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lowrisemiller · 2 months ago

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“ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴍᴇɴ ᴅɪᴇ ᴛᴏᴏ, ꜱᴏ ɪ’ᴅ ʀᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ʙᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜ”

one - shot is inspired by ethel cain’s song “crush”

smuggler!joel miller x fem!reader

you're the last friendly checkpoint before the edge of the Boston QZ. a safehouse disguised as a run-down gas station turned supply pit-stop. you’re not a Firefly, not FEDRA, not quite neutral either. you're your own authority, and people respect that. smugglers pass through, barter, rest. joel is one of them. comes and goes like a storm—gruff, practical, unreadable. you assume he’s only here because it’s convenient. you try not to care. but every time he returns, it gets harder not to.

masterlist | 5k words | YEARNING, reader falls hard and Joel falls harder, pov switches, mentions of blood and patching wounds, violence!!, neglecting wounds (they're horny stfu) kissing, PRAISE, riding, unprotected sex & aftercare

The day begins like it always does—with the light bleeding in through the dusty blinds, soft and warm against the wooden floorboards. You wake up slow. There’s no rush, not this early. Outside, the sun hasn’t even fully broken over the ruins yet, but the faint gold smear across the sky means it’s close.

The safehouse is cold in the mornings. You pull your old knit sweater on before your boots, feet brushing the cold floor as you shuffle to the kitchen. There’s a rhythm to it now: water from the barrel, fire from the coals you banked last night, the small stove coming back to life with a crackle and puff of smoke. If there’s any power that day, the fridge might hum back to life. If not, you’ve still got your root cellar, and enough dried things to last the week.

You move quietly, out of habit. The safehouse isn’t a bustling place, not unless someone’s bleeding.

You’ve had all types—smugglers, couriers, FEDRA deserters, even one terrified kid who didn’t say a word and only stayed the night. Most people don’t linger. That’s the unspoken rule: get patched up, get fed, keep your head down, and move on. You’re not a hero. Just a warm bed, a stitched wound, maybe a few cans of food tucked into a knapsack before they disappear again.

But they remember you. Tess, especially.

She’s the one who first showed up with her face split open and a bullet graze along her ribs. That was two winters ago, and now she drops in whenever the city gets too hot or the tunnels start to flood. You’re used to the sound of her boots on your porch, the sharp knock, the muttered “It’s me.”

Others are more fleeting—Marcy with her burn scars, Lyle with his limp, the girl with the broken radio who swore she could fix your generator (she couldn’t). You keep records in your head. Some people don’t give real names.

You move through the morning like a ghost, pouring boiling water over stale tea leaves, slicing into bread that’s harder than you’d like. There’s a satisfaction in the stillness, but also something else—loneliness, maybe. Or restlessness. Like the quiet’s stretching too long lately. Like something’s due to change.

You scrub the floor. You mend a ripped sleeve. You step out onto the porch and sit with your tea, watching the horizon.

And then, around midday, someone comes.

You hear the crunch of boots before you see them—three people, two you recognize. Smugglers. The third is new. Skinny, wild-eyed. He’s limping, gripping his side like he’s holding something in. You already know before they speak.

“Shot in the hip,” one of them says. “Clean through, but he’s losing blood.”

You don’t ask names. Just step aside.

They carry him in, and the air fills with noise again—muttered curses, clinking metal, the smell of sweat and blood. You boil water. Tear sheets into bandages. The others hover, pacing or leaning against your walls, until you send them outside.

It’s just you and the boy now.

He’s younger than you thought, and his eyes dart around like a cornered animal. “You gonna kill me?” he whispers.

You shake your head.

He winces as you work, flinching from the needle. “I got no caps,” he says.

“You’re bleeding out. Worry about caps later.”

He doesn’t speak after that. Just breathes heavy and clutches the edge of the cot. You work quietly, humming under your breath—a song from before, something your mother might’ve played on a Sunday morning. You hum it when you’re scared, or when someone else is.

When it’s done, you give him water, painkillers. “Rest,” you say, and he does.

By dusk, he’s sleeping.

The others left a ration packet as payment. You heat half of it and eat on the porch. The sun’s dropping low now, sky bleeding into orange and gray. The wind rattles the door once, then settles.

You think of Tess.

She hasn’t been by in weeks. Last time, she was tired in a way you couldn’t fix. Said she was pulling in a new runner, someone dangerous. Someone she wasn’t sure about yet.

“He’s good, though,” she said, cracking her knuckles. “Keeps quiet. Scares the hell outta half the guys we run with, but he doesn’t waste time.”

You asked his name. She just smirked. “You’ll meet him eventually.”

You hadn’t thought much of it. You get all kinds through here—angry ones, broken ones, ones that drink too much or talk too little. They pass through, you patch them up, and they leave. Simple.

But tonight, as you sit on the porch with your tea cooling in your hands and the wind whispering against your bones, you wonder about him. The runner. The quiet one.

You wonder if he’ll come.

It’s been a month since Tess stopped by, and Boston has settled back into its usual uneasy rhythm.

Gray skies. Wind through broken glass. Blood stains that won’t scrub out of old wood. The safehouse breathes quietly again, but her visit lingers like smoke in your clothes.

She hasn’t returned. No one has mentioned her. But she’s in your head. Or maybe it’s not her—it’s him. The man she didn’t name.

You start noticing shadows more. Listening harder. Wondering if each pair of boots might be his. You don’t even know what he looks like. But you picture him anyway. Dark hair. Stern mouth. A scowl molded by grief. The kind of man who kills without flinching, then washes his hands in your sink.

You should know better. But still.

The nights stretch longer in November. The cold settles into your bones even when the fire’s high. You patch up a runner with a bad shoulder. A kid who doesn’t speak, just nods and stares. You share your last can of peaches with an old woman who gives you an extra box of ammo out of pity.

You clean. You rearrange. You listen to the wind.

And then—one night, long after the lanterns are out, there’s a knock.

Three, spaced out. Not urgent. Not begging. But deliberate.

You pause in the hallway, heart kicking against your ribs. You haven’t had visitors this late in weeks.

The knock comes again.

You open the door with the pistol raised, just a little. And then you see him.

He’s taller than you expected. Broad shoulders. Blood on his shirt. His hand clutching his side. Not dying, but not good. His face was unreadable. Weathered and silent and sharp like a cut stone.

He looks at you like he already knows what you’ll do.

“Tess said this place was quiet.”

His voice is gravel soaked in whiskey and bad sleep.

You nod once. “She was right.”

You don’t ask his name. You don’t need to.

He steps in and takes up the whole room without trying. Doesn’t look around much. Doesn’t ask questions.

You get the feeling this man only speaks when he has to. He doesn’t sit—he leans against the counter like he’s waiting for someone to shoot at him.

You reach for the med kit. “You’re bleeding.”

He doesn’t flinch. “I know.”

He shrugs off his jacket, stiff, and pulls up his shirt just enough to show the gash along his side. It’s not deep, but it’s dirty. Long. Like a knife meant to scare, not kill.

He watches your hands while you clean him up, silent. You try not to shake under the weight of his stare.

The room is quiet except for the sound of your breath and the soft tear of gauze. He smells like sweat and metal. Like the road. Like something ruined and sacred all at once.

You want to ask him if Tess is okay. You want to ask if he’s Joel.

But you already knew the answers.

So instead, you say, “You’ll need to stay off it for a few days.”

He grunts. “Ain’t got a few days.”

You press harder on the bandage than you need to. “You want it to get infected?”

His mouth twitches—barely. Like the ghost of a smirk or something close to it.

“I’ll manage.”

He doesn’t say thank you. Doesn’t offer to trade. Just pulls his shirt back down and winces as it sticks to the wound.

“I can give you antibiotics,” you say, softer now.

He nods once. “Tess said you don’t ask questions.”

You meet his eyes.

They’re dark. Heavy. Tired in a way that no sleep could fix. He doesn’t look at you like a person.

Not yet.

Just someone doing a job. Someone useful.

That should make it easier.

But something about him—his stillness, the way he’s holding everything back like a dam about to break—makes your stomach twist.

You hand him the pills in a folded napkin.

He pockets them without a word.

He leaves just before dawn. No goodbye.

You stand at the door after he’s gone, heart still racing.

The space he took up feels colder now. You clean the blood off the counter, but not all of it. You leave the faint smudge on the edge of the sink.

You sit with it like it’s a secret.

For the next week, you think about him constantly. It’s not even his face. It’s the way he didn’t look at you. Like you were air. Or a wall. Or a bedpost.

You imagine what his hands would feel like if he weren’t trying to hold himself together.

You touch the sink where the blood stain still is, and wonder if he ever thinks about you.

You know he doesn’t. You’re just a stop. A patch. A soft place in a hard world.

But you still watch the road. Every dusk. Every dawn.

Waiting.

You don’t talk about it to anyone, but the air feels different now.

Joel’s visit was like lightning splitting the sky once and then disappearing, leaving you in the crackle.

You didn’t realize how silent your life was until he filled it for five minutes and walked out.

Now everything is louder. The wind. The squeak of the back door. The creak of your bed frame when you turn at night, restless and annoyed with your own thoughts.

You find yourself moving slower. Listening harder.

You rearrange the shelves—again. The second-aid kit, the ammo drawer, the canned food pantry that never has enough. Everything feels cluttered, like it might bother him if he ever came back.

You don’t even know why that matters. He didn’t comment. Barely even looked around.

But still.

A man stops in, asking for water and a patch for his busted palm. You help him.

You do what you always do.

But he stares at your mouth when you talk and leans too close, and all you can think about is how he isn’t Joel.

How he barely looked at you. Barely breathed in your direction.

And how, for some reason, that felt worse. Felt real.

You send the man off with a mumbled goodbye and your pistol half-raised until he’s out of sight.

That night, you try to remember Joel’s voice. You thought it was rough. But there was something quiet in it, too. Something steady.

You play it back in your head, every word. Tess said this place was quiet.

You should’ve said more. Should’ve asked him to stay, even just for another hour. Should’ve found a reason to matter to him.

But you didn’t.

You just let him go.

A week later, you find yourself watching the treeline longer.

You hear every snap of a branch, every shuffle of boots in the dark, and your heart lifts at every sound.

And drops just as fast.

You dreamt about him, once. He didn’t say anything. Just stood in the kitchen, bleeding again. Same cut. Same shirt. But this time, he looked at you. Really looked.

You wake up drenched in sweat, embarrassed by yourself.

You make coffee even though you’ve run out of sugar. Sit by the window with your feet tucked under your knees. Eyes on the dirt road.

You used to sit there because it made you feel safe. Like you were guarding something.

Now, it feels like you’re just waiting.

Waiting for someone who maybe only needed you once.

Someone who doesn’t know what he left behind.

On the third Sunday since he showed up, you take out the blood-stained rag you used to clean his side. It’s still in the laundry bin, forgotten.

You press it flat. Fold it once, then again. Put it in the drawer next to your bed.

You don’t know why.

Maybe it’s stupid.

But it’s the only proof you have that he was ever here.

The roads outside the safehouse tracked into mud overnight, rain washing away any clear footprints—except his. Joel Miller drags his boots through the slush, heart loud in his ears. It’s been four weeks. Four weeks since he bled out across the threshold, four weeks since she stitched him up and sent him off without a backward glance.

He tells himself he’s here for the job. For Tess. “Just checking the perimeter,” he says, over and over. He’s a professional now. He’s got business beyond blood and bandages. But his steps—stubborn as a hound’s—lead him straight back to her door at dusk.

He pauses on the porch, breath misting in the cool evening air. Through the cracked window, he sees her silhouette—lean and sure—moving from counter to shelf, humming under her breath. He swears he can almost hear it.

“Can you read my mind? I’ve been watching you…”

He’s been watching her for days. Watching her load gun shells into a box, watching her wipe down the chipped sink, watching her finger the blood-smear rag.

When she opens the door, it’s no different than last time. She doesn’t ask why. Doesn’t bat an eyelash at the dried blood on his shirt. He steps inside and the warmth hits him like a punch. Not just the stove, not just the shelter. Her.

He clears his throat. “Evenin.” His voice is low, ragged.

“Joel,” she says, as if he should’ve warned her but didn’t. Then: “Was expecting Tess.”

He can’t meet her eyes. “I came instead.”

She shrugs and steps aside. “Come in.”

Inside, the lamplight pools gold and orange. He watches how her hair catches it—same as last time, but she stands taller now, more worn around the edges. He’d have said she looked safe then; now he only trusts himself to keep her that way.

He doesn’t sit. He leans against the same counter he bled on, hands braced on the wood. It’s scarred with tiny grooves. He’s carved his name there once, a half-remembered dare. Now he presses his fingers into the dents, letting the moment anchor him.

“Coffee?” she asks. Quiet question, offered like an olive branch.

He nods. She turns away. He watches the curve of her spine, the way her sweater dips at her waist. He swallows.

She places the steaming mug in front of him. The rich smell pulls him back—a glimpse of who he was before the scars and the secrets. He lifts it in a thankful grunt.

“You’ve been here a lot, lately,” she says. Her tone’s flat, but the question is there. Taut.

He looks down at the mug. “Makin sure it’s still standing.” He wants her to push. He wants her to ask—why he really came back.

She studies him a moment, then turns to the window. He catches the flicker in her eyes. Worry? Curiosity? Something else.

“Right,” she says, as if she half-believes him.

He knows she doesn’t.

She moves to the shelf and brings down a jar of peaches—the same brand he stole once from a corner store, back when he thought he was invincible. She passes him a slice on a chipped plate. “For the road,” she says.

He bites. Sweet, sticky. Everything tastes too sharp in his mouth.

“I should ask,” she says then, very quietly.

He bristles. “Ask what?”

Her shoulders tighten. “Why do you keep coming back.”

He looks at her—really looks, for the first time since he arrived. She’s waiting. He hates that she makes him feel small or needy or exposed.

Instead he turns away. “Things to handle.”

She turns too. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

The words hit him like a shot. He’s spent years telling himself he’s alone, that care means weakness. But there’s something in her voice—steady, patient—that threads into his gut.

He clears his throat. “Why do you keep this place running?” He tries to sound casual, but his voice cracks. She arches her brow.

“You know why.”

He blinks. “I don’t.”

She steps closer, eyes even with him. “Because somebody has to.”

His pulse jumps. She’s always been courageous—patched up strangers and sent them on their way. But him? He lingers in her mind like a bruise she can’t press away.

He swallows hard.

“Good men die too, oh, I’d rather be with you, you, you…”

He grips the edge of the counter. “I’m sorry,” he says, in a voice rougher than he intended.

Her mouth softens. For a heartbeat, he sees her as someone who cares as much as he does—then the moment breaks and she steps back.

“It’s late,” she says, turning toward the stairs. “You can take the cot in the back.”

He nods, but the room throbs with unsaid words. He watches her climb the stairs, the line of her neck… and he almost follows. Almost says he can’t let her go up alone.

But he doesn’t. He stays.

Late that night, he slips outside and circles the perimeter—just like he told himself. He crouches in the long grass, peering through the trees. She’s safe. For now.

He waits. Breath steamy in the chill. His thoughts spiral: What if she’s gone when I wake? What if she hates me? What if she forgets me?

He knows he needs her, but he can’t admit it.

He kneels. Hands on his knees. The world feels too loud.

He whispers into the dark: “I could do whatever I want to you…”

He doesn’t know if he means it.

But he will come back. He already knows.

He leaves before dawn. Her door closes quietly behind him, and he steps into the gray morning, alone again—haunted by her silhouette in the window, by the taste of peach and coffee and half-finished apologies.

His heart hammers. He chalks it up to the cold—but he knows better. There’s a crack in his armor now, and it runs straight to her.

He walks the muddy road, promising himself: Not for long.

And as he fades into the mist, her last words echo in his mind: “You don’t have to do it alone.”

He doesn’t knock anymore.

He stays in the trees.

The safehouse looks the same—half-swallowed by overgrowth, rust curling along the tin roof, a soft plume of smoke trailing from the chimney. Her light’s on in the back room. That same amber hue, low and flickering. He sees her shadow move across the curtain. A brush of her hand. A cup lifted. A head tilt and he’s memorized.

It’s been three days since he left. He was going to stay away this time.

But something about the silence made him restless. Boston’s noise couldn’t drown it out. He couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t sit still. He caught himself staring at the bottle she gave him on his last visit—some ointment in a mason jar, tied with twine. He didn’t need it anymore, but he wouldn’t throw it out.

So he left again. Didn’t tell Tess. Didn’t leave a note.

Now he’s crouched behind a birch tree, hours deep into watching the same window. He counts her steps. Times how long she’s gone when she disappears into the back. Notes the new placement of her rifle—moved closer to the door. Good. Smart girl.

And still—he doesn’t feel peace.

He’s told himself over and over:

It ain’t ‘cause of her.

You’re just making sure she’s safe.

You owe her that much.

But his stomach knots when she opens the door to take out the trash. When she pulls her sleeves up. When some old trader comes by and she smiles that smile—the one Joel barely got for himself.

He digs his fingers into the bark. Stares harder.

“Something's been feeling weird lately

There's just something about you, baby (there's just something about you, baby)

Maybe I'll just be crazy (I'll be crazy)”

It’s a curse. Every time he sees her, something in him stirs that shouldn’t. Not this way. Not this loud.

She’s just a girl.

But he remembers the way she looked at him when he flinched in pain. The way she pressed her palm to his ribs. The way her breath caught. The way she said his name, not like a warning—but like a prayer.

Joel.

She’s in his dreams now.

On the fifth day, he hears them.

Three men. Stomping through the brush too loud to be animals. Laughing the kind of laugh that always meant trouble back in Austin. He ducks behind a fallen log and narrows his eyes.

They’ve got old rifles. One’s got a bloodied bat. Another carries rope. They don’t look like locals.

He’s already shifting forward, close enough to catch their muttered words.

“—heard she lives alone.”

“Quiet one. Doesn’t let anyone stay past dark.”

“She’s cute. Maybe we won't kill her.”

“Could keep her alive. Sell her, even. Good trade in the QZ for girls like that.”

The rope guy snickers.

Something in Joel goes ice cold.

And then red hot.

He doesn’t remember moving.

Doesn’t remember unsheathing the knife.

He’s just there—on them—before the last word even finishes.

The first guy doesn’t even see him. Knife to throat. Dead weight in seconds.

The second pulls the bat. Too slow. Joel crushes his knee and drives the blade up into his chest, fast and furious, grunting through gritted teeth. Blood splashes his shirt.

The third runs. Joel follows. His lungs burn. His side stings—scar tissue tugging where she sewed him shut—but he doesn’t stop.

He tackles the guy by the stream. The fight’s sloppy. Fists. Mud. A kick to Joel’s stomach that makes him roar.

He pulls his gun and fires once—close-range, just below the chin. The shot echoes like thunder.

Then there’s silence.

He’s panting. Covered in mud and blood. He wipes a shaking hand down his face and realizes it comes away wet.

Not sweat.

His blood.

One of them got a hit in—a lucky swipe of the knife across his lower abdomen. It’s deep. His hand clamps down, and he stumbles.

But he doesn’t fall.

He doesn’t go back to Boston.

He goes to her.

The porch creaks under his boots.

His vision’s going dark at the edges, his hearing warped. The wind howls. Or maybe that’s just in his ears. He slams his hand against the door once. Twice.

It swings open.

She’s standing there in a robe, barefoot, eyes wide.

The smell of herbs and pine and cinnamon hits him like a kiss.

And he drops to his knees.

“Joel?!”

She catches him as he falls.

Her voice comes through in waves—high and panicked, tugging at him from the edge of unconsciousness.

“What happened?”

“Oh my God—Joel, stay awake!”

“You’re bleeding out—stay with me!”

He mumbles her name. She’s real. She’s warm. Her hands are under his shoulders, dragging him in, across the wood floor.

He hears her voice crack. He thinks she’s crying. But maybe that’s just the wind again.

“Good men die too—but I’d rather be with you…”

He lets go.

Because he’s finally home.

The door crashes open like he couldn’t bear to knock.

You barely register the noise before you see him—Joel, stumbling in, blood dripping from the side of his face, a deep cut over his brow, and darker stains soaking the side of his jacket. Your stomach drops.

“Joel—Joel,” you gasp, rushing to him as the door slams behind him.

“I’m fine,” he grits out, even as he leans heavy into the wall. “Just—fuck—just need a minute.”

He’s not fine. Not even close.

You press your hands to his chest, guiding him down before he topples. He collapses onto the patched-up couch with a grunt, one hand instinctively reaching for your wrist like he needs to anchor himself.

“What happened?”

“Raiders,” he mutters. “They were talkin’… about you.”

Your chest tightens. “About me?”

“They knew you were helpin’ smugglers. Knew you were alone.” His jaw clenches. “I followed ‘em. Took care of it.”

The weight of that sinks in like cold water in your lungs. He didn’t just stumble into a fight. He went into one—because of you.

You kneel in front of him, fingers trembling as they search for more wounds. His shirt is soaked down one side. You lift the fabric carefully, wincing when he hisses.

“Hold still.”

He doesn’t argue. Just looks down at you like he’s memorizing something. Like it’s the last time he’ll see it.

“You could’ve died,” you whisper, unable to look him in the eye.

“I know.”

“You didn’t have to do that for me.”

Silence drapes over the room like a thick curtain. His voice breaks it, low and rough.

“Yeah, I did.”

Your hands stop moving.

He drags a breath in, jaw twitching. “I keep tellin’ myself to stay away. That it’s better if I just… come and go. Not get involved. Not care.” His eyes bore into yours. “But I do.”

Your throat goes tight.

“I care, sweetheart. More than I should. It ain’t safe. It ain’t smart. But fuck if I can stop.”

You stare at him, heart hammering. The room feels too small for the way he’s looking at you. Like you’re something precious. Like he’s scared of what you’ll do with what he’s just given you.

“I thought you didn’t,” you whisper. “I thought you were just… here because of Tess. Because it was convenient.”

Joel flinches like you slapped him.

“That what you think of me?”

“I didn’t know what to think.” Your voice cracks. “You never stayed. You never looked at me like—like this.”

“I stayed away because I’m already too far gone.” His hand lifts to cup your jaw, calloused thumb brushing your cheek. “You let me rest here. You patch me up, smile at me like I’m worth somethin’. I—I don’t know how to be around that without wantin’ it all the time.”

You press into his touch, eyes burning.

“I want you,” he says, voice wrecked. “Not just your bed or your supplies. I want you. And when I heard them talkin’ about takin’ this place from you, takin’ you—I saw red.”

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

He leans forward, wincing as he moves, and presses his forehead to yours. “Say somethin’, baby. Please.”

You take a shuddering breath. “You could’ve told me all this… before you bled on my couch.”

Joel chuckles, hoarse and tired. “Had to make it dramatic.”

You kiss him.

It’s not delicate or soft. It’s messy, desperate. He groans into your mouth, one hand tangling in your shirt, the other anchoring around your waist. You crawl into his lap without thinking, straddling him carefully so you don’t press on his injured side.

“You’re hurt,” you murmur between kisses, pulling back just enough to breathe.

“I don’t give a shit,” he growls, chasing your lips again. “Just wanna feel you. Been starvin’ for it.”

You kiss him again.

It’s messy, breathless, and tastes like copper and desperation. Joel groans into your mouth, his hands rough on your waist, tugging you closer like he can’t stand another inch between you.

You straddle him without thinking, careful of the wound on his side but needing to be on him, against him, now. Your thighs bracket his hips, and the heat between your legs pulses with each shaky breath you take.

“Fuck,” he rasps against your mouth, “you feel so good, baby—been wantin’ this. You don’t even know.”

You gasp when he cups your ass, grinding you down against the hard line of him. There’s no teasing—he’s already thick and aching beneath you, straining against the denim. You rock your hips once, twice, and his head falls back with a low growl.

“Get these off,” you mutter, tugging at his jeans. “Joel—please.”

“Yeah,” he pants, lifting his hips to help you. “C’mon, sweetheart, take what you need.”

You fumble his belt open, push his jeans down just far enough, and his cock springs free, flushed and leaking at the tip. You moan softly at the sight, wrapping your hand around the base to stroke him once. He twitches in your grip, his stomach flexing hard.

“Jesus,” he groans. “You tryna kill me?”

“I want you,” you whisper, lining him up with where you’re already dripping. “I want this.”

Joel cups your face, his thumb brushing your lip. “You sure, baby? I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you promise, and then sink down onto him in one slow, shaking motion.

Your mouth drops open in a silent gasp as he stretches you, inch by inch. He’s thick, the kind of full that makes your eyes roll back, makes your body tremble from the inside out.

“Goddamn,” Joel grits, hands gripping your hips so tight it might bruise. “You feel like fuckin’ heaven.”

You start to move—slow at first, adjusting, then faster, grinding down to take him deeper. His hands slide up your sides, guiding your pace, his eyes fixed on where you’re joined like he can’t believe it’s real.

“Fuck—you’re takin’ me so good, baby. So tight. So warm.”

You lean forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and roll your hips faster, chasing the friction, the pressure building low in your belly. The slick sounds of your bodies moving together fill the room, and Joel’s breath goes ragged.

His thumb slips between your legs, circling your clit in tight, perfect circles. You cry out, hips bucking, and he shushes you gently, kissing your jaw, your throat, your shoulder.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “There’s my good girl.”

You clench around him hard.

“Yeah, you like that?” he breathes. “My sweet girl, fallin’ apart on my cock.”

You nod, frantic, mouth open but useless. Your climax hits hard—sweeping through you in waves, stealing your breath, and Joel holds you through it, groaning when you spasm around him.

“Fuck, baby—just like that. You’re squeezin’ me so tight.”

He’s close. You can feel it—the way his thrusts grow more erratic, the low growl in his throat, the way his hands tremble on your waist.

“Inside,” you whisper, not even thinking. “I want it, Joel. Please—inside me.”

Joel curses, loud and broken, and then he’s spilling deep inside you with a strangled groan, his hips grinding up as he throbs and pulses and presses your body tight against his.

You both go still, panting, shaking.

His arms wrap around you, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

You rest your head on his shoulder, your skin damp with sweat, your heart still racing. He strokes your back with one hand, the other sliding down to squeeze your thigh gently.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice rough, lips against your hairline.

“Yeah.” You press a soft kiss to his neck. “Are you okay?”

He laughs, breathless. “Took down three raiders and then got ridden within an inch of my life. Feelin’ real fuckin’ lucky, actually.”

You smile against his skin, lifting your head to meet his eyes. They’re softer now. Warmer.

“I meant what I said,” Joel whispers. “I’m yours.”

You kiss him again, slow this time. Like you’re promising something back.

And this time, neither of you pulls away.

“I thought I lost you,” you whisper.

“You didn’t.” His voice is rough but certain. “I’m right here.”

You curl into his chest, fingers tracing lazy circles over his shoulder as his hand strokes your spine.

“You’re not sleepin’ on the couch anymore,” you murmur.

Joel huffs. “Was gettin’ real sick of it anyway.”

You smile, the kind that hurts a little. He tilts your face up and kisses you again—slow and sure and full of everything he didn’t say before.

“I ain’t goin’ anywhere, sweetheart,” he promises. “You got me now.”

And you believe him.

You’re still tangled together, skin to skin, when the air finally settles.

Joel’s chest rises and falls beneath you, a deep, steady rhythm that lulls your racing heart into something softer. You shift gently, brushing your lips across the curve of his shoulder, and he hums in response, one hand stroking lazy circles on your back.

The tension’s gone now. Or maybe it’s just changed—melted into something heavy and warm. Something real.

“C’mere,” he says, voice hoarse but gentle.

He guides you to lie beside him, tucking you against his chest. His arms wrap around you like he’s still afraid someone might try to take you away.

You run your fingers lightly over his ribs, careful near the bandage. “Hurts?”

“Nothin’ compared to earlier.” He huffs a soft laugh. “Pretty sure I forgot the pain the second you climbed on top of me.”

“Mm. I was very motivated.”

“Yeah, you were,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You good, sweetheart? I didn’t go too rough?”

You shake your head, tracing a fingertip over the fresh stubble on his jaw. “You were perfect.”

Joel’s eyes close like he’s trying to soak in the moment, memorize every detail. You stay like that for a while, quiet. Breathing each other in. Until you shift, rest your chin on his chest, and give him a crooked little smile.

“I owe you a black eye and two kisses.”

He blinks. “Do what now?”

You grin. “You scared the hell outta me, Miller. Showed up bleeding, collapsed on my porch like some western outlaw, and then you told me you were mine.”

His hand comes up to cup your cheek. “I am.”

“I know. That’s why you’re only getting one black eye.”

Joel laughs—deep and rough and real—and the sound wraps around your heart like a blanket.

“Alright,” he says. “Guess I deserve that.”

You lean in, kiss the edge of his mouth, slow and sure.

“Tell me when you wanna come and get ’em,” you whisper against his lips. “The other kiss too. It’s waitin’ on you.”

He flips you gently onto your back, careful with his weight, hovering just above you now. That soft look in his eyes is back—like he’s never seen anything as precious as your face.

“I want it now,” he murmurs.

So you kiss him again, deep and slow. And this time, it feels like healing. Like a promise.

When you finally break apart, you tuck yourself into his side again, and Joel pulls the blanket up over your bare skin. His thumb strokes your shoulder, and his other arm stays tight around your waist, protective even in rest.

You fall asleep like that—warm, safe, claimed.

And Joel doesn’t let go.

tags: @zevrra @xodilfluvr @littlemillersbaby @midwest-goth-lesbian @lokis-right-femur @whimsicalangel111 @grayandthyme @littledes1re @monicasblues @amyispxnk @penguinz0s-no1simp @justsarahbella @eri-maull @uncassettodiricordi @fairylights-throughthemist @catch1ngmoths @mystickittytaco @cocobear18 @millersdoll @serruten @dearstcupid @saturnyo @boscogirlsworld @valentineispunk @spookyfunhottub @sage-babydoll @aj0elap0l0gist @plsilovedilfs @grayandthyme @ivuravix @lostinthestreamofconsciousness @alyhull @alidiggory92 @cokewithcameron @killmesweet

divider by @cursed-carmine

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fear-is-truth · 9 months ago

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𝑺𝑰𝑳𝑽𝑬𝑹 𝑳𝑰𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮 – nicholas alexander chavez x fem!reader

summary — you’re a rising pop star and best friends with cooper koch. when you visit him on set of “monsters”, he introduces you to his co-star. / wc: 1.9k

tags — fluff. not proofread. english is not my first language

05/16/2024

The warm, late afternoon sun beat down on the set of Monsters: The Lyle and Erik Menendez Story, where the buzz of production crews filled the air. You stepped out of your car, smoothing down your blouse as you made your way through the maze of trailers. You were here to see your friend Cooper Koch, who was playing Erik Menendez in the docuseries. He had invited you to visit him on set, and you hadn’t seen him in months. As you approached the craft services table, a familiar voice called out to you.

“Yo, there she is!” Cooper exclaimed happily, rushing over to scoop you into a bear hug. You laughed, burying your face in his shoulder.

“Hey!” you pull back slightly to get a good look at him. Even in character, with his hair styled in a very 1980s fashion and wearing the sharp suit of Eric Menendez, he still had the lighthearted energy that you adored.

“How’s it going, ‘Erik Menendez’?” He shrugged, letting out a playful sigh. “You know, just emotionally preparing for a murder trial.” He looked around, then nodded his head toward a nearby tent. “Come meet Nicholas. He’s playing my brother.” Following him across the set, you spotted Nicholas sitting alone, flipping through his script. Even off-camera, he looked striking: sharp jawline, dark, neatly styled curls, and an air of seriousness. The fitted suit he wore only added to the whole intense vibe, his features tight with focus.

“Hey Nic,” Cooper called out, breaking the actor’s concentration. “This is y/n l/n, pop sensation and my dear friend. y/n, meet Nicholas—my on-screen brother.”Nicholas stood up, a little stiff, offering you a polite smile and extending his hand. “Hey there, nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” you said, shaking his hand. His grip was firm but quick, his expression serious and distant, almost cold. You let go, your own smile faltering slightly as you glanced at Cooper. Nicholas excused himself almost immediately, returning to his script as if he was still lost in Lyle’s world. You raised an eyebrow at your best friend.

“He always this… serious?” Cooper chuckled. “He’s in serious actor mode right now. Give it time, he’s actually an unbelievable goof once he’s done being all ‘Lyle Menendez on trial.’” You shot him a skeptical look.

You ended up visiting the set a few more times that week. Cooper always made you feel welcome, but Nicholas? He was always in the zone—focused, methodical, brooding. There was something almost intimidating about his presence, even though you knew it was probably just him getting into character. But still, it didn’t make for easy conversation.

One afternoon, you sat beside Cooper during a break, watching as Nicholas sat a few feet away, quietly reviewing his lines again. You nudged Cooper. “Does Nicholas ever… like, smile? Or even talk off set?” He snorted. “Told you, once he’s out of character, he’s cool. He’s just locked in right now.” You leaned back. “Sure, but it’s been days, and I feel like I’ve barely heard him say more than ten sentences to him. I’m starting to think either he hates me, or he’s got a permanent serious face.” Cooper just grinned. “Give it time. He’ll warm up. Trust me.”

It wasn’t until later in the week that you finally got to see what Cooper had been talking about. It was late, and most of the cast and crew had already cleared out for the day. You were waiting for Cooper to finish up with a quick scene when you noticed Nicholas walking toward you, hands shoved into the pockets of his suit pants. He plopped down on the bench next to you, and he looked worn out, his usually composed expression softening as he leaned back and let out a sigh.

“Long day?” You asked. He laughed dryly, a sound that was low and tired before replying. “You have no idea.” He looked over at you, and for the first time, his face softened. “I feel like I owe you an apology.” You blinked. “for what?”

“For being… distant. Weird. Cold, even,” he said, running a hand through his dark curls. “I wasn’t trying to be rude. I just… I needed to focus.” You frowned. “On the role?”

“Yeah, on the role… but also, I just went through a breakup,” he admitted, his eyes flicking to the ground as if saying it out loud made it harder to hold back. “I was kind of using that energy to dive into Lyle’s head. You know, put it all in the work. I didn’t want to get distracted. Especially not by… well, by a pretty girl on set.”

You raised an eyebrow, feeling a strange warmth creep into your chest. “A pretty girl?” Nicholas gave a small, sheepish smile, finally meeting your gaze. “Yeah. You.”

“Wow,” you said, pretending to be offended as you put on a mock-serious tone. “So what, you’re saying you don’t hate me? Or my music?”

His eyes widened, panic flashing in them. “No! God, no. I don’t hate you, and I definitely don’t hate your music.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s not it at all. I just… didn’t want to get in my own way, you know? Especially after the breakup. I thought if I let myself get distracted, I’d fuck everything up. But it’s been eating at me. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I was pushing you away.”

The honesty in his voice surprised you.“I get it. I really do. I’m just glad it wasn’t personal. I was starting to think maybe you thought I was annoying. That you hate me or my music.” He grinned, visibly relaxing for the first time. “Trust me, neither. I’ve actually been dying to talk to you, but I’m terrible at switching gears. It’s hard for me to get out of character when we’re filming.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” you teased lightly, nudging him with your shoulder. “I guess I’ll take that as a compliment. Being a distraction doesn’t sound too bad.”

He laughed, the tension finally lifting between you both. “You’re more than a distraction. That’s why it’s been so hard to focus around you.”

Suddenly, the distance that had been between you two these past few days didn’t seem so far anymore.

“Friends?” you asked, extending your hand. He smiled, shaking your hand firmly but gently.

“Friends. For now.”

After that conversation, your dynamic with Nicholas shifted dramatically. What started as a tense, awkward distance between you two morphed into something much warmer. You found yourselves hanging out more, both on and off set. Cooper would tease the two of you endlessly, claiming he was the reason for your sudden ‘best friend’ status.

You quickly realized how sweet Nic was—thoughtful, always paying attention to the smallest details. Whenever you sat around with the cast, he’d ask if you wanted a snack or offer you his jacket when the set AC was too cold.

It became this easy, light friendship. But there was something else there. You knew it, and by the way his gaze would linger on you when you laughed or the casual touches that became more frequent, you had a feeling he knew it too.

Then one day, as you were scrolling mindlessly through social media, you saw your name trending—again. Your new album had just hit the charts a week ago, and it was all anyone could talk about. One song in particular, a love song that was a bit more sentimental than your usual style, had skyrocketed to number one on Billboard. Everyone was dissecting it, trying to figure out who it was about, but you’d stayed quiet. Part of you wasn’t even sure if you’d admit it, especially to the person it was written about.

That night, you were at Nicholas’s place at the hotel for a small get-together with some of the cast and crew. The two of you had slipped away to the balcony for some fresh air, away from the noise and chatter inside.

“So…” he started, leaning against the railing with a crooked smile. “I, uh, listened to your album. Pretty much the whole thing.” You looked up at him, grinning. “Oh? What’s the verdict?” “It’s incredible, honestly,” he said, sounding genuine. But then, he hesitated, his gaze flickering to yours. “But there’s this one song—uh, the last one? ‘Silver Linings?’” He raised an eyebrow, clearly fishing for something. You felt your heart skip a beat. Of course he’d pick that song. “Yeah?” you said, trying to sound nonchalant, even though your stomach was doing flips. You knew where this was going. “What about it?”

“Well… I might be totally off-base here, but… the lyrics…” He trailed off, his cheeks growing into five shades of pink. “I mean. Call me crazy but, was that song… about me?” Of course he would pick up on it. You hadn’t exactly been subtle in your songwriting, but you didn’t expect him to ask about it, especially like this. He had that hopeful, boyish grin on his face now, like he was waiting for you to admit it.

And honestly? You were tired of dancing around it.

Instead of answering, you closed the space between you, pressing your lips to his. Nicholas reacted instantly, his hand slipping to the back of your neck as he deepened the kiss, pulling you closer. His other hand rested on your waist, grounding you in the moment as your body melted into his. There was something so gentle yet eager about the way he kissed you—like he’d been holding back for so long and finally allowed himself to let go. His thumb brushed the nape of your neck, sending pleasant jolts of anticipation down your spine and warmth in your stomach. When you finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. You stared up at him, breathless, fingers still clutching his shirt. “Does that answer your question?”

present day

Nicholas was lying beside you, both of you in matching pink pyjamas, that he’d insisted on getting when you went shopping together. You were curled up in the crook of his arm, head resting on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath. His fingers absentmindedly traced shapes on your arm, the simple motion soothing.

“You know,” he began, his voice soft in the quiet, vast room, “I never thought I’d be the kind of guy to wear matching hello kitty pyjamas with my girlfriend.”

At this, you laughed, lifting your head to look at your boyfriend. “Don’t act like you didn’t pick these out.” “Fine,” he conceded, brushing a hand through his messy curls. “I did. But only because you look cute in them.”

“Right, because that’s why you’re wearing them too?”

“I wear them because I’m committed to the bit,” he joked, pulling you closer so he could press a kiss to the top of your head. Nestling back against his chest, you let out a soft sigh. “Do you ever think about when we can stop hiding this? Us?” his fingers stilled their movements and rested on your arm. “Yeah, I think about it a lot too,” he admitted. “But… we’ll get there. We’ll figure it out.”

“I know… It’s just so hard sometimes.” You whined. He must have sensed the frustration your tone because he pressed a kiss to the tip of your nose, “I know, baby.” His voice was soft, soothing. “But until then, I get to have you all to myself, like this.” Nicholas smirked, brushing his thumb along your bottom lip. “Not the worst deal.”

#nicholas alexander chavez #nicholas chavez #nicholas chavez x reader #nicholas chavez x y/n #jackie writes ⟢

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petew21-blog · 5 months ago

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Siblings rivalry

Lyle was nervously grasping the wheel, side eyeing the man next to him while driving: „Could you, please, put some shirt on?”

“Why? Is it distracting you? It’s just a body, Lyle, and you’re not a faggot. Shouldn’t bother you. Am I right?” the shirtless man sitting on the passenger’s seat responded with a smirk and subtle disdain in his voice.

“Of course I’m not… It’s because of the sweat. The car is borrowed and I don’t want to clean it.” Lyle quickly responded and tried to change the subject

“The car is an old piece of shit. We’ll be lucky if we even make it to the beach in time.”

The engine started making weird noises and the car slowed down. “See, told you.”

Lyle stormed out of the car and screamed:”Can you shut the fuck up already?! I can’t take this anymore. I want my girlfriend back.”

“I didn’t choose this either. And I still am your girlfriend!”

Lyle's girlfriend Nicole has a twin brother, Nicholas. Their family is one of the most weirdest ones you’ll ever meet in your entire life. And Lyle had the pleasure, or maybe misfortune, to find out the hard way. They got their hands on some magical shrooms or something. Some made you see the future, some gave you a really great time and there were also ones that swapped your body. Trippy right? Yeah… Naturally the parents used it for orgies and other experimenting.

But occasionally they used it as a method of punishment. Nicole told Lyle, that she had to be her mum for two weeks last summer, just because she lied about her school results. Lyle didn’t believe the whole swap thing until the parents found out that Nicholas and Nicole didn’t share the same morals about feminism and male value. Nicole was obviously a feminist, but she was belittling her brother. On the other hand, her brother didn’t even stop to consider how different a life is for a woman. The whole family had an argument about this and the parents decided to swap Nicole and Nicholas for the ENTIRE summer before university. Yep, insane.

Nicole responded to her body quite well to be honest. She was in a male body before, but never in her brother’s. Them being twins might have helped a bit. Nicholas is an attractive male, so Nicole had it quite easy. He has a great physique, handsome face and generally is a great guy. Lyle and Nicholas often joked together about women, watch football or play videogames together. But having his girlfriend in his body? Way different for Lyle.

Lyle caught her staring at herself many times. She seemed completely unphased, maybe even excited to be in male body now. Which can’t be said for me. Sex was obviously a no go. Lyle didn’t even want to touch her without feeling like a fag. But Lyle knew something bad was about to happen sooner or later. Maybe this would be a test for their relationship. Maybe it will uncover that he is a superficial asshole and that he love her only for her body.

She keeps staring at Lyle sometimes and tried to even seduce him, but he just can’t like this. Not while she is in Nicholas’s body.

Which brings us back to the present, currently on the coast far from the beach party where we were supposed to be hours ago. Unfortunately, Lyle had to borrow his grandparent’s car and it just broke down. Nicole smiled after being right again and seeing me snap.

She had her shirt off and leaned against the hood of the car. “So what now Sherlock?”

Lyle: „I don’t know. We’re in the middle of nowhere. And the cur is busted.”

Nicole: ”Jesus, Lyle. Be a man and call Jake. He can at least come get us.”

Lyle nervously nodded and took out the phone. He went behind the car and waited for someone to answer. Meanwhile Nicole moved from the front and went to the back of the car, adjusting herself for Lyle.

Lyle finished the call and before he looked up he said: „They’re all drunk already, so Daniel is going to wait a bit before he’s sober and will come get us.”

Nicole: „Good. More time for us to have fun” Lyle looked up and saw Nicole in her shorts, slowly lowering them.

Lyle quickly turned around. “Jesus fuck, what are you doing? What if someone sees you?”

Nicole:”Who? You mean the nearest guy miles away from us? Yeah, right. I wanna get Nicholas a good tan for the summer. We agreed to treat each other’s body properly.”

Lyle knew Nicole had different intentions, but he wouldn’t succumb to her. He isn’t gay for fuck’s sake.

Nicole took the folding chair they had in their trunk and positioned herself in front of the car, enjoying the sun.

Nicole: „When was the last time that the two of us had some proper free time to just stop? Did we ever? Feels like the first time. Maybe we should use it properly.”

Lyle: „What are you suggesting?”

Nicole: „I think we should fuck. You haven’t touched me in weeks.”

Lyle: „Because you are a man now!!! And your brother, Jesus fuck.”

Nicole:”Cut the crap, Lyle. Do. You. Love. Me?”

Lyle:”… I… of course I love you.”

Nicole: „Do you love me for me, or my body?”

Lyle: „I… I love YOU.”

Nicole: „So come and prove it.” Her daring voice made Lyle feel uneasy. But he felt as if something was pulling him towards Nicole, towards Nicholas.

Nicole got up, uncovering her hairy manhood. This was the first time that Lyle looked at it. It wasn’t hard, but even now it was still pretty impressive. Nicole headed to the car, going past Lyle and whispering in his ear: „I haven’t sucked your dick in weeks. I need to have your dick as much as you want me.”

Lyle looked as Nicole laid down on the car seats, waiting for Lyle to make his move. Her dick was getting hard and getting bigger. Maybe even bigger than his own. Lyle couldn’t keep his eyes off of that thing.

Nicole spoke up: „Lyle, I need you. I need your dick!”

Lyle’s dick was hard as well. He felt himself throwing his clothes off as if he was just a passenger. He thought about Nicole giving him that great blow job of hers once again. He could see in his memory, his dick disappearing in her mouth.

He got close to Nicole, lowering himself on top of her, HIM. And was ready to push his dick closer to her, but he was so horny, that he didn’t even realize that he was now the one holding HER dick in his hands. Jerking it furiously. Lick it from top to base. Swallowing it fully. He didn’t even realize he didn’t have much trouble swallowing her cum. Even after SHE pushed HER dick in his ass, he didn’t find it that weird.

They laid on top of each other, breathing out loud, enjoying each other’s company, making out. Nicole gave Lyle a sign that she need to go out and piss. Lyle stayed in the car, still struck for what just happened. Nicole’s phone vibrated. Lyle thought that maybe someone was ready to pick them up, but instead it was Nicole’s friend Stacy texting her. The text said: „Hey, Stacy. Thanks again for swapping with me. I really needed to be fucked and not as a man, haha. Hope you’re enjoying it. Luv U”

Lyle:”What. The. Fuck?!”

#body swapping #male body swap #body switch #body swap #ftm body swap #ftm body switch #male body switch #body switching #family body swap

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doyoulikethissong-poll · 22 days ago

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Craig Wedren and Anna Waronker - Yellowjackets - No Return 2021

Yellowjackets is an American thriller drama television series which premiered on Showtime on November 14, 2021. The series follows two primary storylines: the first involves a group of teenagers who must survive in the wilderness after their plane crashes in 1996, while the second takes place 25 years later and focuses on their attempts to piece their lives back together after being rescued and returning to civilization. It stars a large ensemble cast led by Sophie Nélisse, Jasmin Savoy Brown, Sophie Thatcher, and Samantha Hanratty as the core teenage survivors, while Melanie Lynskey, Tawny Cypress, Juliette Lewis, and Christina Ricci portray their adult counterparts. The series has received significant praise for its cast's performances, mystery elements and exploration of the past and present timelines.

The music for the pilot was composed by Theodore Shapiro. The rest of the first season was scored by Craig Wedren and Anna Waronker, members of the rockbands Shudder to Think and That Dog, respectively. Wedren was invited to the series after the series was picked up and Shapiro was unable to return. The main theme song, "No Return", was written and performed by Wedren and Waronker, who said they "aimed to channel our off-kilter '90s roots into something that felt like 'then', but could only have been made now, just like the show".

Show creators Lyle and Nickerson were initially hesitant with the idea of featuring a theme song due to their growing rarity in the mainstream but were eventually convinced otherwise. Lakeshore Records made "No Return" available to stream and download on January 6, 2022. A soundtrack album was also released on Spotify. The fourth, seventh and ninth episodes of the second season featured a cover of "No Return" by Alanis Morissette, which was released as a single on April 14, 2023.

"No Return" received a total of 63,3% yes votes!

youtube

#dylts #dylts poll #finished #low reblog #20s #o2 #lo3 #craig wedren #anna waronker #english #soundtracks

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inkdrinkerworld · 6 months ago

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Happy birthday, darling

synopsis: James wakes you up for your birthday, with sticky kisses and an even stickier love

cw: fluffy fluff with a soft, tender love, like I said very self-indulgent, preschool teacher!reader

wc: 1.2k

James makes a big deal of your birthday. He doesn’t care that it’s an awkward time of year or month, he goes all out.

It had come about when you’d told him that you can’t remember the last time you’d had a birthday party let alone a cake on your birthday and you’d practically scarred your boyfriend.

Three years later, James makes it a point to celebrate your birthday hard.

You wake up to James kissing your face, his curls tickling your cheek as he nears your ear and murmurs, “Happy birthday, m’heart. S’time to wake up.”

You groan and twist under him, a smile on your face as you lay on your back. “Jamie,”

He smiles the moment you open your eyes, his lips trailing along your jaw, sponging sweet kisses onto your skin.

“Happy birthday,” there’s a soft scent of citrus and cardamom that follows James as he meanders all over your face with his lips and it makes you feel all warm and gooey on the inside.

“I made breakfast but there’s also gifts.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down on top of you, “Thank you James.” you kiss beside his ear, happy to accept all of his weight but knowing James would never drop himself onto you.

“You’re perfectly welcome, angel.”

He rolls off of you and props himself up on an elbow, a soft smile on his face as he watches you stretch- as weird as he knows it may be, seeing you stretch really makes his chest all warm.

“I’ll be five minutes,” he says to you before he climbs off the bed, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips before leaving.

You manage to brush your teeth in the time he’s gone, and when he comes back, tears spring to your eyes. James is walking in with a bouquet of yellow lilies, three wrapped boxes in pale yellow paper with colourful balloons on them, and breakfast waffles with lit candles in them.

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you,” you blush as he continues. “Happy birthday my angel.”

“Jamie,” he blushes at the breathless way you call to him.

“S’not even everything, I’ve got a card too and something in the closet.”

James is a loverboy, he knows it and everyone who knows him knows this. He’s taught you a lot in learning to accept this kind of love, the love that reassures you you’re a priority and you’re taken care of without asking.

He’s a reflection of his parent’s love and you never fail to thank them for him when you visit.

He brings the gift from the closet first, it’s in a huge box, and when you open it you grin. It’s a yellow sun plushie you’d seen in the shopping center a while back- you don’t even know when James had picked it up.

“Thank you, James.” You kiss his cheek and then the plushie and put it on the chair with all your others.

“You’re welcome angel. Now sit, sit.”

“James I feel spoilt,” you giggle when he sets your plate of funfetti waffles in your lap with a little jug of Lyle’s Golden Syrup and a cup of tea on the bedside table.

James grins, his pretty dimples coming out. “M’heart, this is just half of it. I can spoil one gift,” he kisses your lips just as you cut a square of your waffle. “We’re going to dinner at that place you like.”

You gasp as he pulls away, James smiles even wider. “Jamie.”

He shakes his head, “S’your birthday and we agreed that I’d get to spoil you.”

You never outright agreed, James had seen an issue and sought to rectify it and he’s been doing it since year one. You concede because you know that’s a hard reservation to hold and you really do love their food. “Thank you.” You say instead, earnest and soft at his love for you.

“You’re welcome, now eat before it gets cold.”

You share with him, exchanging bites while you tell him about your planned day- you’ve got work, and a meeting at the end of the day, but after three you’re all his.

James has taken the day off, unbeknownst to you, to plan everything for tonight.

You shower before you open gifts, and when you change into your long jean skirt and white knitted ladybug sweater vest with a red long sleeve underneath James smiles.

“You look darling.”

You fluster, your face warming under his gaze and from his words. James pats the spot on the bed beside him, “Come open up everything.”

You practically skip over to him, “Can I take the flowers to work?”

James rolls his eyes as he passes the boxes to you. “They’re yours to do with as you please, angel.” Then as a second thought, “Do you think the kids will ask about them?”

You smile, the kids definitely will. “They always ask about them. They like the cellophane.”

James smiles, the kids are adorable, every time he comes into the school to see you, they all want to hang off his arm and they stumble through sentences about what he’s doing, ‘not at his work.’

You read the card first, chest tightening at how blatantly he expresses his love for you. “I love you Jamie.” He kisses you swiftly.

“I love you too, angel.”

You tear into the first gift carefully, and gasp when you see the first box. “James! No way did you get this.”

He simply shrugs, smiling as you open it to reveal a pair of black glossy kitten heels that you’d been eyeing for some time.

“James!” you throw your arms around him and he laughs, hugging you back. “Thank you, Jamie.”

“You’re welcome, baby.”

You open the other two, a smaller box that houses a thin tennis bracelet that has pomegranate shaped garnet stones in it. You hiccup as James clasps it on your wrist. “James,”

He shakes his head, “Open the last one baby, you don’t have to thank me.”

The tears fall freely as you open the last gift and find a perfume, specifically your favourite perfume ever to exist. There’s a bit of a backstory to the bottle you’re cradling, as you look up at James.

James has gifted you this perfume on your first anniversary, a perfume he’d been terribly nervous about gifting you because it’s an intimate thing to gift, but he’d told you softly while wringing his hands together, “It reminded me of you, warm and homey,” and you’d never worn another fragrance since.

“Look at the bottle.”

You look down and find engraved on the face of it, ‘For M’heart,’ and you rasp a quiet, “Thank you James.”

He nods, pulls your head to his chest and kisses your crown. “You’re welcome angel girl. I didn’t mean to make you cry though.”

“S’not your fault, I cry all the time for this.”

He chuckles, “You do. Want me to drop you to work?”

You nod, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. “And we can listen to our playlist.”

James smiles, “Happy birthday, darling.”

You turn up to him, kissing his lips, once, twice and three times before pulling away and then getting a kiss right on the beauty mark under your jaw.

“Thanks for always making it special Jamie.”

He smiles, his dimples on display again. “I’ve got you forever, sweet girl. Till the galaxies collide.”

#jamespotter #james potter #james potter oneshot #james potter one shot #james potter imagine #james potter fluff #james potter fanfiction #james potter fanfic #james potter blurb #james potter fic #james potter drabble #james potter x black reader #james potter x reader #james potter x you #james potter x yn #james potter x y/n #james fleamont potter

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sgiandubh · 3 days ago

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Slap a shipper Friday?

Oh, yes. I was expecting this one:

[Source: Lauren Lyle's IG stories, posted today, July 11 2025]

As I also expected the very tired, very petty 'Slap a Shipper Friday' from the Trolling & Stalker Corner. It was meant to be. It was absolute kismet and, in a way, the perfect storm.

And it was, without a doubt, exactly what was expected to happen, for many reasons I will try to briefly sum up, knowing full well I am about to unleash a very, very bad remake of The Attack of the Clones, in my Inbox. So be it and fuck them.

Because, case in point, such are the rather primitive dynamics of this divided fandom: whenever the circus is back in town, shippers - these #stupid, #stupid creatures, isn't it? - are expected to whine, hide, lie and finally, to much of those wonderful (not!) people across the street's disappointment, resurrect. Conversely, those wonderful (not!) people's reaction is always the same, crude and rather boring: 'Slap a Shipper Friday'. So yes, primitive. But also as unavoidable as death and taxes: after all these years, people are either completely impervious (my case and not only mine), or disoriented. And the reason they are discombobulated is because their own projections and emotions are playing dirty tricks on their perceptions. Just so - yes, I know that irritates many to death.

The nerve. The entitlement. And the ignorance of how things are done, show-biz and PR wise are absolutely laughable.

I have many questions and many thoughts. And I am going to try and sum them up as briefly as I can.

It is not even a thing of wonder McGill was almost not spotted immediately by the harpies across the street. In fact, it took them almost one hour to start reacting, as the news of McGill being in the picture was starting to make the rounds amongst the Instacrowd:

Perhaps the reason is the same that gave me pause when I first saw that pic. Because, excuse me, but between his last, rather prosperously rotund picture from quite some many moons ago (cortisone was mentioned by some, but what do I know, after all?), this one looks like at least ten years later and twenty kilos less. This man looks older and thinner and, I am really sorry to say so, this cannot be a good look. On anyone. And this is exactly why I will stop any speculation on this topic, which does not belong here. Believe what you want, but don't fool yourself. The difference is sizeable, let's hope it's not tragic. Whoever might be on that pic, after all (I still have some residual doubts, because, of course, I am preemptively calling myself an imbecile).

On the other hand, let's consider the wedding event as a simple plot device in a narrative. Is it the first time it is used, to further agendas/plot lines?

The answer is no. It is the third time and every single time, albeit for different reasons, with rather mitigated success.

An event of this kind was used for the first time to consolidate the dwindling Flukenzie Floozy narative, when she and S took a couple of very contrived pics. This was, as Marple uses to say way 'before my time', but I do remember those pics I cannot even be arsed to retrieve, at the moment. Dental surgery ads looked more engaging, for sure, but it was hoped this would stop rising questioning and speculation. And not only from the Shipper side.

Then came The Remarkable Week-end, in August 2019. Enough said. It was also hoped it would miraculously make the entire shipper side disappear, considering the age and the cultural values of our majority . It didn't and I don't think I have to explain for the umpteenth time why it backfired.

And then we have this wedding, attended (unlike Grandma's), by both S and C, in the open. Now just imagine if C came alone. Oh. Ah. The speculation. The unwanted attention. Um, nope. Not exactly the kind of attention they wanted to elicit, in the first place. Plus, it is simply not done. C is, after all, for all intents and purposes, a married woman, no matter how you choose to look at this. And no matter how many times you keep yelling at this page, which sees the fracture between an inglorious sheet of paper and the farcical reality.

It was somehow important, therefore, that McGill would attend this wedding event in the open, unlike all that long, uninterrupted string of other social functions he might/might not have been a part of. After all, Season 8 is still not broadcast, contracts are still enforced, and all that (financially serious) jazz, leaving open the possibility of sequel movies (something that might be on the table). It was also important to show the OL cast's cohesion (remember the howling of 'they cannot stand each other'?), in a very 'nothing to see there, move on' kind of way. And it was, perhaps above anything else, predictible as hell. And this is why you'll see no bride in this picture: this picture taken at a collateral OL event is primarily for the OL's fandom's consumption and posted by one of the most beloved, credible members of the cast. Lauren, of course.

And perhaps it might (just a tiny 'might', here) be some sort of PR retaliation not only for those recent, nosy and lucky fans, but also for last summer's Taylor Swift Saga. No need to elaborate.

Body language, now. Let's take a closer look:

Distance between the Happy Couple (red arrow) looks greater than the distance between C and Rik the Groom. Strange posture, as if she would instinctively lean on Rankin (blue arrow)?

The only sign those two people might have something to share other than a jovial picture pose is C's posessing signature claw on McGill's shoulder. We've seen that before, on an Australian beach, I believe.

Brown shoes paired with a grey suit and Madame Fashionista says nothing? No tie and looking like the devil may care? At a wedding? Wow, the warmth is palpable, here.

Also: what the hell is McGill's hand doing under S's lovely tweed kilt jacket (my yellow, clumsy X marks the spot)? Clumsy as always, I suppose. But then again, where is S's left paw, that - as we can see by comparison with his right one - can, might and probably did reach far and, eh, wide?

I guess we'll never know. Also, not really needed. This staged pic is a comic fail.

Finally, I was expecting the usual 'remarkable week-end' type of charade from S. And I was not disappointed:

[Source: S's Instagram account, posted on July 11, 2025]

Yes, of course, 'wrong theme tune', since this -one more time - is an OL related event, after all. As I wrote not earlier than yesterday, they need all the traction and attention they can get for BoMB. A prequel, not a spin off, mind you.

But Ramin Jawadi's lovely Game of Thrones main theme also coveys another type of message and S is no stranger to a good double entendre, as far as I know.

So yes, these are my long thoughts and comments on yet another nothingburger. With all due respect, this is rather underwhelming. Ship on, ladies. 'tis not even a scratch.

PS: Love that demeanor, by the way. Macbeth tailored 100%.

#fandom #shitshow #Rik Rankin's nuptials

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theblacklewinsky · 29 days ago

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Note: cause I finished watching sinners the other day 😮‍💨 I'm overly going for smoke.

STRESS RELIEVER. | MBJ

MBJ! Smoke x Black! Female Reader.

Warnings: MDNI!! this story is 18+ with depictions of but not limited to; sexual content ( oral sex, (f receiving) unprotected sex (u betta wrap it up!) extreme language (cursing, use of n-word,) choking, talking you through it. Not proof read.

Summary: you're a stressed single mom, but Smoke can help you with that.

when i'm taking sips,

from your tasty lips,

the honey fairly drips.

Circa 1947.

Clarksdale, MS.

"Lyle!" You called out for your ten year old son, hands vigorously tossing and scrubbing the fabric of one of his t shirts together in your wooden wash tub. You had sent that boy off thirty minutes ago with your spare wash tub, and he still hadn't made it back yet. The lord said be fruitful, but here you were struggling with your one, not to mention your niece. "Lyle Jr!" You called out again, eyes flickering into the wooded area behind your small home. No Lyle.

You huffed drying your hands on your dress, eyes darting over the vicinity. You spotted one of Lyle's friends, James, holding some goods walking down the road, Edith's son from down the road.

"James, you seen Lyle at that river?" You asked squinting, using your right hand as visor against the sun, looking at the younger boy slow to a stop in front of you. His lips parted and his eyes got shifty, he ain't wanna tell on his buddy. "Boy if you fixin' to lie for 'em don't even, he already in a world of trouble."

James sighed, "I seen him in town at Mr Al's sto' a few minutes ago."

You kissed your teeth, "I figured. Gone get home, boy." You mumbled eyes following the child until he was at the end of the road. You sighed, turning around and pulling the shirt out of the wash tub and wringing it out. Now here you had to go, stopping your washing to go and get that hardheaded child out of town. You planned on being done with this just in time for dinner, but like always Lyle found a way to turn a simple instruction, into complete chaos. But, he was your baby.

Lyle was just like his father—wild, active and barely attentive. Splitting image of him too. He had nearly every trait from him except his nose and that curly hair—both traits straight from you. Those gray eyes, flat lips, and freckles peppered across his nose was nothing other than Lyle Sr. It didn't take a rocket scientist to see that your son was half white, and apparently it didn't take them Klansman long to see it either. They seen you and Lj playing in the yard earlier that day, and wanted to see the nigger lover that got you pregnant. Their words.

He had just come home from the war only an hour before, Lj never got the chance to see his daddy the next morning. They snatched him right out of your house, and two days later your uncle found him dangling from the limb of a tree. You told Lj he died in Japan, that he died a hero.

"Elaine!" You called out toward the cracked front door of your home, where inside Elaine should've been shelling peas. You shuffled over the lawn to your clothes line, grabbing a clip and clipping the wet shirt to the line.

"Yes, auntie?" Elaine peeked her head out of the door, brown eyes looking at you expectantly.

"Do me a favor and get started on dinner, baby. I gotta go get Lj from town," you sighed.

"Yes ma'am," she mumbled heading back inside. You started across the grass, hands shielding the sun from your squinted eyes as you seen the nice Lincoln Continental rounding the dirt road quickly. Ain't no cars that nice ever pass through your side of town, the Klansman ain't even got cars that nice.

You watched, and it was nice, real nice until you seen your boy in the passengers seat, with a complete damn stranger. You took a deep breath, closed your eyes and said a silent prayer to the lord. By the time that nice Lincoln stopped in front of your lawn, your eyes were open and narrowed. You could feel the hesitance from Lyle as he slowly opened the car door.

"Hey mama," he fidgeted nervously with that same boyish smile his father used to do, guilt all in his expression, "I filled yo' wash tub up!" He quickly gestured to the wooden tub sitting half full in the backseat.

The man driving exited the car. Tall, brown, handsome, in a fine Irish suit, and brown leather Johnston's & Murphy. But what the hell was your son doing in the passenger seat? You'd seen this man in your life, and you knew for a fact Lyle hadn't either. A short surge of panic coursed through you.

"Lj, where the hell were you?! I told you to go fill my washtub and I see yo ass roundin' the corner with a complete stranger?" You scolded. "Get my washtub out that backseat and get yo behind up in thar house, before you don't have a behind to sit on later." You gritted, eyes on him as he deflated, slowly pulling the back door open.

"I caught him at Al sto' in town," the man started, southern drawl slow and accent as thick as it could be, leaning on the hood of his car ever so casually, watching Lyle grab the half full washtub from the backseat, "Al caught him stealin' a few things and was fixin' to get rough wit'em—”

Your eyes widened at the mention, as they darted back to your son. "Stealing?! Lj—”

"But I took him, we had a talk about stealin' didn't we?" The man arched a brow at him.

"Yeah, ma," Lyle grunted sitting the wooden tub on the lawn, before reaching to the pocket of his pants and pulling out 80 cents and holding it out you, "Smoke gave me twenty cents a minute to watch his car! And all I had to do, was hold the horn if somebody got close—and then these two men got too close so Smoke came out and—”

"Boy, shut yo mouth and take yo ass in that house like yo mama told you," Smoke cut him off, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his suit pocket, he took one, and held it between his lips before holding the pack out to you.

Any other time you would've cursed somebody out for talking to your child crazy, but that was the first time since your husband died that Lj just listened. No excuses, no kickback. And you were silently grateful for that. He slowly trudged toward the house.

"No thank you," you replied in response to the offer of the cigarette, your skeptical gaze on the man on your property, "thank you for bringin' my child home, but I can take it from here. My husband'll be home shortly."

Lyle paused at the step, confusion creasing his forehead. "But mama, daddy died in Japan—"

You closed your eyes tightly, clenching your teeth. "Lj, ain't I said get in that house?!" You raised your voice, tone stern and heavy. Your boy. You heard quick shuffling up the stairs and the side of your front door being gently closed.

You heard the flicker of a lighter as you lowered yourself onto a nearby stool, dragging your freshly filled wash tub toward you. The faint smell of cigarette smoke lingered.

"I fought in that same war," Smoke recalled as he took a long drag from his cigarette, "seen some of the worst shit you could ever imagine."

You sighed, stuffing one of your nieces dresses into the tub and started to vigorously clean it. "Yeah, you, my husband and plenty others...” you mumbled eyes glancing up at him quickly with little interest before you focused your attention back on your busied hands. "...thank you for service."

Smoke ain't reply for a moment just observed. The tension in your shoulders, the stoic expression of your face, to the irritation in your tone. You were beyond stressed. "What you doin' tonight?"

Your movements stilled almost immediately. Your eyes slowly trailed up from the brown leather shoes he wore, to the very expensive Irish suit that adorned his body, your nose scrunched in mix of disgust and heavy irritation. "Excuse me?"

A ghost of a smirk fell across his lips, the sun gleaming off the gold caps he had on his teeth. "You look like you need a break, shit. You out here in 90 degree weather scrubbin' shirts and shit like the stains pissed in yo coffee this mornin'."

"Me and my brother Stack got a juke bar openin' up tonight right down the road."

You let out a half hearted laugh and continued scrubbing. "Boy, do it look like I got time for a juke bar? I got two kids up in that house." You mumbled. You couldn't remember the last time you went to a party. Maybe 17? You got married at 19 and had Lyle at 20. As soon as you got married, had a kid, there were no more parties for you. And when your sister passed and you took in Elaine—it got even more serious. All your focus tuned in to giving those kids the very best life, and that's why you left Texas two years ago. They deserved a fresh start.

"I wish yall the best, but I ain't got nobody to watch my kids." You mumbled. "Good luck on yall openin'."

Smoke flicked his cigarette, "damn shame," he muttered, "cause I was show'll hopin' to see more of you."

You quietly kissed your teeth, your movements slightly slowing. You kept your eyes down and lips sealed until that Lincoln pulled off. Who the hell was Smoke?

You hummed softly taking a sip of water from your glass as you looked over at your niece across from you. Spooning over the side of black-eyed peas on her plate.

"Girl," you side-eyed her, taking a bite out of the dinner roll, "you better not be over there' wastin' food."

Elaine's eyes darted over to you immediately, "I'm not auntie, I'm just thinkin'... you never go out and have fun, and I heard that man out there invitin' you to the juke bar, and everybody goin! I heard Mary's mama and Mrs. Edith talkin' about it earlier too."

"I can take care of Lj and me, he won't be no problem." She affirmed.

You thought over it for a moment, your eyes flickering over to Lj who was already shaking head. "I'll be good mama, I swear."

You rolled your eyes sighing heavily over the rim over your glass. "Mm, I'll go. Only for a lil bit though, cause I don't want yall alone for too long." Why'd you raise your kids to be so damn sweet?

You looked around the jukebox bar, already apparently in full action before you and Edith had even arrived. You looked absolutely gorgeous, the many compliments you received from friends and neighbors in passing as soon as you walked in—even the sweet compliments from your kids. You looked almost rich, a red and white plaid halter swing dress, a white shawl over your shoulders, the fanciest red pumps you owned, a single baby's breath flower in your bouncy, brushed out roller set, and a bold red lip to pull it all together. You looked great. But you felt so out of place.

"Girl, this is a lot," you mumbled to your friend quietly as she edged you both closer to the bar, "I feel so out of place—I think I need to go home and check on my kids!" Anxiety started to creep in as you began to turn on your heels but felt the soft pull of Edith's hands in your wrist.

"Girl, relax," she frowned a little, dropping her hand from your wrist and dusted off the skirt of your dress, "the kids are fine and you know that. You need a break, and a drink! You tense all in the shoulders, honey." She waved a hand over your upper body with a look of disdain.

"I am not tense!" You defended. You were.

"You are," she retorted, "and you makin' me nervous! You don't hear Slim singin' up there?" Her light brown eyes followed yours to the stage. You side-eyed her as she proofed her hair and shot you a quick glance. "You reckon he'll notice me tonight?"

You contained your poker face, even though you wanted to display the shock you felt internally. You didn't know much about Slim, other than he was known in the area for playing at a local blues club, and the fact he had a better relationship with alcohol than people it seemed. He didn't seem to be a bad man though. "...I hope so." You mumbled eyes darting all over the floor of people.

"Well," she hummed with a smile, "ima increase my chances by standin' closer to the stage," she gently guided you to an open stool at the bar, "you, need to stay here and get a drink. It's on me!"

You shot her a glare before rolling your eyes and letting off a soft sigh as she squeezed your hand before heading off, disappearing into the sea of bodies on the floor. You looked around the wooden interior what had appeared to be an old ranch, or barn, but the decorations had made it look up to par.

"What can I get you?"

Your eyes averted over to the pretty Chinese woman behind the bar in front of you. Your eyes scanned the shelf for a brief moment. "Y'all got gin?" You asked scrunching your nose at the selection that was presented.

She nodded, turning around to grab a bottle from the counter and a clean glass, pouring a generous amount in before presenting it to you. "That'll be fifty cent."

You went to open the white clutch in your lap to fetch your change.

"Gon' and put that one on the house, Grace," Smoke's voice sounded off behind you, he was close. Grace simply nodded and headed off to tend to another customer.

"Thank you," you mumbled, slowly closing your clutch and keeping your eyes straight ahead, grabbing your glass and taking a sip of tb win

"Thank you," he reiterated to you, slipping into the limited space between you and the other seated patron, slightly leaning on the bar, "for comin. I ain't think you was gon show up."

You glanced at him briefly, his brown irises staring directly at you. You crossed your legs tighter, and averted your eyes elsewhere. You couldn't explain it, but he was staring at you like he was studying you. "Yeah, y'all got a lot of people here. That's good, right?" You responded dodging the last party of his statement, hell, after this drink you were still thinking about bolting. And maybe he knew that.

He finally took his eyes off of you, briefly looking over the over building. "Yeah. Stack handled business on that front." His eyes looked over your seated frame once more. "You look good."

You took another sip of gin. "Thank you," you mumbled softly eyes darting over the interior of the club once again. Looking for any change in conversation, any minor detail you could point out. Anything that could stop this gin from making you cave into whatever temptation this man was dangling over your head.

"This a big place." You chirped out, eyes loping everywhere but him.

"You want me to show you around?"

You blinked. The party was right here. Be damned it was probably nothing but empty storage rooms on that second level. But why not? Edith left you to go source out the opportunity that Slim would notice her, and right now you wasn't feeling much like mingling.

"Can I bring my drank?"

Upstairs was exactly how you pictured it; a mix of empty rooms. Smoke apparently bad vision for all of them. He showed you a spacious room, one that he sought out to be his office, a small one he wanted to make storage, and a moderate sized one for a break room of some sorts.

Inside the fourth and final room you were greeted with a desk of some sorts, a bunch of wooden boxes filled with alcohol, and a glowing jukebox in the corner. The door seemed to fall shut behind you as you followed smoke in, glass still half full with the gin as you took a seat atop the desk.

"Shouldn't that be downstairs?" You half chuckled gesturing to the jukebox he was now fiddling with.

"What you wanna hear?" He asked you, shooting you a half glance as he reached inside his pocket and pulled out a quarter, popping it into the machine.

"You don't hear that music downstairs?" You watched your eyebrow, looking at him over the rim of your glass.

"I ain't asked you none about the music downstairs. I asked what you wanna hear." He reaffirmed, eyes settled on you. Your gaze met his for a moment before you set the glass beside you on the desk, and carefully slid off. You met him at the jukebox, eyes skimming over your limited options, before you settled on Honeysuckle Rose by Fats Waller.

The soft and familiar jazz tune filled the air as you took your seat back at the desk, Smoke staying stationed where he was. Comfortably leaned up against the jukebox. For a second nothing was said, only the smooth low instrumental of the beginning of the song played.

Smoke's eyes lazily trailed over your figure and you could feel his heated glaze, even when you acted as if you were fixated on the wallpaper, or the gin in your glass.

"What you do for work?" He spoke up. And you were grateful for the break in silence, the air in the room felt thick with something you ain't felt in a real long time.

"I make clothes, I sell vegetables from my garden sometimes," you shrugged, "I make do."

"You need a man."

You blinked, before a scoff followed by a half-hearted laugh escaped your mouth. "I don't need no man to help me pay the bills."

"Nah, but you do need a man for all that stress you got." His voice was even, but his stare was heavy. You shifted on the desk, throat dry. But the seat of your panties wasn't.

You were a widowed, single mama, and a woman with respect and morals. How would you look having casual sex with a man you just met earlier in the day? Please.

You shuffled to your feet from the desk and headed toward the door, mumbling a fast and quiet 'I gotta go.' He was quick to meet you before your hand hit that doorknob. Hands placed firmly on your hips, your back pressed all up against that pristine Irish suit he wore. His lips found your neck in feather light, searing kisses. "There you go," he mumbled in between kisses to your heated flesh, "worryin' and stressin'. You ain't got nowhere to be right now, but right here lettin' me take care of you."

You sucked your bottom lip in, eyes fluttering closed followed by a heavy inhale. If you had any will at all it'd already escaped with that first kiss. "We don't even know each other," you tried to reason, voice coming out strained and breathy.

"I ain't gotta know you to help you wit' this," his hands gently squeezing your hips through your dress, dragging up until they reached your shoulders, that he gently massaged before running them down your arms, kissing your right shoulder gently, his lips leaving heat behind.

"Besides," he mumbled against the fabric of your shawl, until his lips found the exposed skin of your neck again, he left one soft peck, "we bout to be well acquainted after this."

He proved to at least know your body well. He made good use of that desk, to have you seated there, legs rested against his shoulders and the skirt of your dress hiked over your waist. His eyes made full contact with yours, as he sucked on your swollen clit. His soft hums on your sensitive bud, had your lips parted, breathing uneven and eyes lazy. "Ooh, fuck!" You hummed a soft moan, eyes boring into his as he pulled back before pulling your clit in between his lips in a series of sloppy sucks, a string of your wetness and his spit dripping from his goatee onto the hardwoods flooring beneath you, his knees planted firmly on the ground.

"Just like that, Smoke," you nodded vigorously, still maintaining the lazy eye contact with him until your thighs trembled and your eyes shut involuntarily. Your hands raised in an abrupt attempt to find something to grip onto, in the midst your hand knocking the glass half full with the gin to the hardwood flooring. Smoke seemed undeterred by the glass clobbering to the floor, his tongue tracing big lazy circles around your swollen bud, the soft hums and moans emanating from his throat sending small jolts of vibrations through you. Your breath hitched, eyes lazily opening to give him still watching you. Tongue slipping in and out of you, with a vengeance damn near. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you into the thrusts of his tongue like he was tryna collect whatever you'd give him.

"Shiiiiit," you slurred through a moan, eyes fluttering closed again voice raspy with need, "I'm finna cum!" You squeaked, thighs squeezing around his head.

"Mmh, mmh," he hummed against your pussy before pushing your thighs apart and pulling back, face messy, his hand slapped your exposed ass cheek, taking a needy moan from you, "wanna feel you cummin' on this dick soon as I slide it in." He mumbled hoarsely, his eyes trained on you lowly while his fingers busied themselves with undoing his belt. Your thighs squeezed close at his lewd words as your eyes connected with the bulge he was pulling from his pants. So pretty—and dicks usually weren't. Veiny, and two toned.

He pushed your thighs apart gently and leaned down, kissing you with you all over his lips. The way he kissed you was soft and hungry, like he wasn't rushing but enjoying. His teeth caught your bottom lip as you moaned, feeling him gently slap the tip of his dick against your throbbing clit, rubbing it all over your sloppy wetness, before carefully pushing into you.

A gasp left your lips as soon as you felt him stretch you open, his girth mixed with your long run of celibacy filled you with a slight sting and feeling slightly uncomfortable, but Smoke didn't give you a minute to react, his lips meeting yours, fingers softly grazing your clit as he eased into you. He pulled back to mumble a throaty, "Fuck," against your lips when he filled you to the hilt. A heavy breath slipped past your lips as your brows furrowed, eyes dropping down to where you two met.

He proved to know you even better then. Slipping in and out of you with slow precision at first. His fingers rubbing slow teasing circles against your clit. Bottom lip between your teeth, eyes fluttered closed as he peppered kisses along your jawline and chin. "You feel so fuckin' good," he mumbled voice raspy and muffled against your jaw. Your voice hadn't caught up to you yet, and your breaths were too quick and erratic, yet, you felt the most relaxed you felt in a long time.

Slow precision turned into deep hard strokes. You coated him in creamy white, one hand wrapped around your neck, the other gripping the front of your dress for leverage to keep working inside of you. His forehead dampened with sweat, pressed against yours as he stared into your lazy brown irises. "Look at that shit," he grunted, pulling back slightly, eyes falling to where you connected, slowing his strokes to show how well you had him covered, "you needed this shit so bad," he affirmed. You mustered enough breath to produce a broken squeal, your eyes shutting closed tight. The only sounds filling the essence of the room was the sound of your skin hastily making contact with his, and the sound of your wetness clashing with him.

"Yea," he mumbled pulling away, hand squeezing tighter around your neck, just enough to barely construct your breathing, "that pussy talkin' to me. Pussy thankin' me baby?" He quizzed, heavy breathing shadowing his question.

"Yessss," you whined out, thighs trembling as you opened your eyes, only for them to roll back a second later. He knew exactly where to hit. It was like he find your spot, and stroked with a vigor. The legs of the desk screeching against the hardwood flooring, made ugly sounds followed by the lewd sounds the both of you produced. "Oh my god," you huffed, a sense of pleasurable urgency in your voice, "I'm bout to cum, baby!" You rushed out, stars blurred your vision and it seemed like your breathing stopped for a moment. The only thing that filled your ears was your sticky wetness, the sound of the desk screeching across the floor, and the violent slams of your body crashing into each other.

It was like you couldn't produce sound even when you came. The way your body stiffened and your legs trembled, how your hands instantly reached to push at his torso and chest as he fucked you through it. Only a loud cry followed after, and even then it seemed as if the stars continued to swim behind your eyelids. You went into a period of overstimulation, where your body couldn't comprehend the pleasure he was giving you, if anything you were completely dazed. Your breathing only returned when he finally slipped out of you. He didn't give you time to catch your breath as he met your lips with his, before trailing them down to your neck. "Ain't you glad you came?"

hope you enjoyed xo 🩷

#SoundCloud #black writers #black!fem!reader #fine black men #fine as fuck #black reader #smut #michael b jordan #mbj x reader #sinners #smoke #elijah smoke moore

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