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love-toxin · 1 year ago

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Ellie i want astarion to fuck my mouth

im SO sorry queen i had to make the meow meow a lil emotionally vulnerable while im at it pls forgive me 🐸

(cws: gn!reader, vampire fuckery, bg3 spoilers, oral (m! receiving), teasing, possibly ooc astarion bc im only starting act 2 LOL, jealousy sex, deepthroating, a touch of feral/rough sex, facefucking, astarion is so in love it makes him look stupid <3)

word count: 3.9k

Once again, an evening spent with your mind somewhere else is interrupted by something you weren't expecting. The fire gleams from the pit and washes warmth across your face, a glow cast over your skin as you sit with your fingers white-knuckling a cold mug. Your companions are off on their own save for Scratch, who despite being a bit furrier than the tavern's normal patrons sleeps quietly at your feet. It barely took any convincing to let him in considering the rather stellar reputation you've earned yourselves–not to mention you're sharing a spot around the hearth with a couple frizzy-haired barbarians and a Tabaxi bard strumming out a tune on her lute. All seems peaceful, the noise just relaxed enough that you can let your mind wander about all manner of things. Ponder all sorts of worries you have yet to deal with on your adventure.

But it seems you're destined for an interruption. The back of your neck prickles from nowhere, a chill slithering coldly down your spine…from the corner of your eye you spot him, his pale hand vanishing behind a door on the second floor of the inn.

He's watching you. That's your cue, his methods of distraction always seeming so trivial and out of the way–he could always just come over and tap you on the shoulder. But Astarion likes the chase and isn't much of a fan of sincerity, so it's only natural for you to pass your half-empty mug off to one of the barbarians, get a bumbled shout of gratitude and a slap on the back, and slip away from the night's bustle of the tavern to thump your way up the winding stairs. All four of the rooms have been rented out by you and your party but one will sit empty tonight–aside from your gear, you're fairly certain your room will be unoccupied as you find other sleeping arrangements.

Tap tap. Just in case there's danger looming too close to comfort, you and your partner have a particular signal. Just as your knuckles come away from the door the tapping echoes back, tap tap, and you smother a grin as your fist closes around the knob for you to step inside.

The oak door thuds behind you at once and clicks softly as the latch falls in place. Nothing but the ire of a god or a drunken ogre could interrupt you now….but there's not much to interrupt if there's only one of you here, and as your eyes sweep the simple room you don't spot hide nor hair of your darling creature of the night. You've got a teasing remark on the tip of your tongue, ready to let loose-

"Don't. Move."

-But before you can even take a breath, there's a blade's edge digging into your throat and a cold, lean body pressed up against your backside. Effectively caught between a rock and a hard place. Prey. Astarion's whispered commands, however deep and punctuated they are, only send shivers of delight through you rather than true fear–and you find yourself struck with a dumb grin, not at all immune to the soft touch of his lips as they graze your tender neck from behind. He's got his arm pulled so snug around your waist it feels more like the grasp of a lover than a robbery, but that's because it is.

"Light on valuables, huh?" You tease over your shoulder, your hands braced against his arm as it holds the knife so dangerously close to your pulse point.

"You aren't. Show me what you've got, or I'll look myself." He murmurs back, breath cool as it puffs shallowly against your skin. It's somehow sweet when he tries to be so hard-to-get with you–maybe, you wonder, he doesn't yet realize how attached you are to him despite all you've been through already. Enough that you don't feel the bite of harsh, real danger in your peripheral, which sooner leads him to loosen his grip and push you forward with a palm on the base of your spine–all while tugging the knife out of the way, of course. If you asked him, he'd say it's because it would be a waste to spill such divine blood all over the ground.

As you turn yourself around to face him, you come eye-to-eye with the glaring tip of the knife yet again. Astarion is half-dressed, a bit disheveled, looking as though he's on the cusp of needing a drink again. Those carmine-coloured eyes echo some deep, violent desperation, one that shakes his voice as he commands you with total sincerity to strip.

"Will you join me?" You ask, your voice tinged with adoring hope. It irritates him, hope. Usually, at least. Usually it doesn't rub him as wrong when you're the one with hope in your heart, but evidently tonight is different if his scoff is anything to go by.

"That depends." His gaze flits away as he worries his lower lip between his teeth, not as careful about nicking it with his fangs as he usually is. Something surely must be wrong if he's acting so strange, especially since nothing has happened lately that's seemed to upset him…at least not that he's told you. It could be something else entirely, or something you don't have any idea about. Once he meets your eyes again, the hand he's gripping the dagger in lowers slowly. It was just a prop, after all–never a real threat. "...So long as you don't forget who you pledged your love to. Me. I won't stand for all this…this nonsense I've seen of late."

You cock your head in reply with a raised brow, questioning and curious of what on earth he could be referring to. Astarion rolls his eyes but it's most assuredly a gesture to mask how weak your sincerity makes him, your honesty painfully boring but, at the same time, endlessly endearing. With a sigh he tosses the knife aside in an arc, the handle flipping over blade for it to fall perfectly on the tip, sunk half an inch into the table by the bed. He's got his attention locked on it for long enough that the shuffling of fabric is what turns his head back towards you, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips on instinct as he watches your clothing slip off your positively tantalizing figure.

"We're gonna have to pay for that, you know." Whatever you're saying goes right through both ears, the way your giggles shake your shoulders being all that he can focus on right now. He can barely tear his eyes away once you've wiggled out of your bottoms, and you're swift to remind him of his stare when you cheekily throw the travel-worn trousers in his direction. But all he does is grab a handful of them and press them to his face, not soaking in the scent as much as the undeniable warmth from just coming off your legs. They're only an introduction, however. They're tossed right back at you without pause, and fall to the floor in a heap that Astarion carelessly steps over to get to you. To get closer. He can never really get close enough, ever.

Even an inch away from you, though, your love does nothing to close that last shred of distance between you. Where he was eager to touch you just a few minutes ago, now he keeps his hands down like he's nervous about grazing you with just his fingertips. But despite that you can clearly see how he keeps eyeing your lips, so if he won't meet you the rest of the way, you simply have to do it for him. A quick peck on the chin is too much yet not enough–he endures a noticeable quiver through his body that he tries to stifle, but he can't resist raising a hand to your neck and tilting your head higher, just enough that you won't miss this time when he plants his mouth on yours. Deeper this time, much deeper, with his tongue making an appearance to slither from a cold embrace to your unbearably hot one.

You'd love nothing more than to take it further right here, right now, but there's something stopping Astarion that you'd like to get to the bottom of. Just as he's getting a little lost in your kiss, his eyes shut and fangs scraping at your delicate tongue as it moves with his, you break it off with a warm hand pressed to his chest and bring him back to your unspoken question.

"Azzy, what's wrong?"

"Don't call me that," He snaps back suddenly, brow furrowed in immediate annoyance. He doesn't move away though–clearly you're a bit too enticing for him to rethink the embrace he has you in, nor the fact that you're bare and warm for nobody else but him. "So childish. Or did you simply forget my name already?"

"I could never forget you. Now tell me what's wrong, Az. You're acting weird."

This time, he just shoots you a glare that could kill you on the spot. It's damning, his fury terrifying enough written so plainly on his face….but it also stirs up something within you that won't be sated by words alone.

"Last time, darling. I'm warning you. And it's nothing. Just…" A shake of his head sends his perfect curls flying about, each one falling back into place more perfectly than he's coming across right now. "...I wish you had been around when I was alive. That's all."

"What do you mean?"

"The others are all…alive. Breathing. Warm. Some of them look at you like–like you aren't with me. Like they could sweep you off your feet without even a thought." He says it with so much defeat in his tone, so gently with so soft an edge that you almost can't hear it with the muffled sounds of the tavern under your feet. It's rare to hear him sound so…sad. It's a bit odd to think, but he often comes off younger than he is when he speaks this way. "Maybe, if…if I was with you, then…" He huffs, flinching away from your hand as it grazes his cheek. Yet, within a moment, he's turning back and nuzzling his face into your palm like he can't get enough, his hand coming up to brace your delicate wrist as if he's afraid you really will pull away from him. "...If I was with you, maybe I would never be what I am now."

"But I like who you are now." You insist, the smile slowly returning as it creases the edges of your lips. "I love you, Astarion. I mean it, I always will. Forever."

"Forever is a very long time, my sweet." You shoot him that naive look like you don't really get the gravity of what you're saying. You don't, on second thought–you haven't suffered through two immortal centuries like he has. "...Fine. You love me? Prove it, then."

His tone grows dark, as does the once-vibrant colour in his eyes. Something swirls about behind them like a shadow in the water of a blood-red lake.

"On your knees."

Huh?

"I said," The air grows hot around you despite the chill of his body on yours, a purr rising in the back of his throat as he pushes very gently on your shoulder. "Get on your knees."

And with his command hanging in the air, you follow so obediently you give him a pleasing shiver down the length of his spine and back. You sink down to the floor in one long, fluid motion, barely breaking eye contact as you brace yourself against his pale thighs. They don't even need your touch to come undressed, his pants falling with his thumbs hooked into the waist and tugged down just as easily as you did. He wastes no time in stepping out of them and kicking them away, but he doesn't really have the option to when you're already mesmerized by the image of what lies beneath–once the tip of his flushed, heavy cock sprung free of catching on his belt, you had your gaze glued to it like it's the first time you've ever laid eyes on him.

"I'll never get tired of this view." He smirks, all pompous and smug with no idea of the test of self-control he's about to face. Because although you may be the one beneath him, where you belong in this scenario, the haze over your eyes as you stare openly should be enough of a tell that your mouth is already watering. Astarion's gentle humming hits your ears as he takes himself in hand, tugging out a few slow strokes for your entertainment before he settles on holding it by the base, and guides it down towards your lips. He's so pale everywhere else that the ruddiness of the rubbery head is almost uncanny, but the pale pink blush that spreads throughout gives his flesh such a delicate look that you can't help but dive right in.

One slow, tentative lick up the tip, and Astarion has it written all over his face–he isn't going to be finished until you've got some bruises, that's for sure. You try another and he finally gets a grip on your head, fingers woven through your hair to keep you steady and to calm his trembling hands. Those soft kitten licks are always his weakness, each one a bit braver and deeper but peppered with hot little kisses in between. You press them all down the shaft and back, smearing the stiff flesh with spit and giving him a tongue bath that feels like it never ends–not that he wants it to, though. Those shaky breaths overhead are a telltale sign otherwise.

"More," He purrs, half-needy and half-demanding in the same breath. You kiss over his knuckles that still grip the base of his shaft, and can't help but smile up at him as he quietly taps the head against your lips, tap tap. Twice he knocks and begs silently for entry, and soon he releases a sigh from the depths of his belly as you swallow him down and welcome him in. "Show me what I deserve."

Astarion certainly doesn't need to tell you twice, he barely needs to tell you once. As soon as he's settled snugly where he belongs, he lets go of the grasp he had and watches in awe as you swallow. Every inch he thinks you can't take more of disappears inside your mouth, slid further and further until he starts to curve into the bend of your throat and loses the last vestiges of his willpower. All his strength saps into you like his teeth on your flesh–where he stole your power in your blood, you take it back just as easily with a flick of your tongue and the incessant squeeze of your throat.

"Getting impatient? Already? We've only just begun, love." You can feel the heat of his eyes shift as they turn further downward, no clothing able to serve as a boundary to hide the needy grind of your thighs together as you kneel. The reaction of your body to his rather lewd commentary doesn't help you either, and in one sweep of his gaze over your exposed figure he can see everything you're thinking like it's written across your skin in ink. "Don't stop rubbing those legs together. Show me just how badly you want me, darling."

It might be more embarrassing if you didn't know Astarion had seen it all already, and that he would most definitely be seeing much more of everything below in the future. The fact that you trust him with those fangs around all your sensitive areas is touching…and it also means he trusts you enough to be a little rougher when you're returning the favour. You've degraded yourself to a humiliating extent by being with him, by getting down on your knees for him no less, and with him wrapped so tight and cozy in your throat he's got a look like he's ready to make himself at home.

With a moan slipped in between the pauses, your beloved curls his thumbs down behind the shell of each ear, his palms laid flat against your temples so he won't let go so easily. The drawing back is easy, his cock parting less and less of the space inside until he's barely brought it back to the tip–but just as you're getting in a taste of his salty sweat and bitterly rich arousal as it sits heavy on your tongue, Astarion flashes you a wink and braces your face for impact as he thrusts back in. Your heat coddles every inch of him and shakes loose a string of raspy moans from his chest, while the scrape of your nails against his thighs and your soft, squirming tongue pressed flat against his girth only has him burning hotter. The first time is a tight fit for sure, but as he enters into a steady rhythm of pulling out and gliding past your sweet, stretched lips, each buck of his hips grows smoother and it gets easier with time. Sooner than either of you expected, you barely have to focus at all–you can sit nicely and let your attention wander up to his lusty gaze, idly suckling at whatever he manages to stuff inside for as long as he's able to keep it there.

"I know it's on your mind already, but tell me I'm beautiful, my sweet." Astarion croons like a cat to a mouse, speaking so sweetly like he isn't still ravaging the most tender areas of your throat, and fucking away any possibility of you speaking properly for the next little while. And he shows no signs of stopping, your squeaky, muffled moans as he grinds the heft of his cock against your tongue too delicious for him to think about it. But eventually he does, managing somehow to pry himself off of your beautiful, fucked-out, spit-slicked face to give you a chance. "Go on. Speak."

"Please," You croak, head hazy and your face dark with warmth. "You're so beautiful, Astarion, please. I love you."

"Will you love me forever?" You nod, the answer barely a hair's breadth from your swollen lips.

"For eternity."

Astarion takes a moment, a pause that lasts a lifetime or more, but the genuine joy that starts to spread across his smile could keep you alive for a century of centuries. It's not one you see often or ever see, but that makes it just as precious as any gold or treasure you might come across in your lifetime.

"...Eternity it is then, darling." One of those cold hands moves to stroke your hair, his touch fleeting yet his grip tight with desire as you lean in for a kiss–not on his lips, but rather the tip of his dick, of which is absolutely soaked by your influence…and of his readiness for the end, as you can see by the veins pulsing up the sides and the whole length twitching with anticipation. You can feel those little spasms through your tongue as it meets his slit, Astarion's chest heaving and fangs glinting as he gives in to the urges to nestle himself back inside. As much as he wants a proper kiss, he'll get one as soon as those frantic hips slow completely instead of picking up speed as he meets your delectable heat again. He could be using you for his pleasure alone for another two hundred years, and in your endless desire to please him you're not sure you'd oppose it–you know for a fact that once the centuries had passed, Astarion would be spending twice as long with his head down between your legs.

"One day, I'll tear that wretch of a vampire's heart out through his stomach," Astarion growls out of nowhere, suddenly sounding completely feral in the span of a moment. The ferocity with which he's fighting the tightness of your throat increases too, thought not much more than he already was–if you touched your neck you would feel the bulge of him sunk so deep he can see it, the rise and fall of that soft flesh tightening the knot in the pit of his belly. "-And we won't ever spend a day apart. I swear."

All you can do is ride with the pace he's offering, your throat cinching tight like a coinpurse the more he rams it with the full strength of his hips, nails digging into your scalp as he batters you rabidly without ever losing his grip. Soon, his query of "Ready, darling?" barely meets your ears, your attempt at not choking on each thrust and somehow sucking in a breath here and there too important for your survival.

And in a matter of moments, you're granted reprieve while also left hollow and empty at the same time, Astarion's fist yanking you back by the hair as he sucks in a huge, deep breath into his lungs. The twist of his other hand stroking himself down to the last few beats comes close to your face, your soft gasps for air the perfect background for your name to trickle out of Astarion's mouth–and with such a deep moan it rattles you through your blood down to your bones, you kneel and wait eagerly as your partner lets everything go for you. His balls tighten and squeeze as the pressure of that knot inside him snaps, and he watches with a devoted gleam in his eyes as you wear every rope of pearly cum he milks out for you in that orgasm that shakes him to the core.

"Look at that," He murmurs, voice nearly as wrecked and raspy as yours will be by tomorrow. "Painted like a canvas fit for the gods. Gorgeous."

If he could, he would save this image of you in a frame forever; your sweet, smiling face marred with the essence of him, your hair pulled back by his sweaty fingers but your eyes filled with so much love. Love, genuine and sincere, your giggles loopy and tired as you come down from the high, yet without any post-sex remorse that he fears each and every time you climb into his bed with him. It stays the same when he cleans you off and persists even once you kiss him, knees so wobbly you fall back into the sheets with the slightest push. You won't ever let him free, kiss after kiss pressed to his cold mouth as he climbs over you. Your ankles hook over his waist before he knows it, your smile desperate to be wiped off your face again once he chases that heat for the second, third, fourth, fifth, tenth time, until the sun rises and you're reminded of the downsides of entertaining a lover who never needs rest.

You might tell him you love him again when morning comes, despite the exhaustion tugging down your eyelids and the sweat pouring down your aching back. You probably will, knowing how naive and sincere you tend to be even when you shouldn't. Even so, this time…Astarion might not be able to pretend he doesn't feel exactly the same way.

#astarion #astarion x reader #baldur's gate 3 #ellie writes #anons #3k

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callsign-venus · 11 months ago

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Put a Bow on It | Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Reader

Summary: You find out that Bradley's present-wrapping skills are... less than stellar, so it's up to you to save Christmas.

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: fluff, a few very light sexual references, incompetence of a grown man, fluffy fluff fluff

a/n: Thank you for the love on my previous posts — I’m really thankful to everyone who reads my silly little stories. Hope y’all enjoy this one, Merry Christmas!

“You can’t look at me like that,” Bradley says.

“Like what?” You ask, though you know exactly what he means.

It’s not that you mean to look at him with such pity, but who can blame you?

You weren’t exactly sure how he got himself into such a mess when you were only in the kitchen making coffees. Wedged between a stack of boxed Barbies and no less than 12 rolls of wrapping paper scattered across your living room floor, Bradley looks less competent aviator and more like an unsupervised 5th grader. Tattered strips of Santa wrapping paper curl around him, scraps of tape line both of his exposed thighs, and he’s so flustered he hasn’t even removed the bright red bow you tied around his head earlier. You both look down at the lumpy present sitting on the rug in front of him. For all his efforts, it wasn’t a spectacular result.

“You did great.” You have to hide your face with a drawn-out sip of coffee because you know if he catches a glimpse of your expression, he will call you out for your bald-faced lie.

He can tell anyway. “I’m not sure lying is the best way to get on the nice list.”

You do feel bad. It was your idea to get involved in the neighborhood toy drive, and despite his protests, you pleaded for Bradley to help.

“It will be fun,” you said before kissing his pouty lips. “I’ll make us coffees and you can light a fire and it’ll be so festive.”

“I’m sure it will be,” he cupped your face with his hands, “but I’m not lying when I say I can’t wrap a present to save my life.”

“You’ll do great.” You gave him another quick kiss and considered the matter over.

So, he didn’t do great. Could you really blame him? He tried to let you know beforehand, and it’s not like his military career was spent doing arts and crafts. You take another sip of your coffee before setting both mugs down and padding over to sit on the floor next to him.

“Am I off the wrapping duties?” He gives you a lopsided smile and slides his hand around your waist.

“You wish.” You reach over his lap and undo his wrapping job. “Get ready to learn a thing or two.”

He laughs when you use his own words against him, as you have throughout your entire relationship.

When you two weren’t yet dating – but still very much infatuated with each other – Bradley used pool as an excuse to get close to you, though no excuses were needed. You were putty in his hands already.

“Get ready to learn a thing or two,” he’d murmured in your ear. It was a Friday evening and The Hard Deck was packed, so he had to get close — mustache-ticking-your-ear close — so you could hear him over the rowdy crowd of sailors. And he was teaching you how to make a combination shot, so he had to wrap his arms around you so he could guide you through the motions. And you were a receptive student, so you had to lean against him so he could feel the curve of your ass — just so he knew his technique was working.

Now, nearly a year later on the rug of your living room, you slide up behind Bradley like he did that Friday night, your fingers gliding down his thick biceps towards his hands. They’re huge under yours, earning a laugh from both of you.

“Sweet girl, I’m not sure this is gonna work,” he says as you rest your chin on his shoulder. The curled ribbon from the bow in his hair tickles your check.

“Well, I know how to play pool thanks to this little trick. I’m sure I can use it to teach you how to wrap a present.”

You guide one of his hands toward the pair of scissors and another towards the pile of wrapping paper.

“Since I’m a great teacher, I’ll even let you pick which paper to use,” you say.

He lingers over the rolls for a moment, ultimately choosing a cranberry red paper with prints of cars carrying snow-dusted Christmas trees.

“Ok, now let’s roll it out. Look at me, Bradley.”

He pulls back a little so you can make complete eye contact. Even after months of dating, his warm brown eyes undo something in you, leaving you feeling like you’re brushing shoulders with the clouds. How did you ever get so lucky?

“It’s very important to measure the paper before cutting,” your voice softens as you drop the strict teacher act. “Put the Barbie at the edge of the wrapping paper, then you kinda fold up the other edge and see if it’s long enough.”

He takes a moment to soak you in before he can bring his attention back to the present. Up close, he can fully appreciate the graceful curve of your lips, the exact shade of your eyes. In the weepy, late morning sunlight, you are radiant.

The fire crackles in the background. The only other sound is your synchronous breathing.

You lean in slightly. “I don’t mean to ruin the moment, but I promised Cathy that we’d deliver the presents by 2, so you need to get moving.”

“You should boss me around more often.” He stares at you for a second longer before turning his attention back to the present.

You’re glad he turns around so he can’t witness the violent shade of red your face flushes — nearly as red as the wrapping paper.

Once the paper’s measured, you show him how to cut it with one swooshing glide of the scissors.

“It’s like I’m a professional,” he says.

“Don’t get too far ahead of yourself.” You squeeze his hands gently. “We’ve still got to tape this sucker up.”

He groans as you peel the scraps of tape off his thigh.

“How did you even do this to yourself?” You collect all the tape into one big wad. “You’re a grown man”

He shrugs. “I guess my mom was gone before she could teach me.”

At the mention of his mom, your heart melts. What you wouldn’t give to have her here for him, to walk him through this process he should have learned years ago. To spend another Christmas with her boy. You run your fingers through his sun-lightened locks. One night when you two first started dating, you sat on your porch alone. Under soft-falling moonlight, you promised Carole that you’d be there for her son; promised her that she and Goose could count on you to make sure he’d always be ok.

Something in Bradley’s face makes you think you were doing just fine on your promise. You can’t help the heat that rises to your checks when you catch him staring at you.

Then, with a mischievous smile, he swipes the tape wad from you, aims it, and launches it right at your face.

You try to get mad, to lecture him about the children who will be let down on Christmas morning without their Barbie doll, but the grin on his lips washes away any amount of anger you could dredge up. He wags his eyebrows and you can’t contain your laughter as it spills out of you and fills up the living room.

“You can’t be trusted with this dangerous weapon.” You grab the tape dispenser and wipe a tear from your eye. “I’ll rip the tape for you so you can just focus on folding.”

He kisses the crown of your head. “I’m actually trusted with dangerous weapons daily at work.”

You roll your eyes, but to his credit, Bradley is willing to learn. You gently guide him through the folds, but he picks it up pretty quick given that he doesn’t have to juggle the wrapping paper and the tape.

“That’s pretty good, if I do say so myself.” He holds up the present, admiring the sharp folds and the perfectly festive wrapping paper. “And I’ve got the perfect girl to thank.”

You dodge his incoming kiss, instead patting his cheek and standing up.

His brows knot in confusion before he realizes what you’ve gotten up to retrieve: a roll of velvety green ribbon.

You hold it up triumphantly. “One final touch.”

The absolute pain on his face steals the grin off yours.

You sink back down to the floor and wrap him tight in your arms, sliding your hand up his back to rub circles between his shoulders.

“Sweet girl,” he murmurs against your chest, “I really don’t have that in me.”

You kiss the top of his head. If Bradley draws the line here, you’re more than happy to finish the wrapping. Hell, you’d even lace his fucking shoes if it spared him the torture of tying any more bows. You are head-over-heels for Bradley Bradshaw, and you know he knows it. It’s a good thing he’s equally head-over-heels for you.

“Ok, Bradshaw, I’ll tie the bow, but I’ll need a little help.” You break away from him and begin unspooling the ribbon. “I know your mom taught you this.”

And he smiles because he knows what’s coming.

You twist the ribbon around the package, cross-crossing it over the top. You look to him, and already he’s jumping into action. He ceremoniously raises a finger and plants it perfectly on the intersection of the ribbon.

“Perfect.” You steadily finish the bow. It’s really good, you have to admit: entirely symmetrical, huge and bouncy like a cartoon.

And then Bradley is on top of you, pulling you into his lap, smushing kisses along your jaw, working his way to your lips. His kisses are hungry, but not sinfully so. You’re hungry too. Hungry to share the rest of your lives together. To wrap presents for your kids on Christmas Eve while they pretend to be asleep down the hall. To savor early Christmas mornings in matching pajamas, sipping hot chocolate while a fire sings in the hearth. Late Christmas evenings where he pulls you into his lap on the piano bench and plays your favorite carols — a little sloppily from the spiked eggnog and having to reach around you.

“I’m not in your way?” You would ask, already knowing his answer.

“No, you are right where you need to be.”

And he would play long into the night, celebrating the fact that he gets to spend Christmas with his sweet girl. No December 26th would pass without you waking up to find you had both lost your voices.

Your phone rings, rudely barging into your domestic dreams of the future. You’re tempted to ignore it, but Bradley accepts the call and brings it to your ear, leans his forehead against yours.

“Hey, Cathy,” you say.

“Is there any chance you can get the presents here sooner?” You and Bradley can both hear how harried the toy drive organizer sounds. “Sorry to even ask, you know I appreciate you, but some paperwork got messed up and —”

“Sure thing, don’t worry about it.” You break in to spare her the breath.

“Thank you,” she says. “And bring that sailor of yours, too. I might need help loading the truck.”

You laugh. “I’ll make sure to bring him along.”

“Thank you so much, sweetie. See ya soon.”

“See you soon.” You hang up your phone and toss it on the floor.

You peck Bradley on the check. “Ok, ready to put those new skills to good use?”

“Ready.” He smiles and runs his hands through your hair. “Ready to do anything for you.”

You scramble out of his lap because if he keeps looking at you like that, you definitely won’t get the presents to Cathy on time.

You turn on the TV and fetch your still-steaming coffees from the table. Quickly, you and Bradley settle into an easy wrapping rhythm, the hum of a carol floating out of your TV, accompanied by the silent promise of all your Christmases — and many wrapped presents — to come.

#bradley bradshaw fanfiction #rooster x reader #bradley bradshaw x reader #fluff #rooster fluff #rooster fanfic #top gun maverick fanfiction

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thezombieprostitute · 2 months ago

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Tech Tuesday: Jonathan Pine

Summary: Jonathan Pine is very nice to work for but you've been fooled before.

Warnings: Age discrimination, Bullying.

A/N: Reader is 40+ years old and female. No physical descriptors used.

Tech Tuesdays Masterlist

Jonathan is startled out of his focus by your sweet voice, "Mr. Pine, you need to get moving for your 3 o'clock."

He smiles at you, "of course! And thank you for the reminder." He starts to gather everything he needs for the meeting. As he steps out of his office he pauses, feeling like he forgot something. You hold out the travel mug he keeps for walking around the building.

"Freshly brewed, Mr. Pine," you tell him.

He smiles, "you are far too kind." He nods a thanks to you before heading to the meeting.

While he's away you focus on your own work. Jonathan's schedule feels like it's a living entity with how many reschedules there are. Then there are the notes to transcribe. You're ever grateful he writes so clearly. You've had bosses before who expected you to quickly understand their chicken-scratch writing.

As you're typing a presence looms over your desk. You look up and are surprised to see Mr. Hansen standing there, arms crossed, looking like he's upset.

"Hello, Mr. Hansen," you greeted. "Mr. Pine is currently in a meeting elsewhere. Can I schedule you for an appointment with him?"

He scoffs, "which room is he in?"

"I'm not at liberty to say, Mr. Hansen." You knew that Lloyd would walk straight into any meeting Jonathan was currently in and disrupt everything, putting Jonathan's own work and standing at risk. Jonathan had even gone out of his way, more than once, to thank you for diverting Lloyd a few times.

"Why Pine puts up with an old bat like you I'll never know," he gibes. "I need to talk with him. NOW."

"Mr. Hansen, I get that, at your age, you probably have some hearing problems so I'll go ahead and say it again: Mr. Pine is in a meeting. Can I schedule you for an appointment with him?" Internally you let yourself smile at the wince he can't hold back. If he thinks he can get a rise out of you regarding your appearance, he's in for a harsh lesson.

Lloyd puts his hands on your desk, trying to stare you down, but you don't show any signs of fear. Instead, you politely ask, "oh, is your back hurting you? I understand what age can do to a person. Do you need a seat?"

"Hansen," Pine's voice cuts through the staring contest. "You will leave my assistant alone. I have five minutes that I can spare you." You recognize the icy tone, indicating Jonathan is furious. He follows Lloyd into his office and closes it much more forcefully than usual, making you jump.

You take a few deep breaths to steady yourself. Part of you knows that Jonathan is angry at Lloyd, not you. Knows that you were following orders and doing your job. But as you hear the raised voices coming from the office, you're scared that you've overstepped and this is what gets you fired. Replaced for someone younger and prettier.

Lloyd storms out, not giving you a second glance. Jonathan stands in his office doorway, glowering at Hansen's back.

"Mr. Pine, sir?" Your voice is quiet and meek but gets his attention.

His face softens as he looks at you. "Thank you for handling that as you did. I apologize for how you were treated."

"Oh, um...it's not a problem Mr. Pine."

"I also heard your own sharp comments," he chuckles. "You really are quite the rose."

"Mr. Pine?"

"You are lovely to look at, perceived as soft and gentle, but you've also got those sharp thorns," he smiles at you. "Truly, more than just a pretty face. I'm glad to have you as my assistant."

"Th-thank you, Mr. Pine." You struggle to keep yourself from crying tears of relief.

"Jonathan, please," he smiles.

"Thank you, Jonathan."

Tagging @alicedopey; @delicatebarness; @ellethespaceunicorn; @icefrozendeadlyqueen; @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory; @late-to-the-party-81; @lokislady82 ; @peyton-warren @ronearoundblindly; @stellar-solar-flare

#tech tuesday #tech tuesday: jonathan pine #jonathan pine #boss!jonathan pine x assistant!reader #jonathan pine x female!reader #jonathan pine x reader

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yourfavoritewitchbitch · 1 year ago

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Evermore - Part 8

Summary: It’s been 7 years since the love of your life left you behind for his career. When he decides to come back, is it too late to start anew? Will you decide to start over or realize what's been right in front of you this whole time?

Chapter Summary: Resentment and unresolved feelings finally come to a boiling point when you are left face to face with Eddie.

18+ Only! MDNI!

Warning: AFAB reader! Minimal use of Y/N. Reader is given the nickname Peach. Angst (would you really expect any less?). Anger. Brief assault (Eddie gets slapped and pushed by reader). Please don't try that at home folks. If I missed any, let me know.

Word Count: 4.1K

Masterlist

Suddenly all too aware of how quiet the house was made you uncomfortable. Taking a deep breath, you slowly made your way down the hall to the living room as your heart was pounding in your chest. The thought of being face to face with a sobered Eddie made you a little unnerved.

You subconsciously started to wring your hands together but willed yourself to stop the closer you got to him, opting to attempt smooth out the wrinkles on your pajama top and finally letting your hands fall to your sides.

You could easily tell him to get his shit and get out. That could be the end of it. But something else gnawed at you.

There was something in the way he looked at you the night before. The way his eyes shined for you and for just a moment you could still imagine no time at all had passed. You could picture yourselves still above the Hideout in your little apartment and taking care of Eddie after he had indulged a little too hard after a small gig. It was the way he used to look at you as if you were his entire world.

He had tried to kiss you and you almost let it happen. Your heart ached at the thought. Would you really let someone you claimed to hate so much get that close to you? You had let your guard down; let the façade you held so tightly falter.

You padded softly, approaching him from behind, slowly examining his tall and lean frame. He had his hands in his back pockets peacefully staring at your photos.

He had heard you enter, but he was nervous. He knew a conversation was far overdue and wasn’t sure which way this was going to go.

He tried to ignore your gaze which he could feel on him the moment you had entered, letting you take the lead, but the longer the silence stretched the more anxious he got. It was only a few seconds but seemed like an eternity.

“I can hear you thinking from here.” He finally spoke, smirk adorning his face as he turned to you. “You always did like to overthink.”

You were civil to each other the night before because you took pity on him but now, could you still look him in the eye and remain levelheaded?

“I… Uh…” you began, struggling to find your words as he gave his undivided attention, eyes zeroing in on you.

“Do you want some coffee?” You finally blurted out. Shifting a little from side to side.

He released a small breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and grinned wider as he spoke, “would love some.”

“And I would also love some Advil.” As he followed behind, rubbing his temples.

You laughed out then, a bright, genuine sound. “I’m sure you would Munson.”

You grabbed a mug from the cabinet and poured him a steaming cup.

“Sit,” you ushered him to a stool at the counter. As you settled on the other side, to keep some space between the two of you, setting the mug before him.

You watched him intently as he perched himself on the seat. He looked a little rough, you could tell he was feeling less than stellar. The bags under his eyes were a little darker than the day before.

Taking a hair tie from his wrist, you watched his deft fingers pull his hair up into a messy bun. His shirt pulled taut against his chest and biceps as he worked. God, why did he have to look so good doing it? And why the hell were you thinking of him like that?

He finished and took a sip from his mug, eyeing you above the rim, quirking an eyebrow as if he knew what you had been thinking.

Your cheeks heated momentarily before you remembered the Advil turning away, and shuffling to the cabinet where you kept it. Taking the bottle and shaking a few of the pills out into your hand.

“What did you say to Steve?” you finally asked, pulling yourself together, turning to hand him the pills. He held out his palm, as you dropped them, avoiding any direct graze of his skin with your fingers.

“Um yeah… that. I uh…” he was trying to choose his words carefully. Taking a moment to pop the Advil washing it down with his coffee.

“He pissed me off, so I asked if he just knocked you up and decided not to pursue a relationship when it didn’t work out how he wanted.”

He looked toward the floor, feeling ashamed under your scrutinizing gaze, each word coming out in a flurry, each one a little quieter than the last.

“What the fuck Eddie?” You could practically feel the steam coming out of your ears.

“Look,” he pinched his nose, trying to put his pounding headache aside. “He started it, so I shot back. I know I don’t know the whole story, but I do know he doesn’t live here so something must have happened.”

“The whole story? You don’t know any of the story. You have no right to even make those assumptions! You have no idea what any of us have been through, especially Maddie and Steve! God you are such an asshole!”

“Well, why don’t you fuckin’ enlighten me then, Peach. I’m just dying to know all about you and King Steve.” He scoffed.

“Get your head out of your ass for starters. Maddie isn’t mine. And I don’t feel like it’s my place to tell you anything concerning her.”

His face fell. Confusion flashed as the words seemed to settle over him.

“Oh.” He finally said. “Well, how the hell was I supposed to know that? You didn’t correct me.”

“No, Eddie, you’re completely right. I should have thought to tell you when you showed up on my doorstep out of the blue. Or when you were so drunk you wouldn’t be able to remember. Why didn’t I think of that?”

Yeah, he deserved that. He hadn’t made the smartest decisions the past couple of days. So, Maddie wasn’t yours. It sent his head spinning for an entirely different reason. You and Steve weren’t together.

You turned to leave him there. Instead, he quickly hopped up from the stool taking just a few strides to cut you off from exiting the room.

“Move, Eddie.” He was met with fury in your eyes.

“Look, Peach, I know I am the world’s biggest fuck up. Could you at least hear me out?” When you didn’t immediately reply, he let out a small “Please. I don’t want to argue.”

“Hear you out, this shit again? When are you going to realize I don’t want to hear you out? There is nothing you could say that would make me forgive you.”

You felt the familiar sting in your eyes as fresh tears began to build. Thinking back to that night and how the following week he completely ignored your persistent calls. Any kind of explanation now would never satiate the years of resentment built within you.

He was stunned into silence but knew exactly what you were referring to. He searched your face, but it gave no inclination of backing down anytime soon.

“I’m going upstairs to get dressed and then I’m taking you back to your car so you can go back to LA or wherever the hell you call home these days.” You shoved past him. “Where you should have just stayed.”

He deflated with those words and watched you ascend the stairs. He pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed out slowly through his mouth. He knew he wasn’t getting anywhere with you. With each passing moment he felt like his chance at redemption was slowly fading. He did nothing to appease you, only making things worse.

Once you made it behind the safety of your bedroom door. You leaned against it, letting those unshed tears flow freely.

You were currently regretting last night’s decision to bring him here knowing exactly what the morning would bring. Somewhere deep down you thought maybe he would just slip out while you were sleeping and blissfully unaware.

You were so caught up in your own head, you hadn’t heard the footfalls on the steps leading to the second floor nor heard when they were just outside the door.

He knocked softly, but it still came as a surprise. His voice came through slightly muffled as he was also speaking softly.

“Peach, I’m sorry I upset you. Look, you don’t have to drive me back to the Hideout. I’m going to go call Wayne and get out of your hair.”

He waited a beat, listening for any kind of response but was met with silence.

He picked his head up and turned to go back down the stairs. One step away from the door and he heard it click open as you slowly came into view. Your eyes were red rimmed, you’d been crying again. He wished so desperately you’d let him hold you and wipe them away, be the reason they dried instead of causing them.

You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand and sniffled.

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. We’re both adults, I think I can handle a car ride with you for another 15 minutes. Don’t call Wayne and interrupt his day. God knows he’s been through enough with you.”

He chuckled at that and nodded as he made his way back down the stairs so you could finish getting dressed.

The quiet between you was filled by the radio softly playing, not easing any of the palpable tension in the car and not really distracting your mind from replaying your entire relationship over and over. Being this close to him the past was all you could think about.

He was looking out the window for most of the trip, fingers drumming a beat on his thigh and humming a tune you didn’t recognize. You were trying to focus on the road and ignore him in the process. It wasn’t working as your eyes began to drift once more.

He still wore rings on his fingers, but they were a definite upgrade from the ones he used to wear. The ones he cherished, finding them at local rummage sales or thrift stores. Most didn’t fit properly, so he fitted them with tape, but each one hand picked and worn with pride.

Then you noticed it, he was wearing one you recognized because you had bought it for him on the last birthday you spent together.

Your breathing hitched, as a little sound came from your throat. He heard and whipped his head in your direction.

“Hmmm? D’you say something?” he asked, your face burning hot under his questioning wide-eyed gaze.

“Nope.” You replied looking straight ahead, clearing your throat. “Throat’s a little scratchy.”

“Oh.” He mumbled.

He went back to drumming.

It was then you heard a familiar, velvety smooth voice through the speakers.

“Oh shit!” Eddie’s boisterous voice startled you. He reached over and turned the volume up a couple of notches.

“Shit, sorry. This is off the new album. I didn’t think they were releasing it until next week.” He smiled, nodding along to his own voice coming through the speakers. His voice always made you melt. Even now you can’t deny the effect it had on you. Except, he isn’t just singing for you at a small gig, he’s singing for the entire world.

You had thoroughly avoided Corroded Coffin’s music at all costs. You’d turn off the TV or radio as soon as you recognized the tune or voice. You hated admitting to yourself how good this song was.

“It’s good.” You hummed.

“Yeah? This was the best song. The rest just didn’t feel right. Felt like… Feels like we’re just losing our spark. Or maybe I am. I don’t know any more Peach.” He chewed his lip and stared out the window once more watching Hawkins pass by.

You weren’t sure how to respond, as you pulled into gravel lot, spotting his rental car. The only vehicle in front of the bar.

“Well, at least they didn’t tow the damn thing. Maybe Hopper talked to the owner for me.” He chuckled.

“Yeah, maybe.” Trying to hold back a grin and a laugh.

You parked next to the sedan. He suddenly didn’t want to go. He had a sinking feeling of impending doom knowing this very well could be his last goodbye. He hesitated, hand held tight to the handle but not moving.

You surprised him by opening your own door and quickly stepping out.

He followed suit and hastily exited. He watched as you started walking toward the bar. The very closed bar.

“Uh Peach, where y’ going?” he called after you.

“It’s ok, I know the owner really well.” Shaking your keys toward him as you made it to the front entrance taking one and slotting into the lock.

“I didn’t think Hank owned it anymore.” He shouted back, jogging over to you.

“He doesn’t.” You chuckled, turning the lights on as you entered.

Randy and the night waitress left the place in pretty good shape for opening. You had to take inventory, putting it off yesterday because Eddie had been holed up in the parking lot.

He followed behind you, albeit a little hesitantly.

“So, Hank retired about 2 years ago. But uh… he wanted to keep it in the family. Unfortunately for him his son, you remember Paul from school, right?” Eddie nodded wondering where this story was headed as you continued.

“Pauly didn’t want it. But fortunately, he did have an only niece that did.” Your grin was wide as Eddie let it sink in.

“You own the Hideout?” Eyebrows disappearing under his bangs as he pointed at you. Your turn to nod.

“Mmmhmm. Yep. She’s all mine.” You turn to look around the desolate space not missing the way Eddie was now gawking in disbelief.

He put his hands to his hips, studying your profile a moment.

“Full of surprises Peach.” He finally settled.

“Well,” you finally let yourself turn back him. “I need to do some inventory since someone messed it up for me yesterday.”

“Oh, yeah. Sure.”

You went to the back room grabbing your clipboard ready to put this morning and the last couple of days behind you. The sooner he leaves the better off you’ll be. Back to life as usual.

When you re-emerged, he was wandering around the empty space, seemingly lost in thought.

The seat he was avoiding at the end of the bar last night was now calling to him. His feet were carrying him as if by their own volition.

He scooted the stool out from under the bar, squeaking a little on the floor as it went and lowered himself onto the vinyl padded top.

He ran his finger across the etching still there in the bar top as he smiled to himself.

“Still there huh?” he smirked your way as you looked up from the clipboard.

“Yeap. Still there.” Your eyes met his. “Don’t flatter yourself Eddie, I haven’t gotten around to changing the bar top.”

“Ah,” was all he could manage, his elbows sat on the edge as he looked back down at those letters that didn’t mean much to anyone anymore, he supposed. A moment captured in time. Created by someone who was very much in love. Very much still in love if he was being honest with himself.

“If you say so,” he finally muttered.

“Eddie, if you don’t mind, I’m busy. You can go at any time.” You didn’t make an attempt to look up as you spoke, jotting some numbers down on the paper in front of you. You could feel him looking at you.

“Yeah, yeah sure. I’ll go.” He stood, taking one last glance, resigning himself to failure once more. This is the longest you’d two been in a room without being at each other’s throats and it was nice. He could almost picture the way things used to be.

You brushed some hair behind your ear, as you chewed on the end of a pen. He thought it was cute the way you still did that when you were thinking. The way your nose would scrunch slightly when something was bothering you. He knew something was still on your mind.

He got up, pushing the stool back under the bar. Inhaling a deep breath, taking a step toward the exit before your voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Eddie,” your voice was soft, and timid. He didn’t turn around.

“Why?” It was a simple question. One he had been prepared to answer since he got back to Hawkins. “You at least owe me that.”

He slowly spun around, meeting you eye to eye.

“I thought…” he took another deep breath.

Don’t fuck this up Munson, he thought to himself before continuing.

“I thought if I asked you to move out there with me, you were going to say no. We were in such different places; I knew you would never leave Hawkins and everyone here. So, I ended things before you would have the chance to do it first. I know it sounds so stupid when I say it out loud, but I hurt you before you got the chance to hurt me, Peach.”

Seven years. Seven years of heartache with no closure. This is his explanation. You felt nauseated.

You knew Eddie’s past. His dad always pushed him away, leaving for weeks or months at a time. He never properly delt with those unresolved issues and he pushed it back onto you. He was never afraid of commitment, but he always voiced his concerns about you “wising up and leaving him someday.”

So, this was it. All of this could have been avoided had he stayed with you until morning. You would have gone to the end of the Earth with him had he asked. Time you could never get back. Time you could never replace.

You swallowed down the bile threatening to rise. Willing your eyes to stay dry. You hadn’t realized when he had stepped closer into your space, but he was suddenly right in front of you.

“Seven years Eddie. You waited seven years to tell me that? And you didn’t even give me the chance to give you an answer.” Your heart felt like it was breaking all over again.

“If you had given me the choice, I would have said yes.” His face shot up.

“I would have gone anywhere with you if you had just asked. If you had stayed instead of making that decision for me, you would have known. I had it already planned out.”

Looking a bit more confused at that statement, he furrowed his brow. You pinned him with a burning gaze.

“I was planning on transferring to be closer to you that fall. I had this big speech prepared; brochures laid out. Instead, you did what you thought was best for me but maybe you just did it because it was best for you. You didn’t give me the chance to make up my own mind. And I hate you for that!”

Tears now streaming down your face, you couldn’t stop them if you tried. You stalked over to him, determined, fists clenched at your sides. You pushed him with all the strength you had.

Stumbling a step back, he let you assault his chest with your fists.

“I hate you Eddie! I hate you! I hate you!” Repeating it over and over. The resentment you had been holding finally boiling over.

You continued this onslaught until you collapsed into his chest. Fists closing in and wringing the fabric of his shirt through your hands. He stayed silent letting you get out all that you needed as sobs wracked your body. Hot tears pooled and dampened the cotton of his t-shirt.

He cautiously wrapped his arms around you, placing his cheek to the top of your head. He started humming and slowly swaying side to side. It was purely instinctual. He just wanted to comfort you.

“Sweetheart, I’m so, so sorry. I know you’ll never forgive me, but I need you to know that I regret that decision every goddamn day of my life.”

The anger slowly faded. Pulling yourself together a tiny bit and with all the courage you could muster, you dared to look up at him.

He sent you a genuine smile. The kind that made your stomach do flips. His face flashing something you couldn’t quite read. His eyes darted to your lips and back up. Had you not been intently staring you would have missed the small movement.

“Don’t hate me for this, at least more than you already do.”

“For wha” The words died on your lips.

In one fell swoop he moved his hand cupping your jaw in his warm palm, letting the other fall to your hip. His lips met yours with a feverish need. Warm and inviting. You could taste the lingering coffee he had from earlier.

All at once you felt fuzzy and all you could do was melt into his embrace as he invaded your senses. His taste. His smell. It surrounded you. Until your brain finally caught up with what was happening.

You quickly took a step back, and without thinking smacked him across the cheek. The sound echoed in the quiet building.

“Um… Yeah… I deserved that.” He said, rubbing the fresh sting you had created, skin already turning red.

You held your hand to your lips, still buzzing from the small amount of attention.

“I’m sorry. I… You…” You were suddenly at a loss for words.

“I’m not sorry.” He whispered. “It was worth it. At least one last time.” He looked directly at you. Eyes now pleading.

You’d be lying to yourself if you didn’t at least feel some electricity still buzzing beneath your skin. The electricity between the both of you. The spark that only his touch left in its wake.

“Eddie, I…” you took a small step toward him. Your mind was screaming at you to turn away. Leave it be. It’s not worth it. He’s going to stomp on your heart all over again. But there was something there beneath all the noisy chatter.

“I think you should leave.” You quietly spoke but you were staring into those deep, chocolate pools that you had spent so many days lost in. You were starting to feel a little lost at this very moment. Something in the back of your mind, pulling you in and telling you to let go. Maybe this time would be different.

What if he stayed? And that thought scared you more than anything.

The seconds ticked by without either of you moving away.

He searched your face but wasn’t sure what you were thinking.

“Can… Can I kiss you?” He asked apprehensively.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea.” Speaking without any real intent as you inched closer into his space. No, this was a really bad idea but in this moment, you didn’t allow yourself to care.

“You aren’t going to smack me this time, are you?” He chuckled, moving both of his hands up to cup your face. His warm palms inviting in stark contrast to the cool metal of his rings that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Shut up, Eddie.” You drew closer tilting your head slightly, noses just skimming until your lips slightly ghosted over his. That was all the confirmation he needed.

Letting your eyes fall shut and allowing him to finally close the rest of the distance.

His lips slotted perfectly against yours, just the way you remembered. The soft, supple muscles moving perfectly in rhythm with your own. You sighed into the kiss, melting a little more into his embrace.

You moved your hand up to his chest, clutching the fabric of his shirt to ground yourself. His chest warm beneath your touch, even through the fabric you could feel his heart beathing erratically.

He dared to glide his tongue across your lower lip begging for entry. You were about to grant him the access you both so desperately craved when you heard the front door swing open with a loud squeak.

You had forgotten to lock it.

You pulled away from him and jumped back as he followed suit, putting some distance between the two of you.

“Hey Peach, Max told me you’d be …”

“Steve?”

Taglist: @josephquinnschesthair @theawkwardbutterfly @munsonmecrazy @jadedhillon @pettydonuts @angelina16torres-blog @justheretoreadleavemealone @heyyimmisunderstood @micheledawn1975 @devilslittlebabyxx @blackstabbath6 @bebe07011 @yunnie-f1 @akiratoro420 @evansslutt @sheerfreesia007 @tlclick73 @bakugouswh0r3 @vintagehellfire @feelinglikeineedlotsofnaps @ali-r3n @sashaphantomhive @foreveranexpatsposts @ahoyyharrington @somethingdeep @munsonzgf @sheisjoeschateau

#eddie munson #steve harrington #eddie munson x reader #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson x female reader #steve Harrington x female reader #older eddie munson #older steve harrington #dad! steve harrington #older!steve #older!eddie #Evermore #evermore part 8 #evermore wip #eddie munson fanfic #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things

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kcscribbler · 2 months ago

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WIP Word Game

Rules: you will be given a word. share one sentence/excerpt from your wip(s) that start with each letter of that word.

Thanks for the tag, @in-my-loki-feels!

My Word: TEAM

T - "This started with us, Loki. It has to end with us too. We opened the book, we close it. If there’s a cost for freeing the timelines, we pay it. Together. Like hell I’m gonna let you do this by yourself.”

(bingo fic languishing on my hard drive for ages now)

E - “Even I have a heart, Mobius. He was going mad waiting for you.”

(upcoming epilogue)

A - At one such table, buried amid an alcove of shelving units near the far end of the Library, Mobius sits with his writing tablet, a pile of books, a coffee mug, a coaster which he keeps forgetting to use under the aforementioned mug, and half-a-dozen files of Phase II blueprints which he’s trying to make sure are in readiness for final approval.

(little Storyteller oneshot I'm poking at)

M - Mobius nods to indicate he’s listening. And silently indulging in that periodic fantasy where he tears the Asgardian royal family a new one for their stellar parenting decisions.

(also upcoming epilogue)

No-Pressure Tagging @elodiah @scifikimmi @andthekitchensinkao3 @lokimobius @thosegayoldmen

@silentxsymphony @boredintjqueen @loki-is-my-kink-awakening @tigereyes45 @justabigoldnerd

Your Word: WRIT

#loki #loki series #lokius #fanfic #fanfic writing #look ma i got tagged

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thepencilnerd · 7 days ago

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Shadowboxing

summary: Chishiya's world is carefully constructed—until the night you see the stellar medical student in an underground fighting ring. The lines blur between the mask he wears and the man he really is, and you find yourself drawn into a reality that’s far more raw and dangerous than you ever imagined. word count (ch. 1): 1.8k genre: university!AU, OoC!Chishiya (not just his dark hair) x fem!grad student reader warnings: depictions of violence but nothing too graphic, fluff, angst, comfort, weighted discussions about mental health because it matters a/n: I watched Mirai e no 10 Count last night and am whipped for boxer Chishiya; complete fic here <3 full moodboards here ^-^

You were dozing off at your desk, the soft glow of your laptop casting a dim light over your cluttered dorm room. Piles of papers and books were scattered everywhere—typical imagery of a grad student. The remnants of snack wrappers and multiple mugs were piling up at the corner of your desk, and your eyes burned from staring at the screen for hours. You didn't even realize you had nodded off until a loud banging rattled your door. Startling awake, you heard the voice of Kuina on the other side, her shouts muffled but insistent. "Come on, open up! You can't spend all night cooped up in here!" she yelled. You groaned, rubbing your eyes as you stood up. "I'm busy," you called back, though the exhaustion in your voice made it clear how true that was.

"Busy doing what? Staring at your laptop until your brain turns to mush? You need a break," they argued. You sighed, opening the door to find her grinning at you, eyes wide with excitement. "Please, I promise you'll thank me later. You need this."

"What even is this?" you asked, narrowing your eyes suspiciously.

"An exciting, thrilling night event! Come on, trust me! It'll be fun," she insisted, practically bouncing on their feet.

You gave her a skeptical look. "This better not be like the time you dragged me to that 'artsy' film screening that turned out to be four hours of experimental interpretive dance."

She laughed, shaking her head. "I swear, it's nothing like that. Just think of it as... an adventure. Something different for once."

You sighed, but the look on her face—full of energy and determination—made it hard to refuse, her unwavering insistence even more so. "Fine, fine. But if this turns out to be some weird cult meeting or something, I'm out."

"Deal!" she grinned, grabbing your hand and practically dragging you out of your dorm.

Against your better judgment, curiosity got the best of you, at least until you were led down a narrow staircase, the thudding bass echoing through the walls, and into a dark coliseum-esque pit: an underground boxing ring. The stench of sweat and adrenaline filled the room, a large crowd gathered around the makeshift ring, chanting and cheering.

The place was alive, buzzing with a sort of desperation you'd never witnessed before. The announcer had mentioned the winner's prize—a sum large enough to make a difference in someone's life, which only seemed to add to the intensity of the match. Kuina leaned in close, her voice barely audible over the roar of the crowd. "Okay, so here are the rules. The fighters are masked to keep their identities secret, and they're all wearing color-coded gear to make it easy to tell them apart," she explained, gesturing to the ring. "They fight until one of them is either knocked out or can't continue. The winner gets a big cash prize—enough to pay off debts or even start over somewhere else." You nodded, your eyes fixed on the fighters. The fighters were masked, their identities hidden behind color-coded attire and dark headgear, as they traded punches in the middle of the ring. It was chaos—raw, unbridled violence as each combatant swung for victory, fighting not only for pride but also for the significant prize money at stake. You could feel the desperation in the air, as if each punch thrown was driven by the promise of escape from something dire.

Your eyes were drawn to the fighter in blue. He moved differently from the rest—sharp, calculated, almost detached. His footwork was precise, each step deliberate, as if he was constantly analyzing his opponent's weaknesses. He circled his opponent, his body relaxed yet ready to strike at any moment, while the other fighter grew increasingly frantic, throwing punches that barely grazed the air. The fighter in blue waited, his eyes never leaving his target, calculating each movement. When he finally struck, it was with ruthless precision—a quick combination of blows that left his opponent stumbling. He delivered a final, powerful uppercut that ended the match, his opponent collapsing to the ground. The crowd erupted in cheers, but he remained unfazed, his expression unreadable behind the mask, as if the victory meant nothing more than another task completed.

You shivered, more at the calm, almost indifferent way he stood victorious than at the raw physicality of it all. His physique was lean but muscular, built for speed and precision rather than brute strength. Sweat dripped from his brow, trailing down his neck, mixing with a thin trail of his own blood—he must have taken a hit. A faint smear of blood could also be seen at the edge of his gloves, likely from his opponent.

Kuina was hyped after the fight. On the walk back to campus, she couldn't stop talking about how it was the perfect night for you to come, especially since the blue fighter was renowned in the underground scene. "He's the best, you know," she said, practically glowing with excitement. "No one can beat him. People come just to watch him fight. I can't believe you got to see him in action on your first time there!" You nodded absentmindedly, her words echoing in your mind. The best. There was something about him that seemed almost familiar, but you shook the thought away, dismissing it as nothing more than your imagination.

The next day, you found yourself at the library, surrounded by books that were supposed to be helping with your dissertation. The quiet was a stark contrast to the chaos of the night before. As you scanned the shelves, you couldn't help but think how all the open access publications in the world couldn't save you from having to deal with what a traditional manuscript was—sifting through an actual physical book that felt almost as archaic as the medieval ages. You searched for a particular reference, balancing a stack in your arms as you leaned up to reach a higher shelf.

And that's when it happened—a shoulder knocked past you, sending your grip slipping and your books tumbling to the floor. You cursed under your breath and knelt down, trying to gather them up, feeling a sense of dread at how loud the clatter had been in the silence of the library.

Suddenly, a pair of hands reached down, helping you pick up the scattered books. You looked up, startled. A figure with his hood pulled up, his face partially obscured, was kneeling across from you, silently helping you collect your fallen stack. His movements were efficient, almost practiced, as if he was used to picking up after others, and there was something calm yet purposeful about the way he handled each book, stacking them neatly before handing them back to you.

You blinked, recognition tugging at your mind. He was familiar—the top student in the medical school, Chishiya Shuntaro. He had a reputation that was nearly impossible to miss, even in your circles as a doctoral student. Exceptionally intelligent, surprisingly aloof, and no doubt untouchable, he was the one everyone wanted to be close to but no one could approach. There were rumors, of course—that he was some kind of cold-hearted player, or a bored genius looking to kill time in his twenties. Stories about him lurked everywhere, each one more unbelievable than the last.

As he handed you the last of your books, his hood shifted, and you caught sight of a gash across his eyebrow. It was well-padded and hidden under gauze, but the skin around was raw and swollen, clearly fresh. The sight made you pause, your eyes narrowing as you pieced together the oddity of it—the hood, the attempt to hide, the injury. Your mind flashed back to the underground ring—the crowd's roars, the masked fighters, the way he moved, the precision of his strikes, and now this injury—it all started to line up. It couldn't be...

Chishiya met your gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly as if daring you to ask. There was a hint of challenge there, almost as if he was amused by the thought of you confronting him. He seemed entirely unbothered, as if the whole situation was just another game to him—a game where he held all the cards, waiting to see if you were bold enough to make the first move. The moment seemed to stretch, your curiosity battling with the tension hanging between you. But you stayed silent, and so did he. He simply handed you your books, his fingers brushing yours for the briefest moment, before he pulled the hood back over his head and stood up.

Without a word, he turned and walked away, his mind already shifting back to the secrecy he guarded so carefully. He knew he couldn't afford to let anyone get too close, not with the double life he was leading. But there was something about the look in your eyes—curiosity mixed with hesitation—that lingered with him. He shook the thought away, refocusing as he moved through the library, leaving you there with your heart pounding for reasons you couldn't quite explain.

That evening, you were back in your dorm, the events of the day replaying in your mind as you sat at your desk. The dim light of your lamp illuminated your scattered notes, and you tried to focus on your proposal, but your thoughts kept drifting back to Chishiya—the way his eyes seemed to challenge you, the fleeting brush of his fingers, and that mysterious injury. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't shake the feeling that there was something much deeper beneath his calm exterior.

Meanwhile, back in his dorm, Chishiya leaned against his desk, his eyes staring blankly at the wall. He replayed your expression in his mind—the way your eyes had widened in recognition, the hesitation that lingered there. He remembered seeing you in the crowd that night, the way your gaze had locked onto him after his victory. Even then, something about the way you looked at him had stood out, different from the others. And today, in the library, the way you caught sight of his injury—he knew you were connecting the dots. It was unexpected, the way you seemed to see past the mask he wore. Most people never got that far, dismissing him as either a prodigy or an enigma without much thought. But you had looked closer, and something about that made it difficult for him to brush off the encounter.

Chishiya exhaled sharply, pushing himself away from the desk. He couldn't afford to let his focus slip, not when there was so much at stake—his freedom, his independence, the fragile balance of the double life he had built. Any slip could mean exposure, and exposure would mean losing everything he had fought so hard to keep hidden. But still, the memory of your gaze kept creeping back, making him wonder if maybe, just maybe, someone like you could be a problem—or something else entirely.

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iso-paws · 5 months ago

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heroofshield · 2 months ago

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Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Vaginal Sex, Cunnilingus, Edging, Arguments

Summary: The Puerto Rico tips draws to an end and things are said aka Anna feels Emotions and Doesn't Like It lol

@anderfels

Anna walked down the stairs and smelled the coffee brewing. It was their last day before they had to leave and she was pleasantly surprised to find that she almost didn’t want to go. “And not because of the stellar waves that have been happening.” she thought while pulling out a mug before pouring herself a cup. Her and James had mostly moved past the fight they’d had and focused on the remaining time they had left in Puerto Rico.

Taking a sip she stepped out onto the wooden deck, while already slightly missing the privacy that they’d had during the trip. The house was far enough from the town that there wasn’t a lot of traffic and while the beach was popular, they had nailed down the best times to go for walks without the worry about being seen. Only a few locals had asked James for a photo or an autograph, and those had been kids; to which James had gladly done so.

“Now if only it could be like that when we go back to Rio. It seems his N7 graduation put him back in the spotlight after it started to fade a little.” Anna told herself while sitting down in a deck chair to drink her coffee and watch the sun rise.

“You’re up early.”

Anna looked up to see Tony sitting down in the other deck chair across the table, “I’m usually an early riser. Habit from when I was in the Alliance during the war and now to check the waves.”

“I’d be lying if I didn’t say the same myself. Getting up early for morning reveille for thirty years makes it a hard habit to break.”

Anna smiled at the comment and watched as James’s uncle settled himself before saying, “James told me how you helped him and his Mamá after his dad…left. Must have been hard for him.”

Tony shrugged before taking a sip of his own coffee, “He needed a stabilizing force while my sister worked. Luckily I was able to be that.” He fell silent for a moment before saying, “Though after he left San Diego there wasn’t much reason for me to stick around there, that’s when I came down here.”

Taking a sip of his coffee, he set it down on the table while continuing, “Jimmy never mentioned how you two met. Only said that it was during the war.”

Read the rest on Ao3!

#mass effect #james vega #annabel ryder #vega/ryder #fanfic #better version of me #my writing

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agentmarvel · 1 year ago

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Pairing: John Price/Reader

AU - Professor!Price & TA!Reader

MDNI - 18+ (minors and ageless blogs WILL BE BLOCKED)

Part 2 of 2 (part 1 here)

Read on ao3

♡

Kate Laswell is the only person John tells about you. It’s her guidance he seeks when he realizes how far up the creek without a paddle he is. Figures you have your confidant, he may as well assume his own. He’s known her longer than anyone else, and he knows she knows all the loopholes, since she faced a vaguely similar situation a few semesters before. All worked out well for her, so there’s hope for him, too, right?

John sits in her office, door locked and lights off. It’s safer that way; far less potential for eavesdroppers and interruptions.

“Oh, you’re in deep on this one, Price,” Kate chides with a grin over the edge of her coffee mug.

“That’s putting it mildly. What am I supposed to do here, Kate? It feels like every decision I make is wrong.”

“Why don’t you start by telling me about her,” she implores as she takes a sip, a soft smile etched into her fine-lined features.

He ponders for a moment on where to start, but when the dam breaks, it all just spills out. Nothing and everything, all at once. He tells Kate how fucking beautiful he thinks you are, all the things he absolutely adores about you, even the tiny little details, like your stupid red pen and the time he saw you yell at a vending machine on a bad day. He tells her about the way you work so well with students, and how helpful you are to him; what a stellar conversationalist you are, but how well you listen as well. He tells her about how you always make him laugh, how reassuring and kind and caring you are, how you really are every single thing he’s ever wanted rolled into one singular being, and he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about that very thing since -

“You’re falling in love, aren’t you?”

“Aw, hell, Kate… What kind of pubescent horseshit - ”

“Answer the question, John.”

“Kate - “

“Yes or no, Price.” Her voice is firm but friendly, telling him to cut the shit and at least consider the possibility.

In a stunned silence, John sits with his thoughts for a moment, eyes locked on Kate as she cocks an eyebrow. He thinks back on his short-lived first marriage, how that the military was both the beginning and end of it. Felt more like convenience and holding off loneliness in his time between deployments than it ever did truly being in love. The second, while lasting exponentially longer, also felt equally as devoid. While he cared for that second wife on some level, it didn’t quite reach the depth of how he feels now, how he feels about you. If neither bout rang of actual, genuine emotional connection, then he can say with absolute honesty that, no, John Price has never really been in love. Not until now.

Everything around him seems to slow to a stop. He can no longer hear the ticking of the clock on the wall, only the rhythmic pounding in his chest. It’s like a switch is flicked, and the lightbulb in his head brightens until it bursts, sending fragments flying into every corner. He’s not stupid enough to try to touch that filament, so he allows it to settle. In a haze of falling glass, suddenly it all makes sense to him again. A revelation that he can’t tamp down now that it’s been put into words.

“...yeah, I think I am.”

Every nerve in his body is alight, begging him to scream it from the rooftops, make sure the whole world knows.

He can’t yet, but he wants to.

“Christ,” he mutters instead, raking a hand through his hair. “I’ve gone and fucked all this up, haven’t I?”

“Perhaps,” Kate muses, tucking an errant blonde strand behind her ear before folding her empty hands together on the desktop. “I mean, you did reject the poor girl at a very opportune - not to mention vulnerable - moment…” She sighs. “But I don’t think you’re completely beyond the realm of forgiveness. Find the right way to apologize to her, and she may start to let you back in.”

He’s unusually hesitant. Apologies have never been his strong suit. He’s painfully headstrong, rarely wrong and rarer to admit, so this is new territory. Mentally, he ticks off all the clichés, like flowers or a box of chocolates with a little card of a briefly expressed remorse or a surprise picnic where he spills his guts to you in hopes of some form of clemency. He wants to plan something bigger, more grandiose, more romantic, but Kate interjects before he can even begin.

“I can see the gears turning. Stop overthinking it, John. Just buy the girl some damn flowers, and tell her you’re sorry.”

♡

He did it. Bought you flowers, that is. Early this morning, he picked up a big fall arrangement in a stunning crystal vase. Took him way too fucking long to choose and he was almost late, but John’s pretty sure it’ll all be worth the look on that gorgeous face of yours when you see it. He takes his time placing it perfectly on your desk, giving you the fullest view upon first sight, and he tucks a little white envelope under the edge of the glass.

It took quite a bit of time for him to even write the note inside. He wanted to convey how he feels without dragging out a full confession of just how hopelessly head-over-heels he is; that goal seemed to fall short beneath the tip of the pen as he all but outright tells you he loves you in neatly corded letters. The words on the page felt sufficient at the time, and he has to shut himself in his office to stop himself from second guessing to the point of re-writing it or just throwing it away period.

When the light kicks on in your office a few minutes after the start of his day, John feels his stomach flip. He hears a striking thud and a gasp of ‘aww’, and he’s cursing inwardly that he just had to have a student come in right at 8:00. After a few beats of silence, he hears a couple sniffles, and it has him a bit worried. Mr. Garrick would probably be understanding if he wanted to pop in and check on you, but he continues to talk to John like he doesn’t notice it, even if his expression softens just a little and his eyes dart to the side each time he hears it, too.

“So, does this mean you’re looking forward to finishing it?” John asks in earnest. Kyle had been quite vocal all semester about how much he was looking forward to exploring Stephen King’s Carrie, especially with it falling right around Halloween. It’s been a long time since John’s seen anyone but you get excited about his choice novels, even if they do tend to change every year.

“I actually, uh, finished it last week,” Kyle admits shyly. “Honestly, I just couldn’t put it down. I couldn’t just stop at her turning around to go home after all the shit she blew up! I needed to know what happened next, so I read ahead.”

Well, there’s no way John can be upset about that. It’s not every day one of these kids expressed interest in anything they’re reading. More often than not, they bitch about the amount of reading - if they even do it, that is. He can always tell the students that use Cliffs Notes or Sparknotes instead of actually doing the reading. So, the fact that Kyle, even just one student, is genuinely enjoying it - no, genuinely looking forward to reading more - seems to make all the work John’s put into this semester worth the while.

They go back and forth for a while, discussing the thematic elements and John details the rationale behind the novel’s subsequent banning in a majority of American schools. It’s a long geekfest between the two of them, and the only disruption is Mr. Garrick’s sudden realization that he’d stayed far too long and was late for his class.

“Thanks again, Professor Price!” he chirps, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I’m really looking forward to what’s next!”

He darts out of the room, practically slamming the door behind him. John cringes as the latch bounces into the frame, and he sighs heavily, grateful for today’s break in his normally hectic schedule. Only two students on his books today; one of which is already out of the way, the other not until this afternoon. Gives him time to do more overthinking while he waits for you to free up.

Settling himself further into his chair, John logs into his desktop and starts inputting grades from last week. Keeping his hands busy will help in keeping his mind busy, considering the small second voice in your office. From the sounds of it, it’s Ms. Graves.

It fascinates him, the way the two of you interact. You speak with her much differently than the other students who occupy your days without classes. There’s a much more candid sense of honesty, and he’s never heard either of you speak with such raw enthusiasm.

“What about ’Lullaby’ by the Cure?” he hears Pia ask.

“Good choice; how about Echo & the Bunnymen’s ‘the Killing Moon’?” you respond. He hears a hum of consideration, a few exchanged whispers - and some laughter - and that gets his attention.

Yeah, fuck it. He’s too invested in eavesdropping now to continue to pretend to be busy.

He hears the exchange of several more artists: the Cramps, Electric Light Orchestra, Prince, Oingo Boingo, the Doors, Bowie, Blondie, Siouxsie and the Banshees; all of which strike him with a baton of nostalgia. Lots of favorites in there, especially music he enjoyed growing up; some of his father’s top choices, too.. He’s only marginally impressed that the two of you can volley like this; you do enjoy 90s boy bands, after all. Bound to know plenty, eh?

Speaking of which, he hears Pia thank you for your suggestions. Her backpack rattles as he’s sure she’s tossing it on her shoulder, and he hears your office door close. He’s pretty certain you’ll have another appointment coming in soon, so he takes the opportunity to pop over.

“What was that about?” he asks from the now open doorway, expression curious. You look up from your laptop and smile more sincerely than he’s observed in a while, and John sees that big bouquet sitting front and center on your desk. That stirs his stomach and wakes the butterflies, fresh from the cocoons he’d tried to build over the weekend. They flutter this way and that, and he’s filled with a renewed desire to kiss you; one that never wanes, but ebbs and flows in intensity. Right now? Oh, right now, he wants to so god damn bad…

“Pia learns better with music. She listens while she reads, and it helps her remember the content when she listens to it again. Her grade has improved a lot since we started making playlists together.”

It sends a wave of warmth through his chest, the thought that you’ve been doing this for a few weeks. You’re arguably more dedicated to his students than he is at times, which says quite a bit. He’s pretty sure the look on his face matches up to those cartoons a lot of his students watch - what’s it called? Oh! Anime! He looks like every character that’s ever seen food or a pretty girl - heart eyes, pink cheeks, and an open mouth bordering on drooling.

“We sit down together at the start of every unit and make a playlist that matches the decade. Helps keep her centered in the story and prevents overlap so no information bleeds over from another book. It’s remarkable, reading her work and seeing her test scores; she’s really flourishing, Professor Price.”

John’s awestruck.

“Oh! Can I ask a favor?” Your inquiry draws his eyebrow up, implying you may ask. “Would you be willing to let her listen to music during the final? I’m willing to go old school, if you’re worried she’ll cheat; I have an old iPod at home that I can load up with the music, and we can keep it locked in your office until then. You’re welcome to go through it, too, just to make sure nothings hidden or anything. I just really - “

“Hey,” John says softly, effectively silencing you. “If you think she’ll do better being allowed to listen to music, we can make that work, love. I trust your judgment.”

If the incoming is any indicator, the flowers were the right call. You’re thawing, spring seemingly on its way, and Price will have to send Kate some sort of gift of gratitude.

You leap from your desk, and the next thing he knows, you’re throwing your arms around his neck, giving him a tight squeeze. He doesn’t register what’s happening in time to wrap himself around you, palms rising to meet you a beat too slow, and he finds himself missing the warmth radiating from your skin as you step back just as quickly. Your hands clasp in front of your chest, and you’re positively beaming.

“Thank you, Professor! I… We really appreciate it. Pia is going to be so happy!”

He can’t fight off the smile on his face. It’s absolutely adorable when you get excited; you’re wearing the same expression as the day he agreed to dance with you. He refuses to let this end the same way, so he takes a different path.

“She seems different with you,” he notes aloud. “Definitely not the same Ms. Graves I see in class.”

“Oh, I, uh… I know her pretty well outside of class. I… dated her brother for a while when I was doing my undergrad work.” You don’t seem too pleased to admit the latter, judging by your expression and the sudden appearance of nerves. He’d be lying if he said he was pleased to hear it. His stomach gnarls itself at the mere thought of you being with anyone else. To consider that someone else has kissed you, touched you, made love to you; that’s enough to make him crazy if he dwells on it too long.

Don’t get him wrong, he’s under no illusion that you’re some sort of saint, even if just the sound of your voice is pure heaven. You’ve spoken about your dating history before, though it’s typically just in overheard fragments to Mr. MacTavish.

“How long?” He wants to clap a hand over his mouth, but it’s too late. The words came out, and he can’t take them back or play it off like he isn’t actually curious. Instead, he stays still, hoping the look on his face reads as if this is friendly conversation and not him prying where he oughtn’t.

You seem surprised by his question, and his blood floods with panic.

“You don’t have to answer that,” he quickly throws out, raising his hands. “I’m so sorry; that was inappropriate.”

“Two years.” You shrug like it’s nothing, and John swallows his gum by accident. He wasn’t expecting that. Maybe a few dates, a couple months tops, but two years? Doesn’t seem possible for a guy like Phillip Graves to sustain a relationship that long, given his penchant for obnoxiously blatant flirtation and his wandering gaze, practically eye-fucking anything with a pulse.

"What happened?" Fuck it. He's going to be a Nosy Nellie. It’s selfish and shady, but he can learn a lot from this. Come hell or high water, he swears he’ll treat you better. He’ll take the lessons learned from lesser men’s fallacies (and/or women’s; he’s got some questions after the last conversation he eavesdropped on between you and Johnny).

“He couldn’t seem to stop flirting with other people, and I’m pretty sure he loved his car more than he ever loved me.” Your laugh is dry and humorless, but your wry smile does extend to your eyes. That tells him you’re over it. The hurt you may have felt when it happened doesn’t linger. Good news for John.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he replies, trying his best to be sympathetic. You shrug again.

“What are you sorry for? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t still feel bad that it happened. You deserve better than that.”

He wants to tell you what you really deserve; how you deserve a man, not a man-child. You deserve a man who’s going to take good care of you, worship you, love you selflessly. Someone who will make you breakfast, warm up your car for you in the winter, hold your hand every chance they get. Someone who only has eyes for you. Someone like John.

But he can’t say that, so he doesn’t.

“Yeah, I do,” you agree with a nod. “Know someone who wants to treat me right?”

You say it with a laugh, and John smiles hesitantly, choosing his next words carefully.

“Yeah, I think I might.”

“Oh, yeah? Anybody I know?” It’s coy and cute. You know exactly what he means; he has a feeling you just want to hear him say it. I’d treat you right, honey. Let me show you. He pulls his lower lip between his teeth, giving you a look that feels way too suggestive for the current environment.

“Yeah. I think you know him pretty well, actually,” he shrugs, nonchalantly holding his expression. “He’d be good to you.”

“Well, slip him my number, would ya? I could do with a nice date night soon.” You throw him a wink before turning back to your laptop, and John slowly slinks back into his office. Before he can close the door, you call for him again. He pops his head back in and sees his white envelope held up between your index and middle fingers, the flap torn open.

“Thank you for the flowers, sir. They’re beautiful.”

♡

There’s a rule in film: if you mention a gun in the first act, it must go off in the second. That’s not directly how the quote itself goes and this most certainly isn’t a film, but it still rings true.

It was only a matter of time before the proverbial gun went off, now that Price has inquired into your history with Phillip Graves. He didn’t expect it to happen so soon, though. Only a week passes before the soon-to-be-graduate rears his ugly little head.

“Oh, feminism, huh?”

The voice comes from your office, sultry and low, just barely within a range for John to hear it. His skin prickles, hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He knows that voice; it’s the very one that’s haunted him for days now, whispering sweet nothings into your ear and holding you close in a way John is desperate to, but cannot yet. It’s Graves, the little prick, and that makes him nauseous.

You’re trying your hardest to explain the running theme of feminism in Carrie with the unit coming to a close, and Phillip’s ignoring the help you offer in favor of instead taking certain liberties with twisting everything you say into some sort of line or innuendo. Like that would ever work on you; you’re too smart not to see through that bullshit. You shut him down every time and ask him to focus on the material so you don’t have to deal with him next semester.

Still, it wrenches John’s gut in a way that bleeds him of his patience. He meant it when he said you deserve better than Phillip, and after the things you told him, there’s no fucking way he’s letting that weasel worm his way back in. You would never, he knows, but he doesn’t want Phillip having even the slightest sliver of hope.

Before he can stop himself, he’s knocking at the dividing door.

“Come in,” you call sweetly. He opens the door and sticks his head in, plastering the kindest, fakest smile on his face. You return the look as Graves sucks at his teeth, looking markedly impatient and making his irritation known.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” John says, syrup seeping into his tone. “But I think I might have accidentally deleted my gradebook. Can I borrow you for two quick seconds?”

“Of course,” you answer, tone laced with a bit more haste than either man apparently anticipated. “Excuse me just a moment, Mr. Graves. I’ll be right back in.”

You stand and push in your chair, making John’s stomach leap in the process. You’ve got on that burnt orange corduroy skirt that hugs your hips the way he’d someday like his hands to do and a plain, black, long sleeve top that matches the cling. It does nothing to disguise your perfect figure, his ideal figure, thrusting his erratically-beating heart into his throat entirely involuntarily. He never forgets how beautiful you are, not even for a second, but the visual reminders are always welcome.

He can feel the relief rolling off you in waves. Your expression stays neutral as you smooth out your skirt. There’s a gentle sway in your steps as you round the desk and follow John into his office. As he closes the door gently, you bee-line for his computer. A few clicks, and you look to him over your shoulder, perplexed, while he moves to stand behind you.

“Professor, your gradebook is fine. It’s right here.” You point at the monitor, and John nods.

“I know.”

“Then why - “

The words die on your tongue as John’s hands delicately close around the curve of your jaw. He hears the softest hitch in your breathing as he leans forward, half-lidded eyes searching your expression for any indicator that you want him to stop. He owes you that much.

“I should’ve done this weeks ago,” he murmurs, stroking a thumb across your cheek.

“John, what are you - “

His lips crash into yours, mouths meshing together like pieces of a puzzle, a perfect fit. It feels like centuries he’s waited for this moment, and the fire it spurs in his soul feels only comparable to the sun, licking up his throat like a solar flare.

You’re hesitant at first, rightfully so, but it doesn’t last long before that flame of desire kindles within you, and you melt into him, body molding to his. A particular breadth of warmth spreads across his chest as your hands come to rest against it. The tips of your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, twisting it in your fist as you tug him impossibly closer. He’ll take the time to map and memorize every inch of you when he isn’t so consumed by the way you move in tandem without faltering as you become so wholly entangled with each other.

As his arms ensnare your waist in a vise-like hold, one of your hands, so soft and kind, nails painted a pretty shade of plum, threads itself into his hair. John has to bite down to stop himself from outright moaning into your mouth, the favored fantasy that often played out while he masturbated seemingly coming to life just in one movement. Your lower lip somehow gets trapped between his teeth, though, and you are the one to moan, hushed and soft, just for him to hear.

Fuck, if that doesn’t fuel the fire inside his abdomen. He’ll do anything, any-fucking-thing, to hear that sound again and again and again.

He walks you backwards until he feels the edge of his desk pressing against your backside. The hold he had on your waist is abandoned in favor of assuming a sturdy grip on the back of your soft thighs. No warning is given when he suddenly lifts you, depositing you on the top of his desk. He slots himself between your knees and leans over you, still wrapped in this heated exchange. The tip of your tongue flickers against his only briefly, and it makes him borderline feral with want.

Your thighs get one little squeeze before John lands one hand on your back and the other just below your ear. He guides you down until he’s practically laying on top of you. Instinct guides your legs to hitch over his hips, and he’s well aware that you can feel the growing bulge in his slacks pressing up against your covered center. He ruts into you feverishly and mindlessly, desperately chasing another of those sweet little noises.

He almost whines when he feels you pulling away from him, mouths separating only for you to press your forehead against his. There’s an attempt to reconnect on his behalf, but you decline with the softest whisper of his name.

“John, there’s still a student in my office.” He can feel the smile on your lips as he moves to your neck. His lips seal over a spot where he can feel your pulse racing. It sends more blood south, having even the slightest inkling that you’re just as affected as he is, and he struggles to stave off the urge to rip a hole in the middle of your pantyhose and see just how affected you are.

“So?” he grunts, nose nudging your ear lobe as he lowers his voice more. “Let the little bastard sit there. Let him hear how a real man treats a fuckin’ prize like you.”

You swat his chest playfully, chiding him for encouraging you to shirk your responsibilities; the responsibilities assigned to you by him, no less. Your thighs squeeze his midsection again when you guide his face back to yours, stealing another peck before holding his gaze with a softer expression.

“He’s a nightmare, I know, but he’s still paying for a quality education. Just give me ten minutes to wrap this up, and I’m all yours.”

I’m all yours - those three simple words loop in his head, a phrase he’s ached for, longed to hear, for months. His heart clenches at the thought; summer nights on the porch swing, his hand on your thigh while he drives, letting you fall asleep on his chest. He wants it all. He wants every inch of love and affection you can offer and wants to give his in return. In this moment, the way you’re looking at him through your lashes, it’s so sorely tempting to say three different words back. He can’t yet, but he wants to.

“I hate to seem impatient, love, but I don’t think I can wait another ten minutes.” His thumb strokes across your cheek endearingly, and just beneath his finger tips, he can feel your heartbeat hammering away. “Don’t know how I ever lasted a minute without you now that I’ve got little taste of ya.”

You let him kiss you again, chaste and tender, a stark contrast to the frenzy he felt in the minutes before.

“You always been such a sweet-talker, Price?” you whisper with a grin, reaching up to brush a loose strand of hair away from his forehead. He huffs out a muted laugh, trying to stifle his amusement. “Keep it up, and I might just let you keep me.”

John’s quiet a moment, basking in your borderline ethereal glow, before he murmurs, “I like the sound of that.”

A beat passes, appreciative and intimate glances exchanged, the two of you sharing breath. Oh, how hard-pressed he is to move, to allow the contact to dissipate, to willingly let you out of his arms, his sight, to shoo away the little leech awaiting on the other side of the door. It’s unfathomable, in his mind. Months of waiting, weeks of agonizing, and now that he’s got you exactly where he wants you, he has to let you go for even a second? Inconceivable. Preposterous.

With a gentle palm against his chest, though, you manage to convince him. He wraps his fingers around yours and lifts himself off of you with a checked grunt. God, you look beautiful like this - splayed out across the top of his desk, skirt rucked up higher than would be decent to make room for his large frame to slot between your thighs, chest rising and falling steadily, though you still seem breathless. The sight alone requires him to reach down with his unoccupied hand and adjust his stiff length just to make the wait bearable.

He pulls you to your feet, still careful to keep you close to him. Graceful touches follow as he helps you right your hair and smooth out your clothing. When nothing wayward is left to stall, you press your lips to his one more time and turn on your heel, eyes promising a swift return as he plants himself back in his chair.

♡

It doesn’t go further than that for the remaining weeks of the semester, but that doesn’t mean Price isn’t counting down the days. While there’s still plenty of heated makeout sessions and aggressively building sexual tension, he finds other ways to show his affection in the interim; he brings you coffee every morning, walks you to your car after hours because it gets dark out far earlier in the winter, sets the heater in the lecture hall a few degrees higher than he’d like to ensure you’re comfortable throughout classes.

Restraint is gentlemanly. Just because he’s no longer deterring himself from chasing you doesn’t mean he’s willing to forgo all the rules. Though he’s following his heart down a path that leads straight to you, his stubbornness won’t allow him to jeopardize your future. Plausible deniability until you’re safely under the tutelage of another professor.

He discussed the transfer with you long before requesting it. You were surprisingly amenable to making the change once John made it clear that it wasn’t based on your performance. He adores you, admires the work you’ve put in for both him and his students, and he’d be remiss if he let you think for a second that you’ve been anything less than perfect.

No, no. He only broached the subject in hopes of fostering the seed you’d planted months ago. The little seed that is only now peeking through the topsoil. A burgeoning affair of the heart that he’s hoping to see blossom into something far more beautiful very soon, something you can grow together. He’s already fully committed to making sure it gets plenty of water and sunshine, but having you remain his TA would flood the garden and keep the skies cloudy. Nothing could flourish unhindered that way.

That’s not quite how he phrased it to you, though. He still plays his cards close to his chest and has yet to confess the full extent of his feelings. You’ve off-handedly mentioned bits and pieces of your near future plans - plans that John’s certainly a part of - but any discussion about where your entanglement is headed beyond stolen kisses has been… unclear. He’s not a presumptuous man. It’s not his place to assume you’re on the same page, to assume you want an actual relationship with him.

So, to avoid the pressure of expectations or labels, he simply said, “I’d feel better about seeing where this goes if you were under another instructor. It would be unfair of me to ask you to wait another semester. You don’t deserve to be kept a secret, love.”

The request was put in shortly after, though Simon had already signed off on it over a week before John even mentioned it to you.

He only briefly second guesses that decision seeing you now, hovering in the doorway between offices. You look as beautiful as always, sporting a simple, sensible sweater dress that accentuates your delightfully buxom figure. What’s unusual is the mournful smile on your lips and the banker’s box in your hands.

Your watery eyes, swimming with unshed tears, scan over his office. You sigh heavily through your nose, biting your lip to stop it from quivering. John is immediately thrust into comfort mode, ready to soothe whatever savage beast has upset you so.

“What’s the matter, sweet girl?” he asks softly, pushing aside the last of the stack of final exams atop his desk. Those can wait a bit longer; another day if need be.

“Oh, nothing,” you answer, clearly willing your voice not to crack. “Just a little sad that this is the last day. I’m really going to miss my office.”

It’s the little sniffle that follows that makes his chest ache. He’s smart enough to read between the lines. This has nothing to do with your office.

Without thought, Price automatically pushes his chair back and stands, shortening the distance that separates you in just a few strides. He takes the box from your hands, setting it in the empty seat closest to you. You’re looking at the floor now, avoiding his gaze. A curled finger beneath your chin tilts your head back up and gives you to choice but to look at him.

“Don’t you give me that nonsense,” he chides with a soft smile. “What is it really, darling? Tell me what’s on your mind.”

A few stray tears fall between blinks, and John is quick to wipe them away with the pad of his thumb. He’s sure you can see every ounce of worry etched into his features, even as much as he’s trying to mask it.

“I’m scared, John.” The admission surprises him. “I don’t like change. I don’t like not knowing what to expect.”

“I promise you, my dear, everything is going to be perfectly fine. Professor Riley will take excellent care of you. He’s a wealth of knowledge; well-versed, brilliant. I trust him. As for your office, it’ll be exactly as you leave it any time you want to come visit.”

“It’s not just that,” you interject, chewing at the inside of your cheek. There’s something more on the tip of your tongue, and he tilts his head just enough to prompt you to say it. “I just… I won’t get to spend as much time with you, will I?”

Price frowns.

“You’ll have all the time you want with me. Needn’t but ask, and I’ll be right there.”

That’s not what he wants to say. What he wants is to tell you that he’d sooner have you planted in his lap every second of every day so he never has to be away from you, that he doesn’t particularly enjoy the thought of sharing your time with any other man for any period of time (even if it is just Simon), that he values every fleeting moment he spends with you over any material thing in existence...

“It’s not just about what I want, John,” you counter in a hushed, wobbly voice. “What do you want?”

He sighs, taking your pretty face in his large hands. His mind is racing through a rolodex of anything and everything he could possibly say to keep that more lax, collected façade he’s curated intact; but the second he feels another tear drip onto his hand, it all goes out the window. He asks you to look at him, and you do. You look up at him with those bright, kind, teary eyes, and any ounce of resolve or restraint left in John’s body crumbles to bits. He takes a long blink and just lets the words come out how they may, consequences be damned.

“I want you. Whatever you’re ready for, whatever you’re willing to give, I just want you.”

Words are often said to carry weight; some far too heavy, some not quite so, but all with their own heft. Like rocks tied to the soul, his grandmother used to say. Choose them wisely, and use them with caution, lest you be burdened by the stones in your mind. But John Price has never felt so weightless and free as the moment a syrupy, surreptitious smile settles on his lips and he utters a phrase he didn’t ever anticipate using before even taking you on a proper date: “I love you.”

Your expression softens. Dumbstruck, your mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. Your eyes search through even the deepest recesses of his, looking for some sign of deception or jest, but there is none to be found. Never will be. Not with him.

After a few beats of silence, John clears his throat, admittedly a bit sheepish.

“You don’t have to say it back. Just couldn’t -”

“No, John, I-I… I love you, too.”

He doesn’t waste even a fraction of a second pulling you into him further for a searing kiss, one you melt into as soon as his lips meet yours. It’s nothing like the dozens of times he’s kissed you before; there’s nothing frantic or frenzied or feverish about it this time. True, it gets his heart racing all the same. His blood still sings with the same carnal cravings. But his mind and body do not share the driver’s seat this time. No, this time, his heart has the wheel.

It’s almost instantaneous, how hard he gets while just kissing you. Happens every time, but this is the first where he doesn’t feel such an innate need to hide it from you. He has nothing left to hide anymore.

You’re held there in a languid but torrid lip-lock until your fingers curl into the collar of his sweater, like you’re trying to pull him impossibly closer. The first little tug begs for more, and John takes a step forward to grant your wish, effectively backing you into the wall. The second tug draws his hands downward, skating oh so gracefully along your sides until his firm grip settles around the curve of your hips. He gives you a gentle squeeze there, just tense enough to make you gasp before he licks into your mouth.

The feeling of his tongue sliding past your teeth seems to spark something wild in you. You abandon the give of his collar, instead weaving your fingers through his hair. An experimental tug makes him grunt - something you seem to like given the way your back arches from the wall, canting your hips up into his. John takes the opportunity to wedge his knees between your thighs, pressing securely against your clothed cunt. Your tongue prods his back as you grind into him a time or two, and like an electric shock, the motion has him pulling back just enough to speak clearly.

“You want me, pretty girl?” he asks gruffly, breathlessly. It’s near impossible to stop his eyes from migrating, but the way you’re fighting the urge to let your eyes roll back when you rub yourself against him again keeps him entranced. “Tell me, baby. Tell me what you want.”

“Just… Just want you,” you pant, biting your lip, failing to hide the sweet little whimper that slips out.

“Yeah? That all you want, sweetie? You already have me. I’m all yours.”

“You know what I mean, John.”

He chuckles.

“You’ll need to be more specific than that, love. I haven’t spent all semester with a TA that can’t use her words, have I?” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “That won’t do at all, my love. Tell me exactly what you want, and I might just give it to you.”

“I-I want - oh fuck - I want your cock stuffed so deep i-inside me that I can f-feel it for days.” You whine, assuming a steady pace. It’s the most gorgeous sound he’s ever heard. “Need you to fill me up. Been waiting for months, John.”

His mind goes blank. He’s dumbfounded. An entire dictionary at his disposal, and the only word that comes out of his mouth in response is a hushed, “Fuck.”

You seem to have usurped his confidence, based on the way you’re looking at him as you whisper, “Let me show you.”

Before he can process any of it, you’re guiding him back to his chair and sinking to your knees. Deft fingers make quick work of his belt while you mouth openly along the bulge in his slacks. He swears he’s dreaming when those dark blue nails unfasten the button and begin to pull down his zipper.

Something in him short-circuits when he looks down and sees the wet patch you’ve left just above his knee. Either you’ve soaked through your panties, or you don’t have any on; he’ll find out which is the case soon enough, but it’s enough to keep him hard for hours.

His eyes dart back to your face, and you’re looking up at him expectantly, tugging his pants and briefs down in tandem, asking him so very sweetly to have a seat. Like a well-trained dog, he obeys, lower layers shoved to his ankles. Tugging a hair tie from your wrist, you make quick work of pulling your hair back. Once done, you only break eye contact to trail a fingertip down his throbbing erection, a haughty smirk tugging at your lips every time it twitches beneath your touch.

“You’ve got the prettiest dick I’ve ever seen,” you mutter, palming it as it lays against his stomach just enough to incite a sharp gasp.

“Don’t tease me, woman,” he groans. “Been waitin’ just as long.”

Almost too delicately, you wrap your hand around his cock, middle finger and thumb barely missing each other. You give him a tight squeeze, making those fingers meet as you painstakingly slowly begin to pump the base. His head falls back against the chair with a muted thud, and the second his eyes close, you have your lips wrapped around his tip.

Your tongue flickers over that sensitive spot just below the head, and John sees white spots behind his eyelids. It’s been so long since anything has felt this good. In fact, he’s not sure if anything ever has. Nothing compares to you. Not by a long shot.

As heavy as those eyelids feel, he lifts his head, forcing himself to watch you work so he can commit every second to memory. That warm, wet, wanton mouth of yours just keeps sucking him deeper, worshiping each inch you take with appreciative hums and whimpers. The pressure is perfect, especially with your tongue pressed to the underside. Your soft hand works the length you’ve yet to reach, the drool leaking from your lips lubing it up for you.

When he finally nudges the back of your throat, you gag, but you don’t pull back. You push just a little farther first, forcing him into the start of the curve and giving him a swallow. What in the actual fuck did John Price ever do right to deserve an angel like you, huh? How in the hell did he ever get this fucking lucky?

The moment your head starts bobbing in his lap, he swears he’s actually died and gone to heaven, or rather, the closest thing he believes in. He has a deathgrip on the arm of his chair, and to ground himself, he has to put one hand on the back of your head; not pushing, not guiding, just resting to keep himself from floating away entirely.

It’s almost overwhelming, just how god damn good you feel. He’ll never get over it. He’ll never get used to it.

You haven’t stopped stroking that extra length since you started, but the other hand is conspicuously absent. He wonders what that hand is up to, but he can see the smallest sense of movement in your shoulder, and he knows exactly what you’re doing.

“Hands on my legs, love. Don’t you dare touch that cunt,” he growls, renewed confidence seeping down to his marrow. Pretty eyes narrowing just slightly, you place your other hand on his thigh. He can feel how wet your two middle fingers are, slick against his skin. The noise that comes out of him is one he doesn’t recognize - somewhere between a whimper and a moan, but somehow neither - as he grabs your wrist and pulls that hand to his lips. Taking those two fingers, he licks them clean. You’re just as delectable as he imagined, and the need to get his mouth on you rears its head. That little voice in the back of his head tells him you deserve it; it’s only right that he shows you how much he truly loves you after making you wait so long.

You pull his cock from your mouth with a wet pop, kitten-licking the tip between ragged breaths. Still pumping him and keeping pace, you duck your head down a little more. You begin alternating between sucking on his balls and tracing the seam up the middle. It’s only a few switches, but it feels like dozens before you start sucking on his dick again. His hips buck involuntarily, grip on your head tightening when he feels every muscle his abdomen tensing.

“Gonna cum if you don’t ease up,” he warns, but you continue with a hum. He has no choice but to guide you away by your hair, and he just about cums anyway at the sight of you.

Your makeup is smeared, little gray streaks running the length of your face. Your entire chin is glistening in the low warmth of the fading sunlight from the window. A few small, silvery strings of saliva and precum keep you connected just a second longer. Any hope you may have started the day with that your lipgloss would stay put was dashed by the first kiss, but is now an absolute impossibility. John almost feels bad about ruining your morning’s work, and by almost, he means not at all. The smile on your face is more than well worth it.

He stands, pushing the chair back with his legs.

“Get that gorgeous arse of yours on the desk, love.”

Divesting himself of his remaining clothing, he sees your eyes widen just a hair.

“Jesus, John,” you whisper, gaze roving his body like it’s a modern marvel. “You’re fucking perfect.”

“You’re one to bloody talk,” he retorts, letting the hem of his sweater fall from his hand. It crumples into a pile with his slacks, and he’s back on you sooner than it hits the floor.

Another blistering kiss, and he can taste himself on your tongue. It’s heady and intoxicating. Enough so that he’s already laying you back on top of the desk, just like the first time he kissed you.

Like muscle memory, your legs come up astride his waist, and his hands are rucking your dress up over your hips. You only break away from him long enough to pull it the rest of the way off before pulling him back in. The hands used to guide you down work tirelessly to unhook your bra, and both offending garments are tossed aside carelessly. He’ll help you find them later.

He’s the one to disengage this time, the one to stare, the one marveling at the wonder before him. To say you’re beautiful, gorgeous, or any other synonym in his repertoire would be a disservice. There really is no word in the English language - or any other, for that matter - that really captures just how breathtaking you are. Every curve, every line, every mark, mole, freckle, dimple, it merely confirms what he’s surmised from the start: you are perfect.

A slew of words escape him, none of which are coherent to either of you, between the kisses he places along your jaw, down your neck, across your chest. His large hands cup your breasts, pushing them together in the middle. He seals his lips around one of your nipples and lets his tongue move in mindless patterns, adding little sucks or nibbles when he hears you give him a little sigh. The other gets the same treatment immediately following, but he doesn’t forget his mission. A mere detour won’t derail him.

John makes his way down your stomach in a slow trail, leaving hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses. Your hand is in his hair again, and you’re watching him like a hawk, brows furrowed in a throes of ardor.

Another prediction is seasoned as fact when he reaches your pussy. He doesn’t recall any underwear being removed, and yet, you’re bare to him. The evidence of your arousal extends from your lips to your inner thighs, and his cock throbs tirelessly between his legs at the mere thought of his effect on you.

“Cheeky little minx,” he comments, heated breaths washing over your slit. “Were you planning on tonight going this way?”

Almost bashfully, you shake your head.

“I don’t like panty lines,” you cop. “Don’t think anyone else needs to imagine what’s under my clothes.”

He huffs out a chuckle before taking a knee, hitching yours over his shoulders. His arms circle beneath your ass, wrapping around until those big paws are settled on your hips. The tips of his fingers dig into the meat as he hauls you closer to the edge of the desk.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, sweetheart,” he murmurs between the kisses he lays against your skin, kissing up one thigh, then the other, never taking his eyes off yours while he licks the slick from his lips. “Most stunning creature I’ve seen in all my life. Don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you.”

You’re not given the chance to respond before he descends, licking a stripe through your folds with the flat of his tongue. You yelp, grabbing a fistful of his hair. He feels your legs tense, but his hold keeps them from closing around him. As much as he’ll enjoy the free earmuffs on the impending colder nights, he wants you spread out right now.

He drinks you down, savoring how good you taste. You’re keening high in your throat, pulling his hair, digging your heels into his scapulae; he’d gladly spend the rest of his life between your legs if you’d let him.

The tip of his tongue nudges your swollen clit. You arch off the desk, panting. He sucks it between his lips, putting just the right pressure on it in a thrumming cycle. The sounds you’re making whisper of being close to the edge, and he wants to keep pushing.

“John, please,” you whine, squirming in his iron grip. “I want your fingers.”

He releases your clit, flicks his tongue over it one more time just to see you jolt. If you’re going to ask so sweetly, who is he to deny you?

“Yes, ma’am.”

Untangling one arm, Price wastes no time guiding his middle finger into your sopping entrance. It slides in like this is where it belongs. He uses the opposite thumb and forefinger to spread you open, eagerly easing a second finger in.

His hands are much larger than yours; thicker, longer fingers, meatier palms, knotted and scarred knuckles from his time in the service. Two of his digits equal three of yours. He’s gentle, cautious, and the addition of his ring finger lures him into a trance of wonderment, watching with rapt attention as your hole flutters, stretching to accommodate him.

You clench around him, a scarcely audible hiss sneaking between your teeth. The depth he reaches is far more than you’d ever manage on your own, he knows, and when he crooks his fingers, catching that sweet spot, you bow up again, grinding down into his hand.

The blissed out look you aim at him sparks the frenzy, and he’s ravenous, devouring you like a man starved. Lapping at your clit, hand keeping a steady pace, it doesn’t take long before you’re issuing a warning that you’re close.

“Cum for me, pretty girl. Not stoppin’ ‘til you do.”

Your thighs clamp down around him when his efforts double. A dull thunk is barely heard as you throw your head back, and almost on cue, your walls are squeezing him, pulsating as a sharp bout of convulsion hits. He can’t make out the words you’re saying, so he tenderly guides you back down from the peak until you release him.

The heave of your chest as you try to catch your breath gives him pause. While he’s desperate to feel you wrapped around him, milking him for all he’s worth, he’d still be plenty satisfied finishing himself off at home if you needed a break. You look absolutely wrecked already, smeared makeup and mussed hair, sweat beading above your brow. He’s clearly done a number on you already, but when you spread those perfect legs again and start palming your tits in a way that makes his mouth water, John finds himself grabbing a throw pillow from the couch beneath the window.

In a rare display of raw, brute strength, he gathers both your legs in one arm and lifts your ass from the desk just enough to wedge the pillow in. He’s bumped into his own desk enough times to know what a nasty mark it can create, and he’ll be damned if you’re left with any bruises other than the ones he creates with the intimate intent of branding you as his.

“You ready, love?” he asks softly, guiding his drooling cock through your folds. Your wetness slicks him up nicely as you nod, tacking on a gentle ‘please’.

His tip settles in just the right place, and he pushes home in one fell stroke. Your eyes roll back, mouth falling open in a silent moan, and John feels as if the air has been punched from his lungs. He has to steady himself to keep from cumming right then by holding just beneath your rib cage, the natural curve of your waist. It fits so immaculately in his hands, and it roots him into place.

This is real. You’re real. You’re really here, and this is really happening.

“John,” you mewl, placing a delicate hand over one of his.

“Just… Gimme a second, sweetheart,” he mutters with a kind squeeze. “Feels too fuckin’ good bein’ inside you like this.”

One moment bleeds into another, and you’re so patient as he collects himself. No push, no prod, no protest; just the tips of your fingers tracing the veins in the back of his hand until he’s ready. When he is, he gives you a gentle tap of confirmation before experimentally rolling his hips.

He groans, the feeling still so intense as he works in shallow thrusts. You fit him like a glove, like you were made for him and him alone, like you’re meant to be his. A step away from the precipice does him no favors; he knows he’s not going to last long. With the way you’re wrapped around him, looking up at him with a degree of reverence reserved for someone who hand-painted all the stars in the night sky just for you, how could he?

His hips draw back further each stroke now, and he begins to pick up his pace. The meat of his thighs claps against your ass as he pulls your hips towards him at every collision. Your nails bite into his forearms. Every sound you make fuels his primal need to hear more, and he knows he’s hitting all the right spots when you’re slurring out swears and babbling nearly incoherently beneath him.

A bead of sweat drips down to the hollow of his throat. He glances down at where you’re joined, watching your sweet cunt stretch to swallow down his thick cock. A milky white ring has formed around the base. As many times as he’d pictured this exact moment, nothing in the most feral corners of his imagination could’ve conjured something so inherently erotic. Seeing his length disappear inside you over and over assures that he’ll never be satisfied with fucking his fist again, not after this.

The pad of his calloused thumb finds your swollen clit with ease. He rubs in tight, calculated circles, applying a little more pressure when you nearly shriek his name. He needs to see you come undone for him again.

“That feel good, love?” You nod. “Yeah? You like that, huh? Can feel that pretty pussy squeezin’ me. You’re takin’ me so well, honey.”

You’re barely coherent beneath him as he drives into that spot that keeps you breathless. He doesn’t know what you’re begging for, but you keep saying ‘please’. You’re trying so hard to keep your eyes on him, and they keep threatening to roll back. The sight only spurs him on.

Any semblance of control is lost when you warn him that you’re close again. Words of encouragement pour out like a fountain before he can process what he’s saying. Your whole body tenses, walls clamping down around his length in even pulses, and John folds himself over you, fucking you through the waves.

“Shit, I - oh, fuck! - John, I-I… I love you.” You struggle to get it out between pants and moan and whines, but his heart soars all the same. He ruts into you feverishly, peppering your face with sloppy kisses as he chases that high. There’s no controlling the near whimpers that escape him as your orgasm pushes him to the brink of his own.

“‘Bout to cum, baby. Where do you want it?” he sighs into your mouth.

“Inside - please, want you to cum inside me.”

That’s what does him in. He pushes as deep as he can, tip kissing your cervix as he pumps rope after rope of warm white into you. The edges of his vision blur. He can’t remember a time in his life that he’s cum so hard, but he knows it won’t be the last. Not when there are too many months to make up for.

One more kiss, and he whispers back, “I love you, too.”

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