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macfrog · 1 year ago

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sweet child o' mine | pt. i

purely just some fun and games putting big grumpy joel miller slap bang in the middle of a romcom. i hope you guys enjoy. dedicated to big sis @mrsmando, who is the light of my life, let herself be completely swept away by this idea into unhinged, whimsical mania with me, and who inspired so many lil details for this story. love u, zhort x

pairing: neighbor!joel x fem!reader

summary: you strike up a deal to attend a wedding with your neighbor as his date. what could go wrong?

warnings: age gap (late 20s reader, late 40s joel), grumpy!joel initially finds reader mildly infuriating, cursing, alcohol consumption, discussion of a car accident (non-graphic) & dead parents, softdom!joel as per, fingering, handjob, comeplay, spitting, drunk unprotected one night stand, creampie, praise kink, one mention of nausea (but nothing happens, my little emetophobic angels), someone falls pregnant and it's not joel miller i'll tell you that much. honk if you love cats!!!

word count: 9.8k

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It’s just gone seven on a Saturday night when his knuckles rap on your door.

The sun casts tall, angled shapes on your living room wall. Lights the pages before you in a glow of tangerine. Refracts through the glass tumbler on your coffee table and bleeds the amber liquid onto the pale wood surface. Everything lit in some variation of gold, everything bowing its head quietly as the day begins to turn its back.

The house is still. The world feels still, as though transitioning. Like you’re sat in a waiting room, leg bouncing, anticipating something you don’t know to look for yet.

Perfect, comfortable, still – until he’s on your porch. And he knocks again.

You snap your book shut and slide it across the table, nudging the heavy glass. The ice clinks, irritated.

“You mind fastenin’ your…delicates to your clothesline a little better?”

His voice shoulders its way into your hallway before you’ve even pulled the door back enough to see him. Not that you need to see him to know who it is. You’ve lived in Austin three years now and met only one person with a voice as low and toneless as Joel Miller’s. Slung in sarcasm, dripping with disdain. All that.

You cross your arms and slant against the doorframe, unable to mask your amusement. “Excuse me?”

He answers by lifting his left hand. From his pointer finger hang a tiny pair of white panties, lace pattern fluttering in the late summer breeze. You glance over his shoulder as you steal them from his grasp, balling them in your fist.

“Uhuh. They were sitting on my back lawn. I have company tonight, y’know. I can’t have women’s underwear just – lyin’ in my damn yard.”

Your head tilts. Ears prick. “Company? You hostin’ somethin’?”

His shoulders drop with a sigh. “No. I am not hostin’ anythin’.”

“Good. ‘cause I’d want an invite.”

“If I were hostin’, you’d be the last person I would invite. And you know that.”

“Ouch,” you pout, “that hurts, Miller. I watered your plants while you were off visiting your brother last month. They woulda died without me there.”

“And I am grateful to you,” Joel grumbles, “but that doesn’t mean I need those anywhere in view of my kitchen window.” He throws a pointed finger to your elbow, where your panties sit scrunched in your fist.

You look down to the froth of frill spilling between your knuckles, and back up to his dark features – his glower casting a shadow over the hazel eyes and deepening the creases between his brows. You smirk, a realization dawning.

Company – that he doesn’t want seeing a pair of someone else’s underwear.

“You have a date.”

Joel’s tongue flicks across the inside of his cheek. He glances over his shoulder and speaks through his teeth. “No, not a date,” he quietly tells the street.

“But you have a lady comin’ over. Or at least – someone you don’t want seeing these.” You unfold your arms and twirl your fist. The gentle wind lifts the lace.

He grunts. A low hmph. Agreement, you think.

“Sounds like a date.”

He hisses, “’s not a date.”

Your stare doesn’t slip from his. Not when his brows tighten, not when his jaw does, too. Not even when he sucks a breath between gritted teeth. Your smile widens.

Finally, with a sigh, he concedes. “It’s…it’s somebody Tommy ‘n Maria are tryna set me up with. Alright?”

“So – a date.”

“If you don’t –” Joel’s head flicks over to his own driveway at the same time his hand lifts, a pointed gesture you read as – shut the fuck up. “We’re just having a few drinks. Just – hangin’ out.”

“Just hangin’ out,” you repeat, eyes widening. “One-on-one. With some woman who – Wait, Tommy’s in Wyoming. How the hell do he and his wife know someone way the hell down here?”

“From before they moved. And – Maria ain’t his wife. Yet. They’re getting married next month.”

Suddenly the sun reappears over the dark horizon. The evening begins to clear up, make sense again. You lift your chin, nodding.

“Right, right. So, she gonna be your plus one, or…?”

The understanding raises his heckles again. Exasperated, he asks, “How many damn questions are you gonna –? I’m only here to – to return your –” He nods once more to the pale fabric in your hand.

A laugh shoots from your nostrils. “What’s the matter? You don’t like – whatever her name is?”

“Laura.”

“Laura,” you breathe.

“And there ain’t nothin’ wrong with her. She just – she…”

“She…?”

“She has, like, five cats, and it’s just…hair, everywhere. And at their engagement party, she spilled an entire margarita down me. Right down my –” He sweeps a hand down his front, balling his fists again once they reach the hem of his shirt.

Your lips turn, amused. “Five cats. Cat lady Laura. Well. Have fun, I guess. Thanks for these.”

He acknowledges your raised fist with a bashful glance. He’s already halfway down your front steps when he says, “Keep an eye on your laundry from now on,” and strides off back to his own place.

Joel has lived here his whole life. In Austin. You’ve no idea when he moved in next door, just that he was here when you did. You don’t know much about him at all – the fact he even filled you in enough to tell you about his date is shocking enough.

The day you first arrived, U-Haul truck squealing to a halt by the curb, he found himself unlucky enough to be stood in his front yard watering the blond patches of his grass. He saw you struggling to open the rear door of the truck, and with a grumble and a glance across the street for a more eager rescuer, he tossed his hose and came over to help.

He unclicked the heavy latch and pushed the door up with enough ease to put you to shame. And he seemed to feel some obligation when he saw the mass of belongings stuffed in the back, to help you unload them. Didn’t seem overjoyed by the thought, mind you, what with the sigh he let slip when you hopped up and held out the first box.

He indulged you for no more than one hour. Answered every question you had about the neighborhood, dodged every one about himself. He told you about the couple across the street with the newborn baby, told you about your neighbor on the other side who pretends to garden just so she can snoop on everyone else’s business. And as soon as the last box thudded down on your gleaming living room floor, he nodded, and paced back over to his own property.

He's a good guy. You know this much. He’s a dick to you most days, but he’s honest, and he’s kind when you catch him in the right light. He takes deliveries for you when you’re not home; he once drove Diane to the vets when she showed up on his doorstep in the dead of night, Fred the Jack Russell ailing in her arms.

He’s observant. Noticed just this summer the three different plumbers who showed up to your house in the space of two days, and came over as the third guy was leaving – his shining bald head low between his shoulders.

‘s the matter? Joel asked, watching the navy overalls sink into the rusted vehicle.

Kitchen sink’s leakin’. Fuckin’ – nobody can fix it.

He shouldered you out of the way with his then-trademark sigh and left twenty minutes later, your kitchen finally free of the dripdripdrip you’d been plagued with for a week straight.

He’s good. He’s a good neighbor. But, man, is he private.

You’ve never seen the inside of his place. His body blocks it anytime you’re on his doorstep. He has a brother, you know that – though, only since last month, when he asked you to keep an eye on his garden – and you know, now, that the brother is getting married.

You know that he likes country music, know he plays guitar – accidentally. You heard him one day in the spring, when he left his window open and you were lounging by your pool. When he looked out and noticed how you’d angled your sunbed to listen, really listen, he slammed it shut.

You know he’s single and childless and has been for at least the three years you’ve lived next door to him.

You know little fucking else.

The words on the curled pages seep into one another. You’re staring through the book now back in your hands, the shape of your living room blurring around you: the brick fireplace, the still, red light of the TV. The lulling sway of the sheer curtains, pushed like the tides by the air through the open window.

You cross your ankles on the coffee table. Your lips purse. Tongue dabs at the smoky-sweet singe of whiskey on the flesh of your cheeks. From here, you can see the street outside Joel’s house. If – when – Laura pulls up, you’ll know. And you’ll be here to watch. Survey. Observe.

See what kind of woman a guy like Joel Miller takes to his brother’s wedding.

It’s nine fifty-two when she eventually leaves.

She’s been in there two hours and seventeen minutes. Her car – a kind of rotten green Chevrolet with one tail light out – sits patiently out front, like even it can’t wait to help her fucking disappear.

You’re hoisting a swollen black bag down your drive when his porch light flickers on and his front door opens. The glossy plastic exhales as it slumps against the trashcan. You dust your hands. Joel hasn’t noticed you yet.

“…so nice gettin’ to properly know you,” Laura’s crooning, sidestepping as Joel walks calmly down to her car. Ushering her. You hold back a laugh.

“Thanks for comin’,” he says, his voice falling flat in the windless evening. He’s a step ahead of her, like a parent leading their child away from the park. She’s still babbling about his six-string.

“Maybe next time I can hear a little somethin’…” she says, and you know from the way he halts that Joel hears the same questioning tone you do, the way somethin’ curls up at its end.

“Maybe,” he says, curtly. His words curl down. And then nothing else, and Laura – who, now that she’s a little closer, stood on the curb by her car door, you notice has sweeping golden hair which flicks away from her plump cheeks, and bright eyes which dazzle in the dusky glow – is forced to cough up one last chance.

“I gave you my number,” she says, then, “I didn’t get yours?” and this time, it’s definitely a question.

Joel pretends to pat down his pockets. “I musta left my phone in the house.”

You can’t help it. A scoff bursts from your lips. But he still doesn’t look over.

“Well,” Laura tugs on the handle, “thank you for a lovely evenin’. I’ll hear from ya.”

Joel smiles but puts a hand on the door, like he might slam it shut for her if she tried to backtrack. But she doesn’t. She swings both legs in, pulls it closed, and the engine spurts to life.

As she pulls off, Chevrolet jolting a little, you notice the bright yellow bumper sticker plastered squint beneath the license plate. You walk silently over to Joel, grass prickly under your socks.

“Honk If You Love…Cats,” you murmur, shoulder brushing off his bicep.

He sniffs. Tightens the grip his arms have on his chest. His eyes are fixed on the one red light, slowly shrinking into the distance. “Don’t even.”

“Good date?”

“I said don’t.”

“She talk much about her cats?”

“Goodnight.”

“Did you ask their names, at least?”

He’s backing up, crossing the dark lawn towards his front steps. He looks you up and down, his lips a flat line. Your sweat shorts. Your bare legs. The tight vest top molded around your breasts. His eyes shoot back up. “No more questions. No more pesterin’ me.”

“Nothin’ about the cats? Seriously, dude?” You lift your arms, grinning after his dark figure, swaggering up the porch steps.

Joel ignores you. He disappears through his front door and the light is snuffed. You slink back up to your house, grateful for the blanket of darkness covering the skip in your step.

Eleven hours later, you’re stood in front of your bedroom mirror.

The day melts against your window. Brilliant blue sky, cradling soft puffs of snow-white clouds. Crows on Diane’s roof cawing, slowly yellowing trees rustling. The bright, hot square across your front where the sun forces her way in.

You turn, taking the loose hem of your sleepshirt in your fingers, and pull it over your body, tossing it to the foot of the bed as you examine the pattern of colors hanging from inside your closet.

You take them one by one, tug them free, slot them back in. Eventually you settle for a gray hoodie, cropped and loose. As you haul it from its hanger, there’s a whine from the wooden cabinet. A squeal. The top shelf rips from either side, dropping to the closet floor and taking the pole with it.

“What the f–? You gotta be fucking kidding me,” you growl, stepping forward to run your fingers along the splintered wood where the nails have ripped themselves free. Four black holes, jagged insides of the closet pricking your fingertips.

The crumple of clothes and hangers sulks up at you pathetically. You fall back onto your bed with a sigh, staring up at the ceiling. The fan whirs slowly, scooping your gaze and throwing it in lazy circles.

The closet was old, anyways. Was here when you moved. It’s probably about time you had some new ones built. But fuck, that’s gonna cost. Ripping the old ones out, building them from scratch. The fan pulls your eyes back around to twelve o’clock.

Joel’s a contractor. He could do ‘em. Might give you a discounted rate, too, for all the times you move his newspaper from his front lawn to his doorstep for him. Either that, or he’d want something in return. And what handy skills do you have? You once knitted a scarf for you grandma for Christmas. Maybe not Joel’s thing. You can cook mac ‘n cheese – though one lousy meal isn’t payment enough for an entire wall of solid wood, two panes of glass and two days’ labor.

A favor, maybe. An IOU. What the fuck kinda favor does Joel Miller need–?

You’re hopping over the tiny burst of hedge between his yard and yours before the thought is finished, bending to scoop his newspaper up and slotting it under your arm. He answers just as you lift your fist to pound on his door for a second time.

You slap the rolled paper into his chest. “I have an idea.”

He squints at you in the summer light. “Wh–? Didn’t I tell you not to p–?”

“I’ll be your date.”

Joel blinks.

“I’ll be your date,” you repeat. “I got a wardrobe needs replacing. You do it, for free, and I’ll be your date.”

“Your wardrobe?”

“Crapped out on me this mornin’. I don’t want to pay for some stranger who’ll overcharge me ‘n do a half-assed job. Fix it, ‘n you don’t have to take cat lady Laura to Tommy’s wedding. And you can fix my kitchen sink, too.”

“I already fixed your kitchen sink.”

“It’s back at it. Drippin’ all through the damn night. Drip drip drip –”

“Alright.” Joel’s palm is up again. He does that a lot when he’s talking to you. “Alright. Wardrobe ‘n sink.”

“We have a deal?” you ask, extending your hand.

His chest fills with a thoughtful breath. His eyes scan you up and down, lingering somewhere a little lower than your jaw for a second. And then, the heavy weight of his palm against yours. The tightening of his fingers around your wrist. One sure shake.

Deal.

Two weeks before the wedding, you’re at Joel’s door again.

He’s in a black tee, dark sweatpants slung low on his hips. His hair is damp, fringe still dripping onto his forehead. He runs a hand through the gray-singed brown and stares at the tangle of fabric slung over your arm. “The hell is this?”

“Do you know what you’re wearin’?”

His eyes roll up to meet yours. “Do I know what I’m wearin’?”

You nod. “You’re the best man. Guessing Tommy has you covered?”

“Black suit,” he says, after a beat.

“That’s it? He ain’t got no theme?”

Joel’s head cocks. “I don’t do themes.”

You roll your eyes, ducking under his arm fixed against the doorpost. He manages three words of protest and then shuts the door in resignation, turning to watch as you take his stairs two at a time.

“You are so damn annoyin’, you know that?” his voice echoes behind you.

“You want this date or not, Miller?” you call over your shoulder, following the route through the identical house to your own bedroom – thankful when you nudge the door and it opens to reveal his bland, colorless decor. “Very…gray,” you note, feeling the shadow of him over your shoulder.

You throw the dresses down on his bed, satin and lace and pink and green swimming between one another on his sheets.

“I’m not wearin’ a dress.”

You glower at him. “Ha. We have to match.”

He rubs the towel against the back of his head, drying the dark hair. “Match how?”

“Y’know, your suit ‘n my dress. If I’m your date, we have to match.”

“Already told you. I’m wearin’ a black suit.”

“Right. But, like – what color tie? And can it be any of these colors?” You hold your hands out, surfing over the sea of shades. “Maybe,” you lift your eyebrows, eyes darting to the pale teal color, “this one?”

Joel entertains you for all of five seconds, lifting his cheeks in a false grin before they deflate. “No. Black.”

“Joel.”

He slings the towel over his folded arms, and looks at you plainly. “Black,” he says again, in a tone of voice which sounds something like a door being slammed shut.

Your eyes thin, and you gather your dresses up in one swipe. “Can you just –? Will you make sure that you match my corsage, at least?”

“Why the hell are you so hung up on this?”

“I’m not. I’m just tryna make it believable. You turned down cat lady Laura, this is what you get.”

He sighs, tossing the towel over to his laundry basket. “I will make sure I match your corsage. Happy?”

“Happy. Are you ready?”

“Give me five minutes.”

You huff, head rolling back. “You are so prima-donna, Joel Miller.”

With a sarcastic chuckle, he shoves you out of his bedroom to get dressed. You saunter down his stairs, drinking in every detail of his home as though it’s the only chance you’ll get to see it.

It probably is, when you think about it. You don’t imagine he’ll be inviting you over for drinks anytime soon.

Your eyes move along the wall as you slowly thump down his stairs, thrown from framed photo to framed photo – a black and white photo of a man with a tousle-haired boy on his lap, the kid’s tongue sticking from the corner of his mouth as he wraps his small hand around the neck of a guitar; an out-of-focus Christmas photo, a family of four sat in front of a million multicolored orbs dotted along the branches of a tree; a kid with skinned knees crouched by a German shepherd, his lanky arms hooked around the dog’s thick neck.

One brown suede jacket hangs from a coat peg at the bottom, Joel’s boots sat loose and unlaced beneath. A dark blue blanket draped over the back of his couch. A painting of a moose over his fireplace. Shelves lining one entire wall decorated with carved-wood animals, with more photographs of times gone and memories made, with books and DVDs that lend your fingertip with a heap of white dust as you drag it across their spines.

Enough to paint a picture, not quite enough to show you the colors. The tones, the depth. Despite your best efforts, the man remains a mystery. You settle with the fact he will never be fully revealed.

The creak of his stairs turns your attention from the guitar on the wall around to his tall figure, fixing the collar of the loose flannel over his shoulders.

“You ready?” Joel asks, bending with a groan to reach for his boots.

“Yep,” you reply, leaning forward to glance into his kitchen while his head’s down. The most you manage to observe are the light drapes, the sunlight shooting through and bouncing off of a white-topped island.

“’s go,” he says, keys dangling from his finger.

It takes twenty minutes to drive to Home Depot.

You chitter in Joel’s ear the entire time, reading from his handwritten list of measurements and supplies needed for your new closet. ‘n how do you know this is all enough? Because I know. What if you get started and it’s not? I won’t; it’s enough. You sound so sure. That’s ‘cause I’ve done it before, kid. You take many closetless girls out on fake wedding dates, Joel?

“What’s our story, then?” you ask in the store, fiddling with hanging packets of door hinges while Joel reads thrice over his note. Your hand dives into the bag of M&M’s he begrudgingly bought you at a gas station on the way.

“Our story?” he mumbles back, the words slipping under the mental math you can see going on behind his eyes.

“Like, when people ask how we met. What’s our meet-cute? Both reached for the same door hinge, our hands touched and lit aflame? That kinda thing?”

He doesn’t laugh. Your smile dampens instantly. You kick his boot. “Joel.”

“’sec,” he frowns, “I’m focusing.”

You lean close, pushing on your toes to study the folded slip. His scrawled numbers, the pencil lines blunt and smudged in the creases of the paper.

“Twentytwofortysixeightyninetyfivesixhundredelevenfourtwelvenineteen–”

Joel’s lips seep a maddened sigh; he glances down the aisle like a store attendant might separate you from him if he demanded with enough passion, or maybe if he slipped them a twenty.

“Do you mind?” he barks, his expression a brick wall for your giggles to fall flat to the floor against.

“Home Depot’s your stomping ground. Why the hell do I gotta come watch you pick hinges and timber?”

“Because it’s your damn closet I’m fittin’. Just –” he swipes two packets from their peg, tossing them into the shopping cart, “– come on.”

Joel makes off down the muck-colored floor, the overhead lights reflecting harshly in the shiny surface. The front right wheel of the cart trembles as it rolls, nervously leading the two of you down an aisle lined with cylinder tins and pamphlets on Choosing the right finish.

“So, are your parents gonna be at this wedding?” you ask, taking the cart from Joel’s hands when he drifts off to study a shelf of wood varnish.

His jaw turns towards you, and then back to the tin in his hand. “Yeah. Why?”

“Do I get to meet ‘em?”

“No.”

“Oh, come on. You’re not gonna introduce your date to your mom and dad?”

He scoffs, stealing a handful of candy. “My fake date?”

“They don’t know that. Let me meet Mr. and Mrs. Miller.”

He holds two tins up, offering them to you like answer to your question. “Matt or gloss? Guess it don’t really matter if I’m painting ‘em after.”

“Stop fuckin’ ignoring me. I hate when you do that.”

He leans in close, lowering the matt varnish into the cart. “You think I’m gonna introduce you ‘n your potty mouth to my mom?”

You smirk, eyes narrow. “Dick.”

“Funny. What color paint you want? You said something about duck egg?”

“Planning on repainting my room that color, yeah. Hey, you could –”

He swats your pointed finger away, taking the cart back. “We shook on new wardrobe. No changin’ the deal,” he mutters, wandering over to the rainbow of paint tins on the opposite side of the aisle.

You follow him over, eyes moving from blue over to green, the tins plastered with the fake smiles of families and fluffy pet dogs on the front. “Where are your mom and dad from?” you ask.

“Austin,” he replies, eyes squinting to read the small print on the back of one vibrant shade. You shake your head and guide his wrist back to the shelf, where he obediently sets the heavy tin back. “Never known anywhere else,” he adds. “What about you? Where’s Mr. and Mrs. Potty Mouth?”

“Uh,” you swipe at your nose awkwardly, “they’re up in Allandale. That’s where I grew up.”

“That so? I got a cousin who used to live that way. Used to take my bike up every Saturday. He lived right by this old car shop, all these old classics they used to fix up ‘n resell.”

“Yeah,” you say, “right next to the cemetery, right?”

“That’s the one,” Joel says, lifting paint tins to the light and setting them down again. “They live nearby?”

Your breathing shifts, starts to claw its way up your throat. Your chest heats, skin lighting with an irritating anxiety. “They’re, um,” you gulp, “they’re in the cemetery.”

Joel pauses, letting the tin slip from his grasp with an echoing thud against the wooden shelf which reverberates in your ears a second too long. “Oh,” he says, set on your expression.

“It’s okay – I don’t mind. It’s – it was a car accident, back when I was eight. I wasn’t in it, or anything. I grew up with my grandma. Really, Joel, I don’t mind,” you add, when his face falls and he begins to apologize.

“I had no idea,” he says, and you break the eye contact before you break a fucking sweat.

“’s all good,” you murmur, lifting paint tins of your own now, focusing on deblurring your glossy vision, “I got to buy a big house with the money they left.”

It thaws him a little. He snorts, and taps the lid of the tin you’re holding. “That one’s nice. You, uh – you okay?”

You finally turn back, the world clearer, colors no longer bleeding into one another through sharp tears. “Yeah. I’m fine. We got everything?”

Joel nods, and wheels the cart around. “You can meet her, if you want. My mom. She’s a little full on, but I reckon you can handle her.”

You smile, following him down the aisle.

A month after he delivered your underwear back to you, you’re back on Joel’s doorstep.

Your hand flicks nervously at your side as you wait for him to answer, petals of your corsage quivering. The clip of his footsteps echoes down the stairs, a deep sound growing louder and louder until the door clinks open and you’re separated only by air.

Joel’s eyes scan down your body at the same time yours scan down his. Black suit, sure enough, just without the jacket, and with his tie slung around his loose collar. You both freeze when your eyes meet again, your lips silently forming the shape of an avalanche of words that refuse to sound until Joel’s do.

“Wow, you –”

“– look great, I –”

“– nice dress, is that –? Sorry –”

“– no, I’m sorry, you were – sorry.” A laugh pushes from your throat. “You look – you look good. Scrub up well, ‘n all that.”

“You too. You – Yeah. That’s a nice color, after all. You suit it.” His eyes linger on your chest, your breasts draped in lustrous silk, decorated with the glint of golden jewelry. You notice.

“Thanks. After all?” You snort, and Joel’s exterior seems to crack a little.

He steps back, ushering you in. “Alright,” he says, taking the tote with your change of clothes from your wrist. He watches across the street as you step over the threshold, his fingertips light on your back as you pass by, like little shocks of lightning up your spine. “You know what I meant.”

Your dress swishes around your ankles, your heels clicking along his varnished floor. Your arms lock around your torso, holding your pashmina in place while Joel totters around, tossing his jacket over his shoulders. His shirt stretches from his tight waistband, fabric flattening against his tummy. Your eyes shoot north again when he speaks.

“You mind doin’ my tie? It’ll end up squint if I do.”

“Sure,” you reply, stepping forward.

He buttons the top of his shirt and lifts his chin, staring at the wall behind you as you tug on the black fabric, the silk slipping through your fingers. You steal glances at the trim of his beard, his pink lips beneath the dark bristles; the slope of his nose, the lines on his worn skin.

He’s rough around the edges, sure, a man in his late forties. But there’s something soft about him, something familiar and…comfortable. The pages of a used sketchbook, the lived-in material of a favorite dress.

You pull the knot higher until it’s sitting in the notch below his Adam’s apple, smoothing it down and giving his chest a light pat before stepping back again.

“Thanks, darlin’,” he mumbles, and a spark lights in your chest. “Oh,” he says, holding a finger up and disappearing into the kitchen. He returns with a little white box, holding it out for you to see.

Your cheeks swell, eyes flitting up to acknowledge the proud look on his face. “Very nice. Good job.”

“You can do the honors,” Joel says, handing you the boutonniere by the stem.

You pin it through his lapel, straightening it with a focused glance. Joel’s eyes are on you, watching the flutter of your eyelashes, the tilt of your head. “There,” you whisper, leaning back.

He extends his elbow, something of a smile on his lips. You don’t see it often. It beckons a mirrored expression.

Arm in arm, Joel leads you out to the truck, where he helps you up and waits for you to scoop your dress into the footwell before closing the door. You watch patiently as he locks the front door, slings both your bags over his shoulder and jogs back to the truck, tossing them in the backseat before joining you in the front.

“How come he didn’t send a limousine? Or a Jag, or somethin’?”

“You think we’re made a’ money?” Joel asks, smirking.

You return the smile, wrapping your shawl over your body. “Can I pick the music?” you ask, earnestly, a tinge of sweetness to your voice.

Joel glances over again, reaches behind your headrest to reverse out of the drive. He runs his tongue along his top teeth. “No,” he says.

Three hours later, Tommy and Maria are married.

The wedding is…big. Joel’s family is big. The venue – a rustic hotel suite, fairy lights draped from the rafters, blooming flowers sprouting from crystal vases, lace tablecloths and tied chair cushions and wax dripping from thick, naked candles – is big.

Joel’s been good about it – that friendly neighbor you see all too little has been kicked into high gear. He delivered you by hand straight to his mom – a small woman with silver hair neatly twisted into an updo at the back of her head – who took your hand and held it tightly all the way to your seats.

Kind and warm, she asked where you were from, how you met Joel, how long you’d been dating. She offered you some tissues before the ceremony started, then winked and nodded in Joel’s direction as the bridesmaids swept down the aisle.

You lingered behind the photographer while he took photos of the wedding party, instructing them to shuffle a little closer, that’s it; ma’am, with the red hair, lower your bouquet a little; alright, now, everyone: big smiles!

You worried that Joel had kept the same placated smile frozen on his face for so long that it might never melt away, might never return to the stoic scowl you’re so used to seeing on him. You didn’t even realize you were staring at him, until he waved you down, flicked his hand, and beckoned you over to the group.

You hesitated. I don’t know if I –

Get over here, girl, Tommy had called, grinning alongside his big brother.

The two Millers slotted you in like a jigsaw piece between their bodies, two arms wrapped around your back – Tommy’s, loose on your shoulders, and Joel’s, tight around your waist. He held you close, squeezing you into his side while the photographer praised the party and snapped photo after photo, the flash burning into your eyes by the time he clapped his hands and thanked you all for your patience.

Drink? Joel had asked, and you’d responded with one thumb up, the other massaging your eyelids. He squeezed your shoulder and disappeared into the crowd of bodies.

He’s still over there – by the bar, a wooden structure draped in ivy and studded by steel bolts. His beer in one hand and your wine in the other. A lean, poised figure stood opposite him – her dress a royal purple, her hair a wave of brown spilling over her bare shoulders.

She’s beautiful – a striking charm which draws your eye to her like an arrow directly through the sea of bodies between here and there. Her languid movements, the slow roll of her neck to sweep the hair from one side of her body to the other.

Her head falls back in laugher, her bejeweled hand falls softly on his arm. Your throat closes sharply. Joel nods, angling as if to make off, but she holds onto him and leans in. He laughs, then, at whatever her full lips whisper into his ear, and he finally breaks off from her and returns to you.

He pushes the glass by its base across the smooth tablecloth. Your fingers brush over one another as you trade, the stem sitting between your index and middle. He’s warm, his knuckles kissing yours.

“How was it, then, talkin’ to my mom?” Joel asks.

You smile, propping your chin on the heel of your palm. “I like her. She’s funny.” And then, when he tosses his head in response, “Who were you talkin’ to?”

Joel follows your eyeline over to the woman in the purple dress. The glint of white crystal on her neck. The drama of dark hair on pale skin. “Uh,” he wanders around your back to his chair, “we used to work together.”

Your nails tap against the glass. “Oh, yeah?”

He sniffs. Doesn’t meet your eye. “Yep.”

“You were talking to her for a long time.”

He watches a blue orb dance over your head on the wall, a spot of light from the disco ball over the dancefloor. “Lotta memories.”

“Why won’t you look at me?”

His eyes plummet. Fall from the string bulbs straight to your face, sparkling in the rainbow lights. “You want me to look at you? There.”

You grin. “’s better. If you stare up there long enough, they might stick.”

“Safer to have ‘em stuck on you, is it?”

“Mhm,” your voice echoes around the curve of your wine glass, “better view. So, who is she?”

Joel shifts uncomfortably. He twirls the bottle in his fingers. “We…we were together for some time. A few years.”

“An ex,” you muse, stain of lipstick left on the rim of your glass. “How many years?”

“Eight.”

You almost choke on your drink. “Eight – eight years?”

Joel nods, waiting for you to catch your breath. Expression never changing. Bottle still twirling. “Haven’t seen her in a while. We were just catchin’ up.”

“Eight fucking years. Why the fuck aren’t you married?”

He scoffs. “That’s a fifth-date question.” He lifts the bottle to his lips, tongue pushes against the glass.

“I don’t need five fuckin’ wardrobes,” you quip, and he laughs. Like, genuinely laughs. His head tips back, his teeth show. Your chest swells, confidence and relief blooming there. She didn’t make him laugh like that – not from where you were watching.

It becomes something of a mission in the back of your mind – tallying up how many times you can make his chest shudder, his shoulders jerk. How many times he leans in closer and repeats whatever you said, eyes closing over and hand hitting his thigh. How many times he looks at you and your stomach flutters, the blood cartwheels through your veins, the bones of your ribcage readjust and make room for the swelling of your heart.

Within four rounds, you’ve lost count.

The thudding beat of the music muffles in your drunken ears, like it’s coming from the next room. Your gaze fixes on the vase in the center of the table, the bouquet spilling over the glass. The wide burst of speckled lilies, the humble blush of tulips between. The colors soften and blur the longer you stare at them.

The jerk of Joel’s shoulders stirs you from your daydream. That’s one more.

“What?” you ask, head rolling to look over to him.

“You still in there?” he asks, one word slurring into the next like waves lapping.

You scoff, looking back to the pink flowers. “You know who has tulips?” you ask him.

He lifts his eyebrows. Who?

“Alice.”

“Brown?”

Your head nods heavily. “One time, she was out getting her mail, and I had just pulled up in my car on the phone to my best friend – he’d just broken up with his girlfriend, it was a whole thing…” You bat your hand. “Anyway. She pretended to tend to her tulips for forty-five minutes while I sat talkin’ to him in the driveway.”

Joel’s head tilts back with a burst of laughter. “She hear every word?”

“Every – damn – word. Stood by the fence listenin’.”

“That woman is som’ else,” Joel says, shaking his head. He stares down at the bottle between his fingers. His thumbs play with the curled corner of the label. “Didn’t I warn you about her?”

“Mhm.” You smile, realizing he has the same memory that you do, locked up somewhere in his mind. The sweat running down his temple, the dark patch between his shoulder blades. His hands gripping the heavier boxes, leaving you to carry the linen, the base of a lamp. Nodding as he wandered back over to his own porch, calling back for you to Holler if you need anythin’.

The high squeal of the Sweet Child O’ Mine intro snaps you back to the wedding reception. Tommy and Maria are playing air guitar on the dancefloor over Joel’s shoulder. You unstick your gaze from his white shirt, unsure how long you’ve been fucking staring.

Joel sits forward, drags his chair across the polished floor closer to you. He fixes the strap on your dress, untwisting it before settling back again. Your eyes follow his fingers as they leave your shoulder and sit back on the curve of his thigh, lifting when his voice breaks through to your eardrums.

“What room number did you say you were, again?”

Your shoulders roll. “Thirty-four, I think.”

Joel nods. Points to himself. “Thirty-six.” And then he glances over his shoulder, watches as Tommy kneels before Maria and rocks his head, his messy mop of hair tossed across his shoulders. The older Miller brother turns back. “Think they’ll miss us if we call it a night?”

“We’re callin’ it a night?”

“Figure if I’m headin’ off then you won’t wanna be sat here by yourself,” Joel says, and he’s right. He stands up, sets the half-empty bottle on the tablecloth and stares down at you. “I’m callin’ it a night,” he tells you. “You comin’?”

The colors in the room spin like the reels of a slot machine. Your fingers sit lightly in his outstretched palm, and you pull yourself up alongside him.

“’s a good girl,” he mutters, looking over your shoulder to the doorway, and your eyes sober up long enough to catch the flicker in his eye.

You totter along the hallway, arm in arm, anchoring yourselves together. Whichever way one sways, the other inevitably follows. You’re laughing, and Joel’s hushing you, warning that there are folks tryna – tryna sleep, we’re in a fancy place, hey, da-rlin’, no – you gotta shhhut up.

“Great party,” you decide, finally docking against your door.

“Yeah,” Joel agrees, leaning a little on the wall. The gentle glow of the hallway lights him perfectly; the strong angle of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbones. The hazel pools that make up his irises, the swollen circles of black in the middle. And the twinkle in them, like the moon reflecting on dark water, every time his gaze lifts to you.

He’s different tonight. Maybe it’s the alcohol. The way it colors everything in a peachy film, all objects softened and rosy and shapeless. But he feels different, too. You suddenly realize, shoulder pressed hard against the cold doorframe, that you’ve never touched one another more than you have today. His elbow in yours, his arm around your waist, his hand through yours as you danced together.

“Are you tired?” you ask, head rolling.

“Tired? No. Drunk, yeah. Not tired.” He laughs again. It’s infectious.

“You wanna come inside?” you ask, words leaping from your giggle.

He takes ten seconds to consider it. Slumps into the wall, steadied only by his forearm pushing him back upright. His watch face catches the light behind him.

“Yeah. Fuck yeah, I do.”

Your hand fumbles in your clutch for the keycard, swiping the handle and pushing down heavily. You spill into the dark room, light sneaking in from the sconce outside your window, and spin back to face him, his hand locked tight with yours.

Joel follows you slowly as you back towards the bed, kicking your heels off and tripping over the skirt of your dress. When your legs hit the plush mattress, his body leans into yours. Your lips ghost across his, your words pushing them apart one by one.

“This ain’t – part of the – agreement,” you murmur, the coarse hair of his beard scratching your chin. You pull apart his tie, loosening the knot.

“Changed my mind,” he replies, collapsing on top of you on the bed.

Your head rolls back when his lips suck into your neck. You wrestle with his belt, with the waist of his suit trousers. “No changin’ the deal, remember?”

“Tell me to stop.”

If you had any intention of answering him, your body overrides it. Words lassoed and dragged back down where they came from, your throat opening only to gasp when Joel’s teeth graze the flesh of your breast. His fingers tug on the straps of your dress, letting them fall from your shoulders until your chest sits exposed.

He drags his tongue along your skin, dipping between your tits while his hands massage them, fingers pinching your nipples. Your back lifts and his hands move beneath, following the curve of your spine to where your dress pools loose around your waist. He pushes down, slinking the smooth fabric from your body.

“You fuckin’…” He clicks his teeth, laughing behind them. Another flush of heat washes over your skin.

You giggle, bending your knees to cover the lace panties he knows all too fucking well. Joel stops you, pushes your legs back down with two heavy hands.

“Don’t get shy now, baby,” he murmurs, opening your body up again. “You were so happy about me seein’ ‘em a few weeks ago, no?”

“’s different,” you reply, tang of alcohol fueling your words, “now I just want you to take them off me.”

He cocks his head, drinking every word you’re handing over like it’s water from an oasis. “Such a dirty girl, ain’t you?”

You pull him closer by the collar and line your mouth against his, the tip of your tongue wetting the inside of his lips. “You got no fucking idea,” you whisper, whipping the shirt from his torso.

Joel growls, flipping you over and pulling you by the shoulders flush against his chest. You hook an arm around his neck, turn to grant him access to your lips. He kisses you like a starved animal, savoring every taste, teeth nipping at your tingling lips.

His hand curves around your hips, pushing beneath your underwear to cup your mound, middle finger pushing on the spongey hood of your clit. Your head falls limp against his collarbone, back arching as Joel holds you steady with an arm around your waist.

“’s alright, baby,” he coos, his tongue licking the shell of your ear. “I’m gonna take good care of ya. Gonna give you what you need, alright?”

A strangled moan unravels across your tongue, echoing into Joel’s mouth. Your hips begin to gyrate, meeting the rhythm of his hand, his finger massaging rough circles into your clit. He smirks, peeling the panties down your thighs.

“Attagirl,” he breathes, “you want it bad, huh? Gettin’ so worked up so fast. Here.”

He removes his hand from between your legs, ignoring your moan of protest and replacing it with two fingers on your bottom lip. “Open,” he instructs, and you obey like a fucking dog. He slips them in, thick and heavy, and waits for you to coat them with your wine-stained tongue.

Joel pushes down, forcing a muffled gag from your throat which lifts the corners of his mouth. He shakes his head lightly, whispering, “You got it, ‘s okay.”

A thread of saliva strings between his fingers and your lips when he lowers his hand again, trailing his fingers through your folds until he’s dancing along the seam of your cunt. You jolt forward; Joel hauls you back.

“Just fucking – do it,” you whimper, your walls clenching around nothing.

He holds his fingers together, curling and inserting them in a painfully slow motion. Your knees widen on the mattress, body sinking down by instinct to meet his fist, to feel his thick fingers and wide knuckles as deep as they’ll go.

You gasp when Joel begins hooking them inside you, nudging against your walls like your heartbeat against your clit. Your hand lowers, slipping beneath his loose waistband, beneath the elastic of his boxers and around his already solid cock.

Joel groans, fucking you harder on his hand. “Fuck, just like that, baby. You feel what you do to me?”

“Uhuh,” you reply, voice wanton and broken.

You squeeze him, your fist moving up and down, his warm skin following the movements of your tight grip. His tip is already soaked, precome staining his underwear, dribbling down your thumb.

Joel uses his free hand to shove his pants down, crumpling on the floor at his feet when they free his cock. You carve your mouth around his, the two of you exchanging breath and flicking your tongues together as you fuck one another’s hands, the room slowly filling with the hot, muggy smell of sex.

Joel’s the first to cave. With a jerk of his hips, he takes you by the wrist and frees himself from your clutches.

“You’re gonna make me come, darlin’,” he murmurs, pulling his fingers from your cunt.

“That’s kinda the point here,” you reply, teeth bumping into his in a grin.

Joel shakes his head, lifting his hand, glistening with your arousal. “Gotta feel this fucking pussy first.”

You smile, parting your lips for him for the second time, suckling on his fingers and licking them clean of your own salty slick. His cock draws sticky trails on the seam of your thigh.

“Yeah,” Joel breathes, eyes fixed on the place where you close around him, “that good, baby? You gonna let me taste you?”

You release his fingers and he pulls you in, tongue slipping against yours with a groan which vibrates against your jaw. When your lips part, you hold your mouth open, your tongue sat on your bottom lip.

Joel reacts instantly, collecting a bead of saliva in front of his teeth and letting it drop into your mouth. You moan and swallow it, a cocktail of beer and whiskey and slick. Joel watches as you lick your lips, the stained-pink coated in a thick, white shine.

“Alright,” he says, letting you fall forward onto the bed. He jacks himself a few times, spitting into his hand and using it to coat his cock.

“Want you to come in it,” you whine, wiggling your ass for him as he lines up at your slit. You can feel the arousal gathered on his tip, dripping down your cunt.

“Yeah, baby,” Joel growls, a smirk on his lips as he watches himself slowly disappear inside you. And then –

You both fall silent, mouths hanging wide open as you each feel the width of his cock and the tightness of your cunt. The way your body opens up to accommodate his size, the direct pain and ethereal pleasure of Joel pushing into you.

“Fuck,” he groans, your pussy drawing him in with a sweet, wet sound. “Been thinkin’ about this all fuckin’ day, baby. So damn gorgeous in that dress.”

You slowly move your hips back to meet him at the base of his cock; dark, trimmed hair bristling against your lips. Joel’s hands lock around your waist, holding you steady with his entirety buried inside, letting you adjust to him.

He’s so fucking big, so wide and deep that your breath tears rugged from your lungs, barreling up your windpipe. Your walls squeeze tight as he pulls out like your body refuses to let him go, like your cells understand better than you do that you were made for this – made for him. Like the only place in the world that he belongs, is somewhere deep inside you.

So big that it hurts, each time he fills you up and stretches you wide open. The pain an eye-rolling, lung-closing, limb-shaking sensation.

Your elbows give, falling chest-first onto the mattress while Joel fucks you hard, his hands gripping your hips. Your cheek and breasts flat against the sheets, your back arched. He slams into you, edging you closer and closer with each meeting of his warm skin against yours, each sopping slap of come and saliva.

The mattress shifts above your head, two valleys where his palms push down heavily, then the weight of his body at the back of your thighs. He towers over you, hips hammering so hard that you’re forced to hook your fingers around his wrists just to stay on the same fucking planet.

“Gonna – fuckin’ – come – baby,” he spits, his jaw locked tight. “You want it in this little pussy? You think she can take it all?”

“Mhm,” you whimper, the edges of your words rounded by the silk sheets. “Joel, I – fuck –”

“Yeah, she can,” he agrees, playing with the hair spilling across your shoulders and taking it in a fistful.

The hazy drunken blur begins to turn over in favor of something sharper, something electric pulsing through your veins. Every part of your body alive, everything rising to meet the same high, the same release. You cling onto him, body beginning to melt beneath his.

Joel’s lips press between your shoulder blades. “Don’t fight it, baby, let go. I got you.”

You moan his name in one last pathetic attempt before the world whitens. You clench around him as a deafening orgasm shocks through your body, curling your back and forcing your nails deep into Joel’s wrists.

“Fuck, baby, fuck me,” Joel gasps. He slams into you one final time before you feel the staggered pump of his come flooding between your walls. “Ahh,” he groans, pushing apart your ass cheeks to watch the trickle seep from your cunt. “Good fucking girl. Take it, baby. That’s my girl.”

He turns you over onto your back and you wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him against your body as he thrusts into you again, tenderly pushing his spend deeper inside. It draws a strained moan from your throat.

“’s alright,” he coos, hips slowing against yours, “just feel it, baby. You feel how deep I am?”

“Uhuh,” you cry, nails digging into his skin, damp with sweat.

“So fuckin’ full of me,” he says, more to himself, before collapsing alongside you, holding your thigh on his hip, his tip still sheathed inside you.

You lie like that for a while, listening to the distant hum of music from downstairs, the party still raving in the belly of the hotel while you two lay in content bliss somewhere in its ribcage. Tracing one another’s features, learning the lines on Joel’s face, the flecks of gray in his eyebrows – all the parts you’re never close nor brave enough to get to know.

His right hand massages your plush waist, his left arm a pillow to rest your heavy, dizzy, drunk head on.

“I wanna do it again,” you whisper, the words sneaking out between heavy breaths.

Joel nods. His bottom lip sticks with sweat to yours. His hips push a little neater into you. “I wanna do it again, too.”

“I wanna do it all night.”

He hasn’t stopped nodding. He shrugs, tightens his grip around your shoulders, and tilts his head. “Then let’s do it all fucking night,” he says, and his lips slam back into yours.

The morning after the wedding, Joel drives you home. The truck soars down the highway, the two of you an uncomfortable distance apart. The same sobering distance you’ve kept all morning – the unreal aftermath of sex.

The rolling waves of bedsheets between your bodies; the sun sifting her long fingers through his hair as she peered through the curtains. The way you’d silently pushed yourself from the mattress, fragmenting your movements and allowing the spring to dip a fraction at a time so not to wake him. The spongey feel of the hotel carpet under the balls of your feet as you’d tottered to the bathroom. The sharp shot of the lock sliding into place, echoing like a bullet.

He waited until you finished showering to get ready himself. Sat on the edge of the bed patiently and watched your shadow beneath the door, the to-and-fro of your silhouette breaking the sliver of golden light as you dressed your sticky body. When you pulled on the metal lock again, he was sat on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees, pinching the bridge of his nose. His bare shoulders were curved, and tanned. You blinked twice to store the image and turned away as he stood.

He says he feels hungover. You say you do, too. It’s the closest you come to talking about it. You hop out of the truck in his drive, your tote bag hooked on your shoulder. The canvas gnawing at the silk inside. Joel tells you he’ll see his end of the deal through in a couple weeks.

“Real busy with work,” he mutters apologetically, his wrists still balancing on the steering wheel.

“That’s good,” you tell him, nodding. “I ain’t in any rush. I know where you live, so.”

A relieved laugh pushes from his lips. “I will get to it,” he assures you.

You shrug casually. “Whenever, Joel.”

You don’t talk for a few days. A few days bleeds into three weeks. You find yourself stood by his front tires, throwing his newspaper onto the porch and scampering when it lands. The noise like a bomb dropping.

Slowly, as the month draws on, you become braver and braver – daring closer and closer to his front door, until you’re back to marching up the steps like you own the place, depositing the roll on his doormat. Rubbing your thumbs against your fingers to feel the ink like satin.

The door cracks open as you make your way back down his steps one bright morning.

“Hey, kid,” Joel murmurs, reaching down for the paper with a groan.

“Hey.”

“You doin’ okay?” he asks, leaning his forearm against the door.

Your head tilts back and forth, your hand lifting to shield your eyes from the sun. “Think I ate som’ bad, maybe. Weird stomach this mornin’.”

Joel’s chin angles. “Hope it ain’t contagious. Was thinkin’ I could get that closet started for you, maybe tomorrow?”

The offer takes you off guard. You buffer for a few seconds before answering, “Sure. Sure, just, uh – just come over whenever, I guess.”

“Nine work for you?”

You nod. “Nine’s good. See ya then.”

It’s something like nine when you find out.

You wake feeling groggy. Tired, sluggish. A heavy ache pulling on your breasts as you rise from bed, tender and swollen. You stand in the bathroom, milky morning light filtering in through the doorway, and your stomach lurches. Waves of nausea deep in your belly, rocking back and forth, swirling and spiraling.

You’ve a box under your sink. It makes sense. Before Joel was some date from Hinge, who fucked you against the wall of his living room and who snored so loud that you left before the sun came up. Negative. Like always.

But it never hurts to be sure.

The pack tears like it’s liquid in your hands. Peels back to reveal the plastic white test, the bubblegum pink cap – like it’s something fun and sweet to place the direction of your future into this little device. A clinical compass needle.

Three to five minutes. You set it down on the counter and drag yourself back through to your room, lifting your bedsheets, tucking them under the mattress, heaving your pillows back into place against the headboard. An uncomfortable heat boiling under the surface of your skin, a prickle of sweat clinging to the nape of your neck.

A sickly taste harboring on your tongue, you pad back to the bathroom and swipe the test up. Your eyes scan past the result window to the counter as you reach for your toothbrush – and then snap abruptly back to the tiny oval. Your outstretched hand freezes in midair. There’s no fucking w–

Your arm swings back to reach for the light cord. The bulb hesitates – flickers, like it’s unsure whether to reveal the truth to you. It knows something you don’t. It’s seen something it doesn’t want to show you. You stare at the pregnancy test.

Two little pink lines stare back. And Joel knocks at your door.

#forgive me for it not being clm or sof #they're coming very soon i promise #this was too fun an idea not to chase #i have the attention span of my labrador retrievers (nil)#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller smut #the last of us #tlou #macfrog #neighbor!joel miller #neighbor!joel #babydaddy!joel miller

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fallenneziah · 6 months ago

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Ghost who has no gag reflex and always teased you with it by never fully going down on you.

He teases you with the fact he has no gag reflex, you for a fact, know he has no gag reflex. You've put your fingers down his throat and he's taken them effortlessly; sucking your knuckles down, your fingers at the back of his throat easily.

You love it. And you also hate that he's the one with no reflex. Because as soon as you know, he refuses to go down. No matter how much you whine and beg for him to do it, even just once. He won't.

Unless you physically force him, which currently is one of your no go zones for intimacy. He suckles your head, gets you all sloppy and moaning, and cleans up the sides of his saliva. He takes such good care of the cock that pounds his insides upside down.

But he won't go fully down on you. Not until the day you're an especially good boy. And then it's over. You feel his tense throat muscles around the head of your cock, pre-cum spilling down the back of his throat, his tongue pressing you back and up. The second he goes fully down, shifting his throat to accommodate and pressing his nose flush to your groin without any problems... You cum. Nuff said.

Bye.

#simon ghost riley #cod mw2 #simon riley #call of duty #cod smut #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader smut #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x male reader #ghost x male reader #male reader smut #Still working on Poly!141 #its coming soon to a theatre near you i promise

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le-fruit-de-la-passion · 10 days ago

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Press One for Love, Two for Regret

Chapter 2

Summary: Proper confessions should never happen over the phone. Viktor knows that. So how did he get here?

Pairing: Viktor x Reader

Word Count: 3.6K

Warning: Mature (mentions of explicit content, explicit in later chapters)

Notes: This was originally supposed to be a real quick one-shot. And yet, here I stand, offering you a three-chapter fic that is probably going to be a little under 10K total. Like a stray cat proudly bringing you a dead squirrel. I'm bozo the fool and I can't stop writing about Viktor.

(Chapter 1) (Chapter 3)

In theory, you’re pretty sure being a hitman should be fun.

There should be something thrilling about following someone around, tracking their every move in the shadows, finding the perfect opening to shoot them right between the eyes. The hunter and the prey. Riveting stuff.

Except you're not a hitman. And you're not tracking down someone to shoot them.

You're a dumb, stupid idiot. And you're just trying to talk to your dumb, stupid best friend who is doing everything in his power to not talk to you.

And he's quite good at it too; it's like he's vanished from the space-time continuum itself. No one has seen him, no one has talked to him, no one has even heard of where he might be hiding. It's almost annoying how good Viktor is at everything he does.

You hadn't managed to sleep the rest of the night of what you now refer to as ‘The Call’. You watched the minutes pass one by one on your alarm clock, eyes wide open, mind bustling with too many questions to go to bed.

At six am sharp, you deemed you had waited long enough to stomp your way to Jayce's and Viktor's apartment. You weren't even sure of what you were going to say; you just had to talk to him. You couldn't let that conversation end the way it did.

You knocked firmly five times before Jayce cracked the door open with an audible groan, hair tussled, eyes barely open. It seemed he, too, hadn't spent a very restful night.

It took a few seconds for him to even register who was standing at the door; when he did, he visibly straightened his back in an attempt to look awake and composed.

Unfortunately for him, it did not work very well.

“H-hey,” he stammered, leaning against the doorway in false non-chalence. His voice was still heavy with sleep, and he audibly cleared his throat. “It's a little early, isn't it? The ol’ operating system usually only boots up when the sun is out,” he added jokingly, pointing a finger toward his forehead.

A valiant attempt at breaking the obvious tension, but you refused to budge. You glared at him, decidedly looking into his eyes.

“I need to talk to Viktor.”

Jayce made a strangled sound, which he tried to hide with a theatrical coughing fit.

“You… just missed him?” he managed to choke out with uncertainty. He was visibly trying to convince himself just as much as you. “He left to go prepare the lab. You know him, always doing extra research.”

He flashed you a smile, a practiced grin with perfect teeth that might have seemed genuine in other circumstances. But his bottom lip was quivering, and you could see Viktor's daily use cane leaning against the coat rack right behind him. Jayce was not exactly a master manipulator.

“Jayce, the university doesn't even open until seven thirty.”

He deflated at that, his large shoulders comically lowering. You could see he was thinking desperately for anything to say, but coming up empty-handed. Chances were he hadn't had his coffee yet, which knowing him, considerably lowered his ability to formulate coherent thoughts.

You were starting to feel bad; the poor guy was stuck being the literal last defence to his roommate, and he was genuinely giving it his best. Jayce might not have a career in acting, but he was a good friend.

That was more than you could say about yourself.

“Ok. I get it,” you sighed. “He needs space. I can respect that. Just… tell him to call me later, alright? Even just a text would be fine.”

Jayce seemed profoundly relieved you had agreed to back down, something you almost always refused to do under any circumstance. Yes, technically, you could stay put in front of that door and progressively chip away at Jayce's still barely conscious mind until Viktor decided to show himself.

But you felt guilty. Guilty for not realizing how he felt, guilty for treating him like your personal diary over the phone, guilty for not saying how you felt sooner. The conversation should be on Viktor's terms rather than your own.

“Yeah, I'll tell him,” Jayce gave you a small smile, comforting and honest. The next words came out less encouraging than he likely intended: “I'll try.”

But now, it's been a week since ‘The Call’, and Viktor has still shown no sign of wanting to talk. Your phone is frustratingly devoid of unread texts or missed calls no matter how often you check it. Your world feels like it's been spiralling out of control a little more every day, the uncertainty of everything left unsaid weighing you down like a ton of bricks. It's torture, and you can't help but feel like you kind of deserve it.

You should have known better than to call Viktor when you were drunk, and yet, you still did. Because there's nothing more natural to you than talking to him. It's become second nature, as natural as breathing or blinking.

Viktor is always so smart, and so composed, and so understanding, and so helpful- and he's probably the only person who likes hearing you go on rants for hours on end. How could you ever want to talk to anybody else after a breakup?

But when you're drunk, you lose the already feeble control you have over your verbal on-and-off switch. Everything spews out of you without a filter, as if you're vomiting all the thoughts that go through your mind one after the other. It's cathartic, for sure, but then you end up saying things that should never be said to the best friend you've secretly been in love with for years now.

Things like how your ex never took time to finger you properly, or how he had this stupid obsession with men not going down on women because he was an ungrateful asshole.

And then, those two little words.

“I would.”

There was no hesitation in his tone, no uncertainty. It was like he had the sentence on the tip of his tongue for the last two hours you had been whining to him. Like he had been waiting to say it for too long to contain it anymore.

The irony was that you had spent the last four years trying everything in your power to not let those stupid little words out too.

—

You met Viktor at your first university's faculty Christmas party.

You hated work parties.

You had only gotten the position of academic advisor a few months prior, and in that time you hadn't managed to form a single bond with any other employee in your entire department. It was always the same; you talked too much. You were too intense. You were tiresome.

You were you. And that was something a lot of people didn't like.

Needless to say, you didn't want to go to that stupid party. Everyone would split up into groups of friends and previous acquaintances, and any attempt at joining the conversation would result in discreet sighs and rolling eyes. Yet you still went, partly out of obligation, but also in the hopes something that night might be different for you.

But it hadn't been, and you were alone.

So you did what any well-adjusted adult did when they were faced with the indisputable fact they were the party outcast; you drank.

After one glass of cheap white wine, you felt more relaxed, less stiff. Just a nice amount of mellowed out.

After two glasses, you started to forget the self-preserving instinct of not approaching others. ‘Maybe you could try talking to someone, after all. It could be worth a shot.’

After three glasses, you forgot why you were so apprehensive in the first place. You were great! You rocked. You had so many things to say there was absolutely no way someone wouldn't love to hear all about it.

…but maybe you could get a fourth glass, first.

You headed back towards the drinks table, a little less steady and a whole more lot confident. So confident, you didn't realize you bumped right into someone's chest until a hand grabbed your arm to keep you upright.

“Ah, are you alright?” came a heavily accented voice above you. ‘Eastern European,’ you thought absentmindedly. ‘Ukranian, maybe Czech. I wonder if he knows they created the sugar cube…’

You took an unsteady step back, peaking up at the man blocking your way to the wine bottles.

‘Wow, he's handsome’, was your first, immediate thought.

“Wow, you're handsome,” were your first, immediate words.

The man spluttered in surprise. In all fairness, he probably hadn't been expecting for a stranger at a faculty party to be so direct. If you were still at glass number two, you might have realized it wasn't a very appropriate thing to say in this specific context.

But you were at glass number three and unabashedly staring at the man's face, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the curve of his nose.

That was the moment you realized he wasn't a stranger.

You knew him. Not his name, or who he was, but you felt absolutely certain you had seen him before. You scanned your jumbled brain for the memory of his face. So beautifully sculpted, like he was made of stone. You knew him, you had it on the tip of your tongue-

“Miss?” the man asked, seemingly unsure whether to be perplexed or worried at your silent glaring. “Would you like me to help you sit-”

“Tuna sandwich!” you yelled with a huge grin. A few other partygoers turned towards you in confusion, but you were much too overjoyed at the epiphany you were experiencing to realize.

The man blinked slowly. Then once again, like he was trying to process whether or not he had understood correctly. His head cocked slightly to the side in bewilderment.

“… I'm sorry, what did you say ?”

You poked his chest with an insistent finger, beaming: “You're tuna sandwich! The tuna sandwich guy!”

The man looked to the side warily, mouth opening and closing, visibly searching for some kind of help. When he found none, his golden eyes fell back to you, catching the glow of the ceiling lights. The spark of an aurora through the night sky.

“I'm… afraid I truly have no idea what you're talking about,” he explained gently, the warmth of his hand leaving your arm. You deflated a little at that, the notion of embarrassment creeping back in you.

But he hadn't left. He was still here.

He was listening to you.

“My office is next to the cafeteria,” you started, straightening your dress and trying to appear more professional. “I see you, every day, at eleven forty-five, before morning classes end. I always thought that was smart, because you get to skip the lunch rush and there's still a lot of choices for meals.”

The man seemed bemused by the comment, but didn't show signs of wanting to take off. That made you regain some of your drunken confidence.

“But you always take a tuna sandwich,” you continued. ”That's it. Every day. You never buy anything else. It's always the tuna sandwich at eleven forty-five.”

He let out a confused chuckle, the ghost of a teasing smile on his lips.

“I didn't realize I had an audience.”

His presence had been so hypnotic you barely even realized what you had been saying.

‘Oh God, that sounded creepy, didn't it?’

“Don't flatter yourself,” you quickly added, embarrassed, looking away to stare at a particularly interesting stain on the floor. “I look at what everyone's doing. It's my job to.”

He hummed mirthfully, his golden gaze fully amused now:

“And what job would that be? Voyeur?”

You almost choked on your own spit.

“Guidance councillor, smart guy,” you countered, feeling your cheeks heat up. How was a stranger rattling you this much? You were usually the one whose words left others confused. “I look at people, and I figure out what they want in life. I help them find careers. I’ll have you know that's an extremely important task, mister-”

You squinted at the sticky nametag on his chest, trying to decipher the very slanted handwriting. You vaguely remembered the blue stickers were reserved for teachers.

“…Professor…?” you struggled weakly, hoping he would fill in the illegible part.

He thankfully seemed to find your attempt more endearing than insulting.

“Just call me Viktor,” he answered with a sincere smile. His lips were slightly crooked, the left dimple just barely more present on his left side than his right. There was a tiny little beauty spot next to his cupid bow; the thought that it would be nice to lick it just to confirm it wasn't a speck of the chocolate cake flashed in your mind.

‘Focus, focus!’

“Tell me, Viktor,” you cleared your throat. You had to get it together. This was the longest conversation you had been able to maintain with a fellow faculty member without them looking like they wanted to run away. “Why tuna? There's so many other sandwiches to choose from. You could take the egg salad, or the turkey sub, or the spicy chicken…”

You were definitely being too insistent on the tuna thing. If he didn't think you were weird before, he would now.

And yet Viktor still didn't leave. He considered your question seriously, taking a few thoughtful seconds to answer:

“It's the only one with multigrain bread. Very low fat for a good source of omega-3 and protein. And I don't dislike it, so it makes the most sense as a daily meal,” he mused, almost like it was the first time he had ever thought about it, too.

Huh.

“That's a sad way of looking at things,” you commented before thinking.

Before you could mentally swear at your debilitating lack of restraint, Viktor countered the statement with seemingly genuine curiosity:

“How so?”

You had a chance to say something cute and short, and leave the topic at that. It would be a major win for you; your first enjoyable talk with a coworker. Maybe you would even exchange email addresses by the end of the night.

Or…

You could be yourself. Let the floodgate of constant thoughts and observations pour out for a minute. Show this random handsome man who you were, really.

Had you not been drunk and sound of mind, you would have gone for the former. But as it happened, you were quite drunk, and you chose the latter. You took a deep breath before speaking:

“Means you only value food as something that's needed, like taste and flavour isn’t important. You deny yourself basic pleasures out of fear you'll get used to them and grow complacent. You're probably the type of guy who slaves away in his office for hours, not even realizing he's hungry, because it's lost all relevance to him.”

The silence that followed felt eerie. The expression on Viktor's face was blank, mouth barely agape, brows slightly furrowed. You had fucked it up, again.

“Sorry,” you muttered, feeling incredibly foolish. “That was overstepping.”

“No, actually,“ Viktor responded almost eagerly, the sparkle in his eyes bright, “Keep going. What else can you tell?”

There was palpable interest in his tone, in the way his body leaned slightly closer to yours. He wanted to know. He wanted to listen to you.

“The tuna sandwich is twenty-five cents cheaper than all the other ones,” you continued slowly, afraid of breaking the spell that was keeping him attentive to your words. “Usually a sign of a lower class upbringing, shows that you're used to thinking with a controlled budget, even if you don't need to anymore. You likely value hard work and commitment.”

You paused once more to gauge his reaction, but he didn't say anything, clearly waiting for you to continue. So, you did.

“It's always eleven forty-five sharp. You're precise, mechanical. Probably in the department of medicine, or some form of applied science. Am I right?”

“Biomechanical engineering,” he specified with a baffled smile. “Incredible. All that from a sandwich?”

You shrugged, feeling giddy under the weight of the compliment. It was so utterly rare that anyone would actually enjoy your rambling.

“I notice things about people, and I tell them. Couldn’t quite cut it as a detective or a psychologist, so it makes me an ok guidance counsellor,” you smiled, adding an audible wince. “But the person you really gotta avoid at parties.”

He laughed at that, a pretty, earnest sound, slightly low and nasal. The kind of laugh that would make the heart of a weaker person skip a beat.

You blamed the fact that yours did in fact skip a beat entirely on the alcohol.

“I-I'm sure what you do is a lot more impressive, though,” you quickly stammered out. Why were you stuttering?

He shrugged, bony shoulders visible through his button-up shirt. A few beauty marks decorated his neck where the collar didn't reach; you wondered how many more the fabric was hiding.

“Eh, I wouldn't bet on that. Gait analysis, prosthetic limb design. Much less creative than one might think,” he commented with a certain indifferent boredom; yet there was a certain light in his eyes that spoke otherwise. Maybe he was also the type of person people didn’t listen to much. “But it does feel rewarding to do something for others who might not have my luck.”

He pointed down with his chin, and for the first time since you began talking to him, you realized he was holding a cane.

You, whose only redeeming quality was having good observational skills, hadn't noticed the man you had been talking to for the last ten minutes was holding a cane. A refined-looking one at that, with a deep burgundy tainted wood for the shaft, and a sleek handle the colour of tarnished gold. ‘Maybe if you stopped looking at his face for a goddamn second you would have noticed’ you scolded yourself.

“Ah,” you blurted out pathetically. “That's… that's really cool.” You were looking at his fingers. You were looking at his long, slim fingers holding his cane, calloused yet delicate, and you were imagining them in places they should definitely not be in.

You had absolutely no idea what you had just said to him.

Yet Viktor only seemed more amused, his smirk growing ever so slightly.

“Yes, I also like to think of it as ‘cool’, from time to time.”

A drink. What you needed was another drink. Then perhaps you would reach a level of enlightenment where you would remember how to not look like a complete fool in front of attractive professors, who probably did quantum physics as a hobby.

As if he had read your mind, Viktor shifted in the direction of the drinks table, giving you a knowing smile. Were you so easy to read, or was he simply so good at reading you?

“I’d offer to bring you a glass of wine, but I believe that may have been your original intention before reading my palm,” he joked.

‘It's nothing like fortune telling, it's just logical analysis !’ part of you wanted to retort.

‘Give me your palm and I'll show you what my real fucking intentions are,’ purred the other one.

If you didn't get out of here now, you would say something that would definitely end your career before it had even taken off.

“I think I'll probably head home for the night. I've already had a little too much to drink,” you smiled hesitantly. Understatement of the century.

You could have sworn you saw a flash of disappointment in his eyes. Then again, you had probably imagined it. If anything, he was likely relieved he had finally managed to escape the babbling lunatic. Someone like him, so brilliant and accomplished, had no reason to willingly listen to the ramblings of a glorified high school school councillor.

But…

“But… maybe you could give me your number?” you asked hesitantly, taking one final, vulnerable leap of faith. “Just for work, of course!”, you added hastily.

Viktor did not seem angry or disgusted at the proposal; in fact, his smile widened, revealing a slightly uneven row of teeth. Cute. Everything about him was attractive.

“I would like that,” Viktor said softly, amber eyes warm. “I did enjoy hearing you talk.”

Your heart made a heavy, dull thud. With a small wave, he was gone, disappearing somewhere into the crowd like he had been nothing more than a hallucination conjured up by the cheap wine.

Your first work friend.

A potential real friend. Someone who genuinely didn't seem to hate the sound of your voice.

It was much too precious to lose over some passing, drunken attraction. You absolutely had to crush these emotions now to prevent them from becoming anything serious. After all, it wasn't like you had a shadow of chance with someone like him.

Perhaps for the first time in your life, you decided to stay silent about something, no matter what would happen in the future.

He couldn't know.

You would never let him know.

#arcane #viktor arcane #viktor x reader #viktor imagine #viktor x reader smut #arcane smut #the smut will come soon I promise #adhd coded reader #up to your interpretation #viktor x reader fluff

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teddybeartoji · 8 months ago

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my last little thirst for you mickey <3

wolf! toji, that hunts down pretty little bunny! reader because he got the smallest whiff of your sweet scent and needed to track you down.

when he finally catches up to you, he pins you down into the forest ground, finally getting a chance to truly take in thay saccharine scent that he'sbeen practically fiending over. (he could've easily caught you in just a few minutes, but he can he say? he enjoys the hunt)

next thing you know- wolf! toji is biting into your nape while rapidly pounding into you, wanting to knot you, pump you full of his pups, and claim you as his own.

he still isn't finished, even after wolf! toji made sure that you were filled to the brim with his seed. He steadied himself over your pliant body and sprayed all over you, making sure every inch of your worn-out body was covered in his piss.

Now you were his- inside and out <3

OH WOLF!TOJI LOVES CHASING YOU DOWN SOOOO MUCH. IT GETS HIM GOING SO FUCKING FAST GRAY HOOLY FUCKING SHIT.

he's not even running or anything at first... he knows he's gonna catch you, he has your scent and he won't lose it; he let's you run and run, he's letting you tire yourself out. he loves seeing all riled up and panting, your eyes twitching ever-so-lightly when he finally finds you.

he loves to get you dirty, he loves to push you into the ground. he likes to see the smallest little scratches and the smallest little bruises that form under his rough hands. he licks at your neck with a mean grin as you shiver in his hold, and he loves to listen to your racing heartbeat. it's all just so, so much. it feels so fucking good.

he's gonna pump you full and he won't let you waste a drip of it. he's gonna plug you with his thick knot and he's gonna hold you to his chest as he does so. he takes in all of the sharp breaths and the little mewls that keep slipping from his tiny bunny. he hisses at the tightness, but he doesn't allow himself to get too distracted. he toys with your nipples and gently nips at your ear, determined to make you cum on his knot aswell.

you're so fucked out, eyes hidden in the back of your head and your tongue lolling out - he loves it. so fucking much. he loves the mess of it all. your slick is running down his heavy balls and your saliva trickles down your own chin. he presses a haste, sloppy kiss to your temple as he works you through your third orgasm.

"nasty little bunny, hm?"

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uc1wa · 1 year ago

Text

18+ minors dni

tags: fem reader, cockwarming, mentions of penetrative sex

big tough, bad, strong jason is sensitive.

the man kills and fights all night, he has to be strong while he's on patrol. so when he comes home to you? his little wife who knows how to take care of him?

he thinks you’re the sweetest girl in the world.

he climbs through the window, always landing on his back, sometimes staying there for a beat longer if it's a real bad day.

and you... you're the perfect wife he could ask for.

you're guiding him to the edge of the bed, robe hanging loosely around your frame as you take his red mask off, dropping it to the side. you're so graciously, slowly unzipping him of his cargo pants, you know he can't do it without you, right? his pretty green eyes watching you with hunger and want. if eyes could beg... the 6'4 man in front of you would be crying on his hands and knees.

your small hands pull out his larger than life length, and he whimpers just at the small feeling. he's been the one taking initiative all day, he needs somebody to take care of him, remember?

and he's sorry that he came home like this... came home hard and frustrated. he never means it! it’s just difficult when he knows he’s coming home to you. what else is he supposed to do?

and when you place your legs on either side of him, your hole wet and slick and ready for him, he’s reminded you’re made for him. he bites his lip when you slide down. staying there, because he just needs the comfort of you being wrapped around him right now. he needs your tightness around his cock if he even wants to think about being the red hood again tomorrow.

his cheeks turn pink, like they always do and his head rests in the crook of your neck, licking and kissing sloppily and slowly as his cock is being warmed by you. he doesn't move. he doesn't grab your hips and move you against him... he could pump you full right now, his tip hitting your cervix feverishly. instead, he whines against you, whimpers as he lets you lead.

he whispers that you're the only one made for him. you prepped yourself before he came just so he didn’t have to wait an extra minute. you know you’re his angel right?

and he stays there, he’s good for you! he’s grateful and wouldn’t want you to think otherwise.

his big, rough, scarred hands sit on your hips, rubbing soft circles as his lips let out little and quiet moans. reminders that you’re his. that nobody could compare to you. that your pretty body is made for him.

#hi im xi and miss writing so tadaaa #omg first actual post hi jason whores #i don’t have a welcome yet promise it will come soon!#(why did i decide to start writing a week before my sem starts…im crazy)#need my tired sensitive man baby so bad #jason todd x reader #jason todd #red hood #red hood x reader #dc x reader #red hood x you #jason todd smut #jason todd imagine #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you #red hood x y/n

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notsopersonalcharlie · 6 months ago

Text

Honey Belle

Biker!Bucky Barnes x fem!reader fluff - Part of the Biker!Bucky Series

One part lead-up to the future and one part how Bucky and belle met.

Warnings: Mentions of sex and alcohol, discussion of a past relationship that bordered on abusive (non-binary reference), more car talk because i love mini coopers.

Note: My apologizes because i lost all my progress on this when i was about halfway through. Also I just have brainrot about them now sorry in advance.

"No no no no, please baby you can make it its just a litt-" The engine shuddered and then gave out. You groaned, banging your head against the steering wheel as you pulled off to the side of the quiet street. It was getting stifling in the car very quickly. The heat wave was precisely why you needed to take Baby Blue in. Your phone showed another mile and a half on the map you saved. This shop was in some dead end town, but it was the only one that had agreed to service the vintage coop.

"Couldn't have saved me the walk?" you asked to the car as you grabbed your bag and hauled it over your shoulder. You scrawled a note to leave on the windshield and began down the straight road. The trees on either side provided some shade, but there was no sidewalk, so as you continued you could peek back at your car and to check on any oncoming traffic.

The first signs of life you saw came ten minutes into your walk. You hadn't gotten far. It was sweltering and you had to leave straight from work, so your shoes were the least comfortable thing to walk in as you sweat.

Two motorcycles were headed your way, and to your surprise they both stopped. One was wearing a light brown leather jacket, and he pulled off his helmet immediately. He had blond hair and a kind looking smile, but you were also alone in a mysterious location with no signal.

"Hey, you alright?" You stared at them, and took a step back when he took a step toward you.

"Uh-"

"You had an appointment at the Howling Commando? Twenty minutes ago? Blue vintage Austin Mini Cooper?" The other guy had popped up his visor, but hadn't taken off the helmet yet. His blue eyes were sharp, watching you. You took another two steps back.

"Buck, lose the helmet," the blond guy admonished, "We work there, you said when you called that you were worried about the heat and the engine, so when you no-showed we thought you might have gotten stuck. I'm Steve. We talked on the phone the first time I think, and then you talked to Yelena to get the details." The other guy pulled off his helmet and you thought your heart might stop. Sure the blond, Steve, was handsome in a clean cut preppy kind of way, but this guy looked like he walked out of one of the fantasy books your read as a kid. Dark eyebrows slanted over his bright blue eyes, his scruff adding to the rugged look he was sporting. He waved, a shy smile slicing away the fear you had held entirely. It changed his face, you wanted to make it happen again.

"Bucky. We'll get you all fixed up."

-/-/-/-/-

"Belle, ya home?" You looked up from your laptop. You hadn't been able to pull yourself away from the document you were building for the new hires.

"Yeah- I- oh shit. I forgot to start dinner." You turned to find Bucky stepping through the doorway from the kitchen. His grease stained tshirt was tossed over his shoulder already, leaving all his tattoos on display. One in particular always caught your attention, the sketch of a mini cooper right over his heart.

"How many time do I gotta tell you?" He asked, dropping the shirt in the hallway before coming over to you. You stood, tilting your chin to look up at him as he wrapped one arm around your back and cradled the back of your neck with the other.

"You don't have to worry about that stuff, honey. I'll take care of dinner. Finish up your work, it'll be done in no time."

"I need a break, baby, seriously. I'll help." His eyes narrowed.

"You sure?" You nodded, turning back to hit save and taking his outstretched hand to go back into the kitchen. You chopped veggies while he marinated chicken and he told you about his day at the shop. It was a familiar routine by now, three years into your relationship, but you couldn't help but feel the guilt in your stomach again. He spent all day on his feet.

"Hey, lose the face." You looked up at him.

"What?"

"I can feel your thoughts from over here." He set down the spices, rinsing his hands and patting them dry before coming over to you and wrapping you up in his arms. He was anything but weak, and carefully lifted you onto the unoccupied part of the counter and stood between your legs, looking you dead in the eye. You blinked slowly, trying not to fall into the trap of his icy-blue silence. It was impossible.

"I just feel bad is all, you spend all day on your feet and working and then you come home and make dinner. It feels, not fair." Bucky tilted his head to the side, eyebrows up. It was a conversation you had all the time, and you knew how he felt about it. He did serious very well, even if you knew there was a smile lurking just behind it.

"You know that's not how I feel. I love taking care of you. You work so hard every day trying to change the world for the better. I go dick around with my friends all day playing with cars." You snorted.

"I'm serious! My number one and most important job is taking care of my girl. I will make you dinner every night for the rest of our lives together, if that's what it takes to prove it."

"You don't have to do-"

"Nope, you're banished from the kitchen. Go feed Alpine. Get lost." You laughed, taking his face into your hands before he could lift you back off the counter. His lips were warm and soft, and his hands wrapped tighter around your middle as you tilted your head to deepen the kiss before pulling away. You rested your forehead against his, breathing in the smell of motor oil and coffee.

"I love you, James Barnes." He gave you that sweet smile, the one that transformed him into an entirely different man.

"I love you, honey belle. Now get the fuck outta my kitchen."

-/-/-/-/-

You woke up and stretched, yawning as your rubbed your eyes and sat up. And then you became aware again that you were not in your own room and you were laying in an empty bed. You glanced around, noting the distinct lack of a tall tattooed biker who had left hickeys on your chest and had all but fucked you to sleep the night before.

In his place lay a small gray cat, it sat up when you did and surveyed you before jumping gracefully off the bed and leaving out the open door. You stood up, glancing at yourself in the mirror. You were wearing a shirt that said the Howling Commandos Garage and Bar on the front. It was well worn and soft, with little frays on the bottom and the collar. Your hair was a mess and you smoothed it out before following the cat into the rest of the apartment. Your clothes which had been strewn across the living room were neatly folded in a pile on the back of the couch, and there was a note scrawled on top.

Had to head off to fix up your baby. Coffee in the pot. Stay if you'd like. Bucky

Bucky looked wistfully down the block at his apartment building.

"What is your deal today, Barnes?" Sam asked. He was newer, and Steve had brought him in to tend bar, but also help with the books at the garage. Bucky grumbled that they didn't need new people, and Steve returned with patience that just because Bucky didn't want to make new friends, didn't mean they didn't need new staff.

"He's got a crush," Steve laughed from the other side of a pickup.

"I'll have you know I sealed that deal," Bucky shot back. There was a thunk sound and then Steve appeared over the hood, rubbing the top of his head.

"What the hell are you doing there then?" Bucky shrugged.

"She was still asleep. I left her coffee and a note." Sam snorted.

"See her never."

"Her car is literally right in front of me."

"She's gonna take it somewhere else," Sam shot back. Bucky's eyes narrowed, dropping the wrench he had on hand. He was starting towards Sam when a new voice echoed through the garage.

"I would really appreciate it if you fixed my car, not got blood on it." You strolled in the front of the garage and Bucky considered falling to his knees and begging for you to stay with him forever. You were wearing your jeans and sandals from the night before, but on top you had on his Howling Commandos shirt with the original design and logo. You were holding one of the mugs from his kitchen and had an easy smile on your face.

"I thought I'd come check on the progress on my baby. Maybe learn a thing or two." Steve smirked at Bucky and turned back to his work. Sam had suddenly made himself scarce into the office.

"Sure thing, but can't let you learn too much, you might notice some things going wrong just so you can stop by to see me." You nudged Bucky with your elbow, taking a sip of coffee as you followed him back to your car.

"I don't know, I think I could have other reasons to stop by and see you."

-/-/-/-/-

You woke up to sunlight coming in through the open curtains. Bucky was sound asleep on his stomach, face pressed into his pillow and his arm thrown over you. After a moment of relishing the cuteness of him keeping you close while he was asleep, you slipped out of his grasp and headed for the kitchen.

It was mostly clean, and you started a pot of coffee for the morning before tidying up just a little bit more. Bucky had slipped in after you fell asleep. He was working the bar when you left full of a burger and with kisses pepper to your nose promising he'd be home soon. The rest of the staff had ribbed him endlessly while saying goodnight to you.

You grumbled to yourself about having to wake Bucky's whining ass up to take you to work when you noticed something on the counter. Your car keys. Trying not to get your hopes up, you peeked out the front windows and let out a squeal when you saw your car sitting in the driveway, a comically small bow on the hood.

"Wha-Who's there?" Bucky ran out in just his boxers, fists up prepared to fight an intruder apparently, but instead got a chestful of you.

"She's done?" It took him a moment to register what who you were and what you were referring to.

"Huh? Oh. Yeah, belle, she's done." You threw your arms around Bucky's shoulders, squeezing him tight.

"Thank you thank you thank you! She'll run for another three years? No problems?" Bucky held you tight, sleep already returning as he nuzzled against your neck.

"Even better. She should be alright for at least another five to ten." You pressed kisses to his face and then his hands, and kissed him goodbye for the day. Your outfit for the morning was already hanging in the bathroom and it made your morning to not have to pack extra clothes for the bike. Instead you put your coffee in a to go mug, your lunchbox in your purse, and headed for the door. The car started up with a hum and you patted the dash, turning on your favorite radio station and rolling down the windows on your way to work.

-/-/-/-/-

You sighed on your way into your apartment. Bucky said he was headed over after you left, and now you had to clean up and start on dinner. Work had been exhausting, and you had found yourself fixing other peoples' work first thing in the morning, which put you back on your own deadlines.

Still, you tossed your bag onto the black hole chair of random items in the bedroom and changed out of your work clothes into something comfy for movie night. You had bought all the ingredients for homemade pizzas over the weekend when you were ambitious about when you were going to get out of work.

"Five minutes on the couch," you muttered to yourself, "then back to work." Five minutes quickly turned into doom scrolling until Bucky knocked on your front door.

"Shit." You jumped off the couch and started pulling things out of the fridge frantically to make it look like you had already started the process. The knocking grew frantic after a minute and you rushed to the door. Bucky's eyes were wide, but he relaxed when he saw you were fine.

"Sorry, I didn't hear you." His soft smile melted your nerves a fraction, and he leaned down to press a kiss to your lips.

"You had a long day, I understand." He followed you into the kitchen, and you frowned at the array you had pulled out. Sure you had the pizza dough and sauce but also a jar of pickles, some miso, and a block of tofu.

"What were you planning on making?" Bucky asked, examining the contents of a mystery tupperware.

"Uh..." You considered coming up with a lie about cleaning your fridge, panic welling back up that he would be upset you had gotten sidetracked away from making dinner.

"I... I'm sorry, I panicked when I heard you because I hadn't started making dinner and I knew you would be hungry so I just started pulling things out of the fridge and I..." you could feel yourself beginning to ramble into a spiral.

"Woah! Woah, belle, calm down. It's okay!" Bucky came around the counter, hands on your shoulders to ground you.

"It is really okay, belle, I know you had a long day. You don't have to make me dinner. I mean it. You work long hours and clean up other people's messes all day." You could feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes and looked down at the logo of some motorcycle brand on Bucky's shirt.

"You just work all day at the shop and I know that can be exhausting, so I just wanted to make you food so you'll be..." you trailed off. So he would be what? Had never gotten pissed at you because dinner wasn't on the table or that you didn't get him his drink before yours. He had never thrown his empty can in your direction when you didn't get a new one for him before it was empty. Bucky called your name, pushing your chin up to meet his eyes. They were big and blue and full of concern that grew when he saw the tears in yours.

"Honey, where is this coming from? We could have ordered takeout for all I cared?"

You swallowed and took a deep breath.

"My ex, they were blue collar. Worked in construction. They didn't... they thought I should do all the housework and make dinner since I sat at a desk all day. They would get... angry when I didn't or said I was too tired or it wasn't ready when they got home or I ran out of their favorite drink and... I just want you to be happy." Bucky's frown had deepened and the concern in his blue eyes had turned to anger.

"Where are they now? Who would ever do that to you?" His head turned to see if he could spot any memory of them in the apartment. To your surprise it made you laugh to see him be so protective over something that wasn't there.

"Long gone. I moved states away to leave them. It's why I've been working so much, honestly. When I switched positions I had to do it for a cut, since at the headquarters I was making more. I don't regret it for a second though." You were looking at him now, sincere. If you never moved you wouldn't have been looking for an apartment when your car overheated and you had to go to the Howling Commando. You would have never met Bucky or found an apartment a few blocks away from the bar and him.

"I'm glad you made it here too," he said finally. He wrapped his arms around you, big arms keeping you safe and his chin on your head grounding you to him.

"I know you spend every day working super hard with people you don't really like. I know you love what you do, but I would never hold any of that against you. I spend every day working with my best friends for as long as or short as I'd like. If you never cook me dinner again, I would still be happy as long as we get to sit down and eat together." He paused, and you could feel his heart beat a little faster, a shift in his posture. For the first time:

"And I love you." Your heart leapt, the tears that you had been wiping against his tshirt flowed again.

"I love you too, Bucky."

-/-/-/-/-

You texted Bucky on your way out of work, and blessedly got into your own car with air-conditioning and seatbelts. Not that you didn't trust Bucky or that you didn't like to ride with him, but it was nice to have a seat to sit in.

You began the journey home, it feeling a little longer than it had for the last few weeks when you clung to Bucky's middle with your eyes closed. You were most of the way home when a telltale rumble of motorcycles started up behind you on the long empty road. It reminded you of the first time you rode with Bucky, down this very same road when your car broke down and he took you back to the shop with him while Steve waited with the car. He had said, after securing his extra helmet to your head, that it would be only time you ever rode without the proper shoes or pants on. You had responded cheekily, since he was hot and it didn't seem like it could hurt the speed at which your car got fixed, that he was suggesting that there would be another time. He had followed that with a quick, "I have your phone number. I find another time."

The bikes were getting closer, four of them, and to your surprise Bucky wasn't with them. Steve and Sam rode on either side of you, offering salutes. You couldn't identify who the two behind were but you could tell one of them was Yelena or Natasha. It was not a regular procession, though when they did see your distinctive car when out riding, they always did stop by for a wave. Instead of leading you home, Sam and Steve guided your car to the parking lot at the Howling Commando. The fairy lights were up for the summer and a few of the regulars were already outside enjoying the weather.

"I was going to go home first you know," you whined at Steve, tossing your blazer into the passenger seat before getting out of the car.

"I think this is more important," he said, turning you away from the bar and toward the shop. The garage doors were open, but inside was obstructed by the shadows from the sunset. When you stepped in you froze. The cars and equipment had all been cleared out and a beautiful flower arrangement was across the floor, Bucky was standing a few feet away, looking nervous as the first time he came to pick you up for dinner. He spotted you and swallowed, standing up straighter as you walked towards him.

"Bucky..." You didn't have the words to say as you joined him in the array of flowers.

"Belle. I love you, I have loved you since the minute I saw you on the side of the road. From the second you wrapped your arms around me on my bike for the first time. The first night we spent together and every night since then I have known that I would spend the rest of my life with you. I promise I will make dinner every night if that's what it takes." You grinned at the little inside joke, tears pouring down your cheeks as he got down on one knee.

"Make me the happiest idiot in the world and marry me?"

"Of course I will. I love you."

#charliewrites #bucky barnes fluff #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfic #sebastian stan #there will be more don't worry #and by more i mean dirty dirty smut to come i promise #bucky barnes #marvel #biker!bucky fluff #biker!bucky #mcu #notsopersonalcharlie

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ilovepapahet · 3 months ago

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James Hetfield HeadCanons

1994 James has me in a chokehold guys, his hair looked so good like this oh gosh

this is peak Viking James Hetfield

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SFW

Very similar to 1991 since there not that far in year

but he has this different charm to him (I think it’s the hair) he’s infatuated with you and can’t get enough of you

he loves to kiss your face he’ll kiss your cheek, top of your head, nose, mouth (obv), your temples literally anywhere he can get

Same as the kissing he has his hands or arms around you at all times I feel like he’s just very affectionate in this era

continuing with the affectionate thing he loves cuddling with you on the couch in bed literally anywhere he can cuddle you he will

he loves bringing you places like on tour, the studio and hunting trips

he also loves showing you off not in a jerk way but in a loving way he’s so proud that your his girlfriend and he love to show everyone how much he loves you

he loves it when you plays with his hair (but I feel like he just likes it in general) it soothes him especially when he’s stressed about music

NSFW

another way you can destress him is giving him head he loves getting head

he’ll let out sound only your ears have the blessing to hear letting out gasps and moans and on rare occasions he’ll whimper

he loves fingering you watching you lose yourself on his fingers making your eyes roll than making you suck your own juices off his fingers

He’s very loving when he fucks you not like 91 when he’s rough with you making sure you feel him when you sit days after

he likes to take his time with you worshipping your body kissing up your thighs than your stomach, your tits than you face

he’ll slowly push his cock into you bitting his bottom lip to stop himself from moaning

and he’s praising you the whole time telling you how good your doing so good and how beautiful you are

he’ll make out with you while you both are cumming it’s his favourite thing to do

he loves the feeling of you moaning into his mouth giving him more pleasure when he dose cum deep inside you

————————————————————————

1994 is so fine guys I can’t I also apologize for not being active I’ve been busy

#james hetfield #metalica #james hetfield x reader #james hetfield smut #james hetfield fluff #1994 another one of my favs #I do really think it’s his mullet #There is more to come I promise #james hetfield x you #james hetfield head canons

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fastboatsmojito · 2 months ago

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🕸️𖤐 Promptober Day Twenty-five - Praise 𖤐🕸️

| a/n; soft luca my dearest <3

Promptober schedule here !

| cw; 18+ smut btc, smut if u squint but it’s not very detailed, afab gn reader <3

| wc; 303

“That’s incredible, Luca.” The slight blush on his cheeks told you everything you already knew, savoring the pumpkin cheesecake on your spoon that really was compliment worthy.

“Yeah? Changed the recipe up a bit.”

“It’s perfect.” You praised, content with the sweet smile on his face in response.

That certainly wasn’t the first time you’d noticed the nervousness that would follow any compliments you threw at him, but it was the first time it sparked an idea.

☾⋆⁺₊⋆

He couldn’t get enough of how it sounded; the smooth, soft breath of his name from your mouth, and how could you do anything else? His warm breath fanning against the skin of your thighs as his hands lay firm on your hips.

He felt like himself here, better even, coaxing out the sweetest praises from your mouth — and just as he’d grown bashful at your compliments aimed at his craftsmanship earlier, he basks in it.

You inspire him to be better, improve new recipes he’d forgotten about because he found the faintest note of it in your perfume, bring home something new he’d been trying out just because you saw a picture of it on Pinterest because you deserve it.

The soft reassurance that he was good, that he made something that invoked enough positive emotion that you could only look up at him and smile before saying anything at all, it was all so captivating.

He couldn’t explain it if he tried, but he didn’t have to. You were happy to tell him how great it was and it never felt forced or exaggerated because it wasn’t.

Whether his hands were dutifully between your thighs, adamant on drawing out soft moans of his name or simply rolling out a pie dough you’d been dreaming about, he was always happy to help.

#i will be so sweet to u Luca I promise come HERE #🌑 promptober #bearblrpromptober #hot chef halloween #forgot about that tag whoops #chef luca fluff #chef luca smut #chef luca x reader #the bear #🌑 blurbs

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blusherbaker · 9 months ago

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Some extra thoughts about the Octavinelle boys' kinks

Minors/ageless blogs DNI; all characters are 18+ for these scenarios

I'm back with few more ideas I had, expanding on this post of mine

Warnings: Smut, 2nd person and 3rd person neutral pronouns, discussion/mention of multiple kinks of different varieties, including those related to D/s dynamics, feeding and stuffing, lactation, etc.

It is somewhat dependent on how he feels at the time, but Azul usually finds bondage to be incredibly soothing. The sensation is comforting, and it gives him a sense of security and safety, especially since there is so much trust involved. He’d be likely to even give mummification a try at some point, and would almost definitely like it. (He finds it cozy/safe, as well as arousing.)

I'm 95% sure that the Leech twins would like something to do with feeding and/or stuffing. They both (canonically!) have a focus on feeding others, and watching others eat - especially Floyd - and Jade often talks about eating, and/or is shown eating huge quantities of food. It’s a little wild, actually! Chances are, Floyd prefers to feed his partner, whereas Jade prefers being fed (though he also enjoys feeding too), and it seems likely to me that Floyd would be more interested in feeding, whereas Jade would be more interested in stuffing.

I'm certain that Jade likes seeing people cry. He'd find it not only amusing, but in the right situation, incredibly arousing as well. It wouldn't matter if his partner was a "pretty" or "ugly" crier, just watching them break down sobbing from emotion or sensation - seeing the effect he has on them - would excite him greatly. And if the tears were accompanied by babbling or begging? Jade would be in heaven.

Floyd's lactation kink is mostly in the realm of interest / curiosity, rather than pure desire. While all three of these men don't have nipples in their original forms (since they're... y'know, not mammals), I think Floyd stumbled upon the concept of lactation, and simply found it to be especially fascinating. Like… people just make milk? And it's technically possible for anyone to do it? He finds the thought pretty hot, and would love to experience it in some form or another at some point. Whether that’s working towards you lactating, or possibly even inducing it in himself, Floyd may end up quite interested in this kink for a period of time!

I'd love to hear your thoughts / opinions on this, or anything in the original post ^v^

#mdni #twst headcanons #octavinelle #twst smut #azul ashengrotto smut #jade leech smut #floyd leech smut #x reader #twst x reader #azul ashengrotto x reader #jade leech x reader #floyd leech x reader #twst thoughts #blusher's original ♥︎#ignore the fact that this is coming a month and a half after the original post #I'll be continuing with this series - promise!#I also will try to find this one post I came across looking at all the references to feeding/eating with the octotrio #because there are a LOT

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beiibeiii · 5 months ago

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😎annonie says WRITE SOMETJING PLEASE

OKAY IM SORRY HERE YOU GO !!

#Im so sorry #im a faker #its coming soon i promise..#bei replys #bei babbles #genshin impact #genshin x reader #arlechinno x reader #arlecchino smut

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sinspirefly · 1 month ago

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Cherik is so special to me. Writing their kiss in my fic was a daunting task. I kept thinking it was going to happen, but the moment never felt right for the characters—their slow burn was always going to be long. They couldn't kiss until they were emotionally on the same page, or it wouldn't be earned. What matters more than their physical expressions of love are their mental ones.

Erik wasn't going to kiss Charles until he was absolutely sure Charles wouldn't reject him. Charles wasn't going to kiss Erik until he trusted Erik again.

The moment fell into place. A callback to their previous kiss before Cuba in 1962. If you read those scenes together, they form a whole.

Charles is only able to experience the full pleasure of the kiss in 1962 in the moment he realized he would kiss Erik again, knowing that this time, he'd be able to have him.

Just some thoughts.

Link to my fic: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33086503/chapters/82134211

#if you have read it I hope you understand #the sexy stuff will come later I promise #haha come #this fic was tagged eventual smut for a reason #cherik #charles x erik #charles xavier #erik lehnsherr #erik lensherr x charles xavier #xmen fanfiction #xmen movies #xmen first class #ao3 #ao3 fanfic

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stanpinesdykewife · 10 days ago

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hits you on the head with angst so specific it makes you uncomfortable

porch stan/reader (enby) pre/during/post-canon/unspecified hurt/comfort, 2793 words (ship if you squint, but not the focus)

Stan finds you on the back porch of the Mystery Shack hours after he told you to clock out and go home. You’re not on your phone, not nursing a soda… you’re not doing anything. You’re just sitting there on the steps, alone in the dark. He can only see the back of your head from the diamond shape in the door, but your stare extends far beyond the dim glow of the porchlight, ending only at the pitch black of the woods.

He hesitates for a moment, his hand hovering over the doorknob. Stan knows how important it is to be alone. Though he… tolerates you, maybe a little more than an employer should, he wouldn’t know the first thing about offering good company when you're like this. Mainly because he's never seen you like this.

That’s it, then, he decides, slowly lowering his hand from the knob. You wanna mope around on my porch? Go crazy. But count me out.

…

Stan doesn’t move. He watches the back of your head, the tense line of your shoulders, the way some strands of your hair twitch in the weak summer breeze. You inhale, slowly. Then take a deep breath out. Your head hangs a little lower.

Stan twists the doorknob and steps out onto the porch, and ignores the guilt when you jump about five feet in the air.

“Trespassing’s a crime, you know,” he says, once you whip around to blink at him with wide eyes. Stan crosses his arms. “Kidding. You wanna do… whatever this is, inside, or what?”

It takes another moment of stunned silence for you to register his words. The pause is long enough that Stan furrows his brows and wonders where your mind is. You jump again, shaking your head, and he realizes too late that you think he’s glaring at you.

“Oh, no, no, I was just—Sorry. I was just about to leave,” you say, planting your palms on the porch steps and starting to push yourself upwards. Stan uncrosses his arms and waves a hand in the air dismissively.

“Relax,” he says gruffly, and shuts the door behind him before crossing the distance to the porch sofa in two long strides. He lets himself fall onto it with a sigh, the old plush of the cushions sinking dramatically under his weight. You twist in your seat to look at him, surprised. Stan pats the cushion next to him. “Do an old man a favor, huh? Don't make me sit on the stairs.”

You stare at him for another second, searching his expression. Stan nearly breaks out in a sweat trying to act casual as you scan his face, his body language, the hand drawing away from the cushion to leave you room to sit down.

Then you push yourself up, and turn, and shuffle over to the couch to sit on the opposite end of the couch. You linger at the edge, like you might just change your mind. But after a moment, you sigh and scoot backwards so the backs of your knees hit the edge of the cushion.

Stan waits for a moment. Listens to the chirping and buzzing of the woods in all directions, the faint rustle of unseen creatures in the brush. A low whistle sounds from the left. He knows enough to ignore it, and it seems you do, too. The both of you are safe, here on the sofa, in the dim yellow light of the lantern hanging from the porch roof. But… your shoulders are up to your ears. Your mouth is set in a thin, straight line.

“... You okay?” Stan asks finally, the gravel in his voice painfully loud within the bubble of silence surrounding you. He tries not to stare, but he can’t stop himself from taking too many sideways glances at your profile. The downturn of your brow, the tension in your jaw. You take a short breath in. Then you nod, sighing softly.

“Just… thinking,” you say. Your “thinking” is too quiet at the beginning and end, more breath than letters. Stan waits for you to elaborate. When you don’t, he asks,

“Thinking of what?”

Another beat passes. Stan waits again, this time keeping his eyes forward. His hands fold in his lap. He’s trying to give you space.

“I’m, uh…” Stan almost looks at you when you start to speak, but the millisecond he straightens up, your bravado dies down and you trail off. So he relaxes again, best he can, and continues not to look at you. When you start again, you sound grateful. “I’m always… just… going through something.”

He gives you ample time to consider your words. You keep going, slowly, like the syllables are churning together in your mind, like your skull is one of those trucks that mixes cement. You find the syllables one-by-one and put them together with great effort, your voice low with concentration.

“Not like… something is always happening to me. Lately, it’s… nothing is happening to me. But I can’t turn it off. It’s like a radio that just drones on, and on, and on.” You rub your palms on your shorts, over your thighs. Stan can’t tell whether you’re trying to soothe yourself by wiping away your sweat, or imagining there’s a stain on your skin that won’t come out. Your hands pause at your knees and you keep talking. “Sometimes the volume is so low, I can ignore it. It’s just this… really faint humming in the background of everything else, this staticky sound sitting on the top of my head.

“Sometimes the volume is explosive, and I can’t drown it out. It’s too… But, you know, no matter how loud it gets, I can still… function. I might have to cover my ears and close my eyes and hold my breath, but I can do it. I can handle it on my own. But sometimes I’m reading a receipt and my eyes linger on a letter for too long,” your eyes are darting around several spots on the porch, finding grooves in the wood, splinters sticking out, “or my back is turned and I hear someone’s—a customer, a friend, anyone—I hear their footsteps behind me, and it falls in such a normal, nonspecific way and…”

Your knee starts to bounce, but you stop it after a few seconds. You lean forward, forearms on your knees now, your hands clasped together. You speak to the empty space between the decking boards. To the pitch blackness separating you from the cold, damp earth below, the negative space where coins and trash and confessions fall into, never to be seen or heard from again.

“I’m always younger than I am,” you say, your words sinking between the slats of wood. “It's always that night. I'm always in that house. Always in that room. And the ceiling is white. And the door is locked. But the TV is always on.”

Stan doesn’t entirely know what that means. He isn’t supposed to. Even then, there’s an aching familiarity in the gloom of your voice, the added weight to your breath, so he sits with it. He feels like he sinks further into the couch with the pressure forming in his chest, a boulder rolling up the inside of his sternum, to the base of his throat, making it difficult to breathe. He’s imagining a very different house, no doubt. A very different TV.

You sit statue-still on the other end of the couch. You watch your words drip down the edges of the decking boards, and you would almost hear them hit the dirt below if not for the everpresent hum of the forest. You’re surrounded by it. The trees and the brush are all alive, all moving, stalking you from all angles, watching you breathe, waiting for you to move so they can close in and crush you.

Really, you’re safe. Stan knows you’re safe. But he also knows the dread of feeling otherwise, the cold, skin-thin coat of fear creeping across every inch of your body and making your limbs rigid. He knows that sometimes, when the second-skin starts feeling a little too thick, it helps to have someone on the other side.

“Yeah, well. You and me both, kid.” It isn't as comforting as he hopes. He winces, but keeps his gaze forward when you turn your head to look at him. Stan takes a deep breath in and sighs it out, bringing a hand up to scratch the back of his skull. He looks at you.

You look tired. About as tired as he feels on those sleepless nights alone, staring at that dark knot in the ceiling in his room.

It’s a perfect spiral, just there, formed naturally in the wood. Just one of many weird things in this town, he supposes. The only times Stan has ever been tempted to purchase a ladder have been those nights when his brain itched with the need to measure that spiral, to calculate its length, press his finger against the center point and feel the texture of the shape on his skin.

He’s never actually done it. Part of him blames his fear of heights. The rest of him knows it’s because it’s too easy to imagine two other perfect spirals next to it, a practiced triskelion first drawn in childhood notebooks and eventually perfected in the journal he has hidden in the basement. Those nights usually end in him closing his eyes and promising not to open them again until morning, even though the spiral is etched into the backs of his eyelids anyway, glowing fluorescent in the dark recesses of his mind. He would see that spiral so clearly, even if his cataracts clouded his whole sense of vision, even if he lost his vision entirely.

Stan takes in your expression for a moment longer. The exhaustion, paired with the lamp light, adds an unhealthy shadow to your face. Your eyes look a little unfocused, sunken in, and your skin is pale and your lips are chapped. It’s too cold out here, Stan thinks. He knows you wouldn’t accept his suit jacket, so he doesn’t offer. Instead, he tries to offer the smidge of sage, elderly wisdom he’s got. It isn’t much, but it’s more than nothing.

“I can’t tell you I know how to help,” he says, and your brow furrows and your lips purse tightly. Stan keeps his eyes on you, keeps his voice gentle. “What I can tell you is… you’re not alone.”

“What do I do when I feel alone?” you ask suddenly. “What do I do when I feel like I’m the only person in the world who feels this way? And then when I feel stupid and selfish for thinking that, when I know other people have gone through so much worse? What then?”

“You get over it,” Stan says softly. You flinch back like he’d screamed the words at you, and when Stan blinks, you’re leaning far away from him. You blink back at him with wide eyes. It’s the most emotion he’s seen on you all evening, and he tries not to feel like a monster for it. He raises his hands placatingly and explains, “You get over it. As in, you stop kicking yourself when you’re down, and you pick yourself up. You’re not alone and you know it. Even if you are, so what? If no one else is gonna care…”

Stan trails off. You… obviously don’t know what to say to that. Stan rubs the back of his neck, slumping into the couch. He’s bad at this. He’s not great at… emotional stuff. He never learned how to put feelings into words, and whatnot. He was never allowed to.

“You’re not alone,” he says again, struggling against the instinct to backpedal, to tell you everything’s gonna be alright and you just need some sleep. He forces the next words out of his mouth. “You’re not the only person who feels this way. That doesn’t make it a competition, it doesn’t mean you lose. People like us, we drew the short straw. Doesn’t mean we give a trophy to whoever got it worst. It just means we have a little extra work to do—some more than others—to feel a little more okay.”

Your shoulders are slowly, slowly, losing their tension. Your gaze drifts back to the floor of the porch. Stan tries one more time to get his point across.

“When it feels like the world’s out to get you… you can scream. You can break down on the bathroom floor. You can throw kicks and punches and beg for life to give you a break. You can stand in a park and shout for someone to come and rescue you until your throat’s raw and you lose your voice.” Stan’s next breath turns out a little shaky, but he clears his throat and squeezes his hands into fists. Then he flexes them out flat, brushing invisible dust off his knees.

“Eventually, though,” he continues, “you gotta realize the only person guaranteed to hang around you is you. You can feel lonely and dumb and you can cry all you want. Trust me, no one would blame you, but… you can also walk to the store and buy yourself some tissues. Steal a snack off the shelf while you’re there. And you can sit on the curb in the parking lot and tell yourself you deserve to feel better than this, whether or not anyone agrees. Whether or not you believe it.”

When Stan finally shuts up, the forest sounds a little quieter. An unknown species chirps in the distance. Branches of an evergreen tree rustle together. His eyes have adjusted to the darkness by now, and he can see the faint shapes of moths fluttering at the edge of the clearing. He knows they’re not, but a small part of his mind imagines the moths flitting around in a perfect spiral. Privately, he rubs his thumb and forefinger together, imagining the feel of wood grain at his fingertips.

You’re hunched in on yourself, and your lips are still pressed together in thought. You’re not leaning away anymore, but your body language isn’t exactly welcoming. Stan feels nervous sweat gathering in his pits and resists the urge to scratch at them. He thinks he fucked up.

Then you huff, a quiet sound, just a sharp exhale through your nose. You tilt your head to the side and look at him, and Stan’s chest seizes with anxiety and shame, and he’s already taking a breath in to defend himself because you’re laughing at him, but…

“Any tips on skipping the part where I cry?” you ask, a dry sense of humor shining through your flat tone. Stan swallows. Settles down. He chuckles a little, mostly because he’s glad you’re not scolding him for the clumsy mess that was meant to be advice.

“Not unless you wanna lose a staring contest with a high velocity fan every day,” he jokes. It’s not that funny, but you huff again, and the corner of your mouth upturns a little bit. Stan tries for another. “I got a burlap sack you can borrow. That way you can cry in private—in public!”

“What? That’s so dumb,” you laugh, for real this time, one of your hands coming up to cover your mouth. It takes Stan a second to realize he’s grinning at you, despite everything, just sitting there like an idiot and watching you chuckle at two half-jokes. Another joke bakes in his mind: two halves make a whole, or something like that. Luckily, he doesn’t get the chance to say it, because then you’re lowering your hand and leaning over to punch the side of his thigh. It’s light, he barely even feels it, but the gesture makes his whole body feel warm. You smile at him, still tired, still sad, but with a little less weight to the edges. “Hey. Thanks.”

Stan shuffles one foot out to kick yours. He ends up just nudging the side of your shoe with his own, but you don’t move it away. You’re both sitting there, your knuckles against Stan’s pants and his shoe against your shoe, and you’re both just smiling tiredly at each other. Stan wonders if you still feel alone. He hopes you don’t. He won’t ask.

“No problem,” he says instead, and you huff out a laugh that’s softer than the others. You press the back of your hand just a little harder to the outside of Stan’s leg, as if assuring yourself that he’s there, that he’s with you, at least in this moment.

The forest surrounding you is not silent, but it’s quiet.

#idk #sending love to you this season #especially if you hate the holidays for reasons #if you hate the advice in this then you just cope differently than me #and that is okay!#spins around then stops holding up a peace sign #smut coming soon i promise hahahahaha #stanley pines x reader #my writing

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euphor1a · 2 years ago

Text

Jeonghan eats you out on his desk

thirst drabbles (9/∞)

fandom » svt

pairing » jeonghan x f!reader

rating » 18+ (minors dni!)

genre » smut, workplace au, boss au

word count » ~ 1710

warnings » profanity, dom/sub undertones, office sex, dirty talk, sir kink, brief breast play, jeonghan is a biter, fingering, orgasm denial, cunnilingus, long haired jeonghan (... yeah 🥴), hair pulling, lmk if i missed anything!

The dim and warm night lights of his office bounce off the bare skin of your body, illuminating you in a glow that makes Jeonghan dazed. You pant against his firm chest, all your clothes scattered around the office, blindly thrown off by the gorgeous man who rubs your clit over your panties. The soft cotton has soaked through, providing lubrication between the material and your sensitive areas.

This certainly isn’t what you expected when you were notified to join your boss for an overnight shift to sort out some problems right before clocking out. Even for Jeonghan — he has no idea how it got this far, but it happened, and he has no intention of stopping now.

It’s not like he has had a silly little crush on you since forever. And he has definitely never ever daydreamed about things he should not be fantasizing with a junior employee. Thankfully though, none of that matters now. You’re all bare and vulnerable in his arms, shaking and whimpering, entirely under his mercy.

Jeonghan pushes you further back on the smooth mahogany desk, his searching honey browns finally meeting you. However, your immediate response is to lower your eyes, avoiding the gaze that’s intense enough to eat you up. As if for revenge, he removes the hand from your aching core, depriving you of the stimulation. You whine weakly, looking back up to see why he stopped.

A knowing smirk adorns his cherry lips, his eyes tingling with lust and fondness. “Awh, you didn’t like that one bit, huh?” Jeonghan teases, holding your jaw so you can’t look away. Unable to dodge his question, you nod, still very shy. Even though you are in a state like this — he is still your boss.

“Use your words, angel.” He leans down a bit, those long, raven strands of his hair creating a sheer curtain over some parts of his face. You gulp, failing to look away from the enticing sight. How can a human be so good looking?

“C’mon now, baby, put that pretty mouth of yours to use.” Jeonghan tuts, eyes squinting in disapproval. That makes your stomach jump, and you blurt out a very unsure ‘please.’

“Please what?” His smooth chuckle fills up the silent room and you swear your heart skips a beat. You’ve never heard him laugh before. But the sound of it is so effortlessly attractive, you can’t help your own lips curling upwards. He pauses for a split second, a hum reverberating in his throat. “Are you embarrassed? Don’t be, baby. I already got you leaking and all needy, there’s no point of shying away now, yeah?”

Heat rushes your cheeks, because he isn’t lying at all. “Um, Sir—” you begin, struggling to find the right words. Jeonghan wonders if he should ask you to call him by his name, but realizes that the ‘Sir’ is a bigger turn on than he expected. He rolls up the sleeves of his white shirt a bit more, loosening the tie from around his neck. You know he’s testing your sanity, but he just looks so fucking hot doing it.

“Mhm, go on, angel.”

“Please touch me. Please. It hurts.”

Excitement bubbles up in his chest. But he hides it masterfully, scrunching up his face in pity. “Oh no, does it? I’m so sorry to hear that, angel.” Jeonghan lets his right hand stroke along your inner thigh, making you shudder. “Where does it hurt? Lemme make you feel better.”

You consider saying it out loud, but you discard that option almost immediately. So instead, you gently grab on the hand stroking your thigh and place it to cup your clothed pussy. “Fuck,” Jeonghan hisses at the feeling, applying a bit pressure on your cunt, coaxing a moan out of you.

“You’re driving me crazy, baby. And it’s worse because you seem like you don’t know it.” Your boss rasps, pushing you down until your back hits the hardwood. You prop up using your elbows, gasping when he grips the back of your head and finds your lips for a kiss. His other hand slips past the waistband of your underwear, coming in contact with your moist warmth that drips for his attention.

Jeonghan groans in the kiss, slipping his tongue inside your mouth without much resistance from your side. You almost feel like you’re melting, his fingers steadily rubbing your sensitive bundle of nerves and getting slathered up in your juices. His tongue is dominant against yours, swirling and slurping, sensitizing you further.

You arch your back, your neglected, erect nipples pressing into his chest. Jeonghan moves the hand from the back of your head, immediately grasping the soft flesh and making you cry out. You pull away from the mind-numbing kiss to catch your breath, eyes a bit teary from all the sensations you feel.

He leans down to touch your foreheads together, his hot breath fanning over your face and his nose nuzzling into yours. Jeonghan has noticed how sensitive and responsive you are to his actions, and it makes his heart swell. As if he isn’t fond of you enough already.

You whimper when he pinches your stiffened nipple between his thumb and index, his lips peppering butterfly kisses on your nose and cheeks. “Am I making you feel good, hm?” Jeonghan catches your earlobe between his teeth, gnawing at it. You nod desperately, gasping when he slips his middle finger into your sopping core.

“Answer me, baby.” Your boss trails wet kisses down your neck, biting down where it meets your shoulders. A strangled moan escapes you, your body buzzing with pleasure.

“Ugh, y-yes, Sir,” You stutter as he wraps his lips around your nipple, his teeth and tongue working wonders together. Jeonghan wishes he could consume you entirely. He leaves bites all over your breasts, his growing bulge pressing into your thigh.

He pulls you in for a messy kiss, another finger entering your cunt. Your cries of pleasure get muffled in his mouth as he increases his speed significantly, loud squelching sounds filling up the office. “Can you hear that, angel? You are so wet for me, swallowing my fingers greedily and squeezing them like a lewd girl.”

You clench at his words, ecstasy building up very rapidly with his fast pumps. It makes you lose the ability to think properly. The way he’s constantly hitting the spots that make you mushy, the way he curls his fingers inside your molten warmth, it’s too much. You are so, so close to—

Jeonghan stops moving his digits, immediately dropping to his knees in front of you. Denied from the obvious upcoming release, your body jolts up, a few tears escaping your eyes. You whine, watching your boss tugging down your absolutely ruined panties.

“Shh, don’t cry, I promise I’m gonna make it up to you.” He tosses away the piece of clothing, finally taking a look at your pussy. “Good. Fucking. Lord,” Jeonghan mutters at the sight, his cock twitching in the confines of his boxers. He has reduced you to an utter mess — clit all swollen; all of your pussy covered with the warm, slippery slick that leaks out of your hole.

Jeonghan licks his lips instinctively, placing both of your legs on his shoulders before leaning in to press a fleeting kiss on your mound. You cover your mouth with your hand, the extreme ache for some sort of stimulation blinding you. On the other hand, he attacks your inner thigh with bites, trying his best to control himself despite the dizzying scent of your arousal that calls for him.

“Please,” you beg, eyes watering once again, “Sir, I can’t.” Jeonghan looks up from between your legs, his hot breath puffing against your aching cunt.

“Don’t hide your face. I wanna see and hear you as you fall apart and gush in my mouth.” You remove your hand immediately, gripping on the side of the desk instead. Satisfied, he locks his lips with your nether ones, suckling on them soundly. His tongue strokes your clit and runs along your slit, your body visibly shaking from relief. A grunt rumbles in his throat. “Fuck, fuck— you taste s’good.”

Jeonghan watches you keenly, the way you twitch and moan, and the way you grip on the desk for dear life. On a whim, he takes your right hand and urges you to grip onto his luscious locks instead. You’re taken aback, but comply anyway, threading your fingers through his hair.

A sudden bite on your clit has you screaming, your fingers tightening and tugging on his hair. Jeonghan growls, and you know that he’s satisfied by the way his lips curl upwards around your pussy. You’re shaking, losing your mind at how good he’s eating you out. Desperate for a release, you wound your other hand in his hair as well, rocking your hips against his face.

Jeonghan slips his tongue inside your cunt as if on approval, his teeth dragging along the raw flesh of your core. His thumb finds your aching clit, rubbing it in tight ‘eight’s, a string of incoherent words leaving you. You pull onto his hair, feeling like you’re going to melt. He can tell that you’re close, the denied orgasm that left you overly sensitive amplifying all the sensations.

Several tears fall from your eyes, body tensing up as the coil inside your lower stomach snaps finally. You scream out his name, gripping onto his hair for dear life, body convulsing with waves of ecstasy. Jeonghan moans at the taste of your sweet release on his tongue, your gummy walls clamping down onto the flexible muscle.

Your body gives up as you lay down on the table, breathing uneven and body shuddering from the aftermath. Jeonghan takes his sweet time slurping up all the precious juices you’ve given him to devour. You lose all your thoughts for several moments, floating through the euphoria.

The sound of his belt buckle brings you back from the seventh heaven. You open your eyes, immediately blessed with the view of your boss’s toned chest and stomach. Feeling your gaze on him, Jeonghan unzips and pulls down his pants, a coy smile on his lips.

“You didn’t think that we’re done here, did you?”

˗ˏˋ꒰ 💌 author’s notes ꒱

thank you so much for reading <33!! i hope you enjoyed it hehe 🫣! i certainly enjoyed writing it... 🤒; actually i was a mess but hey i made it through saur anyway 🧍🏽‍♀️ apologies for any mistakes left in there!

consider leaving a reblog or a comment to let me know what you think of this!! feedback through asks will be appreciated too! support your local writers, it keeps us motivated to create and share 🌸!

this was requested by @baljinciaga a while back when i opened up my requests! thank you for the request fren, i hope i could deliver what you asked for~~ “I've been on jeonghan kick lately and this man had the audacity to chop his hair off before I became a fan skdrffyrhfht. Do you think you could do a drabble where he has long hair and you grip it while he's eating you out 😚”!

requests are back to being closed now!

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