#mostly about season 4 but there’s some others | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gothcsz · 1 month ago

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Summary: Life after quitting the porn industry.

Tags: halloween vibes, smut, oral (f receiving), fingering, p in v sex (protected), getting bent over in a parking garage, frankie heavy beginning (they had us in the first half not gonna lie), speaking of frankie he wears the ghostface mask while hitting it, connie has entered this little universe, masturbation with vibrator (f), clit stimulation, dirty talk, pussy slapping, JUST THE TIP!!!!, no use of y/n, other shit i’m probably forgetting.

A/N: surpriseeeee, i woke up a little too inspired to write and voila, out came this beautiful chapter that i was not expecting to get out so soon. again, this fic has def taken off in ways i never imagined but uhhh, we out here 🖤 thanks to everyone for the support, frankie girlies (gn) i hope i did your man justice 'cause i was feeling a little too feral for him. as for my just the tip stans... we did it joe 🤠 i hope you guys fucking love this the way i do and that you ruined your underwear... just as i did 🖤

The cool autumn breeze sweeps over you as you walk out of the movie theater with Frankie, the Halloween spirit in full swing. Scream 2 was as thrilling as ever, and your favorite of the trilogy.

The fall season always makes you feel nostalgic, and tonight has been no exception—dinner, a movie, and Frankie by your side for the past month has made things feel better than they have been for quite some time now.

“It’s not that hard to escape the bastard,” Frankie says confidently, as if he’d be the first to survive the whole ordeal. “He’s just some guy—or girl—wearing a mask with a knife. I’d have them handled in five minutes. Tops.”

You laugh, humoring him. “Oh, I’m sure you would.”

The parking garage is mostly empty, dimly lit as you make your way to his truck, parked at the top level. You’re talking casually about the film when he suddenly slows down, a mischievous smirk creeping across his face. He corners you slowly, backing you against the cool metal of the truck, his presence looming as you feel the tension rise.

“Or,” he says, voice dropping lower, “I could be a real kickass Ghostface.”

Your eyes flick to the mask in his hand, the complimentary one that came with the tickets, and then back to him. His dark brown eyes gleam with playful intent, and a thrill shoots through you. “Oh yeah?” you challenge, raising an eyebrow.

He grins, slipping his cap off and pulling the mask over his face. Oh, shit. You’ve never had a mask kink before, but something about Frankie wearing it like this, his body pressing closer, has your pulse racing.

“What’s your favorite scary movie?” He asks, his voice lowering to mimic what’d you just seen, a smooth yet eerie tone. It’s almost too good, too convincing, and you suddenly understand why people fantasize about this kind of thing.

You bite your lip, your mind swirling with desire as his hand slides down to your hip, squeezing gently. “I don’t have one,” you say, teasing him. You can barely see his eyes through the mask’s slits, but the way his head tilts makes your stomach flip.

“Oh, c’mon, hermosa,” he purrs, “don’t lie to me.”

You giggle nervously, feeling the heat between you both intensify. Glancing around to make sure you’re still alone, you place a hand on his chest, letting it slide down slowly until it reaches his belt. He grunts in response, his free hand gripping the back of your head tightly. The pressure sends a shiver down your spine, and you whimper softly.

“You’re liking this, aren’t you?” He asks, voice muffled slightly by the mask but dripping with lust.

“More than I’d like to admit,” you breathe out, your body reacting instinctively to his touch. And before you can process it, your jeans and underwear are being pulled down to your mid-thigh. Frankie wastes no time, maneuvering you into the backseat of the truck. You’re bent over, ass out, hands pressed against the cool leather as you hear him undo his belt, the sound of his zipper punctuating the quiet.

He’s quick, efficient, rolling a condom over his thick cock before positioning himself behind you. His hand grips your hip as he thrusts into you, and you gasp as he fills you, the mask still firmly on his face.

It’s fucking amazing. Frankie fucks you like no one ever has—not like it’s for show or performance, but feverent and real. Each thrust hits the perfect spot inside you, sending your vision into a haze of stars. You’re more vocal than you’ve ever been, moaning his name, asking for more.

“Harder,” you whine, and he obliges, his nails digging into your hips as he pounds into you relentlessly. His grunts mix with your moans, the sound echoing in the empty parking garage.

When he’s close, he finally pulls the mask off, tossing it aside before leaning down, kissing and nipping at your neck. His fingers move below you, rubbing at your sensitive clit as you clench around him, your orgasm rushing through you.

His teeth graze your skin as you both reach your peak, your body trembling as he groans, his release following yours.

He stills inside you, breathing heavily against your neck, and for a moment, everything is still—just you, him, and the night. You smile, feeling content, and he presses a soft kiss to your shoulder before slowly pulling out, leaving you both breathless in the backseat of his truck.

“Well, fuck.” Frankie curses under his breath, tying the condom off with a quick motion. His hands, now gentler, reach for yours as he helps you up, both of you quickly fixing your clothes and appearances.

Once you’re situated, you spin around to face him, your fingers lightly brushing his jaw as you lean in to kiss him. It’s sweet, and the soft smack of your lips echoes through the empty parking garage.

“That was amazing,” you say, still a little breathless, your heart still racing in your chest.

A smirk plays on his lips as he puts his cap back on and tosses the used condom in a nearby trash bin. “Gonna have to hold onto this,” he says, nodding toward the Ghostface mask, now thrown carelessly into the backseat. There’s a playful gleam in his eyes, that flirty, teasing edge you’ve come to expect from him.

“It was definitely a heat-of-the-moment thing,” you say, trying to play it cool, though you can’t help the little grin tugging at the corner of your mouth.

“Mhm, sure it was.” He winks, sliding into the driver’s seat beside you as he starts the engine, the rumble of his truck echoing as he pulls out of the garage.

The streets are alive with the Halloweekend night crowd. People spill out of bars, laughter and chatter drifting through the air as Frankie navigates through the bustling costumed scene. You catch sight of a group of friends stumbling onto the sidewalk, and you’re grateful that your apartment’s entrance is around the back, away from all the noise and chaos.

Frankie pulls up across the street from your place, parking the truck and turning to you with a slightly furrowed brow. “Not really a fan of your current living arrangement,” he says, his tone casual but his eyes serious.

You shrug, reaching for your purse. “Beggars can’t be choosers,” though you can’t deny you’ve felt the same way. The cramped apartment above a rowdy bar wasn’t your dream setup, but it’s what you’ve got for now.

Leaning over the console, you peck his lips once, twice, then again. What starts as a series of playful kisses quickly turns into something more, your hands finding his stubbled jaw as his fingers graze your thigh. Before long, you’re fully making out again.

When you finally pull away, your lips tingling, you ask softly, “Wanna come up?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his eyes search yours for a moment, considering something. But then, with a slow nod, he says, “Yeah, okay.” His voice is steady, but there’s that familiar heat beneath it, the same one that had you wrapped up in the backseat earlier.

The following morning is spent with the both of you lazily lounging around your apartment, only leaving to pick up a late breakfast from your favorite spot around the corner before you’re back in bed, sleeping the day away.

You’re barely aware of the warm breath ghosting over your inner thighs as you shift in your sleep, legs lazily spread across the bed. A sleepy moan slips out when you feel soft lips pressing against your pussy, then a firmer kiss followed by a slow drag of a tongue.

You stir, half-dazed, your fingers instinctively moving to the unruly curls of hair between your legs as the sensation intensifies. Frankie’s lips latch onto your clit, sucking gently, and it sends a shock of pleasure through your body, waking you up fully.

“Oh,” his name slips from your lips like a breathless confession.

You can feel his grin against you, hear the low groan vibrating through your sensitive flesh as he takes his time, his tongue swirling around you in lazy circles, savoring your taste.

Just for a second, a flash of something—or someone—else crosses your mind. Javier. The thought of him, of the way he’d made you fall apart that day in the elevator, flickers in your mind like a flame.

Your eyes fly open in shock, and you gasp, but Frankie is none the wiser. He assumes your reaction is all because of him, and that only spurs him on. His lips press harder against you as he brings two fingers up, spreading you open gently before sinking them inside.

You shake your head, mentally shoving him back into the recesses where he belongs.

With a determined focus, you let yourself melt back into the pleasure, letting go of everything else. “Pussy tastes so good, hermosa,” he mumbles, as he works his mouth and fingers together, creating a messy, perfect rhythm that has your thighs clenching around his head.

It’s all too much, too good, and you can’t help the way your body writhes beneath him.

Your moans fill the room, louder and more desperate, hips lifting and chasing the pleasure as the tension in your spine coils tighter and tighter until it finally snaps, and you come undone all over his lips and fingers.

Frankie doesn’t stop right away—his lips stay on you, moving with less intensity now, just soft kisses as you come down from your high. He places a final, lingering kiss to your clit before he crawls up your body, kissing a path along your skin. You’re still wearing his t-shirt, your body half exposed, and he grins down at you, his dark eyes sparkling with satisfaction.

“Figured you needed something to help get you through your shift,” he says, his voice teasing yet full of affection.

You give him a lazy, fucked-out smile, still catching your breath. “It’s gonna help me with more than just my shift, mister. You just gave me something new to add to my spank bank.”

He shakes his head playfully. “Spank bank, huh? Glad to be of service,” he adds with a wink, leaning in for another kiss, slower this time. You can’t help but run your hands over his arms, admiring the small scars, the beauty marks that dot his tan skin.

“Are you coming back tonight?” You ask softly, your fingers tangling in the curls at the nape of his neck, pulling him down for a peck.

He sighs against your lips before shaking his head. “Can’t. I’ve got Elliana this weekend,” he says, his tone softening as he mentions his four-year-old daughter. You haven’t met her yet, the two of you keeping things casual and slow.

Neither of you wants anything serious, but hearing him mention his daughter always adds a layer of sweetness to him that makes you feel warm.

You nod in understanding, pulling him down for one final kiss before you force yourself to get up and start getting ready for work. He watches you, that same teasing, affectionate glint in his eyes, and you can’t help but smile back at him, grateful for whatever this is between you two.

“You just got fucked, didn’t you?” Connie’s voice hits you the second you step behind the bar, her eyebrows wiggling with mischief as she leans against the counter, arms crossed over her Princess Peach costume that’s not really a costume—just a pink tennis dress with the signature crown atop of her head.

“Hello to you too, Connie.” You give her a sarcastic smile, securing the half apron around your waist. It’s a routine now—her prying into your business like an investigative reporter for the gossip section.

Reminds you of another blond, and now you wonder if they’re all just like this.

Your firecracker of a coworker is an E.R. nurse who took on this bartending gig a few months after you did. The fact that she has to hustle for tips despite being in healthcare is one of those cruel ironies you both bitch about during slow shifts. You’d think a nurse would be raking in cash, but there are nights here at Lucky’s where she pulls more than at the hospital.

“I’m just saying,” Connie continues, mid-lemon slice, her eyes narrowing in exaggerated suspicion. “You’re wearing your cute jeans, your shirt’s actually clean, and—wait, is that makeup on your face? Please don’t tell me you’re in cat ears!” She pauses, blade in hand, smirking at you like she’s cracked some secret code.

Your face warms up as you adjust the stupid cat ears on your head. Yeah, she’s nailed it—hooking up with Frankie before your shift definitely put some extra pep in your step tonight. A little effort never hurt, especially when looking put-together meant better tips.

It’s Halloween, and people tend to tip better when you’re festive. So, why not milk it for all it’s worth?

“Just capitalizing off the holiday, Con. Is that a crime?” You say, bending down to grab the ice buckets for a quick refill before the evening rush hits.

“No, what is a crime,” she says, not missing a beat as she narrows her eyes at you, tossing the lemons aside, “is you skimping out on the juicy details of your love life.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the smile that slips out as you hip-check her on your way to the ice machine. “I’m not skimping. It’s not like I’ve been hiding some wild love affair. We only started fucking, what, like two weeks ago?”

“And?” She leans forward, hands on her hips, waiting like she’s tuning in for the next episode of her favorite drama.

You bite your lip, lowering your voice conspiratorially, “It’s… fucking amazing.”

She whistles, then throws her hands up in celebration. You can’t help but laugh—loudly—your mood is too good to even pretend to be embarrassed.

Grabbing the freshly filled ice buckets, you lug them back behind the bar, your arms burning slightly from the weight, but you’re not complaining. Between lugging buckets and keeping the bar stocked, who needs a gym membership?

“I’m so jealous. I can’t even remember the last time I slept with a guy and actually enjoyed it,” She says with a dramatic sigh, leaning her elbows on the bar.

“Trust me, I was in the same boat for the longest time. Then Frankie just… showed up,” you say with a small, satisfied smile. It’s true, he kind of did swoop in out of nowhere, and it’s been surprisingly easy with him since.

But, of course, there’s that brief hiccup in your mind that involves Javier.

You push the thought of him away, like you’ve been doing for weeks. What happened earlier in bed with Frankie was just a slip-up, your subconscious messing with you.

“Well, I need a guy to just show up and fuck me so I can think straight again,” she half-jokes, and the two of you burst into laughter, the kind that shakes your shoulders and draws a few curious glances from nearby patrons.

As the night picks up, the bar gets busier, and the usual rhythm settles in. You and Connie move in sync, the crowd buzzing with energy.

Costumes, chatter, and the clinking of glasses surround you, but you’re in your zone. It’s not until about two hours later, as you’re pouring someone’s vodka soda, that you catch sight of a familiar face sliding into a barstool in front of you.

“Long time no see, stranger,” you greet Steve over the music, already reaching for his usual piss beer and uncapping it before sliding it across the counter.

“Work’s been fucking ass,” he replies, taking a long, much-needed gulp from the bottle. You can see the exhaustion in his eyes.

“Robbie still being an asshole, I presume?” You ask, shifting away to take another patron’s order while keeping half an ear out for whatever fresh hell your ex-boss has put Steve through now.

Steve’s attention, though, is fixed on something—or rather, someone—else. His gaze locks on Connie, who’s busy putting on a little show for a group of birthday girls. She’s expertly pouring a line of shots, lighting them on fire, and sliding them toward the group, who erupt into cheers.

“She seein’ anyone?” He asks, leaning in closer, like he’s trying to keep the question discreet. Between the thumping music and the lively chatter, Connie wouldn’t hear him even if he shouted.

You raise a brow. “Like I told you last time—and like she told you the time before—no.”

“Then why’s she always shuttin’ me down?” He frowns, frustration creasing his face.

You shrug, wiping down the perpetually sticky counter. “Probably because you only approach her here, when you’re halfway through a six-pack. Connie’s not looking for bullshit—she deals with enough of that here and at the hospital.”

Steve scoffs, taking another hefty swig of his beer. “Right. You bartenders are tough to crack.”

You smirk, knocking your knuckles on the wooden bar top. “Maybe, but we’re worth the effort.”

Steve chuckles at that. “Now, spill. I’ve barely seen you since I quit.” You’re curious, and maybe just a little petty.

He groans, tipping his head back as if the memory of work physically pains him. And a part of you—maybe the slightly vindictive part—waits eagerly to hear about how Robbie’s screwing up, still secretly wishing for your old boss’s downfall.

“Longer shoots for lesser pay. And the fucking guys he’s been hiring— Christ Almighty. S’been a fuckin’ shitshow since you walked out,” You feel pride swell up in your chest at the remembrance, how good it felt to stick up for yourself. “But especially since Javier kicked his ass to the curb. I’m the last one standing.”

You barely have time to absorb this before a rowdy group of frat boys descends on the bar, demanding drinks with the enthusiasm of toddlers in a candy store.

You want to wring their necks for interrupting your train of thought, especially since curiosity about what happened with Javier is gnawing at you.

Why do you care? That small voice in your head questions, but you put her on mute and focus on fulfilling the orders of these insufferable college students.

Noticing you’re tied up, Steve hops down a few barstools, positioning himself in front of Connie, trying to charm her again. You can’t help but catch snippets of his pickup lines as you whirl about behind the bar. To your surprise, Connie seems receptive this time, laughing and engaging with him instead of brushing him off like before.

Good for her—she deserves a bit of fun, especially after just saying she needed to get laid. You hope Steve has learned a thing or two from all those shoots.

Amid the chaos, you break through their flirting when Connie has to prepare another round of shots. “So, Javier quit?” you ask, the words spilling out before you can hold them back.

Steve, clearly happy as hell that his advances have finally worked, shoots you a smug grin. “Yup. Him and Robbie were arguing more and more then he pulled a you and stormed off set. It’s just him and his agent now. He isn’t signing on to just one production company anymore. Don’t be surprised if you see him sellin’ tricks on Figueroa.”

A frown tugs at your lips, the bittersweet news settling in your chest. You can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for Javier.

“Why are you askin’? You miss him or somethin’? Thought you were still bangin’ it out with that camera guy from Malibu.” His tone is teasing, reminiscent of a little brother trying to get under your skin.

You snort, rolling your eyes and collecting the empty glasses into a plastic bin. “ I’m just surprised. This is like, his whole thing.”

He shrugs nonchalantly. “Yeah, he hasn’t been working as much. I’ve never seen the guy be this… still. Told him maybe it’s a good thing—he can finally chill the fuck out and give his dick a break.”

You can’t help but laugh, handing him another beer. “I can’t even imagine what else he’d do. Can you seriously picture Javier Peña working a 9 to 5?”

Steve grins, scratching his chin as if pondering the idea. “I dunno, he could be a good car salesman. Maybe even insurance?”

You both chuckle, but as you excuse yourself to put away the dirty dishes, your mind lingers on Javier. It’s like a weird domino effect: your departure had shaken things up, and now a small part of you feels somewhat responsible for this mess.

No, you shouldn’t feel this way. He’ll figure it out. You really shouldn’t waste this much time ‘worrying’ about him. He means nothing to you. End of story.

The rest of your shift flows smoothly, and you end up pocketing more tips than you anticipated. Even the late hour—almost four in the morning—doesn’t faze you as you and Connie finish cleaning up and closing.

“You can stay the night if you want. I’m sure you don’t want to wait for the bus this late,” you suggest, watching her mop with a satisfied smile.

“Actually…” She pauses, wringing out the mop head. Your brows raise at her tone, and she bites her lip. “My ride is waiting for me out front.”

You piece it together in an instant, halting mid-count of the twenty-dollar bills. “No way, you finally gave in to Steve!”

Connie’s face lights up with a sheepish smile. “I thought he was cute since day one. I just couldn’t let him get to me so easily. Play hard to get, you know? See if he really wanted me as badly as he said he did.”

You hum, shaking your head with a grin as you resume counting. “Atta girl. Enjoy yourself, you deserve it.”

As you finish up, you hug Connie goodbye, watching as she excitedly jumps into Steve’s Jeep. You trudge up the creaky stairs to your place, feeling a bit lonely now.

The remnants of Frankie’s presence linger in your cramped apartment: his side of the bed still mussed, a crumpled T-shirt on the floor, and takeaway containers from earlier scattered on your small kitchen table.

With a sigh, you take off your cat ears and head straight for the shower, hoping to wash away the lingering thoughts of both Javier and Frankie before slipping into the quiet of your own bed.

Frankie stands in your living room, his expression serious but soft, while you sit on the couch, staring up at him.

You foolishly didn’t think this would happen—at least not this soon, only two months in. His words are steady, measured, like he’s practiced this. “Elliana’s mom and I… we’re trying to work things out.”

The lump in your throat rises, but you refuse to let it crack your voice. You won’t give in to the urge to cry. It’s not like you didn’t expect this on some level—dating a man with a child meant his ex would always be in the picture. And now, she’s front and center.

“I understand…”

He exhales deeply at seeing you like this. He sits next to you, close but not invasive, and his presence—still so familiar—only sharpens the ache. You don’t pull away, though everything inside you screams to. Even if this is the right way to end things, you have every right to feel a sting.

You weren’t serious-serious, but you’d gotten used to him. His easy warmth, the random dates that brightened your week, the small slice of domesticity you didn’t realize you’d grown to like. And the sex… God, you’re not ready to give that up, either.

“I didn’t mess around with her while we were together. You have to know that,” he adds, his voice low, calm, as if trying to make sure you’re not left with any doubts. He rests his hand on your knee, grounding you in the moment, though you wish he wouldn’t.

“I know you’re not that guy, Frankie. It just sucks being broken up with,” you say, forcing a smile, lightening your tone as if to keep the tears at bay.

He sighs again, his big brown eyes—those damn puppy eyes—locking onto yours. “I really enjoyed my time with you,” he says, sounding sincere. “It was great. You’re great.”

You nod, just wanting this to be over so you can sink yourself into your sheets and rot for the rest of the day.

“Likewise, Frankie. Now go make sure your daughter’s got a stable home to grow up in.” You try to smile again, but it’s weaker this time. He can see through it, you know, but he nods anyway.

You walk him to the door, making a quick detour to your bedroom to gather the few t-shirts he’s left behind. When you hand them to him, he grins, trying to lift the mood. “So that’s where these went.”

“Yeah, I’m a bit of a t-shirt hoarder,” you joke back, your voice hollow.

He pauses at the door, his eyes lingering on you longer than you’d like.

“Take care of yourself.”

“You too, hermosa,” he replies, the affection in the word making your heart squeeze.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind him, you let yourself collapse against it, sliding down until you’re sitting on the floor, knees drawn up to your chest. The tears come silently at first, just a slow trickle, but soon they’re streaking down your cheeks as you curl into yourself.

You hate dating. You’ve always hated it. It feels like a cycle of disappointments: either you’re stuck with some dud or, worse, you find someone worth a damn, and they leave anyway.

After crying it out for a few minutes, you force yourself to wipe away the tears. The ache in your chest lingers, but you’re determined to distract yourself, dragging your feet over to the entertainment center. Your hand glides over the familiar spines of DVDs and VHS tapes, searching for the right kind of escape, something to pair with the bottle of wine you’ll snag from downstairs.

You reach the end of the row and stop on Pretty Woman, about to pull it out, when your fingers brush against a few unmarked DVDs shoved haphazardly in the back. Curious, you pull them out, and your breath hitches.

They’re your old shoots—the first ones you ever did with Javier. The raunchy titles leap out at you, and suddenly, memories of being on set with him flood back. The chemistry, the heat, the way he looked at you when the cameras weren’t rolling.

Your pulse quickens. You should put them back. But you don’t. You weren’t prepared for this— especially not today, freshly dumped, on the verge of a sexual drought, and with your head all messed up.

Fuck it, you have nothing to lose, so you randomly pick one. Pretty Woman gets shoved aside as you clutch the DVD case, a weird thrill running through you.

As if possessed, you march to your bedside table in your bedroom, frantically rummaging for your long-neglected vibrator. It’s been gathering dust since Frankie showed up, but now… now you’re hoping, praying it still works. When you finally find it, you flip it on, and the gentle hum tells you it’s fully charged.

Thank you, past me. You have no idea how much present me needs this.

With a deep breath, you return to the living room and pop the DVD into the player. The screen flickers to life, and you settle onto the couch, heart pounding in your chest as the film begins.

The anticipation builds as the usual no-piracy warning flashes on the screen, followed by the production company’s intro. Finally, the familiar jazzy porn music kicks in, setting the mood for what’s to come.

You can already feel your pulse racing, knowing what’s next. This one, you remember—it was one of the first outdoor scenes you shot.

The setup was simple, classic: a woman stranded on the side of the road due to car trouble, waiting for a tow truck to save her. The main star, gorgeous as ever, is dressed provocatively in a tiny miniskirt, platform flip-flops, and a tube top that screams easy access. The camera lingers over her, capturing every curve of her body as she fakes helplessness, playing her role perfectly.

Then comes the rumble of the tow truck, and Javier steps out, looking rugged and sexy in dirty jeans and a rumpled denim shirt with a generic towing company patch stitched onto it. His presence alone is enough to make your skin prickle with heat.

“Pretty little thing like you shouldn’t be stuck out here like this,” his voice fills the room. God, you hate to admit it, but you’ve missed hearing him—his smooth tone, the way he used to make every line sound like a promise.

Maybe it’s the leftover emotion from Frankie’s breakup that’s doing this to you, making you feel too much.

“Thank goodness you’re here to help me out. I just... I don’t have any money on me right now to pay for it,” the woman pouts, lips glossy, eyes fluttering up at him like she’s the most innocent thing alive.

Javier cocks his head, eyes traveling over her like she’s a piece of candy. “Don’t worry,” he says, that signature smirk appearing on his face. “I think we can figure something out.”

And just like that, they’re fucking. Raw, desperate sex. He has her spread out on the hood of the car, and her tits bounce with every hard thrust. Javier holds her legs wide open, his rough hands gripping her thighs as he slams into her.

The scene is pure, animalistic lust, and it has your head spinning.

A whimper escapes your lips before you can stop it. Your moans mix with theirs from the TV, and the steady buzz of your vibrator pulses deep inside you. You match the rhythm of Javier’s thrusts, watching as he pistons his cock in and out of her, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling your living room.

You remember that day on set vividly. You’d been sick, your body still sore from the remnants of a cold, and you’d been eager to get it over with so you could go home and collapse into a warm bowl of pho.

But now, watching the scene play out in front of you, it’s like you’re seeing it for the first time—every detail heightened, every movement burned into your mind.

Javier’s fingers dig into her skin as he holds her in place, his hips grinding into her with force. Her face twists in bliss, and you can’t help but imagine what that must feel like, that deep, toe-curling sensation as he hits just the right spot. You let out another moan, the vibrator buzzing relentlessly as you try to keep up with the scene, your hips rocking in time with theirs.

When he leans down, wrapping his lips around her nipple, it’s like you can feel the phantom of his mouth on your own skin. You bring a hand up to your chest, pinching and twisting your nipple, slicking your fingers with spit to heighten the sensation. It’s almost too much, but you can’t stop yourself.

Your breathing quickens as you turn up the setting on the vibrator, the pleasure building, your back bending off the couch. You close your eyes and let your imagination take over, the image of Javier on top of you searing into your mind—his body, hot and heavy, pressing against yours, his teeth grazing your neck, his hands everywhere at once. You can feel him, hear the grunts and groans from the screen, but in your mind, it’s all for you.

“Nena, look at you,” Javier’s voice murmurs, low and rough in your mind, as he hitches your leg higher around his waist, his words melting into your skin like liquid heat. “Told you you’d look so beautiful spread out like this, taking my cock so well.”

A sharp gasp escapes you, your breath catching in your throat as your pussy clenches tightly around the vibrator, which suddenly feels less like a toy and more like him—big, thick, and filling you completely. You can almost feel the weight of him pressing against you, the way his cock would stretch you just right. Your lips part, another whimper escaping as the scene in your head becomes even more vivid.

“And those noises you’re making?” His voice, rich and dripping with desire, keeps echoing through your thoughts. “Baby, you drive me fucking,” his hips snap forward in your imagination, rough and unrelenting, “crazy,” another thrust sending a shockwave of pleasure through you. Your neck arches back, exposing your throat like you’re inviting him to claim you, his mouth finding the sensitive skin behind your ear, marking you, biting you. His lips would feel so good, so possessive, leaving trails of heat wherever they touch.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he whispers against your skin, his breath hot in your ear. “Even after not seeing your pretty face for two months, all I see when I close my eyes is you.”

His teeth graze your earlobe, and it sends a jolt of pleasure straight to your core. Your hand moves from your breast down to your clit, fingers rubbing the tender nub with an urgency you can’t hold back any longer. You’re so close, so fucking close.

“Oh, J-Javi,” you cry out, your voice breaking. “Fuck, I’m gonna—”

The orgasm slams into you, cutting off your words, drowning your thoughts in white-hot pleasure. Your body spasms uncontrollably, juices dripping down as your vibrator hums between your legs. You’re shaking, utterly spent, your breath ragged, skin on fire.

“Good girl, nenita,” his voice purrs, the Spanish rolling off his tongue like honey. “Mira que belleza. It’s okay, I got you.”

It takes a moment for reality to snap back into place, the haze of pleasure lifting just enough for you to realize that he didn’t say it at all. It was the Javier on the screen, whispering sweet praise to the actress as he fucked her.

You lay there, boneless, too tired to care as the movie continues to play. But something feels off now, a strange sense of emptiness replacing the satisfaction you usually feel.

You pull the vibrator from between your legs, the wetness from your climax glistening on it as you flick the switch off and toss it carelessly onto the coffee table. You’ll clean it later.

Your body slumps against the cushions, head falling into your hands. “What the fuck did you just do?” You whisper to yourself.

Watching porn to get off? That’s normal, right? It’s what it’s made for. Lots of people do it. So why do you feel so… guilty? Is it because it was Javier? Of course it is. No matter how hard you try to push him out of your mind, he always finds a way back in—whether he’s there in front of you, or haunting you in the fantasies, you can’t seem to put him to rest.

And the timing? Not even an hour after being broken up with, and already you’ve let him worm his way back into your head, back into your body. It’s like he’s got you tangled up, literally and figuratively, even when he’s not here.

Unable to take any more of their exaggerated moans and whimpers, you reach for the remote and switch off the TV, the screen going dark as you eject the disc and shove it back into its case. You finally grab Pretty Woman, tossing it into the player without much thought, your head still spinning.

It’s only then that you remember the wine, the one thing that might actually help clear your head. You stand, sluggish and sore, pulling your clothes back on and heading downstairs to fetch that much-needed bottle, your thoughts still racing, still trying to untangle the mess that is Javier Peña lodged firmly in your mind.

“Just know, I didn’t plan this.”

Steve’s words make you squint in suspicion as he slides onto the barstool next to you, his usual spot. You’re about to ask what he means when your heart plummets—there he is. The familiar broad frame of the handsome man you’ve been trying—and failing—to scrub from your mind ever since your breakup two weeks ago. Hell, before then too.

“What’s he doing here?” you hiss, shooting Steve a glare so sharp it could cut glass.

“He caught me off guard, okay? Basically invited himself. Don’t make it weird,” he mutters, clearly trying to avoid your wrath.

You bite down hard on your tongue, trying to keep your frustration in check. But then your gaze collides with Javier’s, and it feels like the wind has been knocked out of you.

Those deep brown eyes, glinting beneath the dim lighting, pin you in place, stirring up everything you’ve been trying to bury. It’s infuriating how he seems even more attractive than the last time you saw him, like life just decided to up the ante on making him impossible to forget.

Clearing your throat, you force yourself to look away, frantically trying to busy your hands. Anything to keep from talking to him. But it’s hard to focus when every cell in your body is hyper-aware of his presence just a few feet away.

“I’m going on break!” Connie’s chirpy voice feels like nails on a chalkboard, and you don’t miss the way she winks at Steve before grabbing his arm and leading him to the back.

Ah, so that’s why he’s here earlier than usual.

“Thirty minutes!” You shout after her, but your heart’s not in it. You’re too preoccupied with the fact that you’re now alone at the bar with Javier and a few of the happy hour regulars.

He leans forward on his elbows, casual but impossibly magnetic in a jean jacket and a cream-colored shirt. His sunglasses hang from the unbuttoned portion near his collarbones, and you can smell that familiar scent of cigarette smoke and cologne that’s been seared into your memory. “So this is the illustrious Lucky’s,” he says, his deep voice wrapping around you like a slow burn.

“The one and only,” you manage to reply, keeping your tone clipped.

“Been doin’ okay?”

“I’ve been managing.” Your words come out a little too quick, a little too defensive, but you can’t help it.

He tilts his head, his gaze steady. “Still seeing that guy?”

There’s an unmistakable tinge of jealousy laced in his voice, and your heart skips a beat. You meet his eyes for a moment before going back to drying the cheap chalices your boss insisted on for an upcoming theme night.

“That guy has a name,” you correct him coolly. “But no. That ship sailed two weeks ago.”

A low hum escapes his throat, and he drums his fingers lightly against the countertop. “A shame.”

“Can I get you anything?” You ask, a little too forcefully. The question feels like a challenge, and from the way his eyes glint, you know he feels it too.

He lets the tension simmer between you for a moment before finally answering, “Just a Corona.”

“Lime?”

“Of course, nena.”

That fucking term of endearment hits you like a punch to the gut. It’s what he’s always called you, ever since the very first time you met. And damn it, it’s the same name he whispers in your ear when you imagine him thrusting balls deep inside you, filling you with every inch of his cock.

Your breath hitches before you can stop it, the heat rising in your cheeks as you fumble for a lime. You slice it, hands shaking ever so slightly as you wedge it into the bottle, sliding it across the bar to him.

He doesn’t say anything, just watches you, his gaze burning with the unspoken tension that always builds when you’re around each other.

You can feel it too—the weight of all the unsaid things hanging in the air. All the desire. All the frustration.

He thanks you softly. “So, Steve finally got himself a girl.” He tries to continue the mundane conversation, amused as he leans in, a small smirk playing on his lips.

You try not to notice the way his neck muscles work when he takes a sip of his beer, but it’s impossible not to. You hate the way your body responds, the small flutter in your stomach that you wish would just stop.

“Yeah, he’s been chasing her for months, and she finally gave in. Probably the best thing that could’ve happened for both of them.”

A patron calls for your attention, and you gladly take the opportunity to escape the moment, throwing yourself into mixing a drink with practiced ease. But even as you pour and stir, you feel his eyes on you.

“You look happier here.” His voice breaks the silence when you return, the words almost lazy as he takes another sip of his beer.

“Fake happiness. It’s what gets the tips.”

“Okay, yeah, sure,” he says, leaning in a little, eyes narrowing. “But the way you’re moving back there—you know what you’re doing. I don’t think I ever saw you crack a single smile while we were on set.”

“I did,” you shoot back, feeling your pulse quicken. “Just none of them were directed at you.” The animosity in your tone surprises even you, and you catch the way his brow furrows, a flash of hurt crossing his face.

You quickly smooth it over with a smirk. “Besides, not much to smile about when people are getting fucked stupid in front of a camera.”

“Back to the familiar song and dance, huh?” His voice is steady, but there’s a sharpness beneath the surface.

You scoff, shaking your head as you wipe your hands on your apron. “What are you doing here, Javier?” This time, the question comes out more straight to the point.

He looks at you for a beat, partially confused, “Drinking a beer…”

“At this specific bar, where I’ve worked for two years and you’ve never once showed up until today. Why?”

For a moment, the two of you stare at each other, locked in a silent standoff. He’s reading you just as you’re trying to read him, both of you too proud—or too scared—to make the next move. Finally, he breaks the silence.

“You want the truth?”

“That’s why I asked.”

“I’ve missed you, nena.”

Your stomach drops and you force yourself to keep your face neutral, but it’s hard. “I regret asking,” you mutter, glancing at your watch. Connie has fifteen minutes left on her break, then you’re done for the night. You’ll be free—at least from the bar, if not from the weight of this conversation.

“Ever since you left,” he continues, not giving you the out you desperately want, “I’ve been trying to figure out why you’re so standoffish. You say it’s because you don’t like me, but I just don’t think that’s true.”

“Well,” you bite out, “assuming has never gotten you anywhere worth being at, right?”

He rubs a hand over his mustache. He’s thinking, trying to find the right words.

“Right,” he finally agrees, tone softer now, more thoughtful. “Listen, I’ve never been good at the whole… talking thing. It’s been my downfall for as long as I can remember.”

Despite yourself, you give him a look that encourages him to keep going.

“And the shit between us? It’s weird. I’d like to move on, but I can’t. You’ve somehow managed to get into every fucking corner of my mind, and no matter what I do, I can’t shake you. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

You suck in a sharp breath, your fingers gripping the wooden countertop. His words hit too close to home because they echo the feelings you’ve been wrestling with since you walked away from him.

Do you admit it? Do you tell him that he’s been haunting your thoughts just as much? Or do you keep it all locked up, close to your chest, where it’s safe and won’t blow up in your face later?

“What do you really want, Javier?” You don’t have time for games, and if he’s here to throw another curveball into your life, you’d rather snip it before it gets any worse.

He pauses, running a hand through his hair, then looks back at you with an expression you haven’t seen in a while—one that’s sincere. “I just want a moment to talk to you,” he says softly. “No bullshit this time. Just you and me.”

You wrestle with yourself, unsure if you want to give in. You’ve heard him talk like this before, but something feels different. He seems like he’s laying all his cards out, but you’ve been hurt enough to know better than to let your guard down too quickly.

Your eyes flick to the clock on the wall, counting the minutes until your shift ends. You chew on your lip, deliberating with yourself, feeling the weight of his gaze on you as you try to make a decision.

Finally, after a beat, you let out a long breath and nod. “I’m off in twenty minutes,” you say, voice steady. “We can talk at my place, but this is the last time we have this conversation, Javier. No more of this back and forth.”

His face lights up, unmistakably relieved, and for a second, you see that glimmer of hope in his eyes. He sits a little taller, less tense, and his smile is soft but genuine. “Thank you,” he says, almost under his breath, like he wasn’t sure you’d agree. “I parked a few blocks down. I can come get you—”

You cut him off, pointing upward. “I live upstairs.”

Javier blinks, then chuckles, the tension between you easing slightly with that simple realization. “Oh,” he says, a little sheepish. “Okay.” For some reason, that small exchange makes both of you laugh—genuine, real laughter, the kind you haven’t shared in a while. It’s a brief moment of lightness before the weight of everything settles back in.

But before either of you can say more, you’re pulled back to the present as the place picks up with a small rush. The door swings open, and a few regulars take their usual spots, dragging you back into your role behind the bar. Javier moves out of the way, leaning back against his stool, watching you as you work.

It doesn’t take long for Connie to return, looking slightly disheveled, her cheeks flushed from whatever she and Steve were up to in the back. You raise an eyebrow, giving her a teasing smirk as she approaches. “Thirty minutes, huh? You sure you didn’t need forty?” You quip, poking fun at her the same way she did to you on Halloween night.

She narrows her eyes at you, but there’s a playful glint in them. “Shut up,” she mutters, straightening her apron. “You know I could’ve dragged it out longer if I wanted.”

You shake your head, chuckling as you hand over the bar to the guy coming in to replace you. Your shift is finally over, and you can feel the tension easing from your shoulders. With one last glance at the clock, you turn toward Javier, who’s still waiting, watching you with that familiar intensity.

“Ready?” you ask, your voice more casual than you feel.

He nods, pushing off the counter to follow you out. Thankfully, Steve had left, but as you pass Connie, you don’t miss the way her eyes widen when she sees the sexy guy trailing behind you. She gives you a look—half amused, half impressed—and you can practically hear her thoughts.

You give her a small wave, shrugging off her knowing smirk as you push through the door, stepping out into the cool evening air.

He follows behind you silently as you climb the narrow staircase to your apartment, the low hum of the bar fading with each step. You can feel his presence like a warm current, that quiet intensity that always seems to wrap around you when he’s near. The proximity makes you hyper-aware of every sound—the creak of the steps beneath your feet, the soft rustle of his jacket as he moves, his shaky breaths from his lungs working overtime due to his constant smoking.

When you finally reach the top and push the door open, you step aside to let him in. He takes a slow look around, his eyes sweeping over the small but cozy space. Despite its shabby appearance—the chipped paint on the walls, the secondhand furniture—it’s undeniably yours.

The throw blankets on the couch, the mismatched mugs on the kitchen counter, the books scattered about. It’s lived-in and comfortable, and you catch the way Javier’s lips twitch in what might be a smile as he takes it all in.

“Okay,” you say, arms crossing as you stand by the kitchenette, keeping a reasonable distance between you. “What now? We’re here. It’s just me and you. What do you have to say to me?”

He hesitates for a moment, running a hand through his hair like he’s bracing himself. Then, he just… spills his guts. “I want you to give me one chance. Just one date,” he says, the words tumbling out faster than you expect. “I know I’ve screwed up before, and I know I’ve been cocky, but… I like you. Like, really like you. More than I’ve let on.”

You blink quickly. You weren’t expecting this—certainly not Javier Peña, of all people, to stand in your apartment and confess to having a legitimate crush on you. “No way,” you mutter, in time with your thoughts, a nervous giggle escaping before you can stop it.

It sounds ridiculous in your head, and even more absurd out loud. He likes you? He doesn’t even know you!

His frown deepens, his jaw tightening as if your reaction stings. “I’m serious,” he’s insistent, his dark eyes locking with yours.

You shake your head, still struggling to process this. “You just got tired of screwing around with all the pretty stars, so now you’re going after someone different. Trying a new flavor of the month by chasing after a girl on the crew.”

“Technically, you’re not on the crew anymore—” he starts, but cuts himself off when he sees the daggers you’re sending him.

He steps a little closer, his tone quieter but more earnest. “You told me earlier that assuming has never gotten me anywhere worth being at. So take your own advice, nena, and stop assuming I’m chasing after you for all the wrong reasons.”

There’s no trace of his usual bravado, no cocky grin or smooth line to disarm you. Just sincerity. And it’s that, more than anything, that makes you pause. For real this time.

“So I’m not just someone to scratch off your list?” You ask, daring him to lie.

“Wha— no.”

“You really mean it?”

“Do I need to get on my knees to convince you I’m serious?”

“That’d be the least serious thing you could do.”

His mouth twitches up into a half smirk. “So? Will you let me take you out?”

This feels like if you so much as blink, the moment will dissolve—nothing but smoke and mirrors.

“Okay,” you breathe. “But if it doesn’t work out… then that’s it. You don’t come around here again. You leave me alone. For good.”

His eyes narrow, but he nods, accepting the ultimatum.

“Fair enough.” His voice dips into something dark and velvety, a timbre that’s all too familiar. It’s the same voice you’ve heard behind the camera, in the tape that you got yourself off to—low, coaxing, a caress in itself. And damn him, it’s working on you again. “I promise, you won’t regret it.”

“When?” You ask him.

“You’re the one who works weekends. You tell me.”

“Next Saturday?” You offer, trying to sound casual.

“It’s a date.”

A flutter of nerves skitters through your chest and you almost laugh again, so giddy, but you clamp down on it.

“Alright... I’ll walk you out.” Your voice sounds awkward to your own ears, but your feet stay rooted to the spot. So does he.

His gaze sharpens. “You know,” he starts, rubbing his jaw in that infuriatingly familiar way, “Robbie kept saying you ‘broke’ me after that Malibu shoot with Mariella.” He air quotes broke and your expression turns confused.

“Well… he’s an idiot.”

“He’s not wrong, though,” Javi murmurs, stepping closer, the space between you vanishing.

Your breath hitches. “Javi…” you warn, but it sounds weak—like a plea dressed as a protest.

“You were right.” His voice dips again, softer now, but no less dangerous. “Sleeping with barely-legal girls felt... wrong. The whole scene was just fucked. It took me too long to realize it.” He leans in, his breath warm against your skin. “But that’s not what broke me.”

Your pulse stutters. “Then what?”

“You,” he whispers, moving closer, until the heat of his body presses against yours. “Your voice. Your eyes.” His gaze dips to your mouth, and your knees threaten to give out. “Those soft lips you won’t let me kiss absolutely fucking broke me.”

Your lower back presses hard against the counter, pinned by the sheer gravity of him closing in. His scent is dizzying.

Your nipples harden, tightening with each shallow breath you take, the heat between you wrapping around your body like a fever. Now that you’ve stopped fighting it, the tide of lust pulls you under, dragging you into the undertow.

He can’t just say these things to you and expect you to remain sane. Especially not after all your wet dreams he’s been the star of.

“The others don’t do it for me anymore and I’m not popping a pill to get fuckin’ hard.” He cages you in, planting both hands on the counter at your sides. His arms flex, his body crowding yours, then he leans in, his nose brushing the tip of yours in the kind of touch that feels both too soft and too intimate.

“Just standing here with you…” His hips roll forward, pressing against you. The solid ridge of his cock rubs against your stomach through his jeans, and the friction sends a jolt of electricity straight to your core.

You gasp, lips parting as you go weak.

“Oh…” you breathe, shakily, your voice barely more than a whimper. You bite down on your bottom lip, trying to keep some semblance of control, but his gaze locks onto the movement.

“I want to take care of you, nena. Por favor.” His voice drips with need, every word laced with intent. “Let me make you feel good again. I need to make you feel good.”

Memories flash like lightning—the way his mouth felt between your thighs and how it left such an impression that you quit your fucking job (okay maybe not because of that necessarily but it was a butterfly effect)

“Javi…” Your voice is a strained warning, as you press your hand to his shoulder, ready to push him back if you needed to throw some metaphorical ice on this heated moment to chill both of you the fuck out. “I’m not going to fuck you right now.”

“I’m not asking you to…” His hand comes up to take yours at his shoulder into his, bringing it up to his lips to give it a gentle kiss.

God, you just about come right then and there.

“You want to go down on me again?”

He groans, his mouth grazing your knuckles as if tasting you again. “I’ll always want that. Always.” His voice is strained. “But tonight, pretty girl, I just—fuck—I need to feel you.”

“But you just said—”

“I know baby,” he cradles your face and you let him, horny out of your mind and absolutely under his spell. “Just let me put the tip in.”

“What?” You ask, moving back from him to stare up into his eyes.

“The head of my cock. Let me put it in and feel how wet and warm you are.”

Your thighs clench instinctively, the ache between them growing unbearable. Images of his cock flood your mind—thick, veined, and heavy, flashing like a montage you can’t shake.

The thought of him, so close, pressing inside just enough to tease, makes your breath catch in your throat.

“I-I’ve never done that before... isn’t that—” You shake your head, struggling to wrap your mind around the idea.

“It’ll feel so good, I promise. If you don’t like it I’ll pull out and leave.”

His eyes still hold that sincerity from before, and it tugs at your heart, which has moved its pulse downstairs at the thought of feeling just a little bit of him.

It’s intoxicating, giving you the power to decide just how much of him you’ll take. How deep he’ll bury himself. How much you’ll let him fuck into you.

A moan slips from your lips, unbidden, and his eyes darken, his jaw tightening at the sound. He’s holding back, but barely—waiting, craving, needing your consent like it’s the only thing tethering him to reality.

“Fuck,” you whisper, already lost. “Whatever, just do it. Do it before I change my mind.”

You squeal as he spins you around, your hands coming up to steady yourself against the counter.

You went out and bought a mini denim skirt after seeing it on the pornstar he fucked in the tow truck scene because you thought it was cute, and now you’re sort of living out that fantasy here with him as he pushes it up high on your hips, exposing your very lackluster underwear.

“Damn…” His hands are all over you, kneading your ass, the rough squeeze of his palms making you whine, back arching instinctively for more. “These are hot as fuck.”

Your cheeks heat up, because no way he thinks your mauve colored hipsters are hot.

He hooks his fingers under the waistband and drags them down your legs, letting them pool at your ankles. You step out of them, still in your sneakers, feeling utterly exposed. But the way he looks at you makes you feel desired.

With a firm hand, he presses against the small of your back, coaxing you into a deeper arch. His hands glide down your thighs, strong fingers gripping where your knee bends, lifting your leg and placing it on the counter. The shift spreads you open for him, your slick, swollen folds glistening in the dim light.

“Fuck...” His voice is pure gravel, rough with need, as he drinks in the sight of you. And then he drops to his knees, right behind you, and buries his face between your legs.

“Oh my—fuck!” you cry, jerking forward against the counter, totally unprepared for the onslaught of his tongue.

He doesn’t hold back—doesn’t ease you into it—just dives in like a man possessed, his mouth working you over with fervor. The obscene sounds of his tongue dragging through your wetness and the desperate groans vibrating from his throat make your head spin. You’re shaking, trying to catch your breath, but it’s useless with the way he devours you.

He licks every inch of your pussy, his tongue flat and broad one second, sharp and focused the next, flicking across your clit with precision. When he sucks the sensitive bud into his mouth, the wet suction sends sparks shooting through your body.

Your forehead thuds against the cabinet in front of you as you babble out his name in breathless, broken curses, pleasure building in tight, pulsing waves. Your legs tremble under his relentless attention, and it feels like he’s not just eating you out—he’s worshiping you, savoring every moment like a man starved.

“Javi—oh my—fuck!” You can barely string two words together, the intensity of it dragging you closer and closer to the edge.

His hands grip your hips, holding you steady as he buries his face deeper, groaning like he can’t get enough of you. And god dammit, you love it. You love the way he’s lost in you, the way his tongue moves like he knows exactly how to pull you apart. It’s filthy, messy, perfect.

He pulls back after a few minutes, reluctantly breaking away from the warmth of you, even though every fiber in his body begs him to stay—tongue, nose, and fingers lost in your sweetness for hours, watching you unravel again and again. He forces himself to move, savoring the way your breath stutters in frustration at the loss.

The soft metallic clink of his belt buckle being undone makes your heart race, and your pussy clenches reflexively, aching to be filled.

“Mmm, she’s ready for me, isn’t she?” He’s so smug, watching the way your cunt flutters at the mere thought of his cock sliding inside you. Even just the tip.

You don’t answer—you can’t answer. The anticipation has stolen every word, every coherent thought from your brain. All you hear is the pounding rush of blood in your ears.

Javier steps in closer, the heat of his body pressing against your back. His hand snakes around you, rough fingers brushing your chin before hovering just beneath your lips.

“Spit,” he commands, his tone low and firm.

Like the desperate thing you are, you part your lips without hesitation, letting a hot thread of saliva drip into his waiting palm.

A deep, approving grunt rumbles from his chest. “Good girl.”

Your cheeks burn at the praise, and you clench again as he takes your offering, wrapping his wet palm around the thick length of his cock. He strokes himself slowly, hissing through his teeth, the slick sound of his fist dragging over his shaft making your breath hitch.

Then, without warning, you feel the velvety head of his cock glide through the slick folds of your cunt.

Both of you shudder—your soft whimper mingling with his guttural groan.

He drags the swollen tip along your slit, gathering your arousal, and when he nudges it against your throbbing clit, your hips jerk instinctively.

“Relax, bella,” he warns, his hand tightening on your waist to steady you. “Unless you want me to bust my load all over this pretty clit right now.”

That filthy mouth of his makes you want to slap him—and kiss him—until you both can’t breathe.

He keeps teasing you both, swirling the sensitive head over your clit again, tapping it lightly against the swollen bundle of nerves. Your thighs tremble with need, and your pussy clenches again, desperate to take him inside.

“Fuck,” he groans, his voice gravelly with restraint as he lines himself up with your entrance. “So fucking wet…”

He tilts his hips just enough to press the head of his cock against your dripping hole, and you gasp, your body instinctively arching toward him.

“¿Lista?” he whispers, his voice softer now, more intimate. He leans in, pressing his lips to the crook of your neck, trailing gentle kisses over your skin between ragged breaths.

You nod frantically, not trusting your voice to form words.

Then, slowly—achingly slow—he pushes the tip inside.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

A sharp, breathless moan escapes you as he stretches you open, your cunt greedily sucking him in. The sensation is electric, overwhelming—just enough to tease, just enough to leave you craving more.

Your mouth falls open in a silent scream. Why the fuck does this feel so good?

Javier groans, forehead pressed to your shoulder, his cock twitching inside you as he fights to keep from plunging deeper. “Puta madre nenita, this pussy esta tan rica.”

He stills, savoring the way your tight heat wraps around just the tip of him. His blunt fingernails dig into the skin of your hips as he struggles to keep his hips from moving.

But you can’t help it. Your hips move on their own, rolling back just enough to take more of him inside, the smooth slide of his length sending sparks through your body. A whimper slips from your lips as your walls clench around what little of him you have, the stretch so good it has your eyes fluttering shut, your head tipping forward.

“Don’t. Fucking. Move,” he growls, low and dangerous, and the sound of it shoots straight to your cunt.

You whine softly, biting your lip, as he drags the inches you stole back out, leaving just the swollen head nestled at your entrance. The tease is unbearable, like dangling water in front of someone dying of thirst.

“Javi, I can’t help it,” you moan, the frustration bubbling over into a pout. Your hand drifts down between your thighs, fingers brushing your slick, needy clit. You need something—anything—to relieve the pressure.

His hand is lightning fast, grabbing your wrist and yanking it back to the counter. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He sounds almost offended.

“I need to feel something,” you whimper, shifting your hips desperately against him.

He clicks his tongue, as if scolding you, his lips brushing your ear. “You’re already feeling the head of this cock, aren’t you? And you’re still being greedy, trying to touch this pretty little pussy after I told you I’d take care of you.”

His hand slides from your waist, gliding lower, fingers hovering just above where you need him most. The promise of his touch makes your thighs quiver, and you let out a desperate little whine, arching your back in a silent plea.

“Tell me what you want,” he demands, his voice low and rough, thick with control barely held in check.

You know exactly what he looks like—jaw tight, eyes burning with hunger, teeth gritted as he holds back from sinking all the way into you. And it makes you ache even more.

“Touch me, Javi, please,” you beg, your voice a breathy, needy little mewl. You throw your head back against his shoulder, looking up at him through half-lidded eyes, batting your lashes shamelessly.

A low, satisfied hum vibrates from his chest, and his fingers finally press against your slick, swollen folds. He groans softly as he feels how you’re stretching around the head of his cock, his fingertips tracing the puffy lips before circling lazily over your throbbing clit.

“Ohhh, just like that,” you moan, the sound slipping from you naturally, raw and unfiltered—nothing like the exaggerated performances he’s used to. This is real, and it only makes him harder.

“Fuck me,” he mutters, his breath hot against your neck, “I can’t wait to ruin this pussy, nenita. Gonna make you feel better than any malparido before me.”

His fingers keep working your clit, slow and steady, each stroke dragging you closer to madness. Your hips start to grind against his hand and the blunt head of his cock, desperate for more, for everything.

And the way he’s talking—like you’re his to wreck, his to please—makes you feel like you’ll lose your mind.

You suck in a sharp breath, feeling the jealousy dancing on his fingertips as he works your clit faster, his movements switching between precision and wild hunger.

He rolls the sensitive bud between his thumb and forefinger, pinching it just hard enough to make you gasp. Then, his touch softens—soothing circles, spreading your slick everywhere—before he tugs at your swollen nub, sending shocks of pleasure deep into your core, like fireworks are exploding down there.

“Tell me,” he growls, voice rough with possessiveness. “Did he fuck you good?”

The blunt tip of his cock stays snug at your entrance, and every pinch, every flick of his fingers makes your walls clench greedily around it, desperate for more.

“W-Who?” you whimper, genuinely lost in the haze of his touch. Your mind has melted, everything but the sensations he’s feeding you slipping away like vapor.

That answer pleases him—makes something wicked curl in his chest. His grin presses against your neck, and the wet heat of his tongue drags a slow, deliberate stripe along your skin. Then, he bites down, sucking hard, marking you in that one spot you’ve only ever dreamt of him nipping at.

“That’s what I like to hear,” he murmurs, voice dripping with satisfaction.

Your hand finds his hair, fingers tangling in the thick strands, tugging hard enough to make him groan against your neck. The heat swirling in your belly tightens to a near-breaking point, your orgasm creeping up on you with every flick of his relentless fingers.

“Javi—fuck—I’m gonna cum,” you pant, voice breaking, sounding needy and pitiful.

“I know, baby,” he rasps. “I can feel her gettin’ all tight and messy for me. C’mon, nena, let it happen. I’ve got you.”

He keeps his pace steady—no sudden changes, no wild moves—just the same focused rhythm he’s built up, making your nerves sing, each flick and stroke a perfectly calibrated promise of release.

Your body responds like it always does for him: beautifully. His name falls from your lips like a sweet song. Your hips grind instinctively, chasing the steady friction of his slick fingers.

“More, Javi—oh, please—more,” you gasp, knowing exactly what you need, what only he can give you. You’re ready for him to shove deep inside, to fill you, stretch you, ruin you with the thick cock still teasing your entrance.

If you had said this maybe five minutes ago, he would have obliged, but he’s got a point to prove now. And that point is restraint—his self control.

“Not tonight, pretty girl,” he murmurs darkly, laden with lust and dominance. “You’re gonna come just like this.”

Then, without warning, his hand shifts, and he slaps your pussy—once, twice, three times. The sound is wet and obscene, and the sharp sting sends a shockwave straight to your core.

That’s what breaks you. Your orgasm crashes over you like a violent, unstoppable wave, ripping through your body with terrifying force.

“Fuck—Javi!” you scream, your walls fluttering and pulsing wildly around the head of his cock, soaking his hand in your release as your legs threaten to give out beneath you.

He groans, watching you unravel for him, every twitch and spasm feeding his ego. His fingers don’t stop—stroking you through the aftershocks, coaxing every last drop of pleasure from your trembling body.

Your vision swims, your breath coming in ragged gasps as the euphoria leaves you floating, weightless. And even though he hasn’t buried himself inside you like you wanted, somehow, this feels even more intimate—like he’s branded himself into you without needing to fuck you at all.

The way your pussy grips him sends a shudder down his spine, and with a strangled curse, his balls tighten, his climax hot on the heels of yours.

“Fuck—” he groans, yanking his cock out just in time, the thick spurts of his cum painting your slick, swollen pussy, making a filthy mess.

Both of you pant, trying to catch your breath, the room heavy with the scent of sex. A sharp hiss escapes your lips as his fingers slide lazily through your soaked folds, mixing the remnants of both your pleasure. When he gathers the sticky blend on his fingers and brings them to your mouth, the hunger in his gaze makes your heart race.

“Have a taste, baby.”

Without hesitation, you part your lips, taking his fingers into your mouth, swirling your tongue around them with obscene enthusiasm. You moan at the heady, salty taste—like liquid sin on your tongue. It’s addictive, and you suck greedily until his fingers are spotless, releasing them with a wet pop that makes his eyes darken further.

You glance up at him over your shoulder, lips slightly swollen from your efforts.

“You okay?” he asks, his tone soft.

You nod, still dazed, your pulse thrumming beneath your skin. “Better than okay. That was... wow.”

His soft grin blooms into a cocky smirk, and he helps clean you up before gently moving your leg off the counter. As he tucks himself back into his jeans, you adjust your skirt, smoothing it down with shaky hands.

“Where are my panties?” you ask, glancing around, still floating in the afterglow.

He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling them out with a sly grin. “Oh, these?”

You reach for them, but he swiftly lifts them out of reach.

“I think I’ll hold onto them.”

Heat rises to your cheeks as you narrow your eyes at him, but the lazy, satisfied smile on your lips betrays your mock indignation. “Why? Perv.”

His grin widens, unabashed. “A little memento… to remind me of this. I’ll give them back next Saturday.” He slips them back into his pocket.

You roll your eyes, too blissed out to care. “I can’t believe we just did that.”

He steps closer, wrapping his arms around you, the warmth of his embrace catching you off guard. After all the resistance you’ve given him, letting him hold you like this feels foreign.

“Told you it’d feel good,” he murmurs smugly, his lips brushing your temple. “Didn’t think you’d be the one to cave first and beg for the whole thing, though.”

You scoff, giving his hip a playful pinch. “I got caught up in the heat of the moment, okay? You might’ve scored a date and... a semi-fuck, but I’m still sticking to those boundaries. For now.”

“Does that mean I still can’t kiss you?”

Oh, hell. He’s already been inside you—well, kind of. What’s one little kiss? But no. You’re trying to make a point here.

“Nope,” you reply, stopping him with a finger pressed lightly against his lips just as he leans in. “Not until you buy me dinner first.”

His smirk deepens, and instead of protesting, he kisses the tip of your finger.

“Deal.”

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🏷️ : @almostempty . @auteurdelabre . @magneticecstasy . @miss-oranje-disco-dancer . @pepperstories

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charliemwrites · 1 month ago

Text

Part 4 of Men at Work!

Just a note, I know I mix phonetic and Cyrillic spellings of Russian in this. Mostly it's so that people can easily translate the more complex words directly.

Content: Masturbation, very mild protective/possessive behavior

It’s becoming a problem.

You think this from the overstuffed daybed recently purchased for the explicit purpose of feeding into aforementioned problem. Not that the porch is the problem, heavens no. If so much as a nail came loose, there’s a trio of men across the street all too eager to lend their hammers and bulging, glistening muscles to fix it.

Which, conveniently, is the problem.

Their muscles, that is. And how magnanimous they are with them.

Your house is nice. New. It took them three days to fix all the issues you’d been putting off for a day you were non-reclusive enough to schedule a handyman.

Your house is too nice and too new.

You’re feeding a Vegas buffet’s worth of appetites raised on old world sensibilities with no outlet for them to be expressed. There aren’t enough squeaky hinges, crooked cabinets, stuck windows, or leaky faucets in your two-bedroom for all that… chivalry. (Or whatever Krueger has that passes for chivalry’s surly cousin.)

They’ve taken to invading earlier in the evening for busy work before dinner. Cutting vegetables, tenderizing meat, cleaning dishes, setting the goddamn table.

Like, sirs, you’re a single woman with three cats and a sham of a personal life – the last time you saw a centerpiece on a domestic dining table was Christmas at your nana’s.

Until Konig shuffled in with a fistful of sunflowers and zinnias, promising that he double-checked that they’re non-toxic to cats. You didn’t have a vase, so you had to make do with an empty mason jar you were keeping for ostensible aesthetic reasons.

Now you’ve got an ongoing bouquet, kitschy salt-and-pepper shakers shaped like lemons that no one ever uses (as if your seasoning decisions are as good as god) and are contemplating cloth napkins like some kind of… of…

“Socialite?” you muse aloud. You glance at Rasputin. He blinks slowly. “Hostess? Woman of the night?”

You’re pretty sure Agatha didn’t mean that as a compliment when you overheard her gossiping to Margot yesterday. (She should really remember that if she can eavesdrop on you from her backyard, the same is true the other way around.)

You’re toying with an idea for a new series with your last one wrapping up and your solo-novel due for release come fall. Something about a rich young woman with a wild streak and her fantastically wealthy gentlemen callers…

“Scarlet woman,” you murmur aloud, eyes on the reason for your recent porch décor purchase.

Krueger is on the roof, cloth around his head to stave off the summer heat. Doing… something with shingles and a nail gun. Your face flushes with each flex of hard muscle, jump of thick tendons. The grip he has on that thing…

As inspiring as your neighbors are, they are also a huge (in many, many ways) distraction. Hence, they are a Problem.

And not just for you. On your right, you catch the flutter of curtains from your peripheral. Lisa taking another peek – to be properly scandalized, probably. (You’re not really sure what the neighborhood biddies tell themselves when they decide something is Simply Not Proper.)

“We’ll have to start charging admission,” you muse, sipping a strawberry mojito.

Curled up far too close for the weather, Little Guy chuffs and stretches. You smooth a fingertip up his little nose, between his eyes, and over the crest of his empty head.

“Jezebel,” you mumble. He yawns, tongue curling and pearly fangs gleaming. “Trollop.”

An annoyed grunt pulls your eyes forward again. Nikto is standing halfway up the porch, one foot planted on the last step like a sexy Russian Captain Morgan. His thighs stretch his workpants oh-so-nicely. There’s a smear of white paste across the material – caulking, maybe?

(You could do with a caulking too.)

“Has someone called you these?” he asks. “Who?”

You laugh. What would he even do if someone had?

“No – well, not to my face, anyway.”

He snorts, shoots a withering scowl at Agatha’s property anyway. You spin your pen around your fingers and try not to bite your lip at the way his shirt is clinging from sweat.

“Aren’t you hot?” you fuss. “You’re going to pass out.”

“Nyet, we have been in worse,” he replies, finishing the short journey up the porch. He pauses in front of you, taking in the sight of you and your cats. What does he think, seeing you lounging about all day while he and his friends(?) are working so hard? If it’s something negative, he’s never let on.

“Still,” you insist, “have you been hydrating?”

“Da, the water runs.”

You blink, put together pieces to assume he and the others are chugging tap water (probably right from the faucet) when necessary. Well, that just won’t do now, will it?

“No, no. Hold on. Rasputin, hold him hostage.”

And like the little angel he is, Ras gets up, stretches out, and begins rubbing his face all over Nikto’s pants. With him distracted, you hop to your feet and scurry inside. The house is almost uncomfortably cool after most of your morning spent outside, but you’ll only be a moment.

There’s a large ruby pitcher waiting in the fridge from last night, complete with various berries floating at the top. You use two hands to heft it out, set it on the counter, then flit to your cabinets for the travel cups you invested in for on-the-go wine sipping. Nice and insulated.

You pour a cup for each of them, stow the pitcher away again, and carry all three in triangle-formation back outside. (Maybe you should get a tray? The antique store in town probably has something pretty and lemon-themed to match the salt and pepper shakers…)

Nikto hurries to help as soon as he sees you, plucking the extra cup from your hands.

“I saw this recipe and wanted to try it since it’s been getting hotter.”

He blinks at you, then the juice.

“You don’t have to try it now, I just thought—”

Your voice abandons you as Nikto tugs his filtration mask down. The skin beneath is warped and scarred, discolored in some places. When he raises the edge of the cup to his mouth, the skin of one cheek stretches distressingly thin. You can see the individual indents of his back molars pressing against the flesh as he drinks.

You understand why he’s been hesitant to show you; it’s not easy to look at. Which makes you all the more determined to flick your eyes back to his and ask, eagerly, “What do you think? Too sweet?”

As he swallows, throat clicking, you think you hear him grunt something.

“Hm?”

“Nyet. Not too sweet. Is good, пчела.”

You grin even though you’re not sure what it means. All three of them have some nickname in their mother tongue that you can only hope is complimentary and not because they forgot your actual name.

“Good, then I can bring some to K and K while you help me with lunch. That’s why you came by, right?”

He nods. “Nearly noon.”

“That late already!” you say. Wow, staring at hot, sweaty men really makes time fly. “Alright, I was going to make chicken wraps and latkes. Could you start peeling potatoes? You know where everything is, da?”

“Da.” He clicks his tongue, luring Rasputin in and stirring Guy awake. “Come, малышу, before we leave you out here for vultures.”

“Nikto!” you scold. “Don’t threaten him.”

“I do not threaten. It is what will happen.”

You swat at his arm, but at least Little Guy has been lured into Nikto’s reach – if by nothing else than a hand has been offered and cats are helpless to resist a good sniff. Nikto scoops him up while you turn to flounce down the stairs.

“Make sure Susan doesn’t get out!” you call over your shoulder.

She was roused by your quick turnaround to get the juice cups and will certainly be stalking the door now.

Sure enough, you faintly hear him cursing in Russian as you reach the end of the yard. Luckily, you see him closing the door with all three of your demons inside, so you continue across the street.

Krueger hasn’t noticed your approach, his back to you, so you stop at the edge of the property to watch for a moment. Yep, just as good this close, too.

“Krueger!” you call. He doesn’t turn. You huff and try again. Nothing. Christ, you’re starting to think he’s ignoring you on purpose. “Sebastian!”

His head whips around alarmingly fast and finds you right there on the ground. No need to look around at all – sometimes they remind you of their profession in the oddest ways.

“Ja, ja, no need to shout,” he replies.

You open your mouth to do just that, but he’s already scaling down from the roof. You’re stunned into silence as he slides down to the edge of the roof, catches the edge, and swings down to the ground. Lands with barely more noise than one of your footsteps. It’s quick yet so graceful.

You stare (gawk, more accurately) as he saunters up, pants sinfully low on his narrow hips.

“What did you need, bienchen?” he asks. “It is too early for lunch.”

You stutter for a second before your brain reboots.

“What was that?!” you demand, a little shriller than necessary. If you don’t shriek about this, you’re going to shriek about that gorgeous chest and the tattoos and the everything else, and you absolutely cannot do that. “That was so dangerous! You’re going to break a leg!”

“You worry,” he scoffs. He shakes his head, but there’s a wicked, knowing grin at the corners of his mouth and his eyes are far too bright. “That was a little jump.”

“It was not!”

“It only seemed big because you are so little, but it was nothing for me.”

“You’re not that much taller!”

“It is sweet to worry,” he coos, “but it is too hot for it, yes?”

You scrunch your nose at him, not sure if you’re annoyed or turned on or both. (Probably both. It’s annoying how hot he is. And how hot he knows he is.)

“If it’s so hot, then here.”

You all but shove the cup at him. He takes it with a flicker of genuine surprise, sniffs at the liquid, then takes a sip. A pleased hum rumbles in his chest, raises the temperature another few degrees.

“My mother used to make something like this,” he muses, expression softening. You blink, lean in automatically for a peck to your cheek. “Danke schön.”

“Bitte,” you mumble, mouth drier than Reggie’s garden.

His eyes crinkle, mouth hidden by the edge of the cup as he proceeds to chug the rest of it. A droplet slips down his jaw and skips down to his collarbone. You force your eyes away before you’re driven to do something irreparable by thirst.

“Is Konig inside?” you ask. “I have a cup for him, too.”

He grunts confirmation, tongue curling around a blueberry to coax it into his mouth.

Yep, alright, that’s about as much as you can take.

“Scooch, before the punch goes warm.”

“Punch?” he repeats, arching an eyebrow at you.

“That’s what it’s called in English. Punch.”

“That seems like it would cause misunderstanding.” Except he’s grinning as he says it, like he cherishes the idea of someone confusing the two words and starting a fight. Considering how often you catch him and Konig smacking at each other, that’s probably not a stretch.

“Just please don’t swing on anyone, yeah?”

“Only because you ask so nicely,” he croons.

You click your tongue at him. “Wipe off before going in, I don’t want Shithead to stink after crawling on you.”

He barks out his usual sharp laugh and tugs the cloth – his own t-shirt – off his head to mop up his sweat. You make a mental note to tease him about sunburn later as you slip past him.

You can hear Konig singing off-key upstairs when you open the door. The house is sweltering, only mildly cooler than outside with none of the fresh air. You grimace as you pause at the bottom of the stairs; the boys have warned you that it’s dangerous up there and it’s best not to go wandering.

Thankfully, it doesn’t sound like he’s using power tools at the moment.

“Konig!” you call.

“Is that you, biene?” he calls back.

You grin. “Who else would it be, huh?”

You hear his footsteps right over your head, track his gait until the first heavy boot on the stairs. He meets you at the bottom with his usual ventilator on, but he tugs it down when he sees the cup in your hand.

“Is this for me?” he asks eagerly.

“Yep! Tell me what you think!”

With none of Nikto or Kreuger’s hesitation, he knocks back a big mouthful. Licks his full lips as he lowers it, eyes bright as they land on yours.

“This is perfect,” he chirps, “so refreshing! Thank you, biene!”

You beam right back, flushed with pride that all three of them liked the recipe you “happened to find” when you saw the temperature projections for today.

“There’s more back home,” you offer, “come out of the heat.”

“Okay, okay,” he chuckles. “I will wipe off first.”

You hum agreeably, watching him slip back upstairs with great enthusiasm. Konig in a tank top and those tight cargos… summer really is delivering this year.

That evening, you sigh as you recline across your huge bed, naked and cooling off with the night breeze rolling through your window. Ras and Shithead are happily distracted wrestling each other in your forgotten towel, and Little Guy is snoozing on his personal pillow.

You stretch out, feeling a bit decadent and indulgent with moonlight spilling over your body, and let your hands wander. It’s not the high-efficiency sleep-oriented wank you usually rush through, not this time.

You unspool memories of the day with each brush of your fingertips over moisturized skin. You hum as your skin tingles, imagining Konig’s calloused palms in place of yours. He’d be so surprisingly gentle, you’re sure. Big, strong hands but he’d play with you like a precious toy. Plucking your nipples and scratching his blunt nails over the plush of your hips.

As your breathing picks up, you see Krueger’s broad shoulders flexing behind your eyelids. Imagine them bullying between your thighs, hooking your knees over. That bright glint in his eye as he smirks against your cunt. Can practically feel the curl of his tongue around your clit, eating you out messy and mean.

You’re already halfway there when you curl two fingers into your pussy. You’re so wet that your fingers slip and slide, squelch lewdly as you rock your hips, trying to find just the right angle.

You imagine Nikto clicking his tongue at your struggle. Almost hear his low, hoarse voice chiding you for doing his job while he takes over. His fingers are so much thicker than yours, you have to press a third in just to maintain the fantasy.

You want to lean back against his broad chest while he strokes your walls, listen to him and Krueger and Konig talk about you like you’re not even there, debating if you should come. Ignore you as you beg and whimper, big hands pinning you down while they draw it out.

Please, please, please…

You clap a hand over your mouth just in time, hips jerking so hard that it makes your wrist ache.

Whoops.

Well, you doubt anyone heard. It’s pretty late, and you’re on the second story anyway.

Already sleepy, you’re too lazy to close the window after a pre-bed stop in the restroom. It’s such a nice night, after all.

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Masterlist

#men at work fic #nikto cod #cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #grey fic because it's not that dark i swear #cod krueger #cod konig

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going-to-ikea-for-the-fries · 9 months ago

Text

It's a Match! || 141 x reader

[ Chapter 2 ] || [ Chapter 4 ]

Pairing: Ghost x Reader || 141 x gn!Reader Words: 1K~ cw: some sexual jokes/innuendos Summary: While overcoming recent heartbreak, you decide to join Tinder in search of a rebound. Your friends advise to just Swipe Right indiscriminately... What happens when 4 soldiers from the same squad match with you?

Chapter 3: Simon

After doing the dishes, you moved yourself over to the living room and turned on the TV. Some rerun of an older season of Law and Order was playing.

You started watching but you found your eyes drifting back to your phone…

Against your better judgement, you clicked on the Tinder app icon again. Maybe, maybe you should swipe just a little more.

And so you did.

Today you said ‘Fuck you, Beyoncé’ and always went to the Right, to the Right.

Just as you were pondering another profile, the screen darkened with a ‘It’s a Match!’ notification, making you jump a bit, as usual.

You clicked the profile and your brow scrunched.

You didn’t remember liking this one… Though you obviously did, after all, you were liking everyone.

The only picture wasn’t even anything. It was dark and grainy and the man was wearing a black disposable face mask. If that even was him. Could just be a random picture off-Google, picked by someone who wanted to be anonymous. Not quite a catfish but close enough…

“Simon.” You said softly and dragged your finger through the screen to read his bio. For a moment you couldn’t help but smirk a little. He was sarcastic, a bit strange, but charismatic in his own way.

“Bad jokes, Bourbon, Discreet…” You mused while scanning his profile. “Tall enough.” You read aloud and couldn’t help but laugh at it. That made you feel like he was short.

Against your better judgement for the second time, you decided to send him a DM instead of waiting for him to. Something told you he wouldn’t.

you: tall enough - does that mean you’re below 6ft?

Simon: No.

Simon: Means that I have inches to spare.

you: was that a dick joke?

Simon: No.

Simon: Unless you wanted it to be.

You snorted softly under your breath. Of course he was a smart ass too…

you: ambiguous, i like it.

you: so how tall are you then?

Simon: Does it matter?

you: no. just curious.

Simon: 6ft4.

you: that feels like a lie.

Simon: I avoided putting it for a reason.

you: worried people would call you a liar?

Simon: No use. Going to be called it regardless.

you: that’s fair ig.

you: what’s a traveling consultant?

Simon: Similar to a contractor. Get brought in to help businesses all over the world.

you: what kind of businesses?

Simon: That’s need-to-know.

you: you type so formally and professionally jeez.

you: will i ever get to know?

Simon: Force of habit. Don’t text a lot.

Simon: Not if I can help it.

you: somehow i can tell.

you: what are you doing here then?

Simon: Curiosity mostly.

you: trying to see if you attract any fish? 👀

Simon: Something like that. A friend is on here. Wanted to see what all the fuss is about.

you: i see.

you: got anything yet?

Simon: No. But only created this 12 minutes ago.

you: am i your first then?

Simon: Not my first in anything, love.

Your eyes widened a bit and for some reason you found yourself getting a bit flustered, your face warming up just a bit.

you: does that mean you’ve hooked up with people through a dating app before?

Simon: Something of the sorts.

you: aw, im really not going to be your first.

Simon: That’s alright. You can come see me either way.

Simon: I’m sure you’ll find some other thing to be the first at.

Your breath got caught in your throat and you started sputtering. That came out of left field! He had gone from professional and mild-mannered to… flirty so quickly! Gulping, you tried to answer him with something coherent and funny.

you: idk what if you murder me?

Simon: I promise I won’t.

you: is that meant to be enough to convince me? 🤨

Simon: I’ll leave all my guns at home.

you: the fact you have more than one is not reassuring the way you think it is.

Simon: If it makes it any better, I wouldn’t need a gun to kill you.

Even though you don’t know this man, you can imagine that he’s laughing to himself behind his phone screen, all smug, thinking he’s funny. And, the worst part, is that he is.

you: reassuring. thanks.

Simon: Glad to be of service.

you: i think what makes it worse is that uve not got a pic of ur face.

Simon: Wouldn’t hook up with a bloke with his face covered?

you: no? are u trying to get me axe murdered? bc thats how u get axe murdered simon

Simon: LOL.

Simon: No.

you: u sure? a masked face with a mysterious job and a suspicious amount of guns… sounds like the upgraded version of ghostface… except online rather than over the phone.

Simon: I’ll take that as a compliment.

Simon: You’re funny.

Simon: I like that.

you: thanks.

Simon: Wondering if you’re that funny in real life or if you’d get all shy on me.

you: probably a mix of both.

Simon: How about we confirm that then?

Simon: Meet up with me for drinks. No pressure on time or place. You can even postpone if it comes down to it. My job is unpredictable enough so I might have to postpone too.

Your eyes widened. The first attempt at flirting from him, of inviting you for a shag, had been clearly sarcastic… But this one is genuine.

you: ill get back to u on that, is that okay?

Simon: No sweat.

Simon: And if you’re just being polite and not actually going to text me again then: This was fun. Enjoyed myself. Take care.

You bit your lip to suppress a smile when you saw his polite goodbye. He was… sweet, weirdly enough.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

taglist: @daisychainsinknots , @bunnysdaydreams , @iite-cool , @lahniu , @pagesfalling , @tapioca-milktea1978 , @live-love-be-unique , @thelaisydazy , @littleghosthoney , @bossva , @emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago , @chamomiletealeaf , @ghosts-hoe

#ikea writes 💚#it's a match! fic #cod modern warfare #cod fanfic #captain john price #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #simon ghost riley #text story #cod x reader #call of duty x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader

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nouearth · 9 months ago

Text

a day at the office.

jim halpert x male reader.

summary: what happens when jim finds out that there's a secret place in the warehouse that's used for sleeping? hint: it's not used for sleeping.

wc: 6.6k. genre: smut. warnings: coworkers, top!jim, bottom!reader, bigdick!jim, spit as lube, fingering, milking, over-stimulation, spitting, kissing, lots of french kissing, breeding, public sex, established relationship, au where pam is with someone else, jim has a bi-awakening, seasons 1-4 jim!

It was a call-back that he’d been expecting. It didn’t take much of an utter of the familiar client’s voice, the principal of Dunmore High School, to assure Jim that he had already secured another renewal of paper supplies for the school; an impressive three-year loyalty from the school, but who was counting?

Jim held the phone and watched you at your desk, two sections diagonal of him. He looked pleased when the client began voicing out compliments because of his efficient service, smiled because you were absolutely terrible at playing computer Chess despite lowering the difficulty settings, and beamed when you caught his gaze, warm like the mug of coffee sitting by the small picture frame of your dog on your desk.

It was impossible to know if you could hear what Jim was saying, but the grin on his face told more than a thousand words and you bid him a thumbs up when he looked up from his notepad after scribbling the client’s purchase.

“All right, and before I let you go, our customer service representative will follow up with a short survey regarding our products and services.” A question followed after. “Yep, similar survey as last time—you got it. All right, it was a pleasure doing business with you. Take care.”

Despite originally feeling aversion for his job, he couldn’t lie about feeling some sense of accomplishment whenever he secured a huge order. Not to mention how much of an ego booster it was since he earned a commission out of the sale. Gradually over time, Jim found himself to be one of the top salesman at the office, convincing himself that his stay at Dunder Mifflin would only be temporary.

Then the gratification completely ceased, weakly fluttering like a limp balloon, when he looked at the time on his taskbar.

It was only 10 AM.

This is going to be a long day. Jim groaned, slouching in his seat because the negotiation felt like forever, sucked out all of the energy left in him during the half-of-an-hour call despite fueling himself with caffeine and random fruits he’d stolen from his roommate. They were nearing that gross, wrinkly stage anyway.

When he turned his attention back towards you, the phone was in your hand, the other typing on the keyboard what Jim presumed would be the client’s answers to the survey questions. There was always a smile on your face, even if the client couldn’t see you. And then tone in your voice. It was inviting and personable, a voice that made people feel safe and heard, as if that mattered at all because how could buying paper feel anywhere near dangerous?

Or maybe it was simply because Jim was too high on his own infatuation for you, that he was mostly projecting his appreciation.

A couple of hours had passed, 1 PM, and Jim managed to make a few sales here and there. A couple of clients hadn’t finalized their choice of supplier yet, but Dunder Mifflin was certainly being alluded as the option once he offered free deliveries on the count that they ordered a certain number of shipments of paper. That always sealed the deal.

To be honest, other than enduring many of Michael’s annoying antics with Dwight being his right-hand man, most days in the office were exactly as mundane as today was turning out to be. Usually, he would find himself passing time by hanging around your desk, catching you up on the weirdest news he discovered through a deep-dive in the internet.

And you wouldn’t believe what’s about to happen next…

What..? Don’t tell me they found the fing— Yep, they found the finger in the chicken tenders. Cooked. Medium-rare. Crisp to the bone. Blistering. Oh god—that’s horrifying! Jim—

And usually, they were lies that he made up on the way to your desk, mainly because he loved drawing a reaction out of you. And you were also extremely gullible, which made it all the easier to do so.

But as far as today was concerned, you were knees-deep into your responsibilities. Phone calls concerning shipment delays siphoned you into brief turmoil because—of course there were going to be delays, we’re in the middle of February where the earth was working in mysterious ways to conjure up snow days!

As much as Jim wanted to cut the phone line off when a client had suddenly erupted into an audibly loud one-sided yelling match—he was winning, of course—it always impressive how calm and composed you were under those circumstances.

Though, while he acted the same way regarding his approach to customers, he preferred to give people time and space to calm down. Whereas you accessed the situation and carefully structured how you sounded to hopefully pacify their anger. Your voice was gentler, but it never faltered into a frailness that made you a pushover for the client to rag on. Rather, it was stern, especially authoritative when you would assert, “Sir, I understand this situation is very frustrating for you, but I am here to help. And I cannot help you if you do not tell me your order number. And it would also be very much appreciated if you lowered your voice.”

You were fairly new to the company, a little over two years in your position, and every day, as a little more of you unfolded, you’d shown Jim why you were hired on the spot. You were practically the face of what Dunder Mifflin desired, of what any company expected really; friendly, collaborative, hard-working, efficient, all those cliché keywords on a résumé.

A golden boy, Jim liked to describe you as. He didn’t mean anything negative by it, simply by evidence of your personality at first. But when he mentioned that moniker for you one day, of course you laughed like it was the funniest thing Jim had told you since you’d introduced yourself, because you were a people-pleaser. Easy to get along. Charming. Handsome. Bright. Golden.

That was you.

Honestly, Jim never expected to cross ‘fall in love’ off his New Year’s resolutions right before the year even started. He also never thought he’d strike out ‘discover your bi-awakening’ in any timeline of the universe—only because he didn’t even know he had a type in men—but the future worked in wondrous, confusing ways. Though, if someone actually asked for him to describe his type, it would be indescribable because Jim doesn’t know exactly what made him fall in love with you, except for the fact that it was you. Your presence. Your personality. Your looks. You.

Jim liked how you would say greet everyone ‘good morning,’ but it was him that you held in high-regard. He liked how you were shorter, like many others in the office were compared to him, but you had a build, or maybe a presence, that made him want to take you in his arms and never let go. He liked how you would end up snorting at his jokes because he never found his jokes incredibly funny. It was mainly a tactic, or rather an invitation for you to know that he wanted to be friends. With every laugh that spilled out of your mouth, fortuitous snorts that would embarrass you when Jim kept the joking going, a mutual bond was shortly formed and it felt even better than scoring a huge sale.

He liked how you were generous, tossing a bag of chips on his desk after a visit to the vending machine, and he’d suspected that you’d been watching him too, because you always got his favorite flavor without Jim ever telling you the minor details of his insignificant life.

He also liked how confusing it was to like you, to suddenly develop a crush on a man like he had just discovered a new aspect of life. There was something exciting and new happening in his mundane world, giving him a newfound motivation to come to work other than to pay his bills. He thought he discovered everything about himself by his early 20s, but you’d shown him that life truly does throw you off-course, or in Jim’s case, on the right side of the path.

He casted doubts about his sexuality early on, pondering that loneliness had caught up to him and constructed an entirely different narrative as a last ditch effort to set him on an expedition to find love again.

But would loneliness really be influential enough to compel him to suddenly kiss you in the parking lot after having dinner together? He recalled you gasping, pulling away, thankfully not because you were repulsed by him, but because you were in complete shock that Jim was even into men in the first place.

Jim never realized how much he brought up his ex-girlfriends to overcompensate for this sudden attraction for the opposite gender until you brought it up.

I don’t know yet, about all of this… I’m still figuring things out, but I really like you, (M/N).

Jim, I think you had too much to drink.

All I had was a Sprite—

He pondered that night, then many more until it began weighing on his conscience.

But he oddly found himself kissing you again a month after, properly this time, in his Subaru when he took you home after your car broke down. He felt like a volcano erupting when his lips landed on yours, soft and delicate like the first time he kissed you. His breath rattled into your own hesitation with every exhale, but then you took him in, let him in, and Jim melted.

And then calmed, stilled, when you led, cupping his jaw to keep Jim from pulling away, and instead closer, leaning over the armrests of each respective seat and center console. The leather pressed uncomfortably into his body, but when you slipped your tongue inside of his mouth, he was spellbound, then purged of any feeling other than the ones you’d enthralled him with.

As you assured him on that night, with a late night conversation that refused to let you out of his car and Jim out of your neighborhood street, that was when he found himself.

Huh.

What?

Nothing… Usually my gay-dar is pretty spot on, so if I knew you rocked that way, I would’ve flirted with you early on.

Okay, one; never mention gay-dar to Michael or Dwight ever, because then they’ll go ‘I told you so’ on me. And two; you had a crush on me? Tell me more.

You’d be surprised how much height can make a gay man go feral, Jim.

Seems like you managed yourself pretty well, don’t you think? That you know of.

You animal…

Another hour passed by as Jim willingly let himself be sucked into a black hole of thoughts recalling those moments with you, those ‘firsts’ that could keep him distracted for another two hours or so. Alongside his first kiss with you, there was the first time he touched you; clumsiness took his hands to roam around your chest, stomach, then erection until you blew from Jim’s increasing interest, and then profound knowledge in your body.

He kissed you elsewhere other than your lips. It started off with your neck, then your shoulders, chest, and so-on, until his lips suddenly began wrapping around your own length without warning, sucking you off with cloddish, yet enticing attempts that made you laugh, because Jim was greedy, awkward with his tongue, but that didn’t stop you from wanting him to yourself.

You pulled him off and made him lean back on the couch instead, settling on your knees and then rewarding his service with your own mouth, to show him how to properly work a cock. Jim was never a man that was enticed by blowjobs, only because a mouth never felt gratifying enough, but with every swirl of your tongue, every spit that dripped off of his thick cock and back into your mouth, he was fully convinced that he was a changed man by the time he filled your mouth.

He then intruded deep inside of you because to fully have an understanding of your body, he needed to explore every inch, every surface, every crevice. It was on his bed, in his messy room that Jim tried to hurriedly clean before you came in, that could barely accommodate room for two, but it was you who made it work when you straddled on his lap and rode him instead. You’d never felt so full, you said it yourself he was balls-deep inside of you.

And jesus christ, Jim knew he was big considering the women he’d dated were apprehensive about taking him, barely taking his cock before surrendering. It gave him deja vu with the way you held your eyes shut, bracing your position by having one palms on his chest, and the other guiding his cock carefully into you, controlling the stagger of your breath to the best of your ability.

In the moment where he’d expect you to stop pushing yourself and tell him to settle for a blowjob instead, determination set you aflame like the painful stretch Jim had been providing you with, and with three more pulses to your breath, a brief break to apply more lube on Jim’s erection and your hole, you were entirely breached when Jim aided your hips and pushed you down until you were flushed against his body, flesh sticky and sweaty from your persistence.

You’re amazing… Jim, I’m close. Harder—

It was a memorable night, a messy one where you offered to change his sheets, and Jim swore he could’ve gone all-night if they hadn’t had work the very next day. Instead, he held you close, panting and continuing to fill you despite your protest to shower, gazing into your eyes while you held his stare with a warmth that might have rivaled his own infactuation for you, and smiled.

I really like you.

I really, really like you too, Halpert.

And now Jim was here, fantasizing in his seat with an aching hard-on, but absolutely guilt-free this time, because it’d been a few months since you two made it official.

It took several pings from Jim’s computer to put his musing to a halt. He leaned forward to view the unread messages, tending to his erection with a few gentle squeezes, then peeked over his monitor with a grin when he realized it was from you.

[M/N]: lunch? [M/N]: hellooooo

[M/N]: if you don’t answer i’m ordering ahead without you [M/N]: wow you’re really out of it [M/N]: stare deep into space if you hate me [M/N]: wow, jim.

“Hey,” A gentle kick to your shoe knocked your attention up to Jim, where he greeted you with a warm smile as soon as your gaze fell on him, a coat draped over his arm. “What are you feeling today?” The weather wasn’t too cold, the coat mainly providing an obstruction to the evident outline in his khakis.

Glistening, you returned his smile tenfold in brightness, sprouting from your seat to stretch your arms over your head, loosening the tuck of your shirt crinkle by crinkle until you felt a pleasing crack to your back and shoulders. “Anything’s fine. Sushi? Wait, no—we had that last week.”

“You have…” Jim rolled a sleeve up to check the time on his watch, and your eyes immediately pivoted towards the veins in his forearm, endearing and taunting. “…the two minutes it takes to get to my car to decide.”

“Wait, but that’s not even enough—“ He turned his body so you were complaining towards his back, broad and firm through his blue dress shirt. You’d never felt so envious of a piece of clothing hugging tight on his body when that could’ve been you.

“Up and at ‘em, a minute and twenty seconds now.” Jim began walking towards the entrance, chuckling as he could hear you scramble through your desk in search for something. “Gotta find my wallet first—“

“Seriously? It’s already been thirty seconds now!”

Turned out, all that rushing was for nothing as Jim had other plans when he pulled you past the exit to the parking lot, and instead another floor lower, and then another, until you and him reached the warehouse. He acted on impulse, his sudden thirst for you taking the reign of his actions that he didn’t exactly know what to do had the warehouse not been empty. Luckily, it was and Jim would keep that in mind for the future.

“Uh… Jim, why are we down here?” The warehouse was bigger than you last remembered from the brief introductory tour you were given. Though, to be fair, you were running on a half-mug of coffee, and the adrenaline rush of meeting everyone for the first time hadn’t worn off yet.

“You’ll see,” Jim shrugged, nonchalant in his demeanor as his gaze was seemingly in pursuit of something above him along the rows of storage shelves and units. “Don’t want to ruin the surprise for you.” The words rolled off of his tongue suspiciously, and beneath the growing smile on Jim’s face that was supposed to keep you calm and composed like it did on normal circumstances, was something that did the opposite, riling a wave of conflicting feelings within you.

Especially when Jim began to climb a ladder and step into a shelf space in the back of the warehouse that was hidden impressively well from the entrance.

“What—What are you doing?! Get down here!” Your eyes widened in panic, scanning the space from left to right multiple times in case any of the warehouse employees were within vicinity. “Jim!”

“It’s fine, come on up!” He waved you up once he got himself situated, head awkwardly bent and shoulders slant because of the shelf barely accommodated for his height and build.

“No way. We’re going to get fired if we get caught.” You frowned, crossing your arms as you stared up at him, baffled.

“You know, it would help your case if you weren’t standing where everyone could see you.” Jim reasoned and you huffed after. “I promise, we won’t get caught. I’ll keep an eye out. And if it helps, Darryl told me about this area. Toasty in here too.”

Apprehensively, you took ahold of the ladder railings and climbed your way to the shelf space where Jim awaited for your arrival, anticipated with a smug smile as he held out his hand to pull you in once you took his palm.

The shelf was in the darkest corner of the room. A few lights above had been burnt out for quite some time, and the large boxes of paper supplies that surrounded the perimeter casted shadows that ultimately provided an agreeable space despite your original complaints. In this case, as you cataloged the pillows and one throw blanket around you and Jim; a comfy place to rest your eyes.

“You took me here… to nap.” You stated matter-of-factly and stared at him disengaged, but nonetheless foraged a pillow behind your head and snuggled up to his left side when he opened his arm up.

“The things I do for you. Absolutely no appreciation whatsoever.” Jim joked, then pinched your nose with a chuckle. The gesture always managed to pull a smile out of you, and he already anticipated you mirroring it back at him, to which he keenly blocked with a strong hold of your wrist. Then another when you attempted sneak attack with a neck-chop with your other arm.

“You know…” Your voice wandered to a deepness, a slight hush as if anyone around you could hear. “You could’ve just told me you were horny.” You tugged your hands in resistance.

“What—How did you know?” Jim broke out into a toothy smile despite being caught red-handed.

“I mean, you weren’t exactly hiding your boner that well. A hand isn’t going to cover that.” You nodded your head towards the size of his bulge, the center of Jim’s khakis creasing when his erection greeted you with a throb. The boxes of paper supplies couldn’t shelter Jim had they tried.

“Hey, are you shaming me for having a big penis? Wow, (M/N). I thought you were different.” He loosened his hold on your wrists, but nonetheless kept them within his grasp to guide your right hand to his inner thigh, dropping the other after. He leaned in, his gaze pivoting to your wet lips when you licked your lips. The scent of his cologne, along with the way Jim’s eyes glazed over you like a piece of meat, stirred something inside of you. Your pants felt tighter than a couple seconds ago.

“If blowing you until you finish in my mouth is shaming, then…” Jim’s hand pressed on top of yours to move you upwards to his bulge, but you resisted, a teasing grin beamed towards the smug smile on his face before you enchanted his lips with a soft, languid kiss. “Call me a monster.”

Jim abandoned your hand to take ahold of your jaw, cupping the underside of it softly while his thumb caressed the structure with composed strokes. Your breath tasted like coffee, sweeter than how Jim preferred his own cup, but perfectly delectable when it came from your tongue.

“You stole my line.” He joked again, then kissed you harder; a stroke of his tongue parted your lips again in desperate need to take you, in a sloppy pursuit of some kind of reward for his terrific work this month. His tongue explored your mouth, panting among both parties, your own wet flesh gliding and slipping against and around his needy endeavors, prompted by the gentle squeezes and strokes on his erection, and it didn’t take very long before you were completely captivated by Jim and the way he took you, your body going limp except for the growing tent in your pants.

You palmed him through his khakis. Your hand barely moved up his thigh before you could feel a long and thick lump residing beneath the crinkle of his left pocket, and a moan slipped from your throat because you could never stop marveling over the size of Jim’s cock. “We only have twenty minutes.” It was a complaint rather than a reminder. The clock ticking in your head peeled you away from the captivating kiss, frowning because there was so much you wanted to do to Jim, for him.

“Better get to work then.” You felt his hands suddenly begin to work at your belt, unbuckling them with deft and efficiency. Impatience left the leather hang loose, flopping stiffly as Jim unzipped your pants, and then pushed them down to your ankles after turning you on your side, your back facing him.

Jim snapped your briefs below the smooth curve of your ass, plumping them with the help of the tight restraining digging into your skin and pushing your mounds of flesh upwards. It was a delicious invitation for him to spank your right ass cheek once to watch how his slap reverberated off your flesh in soft jiggles, then another because your hushed whimpers were the perfect accompaniment to the force of his palm.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about your ass today.” He confessed while the strong kneads to your ass, palms of thick flesh groped and spread, provided proof to his confession.

“Yeah? Is that why you couldn’t keep it in your pants today?” You groaned when something wet and lean slid nimbly inside of your hole without warning. Tight and warm, you squeezed around Jim’s lone finger as it thrusted inside of you. Whimpered when it curled, another finger joining after a couple of flicks of his wrist, with the intent to wreck vengeance on the source of his erection.

“You know it,” His voice ghosted over your ear, closer than you expected, and your head knowingly turned to meet his lips for a yearning, sloppy kiss that Jim mutually had been craving all day for. He pushed himself closer to you, your mouth and his parting open and lingering as tongues mingled for an open-mouthed kiss. It was wet and sickly, enough to get you high on the act alone, cock throbbing when Jim closed his mouth around your tongue and sucked the spit bubbles off your tongue. All of that simultaneously stirring butterflies in your stomach while he worked your hole open, presently stretching you out with three fingers barreled into your cavity.

Usually three fingers was enough to take Jim’s cock. It was uncomfortable, at times painful when you barely stretched yourself. But you liked that you could feel every inch of Jim’s muscly cock pushing you open. You likened it to rolling out a tight muscle after a tough workout. Painful, but incredibly satisfying once you felt him turning you out. Plus, it never failed to make Jim incredibly gratified, his cock somehow growing harder, thicker while he was shelved inside of you.

It wasn’t the most ideal position; you were facing boxes of copy paper that instantly evoked shame, the Dunder Mifflin logo plastered across the cardboard seemingly mortified by the lack of restraining when it came to your boyfriend. It wasn’t often that you two involved yourself in public sex, but when Jim was either too impatient to wait at his apartment, or you needed something to recharge you in the middle of the day, those circumstances mainly resided in his car. You bought extra blankets to cover up the windows too, though ultimately, they served no purpose because you were here—ass out, jerking yourself off to the hastened sound of Jim’s belt unbuckling, khakis and boxers shoved down to his ankles similar to yours in turn.

“Shoot,” Jim grunted irritably. You turned your head over your shoulder, curiously finding the source of his evident annoyance along with him as Jim began searching through his coat pockets, only after taking a long peek at the glorious throb of his cock.

“What? Having regrets already?” You grinned, and you discerned a vacant smile of his own, Jim’s mind occupied by a multitude of thoughts.

“I forgot the lube. I thought I put it in my pocket, guess not…” A sigh of disappointment came after Jim’s habit of clicking his tongue whenever he felt any kind of feeling. “Well, I guess we could try—“

You suddenly took Jim’s hand and spat in it, Jim watching wide-eyed, stunned, while you pushed a few more out with your tongue since saliva never had the ideal longevity and viscosity of lube. “Hurry before it dries.” You turned back calmly, beckoning for his cock with a push of your ass.

“I’m in love with you.” Jim breathed out, a toothy smile you could imagine from the giddy tone of his voice. The spit in his hand was then used to lube his thick cock, in a thick sheen you presumed from the sticky sounds that tingled the tips of your ears, then the base of your tightened balls.

“Prove it to me.” You folded the arm you were lain on behind your head, cushioning the weight of it while your other hand reached back to lather his cock in your saliva after spitting a few more times into your palm. You felt veins pulsing strong with every stroke, a weight of thick cock that made your wrist sore, and then as you pivoted towards the pink glans of Jim’s dick, a bulbous head that intimidatingly maintained the girth of his shaft.

“You’re going to regret it.” He said smugly, adjusting himself closer and lower to match your smaller build. His moans were bitten back, swallowed down with hard gulps while you were carried away in providing him a temporary relief that you were too impatient to ignore.

Your hand continued stroking him off, your saliva sticking on his cock and then eventually in between your ass as you guided him towards your entrance, immense warmth emanating from the blood surging through his cock veins. “Have I ever?”

“No,” Jim replaced your hand, making it return back to fondling your balls, and teased by running his cock over the crack of your ass. You felt his cock bolt with a spring, taunting when the plump head pressed its slick pre-cum to your pucker. He loved how he could see your ass clench in desperate efforts to lure him in, but it was futile as he’d return to sweeping over your hole with languid swipes, drawing out whimpers that signified that your impatience was running thin.

“And I love you even more for that.”

He suddenly pushed. Your breath got caught in your throat from the abruptness of it all, and your body immediately tensed in turn, frozen in place when a burning sensation from beneath alerted you to stay put and just breathe. Jim groaned, already feeling the swell of your pucker refusing to let the head in, so he pulled himself out and restarted. Harder, he pushed his cock inside of you again, persistent despite your body naturally arcing forward to escape the emerging pain, but his hand on your hip pulled you back, anchoring your withering body, until the thick inch of his cock slid in.

“Careful—F-fuck, Jim.” Your stomach was in knots as it always was when he would first push inside of you. Feelings, conflicting ones of need, want, and regret battling for the throne of your body, of your mind, as Jim kept pushing, sliding in and out, rough and impatient because he needed you to open yourself up for him.

He was so big, too big at times, and you felt so pathetic because you thought you’d get used to him by now; used to the way you felt so full even when only his head had penetrated you; used to how your hole stung as more of Jim sheathed inside of you, slowly with a couple of thrusts aiding its insertion.

“I know, I know…” He breathed with a rattle, the tightness in your cavity gripping pleasurably around him as he thrusted with only the first few inches in, absolutely riveting that he couldn’t help but let his desires dominant his methodical approach in letting you adjust to his large size and instead, making you to take it all at once with one long and deep push.

“J-Jim!” A scream abruptly left your throat and before you could let another slip out, his hand suddenly came up to cover your mouth, pressing his palm hard to your face and squeezing your cheeks. Your eyes shut, and your body writhed from how Jim’s cock roughly worked you opened. You felt uncomfortably full, beyond stretched to your limits as Jim was balls-deep inside of you now, but most importantly, you felt so wanted.

Bounded by the strong hold around you; his hand squeezing your cheeks in his palm to muffle your moans; his cock penetrating you deep and hard with fast and needy rhythms; his lips soft against your neck before they surprised with a painful suck to your jawbone; you were enraptured by Jim’s dominance over you, leaking from the tip of your cock in heavy drips while he fucked you from behind, the metal of his belt clacking with every precision of his thrusts.

“You’re so tight. Fuck. No one can take my dick like you.” Jim panted, embellishing your neck in hot breaths before climbing to kiss you on the lips again once you were prompted to turn your head.

It was the small sounds from you that drove Jim nuts. They spilled into his mouth without restraint, an open-mouthed kiss again as he licked into you, suckled on your tongue, and let drool join your own slick mess at your chin. Tiny whimpers and occasional gasps when he hit your prostate fed his thirst for you, knowing that only he could drive you this mad; fumbling over your begs and surrendering because his cock was too good for you to think properly and find your words again.

“Harder. Harder.” You gulped, your demands muffled as Jim had his thumb in your mouth now. After, you went back to sucking his thick thumb off, tongue laving him in circular motions, as best as one could as Jim sped his pace and fucked you into oblivion. “Harder.” You gritted your teeth, hustling through the burn as the saliva had dried off his dick by now. You were beating your cock, pumping it with an ample amount of strength that rivaled Jim’s hips against you, motivated by the ticking countdown of your lunch break coming to an end soon.

It still stung. You barely had time to adjust to him before you were completely taking Jim’s cock as if you were a cheap flashlight he bought online, a piece of silicon that he’d break. Your hair bounced, sweat-dripping down your forehead while you felt his own sweat dripping of his forehead and staining your dress shirt. The back of your shirt felt damp, heat building up at your back-side as Jim had enclosed around you with an embrace that thawed any ounce of pain and replaced it with intoxicating pleasure. An onslaught of thrusts kept you writhing by your toes, then curling into the blanket that had bundled beneath your feet.

Harder. Your demands were immediately met after Jim pulled himself out completely, as if he was recharging his strength, lubed his erection with a spit to the palm, then shoved himself back into you with one strong thrust, sending your body into an arc that he’d immediately restrained back with a push to your abdomen, forcing you to take his cock in full stride. Your ass rippled like the rattle in your moans, flesh clapping loud whenever Jim met his groin to your skin, and you couldn’t get enough of it, the sounds glorious in your ear. Your hole clenched in vain as Jim always managed to power through and forced you open again, hollowing you out until your pucker shaped itself to the exact size of his thick cock.

He would marvel at the gape when he pulled himself out again, for his own sake as he was nearing his climax, and spread your cheeks open. “Just for me?”

“Just for you.” You used the small break to catch up on your breath, wetting your parched throat with multiple gulps as you turned over your shoulder to catch him staring, finding it futile as your throat felt brittle again.

He clicked his tongue multiple times, that habit again whenever he felt something, when the rim of your hole tensed up at the multiple spanks he’d given you, seemingly swallowing at nothing but air, until he breached himself back in, angling his hips perfectly to press at your prostate.

It was nearing—your climax. You rarely touched your cock, abandoning it because your arms tend to be locked behind Jim’s warm embrace around you, but it sprouted strong in between your legs, aided by the repeated violation against your prostate. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head multiple times, Jim’s large cock knocking the breath out of you with every snap of his hips, pounding into the swelling of your insides.

“Oh god, Jim—“

That spot again, he never missed once in hitting your prostate, a storm of delight torpedoing the pit of your stomach as Jim impaled into you like lightning. Jim muttered something under his breath, striking on your skin as he bit into your neck, then pressed hard against your hip bone.

“I’m gonna—“ Jim gripped at your hips harder, a slur of words near your ear making goosebumps raise all over your body, beneath the layer of sweat that had dampened your clothes.

“Too, me too—“ You huffed, closing your eyes, but deftly finding Jim’s lips when you turned your head to kiss him one more time. An immediate tangle of tongues was enforced, your mouths mutually opening on impulse while he held your head comfortably to keep you from straining your neck. You moaned, reeled your tongue back from the slippery closure of his mouth, and cried out as your pucker clamped down on his large cock moving inside of you. Your hole throbbed around his girth with exquisite spurts that came from within, pulsated with the veins that had adorned Jim’s cock delectably, grasped him like a tight sleeve that refused to let him go.

When you opened your eyes, you were blinded by the lights that had donned over you instead of casted shadows, a heavenly choir celebrating with holy bells when your balls tightened once before loosening when your cock erupted thick cumshots onto the boxes in front of you, painting the cardboard in thick layers of yourself, of your desires, with the help of Jim’s cock, pounding strong ropes of cum out of you until they’ve hit every box like target practice.

“Fuck.” Jim let out a deep groan, pushing painfully into you, his hand reaching over to milk your cock until you were only spewing out the tiniest bits of cum left in your emptying sack. Your whimpering and the convulsion of your body, as he continued to milk your cock, triggered Jim to finally break within a couple more thrusts and a deep grunt, his cock exploding hot and thick in the confines of your ass, flooding your tender hole with his thick cum loads.

“Jim.” You whined, drawing out his name. His cum was dripping out of you, a few thick droplets rolling to the side of your ass as Jim’s thrusts were beginning to shallow, but never once pausing. “Fuck—“

“You feel so good like this.” Jim was creaming your insides, using your ass to ride out his orgasm and milk his hard cock inside of you, even when he was beginning to feel sore at the base of his balls. You whimpered quietly, knowing it was such a waste of cum dripping out of you like that, but also because you felt your cock hardening again despite just now recovering from Jim’s devious hold on you.

“We’re going to be late if you keep this up.” You should’ve known better. Any time you offered him a reason not to do something, Jim was motivated to do the opposite.

His thrusts remained the same, shallow yet deep against you, and right when you thought you felt soaked in your ass, Jim pressed another low grunt to your lips, snapping once into you and rattling another moan out of you, before the convulsions bound his body to your backside once again, and let him spill another load inside of your creamy hole.

Jim shuddered, feeling drained and especially aching as his cock went limp and slipped out of you, the only connection between you and him being the sticky cum that had webbed his cock and your ass together as you involuntarily pushed his cum out of your tender hole in a daze.

“Think you can work the rest of the day like this?” The pleasure subsided into exhaustion, a wave of drowsiness hitting you and Jim like a truck despite the uncomfortable pool of cum sitting beneath you two. Jim kissed your shoulder, then pulled your briefs back up, your pants following after.

“No way.” You laughed, lightly punching at his shoulder after buckling your belt because now all you wanted to do was use what the shelf was actually purposed for: sleeping. “You owe me a hot bath later.”

“Tch, the things I do for you. You're ungateful.”

"You love me for it."

"I do."

nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. andif you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!

#jim halpert x reader #jim halpert x male reader #jim halpert x y/n #jim halpert x you #jim halpert x m!reader #x you #x reader #male reader #x male reader #male reader smut #✰ : nou.tv #✰ : nou.theoffice #jim halpert fic #jim halpert fanfic #nou.fics

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steviewashere · 11 months ago

Text

Kiss and Tell

(Can be found on ao3)

Steddie WC: 2,279 Tags: Post Season 4, Steve Harrington Has Auditory Processing Disorder, Eddie Munson Loves to Talk, Minor Angst, Mostly Fluff, Queer Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington Has a Bisexual Awakening, But He Already Knows (Sort of), First Kiss, Lots of Kissing

Based on this post that I made. Happy reading! <3

-------- Steve has a staring problem. He knows this. He's been told this. And it's not something he can help or fix or find an alternative for. This is just what he knows.

It's something he's tried to maintain since he was a little boy. And, on that same note, is something he picked up while being a boy in a room with two adults who were fast talkers and big negotiators and all-in on the nature of their careers. But his parents certainly hate that he has a staring problem. Which, that's not unusual, most people hate that he does. Because he doesn't look them in the eyes for more than thirty seconds at a time. And even if he does, he doesn't hear a single thing they said, politely asking they start over, and feeling hurt when they just scoff as loud as possible and walk away from the conversation all together.

The audio just doesn't process. Never has. Probably never will.

He listens to music, but doesn't understand any meaning. He talks over the phone, but must have all other sound blocked out and the curtains shut and his eyes closed to imagine what the words look like leaving the other person's mouth. He argues, but loses track of the original point of the argument—when he laughs instead of apologizes.

And it would be fine—if—he wasn't close to losing his life every year. Where he has to listen to everybody and the important tiny details and the plans and the reasons for what they're doing. Which leads him to danger. Which gives him a bruised face. Which makes the listening even harder, once the concussion leaves and he's just got the leftover damage of his quirkiness.

It would be fine—if—he wasn't made to feel so stupid for what he must do. The jabs and the constant reminders and the...yeah, his sob story.

But there was Tommy Hagan and Carol Perkins, who he could keep up with. Because they'd talk about the same things over and over, until he could practically relay all the information, pulled straight from the deep crevices of his brain, and it ends up that they had forgotten, rather than him.

And there was Nancy Wheeler, who was polite enough to repeat things. Who had flash cards and a soft, focusing voice. It was easy to write off looking at her lips. "Eyes up here, Steve," she'd say. "Sorry," he'd respond sheepishly, "getting lost." And he'd chuckle and she'd giggle and then they'd kiss a little and he wouldn't be reminded that he's just a little weird. That, maybe, he just isn't normal.

Robin Buckley makes things easy-ish. She talks fast. And a lot. And she never looks him in the eyes, unless she's asking for a very serious favor, or he has something on his face, or she just feels the need (she claims it's that she hasn't looked in a while, but he shrugs her off every time). (If he can get away with staring at her lips, then she can get away with never looking him in the eyes.) He's mentioned, though, that he has a hard time following her sometimes. That he needs the words repeated a few times. Explained the lip thing, with a tense voice and a quake in his chest and his fingers tapping at the sides of his thighs. And, for a brief moment, he had felt like a creep. Like one of those weirdos that preys on the idea of women kissing. And he wanted to open up Family Video's register, shove his head inside, and sort himself out into the container of fives. But she shrugged, said "Okay," and went back on some ramble, to which he was immediately drawn to her mouth. And saw her repeat the name, Vickie, at least twenty times. He grinned and then when the store was empty, he leaned across the counter and teasingly said, "You have a big fat crush on Vickie, don't you?" To say that he was proud of her sputtering is an understatement.

Now, Dustin and the others were harder to get through. Because they moved at their own pace. And they don't really stop to add him to the conversation. He gets it, to an extent. He knows that he's not really all that intrigued in what they enjoy. (Even if he really leans into the conversation when they mention Sherlock Holmes or Dracula or Star Wars or, even, Star Trek. And he pretends to not be interested in their science fair projects. Or the one time he caught them huddled around a Sports Illustrated, in which he fought the urge to chat their ears off about both baseball and basketball statistics.) But there's a point in the conversations where he's made to feel a little dumb; even if he was staring where they were speaking, but they always grow frustrated, a huff of air released, when they notice he's not "paying attention" (translation: looking them in the eyes. "Because, Steve, it's just talking etiquette!" Dustin had shouted once).

He loves all of them anyway. Even if he misses words. And he loses track of what they were saying. He just wishes they were a little bit more forgivable about it at the end of the day.

Then, Eddie Munson is walking along side him in an alternate universe. He's peeled the vest off his back and chucked it at Steve. And they're talking. Jealous of one another, but talking. But, Eddie's voice goes soft and quiet, his eyes pointing towards Nancy's back.

Steve is looking at Nancy, words fading into the background. And it's not a moment of realization. Or a moment of longing. Yearning, what say you. No—it's one of his moments in which he's "listening," but not processing. So he looks back. And for a mere second, Eddie's eyes are big where Steve stares. Big and wet and curious. Big and wet and persuasive. Big and wet and not at all his lips and Steve is still not listening.

But his lips. Well, Steve's seen lips. These are pretty. They're pink. Chapped and bitten and plush appearing. Mesmerizing. Stretching over Eddie's sharp teeth, exposing dimples and smile lines, making his recent stubble more noticeable than it's ever been before. But his lips are pretty.

Like girls lips, Steve muses. Not really taking in what that means. Because Eddie's saying something about true love. And—shit—okay. Steve can get behind an act of true love. He can get behind sharing denim and coating Eddie's clothes in blood and staring down his lips and—god, his eyes, Steve can't help but notice once more.

Eddie's like a vulnerable cow. With pretty lips, he has to point out. Or a baby deer. With such pretty lips. And he's talking and Steve's finally listening. But it's not just processing. No, Steve's intrigued, interested even. He tilts his head like a curious puppy. Leaning in. Eddie's breath ghosts the tip of his nose. And, sure, it's a little rank. But weirdly sweet. Warm where Steve is otherwise cold. Warm in places Steve's never considered to feel warm in, but he's willing to give in, to wrap up in whatever Eddie has to say. If it all means more of him.

So, it makes sense that after all that they go through, Steve finds himself in Eddie's orbit. As a friend. As a trauma bond. As everything Eddie needs him to be.

He sits on the Munson's couch. On the cushion that dips a little too low. The lights orange and dim and casting beautiful streaks of almost candle light on Eddie's soft, beautiful features. Highlighting where his nose is the most bulbous. His pronounced Cupid's bow. The outer edges of his irises, golden and honey against the off-white of his scleras.

Eddie talks like Robin does. Excited. A lot. Fast. But his voice is soft, focused on the information—like Nancy's. It's teasing, like Dustin's. Soft, though. So gentle. Murmured. Which makes sense, if Steve were to stop and think about it for just a moment. With how late it is. With the little amount of weed they smoked. And it all just fits, with how slow and careful Eddie's lips move. As if testing the words. As if searching for what he means.

But, god, Steve is following along. Of course he is. Hanging onto each one of Eddie's words.

"So, the cashier at the record store got all apprehensive about selling me this tape. Which, I guess makes sense because it's a special edition. Comes with a photo card or whatever, but like—Come on, y'know? If he wanted it so bad, he should'a bought it the moment it dropped. Not my fault he slacks on not just his job, but also his opportunities," Eddie rambles. And, that's right, he's complaining about the music store encounter he had today. Trying to buy some album for some band. Steve got lost part of the way through, so he's not sure who exactly Eddie was getting a tape for. The style of music. But he has most of the information. He just—

Has to squint harder.

So, Steve leans in. As casual as he possibly can. And narrows his eyes at Eddie's lips. The word pretty comes to mind again. Because of course it does. And he can't pull his eyes away, no matter how hard he tries. For some reason, the tips of his fingers tingle a little. Wanting to reach out. Trace his lower lip, right where it sticks out, just above the divot of his chin. Would it be soft, he asks himself. Does he wear chapstick? Steve sighs softly. I wish I could...taste it. His eyes widen, just the tiniest bit. But he ignores that in favor of whatever Eddie is saying. If only he could make it out. He leans impossibly closer.

And there it is again. The soft puffs of warm air. On the tip of his nose. His own lips. Tickling his stubble. Eddie's breath smells like weed and strawberry Tab; a little bit of Kraft macaroni and cheese. Maybe the smallest trace of pepper—

"Uh, Steve?" Eddie nervously calls out. But gets no response. Steve is only a couple inches away from his face. Eyes hooded. Glassy. Zeroed in on Eddie's lips. He's not talking. Doesn't even give a hum. Just...keeps staring.

Eddie sucks in a breath. Eyes darting over Steve's face. He doesn't talk again, hoping maybe Steve will stop. But, nope. In fact, the only thing Eddie gets as acknowledgement for the fact he's stopped talking, is that Steve pouts. Upset. As if his lips no longer moving is some great catastrophe to Steve, some tragedy, some misfortune.

And, Eddie, the awful wreck that he is, can only assume that this means one thing.

Steve wants a kiss. And is, maybe, too chicken shit to close the gap.

So, with no other option. And definitely not wanting to get away from the heated, stirring, calm mask of Steve's face—Eddie presses his mouth against Steve's. Hesitantly smushing their lips together. Dragging his lower lip against Steve's soft scowling one.

And he pulls away. Because Steve isn't doing anything in response.

No, in fact, Steve is extremely expressive now.

Wide eyes. Mouth opened into a silent "Oh." His cheeks are flushed. And as quick as it came upon him, whatever realization that was, fades. Like a cartoon character, Steve's face melts into one of pure infatuation. Mouth lilting. His posture slouching. Eyes going soft against the extreme red of his face.

"Do that again," Steve whispers.

Eddie obliges. And he obliges. And he keeps obliging until they're under a cool top sheet, skin slick with sweat and eyes piercing one another's mouths.

That's when, in the silent air of Eddie's tiny bedroom, Steve admits the greatest thing in the world. "I don't really process when people are talking unless I'm looking at their mouth. I have to read their lips. I didn't—I wasn't trying to kiss you at first, but—" And the motherfucker giggles. "If that's all it took..." Then he's kissing Eddie again. Like it's the last thing he'll ever get to do. And Eddie thinks, If I die from running out of breath doing this, then I've done everything in my life correctly.

So, sure, Steve has a huge staring problem. And he doesn't really listen. And it's something he'll never fix, even if there's a way to.

But he finds that his technique—the thing he's crafted since he was a little boy—no longer works. At least, not on Eddie. Because suddenly, looking at his gorgeous pink lips makes Steve only able to think about one thing: Kissing. And he can't follow along unless he fulfills that want.

Eddie could be in the middle of a deep, all inclusive description of his recent trap in the campaign he's crafting. He could be singing. He could be complaining about some movie he rented. But that doesn't matter. Because he stops talking the moment Steve leans in and kisses him. Kisses like he needs it to live.

And though he rolls his eyes. Huffs a breath. Smirks and barrels on. There's that giddiness, that love pooling in Eddie' heart. Just knowing the effect he has on Steve. And the way he's affected, too, when Steve just whispers, "Sorry, I got lost again. Start over?"

He obliges. And he keeps obliging. And his lips are usually swollen by the time he's finally done rambling.

Steve stares. Eddie talks. And it's the combination of a lifetime.

--------

❤️

#stranger things #fanfiction #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #fluff #first kiss #Steve Harrington has a bisexual awakening #Steve Harrington Has Auditory Processing Disorder

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