time in months, I laughed. Like, really laughed. The ugly kind.

Lando spilled orange juice on his sim setup and panicked like he’d crashed at Monaco.

I didn’t think about pain. Or failure. Or whether I was worth loving. I just laughed.

Maybe that’s what healing feels like. Quiet, strange moments that remind you:

You’re still here.

Weeks later, on a rooftop in Monaco, the sun setting over the harbor, Lando turned to you.

“Do you remember that night you said you didn’t want to wake up?”

You nodded, throat tight.

“I didn’t tell you then, but... that night, I didn’t sleep. I was scared. Scared you wouldn’t be here. I’ve never prayed harder.”

He reached into his pocket, pulling out a tiny silver bracelet.

Inside, etched in small letters: "One more day."

You blinked back tears. “What’s this for?”

“Every time you want to disappear,” he said, clasping it on your wrist, “look at this. And promise me just one more day.”

You nodded. Voice breaking, but solid:

“I promise.”

Late May

You’d been doing better. That was the hardest part.

When the crash came, it felt like betrayal. You were supposed to be okay now. That’s what everyone thought. But depression doesn’t care about progress—it drags you back under without warning.

Lando was away in Spain for the race. You didn’t want to ruin his focus. You hadn’t texted in two days.

That night, you relapsed.

Not deeply. Not like before. But enough to feel the sting of failure.

Enough to hate yourself all over again.

💬 Text Messages

You [2:43 AM]: I messed up. I’m sorry.

Lando [2:44 AM]: Hey. I’m here. I’m awake. Talk to me.

You [2:45 AM]: I don’t want to be a disappointment. I was doing so well.

Lando [2:47 AM]: You are doing well. A slip isn’t a failure. It means you’re human. It’s part of healing - not the end of it.

Lando [2:48 AM]: I’m proud of you for telling me. That takes guts. More than most people ever show.

He FaceTimed you between media rounds the next morning. You were curled up in bed, eyes red and puffy. He was still in his race gear, hair flattened from the helmet.

“Can I say something?” he asked.

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

“I’ve crashed more cars than I can count,” he said, gently. “But I get back in. Because I love it. Because I know it’s worth it.

You’re not broken. You’re just learning. Like all of us.”

“I just... I hate how weak I feel.”

“You’re not weak,” he said firmly. “You’re tired. And tired people need rest. Not punishment.”

Early June

There were better days, too.

Days where Lando came over with takeout and made you sit through bad Netflix romcoms. Days where he handed you a coloring book and sat beside you in silence for hours.

One day, he showed up with a box.

Inside: a custom hoodie that said “One More Day” on the sleeve.

You smiled. Small, but real.

💬 Text Messages

You [7:03 PM]: Had therapy today. Talked about the relapse. Cried a lot. But I didn’t lie or minimize.

Lando [7:04 PM]: That’s amazing. You’re facing it head-on. That’s real strength.

Lando [7:05 PM]: Proud of you always. But especially today. 💛

Late June

You were at Silverstone, for the first time in months.

Lando invited you to the paddock, cautiously, not pushing. You were nervous about the crowds, the cameras. But being near him grounded you.

After the race, he ran to the fence, helmet off, hair wild, beaming.

You were crying again. But not from sadness.

“I didn’t think I’d make it to this moment,” you whispered when he finally pulled you aside.

He held your face in both hands, eyes burning with emotion. “You made it here. You believed for one more day. And now you’ve got this one.”

💬 Text Message

You [11:16 PM]: I thought about hurting tonight. But I called my therapist instead. Then I read your note. I’m okay.

Lando [11:17 PM]: That’s massive. I’m in awe of you. I really am.

Lando [11:18 PM]: You’re rewriting your story, one hard night at a time.

One night in July, during a thunderstorm, you curled up beside Lando on the couch, fingers laced with his.

“I’m scared it’ll always be like this,” you whispered.

He kissed your forehead. “Maybe it won’t always be easy. But it’ll be different. Lighter. And I’ll be here. We’ll carry it together.”

“Even if I break again?”

“You won’t break alone.”

A/N: I'm thinking about writing different areas of mental health. Lmk what you think.

requests are open!

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