#pied n true

[k-hotchoisan]

hiiiii <333 I have lovedddd lovvvveeeddd alll of your works I actually spent my day reading each and everyone of them I love it so muchhh!! 😭❤️

I have a request teehee, could you write one where Sannie is like a professor in your college and there’s little teasing here and there and where he ends up having her alas!! DOM - SAN ‼️💋

his favourite

<prof!san x fem!reader>

Prof Choi likes playing favourites.

You’re his favourite.

Genres/Warnings: smut, dom professor Choi San, pwp, face fucking, unprotected sex, oral (m receive) ,mutual pining, age gap, size kink, cream pies, mild jealousy plot, sir kink, light bondage (just tying up reader) teasing, sexual tension, teaching assistantxteacher obv forbidden but we still eat it up anyway!

Word count: 12.3K

a/n: happy birthday to the man of my dreams </3 enjoy this little choi san birthday treat. i put my love into this so please love this as much as i did! and thank you @bro-atz for the tidbits of help as always 🩷

apply for taglist here!

You stare at the laptop screen, scanning through your details on the application form, double, and triple checking that everything was filled in correctly. 

“Which professors are you trying as a teaching assistant for?” Your roommate asks, her neck craning over to see you attaching the file to six different emails, to six different professors within the department, pretty much answering her question the moment she reads off each professor’s email. 

“Why not try for the department chair?”

You scrunch your eyebrows as if it’s the first time you’re hearing that. 

“Who?”

“Professor Choi?”

Your eyes widen, your neck almost getting whiplash from how fast you turned to your roommate at the sound of his name. 

“Why the fuck would I try him?” 

Your roommate shrugs in an attempt to hide her amused reaction from your reaction at his name. 

“Who knows? I’m confident he remembers you even though you spent only one semester with him”, she hums turning away to pour herself another ice drink from the pitcher. “On a serious note, you may as well just get all the help you can get. Besides, what are the chances that Prof Choi sees your email? He’s the department chair. I’m sure his mailbox is just flooded anyway.” 

True, you think to yourself, turning your head back to your laptop, and adding the professor’s email address in. But you still hesitate, staring at the application form, your cursor hovering over the send button. Your roommate looks over at you, and she decides that your wishy-washy behaviour is just being the biggest nuisance on earth, so her hand flies over yours and helps you to press send, and she watches you freak out at her while she giggles and escapes after committing her crime, chasing your roommate around the kitchen island for a good seven minutes.

Settling back down in defeat, you sigh in your hands, giving yourself pep talks. 

Right. 

The chances are close to zero that Prof Choi will see my application anyway. 

The chances of him remembering me are close to zero anyway. 

You shut your laptop, and the applications are completely erased from your mind. 

“Yo, check your emails, babe. The application results are out for me”, your roommate says, her eyes glued to her laptop screen. 

You settle yourself down across her, a chilled drink in your hand, pulling up your email inbox. As you expected, you see the subject headline ‘Teaching Assistant Application Results’, and you expand the email.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me”, you mutter, loud enough for your roommate to hear. Her head pops out from behind her screen. 

“Who did you get?”

“Choi San.”

Professor Choi San. His classes weren’t the bane of your existence—but he, himself was. 

And the fact that it only took one semester to solidify that claim. Almost everyone wanted to get into his class, so fucking many of them just squealing over how he looked almost god-like. You wonder how much of a swoon he would be, how much of the rumours that travelled down the stream were factual, though with thousands of students constantly fighting for a spot in his class, you sure were coloured surprised when you landed a spot in Professor Choi’s class. 

The moment he walked in, the whispers within the confines of the lecture hall erupted into gasps and squeals. Unfortunately, the rumours were right—the moment ProfessorChoi walked in, it was as if your eyes naturally followed his movement—confident strides in his steps dictated by his outfit—a simple dress shirt under a dark gray vest that accentuated his wide shoulders and skinny waist.  

He was so fucking handsome—his hair neatly slicked back, frameless glasses sat on his nose bridge, his sharp and small eyes hiding behind the lens. Undoubtedly, seeds of infatuation began lodging themselves in you. Well, it’s not like you had a chance with him anyway, especially when the gold band reflected from his ring finger being a huge indicator. Maybe keeping him as an eye candy would work out just fine. 

Prof Choi’s classes were interesting, and he as a professor, other than being a distraction during the majority of his classes, held his credentials. However, at times, some sarcastic comments would bubble to the surface, and even though he did tend to commend top-scoring students for tests, he still maintained professionalism for the most part—the content taught wasn’t rocket science anyway. You saw yourself being able to breeze through the syllabus for the most part until you received your grade for one of your essays. You stared at his comments, marked in red lines, circles, and words—tone cold and direct—not that you weren’t used to it, but this time? You felt his comments alongside him marking you down were completely unjustified. 

It was then that you pushed past the group of girls who would stay back after class to shamelessly flirt with him, under the guise of wanting to discuss more about the content taught that day, and you stood before the group, asking to speak to Prof Choi personally. Prof Choi did have people staying back after class to consult with him about grades, although they would stay shortly with him staying stern to his marking rubrics, but when he realised you weren’t backing down on top of the way you approached him so directly, it intrigued him.

His office was spacious, considering that he was the department chair—and without introductions, he had you dive in immediately in consultation. 

You wasted no time, flipping through the spent pages of your essay, pointing out areas where you felt his comments were unjustified. Prof Choi listened, and he refuted your points, some of which you decided to accept but not for one particular part;

“This part had no proper scientific support of your argument for this point-“

“Bullshit”, you cut him off. Prof Choi blinked, shocked at the blunt cut from you. His eyebrows were scrunched in confusion next, wondering if he heard right that a student not only just cut him off, but cussed at him.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s here. A small significance value is still something isn’t it?” You replied, pointing at the paragraph after. He glanced at the paper once more, forcing himself to focus while you fought back that your argument was supported. 

So you made Prof Choi sit before you and listen to your elaborations, and needless to say, he was rather impressed, although he had to hold his expression neutral. 

You came out of the consultation victorious—the day Prof Choi called you over after his class again, handing you your script, and you saw your total marks shooting up to a gorgeous score. Your head was so into the clouds that you returned a smirk along with a shrug—showing off your victory and satisfaction as your thanks—an I told you so, leaving the professor to stare after you in awe while you practically skipped to your seat. 

That sealed your fate. 

From then on, Prof Choi would have his attention on you—recognising which seat you picked to sit in in class, wondering why you hadn’t dared sit nearer. And when it came to picking people to answer questions, his gaze would fly to you immediately—either waiting to call you out once you raised your hand or simply calling you when he felt like it. For some sick reason, he finds the way your face scrunches up in stress when he calls your name in his honey-soaked voice amusing, and even adorable at times, though he would never admit it. But oh, did he love the comments and answers you would give him. 

Despite that assignment being the only one where you decided to consult Prof Choi, following every grade release of an assignment, he would single you out, especially after class, to fucking ask if you had questions regarding said assignment, which honestly started to freak you out—mostly because he never gave you the attention before, and you weren’t used to it. The whispering gossip in the class about you being the teacher’s pet slowly reached your ears too, and even Prof Choi heard it—and he only exacerbated that rumours by constantly giving you his attention. 

Every time you reached your dorm, the words that left your mouth which your roommate could recite verbatim, “I swear to god, Prof Choi has it out for me!”

Not to mention you were fucking relieved when the last day of his class rolled around, but unfortunately, his parting words to you were, “I’m sure I’ll see you around, y/n”. You did everything in your power to avoid getting into his class and even bumping into him, which seemed to work swell. 

Until now that is. 

Now here you are again, standing before the familiar heavy wooden door, staring up at the wooden plate, embossed with gold lettering “Department Chair Choi San” staring right at you. You had to physically drag yourself off your bed to prepare for the first day partnered with Prof Choi. And when your roommate’s words of “oh come on, he can’t be that bad. He’s hot!”, echoed through your ears, it all the more made you want to just ditch your first day by clawing your eyeballs out. 

You had to collect yourself before Prof Choi collected you. 

With a raised knuckle, you rap against the door, taking deep inhales in the process. His voice, which sounded deceivingly like honey, remained the same as you remembered. 

“Come in.”

You pause for a moment, embracing yourself before holding onto to doorknob and pushing his door open. 

There he was, Professor Choi, his eyes focused on the scripts on his desk, which had piled up. His space remained the same as you remembered, for the most part—shelves littered with awards and files, the same desktop taking up one-quarter of his huge ass desk, and the couch with the coffee table left to the side of the room. Prof Choi wore a stern look of concentration on his face, still preoccupied with finishing up marking his scripts. 

When his pen pauses and his gaze shifts towards the door, a small smile spreads across his face. He lifts his head and drops his pen, interlocking his fingers on his desk with growing amusement when his eyes meet yours. 

Fuck, he’s still so handsome.

“Professor Choi”, you greet, holding your expression neutral as you bow, forcing yourself not to fidget with your tote bag. 

“Y/n!” Prof Choi greets almost too enthusiastically. “I would assume you would be more than delighted when I picked you to be my teaching assistant.”

“Honoured, almost”, you reply. It’s taking all of your energy not to break his gaze. He’s staring at you with unreadable eyes, and you’re wondering if the fluttering in your chest is from the anxiety or the way Prof Choi is staring at you.

Prof Choi laughs, and it tickles your ears a little too good. 

“Sit. We have a lot to go through today”, he gestures to the seat before him, and you take it.

He switches on his monitor to his course syllabus and turns the monitor slightly towards you. 

“Oh, before we begin, it’s a pleasure meeting you again, y/n.”

Oh boy, was being Prof Choi’s teaching assistant a fucking handful. You knew it was gonna be rough, but to be assisting Professor Choi San? He was on another level—his schedule would be filled to the brim with meetings with the faculty on top of conducting classes weekly. You struggled in your first month, learning the ropes, especially from a busy and challenging professor like him. He wasn’t mean or cold at all, on the contrary, more direct and meticulous. Well, he had to be, considering his position. Nonetheless, it felt like he was always too busy to attend to your questions sometimes, and that would leave you to your own devices. 

You stand in the aisle, looking down at the assortment of foods lined up in the chiller. Has Prof eaten yet? Does he even eat? What does he even eat? By instinct, you pull out your phone and open his chat. 

[you]: Hi Prof. Have you eaten? I’m at the convenience store near the campus. I could grab something quick for you. 

A couple of minutes go by, but your phone doesn’t receive a ping, and you had to reach the office soon. So you pick up another tuna rice ball for the professor alongside yours before making a beeline for the cashier. 

Prof Choi hears the knock on his door and as usual, he utters his usual “come in”. His gaze lands on you, and he glances at the clock. 

“You’re on time today”, he points out. 

You furrow your eyebrows, confused. “I’m always on time, Professor.”

“You’re usually in a little earlier.”

“Right, because I got you this”, you reply, rustling through the plastic bag in your hands, fishing out the rice ball.

He looks up at you, confusion hinted in his expression. He doesn’t take the food yet. 

“What’s this?” 

“Tuna rice ball. Surely only having coffee in the morning is not filling your stomach.” 

You put the food in front of him. “Besides, I messaged you but you didn’t reply. So I just chose something safe. Unless you’re telling me you’re allergic to tuna or something.”

Prof Choi blinks. His hands reach out to take the snack from the desk, unwrapping the plastic packaging as he watches you leave his office to grab a mug of coffee. He glances over at his phone, and sure enough, your name is there with your message.

Since then, his reply would pop up in mere minutes whenever you asked him if he wanted anything to eat. 

Of course, the more you spent time with him, the more you grew comfortable, and all the thoughts you ever stressed about slowly faded off. Prof Choi grew more relaxed around you, internally grateful that you’re able to tank a significant fraction of his workload for him. Undoubtedly, you also come to realise that Prof Choi is human after all—he obviously would make mistakes, even as someone of his caliber, and deep inside, you found it rather cute, well, until you had to stop yourself from developing deranged thoughts. 

Not to mention, another problem seemed to pop up—his flirty banter. He likely picked up that it made you flustered sometimes, and since then, he wouldn’t let it go, relishing at the way pink creeps up your cheeks when he would say something that wasn’t like his ‘professor-self’, and at worst, feeding into your crooked thoughts. 

You stare at him as he types away, particularly, the metal band around his ring finger. You wonder who was the lucky lady who had the chance to be with him. You blink. 

What the hell were you thinking?

“It’s rude to stare, you know”, Prof Choi’s voice snapping you out of your daydreams. 

“I’m just wondering about your ring, that’s all”, you reply, forcing your attention back to your half-marked assignments.

“I’m not actually married”, he suddenly confesses, and for some reason, it makes your heart beat slightly faster. 

“Huh?” Is all you manage to reply. 

Prof Choi chuckles. He pauses his work on the desktop, turning his attention to you. Even though you have worked so closely with him for a while already, you can never seem to find your composure around him. 

Even though you see his face every week, you can’t seem to wrap your head around how insanely good-looking he is, how sometimes you struggle to maintain eye contact with him, because it doesn’t take long before you feel yourself slowly flushing. 

“I wear it on my ring finger so the students stop asking about my marital status”, Prof Choi clarifies. You watch him pull the ring from his ring finger and fit it over his index. 

“So you’re single”, you echo.

He nods, “I’m single.” 

What is this strange feeling of relief?

“What about you?” He suddenly asks. You’re not looking directly at him, and you don’t realise the way he’s looking at you attentively. And if you do, you just might combust.

“I’m…single too”, you answer, trying to meet his gaze, fidgeting with the red pen in between your fingers. 

“And why’s that? Too busy fighting with your professors for grades?”

You glare at him. 

“I think it was my professor picking fights with me”, you reply quickly, jabbing right back at him. 

You watch Prof Choi lower his gaze, a smile spreading across his cheeks—an actual smile—his dimples showing up. Oh fuck. Just when you thought you could depend on your ribcage to contain your heart properly, you found out Prof Choi could actually smile. 

When he looks up at you again, you break the eye contact, your gaze flying back to the papers before you. 

“You know, I’ve met many students, but you were the first to cuss out at me.”

You did? “I did?”

Your professor nods, cocking his eyebrow at the way you had seemed to have simply forgotten something as eventful as that. 

This time, Professor Choi bursts into a chuckle, completely amused by your reaction. 

“Is that why you kept-“

“Giving you chances to answer in class for credit? You should really thank me for that. Your grade for my class was one of the highest you know.”

You feel your cheeks flush. But before you can retaliate, Prof Choi cuts you off.

“Jokes aside, no. I think the discussion we had that afternoon had an impression on me. The cherry on top was you cussing at me. I liked that. Refreshing and endearing”, Prof Choi continues, his attention seeping back to the pile of scripts before him. 

“I think this side of Professor is pretty refreshing and endearing too”, you let it slip.

His pen pauses in mid-air. You don’t catch his gaze completely softening on you. 

As the semester continues on, you began easing into the class schedules. You watch prof get swarmed by a group of students, a usual ritual that happens right when the class ends. At this point, you had grown used to it. Sometimes the students would come and approach you instead, which honestly surprised you, but your heart would feel warm, knowing that these students trusted you.

It was then you became acquainted with another teaching assistant under Prof Choi, who joined shortly after you did—Choi Jongho. Initially, he came off as a rather shy individual, but the both of you warmed up quickly with each other, sharing the workload and bonding over gossip with each other. Gosh, was he fucking amazing with gossip, especially when it came to Professor Choi. Soon enough, the both of you were texting almost on a regular basis, the conversations weighing more towards academic topics sprinkled with a little gossip. 

“You’re going off with Choi Jongho?”

“Yeah”, you reply, bunching the papers in your hands. “I’ve got some things to discuss with him about.” Partially true. 

For some reason, even though your professor has been completely swamped with papers to grade and meetings to attend, you would always find him loitering around your desk from time to time. He seems to especially enjoy doing that when you’re around. 

“You’ve been spending an awfully lot amount of time with him”, Prof Choi points out, looking over your shoulder as he watches you scribble on another student’s paper. 

“Yeah, we get along well actually. Isn’t that a good thing, Prof? Both your teaching assistants are besties.”

For some reason, that makes Prof Choi frown, but you’re too absorbed in your work to notice it.

A couple of minutes go by, and you still feel his presence, not that you mind, but you’re starting to find it peculiar that he’s been hanging around your desk a lot recently.

“Do you have something to discuss with me, prof?” You ask, eyes still glued to the paper.

“Yes”, he replies, taking another sip from his mug. “What do you think of Choi Jongho?”

Such a random question to ask, you think. Maybe he’s just making sure you and Jongho get along well?

You pause, giving yourself to think, tapping the back of the red pen against your bottom lip, taken aback by Prof Choi’s sudden question, but the conversations you and Jongho had resurfacing into your brain, and a giggle escapes you, which makes Professor Choi subconsciously narrow his eyes and furrow his brows. 

“He’s fun to be around, and despite how he looks, he’s actually got a wicked sense of humor. Oh god, wait. Let me tell you what you he did that day while we were having lunch together-“

You turn your head to continue to run your mouth, only to slowly trail off when realise his face is just inches from yours, and you swear your heart is on a treadmill from the lack of distance between you and Prof Choi. It’s as if time paused, the both of you sinking right into each other’s gazes. You can’t help but notice how intense his gaze is, and you can’t seem to decipher his thoughts, but from the way this situation played out, you swore he’d just lean in and kiss you. 

Your heartbeat accelerates at the thought—why would he do that?

And when his fingers are on your chin, your rational thoughts are getting flushed out. 

“That’s an awful lot of cute things about Choi Jongho. I’ve never heard you talk about another Choi like that.”

You swallow hard, your body still frozen in spot. 

“What do you think about him then?” 

“Jongho? I was just-“

“No. Choi San.”

Oh god. You could only stare back at him. Prof Choi tilts his head, his eyebrows raised, waiting for his answer. His cologne floats and almost shuts down your senses—has he always smelled this good? 

The corner of his lips curl slightly at the way you’re staring at him like a deer in the headlights. 

“I t-think Prof-“

“San. Choi San”, he corrects you. 

Another hard swallow the more you try to focus your gaze on him. 

“I think Choi San’s a great professor. He’s really competent, a lot softer than he presents himself as-“

Fuck you can’t think. Not when he’s staring down your eyes to your lips like that. 

“Mmhm.”

“And he’s really so-“

Then a loud knock echoes across the room, breaking the tension. Prof Choi’s body doesn’t shift, but he looks up at the door, shouting “door’s unlocked”, before he stands back upright, adjusting his glasses and walking back to his desk. 

Jongho’s head peeks in, then he bows at Prof Choi before he walks to your desk. You stare up at him with a forced smile. 

“Ready to go? I was waiting for your message”, Jongho says, his eyes glancing over the professor, then you, a strange feeling that he probably interrupted something. 

You nod, while shoving your belongings into your bag, then slinging it on your shoulder. 

Barely being able to look at Professor Choi, you still force yourself to, bowing goodbye to him. 

“Thank you Prof Choi. See you tomorrow.”

He looks up from his desk, right into your eyes. 

“See you too, y/n.” 

You can’t help but wonder how far things would have gone if Jongho didn’t knock the door.

Jongho isn’t an idiot. Initially, he assumes that you and the professor were on much friendlier terms considering that you came in before he did. Granted, the workload he would give the both of you was the same, he would take the initiative to have lunch with the both of you both individually and together whenever he had pockets of free time, but what roused his awareness was the lingering glances Professor Choi would cast at you from time to time, the way he seemed to relish the reactions you would give him whenever he teased you. 

He notices the way your ears would grow red even when you roll your eyes at the professor and jab him with another playful snarky remark. 

Though he wonders how dangerous things could get, Jongho thinks this could get interesting. 

The semester continues smoothly, the only change being that Jongho being absent from the office more often due to his other commitment to soccer. You remember him telling you he had quite a big match coming up, the sparkle in his eyes bright and twinkling whenever he talks about said sport. 

If he wasn’t in classes, he’d be off for training, hopping into the office from time to time to pass Professor Choi marked scripts and reports. Prof Choi pretty much didn’t mind—he stated as long as Jongho did his job, he could be free to do what he wanted outside of being a teaching assistant.

Needless to say, the office was mostly Prof Choi and you, now even more time spent with him with Jongho mostly being absent. By then, the both of you had grown so accustomed to being in each other’s presence that banters amongst each other became the norm—the both of you competing with each other with unserious remarks, laced with almost flirtatiousness, just to see who would back down first. 

Then came the proximity—since Prof Choi would wander over your desk as if he had all the free time in the world, he would somehow strike up another conversation with you, leaning over to hear you better, his arm bumping into yours to look over at the papers you were grading to check if you were doing them correctly. But what he absolutely adores the most is when you’d roll over to his desk to pester him with your questions—sometimes even testing him on his own content. 

He likes the way he gets to be closer to you. He likes the way your shoulders touch his when you lean in to push the paper towards him so he can see the script better. 

He likes the way you would finally look up and meet his eyes when you’re done formulating your question, waiting to hear his opinion.

Today is no different—Professor Choi being so used to the notion that he would only be seeing you in the office, the corner of his lips pull upwards at the thought of the types of banter you would have with him, the kinds of shenanigans you would bring into the office.

He hears your knock at the time you would always arrive, watching the way the door opens, and your head popping from the door, as you greet, “Hi Prof!” 

“Good morning, y/n”, he would greet back, sipping on his morning coffee. 

You walk over to his desk, dropping his tuna rice ball. “Here you go. Enjoy your breakfast, Prof!”

“You can stop calling me Prof”, Prof Choi suddenly says, twirling the pen in his hand. For a second, you wonder what triggered the sudden change. You’ve been calling him Prof since day one, pretty much used to it already, the only time you didn’t was when he—never mind. The thought of it is making your face flush again. 

“Is there something else you want me to call you?” You ask, trying to calm your heartbeat down when that memory suddenly resurfaces. 

“You can call me San. I’m fine with that. I know you’re still my teaching assistant but we’ve been working closely. I think it’s fine to drop the Prof honorific.”

You try out. 

“Sure thing San”, you reply. “Though it’s gonna take a while for me to get used to this.”

“If you’re able to cuss in front of me, calling me by my name should be the least of your worries, y/n”, San teases.

You raise your hand, feigning a stance ready to smack him before you lower your arm, listening to the way San laughs before rolling your eyes and sinking into your desk. 

The day marches on as normal—attending a class or two with Jongho before he’s whisked away to his soccer practice, leaving just the two of you for the rest of the day. 

San is leaning at your desk again, looking at you typing out your report. He squints slightly before he leans down to your shoulder, his finger pointed at one of the paragraphs, asking you about the content. You answer him, and when you turn your head once you’re done, you find yourself looking at San’s side profile mere inches away—his sun-kissed skin, his pretty lashes, his thick, well-trimmed eyebrows, and the way his lips protrude out a little—he always looked like he’s pouting in the most adorable way. 

That’s when you realise a problem seemed to be bubbling up to the surface, try as you might to ignore it, repress it—that you’re falling for your professor. Fast. 

You snap back to reality, finally aware of how loud your heart is beating against your rib cage, and your hand flies up in instinct as a divider between you and San. San blinks at the sudden movement, confused. 

“Y/n, what are you doing?” He’s not moving. 

“I think I’ve got something on my face.”

San cocks an eyebrow. “You do? Let me check-“ 

His palm covers yours, bringing it down to the table, and you’re kicking yourself for sprouting such a self-sabotaging lie.

Why? Because now San has his hand on yours on top of his face in full view of yours, his eyes meeting yours before his gaze flutters around your face, checking for whatever hell you said was on your face. 

His gaze meets yours and for a split second, something else glints in his eyes. 

The door swings open, and San straightens himself up, slightly irritated at the interruption, leaving you to spin your chair away from San, your hands cupping your cheeks, the heat warming you up against the cold air conditioner. The heat from his hand on yours lingers for a little longer. 

Jongho walks in, his duffel slinging on his shoulder with his shoe bag clipped. 

“Hey, Prof. Hey cutie.” 

San blinks. What did he just call you?

“Hey jjongie. Aren’t you supposed to be at practice?” You ask, forcing yourself to focus on your colleague instead. 

“Supposedly, yeah, but there was a sudden downpour midway so training got cancelled. Might as well get some work done here”, he shrugs, dropping his bag onto the floor. 

San is wrapping his head around the fact that you and Jongho seem to have pet names for each other. 

“Didn’t miss me too much right?” Jongho teases. “‘Cause I did!”

“That’s a first coming from you jjongie”, you reply, surprising a smile. 

“Of course! It’s been a while, how could I not? We should go eat dinner together sometime.”

San only stares on in silence, pretending to sink back into his grading.

Jongho walks over to your desk, taking his turn to look at your report. San watches the way Jongho’s arm is comfortable over your seat, as he asks you about your report, talking to you as if San wasn’t just behind you seconds before. 

The fact you’re entertaining him—hitting his arm playfully and laughing at his remarks—all the more rouses some kind of irritation in San. It’s like a boiling pot. 

He pretends he doesn’t see the way Jongho leans in to whisper something into your ear although it’s bugging him so fucking much. For once, he wishes Jongho’s training didn’t cancel. 

“Oh right before I forget”, Jongho mutters, rushing back to his desk, digging through his bag. He walks back over with a paper in hand and places it before you. You glance down and your face brightens up—it’s a ticket to his game. 

“For real?” You exclaim, your eyes bright, taking the ticket in your hands. “I’ll definitely make time for you.”

“I’ll score goals for you, kay?” Jongho teases, his eyes glancing at San, who is progressively looking more irritated. 

“Ah, Is San not going?” 

“San? Since when were you on first name basis with him?” Jongho wonders aloud, the suspicion only brewing even more. 

“Jongho, don’t you have reports to hand in?” San asks curtly. 

You feel like you are caught in between crossfire for some reason. 

Jongho smiles, then has your head under his arm, which elicits another irritated reaction from your professor. 

You have never had Jongho done this before. In fact, you recall him offhandedly mentioning that he’s never a physical touch person, and that anything with physical touch makes him shudder. 

“Relax, Prof. You’d rather your subordinates get along than not right?”

Just when San is about to reply, Jongho suddenly exclaims. 

“AH, coach is calling me back to the field. Prof, I’ll send you the report by tomorrow okay? See you guys!”, Jongho hums as he runs back to his desktop to turn it off. 

“Has he always been like that?” San wonders aloud, his eyebrows furrowed. 

“I guess. It’s actually what makes him cute.”

“Cute? You think Jongho is…cute?” 

“Is he not? Doesn’t he remind you of a bear? Big and cuddly.”

San clears his throat, and you watch him walk over to your desk, his hand resting on the tabletop. He leans in. 

“So… you find it cute when he gives you pet names?”

“Well, I mean-“

“You find it cute when he plays with your hair?” San curls your locks around his fingers. 

You can’t seem to get words to leave your throat. 

“You find it cute when he has his hands all over you like that?” He’s leaning in even closer this time, arms trapping you at either side.

“Prof-“

“No. It’s sir.”

Your mind is in a whirlwind at the way he’s towering over you, his scent the only thing filling your olfactory senses, the way he’s staring right into you, gaze sharp as a blade. 

“You find it cute when his touches run up your body like this?” His fingers are trailing up your arms, every touch he burns into your skin, and when his thumb pauses at your chin, you realise you’re royally fucked.

Once more, his face is mere inches away from yours. You wonder if you’ll be teased like two previous times before. 

“Of course you don’t. You’d rather I do that to you, right?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

“Yes, sir.”

His voice is barely a whisper, his eyes downcast, staring at your lips like it’s his reward to claim. 

“Good girl.”

Of course, he claims it.

His kisses are so greedy—his lips prying yours open, and you feel yourself completely give in to him, surrendering whatever resistance, rationale, repression to Choi San. 

You want more—you want seconds. Every swipe his tongue passes your lip, it makes your head float. How does someone taste this fucking good?

He pauses mid-way—barely a couple of seconds, to pull off his glasses and strew them across the desk—then goes back to devouring your lips. 

San would smile in between kisses when he hears your whimpers. He thinks you’re so fucking adorable when you tremble slightly at his touch. It all goes straight to his cock. 

He thinks you’ll be even more adorable when he ruins you. 

When San pulls back, he swipes his thumb across your bottom lip, watching your glazed-out expression with amusement. 

"I'd love to continue messing you up, but I have a meeting to attend. I’ll deal with you later, sweetheart. See you next week.”

His touch lingers on your chin for a couple of seconds longer before he pulls away and shifts to walk back to his desk, leaving your heartbeat wild and erratic, and your thighs squeezed tighter.

Since then, that was all you ever thought about—the slight smile before his lips collided with yours, the way his words rang in your ears. You could barely meet his eyes. 

In more instances than one and with any chance given to him, he’d close up any physical distance he had with you. Worried that your emotions would bubble and overflow when he does that, you developed a habit of avoiding his eye contact. 

Even after classes, you swore he was casting you glances even with lines of students waiting to talk to him. 

“Did you piss Prof off or something?” Jongho asks as he shuts his laptop. 

“Why are you asking?”

He shrugs. “It’s just that he’s been eyeing you down like a hawk recently. Did something happen between the both of you?”

You freeze when the flashbacks of the taste of his lips return to your memory when you remember how hungry he looked just wanting to devour you. 

“Y/n?”

You blink, then force yourself to meet Jongho’s eyes. 

“No. Nothing happened. At least I hope I didn’t make any mistakes.”

“You’re fine. There’s a reason why the department chair chose his teaching assistants.”

You laugh softly at his words.

But when you hear San’s voice from behind you, you almost jump. 

“Y/n, Jongho, the both of you can wrap up here and head back to the office”, he instructs. You feel his warmth radiating from behind, and it only makes your heart jump at the proximity. 

You watch Jongho slowly pack up, small conversations sparking between the both of you about his soccer practice. 

You glance at the door. San isn’t back yet. 

“I think it’ll take him awhile to be back. The students there seem to really like him.” 

No doubt, the female students for this class seemed a lot more assertive, almost always demanding all of San’s time. Well, not that it should matter. It’s not as if he should mean anything-

“Y/n? Are you okay? You seem pretty off recently. Even Prof’s pretty worried”, Jongho’s voice grounding you back to the cold office. 

You force a smile and shake your head. 

“I’m fine. I guess it’s just so much workload to deal with.” 

Jongho places his hand on your shoulder in comfort, “You’re doing fine. You know you can approach either of us if you’re struggling right?”

You feel comforted, even though your messy thoughts weren’t even about the workload, so you return an assured smile before waving Jongho off for his soccer practice. 

You’re wondering what you’re feeling nervous about, because when the door of San’s room opens, you jolt slightly. 

“You’re still here?” You hear San ask. 

“Yeah. Need to reply to some emails and double-check some of their assignments.” Not a total lie. It’s the swirling feelings he’s been giving you whenever that day surfaces in your mind, the small bouts of attention he pays you and the touches he lets linger a little too long that’s all a dopamine rush in you. You can’t help but want more. But in the same breath, meeting his gaze will allude doom for you. 

San nods as he sits back at his desk, going right back to his computer. The silence continues for awhile and you’re surprised that you’re even able to concentrate. 

“Y/n”, you hear San call you. 

Your gaze doesn’t break from your screen. “Hmm?”

“Come here. Help me look at this.”

You walk over, ignoring the way your heart is just pounding so damn loudly. It’s painfully obvious that San is staring right at your face, and it’s also painfully obvious that you’re avoiding looking at him. 

And it definitely seems to be ticking him off. 

Your eyes stay locked to his screen reading off whatever is on the screen, and nothing is processing in your brain. 

“It looks good”, you curtly reply, trying to ignore the fact that you’re being stared down by a certain professor. You turn away, your eyes still not acknowledging San, only for your professor to stop you in your tracks. 

“Now where do you think you’re going?”

He’s making you face him now. 

You’re still not giving him eye contact. 

“Back to my desk?” You say, looking off into the distance. But San seems to have other plans. 

“You know ‘looks good’ isn’t the feedback I’m looking for, right?”

Shit. You know that clear as day. 

Now San has both his arms trapping you on his desk. 

You somehow still manage to avoid his sharp gaze even when you’re backing up against him, easily letting him corner you.

His belongings are strewn all over the desk when he pins you down. By some miracle, only papers flutter down his desk. 

And you’re finally looking right at him. 

“You’re finally looking at me, y/n”, he states the obvious. “Now tell me, did I do something wrong?” 

“No, you didn’t, sir”, you reply curtly. 

He leans in closer. 

“Then why are you avoiding my eye contact?”

You shut your eyes and squeeze them. There’s no pure way out of this—your dirty thoughts are seeping into the smallest crevices of your brain, and the more San is prodding you, the more it makes you throb.

“It’s because that evening when we…” you feel your cheeks burn with every word leaving your lips. 

San is waiting for you to continue. 

“When we kissed…couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

“And?”

“It made me want…more.”

There’s a moment of silence.

“Has anyone told you how adorable you are when you’re honest?” He chuckles. “I’m gonna finish what we started sweetheart, like I promised.”

It makes your heart flutter. 

“Am I getting your consent for this?”, San’s voice rings in your ears. You’re finding it hard to focus, especially when his thumb is pushing past the corner of your lips, and you’re just growing wet as fuck. 

This is not right. This is so dangerous. 

“Yes sir”, you reply back, trying to ignore the way your cunt is just tingling from the feeling of San’s thick erection pressing against you.

“That’s my good girl”, he praises before he dives in for a hungry kiss, his fingers roaming around your body, squeezing your tits before he unbuttons your shirt at an agonising pace. He smiles on your lips when he hears your soft gasp, and he presses his lips down to your jaw and then to your neck, sucking and biting the soft skin against your neck, his erection growing tighter against his trousers when he hears you moan and squirm. 

When he’s satisfied with the light marks he decorated down your neck, his lips are pressed against your ear, and his hands are moving dangerously close to your cunt, and inevitably, your bottoms are off in seconds, leaving you in your pretty panties. 

“I would prefer fucking you on my bed instead for the first time, but taking you on my desk? Maybe not too bad.”

Your cunt squeezes at the sound of San cussing. You never thought he’d sound this fucking hot. 

He groans when his fingers press against the soaked patch of fabric hiding your pussy. All that wetness for him. He bunches up the fabric and rubs it against your clit, the friction drawing frustrated whimpers from you, much to his satisfaction. It feels so good but it’s not enough, and it’s driving you crazy.

San’s fingers finally hook against the waistband of your panties, sliding them off your legs, and pocketing them, much to your shock. 

And he doesn’t give you much time to focus on that because when he pulls his cock out from his unzipped pants, it makes your head spin from how thick Choi San is. 

“Sir, I’m not sure-“

“It’ll fit, sweetheart, like it’s made for me”, is all the warning San gives before he lines up to your hole and pushes his cock in. 

You can’t tell what’s fucking you up more—the way his cock is stretching you open or the San groaning in relief when he finally gets to stuff you full. 

You bat away your tears, his cock so fucking full inside of you, pressing against your walls, being squeezed so perfectly by you. 

God, Choi San thinks he’s in heaven. 

His fingers brush across your cheeks, collecting your teardrops. His eyes lack any ounce of empathy. 

“Aw, are you crying because it feels good? You look so fucking pretty crying when I’m stretching you open.”

You barely find the words to reply to him, all stuck in your throat, your mind only flooded by the way San’s cock is buried in your cunt, your thighs trembling from the pleasure. It’s almost sickening. You know you shouldn’t be doing this—not with your professor, not on his fucking desk, but when he has you wrapped you around his finger and cock fucking the daylights out of you, it’s a temptation you can never resist. 

A soft hiccup escapes past your lips when San pulls out almost all the way, his cock covered in a sheen of slick and precum before he pushes himself in once more, groaning when you clench around him for the nth time. 

“You feel so fucking good, sweetheart. God, I could just fuck you all day. You’d like that right?”

You’re barely keeping track, eyes rolled to the back of your head while your thighs twitch from the pleasure, but you manage to hold the eye contact, and through blurry tears, you mutter a weak, “Yes sir”. 

“Of course you do”, San hums before he pulls out once more and starts fucking you dumb on his desk. 

No matter how much you try to cover your mouth, bite your tongue or your lip, your moans only come out louder in defiance, the dopamine shooting up your pussy over and over again whenever San’s cock hits your pretty spots. 

Your mind is addicted to the way San’s shirt is buttoned down his chest, his cleavage almost fully out for you to gawk at, the way strands of his hair cling to his forehead because of the sweat, the way his eyes roll back when he feels you squeeze him with every loud fuck, and the way he looks down to you from time to time before he eats up your pathetic moans with hungry kisses. 

He fucked you up so good, you didn’t even realise it until now. 

“S-San”, you manage out a whimper, “please…”

“Please what, sweetheart?”

You don’t even know what you’re begging for. 

“Please… you feel so fucking good. I’m gonna cum. It’s so fucking good”, you babble, trying to force your eyes open. 

San can’t help but smirk when his ego is being stroked so nicely like that, especially by you. He’s a good person, of course, he’ll give what his good girl wants. 

His thumb slides south on your body until you feel the ticklish sensation of him on your clit. Cream and precum pooling at the base of his cock makes it even worse for you—with every graze, his finger pressed onto your clit, the knot tightened in your stomach. 

Your nonsensical strings of words only push San to tease you more as he endearingly watches you break slowly when your orgasm builds up. 

Your body twitches, your back arches, your eyes roll back, white splashes beneath your eyelids. Your orgasm burning through you while you cry out San’s name and you twitch pathetically on his cock, letting your cream leak all over his wet cock. 

“Fuck. You’re such a good fucking girl for me, aren’t you?”, you hear San curse. He fucks you through your orgasm, the overstimulation building up. The sensitivity feels so fucking good. 

His hand catches your jaw, and he forces you to meet his eyes. 

“Wanna pump you full of my cum, keep you so fuckin’ full for days on end,” he huffs, “but not now, sweetheart.”

Not that you minded, but there’s a strange tinge of disappointment ringing at the back of your head. 

San thrusts into you a couple more times before he pulls out, his thick and wet cock resting on your pelvis, twitching as his hand takes over. 

Nothing can beat Choi San’s fucking face when he cums. He looks like he’s in fucking heaven, and he’s tearing up the sky because of you. His fingers leave light marks on your thighs, you hear him groan at such a low tone that your cunt flutters uselessly against the air. Translucent spurts land on your skin, but it barely registers in you—you’re too busy swooning over the way your Professor just cummed over your body. 

San’s high dies down, and he catches his breath, casting you a glance, red dusting his cheeks, before he reaches out for the tissue box to clean you up. 

A quick kiss on the lips before he goes on to collect all the papers all over the floor.

That night he drives you home, filling the space with light conversations as if he didn’t just railed you on his desk. 

It’s only when you reach home that you realise one important thing—San still has your panties. 

You know you shouldn’t be telling secrets to your colleague, especially when it’s about your fucking boss. But here you are, facing Jongho, who has his arms crossed in front of you. 

“What’s up with you and Prof?” You predict the words that leave his lips. 

You hesitate to tell him, unsure how you should even say it, where to even start. 

The worst part you knew clear as day was that nothing changed since that day. You chalked it off as San being swamped with assignments to deal with, that’s why the topic was never brought up again, but something still irked you. The only comfort you had was that the semester was ending, and so was your term as San’s teaching assistant. 

Maybe it was how it was meant to be. Just nothing more than that.

But when you realise the dreaded feeling prickling at the back of your eyes, you knew you were fucked. 

“I don’t know how to even start jjong”, you sigh. Jongho scrunches his eyebrows. 

You watch his expression switch from one to the other. You expected him to freak out at you, yell at you for unprofessionalism or something, but he doesn’t. 

“It’s so fucked up. But I just can’t help but wonder if he feels anything”, you mutter. The thought of you not being the only one he’s doing this with makes your stomach churn. But somehow, in the most twisted ways, confiding Jongho made you feel slightly better. 

“Well, looks like we’ll have to play that card I guess”, Jongho shrugs. “But you should mentally prepare yourself for the results, that’s all I gotta warn you. I just need your consent to play along.”

It’s a risky bet you’re playing, but drastic times called for drastic measures, right?

As the semester closes to its end, so does the workload. San feels a lot lighter on his shoulders, and while he’s grateful for his teaching assistants for lifting a significant amount of workload off him, the end of a semester meant the end of the working relationship between him and his teaching assistants. He usually doesn’t feel that much, considering he has had many teaching assistants in the past, but for some reason, he feels a sense of discomfort lodged in his stomach when he thinks about having to let them go.

Especially one of them. 

He sighs, removing his glasses from his nose and shutting his eyes while reviewing the exams. San feels like a fucking idiot when his eyes land on your empty desk, his frustration bubbling when you cross his mind again. 

Even though he pretends to keep himself busy by flooding his mind with work, somehow, you would bubble to the surface once more, pushing him into the pits of frustration when he’s reminded of the way you get a kick arguing and refuting him just to get a reaction out of him, the way you taste like sweetest thing on earth he’s ever tried and the way you completely unravel when San fucks every single thought out of you—

He bites his cheek. 

No. He has to keep it professional. At least, until the term is over. 

He just doesn’t know how to tell you. 

He knows he’s entered deep waters when he crossed the line that evening, the sight of you undone right before him snapping all his rationale. More than anything, he’s suffering the withdrawals, maybe that’s the punishment he has to bear. 

He glances at the colourful ticket at the corner of his desk. It’s Jongho’s big game. Even though he usually doesn’t let himself intertwine with his subordinate’s personal interests, it’s hard not to. 

In addition, you’ll be there. Maybe he’d snag you after the game and talk to you properly. 

The meeting ran overtime, San glances down at his silver watch, realising he’d missed almost thirty minutes of Jongho’s game. Despite the exhaustion, he pushes it aside and heads to the stadium. 

He watches the brightly lit scoreboard as he takes a seat on the bench, Jongho’s team is in the lead by one point. 

Somehow he gets wrapped up in the game, cheering when Jongho’s team takes championship as the benches all burst into loud cheers too. 

He gets up to leave, already thinking of drafting a text to congratulate Jongho in his head, maybe get him a small congratulatory gift on the side. 

Then he spots you, just rows below. Now, he’s walking down as if on instinct, to get to where you are.

San pushes past the crowd to approach you. He’ll offer to drive you back—he knows it’s all an excuse but anything to get you into his space once more. 

His arm outstretched, reaching out to tap your shoulder, then suddenly stopping when he sees Jongho appear right in front of you. That’s fine. San could just congratulate him at the same time—

Which all of those thoughts immediately disintegrate when he watches Jongho cup your cheeks with his hand, his eyes widening in complete silent horror as Jongho leans into you for a kiss. 

You seriously doubt that Jongho’s plan would work. Didn’t San decide not to come anyway? You heard it with your own ears too. 

Nonetheless, you pushed it to the back of your mind, focusing on cheering for your friend, watching the leading scorer jump from one team to the next. You couldn’t help but erupt into cheers when Jongho’s team won, screams echoing through the open stadium. 

You watch Jongho walk up to the benches where you are, and his arms wrap around you, his smile big and bright, competing with the stadium lights. 

“Congratulations, baby bear”, you tease, pushing against his shoulders lightly. Jongho inches close to you. 

“He’s behind you by the way”, Jongho mutters, loud enough for you to hear, but not long enough for you to process, because his hands are cupping your jaw, his thumb pressed against your lips. 

He hears you muffle some kind of question but your lips stay sealed. 

“You owe me one for this,” is the last thing you hear before he leans in. Your eyes widen in shock, and you freeze in your spot, even though his lips don’t meet yours, evidently separated by Jongho’s thumb, his action had caught you off guard.

You barely have the capacity to process what had just happened, and you feel someone’s warmth tightening against your wrist. 

Jongho lets go of you immediately, but you’re staring right at your professor, who is staring right at Jongho with an unreadable expression, with his fingers curled tightly against your wrist. It feels like an eternity since you saw him. He’s not wearing glasses today and his hair is down instead of his usual slicked-back look, donned with a simple dress shirt and tie which framed his wide shoulders so perfectly.

“Congratulations on your win, Choi Jongho. I believe you should be with your team to celebrate right?”

Jongho only smirks back. “Right. See you babe. Thank you, Prof. See you next week.”

Jongho casts you a glance, the mischief twinkling in his eyes before he turns his heel down the stairs and back to the field. 

What the fuck just happened?

And you find yourself staring up at the male before you, his gaze piercing into yours. 

“Prof—San?” You blink. “I thought you weren’t-“

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, sweetheart. Why would I not want to see the cute relationship my teaching assistants have right?” His voice is laced with venom. 

San doesn’t really elaborate further, leading you to his car, sealing your fate once more when the passenger doors close shut. 

He’s all over you. His body is burning up, maybe just as fast as yours is, and it’s making you feel dizzy. His moves are aggressive, impatient and you swear you feel something else too—desperation. 

“S-San—“ you gasp, in an attempt to take control of something.

“It’s sir to you, sweetheart”, his voice low and gentle, but commanding. Goosebumps scatter across your skin, making you shiver in response when his palms slide up your waist. 

You never saw it coming—from the second his hand grabbed yours, pulling you away from Jongho, his eyes locked into yours for a moment before he turns to Jongho, then to the car ride back, where you noticed the way his knuckles turned pale from gripping the steering wheel. On the walk to his car, you asked him where you were going, and all he did was turn to you and reply, “We’ve got things to talk about, don’t we, sweetheart?”

Now you’re becoming undone once more under San’s touches, trapped beneath him like the first time, now at his place, on his fucking couch instead. 

“It was just foolish of me to just let it be, wasn’t it?” He asks. “Fucking you dumb on my desk wasn’t a good enough indicator, was it?”

“S-sir…!”

“And you think it’s cute getting all cuddly with Jongho? Letting him kiss you all over, touch you all over?” San mutters, his fingers wrapped around your throat, his grip tightening slightly and you’re sure he’s about to leave light imprints. 

But oh, was it so fucking exhilarating—the thought of Choi San riled up like that, a sight you’ve never seen before, and you’re not sure if fear or excitement running through your veins right now, but what you do know, is that if he finds out that your panties are completely soaked through, you’re fucking done for. 

His lips collide with yours again, branding himself as some kind of oxygen thief when he’s turning your mind into complete mush. 

“I’m not sure if it’s a little game to you sweetheart, but if it is, I think you need a reminder.”

You breathlessly look up at him, and he looks ethereal even when he’s panting and looking pissed as hell. 

“What reminder, sir?” You dare ask back. 

The side of San’s lips tugs upwards. His hand leaves your throat and trails down your blouse, effortlessly unbuttoning the apparel until he tugs it off you, panting at the sight of your tits hugged by your lace bra. Your bottoms are off again on the floor of his bedroom, alongside any ounce of rationale. Your soaked panties are agonisingly pulled off your legs, and before you know it, his hands spread them open too. It takes all of San’s self-control to not stuff you full. At least, not yet.

“It’s my cock you’re gonna cum all over. Even when you have another guy’s lips on yours, it’s my name you’re gonna fucking scream.”

Oh. Oh god. 

The pieces of what Jongho was trying to do suddenly come together, unfortunately, the realisation doesn’t last long because San has his lips greedily on yours again on top of the way his full-blown erection is pressing onto your pussy. 

“Sir”, you manage out a weak mutter when he finally pulls away, trying to press and grind against his clothed dick for some friction or anything to rid the burn that’s going through your body. But San remains still. 

“Use your words since you love using your mouth so much.” Like kissing Choi Jongho. 

Your mind is a complete puddle. 

“I really…fuck. I really need you to fuck me right now, sir”, you beg, red flushing your cheeks, but it’s not from the shame. There’s a feral glint in San’s eyes that you don’t miss. 

“No”, is all he answers, and you feel your heart drop to your stomach. 

“Not until I’ve fucked your mouth full, sweetheart.” 

All you can do is watch him speechlessly as he hooks his index finger on the knot of his tie and loosens it, unraveling it back to its original form. 

“Hands together”, he commands you, and you do so immediately, basking in the scent of his cologne while he leans into you, his hands tying knots around your wrists with his tie. “Don’t let it loosen, got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good girl. Now on your knees.” 

You’ve never dropped to your knees so fast.

San forces you to watch him unbutton and lower the fly of his trousers, and you’re just doing your best not to get drool on his expensive carpet. 

When his cock springs out, you’re also forced to watch him fuck his palm at a slow pace, drinking in his groans, slick staining your inner thighs, and the fucking floor next if you don’t do anything. 

His cock is heavy against your cheek when he taps it there, and your tongue slips out of your mouth by instinct, given experimental kitten licks on his slit, before his fingers catch your chin, and he forces you to look up at him. 

“Look at me”, he instructs. 

You do. You do your best not to break the eye contact, trying not to be sidetracked by his big fucking cock, but your eyes can’t help but dart to his appendage. 

“No, keep your eyes on me”, he redirects once more, his fingers fixing your head in place. 

Then he slides his cock into your mouth and pulls out a choked moan from you. 

“That’s it. Good girl”, he grunts when you start bobbing your head, fucking his cock with your mouth. 

His fingers trail to the back of your head, but he’s using all of his strength not to force your head down. 

But as you pick up the momentum, it’s an automatic reaction to push your head down so his cock hits the back of your throat. Your eyes are watering but fuck you feel like you’re in fucking heaven. Your head spins whenever his wet cock is forced down your tight throat, and you break eye contact a few times, which San has to tap your jaw to make you keep eye contact while he fucks your face. 

“I’m cumming, sweetheart. Fuck. Keep that pretty little mouth open for me yeah?” He groans, bucking his hips, letting streaks of warm white paint your throat and mouth, watching the way you’re looking up at him with doe eyes, taking his cum in your mouth like a good girl. His good girl. 

He smudges his thumb against the corner of your lips before his arms carry you up, only to dump you on the couch.

Your back is on the couch again, hands still tied behind your back and legs up with San pressing his body weight on you.

He props your leg on his shoulder, and he stretches you open inch by inch. You gasp when he fills you up, your walls immediately clenching around him. 

“So fuckin tight for me, sweetheart. You take me so well.”

His thrusts are growing more aggressive mixed in with the possession that’s bleeding in and it’s setting your whole body on fire. Your words are caught in your throat when he’s buried into you to the hilt. He groans at the way your pussy is fluttering pathetically against him. 

It feels so fucking good that nothing but stars engulf your vision when his cock stuffs you full to the hilt again. His name leaves your lips like a mantra on top of broken moans and whimpers, and it only makes San fill up the space in your pussy all the more better. 

His shoulders are so wide that he’s towering over you, his fingers forcing you to face him whenever you’re drifting because of the pleasure, his eyes feral when you look so fucked out for him. And when he combines his heavy thrusts with a squeeze around your throat, it makes your mind shut off and your cunt cream all over his dick.

“Good girl, looking all so fucked out for me.”

 His cock is hitting all the perfect spots, and it’s driving you insane with the knot tightening in your stomach at such a fast pace. You think you’re sliding off the couch but San isn’t letting you—especially not when his thrusts are keeping you on the couch. His name continues to leave your lips in broken moans every time he fucks you. 

San snakes his fingers to your scalp and he tugs sharply, enough to force you to look up at him. You’re tearing up again, and it feels so fucking good with the way he’s keeping your hair tugged while he fucks the ever-loving shit out of you.

“My name does sound much better when you’re crying it doesn’t it, sweetheart?”

You choke back a moan when he hits your g-spot once more.

“Y-yes sir.” 

“How are you feeling?”

“Full. So full sir. Want more. Please. Need you to ruin me”, you beg once more, your mind floating in an endless euphoria.

“Oh, I definitely will”, San hums, watching in sheer pleasure as your eyes roll back when his cockhead presses perfectly against your g-spot over and over.

Before you realise it, your orgasm hits you like fucking train, spreading through your body like a fucking wildfire, engulfing every crevice of your body. 

He’s gonna break you, and you’re fucking loving it. 

“San-“, you cry out, not registering the way he’s wiping the tears off your eyes. “So good. You feel so good. Cumming so much-“ 

“I know, sweetheart. It feels so fucking good doesn’t it?” He asks with a smile, satisfied when you nod frantically while he rubs your thighs.

Your thighs are shaking from how good this all feels, cream staining your inner thighs and his cock when he pulls out. 

“I’m not done with you yet, sweetheart”, San reminds you. 

He turns you over, keeping one hand on your tied hands, while the other pressing your head against the back of the couch. He lines his cock back to your cunt, pushing into your hole once more. You choke on your moans again, tears gathering at the corner of your eyes until he’s fully seated in you once more. 

The sounds are even wetter now, especially when you’re overstimulated, pussy just being so perfectly abused by Choi San. You fucking love the way his hands are around your neck, forcing you against the cushions when he fucks you dumb from the back. 

Your stomach is in knots once more, the feeling building up faster than the previous time, and all you can mutter is that it feels so good. San thinks you’re so fucking adorable when you’re not having banters with him and being this cock drunk for him. 

Then he pulls you off the couch, letting you catch a breath before he sits you on his lap, his cock still buried in your cunt, and starts bouncing you off his cock from below.

He alternates between melting your brain with his pornographic moans right at your ear and planting more love bites down your jaw. 

“Gonna cum again. You feel so fucking good in me. Oh god”, you hiccup through your tears, the sensitivity pushing your limit. 

“Cum as hard as you want, sweetheart. I’ll let you milk me dry, fill you up so fucking good that you’ll be leaking with my cum for the next two days.” 

That was enough to set you off. Your pussy convulses when your second orgasm hits, fireworks bursting in your eyelids, long drawn-out cries while San fills your tight cunt with his warm and thick cum, while his groans fill up in your ears. You feel his fingers massaging your thighs, coaxing you from your high. 

You’re dizzy, and light-headed as your head slumps against his shoulders, too spent to acknowledge the male behind you leaving more marks down your neck. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up, sweetheart,” San breaks the momentary silence, well aware that his softening cock is still in you. 

Your hand flies up to his chest to stop him, even though you’re still recovering from seeing stars. 

“We need to talk-“

“After we clean up”, he cuts you off, lifting you off his cock and carrying you bridal style to his bathroom. 

But you’re stubborn. 

“N-no. It wasn’t what you thought it was”, you say, feeling your tears well up in your eyes on top of the weight. 

The prickles are starting to form at the bottom of San’s heart, but he’s more focused on trying to hose you down with warm water. But he’s listening you run your mouth, not that he minded. 

“We didn’t kiss”, you reiterate. 

Now he’s just confused. He stares at you. 

“We just had sex, y/n”, San reminds you, trying not to let the red reach his cheeks. 

“No—I mean Jongho and I. We didn’t kiss”, you clarify.

San doesn’t really know if he should believe your words or his eyes, but now he’s focused on lathering your hair and body. 

“That wasn’t what I saw”, he replies, avoiding eye contact. 

“That’s cause we did this-“ you huff, turning his head to face you, imitating the way Jongho had slid his thumb between your lips and his, demonstrating San the fake kiss. 

San only stares at you wordlessly when you pull back, only more questions than answers. 

“But why would he do that for?”

“He was trying to rile you up.”

“For what?”

“To see if you felt anything for me?”

“By kissing you?”

Oh god. It felt like the more you explained, the more San was getting the wrong ideas. You let your head sit in your hands, unsure if it’s from the embarrassment or the fact that you don’t even know where to start. 

“It wasn’t a kiss, Choi San”, you groaned, your hands leaving your face, suddenly self-conscious that San is staring intently at you. “After we, um, fucked the first time, you acted like nothing happened, and I felt like shit about it, and I told Jongho and then…” you trail off, feeling your cheeks heat up again. It’s probably the hot water, at least that’s what you try to convince yourself with.

“I don’t kiss people I’m not in love with, San”, you sigh in defeat. Your eyes are downcast, but you feel his fingers cup your cheeks, and his lips press onto yours. You swear you could go another round again. 

The silence hangs in the air for a while, only the sounds of the shower filling the emptiness when he pulls back. 

“I didn’t do anything since after that evening because I wanted to properly tell you after the term ended.”

“Tell me what?”

“That I’m in love with you, too.”

You blink. Somehow that shocked you more than the both times he fucked your brains out. 

You don’t answer him because your head is just swarming with so many thoughts, and San lets you do so, satisfied that he’s finally have you quieten down so he can finish washing you up. 

Even when he’s dressed you in his oversized hoodie, San peppers you with kisses, basking in the way you sometimes cover his face with your hands to stop him, which only rouses him to continue to attack you with his lips.

San’s arms are tight around you when the both of you are finally on his bed. You smell like his favourite body soap and he can’t seem to get enough of it—nuzzling against the crook of your neck, muttering sweet nothings. You think this is probably your favourite version of Professor Choi. 

Your fingers twirl around his splayed-out locks, and you speak. 

“Prof Choi”, you tease, and San looks up, and it’s the first time you actually see him pout—it almost makes you combust. 

“I told you to stop calling me that”, he frowns, burying his face, feigning trying to cut off physical contact from you, which only makes you laugh in response. 

“I just wanted to disturb you”, you respond, trying to yank him back into your arms. “I do have a question though.”

His head pops up from his pillows and he stares at you, waiting for you to speak. 

“When did you realise you had feelings for me?”

He pauses, giving himself a couple of minutes to think. 

“The moment I received your teaching assistant application.”

📚 Bonus Epilogue 📚

“Prof Choi!” One of his teaching assistants calls out to him. 

He turns his head and attention to her, pushing up his glasses. 

“Yes?” 

“I need help with this part of the assignment. Could you help me check that I’ve marked it correctly?”

San nods, taking the papers from her. 

As he scans through her work, the teaching assistant’s eyes glance down at the band hugging his ring finger. 

“Prof, you’re married?”

San pauses his writing to glance at the glistening gold on his finger, and a small smile spreads across his cheeks. 

“You know, I used to wear a ring on my ring finger so students would stop asking me if I was married or not.”

She raises her eyebrows, her curiosity piqued. “So you’re not?”

“I am.”

Her eyes brighten, invested in her handsome professor’s love story. 

“Tell me more then”, she asks. 

San scoffs playfully, turning his gaze to her. 

“All I can tell you is that she’s always been my favourite.”

taglist: @bro-atz @diamond-3 @mcarebearsstuff @choisansplushie @pre1ttyies @songmingisthighs @yeosangiess @mylovelymito @softwsan @yourlocaljonghoe @ywtf @woojirang @yuyusgirl

@jeon-ify @itza-meee @miss-fallon @hwallazia @bunnyluvr25 @eggyboy5 @hourswithoutyou @iwishiwasthemoontonight @yunhogrippers @watermelon2319 @vampiregirl215 @kibs-and-bits @s-h-y-a @liyahbug05-blog @luvt0kki @httpseungmxn @vic0921 @sanhwajoong @bitejoongie @no1likevie

network: @atzhouse @cultofdionysusnet @cromernet

[maxlarens]

MV: YUCK! ⭐ part two

pairing(s): max verstappen x photographer!reader

summary: your aesthetic interest in max verstappen is purely professional, you swear.

fc: daisy edgar jones

a/n: thank you for all the love on the last part of this silly little fic!! so glad people enjoyed🫶🏻

previous part ⭐️ next part

(yn’s messages)

(max’s messages)

(instagram)

🔒 @ynpersonal just posted…

tagged @maxverstappen1 @danielricciardo @user1

liked by @maxverstappen1, @danielricciardo and others

ynpersonal red bull gives u wings or whatever, tummy ache after dinner (📸maxie), favourite flowers.

user1 loved tattooing u as usual gorgeous thank you for trusting me🫶🏻

⤷ ynpersonal noo thank YOU im so grateful to have found you!! looking forward to our next sesh!! 🥹🥰

⤷ user1 omg so excited for ur next piece it’s unreal😫

⤷ ynpersonal ME TOOOO😎

danielricciardo Don’t drink a cocktail that fast next time then stupid🤨

⤷ ynpersonal max ordered it for me i had to finish it

⤷ ynpersonal ur stupid

⤷ ynpersonal no im sorry love u

⤷ danielricciardo 😔 Okay I’m sorry too. Love u

user2 Awww you got the butterflies

⤷ ynpersonal i know!! i love them!! thank you for the idea!!

maxverstappen1 Did not think my photography would ever make it on your feed lol

⤷ maxverstappen1 The tattoos are unreal I can’t stop looking at them

⤷ danielricciardo I bet you cant

⤷ ynpersonal of course it did this is private after all haha

⤷ ynpersonal ill teach u to take pics like me one day 🫡

(twitter)

📸 my true passion is making spotify playlists for everything so i naturally made a spotify playlist for this fic > https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2xo2O4lo0P2BJVW0PzpWMS?si=38wb79pzSaaUoytO0Y_S9A&pi=a-XtYC-QHMSE67

taglist: @a-disturbing-self-reflection @evie-119 @taygrls @petrifying-risotto @bernelflo (message me or comment if you’d like to be added to my tag list! ⭐️)

✨ next part

[penvisions]

stages of devotion {holiday hustle}

Pairing: Holiday Impaired! Joel Miller x Expert Holiday Baker! Reader

Summary: The holidays came fast this year, but with it comes a father and daughter pair you didn't ever expect to see again.

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings: holiday triggers, holiday stress, baking stress, food industry triggers, family issues, minor off screen family dynamics, super soft yearning, mutual pining, sexual tension, smut, p in v, creampie, joel's dirty talk deserves its own warning, lemme know if i missed any!

A/N: so its a few days after the holiday that i announced this on. so so sorry for the tease, y'all. finally made it to my "weekend" only to get sick :c trying to make the most of the days though (within reason). love y'all and hope you enjoy this!

ao3 link || series masterlist || navigation || ko-fi

The holiday season sucks.

That’s about all you’re confident in as you twirl the piping bag in your hand for what feels like the thousandth time that morning. There’s an entire rack of pies beside you, tray after tray that needs to be garnished with cremieux and a little chocolate coin that has the first letter of your bakery branded on it in gold. Behind it are three more of the same pie. Behind that are four more of apple.

Apple and pumpkin. The only flavors you offered for the season. One hundred each, plenty enough to keep you afloat for the next month or so if you sell out. Especially if you sell out the display case as well.

Your bakery is small, just you and your friend Colbie. Something to be passed in the blink of an eye on the busy downtown street. But it was born of passion and creativity, a space you carved out in the big scary world all for yourself. You’re none the wiser of how your day will turn out as you continue to pipe the faintly black spotted vanilla over the remaining pies, moving onto fetching things out of the oven as timers begin to go off and garnish the ones already chilled from an earlier bake.

Just down the street, Joel and Sarah are strolling down the sidewalk from where they parked the car at the end of the block.

“Don’t see why the crew needs more food, baby girl.”

“Because we need to show our appreciation for them, dad. They’re working the morning of thanksgiving, for crying out loud.”

“This isn’t exactly a tax write off…”

“Dad!” The exasperated teenager nudges at his side with her shoulder, catching his ribs lightly. But he doesn’t stumble nor do his steps falter, he lets her win a lot of the time but this? He still loves how she tries to roughhouse with him only to realize that he’s always gonna have the upper hand unless he gives into her. Her pout and huff draws a laugh from deep in his chest.

“It’s true! I gotta pay for it all outta my account, not the business. We already picked up breakfast for everyone and half the men are gonna store it in their coolers for a later time.” He pivots her toward the doorway just past a large window display, squares of glass allowing for a glimpse inside a local bakery.

“Don’t you put the catering on the business card?”

“Well yeah, but their overtime for today is coming out of it too.”

“Maybe if we ask the owner, they can discount us or something?” Sarah is suddenly stopping just inside the threshold, watching with wide eyes as her father walks in behind her. The scent of fresh baked bread and flaky pastries welcomes them despite the empty lobby. “Is there a reason you’re so hesitant to use the company card? I thought the business was doing good?”

Joel heaves a heavy sigh, placing both his hands gently on her shoulders to hold her attention and give her all of his.

“Everything is fine, Sarah.” His brown eyes take in the way her own multifaceted ones gleam in the bright sunlight shining in the muted green space the lobby has been painted. Plants alive and well, live wood bar top against the window for people to sit at. “Money is my worry, but there ain’t nothing to worry about okay?”

“We can still ask after a discount, it doesn’t hurt, right?” Suddenly shy, her eyes break contact with his and turn down to her scuffed shoes. “I know that it’s new, but the therapy sessions aren’t exactly cheap or covered by the insurance.”

“Hey now, don’t go worrying about all that either.” Joel’s voice is so soft, floating through the air and sneaking into the kitchen through the siding of the swinging door. You pause in the rosette you were piping atop a cake, just little personal ones with autumnal flowers for the season. “I’m the dad, and that’s a dad thing, okay? You want to keep goin’ and that’s all that matters. Just want you to be okay, that’s all I ever want ‘cause I love you so damn much, okay?”

She nods once, still not bringing her eyes back up but she huffs out a giggle when he leans down and kisses her cheek, deliberately nuzzling the scruff on his cheek against her own.

“Besides, I don’t wanna bother them, baby girl, it’s such a small place.” With that settled they both turn back to the display cause and counter, just in time to see you approach through the window in the door.

“Joel?” There’s no hiding the smile that breaks out across your face as you push through the swinging door that leads separates the kitchen and public area. Even despite the inner turmoil you had endured after first meeting him. The will he won’t he of leaving your number for him…

“Camp lady! Dad, look, it’s her!” The excited teenager hops up and down on her long legs, arms hanging onto one of Joel’s and she jostles him. The slight melancholy of her previous words and worries forgotten with the aid of Joel’s soothing ones and your appearance. “You work here? That’s so cool!”

“Yes, Sarah, honey, I see her.” He rolls his eyes for you to see as she skips forward up to the counter. He looks good, if a little tired. His scruff is longer, body a little leaner than when you had seen him last…two months ago now. You had been so sure he would call or text, reach out in whatever way was easiest for him. And when he hadn’t…you had thrown yourself into work and prep for the holiday season. Reveling in the night you shared and taking it for what it was, not letting the lack of communication taint what had been an electric connection. His eyes are glued to you, ignoring the twirling and excitement of his daughter as she flits in front of the display case.

As you round the corner of the counter and display case, it’s obvious how busy you’ve been in the morning hours as stains darken the fabric. Reaching with a flour dusted hand, you go to shake the man’s hand but he surprises you and pulls you into a tight hug. The smell of his spicy cologne and wood shavings spurs butterflies to life in your belly and heat rise to your cheeks.

“It’s good to see ya, darlin’.” He whispers in your ear, voice all baritone gravel. He releases you just as Colbie enters back in through the front door. You see the way her eyes widen at the show of affection, she knows you better than anyone and casual touch is not something you’re a fan of. But you can tell that she immediately knows who Joel and his daughter are if the sparkle in her eye and the smirk she flashes at you says anything.

“I’m so sorry, I thought I locked the door behind me. Want me to keep it unlocked, we’ve got about fifteen minutes until we’re open.”

“Leaving it open will be fine, do you mind-“ The timer pinned to your apron tie goes off and a second later the one for the oven blares from the kitchen.

“Got it!” And she’s rushing behind the counter to slip back through the sliding door.

Joel looks like he’s about to apologize for barging in, Sarah leading him in the early hour. Coffee thermos left on the counter in the rush and his brain is working overtime without it. The pickup order she had placed with a breakfast place too busy for him to grab something there. You wave him off with a soft smile, not minding the intrusion one bit.

“My dad would not shut up about you on the way home, especially since we still have that air mattress you leant us! Thank you again so much for that, I didn’t want my dad to have to sleep on the ground with his bad back.”

“Hey now, you’re a little too forward with the embarrassing details.” Joel’s bashful words are bathed in an even tone, trying to parent his daughter but still treat her like the independent person that she is.

“So what can I do for you?” You try to fight the slight awkwardness of randomly happening across them as customers in your shop and you swear you see Joel duck his head as he roughs a hand across the back of his neck. Your causal tone and polite smile dousing the hope that had flared in his own chest when you walked out from the kitchen. “I’ve got plenty of pastries, the pies aren’t quite done yet but if you need one or two, I can add the finishing touches real quick?”

“Dad, we should get them pie! Like one each, you think? There’s five on the crew and then the secretaries too, they should get one since they’ll be waiting for us in the office. We can put the bonus checks on top with some pretty stickers! Oooh, dad we gotta stop at the art store now!”

“Sarah, honey, take a breath.” Joel claps hand over her shoulder and she beams up at him. “We only got half an hour to get to the office.”

“Oh, that’s okay! We can still do the pie each thing, right?”

“Whatever you wanna do,” He presses a kiss to the top of her head, her kinky curls flattening as he does so and earns him a grumbled ‘spent so much time on it this morning, old man’.

“So that was seven pies then?” You ask, trying to keep up with the both of them, they’ve got such an easy-going way that they communicate. Their bond obvious and their love pure as you had witnessed back at that campsite, he wants for her to have everything he can give her. It’s admirable, a good man, a good parent.

“Uh, make it ten, please.” Joel steps up to the counter, taking out his wallet from a back pocket. “Half pumpkin, half apple. So folks can pick whichever one they want.”

“Ten, got it. It’s gonna take me a few minutes to finish up, do you want a coffee while you wait?” And you swear his gaze hardens as he looks up to see the price displayed on the screen, card ready to press against the pad after you finished punching in his order on your own side of the register. The same way they had just before he had kissed you, angled toward you in front of that fire, the determination set his face in such an endearing way.

“Would be wonderful, darlin’. Just a black drip, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Hey, just so you know, ‘m sorry I didn’t call.” Joel shuffles on his feet, watching as Sarah starts up the truck and begins to dance to the loud beats he can make out through the cracked window. You had walked out with the pair to help load the bags into the extended cab of the gleaming gray truck. “I wanted to, but-“

“Life is hectic sometimes, it’s okay. I’m not gonna say I wasn’t disappointed, but I do understand.” You know he’s got a lot more going on in his life, with a child he’s raising on his own. The bakery keeps you busy, hours not quite the same as everyone. You never want to feel like you’re holding expectations for a life that just doesn’t fit into your schedule sometimes. And that included Joel, his own busy schedule not allowing for personal indulgences either. It’s hard not to feel like it’s a cruel twist of fate, that you two met only to realize the puzzle pieces of your life don’t quite match up.

“The paper, I had it. Put it in my pocket but my brother snatched the flannel instead of his own at the work site and washed the damn thing.”

“Little brother?” You tilt your head to the side, all too familiar with the chaos of sheer unpredictability one could bring.

“Yep, meddling, clueless little brother.” He’s fascinating, every little detail you learn about him draws you in closer, a pull toward the man you’ve only gotten glimpses of as of yet.

“Mine is pretty clueless too, god love him.”

“But- uh…oddly enough,” A large hand rubs at the back of his neck, the muscles of his arm straining against his flannel sleeve and catching your eye. “Mine is having a small dinner tonight, just us two, Sarah and his wife. Their twins. I know you got work today and don’t really know me at all, but I was wondering if-“

“Apple or pumpkin?” Lips pulling into a wide smile, you swear your heart is about to beat out of your chest, thudding wildly the second you realized where he was going with his explanation of his own holiday plans.

“Huh?”

“Do you want me to bring an apple or pumpkin pie?” You look up at him through your lashes, heat blooming in your chest at the insinuation he wanted you there, at the invitation you hadn’t been extended in years. Everyone always wanted the good you baked, the bread, the skills you had for the kitchen. But they never particularly wanted you around for the holidays. The family disappointment, for not being married, for not having kids, for not finishing school, for being too different.

“Darlin’ you don’t have to bring anything, just want you to come and be my date.”

And he couldn’t have said anything more perfect as you feel your throat constrict and tears well up in your eyes.

“Hey now, I mean it.” He’s shifting, hands reaching for you and you feel a little sorry for the ‘oof’ he lets out when you crash into his open arms. “Wanna get to know you, but only if you want that too. If we can carve out some time for each other.”

“Of course, Joel. That would…that would make me happy.”

“’m droppin’ Sarah off now, gotta head to the site for a few hours but I can pick you up here once I’m done. That sound okay to you?” He looks so hopefully, so happy that he can ask you in person, can ask to see you again now that he’s found you and it melts your heart. You’re sure the smile you give him is just as dopey at the one he’s beaming down at you.

“Yes, that sounds perfect. Here.” You pull away from him just enough to reach into your back pocket and brandish a business card at him. The thick cardstock is embossed in gold lettering, your name and number displayed on it proudly. “This is a little more permanent than a flimsy piece of paper.”

He pulls one of his own business cards out from his wallet as he securely puts yours away.

You continue to feel the warmth of his fingers passing it to you even hours later as you hold piping bags filled with cooled frosting, as you add frills and garnishes to pastries set in the cooler after leaving the oven a nice golden brown. And even as you feel your face heat up at the confrontation Colbie sneaks in throughout the day about your ‘gentleman caller’.

Around noon, Joel’s truck parks out front of the bakery. He’s showered, it looks like it as you see the shine to dark curls. He’s taken a shaver to his scruff as well, it’s not as long as it had been this morning.

“Please tell me you’re closed tomorrow.” Joel taps the hours displayed on the door as he steps through it, the gold lettering telling him that you were in fact not. But open at seven am sharp. Looking up from where you’re closing down the register, you hold up one finger up to indicate you need a moment.

As you continue, you can sense his gaze as it takes in the space you poured your blood, sweat and tears into. Devoted hours to manifesting and making it a reality. The case is completely empty, parchment paper adorned with errant crumbs all that he sees inside through the shiny glass.

When you step out from behind the counter, bag and keys in hand, you clock the second Joel realizes you’ve taken a moment to change as well. No longer in your dirty apron or black athleisure, but in a skirt that flows to about midthigh, tights underneath and a thin sweater. Your hair is down too, now, no longer pulled back into low pigtails and covered with a beanie for safety reasons around the kitchen.

“Darlin’, you look-“ He swallows, tongue watering as he takes in the sight of you all dolled up for him, for a date with him. “You look amazin’.”

“Just some spare clothes I had in my office. Didn’t wanna roll up to your brother’s house covered in flour and chocolate.” He’s shushing you as he ambles up, pressing his lips to your forehead as he cradles your face.

“He wouldn’t have cared and neither would I. Today is about family, no matter their shape or mess, got it? Miller households are safe places, you hear me?”

The drive over to his brother’s is short, the two of them in the same neighborhood but different blocks something that tickles you to know end. Watchful big brother, independent little brother who didn’t want to stray too far. It’s endearing, so different from you own family. Parents live upstate, brother is still in university, opting to live in the dorms instead of with you. Younger sister god knows where now, she pops up every year with a crazy tale of where she ended up for most of the time she had disappeared.

His brother doesn’t seem surprised in the least when Joel shows up on his doorstep with you at his side, his greeting a wide smile and bright eyes. His wife, Maria is just as easy going, just as welcoming. Praising you for bringing dessert and that she had totally blanked on it for after the meal in the hectic planning of the day.

The atmosphere is cozy, holiday cheer abundant despite the temperate Texas weather that plagues the state year round. Sarah is particularly excited to be helping out this year, the first she’s old enough to. A set of twins half her age run around with shrieking laughter as Joel and Tommy chase them around and keep them busy while you help out in the kitchen as well, not wanting to just show up and sit around waiting for everything to be done.

It's so different from your usual meal alone, normally just leftovers from the day before on a tray as you settle in bed and binge watch something once the bakery closes up.

It warms your heart and makes you feel full in a way that being with your family never has. From the easy going conversation with Maria, the light teasing and focus of following instructions from Sarah, stolen glances with Joel, the wide brimming smile of his brother as he realizes that the scene is a little more complete with you there now.

“Tell me I can kiss you, please.” Joe’s lips brush the shell of your ear, causing you to shiver at the vibrations that caress the sensitive skin. He’s been angling closer all afternoon, the couch cushions flattening and sloping. Pooling you closer to where his thick thighs rest, to the intoxicating warmth of his body and the heady smell of his spiced cologne. The movie credits are playing softly on the screen, everyone well fed and just now recovering to tend to things such as packing up leftovers and beginning to organize what was left.

The second you two were alone, Joel had used the arm he had slung up on the back of the couch around your shoulders to tug you in close. Tucking you into him, he used his other hand to pivot your legs into his lap. He’s kneading the skin there, over your tights. Thick fingers daring to trace higher and higher as he pulls back to look into your eyes.

“You’re so goddamn pretty, baby, can’t believe my streak of bad luck.” And at the flash of guilt in the depths of warm brown eyes, you surge forward and kiss him with a ferocity that startles him. The small ‘humph!’ and the tightening of his hand around your thigh curls desire low in your middle as his tongue eagerly meets yours as you part your lips.

“Bad luck, good luck. Doesn’t matter.” You manage between deep kisses, hands threading through the thick locks of chocolate curls atop his head. “We’re here now, I’m here with you.”

“Good.” He’s swallowing the moan that bubbles up from how he presses into you, how he pulls you flush with him.

“Joel! We got a house full of impressionable kids and you’re just makin’ out on the couch with the baker?”

The deep rumble of his chuckle does nothing but make your stomach jolt as heat lances through your core. The sound hitting deep and making you bury your face in the man’s neck as he parts only his lips from yours.

“Gotta embarrass me always, huh?” He’s holding you tight still, hands gripping and knuckles straining with the effort it’s taking to stop his ministrations.

“Just keep it in your pants, we’ve got everything packed up for y’all to take home. Sarah’s tucked into the spare room, helping out this year really took it outta her.”

“That where she snuck off to?”

“Yeah, don’t worry about it. We can watch her for the night. She don’t go back to school until next week right? Just come get ‘er tomorrow. And you,” Tommy aims twin finger guns at you. “Are welcome back anytime, Maria really appreciated the help in the kitchen but mostly I think she just loved having another woman around to chat with. Seriously, she’s gonna offer to come by the bakery and grab lunch one day soon.”

With that, Tommy saunters back into the kitchen with a snicker of his own and some words you can’t quite make out to the woman in question.

“Well, what do ya think?” Joel moves to whisper in your ear again. “Wanna come back to mine? Or I could take you home? Whichever you want, sweetheart.”

The sudden image of you and Joel tangled up on top of your bed has you kissing him full on the mouth one last time.

“Take me home and then take me to bed.”

Giddy anticipation fills the cab of his truck, the engine ticking as he shuts it off and just sits back for a moment. His eyes find yours and you can’t help the giggle that bursts from your chest, hands tangled and fingers twisting around each other in your lap. His hand reaches and takes one of your own, engulfing it with the sheer size difference. His beautiful hands that craft houses and woodwork, his beautiful hands that raised his amazing, rambunctious but sweet daughter, his beautiful hands that held his young nephew and niece with such care. His beautiful hands that you’ve felt explore your body twice now, the urge for him to do so again so strong it makes you feel dizzy.

“I can leave if you’re nervous, darlin’. No pressure, no hard feelings.” Joel Miller, the man that he is, knew just what to say to ease your worries.

“No, no. I just…”

“Thank you, for today.” You whisper, emotions getting the better of you. “I really thought that…this year I’d be alone again. My family only ever asks after desserts, always schedules the meal late and too far away for me to make the drive. I…I really liked spending time with you and your family today, they made me feel so welcome and included. It- it was really nice, Joel.”

The trembling of your lower lip is embarrassing but you can’t fight it off as you bare your heart to the man beside you.

“Hey now, it’s okay. I got ya,” He’s shuffling closer, the console pushed up to allow him to slide across the bench seat. “They loved you, ‘m sure they wouldn’t mind seein’ you more.”

And it’s easy, the way he soothes the turmoil in your mind, begins to help heal the trauma that bubbles up this time of year.

It’s easy how he kisses you and makes you feel like the most important person in the world.

It’s easy how he let’s you guide him into your home with clasped hands and a shy smile.

It’s easy the next morning when you wake up beside him, his naked body like a furnace under the sheets as it wraps around your own. The hours posted on your bakery door correct except for the day that follows any holiday. His breath little puffs against the back of your neck as you both share a pillow, while your exhalation becomes needy as you feel an ache between your legs. Little whimpers thrown into the air with no regard to how desperate they sound.

Heat sparks through you as you recall the desire in his hooded eyes the night before as you straddled him, taking your time with lowering yourself onto his hard cock, already dribbling when he had shucked his pants off for you to see all of him for the first time. The sight of him sprawled across your bed, head thrown on the pillows and bronze skin gleaming in the low lights strung up over your bed had all but turned you possessive. The memories were too much, kindling desire and pleasure in you in such a way that should be a warning in itself that you were fucked.

You were gone on him and you could only hope he felt the same way.

Soon enough, the shifting of your thighs to relieve pleasure that tingles there rouses him.

“Woke up needy, huh darlin’?” His voice is deep velvet, the early morning blessing him with such a soothing baritone that it almost has you rolling your eyes at it caresses over your skin much like his exploring fingers.

“Mhm, can still feel you. Right here-“ And his hand flattens against the soft give of your stomach where you guided it, just below your belly button.

“Fuck, that’s so hot, you have no idea.” He’s crowding you, body shifting to press your chest to the bed, his legs tangling with yours as he kneels behind you. He hinges your hips, bringing them up to rub the length of his cock between your glistening folds. “So full a me still, holding it like such a good girl for me.”

The whine of his name from your lips has him pushing in, slowly and carefully until his hips meet the back of your thighs. Turning it into a low moan that raises the hairs on the back of his neck. Your panting is all he can hear, the clench of your walls all he can feel as your back arches and you press back into him.

“Right here, huh?” His hand is still on your belly, and it presses now, pulling a yelp from you as the pressure in your core intensifies. Your cunt gushes around him, earning you a hiss as he grinds himself against you to make a squelching sound.

“Please please please tell me we’re going to do this again.” You move on him, pulling forward a bit, knees spreading and hands gripping tight to the sheets underneath you. Joel’s answering groan is more than enough but his voice delivers your fate in such an easy way.

“Oh darlin’, we’re gonna be doin’ this every day for the rest of our lives.” And with that he moves to grip your hips so tight you’re sure there will be reddened imprints of his fingers, pulling out in a slow drag before he slams back in and sets a brutal pace.

And maybe the holidays aren’t so bad, after all.

previous installment || next installment

taglist: @dontknow446 @copperhalfcent @tuquoquebrute @sawymredfox

@mareagirls @insidethegardenwall @wintersquirrel @pastelpinkflowerlife

@yxtkiwiyxt @here-briefly @pedroswife69 @lotusbxtch @amyispxnk

@for-a-longlongtime @burntheedges @tonysopranosrobe @littlemisspascal

@the-mandawhor1an @picketniffler @lizard-zombie @brittmb115

@stevie75 @itwasntimethatdidit40 @wildesights @cheekychaos28

@its-nebuleuse @cas-readsandwrites @punkshort @jessthebaker

@mosssbawls

banners and dividers by the lovely @/saradika-graphics and @/cafekitsune

[prettyboykatsuki-moved]

brocon | a. oliver

✮ tags ; afab + fem!reader, unrequited love (from reader but not to oliver), presence of honorfics (nii-san mostly), incest (incestual roleplay and one sided incestual affection lol), oliver is not the older brother but he wishes he was, Too Casual About Incest in this one, oral (m!recieving), mentions of cervix fucking + deepthroating, cream pies, casual sex, 18+

✮ wc ; 2.5k

✮ a/n ; im reading too many doujinshis. everyday i become a little more insane. i miss you all. i also hate this guy.

c. consider this like a prelude by the way. im definitely going to expand on this universe rip.

also im dead fucking tired so tenses are all over the place. im gonna skip class tomorrow i think lol

✮ synopsis ; oliver is not put off by your brother complex. he probably should be.

Oliver isn’t very meddlesome.  

He’s a captain, but that’s as far as he’s ever willing to extend himself when it comes to getting deeply involved with other people. He loves soccer, loves strikers, etc. Annoying shit is tolerable if it’s for the love of the game.  

So in terms of his willingness to interfere, it starts and stops at soccer.  

The same is not true for relationships. Never has been really. He isn’t sure if he’s always been like that. He got his heart broken in high school, before his career took off and get much time to think about what he wanted after.  

He’ll never claim to be paragon of morality. Whether or not he’s pre-disposed for it, he’s been around the block and doesn’t take anything too seriously. A lot of what he’s down for just depends on where he’s at and he stands to gain. 

But, he’s always been straightforward about it so whatever.  

 From experience, he prefers dating women with a lot to lose - career driven types. Long term, they’re the easiest to break up with because they rarely chase after him and have little desire for the spotlight. He likes cute, innocent types too, for different reasons - but it can get messy easily so he has to be off season  to fuck them or date. His type in men depends on what he’s feeling. He likes getting topped by quiet, stoic men and likes topping slutty pretty boys. 

Case and point, Olivers type is whoever wants to fuck him and he wants to fuck too. It’s not complicated and isn’t defined by any particular thing. When it comes to appearance and personality - well he’s fine with whatever. He’s not really interested in being exclusive. He likes to have fun and like freely, or something like that.  

His only real criteria for sex and partnership are: discreet, sane, want to fuck him.  

You fit one of those parameters for sure.  You’re very discreet.  

But while you and Oliver are sleeping together, it’s not him you actually want.  

Oliver  met you a few months back. You were by yourself in the bar of a nice motel and dressed to the nines, crying alone over a drink. The game plan was simple. He would chat you up, console you, and bring you to bed. You both get to feel good, and you get to forget for a while.  

An attempted act of kindness and sincerity.  

He did just that too. Slid up next to you easy, bought you a drink. You were mostly sober - told him you had to drive early the next day. Alcohol was just to soothe your broken heart. You broke down after that. Red-rimmed watery eyes, barely keeping it together - it didn’t take much effort for Oliver to get you to open up. Apparently someone you loved had just got married. You even gave a speech for the wedding. Sobbed a little about how you’re happy he’s happy but you’re devastated.  

Oliver offered you a shoulder to cry on. Whispered in your ear real sweet about licking each others wounds for the night. How he’d be happy to help you forget. You went back to your hotel with little fuss. And he’s a half decent bastard after all, so he didn’t go too hard on you during the sex. Gave you boyfriend treatment as a consolation prize for your efforts. Foreheads pressed together, arms around his shoulders, lots of kissing and making eye contact.  

That kind of sex is fun sometimes, at least when it’s not very serious.  

You had great compatibility in bed. Some post coital pillow talk also revealed that your mutual interests meshed pretty well  - so you decided to see each other again for the purposes of fucking. Oliver needs a reliable partner who won’t try to ruin his career and you need a shoulder to lean on and forget about your true love.  

It was working out well for him really. And like he said, he’s not really the type to pry into other peoples affairs.  

For better or for worse though, having frequent sex with someone usually gets you acquainted with random aspects of their life. The friends parts of friends with benefits usually means you’re seeing some part of them you didn’t sign up for.  

It took three months of sleeping with you, around the 8th time you met up for sex, for him to realize who your unrequited love actually was.  

He thought it might’ve been someone off limits from the way you spoke about it. Though you tended to avoid the subject altogether.  

Had he known he was going to get involved with a girl that has the worst brother complex he’s ever seen, he would’ve reconsidered seeing you again.  

Maybe. Or maybe not.  

Truthfully, Oliver is less bothered by brocon thing than he thought he’d be. He hadn’t realized because of anything you told him. Just that once, you were laying on his chest when you got a call in the middle of the night from your older brother. 

You’re not the sweet type, to put it bluntly. Oliver would categorize you as the working professional sort with a lot to lose - high spec and calculating. Aside from the night he met you, he’d never seen you act in a way he would consider needy or childish - even after sex. Or ever, really - even when something happens that might garner that response.  

Seeing the way your eyes lit up, the way your whole demeanor changed as you spoke with him on the phone. It didn’t take a genius to figure it out. He didn’t have plans to confront you about it at the time. It wasn’t really his business, or at least that’s what he told himself. 

At a certain point though, he felt like he couldn’t dance around it.  

He brought it up on a whim one night. Regretted it because he liked your current relationship and didn’t want it to end, but he felt it had to be done.  

He doesn’t know what exactly he was expecting, if anything at all. He thought you’d cuss him out or something. Tell him to fuck off and mind his business. Tell him to not be gross, maybe.  

But he didn’t expect tears, nor did he expect the childish sadness that came along with the mere mention of you beloved nii-san.  

That had made him wanna pry.  

It wasn’t hard to get you to open up about it. Frankly, he didn’t actually give a shit about the incest part, so you felt safe enough to tell him when he asked. Your older brother was basically your whole life. You’re half siblings, abandoned by the same parent. You had a rough upbringing but your older brother took care of you and sacrificed a lot. You realized you were in love with him in middle school and kept it in since. He’s about four years older than you and his wife is a very gentle person.  

Oliver isn’t concerned about the details. He’s nosy - so he asks but he wouldn’t’ve forced you if you didn’t want to talk about it. But it seems like you really did, since you were happy to tell him anything on your mind.  

You were…different after that. After he knew, you relaxed considerably. He didn’t think of you as guarded until you stopped being that way and started acting more… docile.  

Oliver doesn’t mind that change either, which is shocking for him. Usually you’re far off but after you cum, you soften up and act kind of… cute.  

 You’re a little clingier, and generally speaking - sweeter to him when you’re guard is down. It’s not like you’re doing it on purpose. You never ask Oliver to treat you any softer or get demanding with him. And there’s never an instance where he has to worry about if that’ll change because as nice as you are to him, it’s clear as day that no one in the world will ever surpass your affection for your older brother.  

(Once, after sex,  Oliver asks you what you like about about your older brother. The question comes as a shock to you both, but mostly to him because he isn’t sure why he thinks to ask. You’re happy enough to answer it though. According to you, he’s perfect.  

He’s kind and thoughtful, gentle and doting, tall, strong and handsome. You’ve got little hearts in your eyes when you say all this. You add towards the end that part of the reason you sleep with Oliver is because they’re so different you can forget all about it.  

He laughs at that, but he isn’t sure how sincere it is.) 

As time goes by, Oliver never gets  totally used to the change. As soon as you get a call or text from your beloved nii-san, you perk up like all the life has been breathed back into you. He hears you talk sometimes and it’s clear that your brother also probably has a bit of a sister complex.  

 You’re more open around Oliver sure - but it pales in comparison to when you get a call from him. How could a person be so different? He assumes the answer is love, but he can’t wrap his head around it having that much impact on your character.  

Oliver tries not to think about it.  

You’ve continued sleeping together out of habit and as time went  by  - you started to hang out for no real reason. It’s remained casual. You never want anything from him except dick and sometimes attention, but its clear that it isn’t from the one sided hope of becoming his girlfriend. And he knows almost too well that you don’t care for him in a special way because he knows what that looks like on you - and every kindness you’ve shown him is just who you are.  

It’s not like Oliver isn’t keenly aware of all of that.  

But it doesn’t stick until he offers up roleplaying with you on a whim.  

He suggests it to fuck with you really. And maybe because he’s a little irritated by it. He wants to upset you a little, petty as it is. See how you react. He was expecting you to get pissed off, maybe even cuss him out a little over being a jerk.  

That is not the reaction he receives. Instead you flush all over. Your hands fist on your knees and you get shy over just the prospect. He’s had you bent in every position known to man but he’s never seen you more embarrassed then the very idea of uttering the name nii-san in relation to sex.  

You do have a moment of sobriety after the fact, hit him with your pillow and tell him not to be a dick.  

But then, he can’t let it go. So he grabs you by the wrist and says it’s fine. It’s what he’s here for isn’t he? Always has been.  

Only seeing it does it start to really click.  

It’s the most intense sex you’ve ever had , and it doesn’t feel  profoundly fucked up until you take his dick  into your mouth. Hearts in your eyes while he strokes your hair, swallowing his cock - nuzzling it, kissing, it and being so devoted he doesn’t know if he’s the most unlucky man alive or the least.  

You’re always a sight for sore eyes when you’re hoping to please him somehow. You’re a little haughty in bed in a way he’s into— 

But fuck, it’s different when you’re doing it for your big brother. He’s never seen you so horny in his life. Touching yourself so desperately while you’re deepthroating his length, eyes rolling back into your skull as you swallow him all the down to the base. Moaning into it even as you gag and hiccup and spit.. Drool clinging to your lips, stretched all the way to the corners  - wetness sliding down the curve of your neck and chest. Your face flush, damp tears clinging to your lashes while he strokes his thumb against your cheek and tells you the same few words over and over.  

Nii-san’s so proud of you. You’re being so good for your me. Over and over, reinforcing it again and again. Hearing the words and just thinking of it seem to be enough for you.  

It’s about the same when he does finally fucks you. Oliver gets into it at the end. Puts you in a full nelson and fucks you stupid, the head of his cock battering into you and demanding to be let in. You feel good split apart on his dick - pussy stretched so tight it barely fits him.  

You always do your best to take him, but he sees what the affection does to you. You get so horny that you spread your legs without being fucked open on his fingers first. Your body is responsive to it. He almost feels bad for your brother, not getting to know what it feels like. Oliver is only playing pretending but your cunt squeezes his dick so tight, holds onto him like  it doesn’t want to let go. It’s not even the real thing yet your body is keen on milking him. Built and bred like it was made for your older brother to fuck.  

He’ll never get the chance too. Oliver relishes in it more than he can be honest about.  

Once he’s inside, you tell Oliver in a lust drunk haze that nii-san can have whatever he wants. That’s when he knows you’re running on nothing but lust. And by then, he is too. You whimper when he moves - say yes when he hisses that he’s gonna fuck you deep enough to flood your cervix. Nod desperately when he offers to fuck your cervix open too.  

It’s nothing but filthy bullshit but the words come out easier as his cock keeps slipping out of you from how wet you are over the thought alone.  

It finally settles in when when you’ve nearly fucked yourself unconscious. Riding his cock with your tshirt pulled up over your tits, eyes closed and legs wobbling - saying it over and over. Begging for your brother who you love so dearly while you  fuck on him with all the strength in your hips.  

Seeing that makes him realize that he’s not a stand-in.  

Only because it’s an impossible outcome in the first place.  

It’s the first time he cums inside of you, and the first time you cry after sex. Oliver holds you afterwards. You whisper a thank you so sincere to him afterwards he loses his fucking mind, all soft and watery and needy. Don’t protest when he pulls you into a bath or holds you.  

You stay with him through the night and he realizes right about then that he’s completely and utterly fucked. 

It’s his karma, he assumes. Wanting a girl who has a severe brother complex is Oliver’s own special hell - hand crafted to make him feel as fucked up as possible.  

But damn does he want you bad anyway.  

[hyunebunx]

˖˙ ᰋ ── pies and cuddles can fix anyone

﹙ʚɞ˚﹚. genre: fluff

﹙ʚɞ˚﹚. a/n: happy lix day!! this is a reupload but rewritten so it's better. enjoy <3

There was nothing Felix loved more in the world than moments like these. Sure, traveling was nice, getting to see sights he’s only ever dreamed of but his favorite destination would always be here with you, in your cozy little apartment he knew like the back of his hand. Home, his favorite place to come back to would always be home to you. Back to being surrounded by your specific smell that he couldn’t fall asleep without and your comforting touch, he longed for 24/7 – nothing could ever come close to that for him. Especially when you were both engaged in his favorite hobby and dressed in matching pajamas.

“Felix, come here.”

Your sweet voice had him complying instantly, abandoning the hot chocolate to be by your side in a heartbeat. Turning to face him with the biggest smile, Felix felt himself falling in love all over again as you brought the wooden spoon to his lips while stepping closer.

“Taste this and tell me if it needs anything else. And be honest!”

With a nod, he opened his mouth to do as told, eyes closing briefly to savor the taste. Apples, caramelized apples for your pie to be exact. Nothing could feel more like autumn than that.

He had a child-like smile on his freckled face once he opened his eyes again, visibly pleased, “I think it’s delicious as always, Y/n. It doesn’t need anything else.”

The way your eyes lit up at his praise had him chuckling, your happiness contagious. That’s why he couldn’t contain himself as he moved to engulf your form in a warm hug from behind, squeezing tightly while his chin rested on your shoulder.

“Okay, thanks.” You nodded, one of your hands moving to intertwine your fingers on your stomach where his rested, “To the oven it goes then.”

But you didn’t make any attempt to move – on the contrary, you leaned back to melt into his warm embrace as he started to pepper innocent kisses all over your cheek and neck. That continued for a minute more before Felix swiftly turned your body around to face him, successfully caging you between the counter and himself.

Leaning in, he rubbed his nose against yours affectionately, “You know, the pie won’t bake by itself, my love.”

“Just five more minutes.” Your voice came out whispered as you stood there, basking in the love your boyfriend was currently showering you with. A deep laugh escaped him at your response, placing a kiss on both of your cheeks and forehead before pulling away slightly.

“You only say that when I dare wake you up without giving you cuddles first. We’re baking right now, Y/n.”

You nodded again and moved to wrap your arms around his middle, resting your head against his chest right where his heart was, “Yes so don’t wake me up. I don’t want you to disappear.”

His eyes softened at the double meaning behind your words, a pang of guilt suddenly hitting him in full force. No matter how far away he was, Felix was never going to leave nor forget you, not when his heart always brought him back to the only place that felt like home. The red string of fate that connected you could never allow that.

“This isn’t a dream, baby,” he placed a kiss on the crown of your head, words murmured against your hair, “I’m right here and I'll always be.”

You were well aware of that but some reassurance never hurt anybody.

“I know. I’m just afraid of you disappearing because you’re way too good to be true. Like an angel without its wings, trapped on this planet to make things more bearable.”

Felix laughed, the sound causing you to do so as well as he buried his face in your hair to hide his embarrassment. Flustering your boyfriend was always so fulfilling. Making an angel laugh must count for something, right? There must a gauge that once filled will grant you eternal happiness.

Not like you were too interested, you already had that with Felix by your side.

“Shut up.” He murmured against your neck, the gesture causing goosebumps to appear all over your skin. “Put the pie in the oven and let’s go cuddle already. Even the hot chocolate is cold by now.”

[rhenysz]

Your Dead Eyes - Chapter 3

Summary: Lifeless eyes were what haunted your all life, manu people say that death was lurking around your eyes, Maybe it's true. Maybe you just see things that other people don't.

Pairing: Azriel x Archeron! reader fem.

A/n: I... Well, hello. So, Merry Christmas? I didn't fix this properly...

*English is NOT my native language, this fanfic was translated with a little help from a A.i. So, let me know if there are any grammatical errors*

Word count: 3k

Warnings: None that I can remember, some humor, tension , Azriel being a dumb mother hen

previous x next

Cassian, Azriel, and Rhysand had already left when you came downstairs for breakfast. Nesta grumbled that they hadn't even eaten before spreading their wings to the sky, making everything around them flutter – including the newly planted rose saplings of Elain, to her great displeasure.

Feyre often returned home in hopes that the queens had already responded. The delay was noticeable given how long ago the letter had been sent, and it was a shot in the dark trying to guess what might have happened, though you doubted the letter had gotten lost in transit, and, mind you, you weren't foolish enough to think it was their indecision.

They were making the High Lord wait for pure amusement, and maybe a little bit of sadism. The human queens were in control of the situation, and that made everything even more delicious. A power struggle where, for the first time, the weaker ones were in charge. It must have been painful to even consider discarding this succulent opportunity that had been handed to them on a golden platter—one in a million, truly.

Bringing the steaming cup of tea to your lips, you sipped cautiously to avoid burning yourself; there was no pain worse than burning your tongue – well, maybe stubbing your toe, you mused with a hum. A gust of wind passed through your hair, signaling that someone was passing by in a hurry.

“Don’t run around the house, Elain,” Nesta grumbled from her spot at the table, clearly not a morning person. Your second eldest sister slipped on the floor and turned back to stop by your side, placing one of her delicate hands on your shoulder to alert you of her presence.

Taking a deep breath, Elain spoke breathlessly, “A new batch of letters is arriving today!”

Now, this was interesting. You placed your hand on hers, squeezing her hand on your shoulder, turning your head slightly to show your interest in the topic. Not because of the letters, obviously.

“Why don’t you come with me, sister? We can stop by that little craft shop too,” Elain suggested. She certainly knew how to brighten your day, and even though you were avoiding crowds, especially those zealots who called themselves the enlightened ones – and that made your skin crawl – it was hard to resist the opportunity to get out of the house. God knows this place could be suffocating.

Nesta was irritated with anyone who breathed in her direction, Elain would shudder at the mere mention of meetings and queens, and you missed Merina and her pies. No matter how hard you tried, it was difficult to connect with your sisters as well as with Feyre, who no longer lived a human life filled with nuances like yours.

Taking a deep breath, you pushed yourself off the chair and blindly grabbed your beautiful cane, intending to head for the door alone, but Elain was quicker and grabbed your wrist, guiding you somewhat hurriedly toward the exit without saying goodbye to a very grumpy Nesta.

The morning wind hit your face as you crossed the threshold, and the birds’ song pierced your ears like a sweet melody. However, as beautiful as it was, your brow furrowed at the hurry in your sister's movements. Surely, the letters couldn’t be that interesting, not to Elain, at least. She could barely stand still when the topic was on the table. Ah, the gossip you'd have today, sweet sister.

“Is there anything else you want from the city besides the letters?” Your tone was dismissive, but even the dullest of men would see the curiosity behind the question.

Elain tripped over something on the ground and almost pulled you down with her, making you question who the blind sister really was here.

She cleared her throat and finally slowed her pace. The hesitation was palpable, and the arm linked to yours grew tense as she nervously began fiddling with the sleeve of her dress.

“I... I was thinking about looking at some prettier engagement rings, maybe gold...” It came out like a croak, and that left you a little more confused. There was no doubt that Elain had good taste and could spot something beautiful from afar, so it was strange that she wanted to see new rings when she loved hers so much.

“I thought you were crazy about that one,” the sounds of people talking grew louder, and your nose wrinkled from the variety of smells; sweets, savory foods, pig dung, and, beneath it all, the fresh scent of pine and whiskey filled your lungs with a warm, inviting sensation.

“Steel” and “Feyre” and “shame” were the only words you managed to catch through the intoxicating fog of the delicious perfume you inhaled. But that was enough for no question to leave your lips.

Turning your focus back to the surroundings as your sister and cane guided you through the streets, bodies occasionally brushed past you, nearly knocking you down; shouts proclaiming devotion to the divine; more frantic cries from merchants trying to sell their goods to eat at the end of the day, and other sounds that were impossible to decipher.

As you walked, Elain stopped abruptly in her tracks. Confused, you turned your head to look at her but got no answer. Without saying a word, your sister started walking again, leaving the noise of the city behind. You quickened your steps to keep up with her, the wind certainly making your hair a tangled mess. At least you wouldn’t have to see it.

Elain slid a bit in the mud, and with a squeak, you stopped by her side. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, and her lungs struggled to keep up with her breathing. Gods, your sister was trying to kill you just so she wouldn’t have to share the inheritance.

“What in the hell-” you began but didn’t finish. The breeze had risen up your legs, making the hem of your dress flutter and leaving a coolness on your skin, only to disappear faster than it came.

“Azriel?” Azriel? He was the cause of your little sprint? Damn him, what was he doing in such an obvious place?

“Elain,” he greeted your sister, and as he turned to you, he spoke your name in a deep purr, sending a chill down your spine with the tone. You nodded in acknowledgment; your voice no longer belonged to you. “The letter. It’s here.”

Ah, he knew. He already knew the queens' letter had arrived today. How? You didn’t know.

“We were going to see it now,” Elain’s voice was syrupy, soft and sweet, almost like she didn’t know how to speak anymore.

A hum left Azriel’s throat. His trained eyes watched your shy form beside Elain, the corners of his lips tugged upwards but quickly disappeared as he turned his attention back to the eldest Archeron sister.

“Could you fetch it for me, Elain?” Azriel asked gently, and your sister nodded quickly, like a soldier. Not letting go of your hand, she motioned for you to go with her to fetch the letter. “Only you, please.”

Your feet stayed firmly planted, and now the air felt thin. Whatever the Shadowsinger had to say to you was making your nerves bubble.

Elain muttered in discomfort, clearly not wanting to leave you alone with someone she barely knew. Her hand squeezed yours lightly, and you pulled your hand free from her grip, distancing yourself from your sister. With your body facing the man, you encouraged Elain to go. He certainly wouldn’t kill you.

Still, your treacherous mind whispered.

With lips set in a line, Elain quickly made her way to her destination, disappearing into the crowd. The faster she went, the faster she’d be back.

Without your sister nearby, the silence was deafening and uncomfortable, and despite your brief interaction with Azriel, you still found the way his presence surrounded you intimidating.

“Do you have something to say? Or did you just make me stay here for your company?” The words came out sharper than you intended, and perhaps challenging such a powerful fae like him in broad daylight wasn’t the best idea. Shifting your weight, you crossed your arms like a shield. Not that you expected it to stop him.

Your ears perked up when you heard a rough chuckle leave Azriel. His lips pressed together; it wasn’t the response you were expecting.

“I didn’t,” he paused and licked his lips, thinking carefully about his next words. “But I feel like I do now.”

Ah, so much for being mysterious. If this non-human man wanted to make you squirm with anxiety, he was succeeding beautifully.

“And…” your voice carried impatience.

“And I don’t think you should be part of the meeting with the queens.”

Your mind stopped. It felt completely empty, focused only on trying to process Azriel’s words. Letting your arms fall to your sides, you lifted your chin, hoping you were looking at his face as you spoke. “Why? Is there a reason for this?

Simple and shyer than you intended.

Azriel was no longer amused. His face darkened into a scowl as he studied you from your structure to your features – sculpted nose, mouth pulled down, and then, eyes. His eyes were windows to his soul, so sweet that, even if not fully functional, could bring legions to their knees.

And that was the problem.

“The queens aren’t trustworthy, and I don’t want you to be a target. They’re bitter and vile with people…” His words rushed out, his wings tightening behind him, letting the weight of what he had to say burn his tongue. “...weaker ones.”

You bit your cheek until you tasted the faint copper of your blood. Indignation wasn’t the right word to describe what you were feeling, but the disbelief on your flushed face certainly expressed it.

Fragile. The Illyrian who barely knew you for more than a week was insulting you so openly, without a shred of shame. You might not see things like other people, but this made you grow a pair of balls like nothing else, and it wasn’t this male who was going to put you down now.

With clenched fists, you took a step toward him, closing the distance to a breath’s length. The smell of whiskey that had been so enticing returned, but now that you knew who it belonged to, it didn’t seem so intoxicating. Or maybe it was, a little, your mind whispered.

“I don’t think I gave you any right to make assumptions about me, fairy.” You spat the words, especially the scornful nickname you secretly used for him and his brothers.

Azriel growled low, and ah, it wasn’t because of your words.

The rustling of leaves made you step back from the winged male, and quickly, his features softened. Elain stopped next to you, breathless, handing the letter to Azriel, as if it were burning her.

“Here, it arrived last night,” she said before taking your arm and walking away as quickly as possible.

“Thank you,” Azriel acknowledged with a nod. Elain smiled tightly, already guiding you away. His voice came again, but this time as a warning, making your shoulders tense. “Don’t forget what I said.” And then he was gone, swallowed by his shadows as if he had never been there.

Elain furrowed her brow and turned to you, questioning what Azriel had meant.

“Nothing, he didn’t say anything.” Nothing you cared about, at least.

“Hold your breath,” Nesta reprimanded you, her fingers pulling tighter on your corset strings, her delicate fingers and the crushing leather threatening to break your ribs.

“Tighten it any more, and watch me turn purple on this floor, sister.” You gasped out the words with difficulty. Nesta clearly wanted to kill you. You knew she was against you exposing yourself at the meeting, but you never thought she'd deliberately try to kill you.

“Stop whining, it's ready.” Nesta grumbled, and then her presence pulled away from you, her footsteps echoing as she walked to the vanity in front of you. Your head tilted to the side at the sound of objects clinking. She was making a mess, no doubt.

Nesta's heat returned as she stopped in front of you. Her warm hand held your chin firmly but gently, and the bristles of a brush tickled your lips. It was soft, sticky, with a faint scent of roses. Lipstick.

Nesta was dressing you up like a doll. Your chest warmed at the feeling. Having your sister care for and pamper you like this was a delight. It was fleeting, but so appreciated when it happened.

Pulling the brush from your lips, Nesta glanced at you. Long, trembling lashes, cheeks rosy with powder, angelic features. You were beautiful. A slight tug appeared on her lips, satisfied with her work.

“If you keep staring at me, I’m going to start thinking you like me.” Your playful voice earned an eye roll from Nesta, who, with a huff, stepped away from you, already missing the warmth of her presence.

"Don't be fooled," Nesta retorted playfully, you expected it to be a joke as she took your arm in hers and began guiding you out of your room and into the living room. The shrill creak of the door alerted you that you were passing through the main hall, just a few steps away from the comfortable armchairs that Elain had arranged for you. "Sit down, they should be arriving soon."

Groping for the armchair, you slowly lowered yourself until you were seated. Your sister settled beside you, and barely half a second later, a knock echoed on the door. Nesta took a deep breath beside you, and abruptly stood up, walking toward the door. As much for a brief break, a laugh escaped you. Hopefully, she wouldn't hear it.

The sound of what seemed like a crowd of footsteps approached where you were, low, nervous murmurs could be heard, and a melodic voice, different from those you already knew, made your eyebrow raise in curiosity.

"Sister, you look beautiful," Feyre greeted you warmly, her hands on your shoulder for a hug. A little awkwardly, you stood to hug her better. Nestling your face into her neck, you squeezed her tighter. It felt like you hadn't seen her in a decade. The sound of someone clearing their throat made your sister pull away from the hug, to your disappointment. "Sorry. Mor, this is my younger sister."

Mor? Another fae? You turned to where you thought she was. Mor smiled and approached, taking your hand in hers. Her sudden action made you jump slightly.

"It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Feyre has told me so much about you." Her voice was gentle, her shoulders relaxed, and you let yourself return her smile. She seemed like a woman with a strong spirit. Perhaps Nesta could find a friend in her.

"I'm happy to meet another one of my sister’s friends." You greeted her properly with a nod.

"That's enough, Mor. You're suffocating her." A cold shiver ran down your spine when Azriel's rough voice reached you. The memory of your last encounter still vivid in your mind. Your face twisted into a grimace. Mor huffed and pulled away, muttering about how Azriel was a joy-killer. You could agree with that.

Feyre, beside you, looked at the two of you with suspicion. Since you entered, Azriel hadn't taken his eyes off you, following every movement like a hawk. Your reaction to him only seemed to intrigue her more. With a kiss on your forehead, she guided you to sit again.

It seemed everyone was settling into their places, Elain arriving elegantly late and sitting to your right, Nesta a little farther to your left. You couldn’t tell exactly where everyone else was, but someone was behind you. You could feel the warmth of their presence.

"Stubborn artisan." Damn fae.

Azriel teased you with the nickname. If you could give him nicknames, why not? He took a step closer, leaning against your chair, ignoring the sharp look you shot at him. He bent down slightly, just enough for you to hear, his velvety tone making your hairs stand on end.

"You seemed more inclined to listen that night." Your face heated with the memory. With a small grin, Azriel stood up and turned his gaze away, completely satisfied with himself.

Before you could think of a witty retort, a loud bang echoed through the house, making everyone tense. They’ve arrived. The human queens were finally here. It was time to begin the meeting that would put everything at stake.

TAGLIST: @dearestdaffodils @going-through-shit

@valeridarkness @wallacewillow0773638

@harrystylesfan2686 @carnationworld

@applerubyy @saltedcoffeescotch

@esposadomd @justdreamstars

@microwaveallthedemons @cherryinsalemverse

@stqrgirlies-blog @brujitafantomatico

@bionic-donut @kemillyfreitas

@judig92 @sassybluebird

@frietiemeloen @success78 @mariahoedt @macimads @prongslena @hnyclover @bravo-delta-eccho @cherryinsalemverse @weasleyreidstyles

*Please, if I tagged you wrong or you want to be removed from the taglist let me know!*

[sweetly-yours-and-mine]

Break Room - Coffee Machine

Summary: Hotch shares a pot of coffee with you.

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x f!Reader

Word Count: 2.2k

A/N: Set in the same universe as this, but both stand alone.

Warnings: talk of anxiety and imposter syndrome, pretty tame, doing what i do best for now until i get a grip on hotch

The break room walls seemed caked with the smell of coffees past, the pot scratched and dulled from its near constant use. You’re sure the floor goes through maybe one or two each year, yet the little pot sitting there seems ancient, well-adjusted. The air is bitter, a fragrant, musty sweetness carrying itself on the undercurrent. 

Everything seems comfortable, at home. Cabinets creak when opened, mugs are chipped and stained, well-loved. Somebody, probably in a rush, has opened a sugar packet and left little grains around the sink. You press your finger on them, eager for the indentation that they’ll leave. The fluorescents buzz incessantly, bathing the place in an almost green glow. Sheltered in the middle of the floor, there are no windows and a few hours in this kind of light will send you on to the path towards a dreadful migraine. 

The machine starts to percolate, a slow drip that will soon boil over in intensity, and the aroma of fresh coffee starting to fill the room, blooming. 

There are a few posters tacked up on the bulletin board, food drives, announcements, a sheet scouting interest for a potential sports’ league. 

Though it had hardly been a month since your transfer, you’d already learned that days like these were rare to come by. Quiet downtime between cases where the team got to play pretend at having a nine-to-five office job, and the risk that at any moment it would all be shattered. 

There’s an air of quiet and calm that you feel pointedly left out of, like looking in on a movie theatre, lights and noises muffled, the true meaning lost in between you and the door. 

Instead of relief, instead of taking advantage of the break, your thoughts had been sent into overdrive, anxiety swirling up in a messy haze, sending dust motes, tumbleweeds, and things better off left alone flying. You feel close to distraught, the quiet almost always tightening you to a near breaking point. 

You’re sure coffee won’t necessarily help with this, but sharing a floor with some of the sharpest minds in the country didn’t really leave you much room to stray from routine. You know they’re observing you, feeling their eyes sharp on your back as you walk away. They’re not making much of a show of trying to hide it, and when the initial nerves had faded away with the pleasantries, it was hard to miss. 

It’s easier to take each member one at a time, maybe two if you’re up for it. On their own, the spectre of their unity cast aside, they’re probably the best people you’ve ever met. 

They still try, despite it all, to include you whenever they can, almost pointedly. 

The drip is overwhelming now, drops tripping over each other as they fall down, the machine hissing and popping in protest. You flick it off, look down at the footprints of the sugar granules on your finger, the ache they left there shooting up towards your knuckle. 

There’s a cup drying beside the sink and you take it, the faded floral pattern calling out to you. Cherry pies. That’s what your grandmother called them, picking them from her garden and putting them in her hair. 

A set of footfalls come from down the hall, turning at the break room door. 

“Agent.”  

You turn, cup still in hand, “Agent Hotchner.” You feel like you’ve done something wrong, been caught slacking. You can’t remember the first ever time you’d felt this way, but the sharp sting of it, the twisting of your lungs together, is familiar and sends a wave of nausea through you. 

Suddenly the comforting smell of the room is more stifling, the friendly, almost matronly objects around the place turn hostile, and you want to flee instead. “Hi, sir.” 

He nods, mouth pressed into its characteristic firm line, and walks up to where you are. There’s a mug in his hands with the Bureau logo on it, the stars around the scales looking back at you. “Fresh pot?” He’s the poster child for control, for measured, even actions. His grip on the handle is unfaltering, solid like a tree trunk. 

“Yes-” your voice is rough, struggling to get out, you clear your throat, push through the embarrassment that rises like bile in your throat. “Yes, sir.” You’re painfully aware of your palm around the coffee pot handle, the warmth crawling onto your skin toeing the line between pleasant and overbearing. 

Aaron holds out his mug and you pour a glass for him, the steam curling in and disappearing to the air. You wonder if there was a way to estimate how many cups had been filled here, if the machine kept tabs. 

“Thank you.” 

“Of course, sir.” 

You busy yourself again, filling your own cup. With the pot back in place, you go over to the fridge and grab the milk container, watch the way it falls to the bottom of the cup, rising up in little mold-like blossoms as their fingers reach out to each island. 

You feel his eyes on you and you turn, an apology ready on your tongue when you see him glance down to the carton in your hand. 

“You’re settling in well, Agent,” he says, pouring milk into his cup, grabbing a wooden stirrer. His eyes are trained on what he’s doing. 

You pause, sugar packet still between your fingers. The din of the silent break room bears down on your mind, pressing behind your eyes. You want to throw in the towel on this whole stupid business right then and there, go back to your old unit, tried and true, comforting. 

It’s hard to ignore the heat of his gaze on you and to avoid meeting it for a beat longer, you reach for a stirrer as well, making a point of twirling it around your coffee through a breath or two. 

“You disagree.” 

Your eyes snap to his, see the gathering of his forehead over his eyes, casting a shadow and hiding his irises from you. 

Stammering you finally settle for a safe play, something you’ve found yourself doing too much of over the past weeks, “Sorry, sir, I-” 

“I prefer ‘Hotch’, Agent.” 

The heat rises to your cheeks, spreads across to your ears. This is the first time he’s corrected you like this, and it makes you wonder if he was expecting you to cotton on eventually and had given up hope. You feel scolded, hand stinging from the slap that was never delivered. 

He throws his stirrer out, takes a sip from his cup. His tongue darts out to lick his lips, taking a brief moment as his eyes fall shut a breath longer than normal. They open, and land on you again, and he leans the side of his hip against the counter. There’s a flicker that darts across his eye that unsettles you, “It takes time.” He says simply, and to make sure you’ve understood, “Finding your footing.” 

You churn his words over in your mind, trying to find an appropriate response. You think he was just being kind earlier, what he said about settling in alright. If you were a bit more confident, you might have spoken up how nothing has felt right for the past month, that you feel like you’re drowning most of the time, that sometimes you wake up with dread coursing through you, already weighed down by mistakes and misspoken words. 

Aaron moves to leave, straightening up and grabbing his cup when you take both of you by surprise by speaking up, “Did it take you time?” 

He stops, pausing mid-step halfway to the door. When he faces you again, his eyebrows lift, prompting you quietly. 

“To…” you clear your throat, hyper aware of your every muscle and the hot mug in your hand. You place it to the side, looking at the action pointedly so you can gain the courage to continue. “To figure it out. Find your footing.” 

“I-” he hesitates, before coming back to where he was, standing in front of you. His mouth opens once, twice, before he speaks again, “Yes. It did.” 

It sounds so simple when he says it like that, in his muted, half-murmured tone that you’d found so strange when you’d first met him. The truth sits there, dripping down between you. 

Your eyebrows lift before you can stop them, another error to add to the list for today, “Really?” 

Nodding, the line of his mouth relaxes just slightly, “Why does that surprise you?” If your self-confidence had been so drastically shaken upon your transfer, you might have thought there was amusement held behind his eyes, careful, but still there nonetheless. 

“I-uh,” you laugh, trying to hide your nerves as you test the boundaries of the conversation, your working relationship with your Unit Chief. “It just seems…” you gesture vaguely, trying to gather words as you shift your weight. “You were a pro at it, from the start.” 

Aaron lets out a soft breath through his nose, the sound in sharp contrast to the humming of machines and electricity through the walls. 

“You just,” now that he’s uncorked the bottle thoughts just keep flowing out of you, a manifestation of your frustration at yourself. “You always know what you’re doing. You’re so sure of it.” 

That’s probably the longest he’s heard you speak unprompted, and you draw away suddenly, acutely aware of it, like a bird hiding its beak in its wing. To your shock, he starts to laugh, subtly, but it’s there in the shake of his shoulders, in the covering of his mouth. 

Finally, he catches your eye, something flickering across his face that you can’t name, “I don’t.” Then, softer, “Not always.” 

Ashamed, you look down into your cup, hoping to find the answer inside and coming up empty. 

He clears his throat, “It’s hard, joining a pre-established group.” A few breaths pass before he says, “Don’t think I don’t know, or appreciate what you’re doing.” 

You blink, your thoughts coming to a screeching stop, “Th-thank you, sir.” 

“Ah-” 

A smile stutters on your face, and you correct yourself, “Hotch. Thanks, Hotch.” 

He nods and this time you know you haven’t made up the approving look on his face. It breaks quickly with the ring of his phone, and he turns away to answer. 

You look down at the abandoned stirrer in your cup. Taking a deep breath, you throw it out and take a sip. It’s gotten a bit lukewarm now, and it takes a visible effort to not scrunch your face at the taste. 

Aaron’s voice is all business when he says, “Enjoy your coffee, Agent.” He brings his cup up, in a fraction of a motion that almost looks like a cheers motion. You’re not sure if you will actually, not with the pressure on the inside of your ribs, pushing them outwards painfully, not with the way it tastes more bitter than comforting. 

“Briefing in ten.”  This time, his steps are confident, unrelenting as they click down the hallway. There was something about the way he said it, both a reminder and command. The more you interact with him, the more you realize that the almost fantastical rumours are founded in quite a lot of truth. 

Instead, you pour the coffee down the sink, dark against the battered stainless steel, and run the tap. Cupping your hands under the steady run of water, you splash some on your face, ignoring the way it darkens your blouse in spots, and drink four greedy handfuls before you feel slightly better. You brush your hand down your face to get rid of any remaining water, and dry off with a paper towel, and head down the hallway. 

When you head into the briefing room, JJ is already there, fiddling with the projector. “Hey,” she smiles at you, simple and easy. It lasts only a moment before her warm look turns searching, “You good? You disappeared for a bit.” 

You nod, fighting for some oxygen in the stale room, “Just-went for a coffee.” 

Her eyes stay trained on you for a moment before going back to the projector, “Hotch can be a lot sometimes.” 

You falter at her reading your thoughts so easily, your unease around Aaron. It felt like you were the only one who felt it. 

“Don’t worry,” her smile returns. “You get used to it.” 

You’re about to reply when the door opens again and the rest of the team starts to file in. Aaron is the last to arrive, tossing a handful of papers on the table. He looks around the room, taking in the people there. His presence stretches and fills the place, instilling a foreign sense of confidence in you, though you welcome it eagerly. When he looks at you, he holds your gaze for a beat longer before he sits down at the head of the table. 

“JJ?” 

Swallowing, you straighten in your seat, anxiety shutting off at just a word. 

Thanks for reading, if you liked it, please consider leaving some feedback! I obsess and re-read reblogs and comments constantly.

Masterlist here.

[deathofacupid]

dude (blurb) | jake peralta

summary: "dude" but romantically.

warnings: none.

pairing: fem!reader x jake peralta (friends to lovers)

word count: 0.8k+ words

"okay, but i'm serious! you have to try it, it's literally amazing."

"i was gonna take your word for it, but i remembered it's you... so, no."

"dude," he whined, a soft smile adorning his lips.

"dude," you say back, same tone.

"fine, fine, what if i make you one? that's, like, no work required. y'know minus chewing."

"jacob jeffrey peralta, i am not, not even on my deathbed, trying pickles with ice cream. that's just a new level of gross."

"but charles approved it!"

"why on earth would that affect whether or not i try it?"

"y'know, i have no clue. i'm getting desperate."

"i can see that."

"dudeeee," he kicks his feet on the floor as he's sitting next to you on the couch. die hard is playing on the tv in his apartment, but the two of you have seen it so many times, you practically have it memorized by heart.

and why would you ever watch die hard when jake's sitting right there?

between you and yourself, you know which you'd rather watch. okay, "watch" sounded creepy.

you're laying on his lap as he's looking down at you, pouting.

you roll your eyes, but it's all fun. "dudeeee."

truth be told, you're sure you can handle the odd food combo, but teasing him and drawing this out is so much more fun. god, you really are in love with him.

"pretty, pretty, please? with- with, like, seven cherries on top?"

"just seven?" you pretend to be offended.

"i'm a brokie, the best i can do is eight." jake runs a hand through your hair, it's so comforting.

you sigh, "all right."

"to the cherries or the pream?"

"the- the what now?"

"pickles. ice cream. pickles and ice cream. pream? yeah, you know what, that's... that's not it. doesn't roll of the tongue great."

"oh, yeah. that, and it sounds like an std."

"good point. i'm gonna assume you meant the... cream... pi... creampi-"

"i'm gonna stop you right there."

he nods quickly. "right. what about cream-"

"not if it starts with 'cream', dude."

"icickles?"

"n-"

"piccream!"

"if i try your 'dish'," you air quote, "will you stop trying to come up with names."

"maybe."

you give him a look, and he amends, "yes. maybe. i pledge to do my best." jake salutes you, then pokes your check. you scowl, swatting him away and sitting up.

"lead me to your kitchen."

"sure. it's five steps that-a-way," he says, pointing to the kitchen that is quite exactly five steps away. like a true gentleman, jake scoops you - through which you protest ("dude!") - and then (after six steps, actually [wow, his apartment is slightly bigger than hypothesized]) sets you on the counter.

"i feel like you should know that i'm perfectly capable of walking on my own."

"but why would you when i'm here?"

"dude."

"dude," he replies, grabbing the ice cream from the freezer.

"how are you even supposed to eat this? like... spread it? o-or dip?"

jake grabs a spoon and scoops some ice cream onto it. "watch, young jedi."

"i don't-"

"shh, i'm yoda-ing." he spreads it on the pickle and shoves it in your face. slowly, you sniff it. it doesn't smell... like anything bad, really.

it doesn't look great though. "is it too late to go back?"

"yes." after a second, he groans, "gah, i'll go first." he takes a bite, and you make a face.

"mmm... you shouf knodis is-"

"jake, swallow."

he grins and you furrow your brows. "what- oh. oh! jake!" your cheeks heat up so quickly, for a number of reason. because, yeah, obviously the second one sounds better.

also, of course that's what he instantly goes to.

"oh, my god. are you twelve or thirty-three? because i honestly can't tell."

"dude, i'm well-versed. you wouldn't understand."

"i'm... twenty-five. wo-wouldn't i-?"

"schematics."

"yeah, okay, bud."

"dude," he corrects.

"right," you murmur, "dude."

you don't really realize how he's leaning in, the way if you do too, your lips would touch. you falter, and you can feel warm breath minglingwith yours.

jake cups your cheek and you lean into it. you aren't sure what's about to happen, though it should be obvious. but with jake, you're nervous, afraid that this isn't really happening.

you have no clue what he's done with the pickle, and you have no clue why that's what's on your mind right now.

he squeezes your waist gently, a way of asking for permission. you nod, and at first, it's just a brush. just a brush of his lips against yours, feeling for some type of sense that this is happening. that it's reality.

you press back against him, your hand on top of his, the one on your face. your other hand blindly feels for his hair, tugging against his soft, brown curls.

when you pull away, you're breathing hard. not because of the kiss, because it wasn't aggressive or any longer than twenty seconds, but because of the adrenaline of it all.

"dude," he breathes, and you giggle.

"y'taste like pickles. and ice cream. it's actually not that bad," you admit. "at least not on you."

"dude," jake repeats, dumb-founded at what just happened.

you peck him again, right on the lips, "dude."

[formulaa-1]

Soo

A charles leclerc x reader where the reader is the sister of a fellow driver (you pick) and no one knows. and when they do find out the brother loses his shit and then just accepts it

Thx a lot

instagram au🏎️ C.L

Gasly!reader x Charles leclerc

y/n’s older brother Pierre doesn’t know she’s dating his best friend…kind of a soft launch?

-

y/ngasly

y/ngasly: feels like summer☀️👙

liked by pierregasly, yourfriendsuser, charles_leclerc and 21,347 others

view all 47 comments

pierregasly:Qui est sur la 2e photo ?

y/ngasly: ça ne te regarde pas💗

pierregasly: oi

fransisca.cgomes: beau bébé😍💗

y/ngasly: love youuu💗

gaslyfann: their friendship is so cute >>🥹

pg10fann: we wish you was in the paddock more !!

Liked by y/ngasly

lechairfannn16: charles liking🤭

-

-

y/ngasly’s story

caption: breakfast in bed🥐🍓🍉

-

-

charles_leclerc

charles_leclerc: feels like summer ;)🤷🏻‍♂️🤷🏻‍♂️

Liked by y/ngasly, f1fanzz, arthur_leclerc and 251,467 others

view all 563 comments

pierregasly: ☀️☀️☀️

fan57: either Pierre already knows y/n and charles are OBVIOUSLY dating or he’s really dumb 💀💀

user11: deffo dumb 😭😭

fan8: SECOND PHOTO HELLO?????

scuderiaferrari: ❤️❤️❤️

sainzgirly: HIM USING THE SAME CAPTION AS Y/N👹👹👹

user88: we lost him guys🥹🥲🥲

y/nandcha: Y/N AND CHARLES SOFT LAUNCHING !!!!!!!!!!!

-

y/ngasly and charles_leclerc

y/ngasly and charles_leclerc: mon amour❤️❤️

Liked by lorenzotl, yourbff, scuderiaferrari and 645,291 others

view all 257 comments

pierregasly: wtf seriously.

y/ngasly: please don’t be mad with me 🫤💗

charles_leclerc: we’re sorry for not telling you before!

pierregasly: fuck off charles

user257: THE GIRLS ARE FIGHTINGGGGG

arthur_leclerc: beautiful couple❤️

Liked by y/ngasly and Charles_leclerc

fan279: arthurs comment is so funny to me considering there’s a whole fight going on above it 😭😭😭

pierregaslyyyy: fr💀💀

ferarriboyz: *cries in happiness*

user192: they’re🥹so🥹freaking🥹cute😭😭😭😭

-

y/ngasly

y/ngasly: even tho Pierre was a little pi**ed at first…they’re still besties!!🫶🏼🫶🏼

tagged: pierregasly and charles_leclerc

Liked by pierregasly, charles_leclerc, gazly10fan and 109,268 others

view all 383 comments

gazly10fan: nah that first pic is a violation 💀💀

charles_leclerc: y/n no!!! you promised you wouldn’t post that first one 🤦🏻‍♂️

y/ngasly: meh you love me anyway 💗

charles_leclerc: that’s true 😚❤️

pierregasly: this is actually vile stop.

y/ngasly: as if I don’t see you doing WAY worse in kikas comments💀💀

Liked by fransisca.cgomes

user19: this comment section is so funny😭😭

CL16_ffan: help the haircuts I can’t -

-

authors note- hope you liked this ,felt a little motivated after my last post so here we go!! I’m so sorry that it took literal months to do this request but I hope this is what you wanted my love ! take care of yourselves ❤️❤️

[xoxoavenger]

Come Back, Be Here

pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

summary: Y/N dies, but true to their lives, death is never the end. Spanning eight years, Dean and Y/N's relationship somehow continues, even through death.

word count: 5196

warnings: major character death, canon typical injuries, pregnancy

12 Days of Christmas Masterlist main masterlist

Dean dreamt about the day she died every time he fell asleep. Which wasn't often before she died, but now it was even less. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it.

"Dean," She reached for him, but Dean had been frozen. There was so much blood, too much blood, and he knew what that meant. He had gone through it before.

"Baby, no." Dean whispered, finally getting his ass in gear and moving to her. He held her in his arms, knowing there was nothing he could do as soon as he looked at the blood spilling from the open wound on her chest. He trusted Sam was out there tearing the werewolf to parts, but just in case he was ready to scorch the earth in order to get this revenge. 

"It's okay, I promise." She says softly, nodding quickly. Tears formed in her eyes, and Dean could already feel his throat closing up. He'd never felt this kind of emotion, this resignation that settled deep in his chest. He hated it, wanted to fight it with everything in him.

"No, no, I can fix this." Dean said, one arm wrapped around her and the other hand moving over hers. She shakes her head, a smile still on her pretty face.

"There's nothing to fix." She tells him, blood starting to sputter at her mouth. He knew what that meant. "Don't make any deals, okay? Don't run like," She pauses to cough, blood coating her pretty lips and starting to dribble down her chin. Dean has to comfort her. "Like a chicken with your head cut off."

"Y/N," He says it like a prayer, so quiet she barely hears it.

"I love you," She tells him, and he knows it's over. Her voice is weak, her chest barely moving.

"I love you too." He cries softly, looking into her eyes one last time. "I'll see you soon, okay?" He whispers, moving his hand to her head to cradle it close. He leans in, her body carefully held against his, and kisses her forehead as tears run down his face. He feels her take her final breath, her body going lax.

The only thing keeping him from screaming is her laying in his arms.

"All I'm saying is you're not seeing this from Bobby's point of view." Sam says. They're parked in the Impala outside of Bobby's house, not sure how to feel about his dead wife making pies in the house.

"Sam, that thing in there isn't Karen. And if Bobby is too deluded to see it, then," Dean trails off, shaking his head. He feels like he needs to do something, he needs to help Bobby because Bobby can't help himself.

"What if it was Y/N?" Sam asks, which fires up Dean. It's only been a year and a half since she died, and it's still too fresh. It's the first time Sam's mentioned her since he tried to get him to talk about it at first.

"What if it was Jessica?" Dean shoots back, not sure how to make it even.

"I'd feel the same way Bobby does." Sam says honestly, and Dean shakes his head. He starts to get out of the car.

"Which is why I need to go in there and take her out before," His words get lost in his throat as he looks over at the woman leaning against one of the cars in the yard. It's not Karen, but she is dead.

"Y/N?" Dean had forgotten about how they had buried her ashes in South Dakoda, the closest they could get to home. He blinked as he stared at her - she was a little pale, eyes sunken a little, but her body was unharmed. There was no blood. She was even wearing a sundress and a dark jean jacket that Dean thinks may have been his at one time slung over her shoulders. It's the outfit Dean had put on her when they burned her, even though Sam and Bobby both looked at him weirdly when he brought her out in different clothes. Now, he thinks this is the best idea he'd ever had, because she's never looked more beautiful.

"Hi, Dean." She says, voice sweet but not sickly.

"How are you feeling about Karen now?" Sam says as he gets out of the car, and if Dean weren't so enraptured by his dead lover he would have slapped his brother so hard the crack of his hand would have sounded like a gunshot.

"Baby," Dean walks forward, hunting instincts be damned. His mind is flashing with the memories of her dying in his arms, of him holding her close but not close enough.

"I know you won't believe this," She tells him, pushing off the car but keeping her distance. "But it's really me, Dean. It's," He just keeps walking toward her until he puts his hands on her cheeks, looking at her face. Everything is quiet for a moment, Y/N looking up at Dean and him trying to decide if he's about to kiss a zombie.

He does.

He rubs his thumb against her cheek as she kisses him back, and then he pauses. The scar underneath her eye from when a demon got too close to stabbing her eye out. It's there, even though when Dean came back from Hell he was scarless. He moves back, slipping a hand under her dress and all the way up her torso (on the side away from Sam, he's not an idiot). The claw marks from the werewolf that had clawed her before Dean had been able to kill it were gone. All that was left was smooth skin.

"What's going on?" Dean whispers, tears in his eyes. He doesn't know if he wants to understand, doesn't want to look a gift horse in the mouth. It's like she's back to the day before she died, perfect and whole and his.

"Dean," She puts a hand on his face, because she knows what he's thinking. She was there when he went to Hell, and she was there when he got back. She knew all about how his wounds and scars had been healed, and she knew this would make him confused. She knew she had to tell him the truth.

"It's Death," She wishes they had just a moment to themselves, something more than just the kiss. But this was their life. This had always been Dean's life. "He brought everyone back. Back to before we died, because I'm assuming I was cremated." She hates that she leaves part of it out, hates that she has to say the rest.

"I don't understand." Dean says simply, eyes closed as he rests his forehead on hers. His hand is still under her dress, burning her skin.

"He did this on purpose." She whispers, leaning back to look in his eyes. "He brought me back to distract you."

"It doesn't matter. You're back, that's all I care about." He kisses her again, and she lets him for a few moments.

"That's what he wants. You know this isn't right." She says when he finally pulls away.

"I've come back. Sam has come back. You can come back too. It's your turn, I don't want to live without you anymore." He presses himself into her, as if that would stop her from leaving.

"Not like this, and you know it." She brushes her hand against his face, up through his hair and to his neck. He knows that she's right. He knows that this can't last, that something is going on. Even Death himself can't make Dean Winchester happy, apparently.

"Well," He leans back, wiping his face as if he's not about to fall apart at the seems. "If you're back, might as well help us out." He turns to Sam, who is smiling sadly at them. Dean can practically read his thoughts.

This is going to kill Dean.

~

"Sheriff Mills," Y/N smiles as Jody opens the door. She's surprised Dean let her leave on her own, even after she had to swear up and down she'd only be gone an hour. She's pretty sure she knows why the sheriff is fine with the dead rising, and it's the same reason Bobby is fine with it. "I'm Y/N. I just wanted to talk to you about the stuff going on the town." She hopes Jody knows what she means, and by the darkening of her face, Y/N thinks she does.

"I don't know who you are, but you need to leave." Jody says with a tight smile, going to close the door. Y/N puts a hand on it, stepping a little closer.

"I'm Dean Winchester's girlfriend." Y/N explains, taking a deep breath. "I died, but now I'm here. And I know that the same thing has happened for you, too. But I also know that it's gonna turn." She tries, but Jody just looks angry as she turns behind her and then walks out to meet Y/N, closing the door behind her.

"Listen, you don't know anything. And I am not giving this up just because you think that your luck can't get any better than rock bottom." Jody says lowly. Y/N shakes her head, turning to look through the window. She sees a little boy, but he seems a little lost. Y/N looks back at her.

"It's your son." She says, hoping this doesn't drive Jody away. "I'm sorry, I can't imagine,"

"You're right, you can't, because you're dead." Jody accuses, and Y/N knows she's lost her. "I'm glad you came back, I am. I just met Dean, but I can tell he's a little rough around the edges. I'm sure your death had something to do with it. But you're not going to take away my happiness." Jody walks back into the house without another word, and Y/N just sighs. She gets back into the car she borrowed from Bobby, making the short drive back.

That's when she starts to feel sick.

She knows it's over then, knows what has to happen. She sits in the car for a moment, thinking about how this is going to break Dean. She doesn't know if it's better to kill herself out here or let Dean kill her or ask Sam to do it. In the end, she knows either of them finding her body would be worse than asking one of them to kill her.

"Y/N!" Dean's by her door, and she startles. Dean opens up the door, and she realizes how hot she was in there. He must realize it too, and he puts a hand to her forehead. "You're burning up." He whispers as he helps her up, and she just nods, leaning against him and soaking up what she knows will be the last couple minutes.

"Sheriff Mills, she has a son. That's why she won't do anything." She tells him as they walk into the house. Dean helps her up the stairs, into the room they'd always stay in when they were with Bobby.

"It's okay, it's fine." Dean tells her as he lays her on the bed. He wipes the hair away from her face, but she can see the tears in his eyes.

"You have to help her." She tells him, sweat pouring from her skin. She tries to smile, but there are tears threatening to fall from her eyes now too. "Something's wrong."

"No, no, it's okay." Dean says, slipping into the bed next to her. He holds her, and she feels wrong. She's sick, and it's not okay. She shouldn't be sick. 

"Don't lie to me in my last moments." She says, their foreheads pressed together. He grabs her hand with the one that's under her body, and that's when she looks over and realizes he has his gun in the other hand. "I'm turning, aren't I?" She asks, and then they hear the gunshot downstairs.

"I can't do this." Dean says, tears falling down his face. "It was bad the first time, I can't be the cause of it." He says, and she reaches a shaky hand down to his.

"I'm sorry," She says, even though they both know it isn't her fault. "I promise when we meet again, it'll be better." She tells him, kissing him one last time before leading his hand up to her head, pressing the barrel of the gun against her skull.

"I still love you," Dean whispers, sniffling. "Even more than I did back then." He's not even lying, is the worst part, and it breaks her heart. She wishes he would move on, that he could be happy. But she knows if she were in his situation, she would never be able to.

"I love you too. When we see each other again, it'll be better." She repeats with more confidence, squeezing his hand around the gun and kissing him again quickly. She nods once, and then watches him close his eyes. She closes hers too, so he doesn't have to look into her lifeless eyes.

He never sleeps in that room again. 

~

"I'm going to give you what you want most."

When Amara had said it, Dean wasn't sure what he had wanted most. There were a lot of things he wanted in this world; free pie, cheeseburgers served at every restaurant, his brother's happiness, for Lucifer to just stay the fuck away for good. There were some really unreasonable things that he didn't want to admit, like how he wishes his dad died instead of his mom, or that his mom had never married his dad. But he wouldn't say that he wanted that the most.

He was disoriented in the park, looking around and trying to process what just happened. He wasn't sure he wasn't dead, honestly. So when he turned around and saw Y/N for the first time in 6 years, he froze.

She wasn't wearing the sundress and jean jacket that they had buried her in like she had been last time he saw her. She was wearing the jeans and jacket that she had been when she was mauled, and she looked like she was confused.

"Y/N?" Dean asks, and she blinked at him.

"What the hell is going on?" She's breathing heavily, looking around like something was chasing her.

"Y/N, you're okay." He's trying to convince himself as he walks towards her, but she continues to look around.

"Dean? Dean, where did they go?" She asks when he finally gets close enough, grabbing onto his biceps.

"What?" He mutters, still in awe that she's there, that Amara has somehow saved her.

"The werewolves?" She asks as if it's obvious, looking around them. She finally looks at him, and then starts to realize. "Why are you wearing different clothes? Why do you look different?" She steps back, taking him in.

"It's okay." Is all Dean says as he takes her into his arms, mind whirling when she struggles away.

"What's going on?" Y/N asks, looking at him. He grabs her hands, and she hesitantly lets him.

"Do you remember Souix Falls?" He isn't sure yet if he wants her to remember or not, because while the reunion sex was great, he didn't want her to have the memory of him having to blow her brain out.

"What?" She asks, clearly confused. He realizes that he's gonna have to be more specific.

"You died." He finally says, and she stares. "The werewolves, they killed you. You've been dead for eight years." By the look on her face, it looks like she doesn't remember anything. Amara must have plucked her right before she died.

"The werewolves killed me?" She asks, then looks him up and down. "Eight years ago?" She starts to breathe heavily, and he knows that she's starting to freak out.

"Baby," He starts, and this time she lets him fold her into his body. He can't help how right this feels, how much he's missed this. Six years ago, he was glad to have her back, but this time is different. This is real, he knows it.

"Eight years?" She mutters into his chest. She's shaking, and he's holding her together. He knows that she's always had what was an irrational fear of losing time, but now that fear has not only become rational but also true.

"I know, I know." He holds the back of her head, wishing he could somehow make it better. "But you're back, shit, you have no idea how it feels to have you back." She lets him squeeze her, knowing he needs this.

"What the hell happened?" She asks, and honestly, Dean isn't really sure where to start.

~

She's a little overwhelmed by everyone at the bunker, by Castiel asking how she got back when he saw her in heaven and Sam squeezing her so hard she's pretty sure she breaks her rib. There's only a couple of them, just the boys living in the bunker, but she can't handle it. She's just learned that she's lost eight years of her life - eight years that Dean lived but apparently he didn't move on? She'll have to ask Sam about that, because it's not like she doesn't believe Dean but more that she doesn't want to believe that any of this happened.

Once she gets into Dean's room, she feels like she can finally breathe. The room could do with some air circulation, but the only trash is the empty beer bottles, so she thinks he's doing pretty good. She stands in front of the closed door, watching Dean simply throw his bag to the ground and jump onto his bed. She looks around, seeing his guns on the walls, some pictures loosely on one of the bed side tables. It looks like only one of them is occupied, even though he has enough stuff between his desk and the table to fill them both. But the left side, the side she always slept on when they were together, there's nothing. It's empty, as if it's been lying in wait for her return.

She wants to cry.

Instead, she goes over to the photos, grabbing the messy stack and gathering them so she can flip through them. Dean grabs her thighs from his spot laying down as she looks at the top photo - Dean and Mary. She smiles, looking down at him as he looks at her like she created the stars and painted the castellations all for him. She blushes and flips to the next one.

Her breath gets caught.

It's her and Dean, the day she died. And it feels like yesterday to her, but the photo is warn with age and the right side, where she's standing, is rubbed raw, the coloring turned to white. She wants to cry - she's already crying. Dean sits up and takes her into his arms, and she carefully puts the photos down onto the table before falling into his arms and crying. Dean holds her tightly, and she can tell just how much he needs it too.

They sleep clinging together, sore when they wake up from holding on so hard. It isn't until a couple weeks later, when Y/N's throwing up in the bathroom for the seventh day in a row, that they start to think that maybe, possibly, Amara brought back more than just Y/N.

"When was the last time we had sex?" Y/N asked, rubbing her eyes as she drank coffee (it was decaf, Dean had switched it out without telling her just incase).

"Y/N," Dean wipes a hand over his face, trying to keep his cool. He's looking through the fridge, trying to find something that she actually wants to eat. "That was literally eight years ago for me." He bites his tongue to keep the rest in, because he wishes Y/N would just take a pregnancy test.

"Okay, well I remember it being only a couple days before. But you had been gone for, like, a month before that, so I'm not sure of this-"

"What have I walked in on?" Sam asks, but he has a smile on his face. Y/N yawns, putting her head in her hands.

"When was the last time you went grocery shopping?" Dean asks, closing the fridge.

"Uh, I'm not sure. But we should have eggs." Sam explains, and Y/N gags between her hands without even looking up.

"Y/N doesn't want eggs." Dean explains simply, and Sam is silent for a second.

"Okay, well, I'm so glad you're back, but we're limited on options." Sam says, and Y/N leans her head toward the ceiling with closed eyes.

"Great, I'm not hungry anyway." She gets up and walks out, leaving Sam to blink at her. Cas is standing in the doorway when she passes, and he just watches her.

"What's wrong with her?" Sam asks, going to the coffee pot. He sees the grounds next to it and notices the green can. "Why is this decaf?" He picks it up, knowing that his brother would never willingly drink coffee that doesn't have caffeine.

"Is Y/N pregnant?" Cas asks, which surprises both brothers for different reasons. Dean did not think that the angel would be one to put it all together, but there he is. The three of them stand silently in the kitchen, everyone looking at Dean.

"Man, you don't waste time." Sam smirks at his brother, and Dean lunges to punch him. Cas moves quickly, grabbing Dean's wrist to stop him from starting a physical fight.

"I only meant to ask a question." Cas said lowly, moving back so they're all standing in the kitchen, some sort of uneven triangle.

"You don't just ask people if they're pregnant, Cas." Dean sighs, because he's pretty sure that if an angel thinks his girlfriend is pregnant, she's definitely pregnant.

"I know." Cas says with a straight face that makes Dean want to hit him. "That's why I asked you."

"I don't know what's going on, alright?" Dean says, stress evident in his voice. "Obviously, I don't remember the last time we had sex eight years ago. But she says it doesn't add up, so," He doesn't know what to else to say.

"Why exactly did Amara bring Y/N back?" Sam asks, and Dean just shrugs as he thinks.

"Something about how she was giving me what I wanted most." He answers. Sam looks to Cas, who for the first time ever seems to have caught onto something before Dean did. "What? What are you thinking?"

"She's given you a family, Dean." Cas explains. Dean looks with wide eyes at his brother and his best friend, then passes out.

~

"You called Jody?" Dean yells to Sam when he opens the door to see Jody with two bags in her hands.

"Who the hell did you get pregnant?" She asks, anger on her face as she storms past Dean and down the stairs.

"It's a long story," Dean starts, rushing after Jody as she walks into the library.

"Yeah, Sam said that on the phone." She sees Y/N sitting at a table, and smiles at her politely as she puts everything down and turns back to Dean. "Seriously, Dean, what-" She pauses, eyes wide as she turns back to Y/N.

"Hi." Y/N waves a hand, small smile on her face.

"Y/N?" Jody looks from her to Dean, then back to her. She blinks, mouth open, then turns back to Dean. "What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything!" Dean defends, and Y/N narrows her eyes.

"You know who I am?" She asks, catching Jody's attention once more. The older woman blinks a couple times.

"We talked in Sioux Falls." She doesn't explain, and Y/N turns to Dean.

"What happened in Sioux Falls?" She remembers Dean asking her about it, but he never told her about it.

"You never told her?" Jody let out a loud sigh and put a hand on her head, because not only was Dean's dead girlfriend back from the dead, but she was also apparently pregnant.

"She knows she died." He defends, and Y/N wants to rip her hair out.

"What happened?" She yells, and everyone goes quiet. Jody turns to Dean, lips pulled in. He sighs, then turns to her.

"About six years ago in Sioux Falls, when we were fighting the Four Horsemen, Death was trying to get to us." Thinking about this, even with Y/N actually alive and in front of him, makes him sick. "He brought back everyone who was buried in the Sioux Falls cemetery; Jody's son, Bobby's wife," He doesn't want to say it, but he knows he has to. "You."

"What?" Y/N asks, unable to think of anything else to ask. This was the last thing she thought he would tell her.

"The people who came back, they turned into zombies. You went to talk to Jody, but it was too late, we knew what was going on by then." Dean explains, not able to look at anyone as he tries to keep his emotions in check.

"I was a zombie?" Y/N says after a couple seconds, and Dean shakes his head.

"No, no. I didn't let that happen." He told her, and she just nods. So Dean had to kill her.

"Why don't I remember anything?" She asks, looking to Jody. She doesn't recall talking to her at all, and she had already told Dean that the last thing she remembers is the werewolf running at her.

"I don't know." Dean says. "But I know you weren't pregnant then." This further cements their theory that Amara brought Y/N back pregnant.

"Not to be rude, but how are you here?" Jody asks, looking over to Dean and assuming that he had everything to do with it.

"Uh, Dean said that this entity, the Darkness, brought me back as a gift to Dean. We think that she brought me back pregnant to give Dean a family." Y/N explains. Jody's mouth opens in surprise.

"Amara brought you back pregnant." Jody says slowly, and Y/N nods with a sardonic smile on her face.

"Yeah," Y/N nods. "And until Sam can make me a fake ID with a different birth year, I can't exactly go to the doctor about this." She explains. Her original plan had been to see how far along she was, but Castiel had pointed out that whatever IDs Dean had saved of hers' would be off by eight yeras and she wasn't sure if that was believable.

"Well, I brought you some pregnancy tests that will give you an estimate, but they're not exact." Jody says as she starts to grab the boxes out of the the bag.

"I don't think I'm gonna need all this." Y/N says, her face betraying the shock as Jody just continues to bring out more things.

"If you are pregnant, which is sounds like you definitely are, you're going to needs some of these things." She pulls out a the rest and then makes a show of pointing at them as she explains. "Pregnancy-safe anti-nausea pills, prenatal pills, and some other important stuff that I know the boys don't have here. Hairbands, an actual brush." Y/N smiles at this, because while the boys tried, they really didn't have anything for her. She had gone out with Dean to get clothes the other day, but everything looked so different than when she was alive, and she had been overwhelmed by everyone around her. She guessed it wouldn't matter if she was pregnant, because she would have to get new clothes.

She knew Dean wanted this obviously, but it was all so fast. He had lived eight years without her, and now suddenly she was back and they were going to have a kid before they had any time to enjoy themselves.

"Why don't you take this test first?" Jody asks, handing Y/N one of the boxes that will tell her how far along she is. "If you only just started feeling sick, you shouldn't be too far along." Jody then looks at Dean, who just stares back. She tilts her head toward where Y/N has started to walk towards the bathroom, and Dean just blinks.

"What?" He whispers, completely lost.

"Go with her!" Jody says through her teeth, and Dean's eyes narrow.

"To watch her pee?"

"Dean!" Sometimes, Jody can't believe the man's stupidity. "She just got back from being dead for eight years and now she may be pregnant, and this is all your fault. Go be there for her." Finally Dean's eyes widen as he realizes it, and he rushes off to her.

"Y/N!" He says just as she's shutting the door. She startles and turns to him, and he tries to smile. "I just wanted to be here for you." He explains.

"To watch me pee?" She asks with a small smile, and he nervously chuckles.

"I knew it was a bad idea." He mutters. "I'll just be out here, for support." He tells her, and she nods and kisses him quickly before shutting the door.

Waiting for the test to finish felt like it took forever. They didn't want to go back into the living room, wanted to have this moment to themselves with their backs against the wall. It beeped, and Y/N tightened her hand around it.

"I don't want to look." She whispers, turning to Dean with tears in her eyes. "I'm scared."

"It's okay," He says, putting one hand over her hand and leaning their foreheads together. "And I know what you're thinking, but if you don't want this," He says it with tears in his eyes, but she knows he's being honest.

"I want it," She says, because despite all her reservations, she still wants a baby with Dean. "I'm just afraid." She admits, and cups her cheek.

"It's okay." He says, kissing her softly. They stay frozen in the moment for as long as they can, and then she pulls away.

"On three?" She asks, and he nods. "One, two, three." She turns the test over, and sees partly what she had been expecting. It confirms she's pregnant, but underneath it says 3+ weeks in small letters.

"Maybe it's from eight years ago?" She says, leaning back against the wall.

"None of this makes sense." Dean says, hands coming to his face to wipe at his eyes.

"Do you want a baby?" She asks, just to make sure that if this isn't a 'gift' that he'd still be okay.

"Would you kill me if I said yes?" He can't look at her, but she just grabs her hand.

"Well, it's a little too late for killing, considering I'm already pregnant." She puts a hand to her stomach for the first time, and a weird feeling passes through her. She does want this, and she knows that Dean wants this too.

He has the whole bunker. They just defeated the Darkness. Dean knows that he can do this. Maybe he wouldn't give up hunting completely, but he'd calm it down a little bit. He would definitely be more careful.

"Are we having a baby?" Dean asks, his voice high with hope. She smiles up at him, and he can't help the emotion that floods his chest.

"We're having a baby." 

//

tags: @avada-kedavra-bitch-187  @one-sweet-gubler @theoraekenslover @king-of-milf-lovers

[satorusugurugurl]

Quiet

Summary: When the population declines after alien monsters that are drawn to sound plague the world, you and your boyfriend must participated in the mandated breeding program; quietly of course.

Pairing: Geto Suguru x AFAB!Reader

Warning: language, breeding, mandated breeding, quiet sex, praise kink, unprotected sex, cream pies,

Word Count: 1K

A/N: Kinktober day Twenty-Seven: A Quiet Place! Thinking about Suguru breathing heavily against the readers lips as they slowly and very quietly make love gives me the chills and makes me hot at the same time.

One year, twelve months, three hundred-sixty-five days, and eight-thousand-seven-hundred and six hours have passed since the monsters, the aliens invaded.

They were terribly disastrous creatures. It was using sound to hunt and exterminate anyone and anything that made a sound. So many of your friends, loved ones, and friends, and it wasn't just you. The planet faced a heavy loss of life.

Which is how the mandated breeding program came to be. All couples were encouraged to reproduce and continue human life. Something you all knew was for the best, but fuck, it was so fucking hard.

“Should we really be doing this?” you whispered as Suguru adjusted the pillows on the floor mattress. “This is a bad idea.”

Your boyfriend turned to look at you over his shoulder. “Do you not want to anymore?” his voice was so soft as he turned to face you. “We can hold off if you want.”

“N-No, I mean I’m—it’s just, I'm too loud.” You hesitantly admitted, rubbing at your neck with a sigh.

“Oh, baby.” Suguru grabbed your hand. “It’s okay. I’ll keep you quiet.”

“You promise?”

“Of course.” You sank onto the mattress with him. Grinning as he reached out, cupping your cheek with his hand. “I would never let anything bad happen to you.”

You knew that was true; he would protect you no matter what. Suguru had proved that on several different occasions. What you were concerned about was the fact that he fucked you so good you were always screaming, which could be the death of you in this day and time. But the way he gently helped your face, thumb brushing over your cheeks, there wasn't a doubt in your mind that he would protect you if needed.

“Okay—let’s do it.”

Those four words had led you to this predicament you found yourself in.

You covered both your hands over your mouth, whimpering as Suguru’s cock slowly pushed inside of you. You cried out, eyes rolling back as he pushed further inside of you, pushing until his hips were flush against yours. You were shaking, covering your mouth as hard as you could, while Suguru covered his mouth with one of his hands.l, his dark brows furrowing as he stared down at your flushed face.

You whined as he began pumping slowly in and out of you. The sheets shifted under the movement. It was slow and sweet but still carried his desperation with each drag of his velvety cock inside of you. Suguru sighed into his hand, violet eyes rolling back as he gripped your hip tightly with his other hand as he found a pace.

You wanted to pull him down to kiss him, scream his name, beg for more. But you couldn't. This new world has changed the way you make love. But just because you couldn't scream or beg. That didn't mean the sex was terrible.

It was the opposite.

Having sex with Suguru while trying to stay quiet in order to stay safe gave you a certain adrenaline rush. There was a rush when he would push into you, drawing out muffled moans from you before he repeated the same action over and over again. Pushing his cock right up against your cervix before he angled it to rub over your spongy spot with each thrust.

He kept thrusting into you, and you pulled your hands away from your mouth to wrap around his shoulder as he dropped his hand to the bedding underneath you, fisting it as he slammed into your pussy with a force that would make anyone scream.

But you didn't scream.

Because Suguru panted softly against your lips, his eyes burning holes into your soul. “Shh,” he whispered as you dug your nails into his skin, leaving imprints of crescent moons in your wake. “Shh, I got you, Princess.” His breath was hot against your lips, the tone guttural and dripping with lust and need. “Shh.” His lips were so soft against yours as he kissed you.

“Mmm~” you breathe out against his lip.

“So good, such a good girl for me.” He praised as he pressed a harder kiss to your lips. “Such a good, good partner, and you're going to be a fantastic mother. His voice was so quiet you could barely hear it, but it was enough to get your heart slamming and your pussy clenching.

With that statement, he slams into you with all his strength. “Unnnf!” You moan against his lips. He’s so much stronger than you making his thrusts just as strong as he fucks you senselessly. “M-mm,”

“Are ya close?” he whispered in your ear, his cock sliding faster in and out of your throbbing pussy. As soon as you nod, he’s kissing you again, his thumb finding your clit with precise ease.

“Mm!!”

“Nngh!” he cries out softly as he pounds into you, sending you over the edge.

You wanted to scream his name, but his mouth attached to yours, swallowing your moans. Your body convulses as you arch off the bed in ecstasy, your walls clamping down on him as your orgasm slams into you. He keeps fucking you hard, milking you through your orgasm. Your body trembles through the aftershocks of the orgasm, and Suguru growling deeply in your ear, his cock swelling inside of you.

“Mmm, love you.” is the only thing Suguru says against you. Kiss swollen lips as he cums; he pushes deep inside of you, his cum filling your pussy, and he slowly thrusts, pushing it further in until he's confident his cum is all of the way inside of you. It's only when he's certain or that when he lets out a soft-throated growl, his cock twitching inside of you

The sounds of your soft panting against his lips have him grinning as he squeezes your ass since slapping it was out of the question. You don't say much as he rolls you onto your side, facing him and giving you both a much better view of his face as he slowly thrusts in and out of you, his twitching cough coming back to life inside of you.

“I love you.” Suguru sighs against your lips before pressing soft kisses against your cheek. “But would you call me needy if I told you I want you again?” His voice vibrates over your skin as he wraps his arm around your back, pressing you firmly against him.

“I love you too, " you whisper back, hooking your leg on his hip and bringing him closer to you. “And not at all, because I always need you.”

He chuckled roughly before setting a quicker pace than before, one that has you both kissing each other to stoffle your moans. Fuck you loved him so much and despite the state of the world. Where everything changed in the blink of an eye, one thing was still as clear as day, as bright as the sun. Your love for Geto Suguru was pure and true. He made a quiet place feel special.

Forever Tag List:

@darkstarlight82 @pandoness @nealeart @simp-plague @sugurubabe @chilichopsticks @reap3erslov3 @wil10wthetree @msniks @lana18918 @draculemon

Kinktober Tag List:

@candy-s72

[cameronspecial]

Let Us Cheer You Up, Angel

Pairing: Frat!Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: N/A

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 0.5K

Summary: Y/N is feeling a little down because of her period and the boys can only think of one way to cheer her up.

A/N: This is inspired by this post.

Masterlist

Sometimes her period has Y/N feeling a little more emotional than normal. She knows it is a cliche, but why should she feel ashamed by the overrunning of her hormones? The poor frat brothers of Alpha Epsilon Pi don’t exactly know what to do with the new crying Y/N that is always around the house. They truly like having her around. The house is cleaner because Rafe picks up after them so she doesn’t get grossed out. They actually have real food to eat because Y/N doesn’t love eating takeout all the time and Rafe wants to provide her with more nutritious meals. And she always gives the best life advice. So it’s safe to say that they are all upset at the habitually of her teary eyes. Rafe was surprised when the boys came to her with an idea on what may make her feel better and he was quick to jump in on the idea. They spent the afternoon practicing while she was away at class.

Rafe hears Y/N return and she plops down on the couch immediately to watch TV. She turns it on to see it is playing the dog commercial that always brings her to tears. He finds her with globs of water pooling at the corner of her eyes and takes her into his hold. “Come on, let us cheer you up, Angel,” he whispers into her ear. She lets him lead her into the sitting room across from the living room to find the boys all standing with their backs to her. “Dance the Night Away” by Dua Lipa starts playing and Rafe is quick to join them in the lineup. As the music plays on, the boys start dancing the dance from Barbie. Y/N’s sobs can’t help but turn into giggles at the recreation in front of her.

Rafe is obviously trying to lead the group through the group, except it is very clear that none of them has any dancing skills or the ability to keep a beat. Topper is ahead of everyone else. Kelce is always looking at everyone else to try to figure out what he is supposed to be doing. And Dylan is just doing the cha-cha slide. Nonetheless, she loves that they are doing this to make her feel better and she feels an immense love for them. Sure, some of the rumours about these boys are true, but this shows that they can care about a female and try to change for her. She believes that they can all become a gentleman in the future and this is proof. The music comes to an end and she claps with glassy eyes, which Rafe notices. He frowns, thinking their plan didn’t work and rushes to her side. “Oh, no. We just made you cry more, Angel. I’m so sorry,” he apologizes, pulling her into a hug. She shakes her head against his chest., “I’m not crying because I’m sad. I’m crying because I’m happy. This is so amazing guys. Thank you. I love you all.” The boys all shout back their love for her and squeeze her into a group hug. This leaves Rafe to tighten his hold against her to protect her from the chaos of his brothers. His mouth finds the shell of her ear, “But you love me the most, right?” She giggles and looks up at him. “Yes, I love you the most.” 

Taglist: @winterrrnight @loves0phelia @thelomlisrafecameron @wickedlovely121 @victory-in-the-llama @drewsmusee @starkowswife @maybankslover

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 10: Poseidon, God Of The Sea]

A/N: Only 2 chapters left!!! 🥰💜

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 7.2k

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

It’s Friday, November 1st, and it begins like every day does: with you sneaking a birth control pill and swallowing it with a handful of cool water from the sink. Aemond is usually gone before you wake up—writing speeches, reading newspapers, strategizing with Otto and Criston and Sargent Shriver—but you always lock the bathroom door just in case he reappears. You’ve popped the tiny pink pills out of their circular packages and hidden them in hollowed-out tampons, each opening sealed with cotton balls. You don’t like taking the pills; you don’t fully understand how they work, and you don’t like feeling out of tune with your body’s own rhythms, but they are infinitely better than the alternative. You can’t imagine having to carry Aemond’s child now, sacrificing your comfort, your health, your future, your life for a man who doesn’t know the real you and doesn’t want to. You return the modified tampon to the box you keep in the linen closet, then begin to pin up your hair.

When you venture downstairs, you’ve thrown on a long flowing floral skirt and chunky black sweater, black flats, small unceremonious gold hoops in your ears. You’ll have to change before the journalists arrive to fawn over the children as they bake homemade apple pies this afternoon. You’ll have to wear whatever Aemond tells you to. But presently, it’s Aegon you’re looking for; you begin with the basement.

He isn’t sprawled across his futon, he isn’t lazing on the floor. He isn’t there at all. As you stand on the steps, you see only Eudoxia, muttering irritably in Greek and crawling around on her hands and knees as she picks globs of red out of the shag carpet.

“What is wrong with him?” she says when she glances at you. “Can you believe this? Melted candle wax everywhere. He is a pig. A pig! Someone should make bacon out of him. Then he could finally be useful. He’s just about fat enough. He could feed the whole family, and all the dogs too.”

You don’t know how to reply; you can’t apologize for helping to make the mess, you can’t agree that Aegon is a plague and nothing more. “Do you want help cleaning up?”

“If Aemond saw me putting you to work, I would be deported back to Tyrnavos.”

“No, Doxie. Asteria would fall into the sea without you.”

She peers up at you through fallen strands of her hair, dyed a palpably artificial pitch black. Then she grins, large doughy cheeks, crinkles around her eyes. “Go help Aemond win his election.”

“Yes ma’am,” you say dutifully, and head back upstairs.

In the living room, Aemond and Otto are hissing like snakes as they leaf through the Wall Street Journal. The newspaper reports that Nixon’s poll numbers are climbing in this crucial eleventh hour. They can’t decide if that’s true or if the Wall Street Journal, a Nixon-friendly publication, is trying to give him a little extra momentum as Election Day approaches. Criston nods at you from where he sits on the couch, looking exhausted, dark shadows around his eyes and shoulders slumped low; Aemond and Otto don’t notice you at all. You keep moving.

There is chatter and giggling and the clanging of bowls and pans in the kitchen. You peek inside from the doorway. Fosco, Helaena, and the nannies are making pancakes with the children. Butter sizzles, spatulas scrape, bubbles appear in wells of batter. Helaena is lifting Evangelos so he can pour a cupful of smooth, milky batter into one of the pans on the stovetop. Cosmo, drizzling maple syrup over an ambitiously tall stack of pancakes, waves at you. You smile and wave back. In the corner of the room, Ludwika is smoking one of her Camels and shooing away Aegon’s second-youngest son Thaddeus, whose fingers are covered with flour.

“Please take your paws elsewhere,” Ludwika says, flicking ashes into the kitchen sink. “This dress is Prada.”

Fosco spots you. “Would you like some pancakes?” he asks as he approaches, wiping his palms on the apron tied around his slim waist. Flour dusts his eyeglasses. “We have enough batter to make about 500. Although I cannot promise they will not be burnt. Our chefs are rather inexperienced.”

“Thanks, but I’m not really hungry.” You take one last look around the kitchen, wondering where Aegon could be.

Fosco understands. His voice drops low and discrete. “I have not seen him this morning.”

“He isn’t usually up yet.”

“He’s not, this is true.” Fosco taps his chin, leaving white dabs of flour there. “Maybe he’s sailing?”

“Maybe. I’ll check.”

“And I have no idea where you’re going or why,” Fosco says with a wink before returning to the stove.

Outside it’s grey, misty, only 50 degrees. It would be a bad day for sailing. The wind rips at your clothes and your hair like a man’s lustful hands; the waves are choppy and treacherous. You think of Icarus plummeting into the ocean, of Andromeda being offered as a sacrifice to assuage Poseidon’s wrath, of sirens beckoning doomed sailors. From where you’re standing in the backyard of the main house, shivering with your arms crossed over your chest, you can’t see Aegon’s boat Sunfyre bobbing in the rough surf. You turn left to investigate Helaena’s withered garden.

As you walk, the hem of your skirt dragging dead autumn leaves, you skim your fingertips over the evergreen emerald hedges, cool and damp. At the center of the garden—like a diamond in a wedding ring, like the sun surrounded by its planets—you don’t find Aegon smoking a joint or napping under Zeus’s shadow, only a silent stone circle of gods who watch you with unmoving, all-knowing eyes. You spin slowly, studying each of them, deities who loved and cheated and offered mercy and cursed and killed. From his gurgling fountain in the middle of the clearing, Zeus glares at you most fiercely, wielding his lightning bolts, aching to loose them. The wind rattles the leaves of the hedges; crows caw from somewhere out in the mist.

“Oh! You’re here, darling?” Alicent says from the arched doorway cut into the greenery. She’s pushing Viserys in his wheelchair. Sparse white spiderweb-strands of hair hang limply from his head, mottled with liver spots. His fingers are bony and clawlike. “In this awful weather?”

You scramble for an explanation. “I just, um, needed some quiet.”

“Yes, the children are very rambunctious this morning, aren’t they?”

“Children?” Viserys echoes, as if he is only just learning of them.

“Your grandchildren,” Alicent reminds him. “Aegon and Helaena’s kids. Orion, Spiro, Violeta, Thaddeus, Cosmo, Daphne, Evangelos, and…” Panic crosses her face. She realizes she’s forgotten one, but she doesn’t know who.

“Neaera,” you say.

“Of course. Such a sweet girl, gentle like a lamb.”

You weren’t blessed with that sort of disposition. Sometimes you wish you were. Life seems easier for women who don’t feel bitterness or forbidden ambition, who pain moves cleanly through like clear water. They have no thorns for it to snag on and grow roots into the bones, the soul. They are never at risk of becoming poisonous like Jupiter’s moon Io. “What brings you to the garden on a day this dreary?”

“I feel close to them here,” Viserys rasps.

You stare down at him, baffled. “Close to who, sir?” You rarely interact with the ailing patriarch of the Targaryen family. He is often confined to his bedroom, attended by Alicent and Eudoxia and his nurses, and even when he is physically present his mind is sluggish, alien, impenetrable. Now Alicent’s eyes are downcast, and she drifts away to inspect the statue of Poseidon, a formidable bearded man holding a trident and with dolphins and sea turtles emerging from the waves of white marble at his bare feet.

“I left them back in Greece,” Viserys says, his gaunt face vacant, distant, vaguely sad. He is bundled up in a thick wool robe that hides how skeletal he has become. “I thought about having them brought over to be interred at the mausoleum, but it felt wrong to disturb their bones. Now I cannot visit their graves. I can only hear them here, among the gods our ancestors worshiped.”

“Who…?”

“Aemma and Rhaenyra,” Alicent tells you from where she now stands by Aphrodite, gazing longingly at the goddess of love. You notice that she is clutching a komboskini in one hand; she must believe that what her husband is saying is blasphemy, but she doesn’t condemn him. “Viserys had a wife and daughter before he met me.”

You feel a sudden and overwhelming stab of grief for the old man; you are thinking of Ari. “What happened?”

“The sea took them,” Viserys explains. “A riptide off the coast of Euboea. We found their bodies three days later.”

“Oh God. I’m…I’m so sorry for your loss.” You don’t know what else to say; it’s too disastrous, too unspeakable.

“Aemma was pregnant. It was a boy. She delivered him in the water, a coffin birth.” And you know from his face, his voice, that Alicent and her children never stood a chance, that Viserys has only one true family, only one set of names carved into the scarlet chambers of his failing heart. You think of Aemond’s heart, claimed by Alys and her son; you think of your own.

“They’re at peace, Viserys,” Alicent says. “They are in heaven with my mother and Ari and Mimi.”

He continues, as if he hasn’t heard her: “I thought that if I made something of myself in America, if I helped contribute something incredible to the world, then they would not have died for nothing.” Viserys reaches out with trembling, gnarled hands, and when you realize he wants to hold yours you let him. His grasp is weak and cold. “Aemond will be president. He will save countless lives, he will save this nation’s soul. And you have made that possible.”

Where’s Aegon? Is he okay? Why is no one else ever looking for him? “Thank you, sir.”

Viserys begins hacking, doubling over in his wheelchair, and Alicent hurries to soothe him and provide a handkerchief that Helaena embroidered green spiders onto. When he has recovered, you leave them with the gods: Viserys to grieve his old life, Alicent to mourn the one she never had.

You plod through sand dunes out to the Atlantic Ocean, peering into the fog as you search for Aegon’s sailboat. Still, there is no sign of him. You glance back towards the main house as sea spray peppers your cheeks and your knuckles. You’re beginning to get nervous. Where the hell is he? Is he passed out somewhere, is he sick, is he hurt?

And then, at last, you see him: sitting at the bottom of a small bluff so he is invisible to anyone not at the water’s edge, arms linked around his bent knees, not smoking, not drinking, not gulping pills, just gazing out into the waves that thrash and rumble beneath a grey sky, his too-long blonde hair whipping in the wind. He wears one of Daeron’s army jackets over a white turtleneck sweater, ripped jeans, no shoes, a collection of other men’s dog tags slung around his neck.

“Hey,” you say as you join him, dropping down onto the cool, crumbling sand.

Aegon smiles. “Hey.”

“It’s strange to see you awake before noon.”

“Yeah…I didn’t really sleep.” No, he didn’t, you can tell: his eyes are bloodshot and his voice tired, husky. He is watching you, so hopeful but so afraid. “What are we gonna do?”

About us. About Aemond. “If he loses on Tuesday, I can leave him.”

“What if he wins?”

You don’t have a good answer. You shrug, avoiding Aegon’s eyes. “It’s not forever, you know? It would be four years, and then…”

“Four years?” Aegon says. “No, I can’t wait another four years. I’ve been waiting my whole life for something like this. And what if he gets a second term? Eight years? I’ll be almost fifty. We’ve already lost so much time, I can’t surrender another decade.”

“Aegon, first ladies don’t quit. It’s never happened before, not once since 1789. It’s a part of the democratic process. People aren’t just voting for Aemond, they’re voting for me too. You know that. You told me we were a package deal, and you were right. If they trust me and I walk away, it’s…it’s…it’s treason, it’s abandonment, it’s wrong. And Aemond needs to have the political credibility to get what he wants done.”

“Look,” Aegon says, like it pains him. “I get that my life is already half over, and I haven’t done anything worthwhile with the last forty years, but I want to be different. I want to be better. And I can do that, but I need you to give me a chance.”

“You think Aemond would let me leave? If I publicly humiliated and undermined him?”

“We don’t need Aemond, we could figure it out—”

“What do you think he and Otto would do to you, Aegon? They would ruin you anywhere you go, they would have you declared mentally unfit and take your children away.”

“They don’t own us!”

“They do,” you insist. “And if you try to fight them it will destroy you. You’ve never cared about strategy, and I love that you’re truthful, and I love that you’re real, but I need you to understand what you’re asking for right now.”

“But he breaks the rules,” Aegon says, and his eyes are glistening. “He has Alys. He has a kid out of wedlock.”

“Yes,” you agree softly.

“And what, I’m supposed to hope Aemond loses?” Aegon swipes tears from his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Because that’s the only way I get to touch you? Nixon wins and more draftees get butchered in Vietnam, and Daeron doesn’t come home, and the white supremacists get to resegregate the beaches at Biloxi, Mississippi and wherever the hell else they want to, and civil rights protesters get attacked by police dogs, and teenagers get sentenced to decades in prison for marijuana possession?”

“I’m sorry.” You can’t tell him he’s mistaken about any of that. He isn’t.

“I’ve spent my whole fucking life in a cage, but I’ve never felt this powerless.”

“Aegon?”

“Yeah.”

“Am I…” It’s terrifying to ask. “Am I the same way Mimi was when she was younger? Is that why you like me?”

“No,” he says immediately. “No, you’re different than Mimi. Mimi was fun, and we could party together, and I cared about her, obviously, but…” He stares out at the ocean, shaking his head. “She wasn’t as strong as you. And she couldn’t really get to me. I feel like you could kill me if you wanted to, you could reach inside my chest any time it crossed your mind and crush me in your fist and I’d be gone.”

You stretch out your fingertips until they collide with his sweater, warm yielding flesh woven over his ribs. “Not so easy,” you say. And then Aegon smiles and he leans in to kiss you, the ocean roaring like an ancient beast, a titan, a maelstrom. The wind rakes through your hair and stings your eyes. You ask when he rests his forehead against yours, your hand on his face, your thumb stroking his cheek: “Do you wish you could go back to when you hated me?”

“Never. I’ve gotten used to not being alone.”

“The kids made pancakes. You should go have some.”

“Come with me.”

“You first. I’ll be five minutes behind you. We shouldn’t walk to the house together.”

“Why?” Aegon teases. “Because people might think we fucked in the basement last night?”

“I’ve already told them. Aemond is waiting for you in the kitchen with a bazooka.”

Aegon laughs and struggles to his bare feet, slipping on the sand. “Okay. See you soon.”

“See ya.” Once he’s gone, you recite the full length of Here’s To The State Of Mississippi in your head, then trek across the sand and through the backyard to rejoin the rest of the Targaryens.

When you open the sliding glass door, Otto is standing in the hallway. His icy blue eyes sweep from your simple black flats to your windswept hair, still pinned up but unacceptably tousled. “Why the hell aren’t you dressed for the reporters?”

“Because they won’t be here for another two hours. Surely you are well-acquainted with the itinerary that you yourself arranged.”

“Don’t get yourself in trouble, girl.”

“Remember when you used to defer to me about things? Were you stupid then, or are you stupid now?”

“Do you know what Joe Kennedy did when his daughter Rosemary threatened the family’s reputation?” Otto says, eyes glittering cruelly.

You really don’t know; you weren’t aware that JFK had a sister named Rosemary. “What?”

“He took her to a surgeon to be lobotomized. Now she’s hidden away in a little cottage in Wisconsin, can’t speak, can’t walk, with full-time nurses to wipe the drool off her face and change her diapers. How would you like that? Would your obscene little flirtation still be worth it? We could tell people that you were in a car accident or fell down the stairs. The doctors go in through the eye socket, you know. And you’re awake the whole time.”

“You can’t do that to me,” you say, shellshocked.

“Oh, if that’s what it takes, I’ll find the will somehow.”

There is shouting from the basement, and you and Otto both bolt for the staircase. At the bottom of the steps, Aegon and Eudoxia are embroiled in a ferocious confrontation, red faces, hands itching to slap and shove. Aegon roars, jabbing his index finger at her like a petulant teenager: “I told you to stay the fuck out of my room!”

“You are filthy, you leave crumbs everywhere! We will have mice!”

“Where’s the garbage?” Aegon demands. “Huh? Where’d you put it? Out by the curb?”

“It has already been picked up.”

“No, no way! That’s bullshit!”

“You’re too late!” Doxie says. “The truck went by 20 minutes ago. And why is this a problem? What precious heirloom did I steal from you? An empty rum bottle? A magazine full of naked women? Candy wrappers, cigarette ashes, melted candle wax? You live like a pig, you should not be so outraged when you are treated the same as one.”

“Aegon, what happened?” you ask. Otto is equally bewildered, surveying the markedly clean basement, his brow knitted into deep crevices.

Aegon doesn’t answer. He only glances at you—frustration, anger, but shame too—and then sighs in defeat and stomps up the stairs to the main floor of the house.

Eudoxia looks at Otto and shrugs nonchalantly. “At least there were not so many used condoms this time.”

Your gaze catches on the end table by the futon. The empty cups are gone, the ashtray is spotless…and there is no folded white corner of a receipt poking out from under it.

The math problem from Mount Sinai, you think, that relic, that talisman, that worthless scrap of paper that Aegon never wanted to talk about but kept so close to him, just like you cling to the card he gave you and Aemond cherishes his engraved Ouija board. It’s gone. It’s almost like it never happened.

~~~~~~~~~~

After the journalists arrive and the apple pies, so quintessentially all-American, are made—you help Cosmo with his job, layering strips of dough into lattice crusts that turn golden in the oven, glinting with sugar crystals like diamonds—Aemond’s retinue begins the last of their campaign stops by travelling via limousines to Philadelphia, just an hour and a half across the width of New Jersey and over the Delaware River. In your penthouse suite at the Ritz-Carlton, you soak in a bath opaque with bubbles, steam hot and dewy on your skin. Your hair is long and free. The Zenith radio out in the kitchenette is playing Tomorrow Never Knows by the Beatles.

Your hands have just slipped beneath the hot water—your skull full of Aegon, things he’s done, things he’s said—when you hear the bathroom door open behind you. You rest your arms on the spotless white rim of the tub, porcelain-enameled steel, and try not to look like you’ve been interrupted. Aemond’s footsteps cross the linoleum floor, then he kneels by the bathtub and wraps his arms around you, his long uncalloused fingers skating over your shoulder, collarbones, nipples, before linking like a long necklace. He likes you best like this, when your scar is hidden, something that might have been a nightmare or a sad story that happened to somebody else. He rests the mutilated left half of his face against the right side of yours; his eyepatch scratches against your temple. You shift uncomfortably, you can’t help it. You don’t want him touching you. His arms tighten around your ribs.

“You know, JFK’s mother went through a crisis of sorts as a young wife,” Aemond says calmly. “She realized her husband was a hopeless philanderer and tried to leave him and go back to her parents. But her father sat her down and explained that she had made a commitment. Marriage is for life, and you don’t abandon your vows when the circumstances prove difficult. So she went back to Joe. And if she hadn’t, there never would have been a John F. Kennedy, or a Bobby, or a Eunice or a Ted, or a million other things too.”

“I am so fucking sick of hearing about the Kennedys.”

“You used to love being compared to Jackie.”

“I’m not her. I’m never going to be her.”

“I’m giving up things too,” Aemond says. Now he’s combing his fingers through your hair, unraveling tiny knots, yanking at your scalp. “If I win, I won’t be able to see Alys and our son. It would be too risky, someone might catch me. For as long as I’m president, I’ll have to be apart from them. You don’t think that’s painful? But Alys understands. She knows it’s for the greater good.”

“Please stop touching me.”

“You’re mine to touch as much as I want to.”

You stare at the seafoam green wall and try to pretend you’re in another place, another year.

“I’ve been thinking,” Aemond says sympathetically, an appeasing sort of tone, like he’s trying to strike a bargain. “I’m a realist, I’m aware that I can’t keep you locked up in a basement or put you in a straightjacket for the next fifty years. That doesn’t serve either of us. If you are truly desperate to be rid of me, there’s nothing I can do to change your mind. And I require a partner who is fully committed to my cause, my legacy. Not a captive. I can’t fight Nixon and you too.”

You twist around in the tub to look at him, skeptical, amazed. Is there a way out? “So what are you offering?”

“I need you for as long as I’m president,” Aemond says. “If I win, I need you for at least four years, probably eight. And a short while after that to establish myself in retirement and fade from the headlines, another few years. But then…we could work out some arrangement that is mutually agreeable.”

The hope is so fragile, so fearful, splintering glass. “You would let me go?”

“We’d have to negotiate the details, particularly as far as our future children are concerned, but…yes. In some sense, at least.”

You can’t find any words. You don’t want to offend him, to shatter this moment. And yet the price is so steep. Four years, eight years, ten years. But then…but then…

Aemond smiles, his remaining blue eye bright and cunning. His fingertips trace the slope of your jaw. “I care so deeply for you. You are my Aphrodite, you have made my wildest ambitions possible. You will help me save this country. I am worshiped because of you, I am trusted, I am envied. No one has a wife as beloved as mine, and everybody knows it. So I feel…I’ve considered…” His hand moves down to your throat, drawing invisible chains of gold or silver. “If you’ve given me so much, I can extend some mercy in return.”

“You can’t harm Aegon,” you say. “Or take his children away, or do anything else to punish him.” And then you lie, a necessary fiction, an invention, a myth, Prometheus stealing fire to give it to humans, Zeus hiding Io from Hera. “He hasn’t betrayed you.” And he’s saved me over and over again.

“Of course I won’t harm Aegon. I need him too. This act he has now of the devoted, reformed, tragedy-besieged single father? People adore it. At this rate, I’ll be able to make him the attorney general for my second term if he uses the next four years to rack up some experience. And his children are gold mines for the photographers. They have filled the void left by our own son’s death.”

“Ari,” you say.

“What?”

“He had a name. He wasn’t just ‘a son’ or ‘our son.’ His name was Ari.”

“You’ll feel better once we’ve had others.” Aemond stands and holds out a hand to you. He’s wearing a black suit like he’s getting married, like he’s going to a funeral.

You gaze up at him, not wanting to leave the water. You belong to him, but when he touches you it feels like the earth dying when Persephone is stolen away by Hades each autumn, it feels like Eurydice’s spiderweb-fragile life evaporating when Orpheus dared to look back at her as he led her out of the Underworld. “What if I can’t get pregnant again?” you ask. “It took over a year the first time. And the surgery…what if there’s too much scar tissue, what if I’m just…just…broken?” There’s real pain in your voice that staves off any suspicion Aemond might have. You do want more children, you believe, you know; just not with him.

“Then it is God’s will. But we’ll keep trying.”

Aemond draws you out of the water like a fish from the sea, something to devour, skin and muscle, delicate bones sucked clean.

~~~~~~~~~~

The sunlight is cloudless and glaring. Leaves swirl in the brisk wind in jewel tones: gold, ruby, fire opal, honey calcite, tiger’s eye, red jasper. Aemond has just finished a speech at Franklin Delano Roosevelt Park, standing in a stone gazebo that you can’t help but think resembles a Greek temple, tall columns that house deities of love and death, oceans and fire. Alicent and Helaena have taken the children to attend the opening of a new public library on the other side of the city. The rest of Aemond’s entourage—you, Criston, Otto, Ludwika, Fosco, Aegon—are arranged in a semicircle around him on the stage. Only 50 yards away, there is a small parking lot full of police and press vehicles. Philadelphia residents have walked miles to hear Aemond speak, to glimpse him, to cheer for him, to take leaves he’s stepped on or loose threads from his navy blue suit as relics like the bones of a saint. You match him, as you always must: navy blue dress, high heels, hair neat, makeup mature and understated, gold jewelry gleaming on your ears, throat, wrist. Ravens flap their wings from the skeletal limbs of bare trees. A car radio is blaring Break On Through by The Doors.

“Senator Targaryen,” a reporter calls as flashbulbs strobe dizzyingly. “What do you think about Tommie Smith and John Carlos getting death threats for raising their fists in the Black Power salute at the Olympics in Mexico City?”

There is a split-second lull; it is a difficult question. Aemond must remain the savior of the hippies and college kids and civil rights activists, yet he must not let the old-money urban elite or suburban families mistake him for a discord-sowing radical. You and Aegon exchange a glance; Otto placed him on the opposite side of the gazebo, and this is not a coincidence. Then Aemond decides what to say. “Peaceful protests—even those that can make us confused, defensive, fearful—are not a threat to democracy,” he speaks into the microphone steadily, deliberately, commandingly. The crowd leans forward as they listen, enraptured. Journalists’ pens fly across the pages of their notebooks. “They are not the harbingers of some doomed descent into anarchy. They are a manifestation of the fact that we have already failed. Our nation has failed, our laws and our leaders have failed, and this is our chance to address those dire inadequacies. I urge every single American to listen to what Mr. Smith and Mr. Carlos have actually said about their concerns and their hopes, to be empathetic, to be honest when reflecting on what our country has achieved and yet so desperately still needs to improve upon. These men are not enemies of the United States. They are the United States. They are a part of us, and we are a part of them, and we must not allow prejudiced, ignorant voices”—he means Wallace, he means Nixon—“to draw divides between us. The harassment that Mr. Smith, Mr. Carlos, and their families have experienced is a travesty. It is something that we should expect from a fascist or communist regime, not from a democracy. And to do my small part to show my admiration for them and atone for the mistakes of this nation that I so fervently hope to make better, I would like to personally fund private security services for the households of Mr. Smith and Mr. Carlos for the foreseeable future.”

The crowd erupts into applause, cheers shouted, signs held aloft. Your eyes snag on one, clutched by a middle-aged woman bundled up against the cold; only her eyes—grey, tearful, shining like quarters—are visible above the red plaid of her thick wool scarf. On her sign is a large photograph of a young man in uniform, maybe nineteen, maybe twenty. Below the photo in red marker is written: Ryan Farrelly, my youngest son, burned to death in Phan Thiet on September 21st. Bring Daeron home! Bring them ALL home!

The woman waves at you. You raise your hand wave back. And then there is a sound that comes from everywhere, a boom of thunder, an explosion, bullets like the one that demolished Aemond’s left eye in Palm Beach back in May, a lifetime ago, a truth that has become mythology. There is something hot and sticky splattered across your face, and you can’t see; when you wipe it away with your sleeve and open your eyes, there is a hole in your palm that you can look through like a window.

Where else?

But when you check your chest, your belly, you are whole. It is only a hand would, and that won’t kill you. It doesn’t even hurt yet, though the blood runs in torrents down your arm. You peer frantically around to see if anyone else is hurt.

Aegon, Fosco, Ludwika, Criston??

People are rushing the stage to shield Aemond and his family from bullets. Police are tackling somebody in the audience and beating him bloody with their batons. Aegon is screaming and shoving through the chaos as he fights his way towards you. Otto slams him against one of the columns of the gazebo and holds him there, because Aegon is not the one who’s supposed to get to you first. Now Aemond’s arms are around you, and he is ushering you down the stone steps towards the parking lot, and Criston is running alongside him and telling Aemond that the closest hospital is Jefferson Methodist, but UPenn is better and only two miles farther.

“Who else?” you ask as you cradle your hand against your chest, blood turning your dress from navy to black. Now it hurts plenty, like waking up from your c-section, like a crimson wave that is scalding and crushing and dragging you under to be drowned. “Is anyone else—?”

“No, just you,” Criston says, a reassuring grip on your shoulder. “Don’t worry. Nobody else is hurt.”

“Senator Targaryen, this way!” a police officer is yelling, and he leads the three of you to his black and white car. Criston leaps into the passenger seat; Aemond pulls you into the back with him and slams the door. The sirens shriek and the police officer careens out of the parking lot, Criston giving directions, Aemond yanking off his suit jacket to wrap around your hemorrhaging hand.

“I’m not going to lose it, am I?” you ask dazedly. None of this seems real. You wish Aegon was here. “I need my hands.”

“No, honey. I don’t think they’ll have to amputate.” Then Aemond stares down at the blood on his palms, warm scarlet ruin, water and oxygen and iron that once pulsed in your arteries and veins and now stains him. He frowns, then wipes his hands on his white shirt until almost all the blood is gone from his skin. He is cleaning you off of him. He is readying himself for the cameras that will undoubtedly be waiting at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania.

Inside the glass doors of the building, dust motes circle in aisles of sunlight; you watch them as doctors and nurses push you towards the operating room on a stretcher.

“We’re going to take excellent care of you, Mrs. Targaryen,” a doctor says as he ties a sterile white mask over his nose and mouth.

Don’t let Ari die, you almost murmur in response; and then you remember that’s already happened.

There are needles gliding into your veins, bright lights, pain vanishing like the memory of a dream dissolving when you wake.

~~~~~~~~~~

Four hours later, you are propped up in bed on a mountain of pillows, your hand surgically repaired and bandaged, morphine in your IV drip. The doctors think you shouldn’t lose much function—the bullet was from a pistol, blessedly small in size and missing most of your major tendons and nerves—but you won’t know for sure until it’s healed. Ludwika is here with you, lounging in the chair beside your bed and flipping through a copy of Cosmopolitan with her Louis Vuitton stilettos propped up on the ottoman. She is content to be here, but this is technically a job; she has been tasked with supervising you while Aemond and Otto meet with the Philadelphia police who are investigating the attack. The rest of the family—everyone except Aegon, who you suspect has been forbidden to enter the premises—has already been here to fret over you and ask if you need anything. But you aren’t in the mood for visitors. You are stunned, and aching, and you hate hospitals. You keep thinking of tiny babies in incubators, priests in black robes.

Your room is already filling up with flower bouquets. Every few minutes, the phone rings and Ludwika has to answer it. Each time she announces who it is—“Oh, hello Lady Bird, so nice of you to offer your well-wishes!” and then looks to see if you nod, agreeing to take it. The current first lady says that you are already as beloved as Jackie Kennedy and Eleanor Roosevelt. Pat Nixon calls you a gladiator.

There is a mint green Zenith radio on your nightstand, the volume turned way down low, and a television mounted on the wall. NBC news is on, but you’ve muted it to attend to the barrage of phone calls. There is a knock on the doorframe. Aegon stands there in his khaki pants and ill-fitting viridian button-up shirt and tan moccasins, wide searching murky blue eyes, carrying a white Dairy Queen cup.

Ludwika observes him as she puffs on a Camel cigarette. “I am suddenly struck by the inspiration to spend Otto’s money at the gift shop. I hope they take American Express.” She rolls up her magazine, shoves it into her oversized Gucci purse, and clicks in her heels out of the room and down the hallway.

Aegon commandeers the chair and drags it closer to your bed so he can feel your cheeks and your forehead, so he can get a good look at you. “Hey, little Io. You hurt your hoof, huh?”

“It’s not that bad. The caliber of the bullet was really small. Who shot me? One of Wallace’s Klansmen?”

“No, just some insane guy who thinks Aemond is a Russian double agent trying to overthrow capitalism here and put us all in gulags. I heard you could see right through the wound.”

“Yeah, I had a hole in my palm.”

“Just like Jesus.”

“I guess they fixed it.”

“Messiah status revoked.” Aegon sets the Dairy Queen cup on your nightstand. “I brought you a lemon-lime Mr. Misty.”

“I need to get out of here.”

“They gotta make sure you’re okay, babe. You could spike a fever or something.”

“Aegon,” you say seriously. “I can’t be in a hospital. I need to leave.”

He understands; his voice is gentle. “I might be able to get you out tonight, okay? I’ll try. I’ll talk to the doctors.”

“Okay,” you whimper.

Aegon turns up the Zenith radio, Van Morrison’s Brown Eyed Girl. He sings along, snapping his fingers and shimmying his shoulders, his hair shagging over his eyes:

“Hey, where did we go?

Days when the rains came

Down in the hollow

Playin’ a new game…”

Reluctantly, you give him a smile. And you think very clearly, though you don’t say it: I love you.

Aegon leans across the bed to rest his head on your lap. He says softly as you run your fingers through his hair with your good hand: “Maybe Aemond will lose.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

On the muted television, Nixon is giving a speech in Charlotte, North Carolina to a euphoric crowd. You can’t hear the people gathered there, but you know their applause are thunderous. Nixon is flashing peace signs with both hands and beaming radiantly, this man who was once so poor, tragic, ordinary, unwanted, unloved. He has learned what it feels like to be a god.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Sunday, November 3rd, and your hand hurts like hell. You swallow your pills, smiling a little. Now Aegon is getting clean and I’m the one swimming in a haze of narcotics. Who could have predicted that? Still in your robe and bare feet, you swish to the hotel bathroom to wash your face, brush your teeth, rebandage your hand and make sure it isn’t growing dark insidious vines of blood poisoning.

When you venture out to the kitchenette, Aemond is in a sapphire blue suit and seated at the table, reading the Wall Street Journal, his face hidden by columns of black ink and interspersed photographs. This is unusual; he should be scheming with Otto and Sargent Shriver by now.

“Everything okay?” you ask with only vague interest as you go to the refrigerator to get yourself a leftover slice of apple pie, meticulously wrapped and packed in a cooler by Eudoxia before your departure from Asteria. Aemond doesn’t answer. You plop a piece of apple pie onto a plate, return the rest to the refrigerator, and then turn to your husband. And only now do you register the newspaper’s front-page story.

The photographs, all three of them, are of you and Aegon. They are blurry, taken from a distance, but you recognize the moment immediately. You can feel it again: ocean wind in your hair, his lips on yours, your hand on his face as you willed him to be closer, healed, permanent. You are sitting at the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, turbulent and perilous. The journalists must have been north of you, shrouded in mist, their camera shutters clicking feverishly. The headline reads: A Family Affair?

And you remember what Aemond said on your 23rd birthday before he left for the Washington State Convention in Tacoma, how he scolded Aegon when he saw him lighting a joint in the backyard at Asteria: You know journalists will sneak around trying to get photos. You know we’re never truly alone out here.

You can’t speak, you can’t breathe. Aemond knows. The whole world knows.

Slowly, Aemond lowers the newspaper so you can see his face, scarred and hateful and horrifying, lethal like the volcanic hellscape of Jupiter’s most cursed moon.

~~~~~~~~~~

What are my earliest memories? Aegon getting drunk on his futon in the basement while I played with toy soldiers on the green shag carpet, Aemond with his poems and his myths, Helaena letting a praying mantis creep across her knuckles, Criston teaching me how to swim and sail, my mother cleaning sand from my face and hands and giving me water to wash the grit out of my teeth, my father wandering through the doorways of Asteria like a ghost, always on the periphery of my vision, and I had the sense that if I reached out to touch him my hands would pass resistlessly through his skin and sinew like a stone through water.

These are the things I think of here in the rain-dripping darkness, bruises down to my bones, eyes swollen almost completely shut, teeth broken and throbbing like blows from a hammer, fingernails ripped out. I know Tessarion is here because I can hear her, soft sympathetic squeaks, the padding of her tiny feet. I know John McCain is still alive because sometimes he taps back through the cracked concrete wall. I have run out of folklore, so now I tell him the truth. I tell him that I am afraid each beating will kill me as my body becomes a stranger, someone weak and brittle and helpless. I tell him that all my life I wanted to run as far as I could from home, but now I would crawl back to them through razor wire, I would fall into their arms in a shredded bloodstained heap and I’d be happy to do it. Isn’t that funny? I mean, I don’t laugh much these days. But maybe you can appreciate the irony.

Has the election happened yet? Has Aemond won? I’ve lost track of the days, but it has to be getting close to November 5th. What happens if he can’t get me out? What happens if Nixon wins?

I don’t want to be a hero anymore. I don’t want to have adventures like Heracles, Achilles, Jason, Odysseus, Perseus, Orpheus, Ajax. I just want to go home. Please let me go home.

I can hear keys jangling against the lock on my cell door. My heart jolts into a breakneck, pounding rhythm; I think that sound will terrify me all my life. Some things you just can’t forget, you know? Some things dig down deep and build a home in the marrow of your bones, a rust-red cave of immutable memory. I know exactly what the communists want from me. They’ve been asking since they dragged me out of the Loach four months ago.

Everyone has a breaking point. This is mine.

[itstheendofthegoddamnworld]

Swallowed Whole by The Flame (Messmer the Impaler x Tarnished! Reader) 15

MASTERLIST

PREVIOUS | NEXT

Summary: Tarnished and Messer get familiar with one another.

A/N: Happy New Year All! I hope you're all doing well. Lo and behold, I have finally released the NSFW chapter. This will be 18+ so do please read the tags for this chapter.

This chapter is rated S for SUPER FUCKING SPICY🌶️🌶️🌶️ Warnings for this chapter: swearing, handjobs, p in v sex, oral (f & m receiving), cream pies, LOTS of bodily fluids.

A03 link

-

Chapter 15: Yearning

You didn't even remember how you got to the elevator without ripping each other's clothes off, for the serenity of being in Messmer's arms kept you relatively grounded. The ride-up feels like it is going on forever, a race to the upper floors, yet the thrill of being caught by someone seems to make you far too giddy.

The redhead has not stopped kissing you, his claws fingers finding purchase on your hips, dancing along your skin, leaving pinpricks over your exposed skin.

Your heart feels caged in your ribs, and you're aware Messmer must sense your excitement, and hear how fast it races. You're kissing him and sighing happily in his arms, aware that he's growing bolder in his touches, finding the extra time to squeeze skin in areas you didn't think would excite you. You let out an especially loud yelp when you feel something or rather someone grope at your backside, pulling back inches from his face to give him a playful scowl.

Messmer seems enlightened in his administration, but he's gentler this time with you so you don't fidget or squirm from the sensitivity.

With the elevator groaning to a stop, Messmer steps off with you, cradling you as he finds his room from memory.

You dare not overthink things: in realising what is about to take place behind those closed doors. It comes to you as a surprise how far the two of you have come: from sworn enemies to allies, to now, about to share a bed with Marika's firstborn and forgotten son.

The door swings heavy on its hinges, and the two of you go, Messmer taking the time to cast light with candles you must ask him how he does. The room glows with a soft ambience, waiting for what's to come. Messmer shuts the door with you still in his arms, messily throwing his helm to the side as he takes you to his large bed.

Placing you down gently, Messmer waits a heartbeat for you to adjust comfortably on the plush sheets before he joins you, careful in the way he climbs on top of you; his long, strong legs and arms trapping you beneath him.

You shudder from his mere size, exhaling lightheadedly as you take in the redhead. Messmer seems nervous, his golden eye taking you in as if slowly unravelling you with his mind alone to have you undressed.

Taking the hint, your hands dance over your collarbones, over the nightgown that is hiding all from Messmer's gaze, before one of his hands stops you. "Prithee, allow me," he murmurs with tenderness in his tone. You notice the way he is shaking, his hands visible hovering over you and uncertain where to even begin. "Are you..." you begin to ask, but he is already nodding, as if he knows what you are asking.

"Ah, forgive me for mine own lack of experience." He says, his wan skin rouging with colour as he looks away. You gently bring him back, giving him a reassuring smile. "It's alright, we can take it slowly."

Messmer is pleased to know you're not disappointed in his lack of conquests, though you do wonder how someone of Marika's stock, a prince who could have anything he wished for, did not have his fair share of those who wished to lie with him. Perhaps, it distracted him from his true purpose of Marika's ideals.

You jolt suddenly, your thoughts distracted and your mind goes blank when you feel a hand gingerly hold your left ankle, hovering upwards on your thighs. "I wisheth for thee to cometh undone from me first." He confesses earnestly, and it has your chest squeeze from how he wishes for your wants first.

Messmer himself, fears if he dares even look upon your naked form, he will combust.

You allow him to take his time in getting used to this new vulnerability, for you do not doubt that he is simply terrified of opening up to someone else. Obliging, your head lays back onto the pillow, sighing dreamily as he takes his time, loving the way his hands feel as they map over your body.

It is different from what you can remember of Godwyn's touches; his rough hands groped you when you sat in his lap, always needing to touch you in places you didn't wish to be touched. Messmer, however, was softer, touching you like you were fine glass, afraid you'd crack under pressure.

Messmer looks over every curve, scar and dip, from the way your skin glows beneath the candlelight, to the way your body reacts to every little touch. Messmer can feel himself growing excited, not even from seeing your naked form, even whilst his hands explore higher, he takes in every small movement that comes from you. He gauges your reactions, from the way your mouth hangs open slightly, to how you spread yourself a little more for him to get further access to you.

He gropes at your inner thighs, leaving your weeping sex alone for now as he dares not to pull up your nightgown despite how tempting it may be. He is a man of patience, and even he is impressed by how much is holding onto this longing.

"I has't seen many treasures, artefacts and wonders, but none has't did impress me as much as thee doth, mine starlight." His voice comes out hoarse, wetting his lower lip as he continues to inspect you. His hand reaches up, over your hips, along your stomach and hovering lightly over one of your perk breasts.

Your breath hitches, watching him silently, waiting patiently as you can for him to touch you there, only when he does, do you let the sweetest of moans that he's ever heard come from you. His large hand encompasses your breast, the perfect size for him as he massages it through the thin cloth of the shift, feeling the nipple harden beneath his palm. 

Messmer sighs musingly, swapping sides to give the other treatment, feeling you grow more fidgety beneath him the more he touches and gropes. 

He takes note of it, but continues his teasing, enjoying the way you squirm, your body reacting to him just as the way he anticipated. It does a lot to him to hear the way you whine, moan, and whisper his name in the sweetest of songs he's blessed to hear. "Messmer-" you whine, taking hold of the hand at your breast and redirecting him to cradle your face.

Messmer obliges, leaning over you to kiss you softly, enjoying the way his mouth feels against yours, your tongue darting over his bottom lip as he allows entrance. You're more than surprised to feel the long, slender tongue he has, and the way you feel completely consumed by him as the two of you deeply kiss, touching one another with urgency.

Eos and Fos hover above you, inspecting you, though, you do not feel overwhelmed by their presence, rather, acknowledging that they're one with Messmer and they don't make you feel uncomfortable. Eos moves so he's peering over from Messmer's left side, whilst Fos moves closer to you, flicking their tongue towards your salty skin.

Messmer pulls back to allow to give you room, his attention back to you, and with some permission through his facial features and your approval, he slowly raises your gown, giving him a full view of the lower part of your body. 

"Thou art divine." He is at a loss for words, saying your true name in the softest of voices, taken aback by the sight of your puffy lips and slickness, not a singular touch has been given but around it. He leans closer to your sex, inspecting it, leaving you flushed as a finger lightly touches the hood of your clit. You jolt upright, causing the both of you to lightly chuckle; it felt nice for the mood to not be so tense.

Propping himself on his elbows, Messmer gives you one look for final permission, "May I?"

You nod, hair slick to your forehead from the heat of the room to the tension building. With a kiss to your inner thighs, Messmer leans close, experimentally pressing his mouth to your slick folds.

"Oh, Gods." You cry, squeezing the sheets surrounding you, your sex quivering to the delighted sounds of Messmer, groaning from your taste. Messmer the Impaler is eating you out; The demigod who conquered all the land for this mother's name is moaning from your taste, begging for more. 

It is all that is needed for him to delve in, hearing your cries of approval; tugging your lower body closer to him as he begins his conquest. His long arms hooked underneath your thighs, giving extra room to continue to touch both your breasts as he sucked lightly on your folds, switching between that and licking your clit. The pleasure was intense, crying out his name as you clung to what you could.

"Gods! Messmer-"

"-There is nay God here, dearest," Messmer mumbles into your sex, looking up to make fervent eye contact with you before continuing. Your head rolled back to the pillows, trying your best not to squish his head with your thighs as he ate you out like a man starved. It didn't help the noises he made, groaning deeply as he swallowed your essence, drinking it up as if you were the finest of liquids, poured by the divinity.

The winged serpents ended up in between the two of you, tasting the air to the cries of intertwined sounds.

It didn't take long for the pressure to build in your lower stomach, the pressure building and building so quickly, that you didn't have time to catch up. "Fuck, wait, I'm-"

Your moans increased as your orgasm hit you, legs twitching and sex trying to get as much of Messmer's tongue as you came down from your high. Messmer didn't stop from his act, simply bringing you down from your high as he kissed your quivering sex. He pulled away to look up when your orgasm calmed, his mouth and chin were slick with you, but he didn't seem to mind in the slightest.

"Dearest, thy cries art the sweetest." He groans, touching his clothed bulge, desperate to be consumed by you.

It was hard not to notice how big he was, even when he was still fully clothed. You knew it must've been painful, that he needed to feel appreciated too. Propping yourself on your elbows, you reached towards him, taking in his nerves. "Allow me." You mused, placing your over his hand that was on the bulge and slowly replacing it with yours. He tensed, his cock twitched as soon as you made contact and he let out a long hiss. His clothed cock was heavy in your hand, tucked away but begging to be released. Straightening yourself up, you sat close to him on the edge of the large bed, slowly beginning to tug on his outer clothing, begging with your eyes to ask if you were allowed to do so.

Messmer followed, tugging first off his red fiery cloak, kicking off his sandals and greaves until he was left in the chainmail and breechcloth covering his erection. His fiery red locks were dishevelled, his skin flushed with colour as he nervously tucked his arms inwards to make himself look smaller. "I want to make you feel good, Messmer." You purr, stroking slowly over the bulge, watching as Messmer lets out a shaky exhale. Gritting his teeth, he widened his legs for better access, before muttering. "T'is... different."

You realise what he means, but it doesn't stop you. "That's alright." You slowly edge his breechcloth to the side, pulling forth the full length of him out. It sprung forth, and you couldn't help but immediately have a watery mouth. It was long and thick, maybe around eight or nine inches, with a long, thick vein that wrapped around the shaft. The head was weeping with precum, a bulbous head that to you, looked completely normal.

By now, Messmer was a mess, embarrassment had seized his body, his breathing shallow as he watched intently, trying to keep his hands to himself but failing terribly. "Dearest-"

"-You're so beautiful, Messmer." You speak, which earns him to have cheeks that match his hair. Stroking him lightly earned the most delicious of noises to come from the demigod; garbled whines, whimpering of your name and other things that were incoherent. The heat that came from his cock was immense as if you had dunked your hand into a pool of still-cooling lava rocks and they were scolding to the touch. 

"Prithee, I'm already so close. I cannot-" His moans were the prettiest thing: airy and light. Messmer bucked his hips in time to your strokes, crying out as he tried slowing down. "I shall cometh undone."

Eyeing the head curiously, you stepped it up a level. Leaning over his lap, the heat from his cock was almost overwhelming. "Wha- what art-" He did not have time to finish his sentence as you had given the tip of his cock a kiss, before taking the tip into your mouth. Messmer's head fell back, the grip on the sheets nearly ripped them to ribbons, his surprise came out as a whimper. You swirled your tongue over the head, taking in the warmth from his cock and the saltiness of the precum. You hummed lightly, twitching in your mouth in response.

Using your hands for the areas you couldn't reach, you began to take his cock in deeper, almost gagging when you reached halfway down his shaft, stroking the rest with your hands in time. One of Messmer's hands came to your hair, stroking your locks as he didn't put pressure on you to try and deepthroat him. Instead, you took as much as you could, with Messmer gathering your hair and lightly guiding you.

"Fuck." It surprised you how he would curse, the feeling going straight to your core. You carried on despite the pain in your jaw, all to hear his lovely sounds. "Ah, wait, if thee keepeth going, I shalt-!"

He surprised you by just how much he would come. You barely had time to pull away, luckily Messmer foresaw this and pushed you off his cock in time, cum erupting from his cock and shooting up so high, you thought it would hit the ceiling. Messmer came down from his high, his cock bobbing as ropes and ropes of cum came forth, landing on him, on your hands and thighs, narrowly missing your face and hair. You watched in stunned silence as he stilled, letting out a shaky "phew".

"Witchcraft." Messmer is just as stunned as you as you cannot help but erupt into quiet laughter. He was quick to wipe himself off, all the while, his cock still stood stiff, solid as a rod. You leant back down to lie down, hair spraying across the pillow, spreading your legs for him to see your glistening sex. "You may have me, Messmer."

He didn't need to be told twice, removing the rest of his clothing until he was naked as a babe, springing into action as he climbed above you. He helped remove your nightgown, throwing items of clothing to the ground, all whilst kissing you deeply. He spread your lips with his fingers, drinking in your moans as he worked your clit softly. His other hand stroked his cock in time, before he rubbed it along your slick folds, wetting his cock as he teased your entrance for as long as he could. 

"Art thee ready?" He murmurs against your lips, pushing lightly against your hole when you give the nod, Messmer's mouth falls open in a soft "oh" shape the moment the head begins to slowly push its way inside you. "Oh, fuck," he whines, appreciating your soft moans for him, his girth is taken by you, and you're thankful you're not a virgin, "Thee art... tight." He grunts in the back of his throat, stilling himself from ejaculating too early.

There is a warmth you've felt before, one that is currently snug in your walls. You wrap your legs around Messmer's waist, pulling him tighter, and closer. The redhead groans again, his arms visibly shaking as he ducks his head to hide in the crook of your neck. "If I move, I shalt-" He's muttering incessantly to himself, pushing his hips with tentative and shallow thrusts; he's fearful he will cum too soon.

"It's okay." You tell him reassuringly, that it is rather sweet he is trying to hold out for as long as possible for you to feel some pleasure. And indeed you are, his size is something that is unlike anything you've felt, but you somehow managed to fit him there thanks to the pleasure he gave you and for taking his time.

Messmer gives a small thrust after some minutes, gasping out words as he tries to get used to being inside you. His body language betrays him, the lull for pure, raw pleasure takes over a part of his mind, controlling some primal part of him he didn't know he had. He needs to mark you, needs to fuck you, but the fear of hurting you screams in the back of his mind. You place a hand upon his cheek, your thumb grazing the soft contour of his cheekbone, telling him all is okay, it is natural.

He intently watches your face for discomfort, finding none but the way your face contorts, for all words abandon, your mind a blank slate and nothing more than trying to fathom how Messmer is now fucking a Tarnished. And it feels amazing, not even a third of the way in, but both your bodies yield to the other, an electrifying passion overtakes you.

Clawed fingernails leave divots in your skin, not enough to leave marks or draw blood, but you hiss deeply, pushing your hips higher so Messmer has better access and control over his thrusts. It's only when Messmer pulls slightly back to inspect you, that his winged serpents have twisted around him, eyes on you and staring directly at your stomach.

"It that-" You realise what he's doing, shifting his hips as he penetrates deeper, earner a deeper moan to come both of you. It's enough to feel how deep he is now, but how you tightly squeeze around him. You wonder if the grip on his cock is overwhelming, but Messmer is so caught in the moment, his focus is directly on feeling how big he is inside you.

Messmer's thrusts are faster, deeper, giving into the carnal pleasure that you both wrapped up, you don't realise how loud you both are, certain the entire keep could hear your wanton cries and skin slapping. You're surprised how long Messmer is lasting for his first time, but it is a given since he is no ordinary man, blessed with longevity by his mother.

Ever the gentleman, Messmer finds your clit, matching the time to his sloppy thrusts. You suspect he's close, but it's the pleasure that's being torn from you so suddenly, the size of him and the way you've been curled with your legs practically on his shoulders. "Fuck-- I can't-- if you keep doing that-"

"-Doing what?" You realise it's not a question; he knows what he's doing. From the way his golden eye is intense and there is a sensuous half smile, his tone is part playful, part coy. The tone alone has you flexing your hips at him, trying to directly continue to pleasure building, shamelessly holding him for dear life as an orgasm is stolen from you.

"Oh fuuuuuck, Messmer, ah!"

The look he gives you almost brings you to your end; his hands find purchase in holding your thighs upright, driving himself into you as he sings the softest of pleasures only your ears are blessed in hearing. 

"Oh, Tarnished... grabbing me so well... so wet," he's not making sense, but from the way, he's not holding back, to the way his voice is growing louder and louder in pitch, he's completely and utterly close. The next thrust he drives into you is abrupt, he lurches forward, biting his bottom lip as his orgasm is ripped from him, the sounds of pleasure you both share as you feel the warmth that fills you whole. There is too much cum to even think, gushing out of you as you try to clench around him to keep it inside, failing when it falls down your thighs and onto the sheets.

His body relaxes as the two of you catch your breaths, Messmer stays inside you as he gives shallow thrusts to bring him down from his high, before he calms, letting go of your legs to manoeuvre you. Cradled from behind, his long arms cage you in.

"Art thee hurt?" He asks, kissing your forehead misted with sweat, his lips glossy with what looks like some bleeding from when he bit them too hard. His expression has softened as you look over your shoulder to look back on him. Shaking your head no, a sense of relief washes over him, as well as a tiredness you both didn't realise had taken over. It was after all, late still, and you didn't know how long into the night it was.

Getting comfy, Messmer pulls a blanket over you, a warmth surrounding you as your eyelids grow heavier. You can feel his serpents lethargically move around to watch you, certain that Messmer asked them to protect you whilst he slept.

Sleep is heavy on your mind, cradled in the arms of a demigod keeping you safe.

-

A/N: The best way I can describe how Messmer moans is if you just listen to the audio of when he pulls out his eye. I don't know what his VA was cooking, but it was the best ASMR content I've heard and I need 10 more hours of it. Even though this was a sex scene, I really enjoyed writing it with so much vulnerability. I LOVED writing Messmer in a more sensitive nature, and having him always being calm, and collected in everyday life, to being so unsure and needing the Tarnished to guide him - UGH! It's my Roman empire, I swear - writing about men being soft and whining in the bedroom department.

[thatsmzbitchtoyou]

Moody Bucky -Oneshot

@imagine-all-the-fandoms informed me that I missed posting this one! I'm so sorry to those of you who were excited to read it, I got bogged down with requests and it got lost in the shuffle. Here you go!

Word count: 2684

“Yeah, yeah sounds good.  See you Saturday,” Y/N replied before hanging up the phone.  

“What’s that smile for?” Natasha asked, walking into Y/N’s room.

“Jesus!  Nat, quit being a spy for one day, please?” Y/N gasped, her hand resting over her rapidly beating heart.  “My heart can’t handle it.”

Natasha rolled her eyes.  “Who was that?”

“His name is Lars,” Y/N smiled.  “He’s one of the Asgardian recruits that Thor brought in from New Asgard.  We kinda ran into each other a week ago after training.”

“Lars,” Natasha cocked an eyebrow at her.  “He’s cute.  But then again, all Asgardians are beautiful.”

“True,” Y/N laughed.  

“What about Bucky?” Natasha asked with narrowed eyes.

Y/N sighed at that.  She had had a major crush on Bucky for a while now.  He was the one she really wanted, but after a year and a half of unrequited feelings she was tired.  She felt like she had dropped some flirtatious hints to him while they worked together, and at times he would pick up the crumb and flirt back, while other times he was a perfectly polite gentleman.  He never pushed for anything more than friendship, and she didn’t want to ruin that friendship and work camaraderie with her silly little crush, so she didn’t push either.  “I’ve got to get over that, Nat,” Y/N said quietly, looking down at her phone in her hands.  

Nat sighed as well, moving to sit next to her.  “He likes you, too, you know.  He just doesn’t know how to go about it.”

“You keep saying that, but nothing has changed,” Y/N said, giving her an unimpressed look.  “If he really likes me and wants me, then he would have done something about it by now.  I’m not going to wait around forever.  I deserve more, don’t I?”

“You do,” Natasha nodded.  “If you like this Lars guy, then go for it.  Even if it doesn’t work out, it’ll be a nice distraction.”

Y/N huffed a laugh.  

***

“She’s got a date,” Natasha said flippantly as she passed by Bucky in the hallway.

“What?” Bucky asked, looking at her confusedly.

“Y/N has a date, this Saturday,” Natasha said, looking back at him.  “With an Asgardian.”  Bucky’s eyes widened at her.  “You waited too long,” Natasha shrugged.  “She deserves to be loved, Barnes.  If you won’t give her that, she’ll find it elsewhere.”  She gave him a tight smile then turned and walked away.

Bucky exhaled sharply.  You waited too long.  The words rattled around in his brain.  Had he really waited too long?  He had a sneaking suspicion that maybe Y/N reciprocated his feelings, but he was too afraid to do anything about it.  Potential rejection and ruining a good friendship held him back, but now…was he actually losing her?

***

Y/N adjusted her dress for the millionth time that night.  It fit her well, accentuating all the right places, the color complimenting her skin tone beautifully.  She was wearing much more makeup and had her hair done up more than she ever normally would.  She looked herself over in the mirror again, then sighed and grabbed her small purse.  “Chill out,” she whispered to herself.  Y/N walked out of her room, her heels clicking against the floor as she headed towards the living room she had to pass through to get to the elevator.  When she entered everyone’s eyes were on her.

Sam let out a wolf whistle.  “Goddamn, Y/L/N, you’re looking good,” he said in a suggestive tone.  “You clean up nicely.”

Y/N blushed and Steve stood up from his spot on the couch next to Sam and approached her.  “You look beautiful,” he complimented her, giving her a side hug.  

Natasha joined him and took her hand.  “Give us a twirl,” she teased, raising their conjoined hands and turning her.  Y/N giggled as she circled herself around, posing with her foot popped up behind her when she was done. 

“Get you some Asgardian ass!” Peter piped up from the corner of the room.  “Show him what we Midgardians can do!”

Y/N blushed and covered her face with her hand as everyone laughed.  “Stop it, you guys,” she murmured.  “Thank you.”

“Doesn’t she look great, Buck?” Natasha asked with a teasing tone, arching her eyebrow as she looked behind Y/N into the kitchen off to the side of the living room.

Y/N turned to look at Bucky.  His eyes were wide as he looked at her from head to toe, pausing particularly along her curves.  He swallowed harshly and blinked, a slight frown marring his face.  “Yeah,” he agreed, shooting a dagger-filled look at Natasha.  He softened as he looked back at Y/N.  “You look amazing, doll,” he complimented her.  He gave her a tight smile, then hung his head and quickly left the kitchen, marching down the hallway to his bedroom where he closed the door soundly.  Everyone watched him leave with a frown.

Y/N sighed quietly.  “I um…I think I forgot something.  Thanks everybody,” she said, quickly walking back down the hallway.  They all said farewell to her as she made her way toward her room, but then looked back to make sure no one was watching her as she veered to Bucky’s door.  She stared at his door for a minute, trying to get the courage to knock.  She pulled out her phone and texted Lars before putting it on silent and pocketing it, then knocking on Bucky’s door.

She heard shuffling and then Bucky opened the door.  He looked dejected until he saw it was her, then his face quickly changed into a pleasant smile.  “Oh, hey doll,” he said quickly.  “I thought you were leaving?”

“Can I come in?” Y/N asked.

“Uh, sure,” Bucky said with a slight frown.  He opened the door wider and stepped back, and she walked inside.  As he closed the door behind her she stood awkwardly near the edge of his bed.  She had been in his room multiple times, whether for a movie night, random hang outs or helping him through another nightmare.  Now it seemed formidable as she steeled herself for his response.  “What’s up?” he asked, looking almost anywhere but at her.

Y/N inhaled deeply.  “Can you be honest with me?” she asked.  Bucky’s gaze snapped to her, his frown deepening.  “Tell me right now why you don’t want me to go on this date, and I won’t go,” she said, gulping at the tremble in her voice.  

Bucky shook his head.  “I…I don’t…I didn’t say that–”

“You didn’t have to,” Y/N breathed.  She walked closer to him until she was almost toe-to-toe with him, looking up at him with longing and hope.  “Tell me you don’t want me to go.”

His mouth slightly dropped, his gaze flickering around her face.  “I…I don’t want you to go on the date,” he rushed out.

“Why?” Y/N pressed him.

Bucky blinked rapidly.  “Because you…you’re…” he sighed and closed his eyes.  “Because I want you to be mine.”

“Look at me,” Y/N whispered.  He slowly opened his eyes.  “Say it again.”

Bucky bit his lip then inhaled deeply.  He slowly leaned his head down until his forehead rested against her forehead.  “I want you to be mine,” he whispered.

“Then ask me,” Y/N whispered back with a small smirk on her face.

Bucky huffed a laugh, his hands grabbing her hands and holding her fingers loosely.  “Will you be mine, Y/N?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” she replied, her smile widening.  

Bucky smiled back.  “I’m sorry it took me so long to say it,” he said.

“I’m sorry it took me so long, too,” Y/N said.  

He nuzzled her nose.  “You do look amazing, by the way,” he said, his gaze slipping down her body appreciatively.  “Too bad it wasn’t for me.”

“Oh please,” Y/N rolled her eyes at his moody cheekiness.  “Whose fault is that?”

“Mine,” Bucky chuckled.  His fingers moved up her arms, until he reached the dress straps on her shoulders.  He slowly pushed one down so it hung loosely on her arm, then leaned forward and kissed her naked shoulder.  “I’m pretty sure you were thinking of me, though.”

“So what if I was?” Y/N teased.

Bucky pouted against her skin.  “You like torturing me, don’t you doll?”

“Maybe a little bit,” Y/N said.  “I mean, I could text him, send him a picture of my dress–”

Bucky nipped at her skin and growled.  His metal hand wrapped around the back of her neck and pulled her against him, his flesh hand gripping her hip.  “You wouldn’t dare,” he hissed, his flesh hand traveling down to her ass and giving it a quick slap that had her gasping.  “I don’t share.”

“Neither do I,” Y/N huffed, her hands gripping his shirt tightly.  

“You better call and cancel with him,” Bucky snarled in her ear.  “‘Cause I’m not letting you leave my room for the next few days…if ever.”

“Already did,” Y/N smirked.  

He laughed against her neck before pulling back and looking at her.  “Careful, doll, or you’re gonna make me fall in love even deeper than I already am.”

Y/N’s eyes widened at that piece of information.  “I love you, too, Buck,” she said sincerely.

Bucky’s eyes softened and he smiled before finally kissing her gently.  She kissed him back fervently, angling her head to deepen the kiss as her arms wrapped around his neck, keeping his face pulled down to hers.  It quickly became passionate, Bucky’s hands kneading her ass then leaning down to pull and pick her up by her thighs.  Y/N yelped against his mouth as he started lifting her dress with one hand while the other kept her positioned around his waist, her legs crossed tight behind him.  He got the dress off before laying her down on the bed, his lips barely leaving her skin.

When he pulled back he looked down to find her bare breasts, a thin thong barely covering her pussy.  “Fucking hell, doll,” he murmured.  “What were you hoping for tonight, huh?”  His possessiveness returned, making his eyes darken again.  “Was this for him?”

“Who?” Y/N asked, biting back a smile.

A low rumble came from Bucky’s chest.  “You’re just a little tease, aren’t you?” he asked, his flesh hand slapping at the side of her ass.  

“Sometimes,” Y/N shrugged.

Bucky’s finger dipped below the string of her thong on her hip and started pulling it off.  He threw it off to the side and dipped that same finger in between her legs, feeling how wet she was already.  “You’re soaking, doll,” he cooed at her.  “Who made you this wet?”  Before she could answer, his hand slapped her pussy lightly, making her gasp in surprise, looking at him incredulously.  “Was it him?” he arched an eyebrow at her.

“No,” Y/N whispered.  “It was you.”

He slapped her pussy again, tearing a cry from her lips.  “Who was that?  I didn’t hear you,” he said with a playful grin.

“You!”  Y/N yelped.  “Only you!”

“That’s fucking right,” Bucky grunted, then rubbed at her clit in fast circles with his middle and pointer finger.  Y/N tensed at the pleasure that zinged through her pelvis from his actions, her eyes screwed shut as she let out a shuddering breath.  He leaned over her again, kissing up from her breasts to her neck where he sucked at her skin, leaving bruises blooming in his wake.  “Nobody else can make you feel like this, can they?” he asked, his teeth scraping against the column of her throat.

“Nobody,” Y/N moaned as his fingers started flicking her clit instead of rubbing.  “Shit!  Just like that!  Bucky…baby…”

“Oooh I like baby,” he chuckled against her skin, licking up her jaw.   “What else do you wanna call me?”

“Anything,” Y/N hiccuped, her hips gyrating against his hand.  “I’ll call you anything you want, just please let me cum!”

He slapped her pussy again, making her squeal.  “I asked you a question,” he said.

“Bucky…baby…handsome…fuck, honey, love, daddy!” she yelled.

Bucky chuckled again.  “Wow, never been called ‘daddy’ before,” he smirked down at her.  “Say it again.”

Y/N’s eyes pleaded with him.  “D-daddy…please…”

Bucky eyelids fluttered at the pet name.  “Yes, babydoll?”

Y/N squirmed at the new version of ‘doll,’ loving how he was playing into the pet names.  “Please!  Daddy please, make me cum!” she begged.

“I’ve got you, babydoll,” he groaned, then his fingers pinched her clit.  

Y/N gasped and whimpered until after a few precise flicks she finally came with a loud moan.  Her legs were shaking as she panted and eventually came down from the high of her orgasm.  “Fuck…” she sighed.

“Good girl, Y/N,” Bucky praised her, kissing her cheek sweetly.  “Do we need a condom?”  She shook her head, unable to fully form words.  “Thank god,” he said, then suddenly sat up straight and manhandled her until she was laying on her stomach.  He spread her legs and lifted her hips so she was up on her knees, her face down in the blanket.  He slapped her ass multiple times, massaging the sting, before she felt the tip of his cock slip through her lower lips.  She hadn’t even heard him taking his clothes off, and she gripped the pillows by her head as she prepared for his cock.  “Ready doll?” he asked.

“Yes Daddy,” Y/N mumbled.  Her hips slightly jiggled and moved back towards him, making the tip of his cock push into her.

“Fuck yeah, you want my cock, babydoll?” he groaned, gripping her hips.  “Say it.”

“I want your cock,” Y/N breathed.  She was still so turned on and lightheaded from her first orgasm and his possessive, rougher treatment that she didn’t even know she liked until now.  “Please give me your cock, Daddy.”

Bucky moaned and finally started pushing into her.  They both gasped at the feeling, Y/N whimpering as he continued to push in, large and overwhelming her tight pussy.  “Holy fuck, so tight,” Bucky huffed.  “I’m not gonna be able to stop, Y/N.”

“I don’t want you to,” Y/N said, trying to look back at him.  “Fuck me, Daddy.”

“Jesus Christ!” Bucky whimpered, then slammed his hips into her, making her scream.  He set a punishing pace, the skin slapping against skin echoing in his room between his grunts and her whimpers.  Within just a few minutes his grip became bruising as he chased his release.  “I’m gonna cum, babydoll.”

“Please…”

“Gonna fill you up…”

“Fuck yes.”

“Then I’ll fuck you again.  And again.  Mark you from the inside out, so he knows you’re mine.”

“Yes Daddy!”

“That’s right, scream my name.  Make everybody know you’re mine!  Let them know who’s fucking you this good!”

Y/N came again at his command, screaming his name as her pussy clamped down around him, her entire body shaking.  Bucky was right behind her, her pussy milking him of everything he had, cumming with a shout and falling on top of her.  They shivered against each other, his panted breaths fanning her neck and his hair tickling her ear as she twitched from the aftershocks.  

“Damn, babydoll,” Bucky breathed after a few minutes.  He lifted himself and slowly pulled out of her.  Y/N groaned at the loss of his fullness.  Bucky lay next to her and pulled her in to snuggle against his side.  He brushed her hair from her face with his fingers and stared at her adoringly.  “Hey,” he said quietly.

“Hey,” she whispered, smiling at him.

“Are you okay?” he asked, concern flashing in his eyes.  “I’m sorry, I got carried away–”

“I’m fine, Buck,” Y/N giggled.  “Great, actually…Daddy.”

“Don’t start yet,” Bucky narrowed his eyes at her.  “Let me recover first.”

She giggled again.  “So jealous and moody,” she teased.

Bucky grinned proudly.  “Only for you, doll.”

[blackynsupremacy]

Hey hey😇 you think you could write something about Jensen ackles or Dean Winchester? Only if you know him but no black writers write about him and I love your work!

a/n: my requests are usually closed, but I never wrote for dean and I used to watch spn lol. I’m not really back back but this is some fluff to hold you guys over until I feel like doing something again. Hope you enjoy!

this is true because his first love was indeed a black woman!

• this is just a quick a little headcanon. a thought I’ve had in my brain for a bit.

• you know the way to a guy’s heart is through is stomach, right?

• Dean Winchester is that guy.

• we all know besides slaying demons with his brother, Dean loves to eat. • he’s a certified foodie all around.

• he enjoys the comfort foods of the bars and diners that he and Sam stop at while on adventures.

• but his absolute favorite would be his black s/o’s food.

• Dean LOVES your cooking.

• if you’re from the southern part of the U.S., he would indulge in a good plate of soul food.

• you can’t tell me he wouldn’t devour a good plate of fried chicken, greens, mac n cheese, and some cornbread with sweet tea.

• extra sweet tea!

• if you’re from the carolinas, best believe he enjoys some barbecue.

• lowkey, I think he would he eat some chitlins. (iykyk)

• his mouth waters when you tell him what you’ve cooked.

• he’ll wife you up instantly for your desserts. • he loves your cakes, cobblers, and pies.

• his favorite is sweet potato pie, no question.

• he’d definitely ask where you got your skills.

• it’d be recipes passed down from generation to generation.

• you’d cherish them and you even show him how it’s done.

• for my Caribbean and African babes, I know he would love ya’ll food to the max!!! (I need to see ya’ll write this) • Sam and Dean would be ecstatic when you’d pack them to-go plates for on the road.

• Not only do the Winchester boys enjoy the flavor, they know you put in effort and lots of love into what you do.

• Dean can feel your love and adoration through every bite.

• You fill his heart, soul, and stomach.