#the way everyone was smiling the whole match | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bombiikki · 10 hours ago

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𐙚⋆.˚　──── baller °｡⋆⸜

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ – non idol!haerin x fem!reader !!

synopsis: you weren’t really interested in basketball, even though your best friend was the star player. but, you got dragged to one game and now you’ve somehow ended up stuck between a sketchbook and a shy basketball player who doesn’t know how to flirt back.

contains: just a whole lotta fluff, baller!haerin, artsy!reader, minji the matchmaker, also minji being a real flirtatious friend, jealous haerin(?), shes js confused, idk she also js doesnt want to homewreck, except it was js all a misunderstanding

wc: 6.9k

a/n: this is js a short lil fluff one shot as an apology for that angst spidey!r fic 😓😓and also cuz the idea has been in the corner of my mind for like a while now! i was gonna draw haerin for this fic too but then i forgot im rlly ass cheeks at realism and also traditional art...... this is like also js a quick midnight whip up so ya FIRE

the buzzer screamed like something feral, sharp and electric in your ears.

you flinched—only a little—clutching your sketchbook tighter against your ribs as a blur of jerseys exploded onto the court. sneakers squeaked in wild rhythm, like they were trying to beatbox, like they had something urgent to say and no time to say it. the ball bounced sharp and fast, like a second heartbeat you could feel in your teeth.

you didn’t know the rules. couldn’t name a single play. but still—you liked the chaos. liked the movement, the noise, the electricity of it all. it was loud, sure, but it was alive.

and there was minji, right in the center of it, grinning like she had the whole damn game wrapped around her finger.

you snorted. of course she was thriving.

her ponytail cracked behind her like a whip as she darted past someone twice her size and made a shot that sent the crowd into an explosion of cheers. she turned as she jogged back, pointed directly at you, and winked.

show-off.

“you better cheer for me,” she had told you earlier, arm slung lazily over your shoulder. “i’ll be watching.”

“why would i cheer for you?” you’d asked with a smirk. “you’re not even my favorite player.”

her jaw had dropped. “rude. disrespectful. hurtful.”

“and yet,” you’d said, flipping a pencil behind your ear, “you’ll still buy me a slushie after you win.”

“...i hate how well you know me.”

you didn’t care much about the sport. that hadn’t changed. but you came because minji asked, and because she was your friend—your irritating, dramatic, endlessly flirty best friend who you matched beat for beat. your banter was practically its own sport.

you found a seat near the back of the bleachers, where the noise felt like it was buzzing just beneath your skin. people shouted and whooped around you, but you weren’t watching them.

you cracked open your sketchbook, flipping past familiar doodles and half-finished pieces. maybe you’d draw the ceiling. maybe some rando in the front row. maybe you’d just watch minji and roast her later.

and then—you saw her.

number fifteen.

you didn’t know her name, but it didn’t matter. she was the kind of girl you noticed right away. not because she wanted you to—she didn’t strut or smile or perform for the crowd. no, she moved like she didn’t care who was watching. like her thoughts were three steps ahead of everyone else on the court.

she wasn’t flashy, not like minji. she didn’t smile much. didn’t even talk, from what you could tell. she moved with this sharp, quiet precision that made you lean forward, made your fingers twitch toward your pencil.

she was... cool. not the curated, instagram kind. the accidental kind. the kind that just was.

smoke, you thought. that’s what she was. not fire like minji—smoke. calm and clever and a little bit dangerous.

you stared. and then you started sketching.

your pencil moved fast, carving out the slope of her shoulders, the line of her arms as she jumped. you caught the way her hair slipped loose from her ponytail, how it curled damp against her forehead. you sketched the look on her face—concentrated, unreadable.

god. she didn’t even know she was captivating. that was the worst part.

you leaned back a little, tapping your pencil to your lip, grinning to yourself.

minji made another shot and pointed at you again, her grin bright and smug.

you pointed your pencil back at her, raised your brows, and mouthed, “mid.”

she gasped like she’d been physically wounded and nearly tripped over her own feet trying to yell at you.

you laughed, turned the page slightly, and went right back to sketching number fifteen.

you drew her over and over—her reaching, her landing, her turning with barely-there glances. you didn’t even know what position she played. you just knew she made the court look like a stage.

and you liked her better than the game.

by the time the final buzzer rang, your sketch was nearly done. rough, fast, but good. and it felt like her. sharp edges. soft shadows. something untouchable, but real. something that made you feel like you knew her a little—even though you didn’t.

not yet.

the team huddled together on the court, shouting and laughing and slapping each other’s backs. minji blew you a kiss. you caught it with exaggerated flair and stuck your tongue out.

she motioned for you to come down.

you hesitated—just long enough to glance at the sketch in your lap. then you stood.

sketchbook in hand, smirk on your face.

you didn’t just walk toward the court.

you stalked toward something you already knew you wanted to claim.

you made your way down the bleachers with easy steps, sketchbook hugged to your chest like it was carrying something holy. the crowd buzzed around you, warm with leftover excitement, the court still echoing with stomps and laughter.

minji spotted you the second your foot hit the gym floor. her smile stretched wide—too wide, like she was planning something.

“look who came running down to see me,” she purred, pressing her cheek dramatically against yours. “can’t stay away, huh?”

you rolled your eyes but leaned into it, your smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “you’re literally sweating all over me.”

“aw, i knew you liked it.”

you snorted, elbowed her gently in the ribs. “down, casanova.”

from across the court, number fifteen was watching. not openly. not obviously. but her gaze flicked toward you and lingered. just for a moment. long enough to notice how close you and minji were standing. long enough for her to blink and look away like she hadn’t been staring at all.

your eyes followed her as she leaned down to grab a water bottle, her movements quiet and neat. she didn’t speak to anyone. just sat, elbows on her knees, eyes on the floor.

“hey,” you murmured, still watching. “what’s number fifteen’s name?”

minji raised a brow. “asking for a friend?”

“sure,” you said dryly, “a very attractive, extremely talented, devilishly charming friend.”

she cackled, loud and wicked, tightening her arm around your shoulders. “you’ve got a little crush, huh?”

you tilted your head, smirking. “you jealous?”

her mouth dropped open. “you—no! i mean—wait, why does that actually hurt a little—”

“you flirt with everyone, min. it’s bound to catch up to you eventually.”

“okay, rude.”

you both laughed, easy and unbothered, wrapped in the kind of closeness that came from years of teasing each other into the dirt and calling it love.

minji finally nodded toward haerin. “her name’s haerin. she’s kinda... judging-cat energy.”

“judging-cat energy,” you repeated. “you’re just saying that because she hasn’t smiled at you.”

“no, seriously. she’s super quiet. barely talks. always has this blank little face like she’s judging everyone. but once she gets used to you...” she trailed off, thoughtful. “she’s actually really nice. in a weird, ‘i’ll sit beside you in complete silence and somehow it’s comforting’ kind of way.”

you looked back at haerin.

yeah. that sounded about right.

“she’s not anything like me,” minji quickly addded

“thank god.”

“hey!”

you grinned.

“want me to play matchmaker?” she offered, nudging you gently. “i could go full cupid. set the scene. light a candle. fake a sprained ankle, make her carry you to the nurse’s office.”

“no, don’t worry about it min,” you said, slowly. “i got this.”

she blinked. “oh?”

“i mean, come on.” you wiggled your brows. “look at me.”

“unfortunately.”

you stuck your tongue out at her and pulled away, your sketchbook tucked under your arm. your fingers were buzzing. not from nerves, exactly—more like anticipation. you weren’t the type to hold back when something felt right. and haerin, quiet and unbothered and ridiculously beautiful in the way an overcast sky is beautiful, felt like something worth chasing.

you stopped in front of her, just a few feet away. she looked up, eyes slow and steady, sweat-damp hair clinging to her temple.

“hey,” you said, voice light but sure.

haerin blinked. “…hi.”

“you were really good out there,” you said, nodding toward the court. “you play like it’s easy.”

a pause.

she tilted her head like she hadn’t quite heard you right. she sort of looked like a cat hearing a strange sound. her brows drew together just the tiniest bit. she pointed to herself with a questioning glance.

“…me?”

you bit back a smile. “well, yes. you.”

her ears went a little red. it was cute.

and then you opened your sketchbook and turned it around so she could see.

haerin stared.

her eyes flicked over the page—over herself, sketched in movement, caught mid-jump, mid-breath, mid-magic. your pencil had caught the furrow in her brow, the way her fingers curved, the exact way her ponytail swayed behind her. it was rough. rushed. but it was her.

“you—” she said, and then stopped.

you raised a brow. “what? don’t like it?”

“no!” her voice pitched higher than she meant it to, and she winced. “i mean. yes. i mean—” she coughed. and then—very softly, very awkwardly—she said, “you… did this? for me?”

“yes, for you,” you said, like it was obvious. because it was.

she looked down again, blinking rapidly. her ears were pink. her entire posture had shifted—smaller now, somehow, like she didn’t know what to do with her limbs. she rubbed the back of her neck. tried and failed to speak again. finally settled on—

“…cool.”

you laughed, flipping the sketchbook back around. “you’re terrible at flirting.”

she looked personally offended. “i wasn’t flirting.”

“exactly.”

she opened her mouth, then closed it again, fidgeting with the hem of her shorts.

you scribbled something quickly on the bottom corner of the page, tore the drawing from your sketchbook, and held it out to her.

“here,” you said. “keep it.”

she reached out like she thought it might vanish if she moved too fast. her fingers brushed yours. they were warm and a little shaky.

before she could say anything else—before her brain could short-circuit—you were already walking away, your grin hidden beneath the swing of your hair.

haerin looked down at the drawing again.

and there, scribbled in your quick, looping handwriting at the bottom corner:

text me sometime. xxx-xxx-xxxx.

her fingers curled around the paper, her heart stumbling somewhere stupid in her chest.

haerin hadn’t let go of the drawing all night.

she took it home carefully, like it might crumble if the wind touched it wrong. she didn’t fold it. didn’t dare roll it. she held it flat against her chest on the bus ride home, fingers curled tight around the paper’s edges, heart thudding like a loose drum in a quiet room.

it wasn’t just good. it wasn’t just flattering.

it was… seen.

the kind of seen that made her throat close up a little, like maybe someone had figured her out. the way you sketched her—quiet but alert, all elbows and sharp turns, the way she melted into the game without saying a word—it felt like you knew. like you’d been watching with something other than your eyes.

and there, at the bottom, your number.

she stared at it like it was a dare.

that night, after everyone else in her house had gone to sleep, haerin lay on her stomach with the drawing beside her and her phone in her hand. her room was dark but soft, a tiny lamp glowing in the corner.

she opened her contacts. stared at the empty “name” field.

she hesitated. then typed:

art girl

and below it, your number—just sitting there, glowing softly in her dark room.

her thumbs hovered over the keyboard. she typed:

hi. it’s haerin :)

then deleted it. then typed it again. then stared at it like it might bite.

she didn’t want to send it. not yet. not until she was sure.

she thought about your smile. the way you looked at her when you said, you’re really pretty and play well. the sketch. the soft curve of your laugh. and then—

then she thought about minji.

she thought of you laughing with minji. that casual, familiar way you leaned into her. the playful smirk she gave you. the hand around your waist. the banter that felt easy and built on something old.

haerin’s stomach twisted.

she couldn’t do that. couldn’t throw herself between something that looked like love—even if it wasn’t love.

minji was her friend. one of the few who understood the rhythm of basketball, who stuck around even when haerin didn’t talk much. minji had defended her in practice when someone called her a ghost. had looped an arm around her once and said, you don’t gotta talk. just ball.

haerin would never try to mess with that. not even for you.

so she deleted the text. shoved her phone under her pillow and closed her eyes like that would quiet her heart.

the next game came faster than she expected.

you were there. you were always there now, like something warm and steady. sketchbook balanced on your knees, pencil dancing in your fingers. she caught sight of you once—only once—but it sent her pulse into overdrive.

so she didn’t look again. didn’t wave. didn’t smile.

not until she could be sure. not until she could ask.

and after the game, when you lingered by the edge of the court, eyes scanning the sea of jerseys, she slipped past the benches and vanished into the locker room like a ghost.

but minji? minji was already watching.

she found haerin five minutes later, crouched by the water fountain like she might disappear into the floor tiles if she stayed still enough.

“okay,” minji said, voice light but dangerous. “what was that?”

haerin blinked at her. “what?”

“don’t play dumb with me. y/n was waiting. you saw her. you did that little pretend-you-didn’t-see-anything shuffle you always do when you panic.”

haerin frowned. “i didn’t panic.”

“right,” minji said, leaning against the wall like she had all day. “and i’m not devastatingly hot.”

“you’re not,” haerin mumbled.

minji gasped. “how dare you. slander.”

haerin cracked a small smile but looked away.

minji narrowed her eyes. “seriously though, what’s up with you? you’ve been all squirrelly since last game.”

haerin stiffened. “no i haven’t.”

“...okay,” minji said, folding her arms. “then why’d you run off after the game? y/n was looking for you.”

haerin blinked. looked away.

minji tilted her head. “wait—are you ignoring her?”

“i’m not ignoring her,” haerin said quickly. “i just—i thought you two were… y’know. together.” a pause.

minji stared at her. blinked. then burst out laughing—loud and delighted, like this was the funniest thing she’d heard all week.

“oh my god,” she wheezed. “me? and y/n?”

haerin looked down. “…you’re close.”

“we’re always like that, because she’s my best friend. we flirt for fun. it's a bit—a hobby. it’s called performance art.”

haerin’s face was burning. “i just thought…”

“you really thought i’d keep flirting with other girls if we were dating?” minji made a dramatic face. “y/n would murder me. no trial. straight to jail.”

haerin tried to look casual, failed spectacularly. “…i wasn’t sure.”

“you thought i was gonna be like, ‘hey haerin, nice drawing you got from my girlfriend’?” minji said, nearly doubled over from laughing. “god, you’re so tragic.”

haerin rubbed the back of her neck, eyes fixed on a spot on the floor like it held the secrets of the universe. “i just didn’t want to mess anything up.”

“haerin,” minji said, gently this time. she nudged her shoulder. “you’re not messing anything up. if anything, you’ve been ghosting someone who clearly likes you. that’s the real crime.”

haerin winced. “i didn’t mean to ghost. i just… panicked.”

minji hummed. “you panic a lot, huh?”

“only when people draw me like i’m something worth looking at.”

that made minji pause. her teasing softened into something warmer.

“well, maybe she sees something you don’t.”

haerin shrugged. “she doesn’t even know me.”

“okay, but she saw you on the court and drew you like it mattered. you know how rare that is? that’s not ‘just flirting.’ that’s something.”

haerin didn’t respond. her heart was pounding too loud. she thought about how carefully you’d held your sketchbook, how your eyes tracked every movement like you were learning a new language.

“to think y/n could pull,” minji said, grinning widely. “this is really adorable. were you jealous of me?”

“no,” haerin muttered. “just… confused.”

“well, it’s time to get un-confused,” minji said, clapping her on the shoulder.

and then haerin said, very quietly, “well, i saved her number.”

“oh?” minji perked up like a cat catching movement. “what’s she saved as?”

haerin mumbled it into her hoodie.

“what was that?” minji leaned in, grinning like the gremlin she was. “say it louder, rinnie.”

“…art girl,” haerin muttered, ears bright red.

minji made a loud, delighted noise. “you’re so done for. this is perfect.”

haerin let out a little laugh, half shy and half suffering. “i’m not good at this.”

“you don’t have to be,” minji said. “she likes bold, yeah, but she also likes sincere. just be awkward and real. it’s cute.”

haerin side-eyed her. “you sure?”

“haerin,” minji said, deadpan. “she gave you her number. me, she gave an eye-roll and a sarcastic thumbs up. trust me, you’re winning.”

haerin thought about the way your fingers danced when you talked. the way you’d looked at her, not just like she was interesting—but like you already knew the shape of her. like you’d memorised it.

“…okay,” she said, voice small but firm. “okay. maybe i’ll text her.”

minji beamed. “that’s the spirit.”

haerin glanced down at her phone again, thumb hovering just above your contact. the name still read art girl, and she smiled despite herself.

she didn’t text you that night.

but the drawing was still taped up on her mirror, right where the sunrise would hit it. and this time, she didn’t look away.

three days had passed. no text. no “thank you.” no “hi.” not even a single emoji.

you told yourself it was fine.

people get drawings all the time. people forget. people get busy.

maybe she’d lost your number. maybe her phone was broken. maybe—god—for all you knew, she was on a secret government mission and couldn’t risk communication. you laughed at that one, but it came out hollow.

but you were trying hard not to lose it.

your sketchbook stayed open on your desk. the page you’d drawn her on was long gone, but your fingers kept tracing shapes that looked like her. cat eyes. soft hair. shoulders that curved inward like she was always listening to something the world couldn’t hear.

maybe she hated it. maybe she laughed. maybe she threw it away the moment you walked off.

you tried to convince yourself it didn’t matter.

but it did.

your phone sat beside you, screen off, but it felt loud in the silence.

you tried to read. tried to draw. tried to nap. nothing stuck.

finally, with a dramatic sigh, you threw yourself down next to minji on the floor of her room and groaned into her pillow.

“what now,” she said, not even looking up from her phone.

you rolled over, face smushed. “she hasn’t texted me.”

minji paused. looked down at you. then dropped her phone and flopped backwards like someone had shot her in the chest. “oh my god. again with this.”

“i’m being ghosted, minji.”

“you are not being ghosted,” she said, eyes closed. "well, not really.”

“she’s shy, okay?” she continued. “she probably stared at your number for an hour and panicked.”

“she didn’t have to panic,” you muttered, flopping beside her. “i literally handed her a compliment on paper.”

minji peeked one eye open. “...you’re spiraling, huh?”

“a little,” you mumbled. “maybe a lot.”

“dude,” minji said, patting your arm like you were on your deathbed, “haerin thought you and i were dating. she’s emotionally constipated. give her a sec.”

you blinked. “wait. she thought we were—”

“yes,” minji said, like this was the most obvious thing in the world. “apparently i’m so charming that our friendship reads as romantic. tragic, really.”

you snorted. “we do flirt a lot.”

“we flirt like siblings,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “which makes her confusion even funnier.”

you didn’t answer, just stared up at the ceiling.

minji sat up, grabbing her phone again. “she likes you, you know.”

you sighed. “how do you know?”

“because she saved you in her contacts as art girl.”

you turned to look at her in utter disbelief. “what?”

“oops,” minji grinned. “was i not supposed to tell you that?”

before you could respond, your phone buzzed beside you.

your heart stopped.

you stared at the screen like it might disappear if you breathed too hard.

unknown numberhey it’s haerin i liked the drawing and the compliment

you sat straight up, heart punching your ribs from the inside.

you reread the message five times. and then again. it was short. simple. but somehow, it made your chest feel like it had bloomed.

minji peeked at your face. “...did she finally text?”

you nodded slowly.

minji threw a hand in the air like she’d won the lottery. “hallelujah.”

and that’s how it started.

just some quiet messages on a thursday night.

art girl ure welcome! i meant everything i said btw u played really well last game too. haerin thank you i was nervous i didn’t see you after the game. art girl yeah…. cuz u disappeared. haerin oh. yeah.. i panicked.

you both laughed about it—digitally, awkward little “lol”s that somehow felt real.

and then the days kept moving, but slower now. gentler.

the texts trickled in like rain on windowpanes.

you talked in the quiet hours, when everything felt softer and words came easier. she once asked if you always sketched during games. you told her you only drew what caught your eye.

she didn’t say anything to that for a few minutes. and then—

haerin oh. thank you.

you started sending her your drawings. not just of her, but little things too—crumpled shoes, soft sunsets, a half-drawn cat in a box.

she sent back songs. calming piano pieces, sleepy vocals. sometimes she sent blurry photos of her actual cat, who always looked like he hated her.

haerin he loves me he just doesn’t know how to show it art girl relatable

one night, just past midnight, she sent a picture of your sketch. taped neatly to the corner of a mirror, edges curling just a little.

haerin i put the drawing on my wallit catches the morning light

you didn’t know what to say to that so you sent a little heart. just one.

and she sent one back.

neither of you said it. not out loud. not yet. but it was there—in the way she asked how your day went, in the way you sent a picture of your chipped pencil and said it was her fault.

art girl breaking pencils over you smh haerin sorry :( should i buy you new ones? art girl only if u walk into the art store like “which pencil says i like a girl but i’m also painfully awkward” haerin oh… i think that one might be sold out

you smiled into your pillow. everything about her made you feel like you were drawing in the margins of something bigger.

then, one quiet afternoon, your phone lit up with a new one.

haerin there’s a game friday you know… if you wanna come no pressure

as if you hadn’t been at every game since the first.

you grinned.

art girl yeah. i’d love to.

and maybe you were imagining it—but you could almost feel her smile through the screen.

the gym felt louder this time.

maybe it was the crowd, packed tighter than usual, voices bouncing off the walls like thunder. maybe it was the pep band, snare drums rattling through your ribs. maybe it was just your heart, thudding steady and stupid in your ears.

you stood near the bleachers, sketchbook tucked under your arm like a shield, trying not to fidget. the air smelled like polished floors and sweat and sugar from the concession stand. it buzzed with something electric.

and then you saw her.

haerin, already in uniform—shoulders squared, ponytail swaying as she jogged across the court. her jersey was a little too big, hanging loose over her frame, but she moved like it didn’t matter. like the fabric belonged to her. like the court was hers too.

you raised a hand in a small wave.

she glanced up.

and her eyes caught yours.

for a second, she froze.

you smiled, unsure, and lifted your hand again—smaller this time, soft at the wrist, like you were saying hi without trying to startle a bird.

and then—slowly, almost shyly—she smiled back.

it was small. but it was real. and it hit you like a ripple in still water.

next to her, minji caught it. saw the whole thing. she elbowed haerin hard in the ribs, grinning wide. haerin stumbled, scowled, and shoved her back with a face pink enough to match the team’s colors. minji winked. haerin rolled her eyes like she regretted everything.

and then the whistle blew.

the game began.

haerin moved the way she always did—quiet but commanding, like her body knew the choreography and her mind was already three steps ahead. she cut across the court, passed sharp, pivoted like gravity couldn’t quite catch her.

but tonight… there was something different. there was something new in the way she drove toward the basket, the way her eyes flicked to the stands just before each shot. a quiet urgency. like she was trying to say something without words.

because you were there. and she knew it.

when the final buzzer rang and her team took the win, the gym erupted—cheers rising like fireworks, stomps shaking the bleachers. players swarmed each other, arms thrown over shoulders, sweat-slicked and glowing.

but haerin didn’t linger.

she ran a towel over the back of her neck, nodded once at something minji said, and then slipped away toward the locker room with her head down and heart racing.

you waited outside the hallway, just a little past the “authorised personnel only” sign, pretending you weren’t pacing. the sketchbook was still against your chest. your palms were damp.

you told yourself it was no big deal. but your hands said otherwise.

when haerin finally appeared, she looked like she hadn’t expected you to still be there.

her hair was damp, curling slightly at the ends. her face flushed from the game. jersey half-off, draped over one shoulder. her expression flickered from surprise to something softer—nervous, maybe.

“hey,” you said first, voice quiet. “you were amazing.”

haerin smiled, breathing still a little shaky. “thanks.”

the hallway was warm and a little too quiet. you could hear the muffled echo of the team celebrating in the locker room behind her. but here, between you two, the air felt fragile. like glass.

she looked at you for a long moment.

really looked.

and in that moment, it felt like she was memorising something. the set of your mouth, the line of your shoulders, the way your fingers curled around your sketchbook like it held your whole heart inside.

“i’m… really glad you came,” she said finally. “and, um. thanks again. for the drawing. and the texts. and everything.”

you tilted your head slightly. “you don’t have to keep thanking me.”

“i know,” she murmured, looking down. “i just don’t know what else to say.”

you smiled, gentle and sure. “you could say yes.”

her eyes flicked up. brows furrowed. “to what?”

you lifted the sketchbook slightly. your fingers brushed the corner. “to letting me draw you again. maybe not during a game this time.”

haerin blinked. her breath caught just a little.

“somewhere quieter,” you added, careful. “maybe… over coffee?”

her ears went pink instantly. her hands tensed like she’d been bracing for something—like maybe she thought you’d ask for too much or see too much—and instead landed in something soft. something good.

she looked down, laughing once under her breath, shy and disbelieving. then she looked up again, steadier this time.

“yeah,” she said. “you can draw me again.”

you stepped just a little closer, not too much, and your fingers brushed hers—barely there. not a grab, not a hold. just a hello in skin.

neither of you moved away.

and in the soft space between your hand and hers, in the hallway full of fluorescent light and leftover noise, it didn’t matter that you didn’t know what came next.

it only mattered that she’d said yes.

you met at a little coffee shop tucked between a laundromat and a bookstore. the kind of place that felt like it had always been there—weathered signs, chipped mugs, chairs that wobbled just enough to be endearing. it smelled like cinnamon, warm bread, and steamed milk, like someone had bottled up a rainy day and left it there to steep.

a bell jingled overhead when you walked in, soft and cheerful. the barista behind the counter had sleepy eyes and too many pins on her apron—tiny frogs, tiny ghosts, a crooked heart that said “meh.” she barely looked up from the register, but the music playing low through the speakers—some lo-fi beat wrapped in jazz—seemed to greet you anyway.

and there was haerin.

she was standing awkwardly near the pick-up counter, holding two drinks with both hands like they might slip right through her fingers. her hoodie was slightly too big, her hair pulled back but already falling loose, and her eyes darted from her shoes to the menu to the people behind her, like she was trying to be invisible in plain sight.

your heart did something soft.

you walked over, easy steps, and took the drink from her gently.

“you remembered my order,” you said, a little impressed, a little surprised.

haerin blinked at you like she hadn’t expected you to speak. “you texted it to me.”

you grinned. “still counts.”

she blushed, lips twitching, and you could feel the nervous energy coming off her like heat on asphalt. jittery, warm, a little messy. you didn’t mind. you just nodded toward the small corner table by the window, half-lit by the pale afternoon sun.

“come on,” you said, soft and certain. “i’ve got a new sketchbook.”

she followed with the hesitant shuffle of someone walking across a floor they weren’t sure would hold. like every step might be too loud, too much. you didn’t look back—you just knew she was there by the quiet footsteps, the awkward hover before she sat down.

the drinks sat untouched for a while.

she fiddled with the sleeve of her hoodie. picked at a thread. the collar was crooked. her shoulders were tense.

you flipped open your sketchbook, pencil already in hand, and glanced at her.

“you okay?” you asked, voice low, light.

haerin sat up straighter too quickly. “yeah,” she said. “just. nervous.”

you tilted your head, pencil pausing mid-air. “why?”

she stared at you like you’d asked her to solve world peace in five seconds.

“you’re…” she gestured vaguely in your direction, hands fluttering and then falling. “you’re, like… cool.”

you blinked. then laughed, loud and real.

“cool?”

“yeah,” she mumbled, looking away. “like, you’re good at talking. and drawing. and existing.”

you smiled, sharp and amused. “you’re good at basketball. and looking like a stray cat that wandered into gym class.”

her head whipped toward you. “is that a compliment?”

“yeah,” you said, smirking. “it is.”

she blinked slowly, lips parting like she had something clever to say back. you could see it—her brain pulling a sentence together, lining up the words like bricks, getting ready to build some kind of reply.

“you’re…” she started. then stopped. then tried again. “you have… really nice hands.”

you glanced down at your own hands, then back at her.

“…thank you?” you offered, unsure if that was meant to be flirting or a medical observation.

“for drawing,” she added quickly. “because of how they… you know. move.”

you stared at her.

“you’re horrible at this,” you said gently.

“i know,” she groaned, and dropped her face into her hands. her ears were red. she peeked at you through her fingers like a kid playing hide and seek.

you laughed, already sketching.

it didn’t take long—just a few quick lines, a soft curve for her shoulders, the way her hands pressed against her face, the slouch of someone wishing for invisibility but too cute to disappear.

you turned the sketchbook so she could see.

haerin peeked again. stared. groaned louder. “oh my god.”

“you’re cute when you panic,” you said simply.

“you’re evil.”

you just smiled, tilting your head. “you came anyway. even though you were nervous.”

she peeked again—smiled too, small and crooked like a cracked window letting sunlight through. “yeah. i did. of course i did”

and you kept sketching.

she took a sip of her drink finally, holding it with both hands like it might fly away. her fingers tapped the side of the cup. she talked a little more when she forgot to be afraid. asked you about your art. laughed—soft and surprised—when you made some dumb joke about baristas being underpaid therapists.

you caught her staring once, then again. both times, she looked away so fast it was like her eyes had slipped without asking. but you didn’t call her out. you just smiled into your cup. kept drawing.

once, your knees bumped under the table and neither of you moved away. the space between you stayed close, like an almost-touch waiting to happen.

maybe nothing else needed to happen yet. not a kiss. not a confession.

just this.

two drinks gone warm. a sketchbook half-filled. quiet laughter. a clumsy compliment hanging in the air like a balloon.

she was here. and so were you. and something soft was blooming between you—slow and awkward and bright as spring.

and it felt, gently, like the start of something good.

the gym smelled like sweat, floor polish, and popcorn again.

it was the same as it had been that first time—same buzz in the air, same thunder of sneakers against hardwood, same too-loud whistle that made everyone flinch. the drums pounded steady in the corner, and the crowd moved like one big animal—roaring, clapping, jumping to its feet.

but it all felt different now.

because haerin was down there and you were here. and she kept looking up at you.

you sat in your usual spot near the bleachers, sketchbook open, pencil resting loose in your fingers. you hadn’t drawn anything yet. you were too busy watching her. not like before, not in that tentative, curious way. now it was more like you couldn’t look away.

haerin was not subtle. not even a little. every time the game slowed, every time the ball was passed to someone else, her eyes flicked up to the stands—searching, landing, softening.

and you were always there, smiling back.

once, you caught her mid-stare and raised your brows. she startled like she’d been caught doing something scandalous. turned bright red. nearly tripped over her own feet trying to look casual.

it was hopeless. she was hopeless.

minji caught the whole thing—every lingering glance, every soft little smile.

she didn’t even slow down as she passed behind haerin, just clapped a hand on her back and muttered, “maybe try blinking before you sprain your neck, lover girl.”

haerin stiffened.

“this is a basketball court, not a rom-com!” minji called over her shoulder, spinning just long enough to shoot haerin a grin that was all teeth and trouble.

haerin looked like she wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole.

you, however, laughed so hard your pencil slipped and left a crooked little scar across the page. you didn’t even try to fix it.

they won, of course. haerin always played like her heart was on fire when you were watching.

and this time, when the final buzzer echoed through the gym and the team piled onto each other in a messy, cheering knot—haerin didn’t run off toward the locker rooms.

she jogged straight toward you.

her cheeks were flushed, jersey clinging to her skin, hair a little wild from the game. she looked like she’d sprinted the whole way—not just across the court, but maybe across every inch of hesitation she’d ever had.

you stood, sketchbook tucked under your arm, mouth opening to greet her, but she beat you to it—awkwardly holding out a sports drink with both hands like it was a fragile offering.

“for you,” she said, breathless.

you blinked. took it. the bottle was sweating in your palm.

“…this is red-flavored.”

“it’s cherry,” she mumbled, already wincing like she knew how ridiculous it sounded.

you smiled, warm as summer. “thanks. romantic.”

“i try,” she said, then winced again. “actually, no. i really don’t. i suck at this.”

you reached up without thinking, fingers brushing a damp strand of hair from her forehead. it stuck slightly to your skin. she froze.

it was the first time you’d touched her like that in public.

and she melted.

“okay, pause the moment!” minji shouted from the side, clutching her chest like the lead in a soap opera. “i lit this flame. where’s my parade? where’s my statue?!”

you turned toward her with a groan. “you want a thank-you card or something?”

“please. minimum. scented paper. cursive font. glitter optional but encouraged.”

haerin made a strangled sound and buried her face in your shoulder. you didn’t move.

“you’re warm,” she mumbled against your shirt.

“you’re sweaty,” you replied.

“sorry.”

“i don’t mind.”

and you didn’t.

because even if haerin still fumbled her words, still blushed at every compliment, still handed you drinks instead of flowers—she was trying.

and she was yours.

she peeked up at you again, eyes big and soft and a little dazed.

“you’re really pretty,” she said suddenly, like it had escaped without permission.

you blinked. “oh?”

“just… yeah.” she shrugged, helpless. “i forgot how to say it in a cooler way.”

you laughed, chest warm. “that was the cooler way.”

haerin smiled back, bashful and blooming.

somewhere behind you, minji let out the loudest sigh known to mankind.

“you two are so painfully soft it’s giving me a cavity. i’m gonna sue.”

you turned, eyebrows raised. “for what?”

“emotional damages. excessive yearning. public displays of mutual pining without a license.” she crossed her arms, looking smug. “this is a hazard zone. i need goggles just to witness it.”

haerin groaned into your shoulder. “can we ban her.”

“nope,” minji grinned. “i’m the reason this is even happening. i’m like—your mutual friend matchmaker side character with main character energy. i deserve royalties. or at least a drink.”

“fine,” you said, flipping open your sketchbook. “here. your reward.”

you handed her a ripped-out page. a very unflattering sketch of minji mid-yell on the bench, mouth open, arms flailing like a muppet on fire.

she stared at it. blinked.

“wow,” she said flatly. “i look like a dehydrated pterodactyl.”

“accurate,” haerin mumbled.

“i’ll treasure it forever,” minji declared, already folding it and stuffing it into her jacket like it was a love letter.

then, without warning, haerin snatched your sketchbook and flipped it open to a fresh page.

you blinked. “uh. what’re you—?”

“hold still,” she muttered, squinting at you. “i’m gonna draw you now.”

“...have you ever drawn anything before?”

“no,” she said, already making a mess with the pencil. “but how hard can it be?”

minji leaned over her shoulder, peering at the chaos. “oh no. it’s already a crime.”

you waited patiently—kind of—for haerin to finish. after a few minutes of suspicious scribbling and dramatic pencil snapping, she handed the sketchbook back.

you looked down.

you had a potato for a head. your hands were just circles with lines sticking out. and, for some reason, your eyes were drawn angrily huge.

“what… what am i doing in this drawing?”

“drinking the red-flavored sports drink,” she said proudly.

“...why am i crying?”

“artistic interpretation,” she replied, crossing her arms.

minji looked over and howled. “it’s modern. it’s abstract. it’s tragic romance meets vitamin deficiency.”

you smiled anyway. folded the page gently, tucked it between the others like it was priceless.

because honestly? it kind of was.

haerin looked at you with her usual red cheeks and wide eyes. “sorry it’s bad.”

“no, it’s perfect,” you said. “definitely going on the fridge.”

“you don’t even have a fridge.”

“then i’ll buy one. just for this.”

minji threw her hands up. “and i’m the dramatic one?”

haerin laughed—really laughed, bright and unguarded—and you leaned a little closer, the buzz of the gym fading into background noise.

and maybe it wasn’t some fairytale moment. maybe it was awkward and loud and ridiculous. but it was yours. and it was perfect.

haerin nudged you gently with her shoulder. “wanna get food after this?”

you nodded. “only if you promise not to draw me eating.”

“no promises,” she grinned.

minji smiled softly at the sight of you two. “i’m coming too. you two need supervision.”

and with that, the three of you walked out of the gym—laughing, teasing, hearts full—like the end of a sitcom episode. if there’d been credits, they would’ve rolled right then—theme song and all.

except this wasn’t an ending. not really. just the beginning of something stupid and sweet and maybe kind of perfect.

#bombikki 彡☆#newjeans #newjeans x reader #newjeans haerin #kang haerin x reader #haerin x reader

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brookaboo · 1 day ago

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Snatched by a Feather

Keigo Takami x ProHero fem!reader

summary : a training day between reader and the hero’s leaves a little jealous bird boyfriend

warning: language, Flirting/Light Sexual Innuendo, Physical Combat (Training)

“You call that a punch Princess?" Mirko scoffed, hopping back with a grin as you threw a right hook her way. "My grandma hits harder—and she’s dead."

You huffed, wiping your forehead with the back of your glove. “Oh yeah? Pretty sure I just saw you flinch.”

“That was a laugh, sweetie. Your punches are cute, like bunny taps.”

You circled her with a grin. “Maybe I’m just going easy on you. Don’t wanna embarrass you in front of your many admirers.”

Mirko barked out a laugh. “Babe, the only thing I’m embarrassed about is how you’ve lasted this long without face-planting and if anything I’m going easy on you don’t want to deal with your bird brain boyfriend”

You let out a laugh as the two of you launched back into sparring, your boots kicking up dust as fists and feet flew with impressive speed. While the rest of the heroes trained across the field with their quirks, you and Mirko stuck to raw physical combat—no quirks, no shortcuts. Just you, her, and a whole lot of smack talk.

Eventually, you both flopped onto the grass during your water break, panting and sweaty.

“Okay,” you breathed. “Spa day. Tomorrow. I need my joints un-cracked and my soul cleansed.”

Mirko snorted. “I was born ready for that. And if we don’t end up in matching robes drinking cucumber water, I’ll sue.”

“Oh for sure I already ordered the robes,” you winked. “Yours says ‘Punch First.’ Mine says ‘Talk Shit.’”

“You know me too well.” Mirko tilted her head at you. “Hey, when you and Bird Boy get married, I better be the best woman.”

You grinned. “Obviously. You’re the only one who can handle both my sass and his ego.”

Suddenly, you felt a tug on your shirt collar.

“Huh?”

You looked down—one of Hawks’ red feathers had hooked onto your top, and before you could blink, it was yanking you to your feet and pulling you away.

“HA!” Mirko doubled over in laughter. “You’ve been feather-napped! Tell birdbrain I said hi!”

“I hate you!” you yelled over your shoulder

As Mirko’s cackling laughter ringing in your ears. “Love you too, loser!” she called back, cackling. “Have fun, lovebirds!” she shouted out behind you.

the feather dragged you toward the edge of the training grounds. The feather eventually let go, and you stumbled into a more shaded, secluded spot. You barely had time to gather yourself before you saw Keigo leaning against a tree with his arms crossed and his usual smug smile in place.

“Well, well,” you said, brushing off your shirt. “Couldn’t even wait until training was over to get me alone?”

He walked over slowly, wings twitching. “Can you blame me? You’re out there, sweaty and literally glowing, flirting with your bestie while I’m stuck with Captain Hothead. It is torturous and unfair treatment”

You laughed as you said “you are so dramatic” before crossed your arms. “You know, normal boyfriends use words to ask for attention.”

He sauntered over, tilting his head. “Yeah, well, normal boyfriends don’t have girlfriends who look that good sparring with someone else.”

You arched a brow. “Are you… jealous of Mirko?”

He leaned in with a lazy grin. “Of course I’m jealous. My hot girlfriend’s out there all bouncy and smiling and calling another woman babe. What am I supposed to do—not drag you away?”

You rolled your eyes, grinning. “So dramatic. You know I call everyone babe.”

“Yeah, but you don’t get to look that good and just be sparing with that bunny” He brushed a finger along your jaw. “And you definitely don’t look at them the way you look at me.”

You playfully shoved his chest. “Smooth. Real smooth.”

You leaned in to kiss his cheek—just a quick peck—

But he swerved and stole your lips instead.

The kiss was heated, just long enough to make your knees wobble before you pulled back, breathless.

“Later,” you whispered against his lips. “We have training to do.”

He pouted. “But I wanna keep kissing you…”

You turned your head away hiding your smirk. “Maybe next time, don’t act like a possessive bird and steal me mid-spar.”

He let his hand catch your head as he gently turned it back to him and tilted it up as he lowered his voice saying Bet you love training with others because you like when I get all possessive and jealous over you”

He chuckled as your dace heated up “You’re blushing….is that because of me?”

“I am not.”

“You Are too.”

You shot him a warning glare, but the heat in your cheeks betrayed you.

He whistled. “Damn, still got it.”

“Ugh, you’re lucky you’re hot.”

Before he could come up with a smug comeback, Endeavor’s booming voice echoed across the field.

“Takami! [L/N]! Get back to work!”

Keigo didn’t miss a beat. “Relax, Endeavor! Don’t get mad just ’cause no one wants to get dragged off by you!”

You snorted and elbowed him. “Keigo!”

“What? It’s true.”

Endeavor glared at him from across the field like he was ready to set something on fire. Keigo just winked and took off toward the training zone—though not before shooting you one more flirty glance that promised a whole lot more later.

You jogged back over to Mirko, trying (and failing) to wipe the stupid grin off your face. She was already leaning against a training dummy, arms crossed, one ear twitching with mischief and a smug smirk plastered across her face.

“Well, well, well,” she drawled, raising a brow. “Back from your steamy makeout session with Birdbrain?”

You scoffed. “It was not steamy.”

Mirko eyed the flushed cheeks, your slightly swollen lips, and the way you were clearly floating two inches off the ground. “Mhm. Yeah. That feather didn’t just tug you away—it snatched your whole soul.”

You shoved her shoulder with a laugh. “Shut up.”

“I train with fists. He trains with tongue,” she teased, cackling.

“Rumi!”

She threw her head back laughing. “Okay, okay, I’m done. Just saying—if I got yanked away every time I looked hot while training, I’d never finish a damn session.”

You bumped her again, rolling your eyes. “This is why I can’t leave you unsupervised for more than five minutes.”

“And you,” she grinned, tossing you a water bottle, “are so telling me everything later over face masks and wine.”

You caught the bottle, cheeks still burning. “Fine. But only if you don’t tell Hawks I told you how needy he was.”

Mirko winked. “No promises…..babe.”

#mha x reader #miriko #hawks x reader #keigo takami #fem!reader #mha #bnha x reader

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judeaiology · 2 days ago

Text

𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐖𝐎 ·˚ ༘

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 ✔︎

#𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 : 𝐤𝐲𝐚 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐣𝐮 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐬

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 ୨ৎ: 𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇 , 𝐊𝐘𝐀 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐉𝐔 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐀 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐘 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐓 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐘 .ᐟ

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒)^ྀི : 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐓 , 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐆𝐄 , 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐘 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆 , 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐊𝐈𝐏𝐒 , 𝐌𝐘 𝐀𝐌𝐀𝐙𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 .ᐟ

𝐉𝐔𝐃𝐄𝐀 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐒 𝐗 𝐃𝐎𝐌 𝐅𝐄𝐌 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 .ᐟ

𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐖𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐔𝐓 𝐁𝐔𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 chewy bar as her other hand held onto the brownskin girls chubby waist , kya saw this cute trend on tiktok whereas girls do there girlfriends make up , so there ju was in her black psd boxers and a black nike sports bra to match as her high puff bun was in , with her black nike socks on.kya in a green tube top and some basketball shorts she stole from ju , and she wore a light pink wig , and white nike socks.

kya thrusted her hips as she readjusted her position , ju narrowed her eyes , "..alright keep playing.." ju muttered with a sly smirk her hormones taking over , kya rolled her doe eyes , ".. hush.." williams hissed as she shook her head gently - she gently took the chewy bar from ju's toned hands as she began to chew on a piece , all ju did was admire her and rub on her ass gently , as her hooded eye's fluttered.

finally setting in - the sound of brent faiyaz , came through from the apple tv , as the base took paver the whole room.

kya hummed as she applied the elf gripping primer to ju's face causing ju to crinkle her nose , "..why is this shit so sticky and cold..? and why - " she grumbled, pouting out her bottom lip - staring her unnecessary rant.

kya rested her warm chubby palm on the side of judea's face placing a peck , ju hummed as her eyes fluttered, ending off her rant , as she gave a upside down smile at ju , who could only look away with the warmest smirk.

"..so how was practice..?" kya trailed , her eyes twitching from consentration as her lips pouted , ju scrunched the side of her face , debating on her answer , as she drew circles onto kya's ass , ".. brook and kay convinced me to wall dance .." she mumbled- clearly embarassed

causing kya to raise a thick eyebrow eyebrow , as a giggle abrupted , ".. that sounds .." she trailed .. looking side to side tapping onto her chin with her index , ".. not like you .. but happy you did it..". the pink haired girl shrugged , ju's nose crinkled warmly before closing her hooded black eyes.

kya was the calm after the storm for judea , even tho kya was normally the damn storm

williams understood watkins in ways she couldn't understand herself there love wasn't perfect but it was worth it through triumph and doubt , kya hummed to all mine as brents voice came through her eardrums as she began to gently pat with the pink beauty blender under judea's hooded eyes.

ju yawned , ".. you take forever.." she groaned - pouting out her bottom lip , kya kissed her teeth , "..girl boo.." grumbled , causing ju to make a steeple with her fingers on kya's ass as she laughed her chest huffing.

ju had a breath catching huff of laughter, just then ju's phone began to ring the sound muffling out brent faiyaz's voice - causing kya to narrow an eye , ju gave her a blank stare , ".. kya dont start.." watkins warned releasing one hand from her ass , giving her the gaze of a lifetime as she took the phone from the side of her and the contact read ".. power rangers❤️💛.."

kya crossed her arms as ju gave a hum as she clicked in which revealed rayah , otto and malia on the other side as the phone staticed and everyone spoke.

rayah : *juuu you coming to the kickback party ??* ray statices in , only her forehead being visible

malia : *this is one night of just .. party ..* malia giggled.

ju stretched out her jaw looking at a visibly upset kya clingy kya who just squinted at ju giving her a mug , ".. im with kya rn i -.." ju explained with a sigh , tightening her veiny hand on kya's ass.

otto : "..just bring her too..?" rayah questioned , ju had a smirk.

entering the party , fein by travis scott blasted on the base boosted speakers , the air was dense and smoke filled the air , the party was cramped the trojans could party.

kya gripped onto ju's hands tight as she wore a slicked back ponytail, a white tea cup dress with black her knu skool vans , ju chewed on her gum with fluttering eyes as she wore , a white cropped shirt , long black cargos , and her white air forces as her hair sat in puffs.

"..this is audibly way too loud .." kya mumbled squinting as her vison got blinded from the lights , ju turned to her with a huff of breathe - ".. baby you'll be okay.." ju reassured , her voice a soft coo as she kissed the top of her head pulling her close , inhaling kya's jasmine scent , kya already peeped the set - whenever ur an observer like her .. you notice alot , kya exhaled as her chest rose.

just then the brownskin plaits rayah came along with the light skin domi , "..yall cameee.." rayah smiled , holding out her hands to interlock with ju , ju smirked as she interlocked hands with rayah doing there hand shake.

".. you know we had too .." the high puffed no label teased as she grinned , as she pulled darius in for a side hug - causing the lightskin to purse her lips , giving a gentle wave at kya who gave her a closed lip smile back.

the night was going smooth , kya had loosened up as she let the ethanol drink touch her throat - the high puffed refused to drink but she considered her self kya's bodyguard.

as work played in dense aired two story smoke fulfilled house the slurred kya tugged onto ju's shoulders - causing the high puffed headed girls eyes to flutter as she hummed , "..yes baby..?" ju questioned her tone gentle , tightening her grip on kya's chubby hands.

"..i gotta pee .. " kya trailed she didnt really have to but the smell of alcohol made her stomach hurt , ju's expression softened as she watched kya un interlock there hands , ".. i .. i can come with you..?" ju cood , kya huffed - ".. ill be right back .." she promised giving ju a quick peck.

kya entered the cold restroom , a duo was in there , one cacausian the other some type of mixed - they gave a mug at the white dress wearing girl before turning back to there convo.

kya shook it off as she dug into her black versace purse pulling out her beauty supply store black lip liner , as she leaned in onto the dirty mirror , slowly tracing around her round lips.

the black girl spoke , ".. and you know ju .. we been having some tension all night .." the girl trailed - like she was in awe , as she spun around the plastic red party cup.

kya felt her stomach drop - she couldn't make it noticeable so she just started humming which again exchanged looks but they began again , kya's eyes began to twitch.

".. but i dunno , heard shes been toying around with some chick probably another fuckbuddy.."

"..girl if you know what yall got yall shouldnt even worry about it , plus if yall did kiss last season , already.?."

"..yea but that was months ago and i wouldn't necessarily - .."

before the girl could finish kya had stormed out , as she walked down the steps , she took hefty breathes as her chest rose, she felt herself beginning to whimper as her eyes got glossy , shit began to divide in two.

she waddled over to the drinking area , as she began to pour shot glasses of vodka and she started to chuck the shit like it was juice.

she winced as the drink spiked her throat , and the ethanol drug began to flow through her warm red blood , which she heard exchanged whispers , and glances from people.

but she didn't care , kya wiped the clear cold drink below her chin as she exhaled , just then call me maybe began to play on the base boosted speakers.

yells and drinks began to fly , as it stung in kya's eardrums to whereas her attention was drifted as she sat down at the bar and she felt a hand on her shoulder.

"..hm..?" kya hummed her face resting in her palms , watching dominique take a seat next to her , ".. you okay..?" dom questioned with furrowed brows.

kya nodded , with a half smile , ".. i .. j .. just am tired i guess.." she huffed with a half shrug , her words slurred , "..oh .. i can tell ju to take you home..?" domi said with flattened lips , interlocking her thumb back to the couch where the high puff headed girl was at , kya cleared her throat , ".. no.." she said simply , as she placed her hands in her lap.

as dom began to speak her voice was muffled , ju had gotten up as the same girl from earlier had pulled her , ju smiled at her - admired her it was like chemistry- everyone in the party smiled at them , ju laughed and nodded at her words , tugging at her ear.

kya felt weak , she felt dumb - she'd never went to a party with ju - out of a trust worthy thing and just became kya was just boring sometimes she genuinely regretted dating a star , bad enough she had to share her with the media. , she had two friends and one was an animal - ju's teamates were her associates by demand , actually scratch that maybe kennedy was her friend?

domi voice popped through kya's ear drums , ".. ky..?" she questioned , her gaze of worry , kya fell out of her trance with a head shake , ".. yes ..? .. shit sorry .. i .." she exhaled , ".. i .. i need to go .. tell .. tell ju to come on.." kya slurred , taking two more shots as she slid out of the seat leaving a confused dominique in her thoughts , as she began pacing away , patting down her teacup dress.

touching the outside her body stayed warm - as the wind brushed upon her quick weave , as the door opened ju's laughter slipped out as she came outside , taking kya's shoulder facing her towards her , kya crossed her arms.

".. you alright ..?" ju questioned looking down at kya whom she towered over, kya swished her lips as her fists clenched , ju narrowed her eyes , ".. kya ?" she called out , furrowing her eyebrows.

"..am i ur fuck buddy..?" kya asked , taking a hard gulp down her throat feeling a heavy pressure in her chest , ju squinted, ".. w.. what no..?" watkins took a gaze down at kya's waist whom she tried to grab but kya shot back , ju's hooded eyes dropped.

".. you do something wrong .. we fuck .. i come to you about anything.. and to avoid us talking about it .. we fuck.." kya whimpered as a tear dripped from her eyes , as she bit onto her round bottom lips , tightening her hands around her from whearas they were already crossed.

ju threw her head pack , smacking her face - as sudden breathes were mumbled , whenever kya spoke ju never argued - she could only admire everything she did , ju's jaw hardened.

she didn't open up about her feelings. vulnerability was her main thing's , judea would rather drown in her own thoughts then ask for help , thats how its always been and maybe she could change for the person she loved ?

ju sighed , as she placed her hands in her pockets as the cold striked the back of her neck , kya doe eyed her - ".. .. ju .. and us .. this.." kya trailed , as her chin began to quiver.

".. is bullshit .." kya hissed , jabbing her chubby index into ju's chest , ju's nose flared as her heart began to feel heavy , as her nose flared and she felt a lump in her throat and all she could do was look at the doe eyed girl , she wanted to let her vocal cords run but it asseted back.

"..and you .. are bullshit .. , and being ur sex toy whenever ur wrong makes me sick.." kya blurred out as she hardened in her tone , as her jaw clenched as she sniffled wiping below her chin , ju's heart had dropped, but all she could do was stand there , her body began to feel tight as her eyes began to gloss up and she felt sudden twitches around her nerves.

".. now take me home.." kya waved off pushing past ju as she straddled to the car , ju's expression softened as she bit her lip , trying to pull back her tears as she unlocked the doors , and she made sure to open the door for kya.

ju watched kya go back inside , on her drive back home godspeed by frank ocean played on her beats taking over her car as she busted in tears , she pulled into a parking lot as snot came down and her vison began to split into two , she bit her lip as her legs began to shake uncontrollably.

she rubbed below her chin , bullshit ? ju thought- maybe she was drunk .. but people who are drunk are highly honest - and maybe kya wasn't wrong - but its just how she worded it , but ju didnt understand what she did wrong even.

ju sighed she couldn't keep hurting that girl and if thats how she felt drunk imagine her sober. - she pulled her phone from her pocket as she looked at kya's contact , everything flooded back in her head as everything felt fuzzy , she loved kya and if leaving her alone was what she had to do , she would do it in the blink of an eye.

𝐄𝐌𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐀 | 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓

#juju watkins #usc wbb #hooping with juju #usc trojans #wcbb #wlw post #wnba basketball #paige bueckers x reader #uconn wbb #azzi fudd #angst with a happy ending #jujuwatkinsheadcannons #jujuwatkins x reader #juju watkins x reader

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timble-tumble · 12 hours ago

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RIN WANTS TO EAT YOUR MAINE COON (the title isn't as bad as it seems TRUST ME)

TAGS: gn!reader x rin, fluff, crack, the eating cat part is not racially motivated I promise, cat n shellfish (yk how that goes), headcanons

A/N: I wrote this bc I rlly want a Maine Coon and it would be pretty funny to see Rin beef with a damn cat

You just recently got a Maine Coon, after relentlessly tormenting your landlord with 5 page long essays slowly piling up in their email AND mail box, they finally agreed (probably more than half of the reason being they don’t want their inbox flooded rather than actually listening to your argument) to let you house your very own Maine Coon. Unfortunately, not everyone was as excited as you (your landlord certainly wasn’t), partly because this Maine Coon was stealing all the attention.

Rin absolutely DESPISES your Maine Coon. He keeps thinking about how he wants to eat it (you also want to eat your cat, but in a loveable cute way) to get rid of it. A bit extreme, but he will do what he has to do to get your focus on him and only him.

He talks to your cat. Tells it off likes it’s a little kid. Tells it to stop stealing your attention. Once, you managed to catch him and stiffled a giggle as blush reached the tips of his ears. He pouted the whole day.

Your cat has this big smug ass expression plastered on it’s face at all times. The only time its not smirking is when it eats. It even has a smug expression when it’s sleeping. Rin gets very pissed at that expression, especially when it’s looking directly at him. It’s like it’s taunting Rin. Rin hates it.

Rin especially hates it when you let it climb into your lap. Why the cat?? Why not him?? And you just smile sweetly, like you didn’t just betray and backstab him by letting some random feline into such a sacred and safe place.

Your cat has undying love for shrimp (don’t ask). You did some research before letting your cat back into the kitchen after it nearly swiping the packet of shrimp right off your hands, and made sure to properly cook it so your cat doesn’t perish and die a stupid death. Rin is very tempted to just feed the cat the shrimp raw after you asked him to help. He’s also very tempted to feed it copious amounts. I mean– the cat would be pretty happy, and Rin would be pretty happy because the cat’s dead. But he won’t because he knows he’s probably going to end up dead (by you) if he ever attempted murder upon your beloved feline friend.

Sometimes you ask Rin to look after him while you’ve gone for a few minutes to get some snacks from the nearby convenience store, which in response he groans and mumbles some probably threatening statements towards the cat. He doesn’t say no, though. He just stares at your cat. And then it stares back. So when you return, you just see both of them having a very intense staring competition. You think it’s hilarious. Rin takes these staring competitions very seriously. He cannot afford to lose to some smug bastard (his words, not mine).

You somehow managed to train your cat to pounce on Rin when he visits. First thing, as soon as he opens your apartment door is some big beast with too much fur leaping in the air towards him. He can’t do anything about it either, as much as he’s trained to have quick reaction time (being a soccer player and all), such a behemoth is no match for the great striker Itoshi Rin. So he just lies there, limbs spread out in defeat in front of the doorway with some smug cat lazily lying on top of him. You’ve managed to sneak a few photos without Rin noticing.

As a maine coon, your cat has a shit ton of fur, which will obviously result in mountains of fur being stuck to every fabric and floor. Rin’s convinced there’s a certain radius around your house that is contaminated. And since he sometimes keeps his clothes at your house, he finds fur dropping out of it like dandruff. It’s especially bad when it’s his jerseys– he’s just running around the field and fur is flying out. Rin is now buying lint rollers so extensively you’d think he’s a collector of some sorts.

When he’s taking a nap, so often plop your behemoth cat on top or next to him, because really, this is the only time Rin will ever let that cat get within 5 metres of him (excluding the times he’s been jumped by it). When he wakes up, he groggily (and unconsciously) pets it’s head, thinking that it’s you. Then when he comes to the realisation he immediately jumps out of bed then chucks the cat out the door. And then he also tells you off and complains that it should’ve been you.

Rin HATES to admit that your maine coon is slightly (and only slightly) growing on him, he’s been SLIGHTLY more gentle towards the way he speaks to it, and he’s been giving it head pats when you aren’t looking and petting it more, but remember- only slightly (this is what he keeps telling you and you just laugh at him). He still hates it steals your attention, though. But he wouldn’t mind sharing.

jumpscare

#good stuff 👅#bllk #blue lock #crack fic #rin x reader #rin itoshi x reader #bllk x reader #rin itoshi #rin #rin fluff #gn reader #blue lock x reader #headcanon #bllk headcanons

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juicykvnture · 4 hours ago

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MONEY HONEY

Bruce Wayne x camgirl!reader

tags: AFAB reader, brief age gap mention (reader is in her 20s), Bruce is low-key a little jealous and down bad, nicknames (sweetheart/baby) mutual masturbation, praise kink, webcam use, phone sex,

a/n: the DILF propaganda has gotten to me..

wc: 2.7k | masterlist

Your whole camgirl side gig isn’t exactly something you shout from your rooftops about. But, it keeps your lights on, your ass in a nice apartment, and your feet in Loubiton heels.

You don’t tend to tell your friends what you’re at. Respectfully, that isn’t their issue. Weekly dinner reservations at Nobu and bottles of Dom Perignon should be enough to keep their running mouths occupied.

You have your own rules, you stick by them.

You pick and approve who watches your content, you pick how far you go, grateful that you’re in the position to do so. You don’t meet them in real life.

All you are is a fantasy to them, and you keep it that way.

You’re a pretty girl on a screen with a penchant for men with big bank accounts and more money than they know what to do with.

One of those men just so happens to be Bruce.

He came across you by accident, really. It was a couple of months ago by now.

You didn’t really know him, you didn’t really care. You never saw his face or heard his voice, all you saw was his money. He was always there when you did your regular streams, silent apart from hefty donations and notifications that he’d just ordered sets upon sets of pretty, lacy lingerie to your p.o box.

It’s started to shift recently. More money coming into your account, more matching sets, a new ring light since you’d grumbled under your breath about yours not working properly at one point, flowers.

Fuck, when’s the last time a guy even got you flowers?

He always made sure to outdo your other followers - tips of ten dollars sometimes, a twenty or a twenty five here and there. That’s cute and all, but to him? literal pocket change.

Not good enough in his books, not good enough for a pretty girl like you.

He has no reason to hate it, he’s just as bad as they are. But the green-eyed monster on his shoulder just has to prove he’s better, sending hundreds when he felt like it, just to watch your eyes widen.

Then came the messages.

They were few and far between but felt different than the thirsting, basement-dwelling idiots who usually drooled over your streams.

He kept it classy, always.

Less of the “show me your tits” and more of the “you look gorgeous, the pink lace suits you” followed by an “I’m sending you the blue next”

You like it, more than you’d really want to admit to yourself.

He likes it too. He likes watching your pretty face, your lips curling up into a soft smile when you open up all of his gifts, showing them off on your streams. He doesn’t mind that everyone watching can see them, it doesn’t matter. It matters that he bought those for you and that he’s the one getting his own personal photoshoot later.

You watch notifications pop up on your laptop with a sigh, your inbox flooded with messages, and questions from anything from where you live to why the hell you’re not streaming tonight.

You’re not streaming tonight cause you’re fucking tired, a girl needs her rest.

You’re just gonna take a few photos for your number one fan and call it a day. There’s a bottle of Chardonnay and half a pint of Ben and Jerry's in your freezer just calling your name.

As you fix up your nightgown, reaching over to turn off your laptop, a notification catches your attention.

@BRUCE_W: Hope you got the flowers in one piece, no stream this evening I take it?

You blink, staring at your laptop for a moment.

@CHAMPAGNESWEETHEART: they’re gorgeous, thank you!!

You hesitate for a moment, your nails dragging over your keyboard.

@CHAMPAGNESWEETHEART: I wasn’t planning to, but for you I could ;)

Three little dots come and go at the bottom of your laptop screen, like he’s typing and then pausing once more.

In reality, he’s just trying to get his words together, trying not to come across as weird. He doesn’t really know how to do this kind of stuff. He’s out many women through his mattress in real life, but this whole online thing? fuck no.

@BRUCE_W: is it alright if I call you?

You don’t usually take private calls. They take away both time and money from regular streams you could be doing.

But this is Bruce of all people. He’s solely responsible for the overpriced wine you’re sipping on and the LaPerla set you’re lounging in. You didn’t even know underwear could cost that much..

@CHAMPAGNESWEETHEART: gimme two seconds ;)

That sudden, random burst of confidence has you piling on another layer of mascara for good measure, pushing your tits up a little in reflection of your screen before cringing slightly - he’s just another guy, it doesn’t matter.

@BRUCE_W IS CALLING

You push your laptop down your mattress slightly, pulling your robe open a little more, just so he has some more cleavage to look at since he pays you so good.

You lean over, accepting the call and holding in a breath.

It goes unsaid, the sight of this Bruce guy before you isn’t entirely what you expected.

He’s much hotter, much older than you thought he would be.

It kinda clicks now, the fact that even in your comments he’s had more gentlemanly manners than your other regulars.

Luckily, you like your men like you like your wine, rich and.. slightly older.

Perhaps it’s the salt-and-pepper stubble or just the way they carry themselves, relaxed like they’ve done this all a million times before.

You observe him for a moment longer, noticing the dark room he’s in, his tie loose around his neck as he adjusts his own laptop.

He grips his whiskey glass a little tighter, words escaping him for a moment as he eyes you before offering a curt nod.

“Hey,” He seems a little uncertain at first, taking a drawn-out swig of his whiskey before leaning back in his chair.

“You're new to this I take it?” you offer a small smile into your hand, watching the screen from under your lashes.

“Wow, I thought I was subtle.” Bruce murmurs, setting his glass down for a moment.

He’s cursing himself silently. He’s never had any problem talking to women in his whole life. It’s ridiculous how a pretty girl on his screen has rendered him speechless- you’re what? twenty-something? It’s fucking embarrassing.

He can’t help letting his eyes wander down his laptop screen, shifting his thighs slightly when he sees the set he got you peeking out from under your robe.

“You look gorgeous, the pink set is to your taste, I take it?”

“It’s my favourite so far,” you nod, pushing your robe down your shoulders slightly, just a little bit, just to tease.

He makes a mental note to buy you more, to send them to you in every single colour he can get his hands on. He’s trying not to spiral thinking about it actually, imagining you modelling every single thing he wants to dress you up in.

But now just isn’t the time to fantasise about that stuff, not when he has you on the screen in front of him. Just for him, for once.

“How does this work?” He clears his throat, setting the glass down and trying to ignore the way his slacks feel tighter.

“However you want it to work.”

Your answer has his hands sliding down to rest on his thighs, leaning back in his chair.

You leaving it up to him like that has a way of making his spine tingle, he can tell you’re a little bit tired at least. It’s nice actually, it doesn’t feel like you’re putting on as much of an act.

"Can you talk to me first, for a little bit?" He managed to reply, his eyes taking in the view in front of him.

“Please?”

“Anything you wanna hear about?”

“Not really,” he swallows, his eyes fixed on your cleavage.

“I just like your voice. Is that a strange thing to say?”

You feel your cheeks heating up slightly, shaking your head as you pull your robe open by another little fraction.

“No, not at all.”

You can tell he doesn’t want this to feel like a transaction.

After a few minutes of back and forth, a lot of his initial hesitation has dissipated. You do genuinely seem like a sweet girl. He likes the way you act on your streams anyway, but since he’s technically calling you after hours it feels a lot more intimate, real even.

“Tired?” He rasps softly into his glass, arching a brow when he hears you trailing off slightly, watching you move to lean back against your plush headboard.

“A little.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll try not to keep you up too long, sweetheart.”

You’re not one to really care for pet-names that randos on the internet give you but good God, does that make you feel things.

It has you pressing your thighs together, more than it fucking should.

“I don’t mind.” You murmur, thankful that he isn’t there in real time to notice the way your cheeks heat up.

Seeing your reaction made his eyes soften.. and his cock throb a little, letting out a small sigh as if he were relieved, glad he isn’t bothering you. He didn't realise how on edge he was until you took that weight off of his shoulders.

"Good." Bruce murmurs, his eyes watching your hands fiddling with the sleeve of that robe, his mind wandering.

"Can I ask you to.. take that off?"

“You can ask for anything you want.” You nod, gently twirling your fingers around the tie of your robe, pulling it open.

Your compliance, along with the sight of the soft lace pressed against your skin has him swallowing, his narrowed gaze roaming over every single contour of your body.

"Good girl." He muttered under his breath. Those two words felt almost foreign to say, but he said it anyway, seeing you like this.

You shouldn’t care. It’s just work.

But fuck, does it feel like more than that.

His hands fidgeted on the arms of his chair, resisting the urge to undo his belt, his cock straining in his slacks getting harder to ignore.

Noticing his discomfort you shift slightly on your bed, running your fingers over the lace of your bra.

“I’m not gonna stop you, you know that?”

Bruce's eyes flickered up to the screen, seeing your small smile, your fingers gently playing with the lace. Those words alone were enough to make his hands immediately move to work on his belt, fumbling with it to take it off before popping the button of his slacks, letting out a groan under his breath.

"I was just... trying to be polite."

Watching him makes you bite your tongue slightly, trying to hide the way you press your thighs together again, your eyes locked on his through the screen as you slowly slide your hand down lower, running your thumb over the bow at the front of your underwear.

“I never asked you to be.”

“Fuck, I feel like I buy you dinner first,” His hands quickly went to the opening of his slacks, not wasting time to pull out his hardening length, giving himself one firm stroke.

Your mouth is agape for a split second, staring at your screen with wide eyes.

It’s just work. None of this is real. None of this matters.

But you know what does matter? The fact you’re wet and can’t even hide it under that thin, pastel pink lace.

"Shit." He murmured, trying to keep his eyes on the screen.

His left hand moved from the armrests to grab at his whiskey to down it in one go, taking in the sight in front him.

"Are you wet, sweetheart?"

“Yeah?” Your nod is less confident than you’d like it to be as you run your fingers over the lace again, letting out a shaky breath. You shouldn’t care - this is literally just part of what you do.

"Take them off for me, baby." He panted out, his dick now straining in his boxers so hard it’s almost painful. His other hand gripped onto his thigh, his fingers digging into his legs to ground himself as much as he could.

"Let me see you."

You’re repeating your mantra over and over in your head. You’ve got zero reason to be as turned on as you are, it’s just work.

But your pussy seems to disagree on that one.

With another nod, you hook your fingers into the thin fabric, gently pulling your underwear down your thighs, the sight making Bruce bite his fist to hold back a groan.

He literally can’t take it anymore. He can’t be polite.

“Holy fuck,” He lets out another groan as he takes himself in his hand, spitting into his palm.

Okay, you liked that more than you should’ve.

"You have no idea how... good you look right now." He rasps out, his head tilting back against his chair.

"All... for me, yeah?" His hand on his thigh moved up to his chest, fumbling the top few buttons on his shirt. He needed to feel a little cooler or he’d have a literal heart attack.

“Yeah,” you manage another nod.

“Spread your thighs, baby. Show me how wet she is.”

Well, now it’s your turn to almost have a heart attack, spreading your thighs open as your fingers curl into your bedsheets.

“There she is, good girl” Bruce moaned under his breath, his hand on his cock starting to move faster.

"Pretty girls... like you.." His tongue came out to swipe at his lips, the sight in front of him making him lose his train of thought, reaching a hand up to loosen his tie.

"They deserve to be taken care of, right?”

“Right,” you echo, unable to hold yourself together at this point, going against your usual logic and reaching your hand down, groaning under your breath at how your body betrays you with how embarrassingly wet you are.

Your arm instinctively goes to drape over your eyes, shaking your head as you mumble something incoherent, your fingers rubbing over your clit.

“No no no, look at me,” Bruce chokes out, biting down on his tie to hold back yet another groan.

“Your hands are mine, alright?”

That makes your head fall forward, your back arching at the thought of it.

“Uhuh,”

You don’t care that you’ve never met him, you don’t care that you probably never will, but fuck, the things you’d let him do to you if you ever did.

He bites his tongue for a moment, brows knitting together as he feels himself starting to leak even more, giving his cock another hard pump.

“But my hands are probably bigger than yours, aren’t they?”

That makes you whine under your breath. You know he’s right and now you can’t get that fucking image out of your head - his large hands holding your thighs open, holding your neck maybe, his fingers in your mouth, his fingers against your pussy-

You’re trying not to drool at the thought of it, it’s not working and he can tell exactly what you’re thinking.

He’s thinking the same thing.

“Poor girl, everyone gets off to you but no one to get you off? You just wanna get fucked, don’t you?”

You can’t tell if he’s being condescending or not - but he likely is.. unfortunately, you like that.

“F-fuck,”

Progress, he’s made you lose your composure and swear. Not so classy now, are you?

Watching your back arch and your fingers move faster when he says that has his mouth falling open, sweat clinging to his chest under his open shirt.

He’s been through enough women to know what it looks like when one’s about to cum, but dear god you might just be the prettiest one he’s ever seen.

It makes him lose his shit altogether actually, a dishevelled mess when he sees your thighs shake, too distracted to realise that he isn’t far behind you, groaning under his breath with his mouth agape as he stares at the mess he’s made of his tailored slacks, chest heaving as his own cum drips down his fist, he’s embarrassed, fumbling with his laptop to shut the screen off.

Jesus Christ, he’s Bruce Wayne. Not some 20-something year old. He’s been around the block! He should be able to do better than this!

It’s like you’re blacked out for a good while, regaining a sense of reality with slick dripping down your thighs as you come down from your high, mascara pooling under your eyes as you stare at a notification on your laptop, making you press your legs together again.

@BRUCE_W: I’m serious, I owe you dinner.

He owes you a lot fucking more than that.

a/n: DILF ERA IS COMING SEND ME INSPO IN MY ASKS I BEGGGG!?!!?? I NEED IDEAS (lmk if u want more Bruce idk??) 🙏 (John Constantine I have my eye on you with ominous intent..)

also wtf thank u for 200 followers I love you!!

#dc x reader #dc comics #dc universe #bruce wayne #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne x you #bruce wayne x y/n #bruce wayne x fem!reader #bruce wayne smut #dc smut #girly!reader #batfam x reader #batman #batman x reader #batman x you #batman x y/n

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cosmickid-inmotion · 20 hours ago

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Deeper

Joel Miller x Male!Reader

Masterlist: TLOU Masterlist

Summary: Joel sucking dick until he gets a little too eager

Warnings: It's puke porn guys. i won't apologize. Subby Joel. Puke BJ. He's throwing up. Joel likes it rough and the dynamic is pre-established and everyone is having a good time. Sub drop, after care. Oddly sweet I did not set out for it to be that romantic.

A/n: Ya'll "You should write Joel again!" Me "Okay" *writes gay puke porn* Y'all: "Not like that"

A/n 2: I genuinly don't think theres a way to do this safely and I'm not judging anyone who engages in this sometimes but please be careful bc repeteadly throwing up causes so much issues with teeth and insides. Fiction is fiction though.

***

He was a pleaser, all right.

Joel Miller was a bit of a mess, if you were being honest. He was not experienced. He had sex with a few women before having Sarah, no men. Since the birth of his daughter, his only goals in life were keeping Sarah and Tommy alive. It endeared him to you, but you wanted to show your ‘Jojo’ a world of pleasure you knew you could give.

Despite being a mess, Joel managed to keep the family together. Sarah was doing well in school, went to activities, Tommy went from drunk every night to every few nights. Left him a little bit of free time to... relax.

Joel had to deal with everything, so when it was just you and him, he liked to let go. Nothing going on in that pretty little head of him.

Here he was, your airheaded himbo eagerly bobbing his head up and down your cock. You watched yourself disappear into him, Joel moaning and grinding himself into the bed like this was for his pleasure, not yours. He desired you carnally, as you did him. Nothing matched the joy and pleasure Joel gave you, happily letting you control him when you reached out to grip his curls.

Up and down, up and down you forced him to take all of you. You watch Joel's eyes roll back, his brains leaking out with his pre-cum. Your drippy boy, getting off on your moans. He's cum in his pants untouched just watching you masturbate before.

His lips were chapped; he needed to drink more water.

Still, that didn't stop Joel from gagging on you, his throat going gluck gluck gluck as his excitement continued, opening his throat to you. You swore his smile was burried in the hair of your pubes.

Faster, faster, you thrust him on you, the chewed down nails of Joel fingers dull poking at your thigh, drool pooling more and more around the base of your cock until he gags particularly hard. You yank him up, only to find watery eyes pleading with you as his head gently tried to pull back down.

"Please" He begged, lips plush and wet and pulsing. "Don't stop." He grins against the bed and whimpers, quiet now, "I'm so close..." The idea of Joel cumming on the sheets just from sucking you off illcited a wave of pleasure searing your cock.

You thumb away spit from the corner of his mouth. "You're doing so good, pretty boy. Make me cum and I'll make you feel so fucking good. Just how you like." And you did know how to make him feel good, you knew how to pay attention to his body and signs and edge him until he shot hot ropes against your face or hands. Right now, you were chasing your high. Smiling, Joel went back to work on you, and you went back to making it rough.

Harder, faster, fuck, just like that, just like that Jojo. You watched the muscle of his ass flex as he humped the bed. God you loved him, you loved this precious hard working loving dad and you loved his sloppy wet mouth.

Gluck, GLuck, GLUCK! Joel gagged so hard, whole whole body heaved. You felt what was coming from the contractions on his throat before you felt it come out. Vomit came out, spilling hot all over your crotch and, oh my god, it was so fucking hot.

You never moaned so loud in your life, you thought you were about to cum right right, you finger pulling hard at Joel's hair.

"FUUUUUUUUUUCk!" You shout, hips jolting as eroticism swirled in your stomach. When you look down, your eyes connect with Joel's- he looks afraid, worried you'd dump him because he couldn't take a dick down his throat, that he was gross.

Sitting up, you pull on Joel's hair until the two of you meet in the middle for a scorching kiss, tasting the puke on his, feeling it on your mouths blending together with spit and sweat. You you pull away- lips still bushing Joel's skin when you spoke- spit connected your lips together. "That was the hottest thing I've ever seen. Can you do it again for me?"

Glassy eyes, Joel nods.

"Good boy." You pant, "Safword?"

Joel chased your lips. "Coffee"

"Good boy. Tap my hips if its too much and you can't say it, okay?"

"Yes-" Joel tried to kiss you again. "Fuck, please-"

"C'mere"

You bring Joel's mouth to yours, Jerking yourself off. You feel the thick slimy liquid on your cock and the memory of how pretty he looked, broad shoulder hunched as he puked on how big you were about sent you over the edge again. Joel tried to move down to suck you off but you had other plans.

Kneeling back on your haunches, you had Joel kneel up, leaning over you. As you continue to touch yourself, you slid your fingers inside Joel's mouth. He looked so pretty like this, gagging on your fingers, eager to please, ready to do whatever it took to make you happy. Deep into Joel's throat, your fingers trigger his gag reflex and his massive body seizes again as fresh vomit falls out of his mouth and onto your chest and cock. You moan, jerking furiously as you're almost there, almost ready to come in a mix of filthy fluids.

"That's it, puke for me Jojo, c'mon... Good boy, ohhh fuck yeah, good boy Joel..." He continued to puke on you, his hands bracing on your shoulders. He was starting to look tired, and you knew he wasn't going to want to do much after this, so you start stroking him too. "We'll cum together, okay Jojo? Yeah, doing so good. Do you need to stop? No? Oh fuuuuuck, there's so much... yeah, yeah there we go... cum for me, cum f- SHIT!"

You and Joel cum together, white spurts mixing with the puke and sweat and spit all over your bodies Joel is whimpering as he cums, clinging to you for safety and security that you readily provide him. Holding Joel's messy body to yours, you rock Joel through his orgasm, laying him down when you're done.

Panting, wet, exhausted. You hold Joel close before sitting up. "C'mon baby, lets get you cleaned." Blissed out and dazed, Joel followers you naked to the shower. You get it to a good temp (hot, like Joel likes it, but not to hot because he's prone to dry skin.) "Clean up, relax, I'll get everything changed and in the wash." You give him a kiss on the cheek, and there was something in his face you couldn't quite decern. "You okay, Jojo?"

He gave you a smile a nodded. You weren't sure you beleived him, but maybe he was embaressed. You decided to give him a few minutes to clean, maybe he'd feel better. Throwing the sheets in the wash, you set up a new pair and make sure the bed is cleaned. You even throw your pjs in the dyer to fluff and warm up for Joel to feel cozy in.

But when you open the shower curtain, you find Joel hasn't moved. It wasn't unusual for Joel to go a little nonverbal after sex, but catatonic was.

"Baby?" You step into the shower with him. "What's going on?"

He looks at you, concern in his eyes, the same look he had when he initially threw up. He's quiet. "Do you think I'm gross?"

You feel your eyes widen in shock at the very idea. "No! Is that what your worried about?" Your hand goes for his still puke-covered cheek.

Joel looks down at the shower water in the tub. "You always shower with me..."

And you could feel your heart break. You draw Joel into you. "Oh baby I'm so sorry, i didn't mean it like that. I just wanted to get the sheets clean. Look at me." You gesture to your matching grossness. "I wanted that. I asked for more. Do you feel gross?"

He shrugs. "A little... but not when it was happening. I liked it."

That makes you smile, but you don't want him to feel gross. The relationship was still fairly new, but you were beginning to realize Joel's insecurities made him a little prone to sub drop. You wanted to work on his self esteem with him.

"Did you start to feel gross before or after I left you in the shower. Be honest."

He shuffled his feet. "... After"

"Thank you for being honest. I'm sorry I left you in the shower alone, Jojo. If I help wash like normal, will that make you feel better?"

A small smile crept up on his face. "I think so, yeah."

So you did. Like most nights that you and Joel made love, you washed him up. This time, you were extra thorough, using the exfoliating glove to make sure he felt squeezy clean. Joel has never exfoliated in his life before you.

After through cleaning and detailed oral hygiene (and so much fucking water) you dress Joel in the PJS fresh out of the dryer and lay him down in fresh sheets. He's relaxed again, his signs of safety evident.

"How do you feel now baby?"

Joel nuzzled up to you, resting his head on your chest. "Not gross."

You kiss the top of his head. "Rest."

He was asleep in seconds.

***

why did this get so actually romantic?

Now, my male readers, im sure you're asking. Roman, can you just write a mlm fic that isnt gross? My answer is. Maybe? IDK i finally feel free enough to write puke and piss idk if im going back.

anyway god bless bruce Springsteen its the 41st anniversary of born int he usa albums release GO LISTEN TO NO SURRENDER ITS GAY HELL so is bobby jean, actually <3 both are written about Stevie leaving the band.

Im not tagging anyone bc this is super gross lol. if you enjoyed please rb.

Comment if you wanna be tagged in a.... what do you call force fem if its not forced lol. IG we're femming tommy miller, male reader.

#joel miller x reader #male reader #joel x male reader #joel miller smut #joel x m!reader #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us smut #sub joel miller #tw ementomophobia #tw puke #tw vomit

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unnamed-blob · 1 day ago

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Thinking of a reformed yandere girl.

Probably was obsessed with a guy in high school who didn’t return her affections (obviously). Did the whole nine yards, online stalking and constant messaging, physical stalking, leaving photos in his locker. Weekly love notes and threats to any female classmates who had to group up with him for a project. The guy was just annoyed, and pissed. He only gets high school once and she’s ruining it?

I assume it’d be taken lightly if she doesn’t have any weapons. Maybe she’s just not the type for that, or maybe she knows that she could get into actual trouble then. But everyone brushes it off. She’s just romantic, can’t you tough it out? You know, I’d consider myself lucky to have a girl interested in me like that, I can’t even get one girl’s number.

And then- maybe he leaves for college as far as he could. Maybe she’s a year younger so she can’t exactly just *follow him*. And yandere girl just… kinda eventually snaps out of it. Realizes she put so much of her identity on him. Made herself to be what he’d like, made herself better. She kinda realizes that she doesn’t really… know anything about herself outside of her obsession over him. Does she… like any of these hobbies? Or did she pick them up just because she thought it’d impress him? That it was his type? That he’d suddenly see her and be swooning over her?

So she throws that all away. Works on herself. Dresses differently, does her hair differently. Starts attending a variety of clubs, community events, tries out concerts, a whole variety as she tries to understand what she actually likes.

And then, at her favorite coffee shop, a guy suddenly bashfully sits at her table as she looks up in surprise. Maybe he’ll use the excuse that all the other tables are full, while she glances around at obviously empty ones. Maybe he’s more honest and, with a raging blush on his cheeks, admits he’s seen her at the cafe a few times and finally mustered up the courage to talk to her.

She’s older, more mature, into her early twenties by now. Hasn’t gone for another guy since her obsession because she’s half terrified of sinking back into bad habits. But this guy is persist, in a cute, nice way. Seems to pick up on her likes and dislikes incredibly fast, such a gentleman, that drapes his coat over her if it’s chillier than expected or starts to rain. His sweet smile is disarming and she finds herself smiling bashfully back, her cheeks heating up. They click so well together.

Well of course they would, he’s her high school sweetheart. Had come back to his hometown from college with a groan at the expectations of his stalker flinging herself at him again, glued to his side and matching every step. Though he can’t quite deny.. that it had certainly given him an ego boost that he’d never admit to. Him? Regular him of all people? And she’d gotten obsessed? Try as he might- none of the flings in his college were as interesting.

But look, oh look. She doesn’t come. One day, two, a week. He waits, taps his foot. Eventually he sees her in passing. Almost doesn’t recognize her at first sight. She’s changed, is so much more calmer, so much prettier, so much more sure of herself. Starts eyeing her, hovering nearby in the grocery store as she doesn’t notice, or in some retail store. Just to watch her next move, he tells himself. And she never does. Moved on. Forgot about him.

The tables flip now where he is the one constantly stalking her now. Starts seeing aspects of her that he brushed off before or considered annoying. Had her laugh always sounded so cute? Did she scrunch her nose like that in high school too or had he been too focused on rolling his eyes to see? And, well, finally approaches her in the coffee shop. Maybe he’d taken on a completely new look, a disguise, to mark their new life together. Maybe she blocked her memories of him and burned every photo so she doesn’t recognize him older now.

She’d pick up on the cues too. Feeling like she’s being watched, is he being possessive when he leans as another guy passes by? Did she hear a camera shutter just now? But she brushes it all off. Is certain it’s in her head. And doesn’t want to fall into bad habits.

This is her first relationship, with a proper, nice guy. She doesn’t want to ruin it with ghosts from her past and her shameful history.

So you’d have an incredibly funny picture of him doing the most blatant stalker, yandere stuff, damn near appearing in her second story bedroom window, as she brushes it all off and blushes to herself over her new boyfriend.

#unburied this from slash’s dms-#I just think it’s a neat concept #with room for comedy bits #yandrabble #male yandere #female yandere #yandere #yandere scenarios #yandere drabble #blob writing #stalker #writing #stalking

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callalillywrites · 2 days ago

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A Civil War of Charades

Written for @steverogersbingo. D2 - Team Cap.

Steve Rogers Masterlist | Steve Rogers Bingo | Main Masterlist

Pairing: Steve Rogers x F!Reader

Word Count: 1530

Summary: The Avengers have split into two teams for a game of charades. Team Cap might soon be behind Team Iron Man, but Steve has a trick or two up his sleeve to catch up and possibly win the game. You.

Warnings: established relationship; Steve's sneaky but Reader knows him well enough; good-natured competition

A/N: I know I could've written something that matched canon with the whole team thing, but I thought this idea was far cuter and way more fun time write.

I do not give permission to have my works copied, translated, reposted, or fed into an AI machine.

****

Whoever decided playing charades was a good idea didn't account for how competitive a group of superheroes could get.

The two teams, Team Cap and Team Iron Man, proved formidable opponents of each other.

"You're not going to win this, Cap. Give up now," Tony shouted above the others.

Steve simply shook his head. "Never gonna happen. We can do this all night if necessary."

"You're down over thirty points," Rhodey pointed out. "Even a lightning round won't save you."

"He's right, old man. You and your team are toast at this point."

"We'll see," Steve said, not nearly as daunted at their lower score as everyone else thought he should be. After all, he had a plan. He just needed Tony to step into his trap, and his plan would unfold just as he knew it would.

"You're dreaming, Capsicle. Absolutely dreaming."

Steve had bite his lip to keep his face from splitting into a wide grin. It would only give away his plan, and he'd be damned if he'd give that away, especially as he heard, "And that's twenty points from Team Iron Man. Name-calling is out of bounds, Stark, and you know it."

"This is a stupid rule," Tony groused even as he watched you wiped the points from his team. "It's not my fault that these names come to me. Or that they fit others so well."

"It's also poor sportsmanship, and you know it," you countered. "Remember what happened last time? Do we really need another emergency response from maintenance because you can't learn to play nice with others?"

"Who says I'm not playing nice?"

You merely arch your brow at Tony before letting your gaze drift over to Steve.

Steve couldn't help letting a small smile slid across his lips as he met your gaze. You were just too cute and sweet for your own good sometimes, even if you were the baddest of them all with your powers. How he ever managed to catch your eye, he'd never know, but he never failed to be thankful for it.

"I call foul," Tony raged, his finger coming up to point between Steve and you. "This is favoritism right here, and I won't stand for it."

Steve almost wished your gaze didn't leave him to return to Tony, having basked in it. He'd never get enough. He was sure of it.

"That's fair," you said after a moment. "I have a proposition for you both then. I'll give your points back, Tony, if you'll let me play the lightning round with Steve. Thirty seconds to get as many points as possible. Winner will be called after that. Deal?"

Steve watched as Tony eyed you harder. He could see Tony's mind twisting and turning over every possible outcome of accepting your offer. It was clear that Tony had some doubt that you wouldn't cheat in some way to help Steve win, but Steve knew you better. You'd never use your powers in such a way. Against a bad guy, maybe, but never anyone in the room.

"Tones, you sure we can trust her?" Rhodey asked, eyeing you as well.

"Ah, Rhodes, it hurts my feelings that you don't trust me," you said though you never let your smile fall from your face. "Come on, Stark. Time's up. Lose your points or let me play the final round?"

Tony stared at you a moment longer before he shouted, "Fine, play the lightning round with your boyfriend. Let's see just how good you two truly are. You'll need three-five points to tie and thirty-six to win. Thirty seconds is all you get."

Your smile blossomed into something that nearly stole Steve's breath.

"That's all we'll need," you assured, returning the points to Tony's team.

Tony reset his watch while you grabbed up a prompt slip from the hat the two teams had been using. You quickly read whatever words had been printed before neatly folding it and setting it aside. Meeting Steve's gaze, you said, "Ready."

Tony's team count down, then shouted, "Go."

Those thirty seconds proved the longest and shortest of the evening as Steve quickly and accurately guessed each of your efforts. One right after another, you seamlessly moved from one idea to the next with him keeping pace right alongside you. The way he could read each one would've astounded anyone who hadn't witnessed how well you two worked together. It's the reason you two typically went on missions together and performed them so flawlessly.

Steve could make out the points on his team creeping higher and higher. They were sure to catch up to Tony's team without any issues. He could almost taste victory, making the comeback he knew he would with your help.

His team cheered when you two tied the game.

"Two seconds," Tony shouted in warning.

A spark came into your eye at hearing that, moving into your next clue for him.

He called out everything he could think to match the movements you made. His brain couldn't quite compute what it was that you were doing with your hands. It was so unlike him not to be able to read what you were doing.

"And time," Tony and his team shouted.

Steve groaned.

He'd been so close to victory, too.

Both teams cheered and groaned at not being able to proclaim themselves the victor.

At least for a minute, they did.

After that, everyone worked together to clean up the common room and get it back to the way it's supposed to look.

"Good game, my love," you said, coming up to Steve's side. "Maybe you'll beat him next time."

"Yeah, maybe," he agreed, his arm wrapping around you and tugging you close. "Thank you for helping us out back there. Don't know what we'd do without you."

He should've known by the way your smile shifted, but he was still unprepared when you said, "Oh, I'm pretty sure you would've played a bit more fairly without me around."

"What do you mean, sweetheart?" he asked, feigning innocence and failing miserably if your face was anything to go by.

"Don't play the fool, my love. It doesn't become you. I figured out your game early on, and it's why you tied instead of won tonight."

Steve's brows pinched until it hit him. "You made us tie on purpose."

"I did."

You didn't sound the least bit repentant, either.

"You forget that I know you, Steven, and I know when you're up to no good. You made Tony call you those names, knowing I'd step in and dock him points. You were banking on it."

"But, I—"

You held your hand up, stopping him from trying to talk his way out of trouble.

"He's your friend and teammate, my love, even if he tries you every now and then. You both have your faults, but I love you and I like him. I won't play favorites, and you know it. This way, you're both back to being even. No more need to one-up one another."

Steve knew you had a point and did his best to look as contrite as he could. If he could pull off his kicked puppy face, he knew you'd forgive him that much faster, but then, you could also…

"Put that face away, my love. It's not going to work tonight."

"What'd the punk do this time?" Bucky asked, coming up to finish clearing up the cups and cans from the area where you and Steve worked. "He only looks like that when he's trying to get out of trouble."

"Not everybody needs to know that, jerk," Steve groused, earning him a gruff chuckle from Bucky and a sweet smile from you.

"Everybody already knows, my love. It's one of your tells."

"It is?"

You nodded. "It's a cute tell though, but you can put it away. You were forgiven right after I figured out your little ploy."

"So, punk here was trying to cheat, huh?"

A proud gleam entered Bucky's eye at the idea of that.

"Don't encourage him. Go and help your lady love, soldier, and leave your friend to me."

Bucky disappeared then, happy to take the hint you'd given him.

When he was out of earshot, you murmured, "I'm sorry I couldn't let Team Cap win tonight, but maybe I can make it up to the team's captain a little bit later. What do you say?"

Steve caught your coy smile and felt himself grinning in anticipation.

"Not sure that's going to fully teach me a lesson, sweetheart."

You glanced over your shoulder as you moved a bit away from him, heading towards the kitchen with the bag you'd finished filling. "Guess you'll have to find out what I have planned then, won't you?"

Well, you didn't need to tell him twice to get a move on then.

The common room was cleaned in record time, giving him the opportunity to sweep you up and toss you over his shoulder. Your laughter could be heard all the way back to your shared quarters, causing the others to simply shake their heads even as they hid their happiness for their Cap and you.

#steve rogers bingo #steve rogers #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x female reader #established relationship #marvel mcu #mcu #fluff #team bonding #game night #team cap #team iron man

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pixel-percy · 2 days ago

Text

💀 Your ex is Daredevil & now, after you were attacked by a bounty hunter, you’re under the Punisher’s protection. Whether you like it or not… And he’s more charming than anyone ever made him out to be. 💀

PART 1 |

💀 Word Count: 5.7k 💀 Music Vibes: warm by Ariana Grande 💀 Warning(s): Canon Punisher flavored violence, blood, hurt/comfort, fluff, language, size diff (reader is on the shorter side), & implied (kinda) asshole Matt 💀 A/N: (DD:BA AU sort of) Did ya'll think I was JUST a Matt girlie? 👀 hehe Tbh I contemplated waiting until I could finish the whole thing but, I wanted to see what people thought about the concept & if I did Frank's voice justice (it's my first time writing for him~). So please enjoy & leave some feedback for me if you can!

“To our fearless fucking leader! The fastest bitch in the East! MISS SHORT STACK!” announced a woman from across from you, accompanied by whoops and hollers from the others surrounding the small table. You laughed at that as an arm wrapped around your shoulder to give you an excited shake, and another person kissed the side of your head. Your cheeks hurt from smiling so much—or maybe from the fall you’d taken in the rink earlier—but the joy you felt from the win overpowered it all.

“TO THE HELLCAKES!” you shouted, big smiles plastered on your faces.

Shouts drowned out the clinks of glasses as they collided unceremoniously, liquid splashing out and all over before they were pulled back and downed. The bar patrons barely paid you all any mind, a flick of their eyes to the commotion before returning to their respective activities. You finished your drink, the first to slam your cup back down on the table, a chorus of glass and laughter following suit. You thumbed the sides of your mouth, careful of your slightly busted lip, and began collecting your things.

“Alright, ladies, I gotta head out unfortunately—” Immediately, you were bombarded with ‘aww’s and ‘come on’s, to which you raised your hands in defeat. “—I know, I know, but I’ve got a giant bruise on my hip I need to ice and a grumpy man waiting for me.” You picked up on the dipped head and glittery, questioning gaze of your co-lead and close friend, Andrea.

“You don’t mean—”

“Nope,” you said a little quicker than intended, bordering on snippy, and set your duffel bag across your chest. “I haven’t spoken to him in months, and I plan to keep it that way.”

“Okay,” she said, an air of disbelief buried under her tone. You finally slung the tied strings of your quad skates over one of your shoulders and gave Andrea’s upper arm a rub.

“Thanks for looking out, but I’m good,” you assured and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “First round’s on me!” you called over your shoulder as you made your way to the bar. Your teammates cheered and bid their enthusiastic farewells.

Almost every stool near the bartop was full but you managed to squeeze yourself between two men—one had his back up against the bar, a whiskey glass in his hand, and the other was watching whatever game with a ball that was currently on the screens above everyone, nursing a beer. You felt the man with the whiskey’s eyes look you up and down, taking in your derby jersey, matching shorts, and sneakers, but you did your best to ignore him. The other man had unkempt hair that still managed to look decent and a full beard. He spared a glance at the movement beside him, but didn’t bother you.

The bartender was at the other end of the counter tending to other patrons, so you did your best to look very interested in your wallet, back turned toward the whiskey man to give off disinterest—

“Celebrating some sort of win?” the man asked. You closed your eyes momentarily, a long breath exiting your nostrils, before sparing a glance at the whiskey man. He just looked obnoxious. His blonde hair was slicked back with a pair of sunglasses set atop his head, a button-up that was barely buttoned at all, a pair of dress pants, and some shiny shoes.

“Uh, yeah,” you said.

“You a gymnast?”

“No,” you said. The man scoffed in return.

“You don’t have to be a bitch—”

“Okay.” You sighed. The man with the beer’s gaze flicked to you again just as you turned your head. “Fuck off, yeah?” You stared the man down, the corner of his mouth twitching. He looked like he wanted to say something, the words on the tip of his tongue, but he was interrupted by the bartender.

“What can I get you?”

“Thank God,” you muttered and turned to the bartender with a smile. “Hey, just paying for my table’s first round.” You placed a hundred-dollar bill on the counter.

“You got it,” he said and snagged the item from you. “Be good, yeah?”

“Thanks, Jack,” you answered and squeezed his forearm over the counter. “Catch you next week!”

You quickly removed yourself from between the whiskey and beer men, not paying that obnoxious dickhead any further mind, and maneuvered your way out of the establishment. The warm summer air of Hell’s Kitchen settled on your exposed skin, and despite how tired you felt and the pulsing bruise on your hip, you were still on cloud nine from the semi-finals win. The Hellcakes were going to go all the way—the finals were going to be a breeze.

You turned down the street, headed for the subway station, ready to be back in your bed—sleeping in on your day off was high on your list of things to do. Yes. Shower, bed, midnight snack, and cuddles. A sound plan.

Until you feel a hand on your upper arm and, before you could react, are shoved into an alleyway and your back collides with one of the rugged brick walls. You scream, but it’s muffled by a hand over your mouth. You blinked, getting a good look at the fucking whiskey asshole from the bar staring into your eyes—dangerous.

“Hope you enjoyed that win,” he whispered, face only separated by his hand. “Because it’s your last.” You felt the press of what you could only assume was a gun against your ribs, and you felt yourself tense up, jaw tightening. You were on your own. Matt wasn’t looking after you anymore. It was just you… And that was okay. You could get out of this.

You had to.

FRANK

Frank just wanted a drink.

The bar was a good distance from his makeshift space—a manager’s office in the basement of a barely occupied building. He hadn’t done any dirty work for a bit, mostly monitoring and tracking, and in his spare time, he came here. He didn’t mind the busy nature of the place, practically no one recognized him with his current appearance, and it always had the latest game on. Even when a rambunctious group of women came in and settled around a table in the far back, donning the same jersey and skates slung over their shoulders, he barely paid them any mind.

Patrons came and went from the barstools beside him, except for one—some business looking asshole who left a stool between them. He would have taken note of him just like anyone else if he hadn’t been so intently watching the jerseys. Frank’s eyes squinted a bit, catching his fifth glance back at them, and the man fully swung around on his stool while still trying to be casual. Frank wasn’t interested in stopping him from being shut down by that entire table; he wanted to see him embarrass himself.

But instead, the opportunity came to him.

Just from the cursory glance he gave you, you were a small thing with curves for days, and a slight familiarity about you that he couldn’t place. If it were a different time, he might’ve tried to make a pass at you, but instead, he went back to his game with an ear trained on your conversation. You weren’t interested, at all, and he couldn’t help but prepare himself in case this asshat decided to push you. He couldn’t help the smirk at the corner of his lips when he heard you tell him to ‘fuck off’, stifling a chuckle with another sip of beer.

Frank heard your departure and couldn’t help but look after you, catching the swing of your skates against your duffle… and heard the man leave his stool. Frank felt annoyance settle inside him and watched after him as well. He wouldn’t have been concerned if it weren’t for the speed at which he got up and the gun he clocked as he put on his jacket.

Fuck.

Frank flicked a bill on the counter for the bartender and quickly got to his feet to pursue both of you. If it was nothing, it was nothing, but Frank knew there was always a chance for something else, and he couldn’t find it in him to ever knowingly let that happen. No fuckin’ way.

The summer air pushed back against him the moment he opened the door and exited the bar, eyes scanning the street for you or that prick. It didn’t take him long to spot the man, just in time to see him pull you into an alleyway.

“Shit,” Frank grunted and removed his pistol from the waistband of his pants before taking off down the sidewalk. He carelessly ran through a crosswalk, narrowly avoiding a car whose driver laid on their horn for a few seconds, and felt his heart skip a beat when he heard the pop of a gunshot followed by your screech. “SHIT.”

Frank rounded the corner of the alley, gun poised and ready, just in time to see you headbutt the man hard enough for him to release you.

The man cried out, and you wasted no time taking one of your skates and slamming it into the side of his head. Expletives poured from his mouth as he clutched his now bleeding head, and you turned to run, grasping at what Frank assumed was a wound on your leg, red trickling down into the matching crimson of your knee-high socks. Your face was twisted in surprise and horror when you saw him at the end of the alley, probably thinking he was with this asshole.

The man collected himself again and immediately trained the gun on you.

“Put it down!” Frank commanded, voice booming in the dark alley. You flinched at the sound, shaky hands shooting upwards in immediate surrender. The man behind you watched both of you, and Frank could practically see the wheels turning in his mind.

“Fuckin’ hell, I knew I recognized you,” the man said, New York accent thick and prominent now. “This ain’t your business, Punisher.” His words were laced with annoyance and venom. Frank was unfazed by the recognition.

“She already told you no. Get the hell outta here.”

The man scoffed.

“I got a contract and you’re in my way,” he said.

It took barely a flinch for Frank to react. Thankfully, you moved then, ducked behind the nearest rank dumpster, ears covered by your palms as the gunshot popped loudly and the bullet embedded itself in the man’s chest. Frank noted your shaking and your tears, but he needed information before he could help.

“Be right back,” he said, lightly touching your shoulder, but yielding no response. He expected that.

His boots crunched against the debris in the alley as he approached the man. He was gasping, blood leaking down the side of his mouth. Frank placed his boot on the wound and pressed hard enough for the man to cry out, hands shooting up to grab his leg.

“What’s the contract?” he asked, a calmness in his gruff voice.

“I–I don’t—”

Frank pressed down again. The man gasped.

“Her! Her!” he exclaimed. “Dead! She’s bad for someone’s business! That’s all I know!”

“Whose business?”

“Fuck if I know—” The man coughed up more blood. “I just got the bounty a couple hours ago!”

Frank nodded slowly, gazing down the alleyway to where you were still shaking behind the dumpster. He ran his teeth over his bottom lip. Fuck.

The bounty hunter’s eyes widened at the sight of Frank raising his gun again, but before he could utter the inevitable ‘wait!’ Frank pulled the trigger. Right between the eyes. He removed his boot and crouched, fingers gliding through pockets until he found the man’s wallet and phone, pocketing them. Finally, he snagged the gun that had fallen off to the side and made his way back to you.

“Hey, hey,” he said, softer than before. Both guns were tucked safely in his waistband when he knelt in front of you, careful not to startle you. “You’re alright now.” No response. Shock. Frank shifted enough for him to reach forward, ducking his head in an attempt to find your gaze, and placed his index finger under your chin. He saw the slight flinch. “Hey,” he tried again. Slowly, your face turned up to him. “I know you’re probably scared and confused, and I’m just another stranger—”

“F-Frank Castle,” you said, lips quivering.

He paused at that, holding your tearful gaze as he nodded. That familiarity was still there, maybe even more prominent than before, but he still didn’t know where from. All he knew was that you were in trouble, and he felt the need he always felt: to help.

“Yeah, that’s me, uh,” he said with a small smile. “You’re bleeding, and you got money on your head. So, let me get somewhere safe. Alright?”

You didn’t respond at first, the shock probably nullifying all of your common sense, but the sound of police sirens was getting closer.

“Look, I know it’s a lot, but—”

“Okay,” you said suddenly. “O-Okay. I… I’ll go with you."

Frank nodded.

“Okay.” He stood up to his full height, hands finding your arms to assist you. “Up you go. Attagirl.” You winced and struggled to put pressure on your bleeding leg. Frank noticed that and immediately tucked your arm around his waist, your fingers digging into his side, and his other hand carefully placed on your ribs to keep you steady. “Let’s get you outta here, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you whispered, covered in the alley’s dirt and grime, and your bloodied skate tapping against your hip.

YOU

“Ah!” you hissed, fingers digging into Frank’s shoulder as he continued to stitch the wound on your leg closed. His eyes shifted to your face, fingers ceasing all movement as he examined your features. “Sorry… Just stings.”

“Mmhm,” he said with a nod. “Like I said, squeeze as hard as you need to.” Frank’s attention went back to the wound on your leg, and you took in a deep breath, an attempt to settle your growing headache and the pain you felt all over. “Can barely feel it anyway.”

You huffed a laugh at that, a knowing one, as you remembered all the times Matt practically told you the same as you patched him up.

“Of course. Must just be a vigilante thing,” you said with a bit of disdain. He picked up on that and smirked a little.

“You know a lot of vigilantes?” he asked, suture practically complete. Your jaw clenched, exhaling deeply.

“Just one,” you said bitterly. “Not used to being on this side of the stitches.”

He hummed a response, likely contemplating who you were referencing—or maybe already knowing who—as he tied off the last stitch. He leaned forward toward your leg, a movement that made you lean back and prop yourself up on the small cot he called his bed, and watched him cut the string with his teeth. You gnawed on the inside of your lip, remembering all the nights you’d found yourself doing the same after patching up a gnarly wound for Matt.

Frank got to his feet and approached the sink on the far side of the room, snagging a small towel from the drying rack beside it. This place was unlike anything you’d ever seen—guns of all kinds mounted throughout the room, monitors that showed various points of entry to the building, half-finished projects on desks, a small workout area, lockers, a wall covered in newspaper clippings and other things you couldn’t read… This place was for function, not comfort.

“So, what’s got you on a hit list?” he asked, ringing out the soaked towel and turning to walk back to you.

“Hell if I know,” you responded. “I’m a vet tech most days and I do roller derby in my free time…”

Frank got fully on his knees this time, which took you aback, and gestured with his fingers for your leg. You did so without much thinking, an odd sensation of comfort you hadn’t expected with someone like Frank Castle. All you’d ever heard about him was that you should avoid him at all costs. Dangerous. Deadly. But right now, this ‘dangerous man’ was on his knees, propping your foot up on his thigh, and folding down your crusty, blood-soaked sock so he could start cleaning the blood off your leg.

“Any pissed off clients? Fido’s rich mom want you dead for not helping him?”

“Not that I know of,” you said. “We don’t get a lot of uppity clients.” You were mesmerized by how slowly, how methodically he moved the material over the streaks of crimson. You thought about offering to do this yourself, but you had a feeling he’d insist. It did help ease the nerves you still felt from the alleyway, but it didn’t quiet the boom of the gunshots that still echoed in your mind.

“You sure—”

“Did you kill him?” you interrupted.

Again, Frank stopped his task to look up at you, and you really got a look at him in the quiet. He somehow looked both disheveled and put together at the same time, a functional appearance, one he probably didn’t think too much about if there wasn’t a reason to. Any memories you had of him while he was actively in the news, taking down nefarious folks you’d never heard of, were of him clean-shaven and angry. You remembered being terrified of him. Even Matt encouraged you to steer clear of him, giving you the most minute details to keep that terror alive. Yet here you were.

Frank’s finger gently tapped against your calf as he contemplated his answer, but he didn’t look away from you.

“Yeah,” he finally said. Your lip quivered ever so slightly, but you bit it to keep from fully bursting into tears. “Hey. Hey, don’t do that.” Frank squeezed your calf a little, head tilting to search for the gaze you’d turned away from him. “That piece of shit was gonna kill you. He wasn’t gonna stop. You hear me? None of ‘em are going to. They made this you or them. Not you.”

“I—I dunno, I just—” Your breath was shaky. You could understand his logic, you know you would’ve done anything to get out of that situation, to survive, but knowing someone was dead as a direct result of it all was a lot for your conscience. Matt beating people up? Breaking their bones? Doing irreparable damage? Somehow, you could sleep at night knowing that, but this was different. This was how the Punisher handled his enemies, and there was not one drop of Catholic guilt to be seen.

“Stop that,” he said, pulling you out of your spiral of vigilante comparisons. “Look at me.” You pulled up your gaze until it locked on those brown eyes, a mixture of compassion and seriousness in them. He squeezed your leg again, a grounding and reassuring gesture that surprisingly worked, and continued his original task. “I’m the one who pulled the trigger. I made the choice. That ain’t on you. That’s on me. And I’d do it again.”

“You don’t even know me,” you whispered.

“Doesn’t matter if I do,” he rebutted. “Someone wants you dead. You needed help, so I’m givin’ it. Freely. That’s just me. It just so happens my brand of help is bullets and blood, not just gettin’ smacked over the head with a damn billy club.”

At that, you froze, eyebrows furrowing at the comment. Did he… Did he know?

“Daredevil does a lot of good,” you said, slightly defensive out of nowhere. You did believe that deep down, knowing how good Matt’s intentions are and seeing firsthand what he gave up for the city—including you.

Frank smiled at your words, a bubble of laughter leaving him. He’d finally made it to the top of your leg where the bullet graze was, hyper aware of his hand now behind your knee as the towel dabbed gently against the stitch line.

“Yeah, he sure does,” he said. “Don’t you think you might be a lil’ biased, though?” Frank says your name. Your cheeks burn.

“I… Don’t know what you mean,” you said and pulled against his grip. He relented instantly and rolled back onto his feet, towering over you with the bloody towel in his grasp. You caught a glimpse of another smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth as he turned away from you.

“Well, you’re Red’s girl, right?” he asked, tossing the towel in the sink and rinsing his hands. “Thought I recognized you. Couldn’t place your face until a few minutes ago.”

Your eyes narrowed, and your jaw clenched. That underlying anger you’d been trying to get rid of these last few months bubbled beneath the surface of your skin, simmering at the thought of your ex. It still hurt, and it made you mad that it did. So much so that when you answered, your voice was lower and cursory, “No.” Frank had continued his movement across the space, grabbing a beer for you both and a foldable chair that he set down in front of you.

“Mmm,” he hummed and took a seat. He popped off the caps with a quick maneuver of a knife and offered you a beer, which you took with a tiny bit of reluctance.

“Not sure I ever really was,” you added, taking a swig that contorted your face. Beer wasn’t your favorite, but it was something to take the edge off everything.

Frank cocked an eyebrow at your comment, eyes looking you over just a tad slower than before, and leaned back in the chair, the material straining with the movement.

“His loss then,” he said practically into the bottle. You held back a laugh at that, despite your lips betraying you by turning into a tight-lipped smile.

“So everyone keeps saying,” you responded and took a swig yourself.

Whether Matt considered it a loss anymore was beyond you, especially with a new girlfriend to focus on that likely didn’t know who he was beneath the suit and tie. Maybe that’s really what he wanted all along, instead of someone in the know, constantly worried, constantly holding him accountable for the impact his decisions as Daredevil had on his overall life. The strain it had put on you both… But that wasn’t your life anymore. Though you found it humorous that despite all the worry Matt had about his enemies finding you never came to fruition, you’d somehow made an enemy of your own. And Frank was here instead.

“The derby thing,” Frank started, thankfully changing the subject. He settled into the chair, legs spread wide as he got comfortable. “You start that before or after Red?”

“Before. Well before,” you said, jaw tight. Frank moved his head up and down.

“Don’t know shit about it, ‘side from it being rough and tumble, but I imagine you can make some enemies punchin’ someone in the face.”

“Not that rough,” you corrected. “It’s not roller rink meets Fight Club. You can push people out of position, be a little rough, but you can’t get out of pocket with it. There’s penalties for that.”

“So no Sandra’s or Barbra’s mad at you for breakin’ their nose?”

“I’ve had some tension over the years with people, but nothing that hasn’t fizzled out…” You genuinely considered it, lost in thought for a moment. It was true though. Sure, emotions could run high and adrenaline could fuel borderline fights on the track, but you couldn’t think of a single person over the years who’d want to kill you. “Yeah, no, nothin’.”

“We’ll figure it out,” he assured and got up from his chair, dragging it over to the desk with the monitors on it. It was also where he’d put the bounty hunter’s phone and wallet. “I’m gonna dig. You take the cot.”

You lowered the bottle from your lips slowly, confusion in your expression.

“What… do you mean?”

Frank peered up at you.

“You gotta sleep, don’t you?”

“Well, yeah, but I thought I’d be doing that in my bed.”

“You want to go back to your apartment… with bounty hunters looking for a payday?”

You quieted and set the cool glass bottle against your thigh.

“I just… want to go home,” you whispered. Frank leaned back in his chair again, teetering on the back legs, and sighed.

“Can’t do that right now, unfortunately,” he said softly. Despite wanting to fight back, to stubbornly fight Frank about this decision, you also recognized that you almost died earlier in the night. Even though you’d fought back, if Frank hadn’t shown up, you might’ve been dead in an alley while someone cashed in their reward. You still couldn’t wrap your head around how absurd it all sounded—bounty hunters and death—but in that moment, Frank was your safest option.

“Right,” you said, defeated.

“Get some sleep,” he said, sincerity intertwined with the gruffness of his whisper.

So you did as you were told. You placed the bottle down on the floor and laid back on the cot, curling yourself into a ball despite the ache in your bones, the bruise on your hip, the sting of your stitches. It was a strange feeling being in Frank’s space, a man you knew of but had never met, and your perception of him was being challenged at every moment. He handled you with gentleness, empathy, and reassured you that you were safe… And you believed him. Frank approached you with candidness so far, no half-truths or lies to sift through, and, if you were honest with yourself, it was nice.

However, Frank was still a stranger despite how comfortable he made you feel around him, and ultimately it did nothing to negate the stress of the night, the want to be home, to cry the fear out in your shower, to curl up with your little man… You craved the familiarity of home despite how ridiculous that was. You wanted to leave, and you would, but for now, silent tears streamed down your cheeks as you allowed the sounds of Frank’s tinkering to lull you to sleep.

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

When you awoke, the sun was still tucked below the horizon, and Frank Castle was nowhere to be found.

You adjusted yourself on the small cot, feeling the tug of a blanket that wasn’t there when you initially closed your eyes as well as a bag of ice that had been perfectly placed where your bruise was—which was more noticeable than you’d realized, extending just below the hem of your shorts when you examined yourself. The bag of ice tumbled off the cot to the floor with a crunchy thump, and you sat up to take in your surroundings.

The only evidence of Frank was a duffle bag set up a few feet away and an extra blanket for himself. It dawned on you that he’d slept on the floor, head propped against a bag full of who knew what. You felt bad about that, not even considering where he’d sleep when you only saw the one cot, but you didn’t linger. You had to go.

You quickly got to your feet, sharp pain shooting up from the damage you’d momentarily forgotten about, and searched for your stuff.

You’d come back. Yeah. You just needed to get some stuff and check on everything. It was going to be fine. The rational part of you knew this was stupid as hell, you should stay with Frank or at least wait for him to get back, but the scared part of you wanted familiarity, it wanted home.

You considered that you were still in your recognizable jersey, bright red and unique logo, and that you hadn’t brought any extra clothes. A sigh left you, anxiety slowly creeping higher the longer you waited to leave. So, with incredible audacity, you swiped a black zip-up hoodie from what you could only assume was a ‘clean’ laundry pile. When you smelled it, your nose scrunched. It smelled as clean as you expected it to be in a place like this, and was just happy for it not to be a total offense to your senses, that he tried to some degree.

You quickly slipped off your jersey, zipped up the hoodie over your sports bra, pulled the hood up, and was pleasantly surprised to find it just long enough to cover up your bruise and stitches well. He’d ‘get this back in a few hours’ was what you kept telling yourself. You stuffed your jersey in your duffel bag and did the same to your skates, which you noted were devoid of any blood, pushing the material’s limits and fighting to get the zipper closed. Once you did so, with a strong tug, you set it across your chest like you’d done the day before.

The door made no sound when you pulled it open, eyes scanning the hallway for anyone, and thankful to see it empty. You were in such a state the night before that you couldn’t even remember where you were or how you’d gotten there, just that you’d gone down. You moved into the hallway and removed your phone from one of the duffel’s pockets, unsurprised by the ‘no service’ displayed in the top bar.

“Shit, okay. Okay… Okay,” you whispered to yourself. Getting up to the street level was your main priority, so you picked the direction you vaguely remembered walking with Frank, and hoped it’d lead you to the elevators.

Your footsteps echoed ever so slightly against the walls, bouncing off the doors and pipes lining them. It smelled like stagnant, industrial air. Whatever was being worked on was certainly contributing to that. Your fingers clutched the strap of your bag, you did your best to observe your surroundings without seeming suspicious yourself. Street level. Phone service. Map. Subway. Home. That was your plan. Simple. Then you’d… find your way back.

After a few minutes, you finally entered a room that had elevators and semi-jogged to them, slamming your finger against the ‘up’ button repeatedly. Your heartbeat was accelerating, anxiety more and more prominent, and by the time the elevator reached your floor, you were ready to barrel into it. You paced a little, eyes on the door, and when it opened, you froze.

Frank.

He had been leaning against the back of the elevator, eyes closed like he was taking a cat nap, and in his hand was a small box of donuts and two, you assumed, coffees in the other. He noticed you immediately, taking in your appearance, and surprisingly, his lips tilted up into that half smile you were already growing used to. You stepped back as he exited the elevator, heart thumping wildly, and fully expected him to chastise you.

“Looks good on you,” he said. You blinked, feeling a slight twinge of heat rising to your cheeks for a reason you couldn’t comprehend. “Tryin’ to make a run for it?”

“No, no, I just…” You were having trouble finding your excuse now. He didn’t move, didn’t get closer, just stood there with his donuts and coffee.

“Big, bad Punisher too much for ya?” he teased, eyebrow cocked. “You wanna run back to Red then? Tell him to handle the bounty hunters? Sit in a courtroom for weeks while their bosses pay off the jury?”

“No,” you said, annoyance rising and mixing with your flustered, tired mind.

“Then what do you want, kid?”

“Don’t call me that,” you snapped. Frank’s head tilted to the side, intrigue layered in, tongue running along one of his canines absently. “I’m not a fucking child.”

“Kind of actin’ like one right now—”

“Fuck off, Castle,” you bit back. There was a long pause, his eyes never leaving your face. It started to make you self-conscious, fingers wringing the strap of your bag. You didn’t know why you were giving him such an attitude; he’d done nothing but be nice to you since he put down a man in an alleyway for you. You just didn’t know what to do. What to say. Wrapped up with another notorious vigilante was not a scenario you’d considered again. But Frank seemed unfazed. He seemed amused, like he was seeing something you weren’t.

“Alright,” he conceded and finally took a step forward. Frank tilted his head down slightly and lowered his voice when he said, “What do you want, sweetheart?”

You stood your ground, even with the sudden pet name, but your jaw noticeably flexed. You took a long inhale.

“I want to go home,” you said.

Frank said your name, and you felt a twist in your stomach.

“Were you this mouthy with Red?”

“Are you taking me home or not?” you countered, not interested in talking about Matthew at the moment. Frank leaned back, and you couldn’t tell if he was upset or impressed.

“Real stupid to do that,” he said. You were going to say something, but he lifted the hand with the coffee holder and put up his index finger, shutting you up with only a huff in response. “But if I do, I’m stayin’ until this is done.”

“Sure, fine,” you said, not sure what that fully meant, but happy to hear you were going to be going home.

“Gonna be the shadow you never wanted,” he added before he held out the donuts and coffee to you. “Hold these. Gotta grab some things.” You looked up at him, a bit surprised that he was suddenly compliant with your request. So you reached out, gently taking the items from him. “Stay here,” he said, practically a command. “It’s too early for me to be chasing your lil’ ass through Hell’s Kitchen.”

“Fuck—”

“Off, yeah, yeah. Just stay put,” he said with a wave of his hand as he turned away from you. That shut you up immediately, watching him walk back toward the direction you’d come from minutes before. “And don’t eat my donuts,” he called back over his shoulder.

“How would I even know which ones those are?” you asked, tone losing its snippiness.

“The glazed ones. Obviously,” he said matter-of-factly, and fully disappeared down the hallway just in time to miss the smile that grew on your lips.

#frank castle #daredevil #punisher #marvel #frank castle x reader #frank castle x femme reader #frank castle fanfic #frank castle fanfiction #daredevil fanfic #daredevil fanf #punisher fanfic #punisher fanfiction #marvel fanfic #marvel fanfiction #femme reader #frank fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction

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tennis-kittens · 9 months ago

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Andrea Vavassori & Sara Errani • US Open 2024 Mixed Doubles R1

The comfort mixed doubles pairing i needed 🥹❤️

#I LOVE THEM SO MUCH #no you don't understand i would throw myself in front of a bus for them #they were so relaxed and happy omg #i was mewing THE WHOLE TIME #also vava and robert's relationship gives me life #the way everyone was smiling the whole match #andrea vavassori #sara errani #us open #doubles troubles #watchmoredoubles #i just love it when my kittens are happy

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softaestluv · 2 months ago

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more! | mlist ✎ᝰ.ᐟ

Just thinking about Ghost having a shy, quiet wife. The glaring opposite of Ghost, painted in black and blood while you’re adorned in lace and frills. Smooth skin and delicate flesh, warm eyes and a bashful smile. Soft-spoken and so fucking sweet.

No one else knows about you, or that he’s married, not from lack of wanting people to know he has such a pretty dove waiting for him at home, but because he knows all the men on base would eat you alive.

But one day, he forgets the lunch you made him. It takes everything in you to refrain yourself from driving to base to make sure he has something to eat— you know he doesn’t have the healthiest eating habits.

You choose to message him, something he usually responds fairly quickly to. Always at your beck and call just in case his sweet girl needs him, but he doesn’t answer. Your lips are pinched raw with worry by the time you decide to get in your car.

So, imagine everyone’s surprise when a sergeant interrupts the meeting Ghost’s in— ‘Lieutenant, um, Mrs. Riley is waiting outside for you.’

Ghost is on his feet in an instant, it must be some emergency if you’re there. He rushes to the hallway, everyone else in the room stumbling behind to snoop through the thin crack of the door, see who their big bad Lieutenant is married to.

And there you are, Tupperware container in your manicured hands, white dress covering your frame with matching ribbons and bows in your hair. The look on your face is anxious, right up until you see Ghost, your eyes softening as he approaches you with wide strides despite the fact that he’s twice your size, hulking and threatening.

“Sweet’art, everything okay? You’re not hurt, are you?” He asks, brows furrowing as he does a once over your figure, checking for injury.

You exhale a quiet laugh, “No, baby. You just forgot your lunch, and you didn’t answer your phone so I got worried you would go the whole day without eating.”

He cups your jaw, a smile breaking out on his face. His sergeants are baffled for several reasons— they did not expect their Lieutenant to be married to such a sweet thing, nor had they ever heard their Lieutenant speak in such a soft, hushed tone, never seen him touch something with such care, like you were so fragile in the palms of his hands.

They would’ve thought it was all a joke if it wasn’t for the massive diamond ring on your finger, or the way you pushed deeper into his touch.

“Sorry, dove, just been in a meetin’ all day.”

He stamps a kiss against your lips, lets himself linger just a little longer than he should because he knows the whole room is watching from behind the door.

“Sweetest little wife, aren’t you?”

#and then he almost kills a sergeant for flirting with you #or something like that #I know this trope has been overdone but it’s a good trope for a reason #softaestluv #cherris drabbles #cherri writes #call of duty #cod #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #cod x reader #ghost x reader #soft simon riley

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pearlessance · 29 days ago

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Cupid's Chokehold — part one!

FEEL SO CLOSE

[next chapter]

summary: Tommy meets Joel's new girlfriend and takes a twisted liking to her live-in daughter.

pairing: step uncle!Tommy Miller x f!Reader

warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI. step-cest, age gap (unspecified, but reader is 19/20, Tommy in his early-mid 30s), unprotected piv, oral sex (both f! and m! receiving), attempted seduction (from reader), pussy pronouns, praise, dirty talk, creampie, begging, dacryphilia, alcohol consumption, no outbreak AU, Tommy POV

note: genuinely this is the filthiest most diabolic thing I've ever written and I'm absolutely terrified to post it!!! if it's not your cup of tea pls keep scrolling, and if you do read it, let me know what you think!! also, I wrote the nightclub scene with the song Feel So Close by Calvin Harris in mind (iykyk), but feel free to imagine whatever you like!

wc: 12.1k

[series masterlist]

[main masterlist] [AO3]

You’ve always been close.

Since that first night you’d met in Joel’s kitchen, Tommy has always felt drawn to you. Like you were one and the same. Two peas in a fucking pod, despite how…indecent it sometimes felt.

It was late summer. Hot. Your mother and Joel had arranged a dinner. They’d wanted everyone to ‘get to know each other.’ Grilled burgers and made pasta salad and poured glasses of cheap champagne. The whole nine yards.

Joel had warned Tommy about you ahead of time. Talked about his new girlfriend’s daughter, about how you were a bit…wild. Impulsive. Too pretty and too smart for your own good.

You’re a couple of years older than Sarah, freshly out of high school with a devil-may-care attitude. The two of you get along well—Sarah thinks the whispered comments you pour in her ear all night are just hilarious. The two of you spend most of the afternoon on the side of the pool chattering while Tommy…well, Tommy certainly feels a bit like a third wheel.

He knows it’s not intentional. Joel isn’t like that, he’s just…excited. He loves your mom and is eager to start this new chapter of his life, to expand his family the way he’s always wanted to. And your mom is nice enough. Sweet and easy going, a good match for his brother. But she’s a mom. And Joel’s Joel.

It’s Saturday night, and Tommy Miller is bored half to death sipping champagne and watching two teenage girls giggle over something on their cell phones.

And it’s not like he can leave right away. At least, not until after his desert has settled. But he knows where Joel keeps the good liquor, and dismisses himself in search of it.

He’s pouring two shots of whiskey into a glass tumbler when he hears the back door open. Tommy expects it to be Joel, coming to offer a penny for his thoughts. He opens his mouth to soothe his brother's nerves, to reassure him that his other half does fit him as perfectly as it seems. To tell him that he’s crazy for letting another little girl live under his roof, to warn him it’ll be double the hormones and double the attitude, but if it makes him happy…

“Hey.”

It’s not Joel who speaks at all. It’s your voice, soft but sultry. Tommy smiles at you over his shoulder. “Hey, kiddo.”

You saddle up to his side, so close your elbow brushes his as you lean on the counter, eyes focused on his hands as he pours. “This is the most boring party I’ve ever been to,” you say with a dispirited sigh.

It makes Tommy laugh. He sets the bottle down and lifts the tumbler to his mouth, grinning all the while. “Can’t say this little soirée is particularly, uh…exhilarating,” he says, sipping from his glass.

He can feel your attention on him, hotter even than the burn of the whiskey. Your eyes slide down the column of his throat, over his chest, stopping at his waist. You turn your head the smallest bit, not dissimilar to that of a curious little puppy. Crude and shameless in your examination. You look back up to find him staring at you, unable and unwilling to fight his knowing smirk. “Can I have some of that?”

“You old enough?” Tommy doesn’t even know why he asks, because he already knows the answer.

With a shrug of your shoulders and a sweet little smile, you say, “No. But it’s not like it would be my first time. No cherry to pop here.”

Filthy mouth for a girl your age. Funny, though. It’s kind of endearing. He was an awful lot younger than you are now when he started drinking. The first time he’d blacked out had been his sophomore year of high school—barely sixteen, woke up in the middle of a field two hours away from home. He’d had to use a pay phone to get ahold of Joel to come pick him up.

And it’s better this way, isn’t it? To do it at home, surrounded by people who care about you. Who will keep you safe. It’s not like one drink’s going to put you on your ass, anyway.

He nods slowly. “Alright,” he says, opening the cupboard to find another tumbler.

You stop him, delicate hand around his wrist. “Are you crazy? That’s evidence.”

Tommy furrows his brows. “What, the cup? I’ll wash it when you’re done. S’alright.”

“Waste of time.” You take the whiskey and twist off the cap, pushing the smooth glass bottle into his hands. “You know how to waterfall without drowning me?”

He likes you, Tommy thinks. Probably more than he should. He gets that familiar tug in his lower abdomen, the one that urges him to move closer, to speak slower.

It’s a little fucked up, he knows. You’re so young, and odds are your mom will marry into the family, and then you’d be…well, you’d be his niece. Kind of.

His heart races a little faster at the thought.

“Well?”

“Yeah,” Tommy promises. “Yeah, I got you. Tilt your head back.”

You step further in front of him, spine pressed against the edge of the countertop. He can feel the heat of your skin against his, and it makes Tommy feel dizzy. You tilt your head back, just as he said, but it’s not quite enough.

He reaches up, cradling your jaw in his hand, thumb pressed against the underside of your chin. He knows he could just tell you, could just use the words ‘a little more’ and you’d do as he asks. But the heated look in your eyes as he touches you so gently…it’s worth it. “Like this,” he tells you, pushing your chin back. “There you go. Now open your mouth.”

It sounds so vulgar in his ears. And Tommy doesn’t mean it that way, but you smile up at him and say, “You’re supposed to take me out on a date first, I think.”

“You think?” He scoffs. “You ever let another man in your mouth and he doesn’t wine an’ dine you first, you let me know so I can take care of him.” Tommy’s only sort of kidding. If you ever asked, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

“Alright,” you say. “No other man, then. Just you.”

He has to look away, unable to contain his amusement. “Christ, girl.” Tommy shakes his head, delighting in the sound of your giggling. He can feel the vibration of it in his hand, still pressed against the side of your neck. “Ridiculous.”

Joel’s voice cuts through the kitchen, calling Tommy’s name.

He tries to take a step back, get some distance, but you hook your leg around his to keep him close, bare and exposed to him from the hem of your denim shorts down. Tommy grips your thigh tightly but doesn’t quite push you away. “Yeah, Joel?”

You tilt your head back, perfect this time, just like he showed you.

Tommy shakes his head again, surprised by your brazenness, but he just can’t seem to stop smiling. He lifts the glass bottle and pours the whiskey slowly, holding in his laughter all the while.

“Bring out another slice of that pie,” Joel says from the back door. “The key lime one. Sarah wants some more.”

“Yeah, sure. One slice of key lime,” Tommy calls back, watching with rapt attention as the amber liquid pools in your pretty mouth. And then, more to you than to Joel, he says, “You got it.”

He stops just before your mouth is too full and sets the bottle back on the counter as the back door closes. You tilt your head back down, grimacing as you swallow. You have to do it twice, and Tommy knows that shit burns.

He’d feel bad if it weren’t for the drop of liquid that spills from the corner of your pursed lips, leaving a trail of whiskey as it drips down your chin. It’s such a sight to behold that his mouth waters. It takes every last ounce of his common sense to keep from leaning forward and licking it up.

Instead, he runs his thumb across the seam of your lips, collecting every last drop, and proceeds to suck it clean. “No man left behind,” he says playfully, painfully aware of the slight lift of your hips and the almost unnoticeable arch of your back.

“Right, no. Of course,” you say, words just a little breathless. “It would be, like, alcohol abuse.”

Tommy chuckles as he finally steps away, surprised by the complete lack of guilt he feels. He pulls a plate from the cupboard and finds the remainder of the key lime pie in the fridge.

Your steps echo in the kitchen when you leave, the screen door creaking as you push it open. He catches the words as you speak them under your breath just before disappearing from view. “Certainly not boring anymore.”

Tommy returns to the backyard with Sarah’s key lime pie in one hand and his refilled glass tumbler in the other, a newfound spring in his step.

It doesn’t take long for family dinners to become a tradition. They’re moved to Sunday nights, though, which works a hell of a lot better for Tommy. He usually shows up hungover, sporting a headache and a bad mood.

You’re real good at pulling him out of it, though. Always making those dirty jokes, uncaring of who hears, often earning a scolding from your mother when your humor graces the dinner table.

Eventually, it takes nothing but a shared glance before you slink off to the kitchen, one at a time, to steal more of Joel’s whiskey. Like a secret, shared language that only the two of you understand. As if the moment the thought crosses his mind, it crosses yours, too. Almost like you’re connected, somehow.

Sometimes Sunday dinners will be paired with a movie. Often, it’s a film Joel rented for the weekend that he claims has ‘good reviews,’ but never has a satisfying ending.

Tommy doesn’t stay for the popcorn or the candy, though. He doesn’t even stay for the movie, in truth.

He stays because you always sit beside him on the loveseat.

It always starts innocently enough. You pull the scratchy, old blanket from the back of the couch, draping it over you both. And then you’re poking his thigh while murmuring comments in his ear.

You’ll say, “God, that guy has the worst fake crying face I’ve ever seen. Looks like he’s constipated.”

And Tommy will laugh, and Sarah will scowl and shush him, and your hand will linger on his knee.

Halfway through, you’ll shift in your seat, trying to get comfortable. You’ll lean back against the armrest and lay your legs across his lap. And Tommy, impulsive man that he is, will slide his hands between your thighs and rub circles into your soft skin, careful not to move too fast, to be too obvious.

Once you reach this point of the night, Tommy doesn’t pay attention to the movie at all. He focuses on you instead, on the way your breath catches in your throat when he squeezes hard, on the way your knees slowly drift further and further apart, on the flush that crawls up your cheeks each time he catches your eye.

It never feels quite so innocent when the movie ends and Tommy has to sit on the couch with that blanket over his lap just a little longer than everyone else.

In September, Joel tells him you and your mom are moving in permanently. No more weekend sleepovers. You’re taking the spare room across the hall from Sarah, the one Tommy knows like the back of his hand after crashing in it countless times.

He’s not sure why, but there’s something satisfying about knowing you’ll be there, sleeping in the bed he’s slept in hundreds of times.

Joel asks him to help move some of the furniture, and Tommy doesn’t hesitate to agree. They move the larger things, while you and Sarah excitedly unpack cardboard boxes and talk about sharing clothes and shoes.

Tommy remembers the times Sarah would beg Joel for a sibling when she was younger, and it warms his heart to see she’s finally gotten the sister she’s always wanted.

He sees you a whole lot more often after that. Tommy picks Joel and Sarah up every morning and drops Joel off after work every day.

Most of the time, you’re still sleeping when he shows up at seven. But the evidence of you is littered all over the house; your shoes by the front door, your jacket slung over the dining room chair, your denim shorts on the floor beside the laundry basket in the bathroom.

And after work, he always comes inside to visit you. Just to see how you’re doing, to see if you’ve had a good day, often making some silly joke just so he gets to hear your sweet laughter. Sometimes he finds you watching one of those teen dramas in the living room, and he loves to poke fun at you for it. “These weird ass vampires again? What, now there’s werewolves, too? How original.”

“Shut up,” you’ll say, tossing a throw pillow at his head.

“I’m just fuckin’ with you, darlin.’ I know how you love that freaky shit.” The embarrassment will show on your face, and Tommy will laugh but his shoulders will drop as all the stress from the day melts away.

Some nights, he’ll find you in the backyard by the pool with that tiny lime colored bikini on, lying on your belly, soaking up the sun. He’ll try to scare you, try to get close with soundless movements.

But you always catch him. Can always sense he’s there. “Now, what if I suddenly decided I didn’t want tan lines and took off my top while you tried sneaking up on me? Tits out. Then what?”

Tommy stops just a few paces away from the spot in the grass where you’ve thrown out your beach towel. He towers over you, casting shadows across your spine. “Wouldn’t be nothin’ I haven’t seen before,” he says.

“You peeping on me, Tommy? Is that where you got your name?”

He snorts, but the idea isn’t half bad. “You fuckin’ wish.”

“Yeah, maybe I do.” The comment gives him pause, but he doesn’t have time to think too hard about it because you’re turning on your back and reaching for the string tied loosely around your neck.

You stare up at him, eyes all glittering and mischievous, hair splayed out in a perfect halo around your head. Tommy knows that he should stop you. Should laugh it off and walk away.

He doesn’t, though. His feet stay firmly planted, pressure building in his lower abdomen, cock pulsing behind the chrome zipper of his jeans.

You tug at the strings until the fabric falls slack. Still covering your chest, but only just barely.

Tommy thinks green might be his new favorite color.

You hook your thumb around the thin string across your ribcage, the only resistance left between this moment and the next, a lone scrap of polyester that stands between Tommy being the fun uncle and the weird one.

He doesn’t say it out loud, doesn’t say anything at all. But he admits to himself only that he does want it. That he wants you. To see you, to touch you, to feel you. It’s wrong and perverted and maybe even a little gross, but you’re just so fucking pretty.

Slowly, those loose-fitting triangles drift lower and lower, almost there. His breath comes fast and labored. The seconds tick by, feeling much longer than they truly are.

And then—

“Dinner!” Your mom’s voice carries through the backyard, kind and airy. “Are you staying, Tommy? We’re having pasta tonight.”

Tommy clears his throat and looks over his shoulder at your mom, who stands on the back deck completely oblivious. “Uh, no,” he says. “Not tonight. Thanks, though.”

“Suit yourself,” she says before disappearing back into the kitchen.

You extend your hand to him, the other held tightly over the fabric of your top to keep it in place. “Help me up,” you say, and he does.

He watches as you turn your back to him, straining to memorize every last second of this moment because he never, ever wants to forget it. The smoothness of your skin, the shallow slope at the small of your back, the delicious curve of your ass—if this is all he ever gets to see, Tommy wants it stuck in his brain like glue. Permanent.

You move the arm that’s held to your chest, and the green fabric finally drops, exposing you completely. With your back still to him, all Tommy can see is the subtle curves of the sides of your breasts, but it’s enough to make his heart race. You gather your hair at the nape of your neck and ask, “Can you tie it for me?”

Tommy knows you’re doing this on purpose. Trying to get a rise out of him, and it’s working. “Course,” he says, stepping forward, placing his rough, calloused hands on your delicate shoulders. He reaches down your body and gathers the nylon strands between his fingers, careful not to touch you more than what’s necessary.

He wants to, though. Christ, does he. His lungs stutter at the thought alone. It takes everything in him to resist lowering himself to his knees and giving you the tender, loving care you deserve. He’d worship you, Tommy decides. He’d demonstrate how a girl like you is supposed to be treated. Touched slowly, gently—until you beg him for more, until you whimper and cry and remember no words but his fucking name.

Until his touch is so deeply embedded in your skin that you’d never be able to root him out.

But he doesn’t give you so much as a clue to what he’s thinking. Instead, he exhales a shaky breath, fanning across the back of your neck, and ties the lime colored strands into a perfect bow. He presses a chaste kiss to the crown of your head and says, “Be good, now. Alright?”

You turn to face him, that familiar, provocative smirk on your sweet mouth. “Never,” you promise, and he knows you mean it.

Tommy doesn’t even notice he’s speeding the entire way back to his shitty apartment. What’s worse is that he doesn’t even make it inside. He sits behind the wheel of his truck, right in the open, empty parking lot, squeezing his aching cock in his hand, head filled with thoughts of you.

The next time he stays for dinner, your mom makes fajitas. You sit beside him on the steps of the back porch and pick red peppers off his plate.

You and Sarah belly-laugh about some YouTube video you watched together late last night, mimicking impressions of an animatronic voice. And it’s at this very moment that Tommy realizes he might be in real trouble.

Because he wants to fuck you. Thinks about it almost every goddamn night. Can’t even get off with the women he meets at the bars anymore without closing his eyes and recalling that lime bikini or the arch of your back or the way your thighs fit so perfectly in his big hands. It’s a carnal desire. Uncontrollable.

But this? Feeling a sense of elation provoked only by knowing you're here beside him, safe, happy, and fed? It’s something else. Something heavy. Something he can’t quite put a name to because he doesn’t have any experience with it, despite his age.

All Tommy Miller knows is that he smiles just at the sound of your name.

The thought crosses his mind that he should try to keep his distance, and he tells himself he will. He lies in bed thinking about it, conducting a plan in his head while staring at the ceiling at two in the morning. He can’t not see you. But maybe he doesn’t have to be so inviting. Maybe he doesn’t have to seek you out every afternoon, doesn’t have to check in and make sure you’ve had a good day.

Maybe he sits on the opposite end of the table during Sunday dinner. Maybe when you give him that look and head to the kitchen in search of whiskey, Tommy keeps his ass on the couch.

But then the next morning rolls around, and he’s picking Sarah and Joel up with dark circles under his eyes and a cigarette hanging from the corner of his lips. He sits on the front steps and glances over his shoulder when the door creaks open and is only a little surprised when you step outside with bare feet, wearing nothing but a thin tank top and a pair of sleep shorts.

Your hair’s messy, and there’s an imprint from your pillow on your cheek. Still half asleep, you let out the cutest whimper he’s ever heard and crawl right into his lap like it’s where you belong.

Tommy spreads his knees apart to make room for you, stubbing his cigarette out on the concrete and tossing it in the grass. He brackets his arms around your waist and interlocks his fingers at your hip while you curl up against him, stealing his warmth.

It feels so easy, so natural that he doesn’t fight it for a second. Doesn’t even realize he should. All those big plans he made six hours ago to right this wrong dissolve as easily as sugar in water. He kisses your forehead and holds you close and says, “Hey, sweetheart. You alright? Somethin’ wrong?”

You nuzzle your nose against the crook of his neck and murmur sleepily, “Missed you.”

Just two words, but that’s all it takes. He decides that the heavy feeling inside his chest is his to cope with. He won’t make you suffer for it. Can’t imagine ever pushing you away or sitting across from you instead of at your side.

There’s only one word for this, he knows. Only one explanation for why he continuously fights for your laughter, your comfort. Only one reason he’s memorized the pattern of your breathing and would know the touch of your hands with his eyes closed.

It’s not right.

It’s not, and Tommy knows it, but he doesn’t have the strength to fight it. So, he cradles this feeling in his hands. Holds it gently. Sees it for what it is.

And then he tucks it away. Locks it up tight and promises never to speak of it.

Joel takes your mom to Galveston for the weekend on their anniversary. He asks Tommy to keep an eye on you and Sarah, to keep his phone on in case the two of you need anything.

He brings takeout over after work on Friday night, but leaves the two of you to your own devices after that. Tommy remembers being your age and doesn’t want to hover, doesn’t want anyone involved to consider him a fucking babysitter. So he gives you the space he wanted when he was young. Figures if you need him, you’ll call him, and he’ll come running.

The phone doesn’t ring until late Sunday afternoon.

Joel and your mom are due home in the next few hours, and your voice is panicky on the other end of the line. “Hey. Can you—can you come over? We sort of broke something, and I tried to fix it but I think I only made it worse.”

Tommy’s in his truck before the call even ends. He asks a hundred questions, tries to get some sort of clarification on the way over. But you don’t give much in the way of answers, and his confusion only increases when he pulls into Joel’s driveway and sees you standing on the porch with a trash bag in hand. “Okay, before you come inside, you have to swear to secrecy,” you say.

Tommy’s brows furrow. “Christ, kid. What the hell’d you do? There a fuckin’ dead body in there?”

You roll your eyes. “Just promise you won’t tell Joel or my mom.”

“Can’t promise nothin’ if I don’t know—”

“Just promise me, Tommy,” you say, frustration building. He’s never seen you this serious, he realizes.

Even if there was a dead body behind the front door, Tommy knows he’d do nothing but protect you from the fallout. And he hates how nervous you look, so the decision comes easily. “Hey.” He reaches out and takes your hand in his, running his thumb across your knuckles. “I promise, alright?”

You let out a sigh of relief. “Good. Cause Sarah’s in there freaking the fuck out cause I called you.”

Tommy follows you inside, mouth open with the intent to ask more questions. But they’re all answered rather quickly when he sees the state of Joel’s living room.

There are half-empty beer cans and red solo cups littered all over every viable surface. Pink and green and orange streamers hang from the ceiling fan and over the stair bannister. Confetti covers the floor and there’s a shattered glass bottle in the kitchen sink, but the most obvious stressor is the six-inch hole in the wall beside the fridge.

Sarah’s footsteps rush down the hall, finger pointed at Tommy. Her eyes are wide, and there’s genuine tension on her face. “Did you swear?”

Tommy raises both hands in surrender. “Cross my heart,” he says, and means it. “Let me take care of the wall first. I’ll get the broken glass after. Don’t wanna see either one of you near it. The last thing we need right now is a trip to the emergency room for stitches.”

Between the three of you, it doesn’t take long. Tommy finds a mesh patch, spackle, and a half-empty gallon of paint in Joel’s garage that matches the kitchen walls. He fills the cavity as quickly as he can, using the box fan from Joel’s bedroom window to speed up the drying process.

You make quick progress, and yet still, he feels his heart sink to his feet at the sound of tires in the driveway.

Both you and Sarah freeze in place, staring at each other with expressions that are somehow both horrified and amused. “We’re so fucked, dude,” you whisper.

But when it comes to hiding things like this, Tommy Miller might just consider himself an expert. “Not just yet,” he swears. “Throw it all out back. I’ll keep them outside for a minute, and then when I leave, I’ll take care of it, alright? Be quick.”

He tries not to laugh as you and Sarah launch into action, running around the room and filling your hands with what remains.

Tommy meets Joel at his truck and asks him how their vacation was, making comments and drawing the discussion out as your mom talks about the aquarium and the restaurants on the pier and how the hotel staff folded your towels into the shape of little swans.

Joel asks how you and Sarah behaved, asks if there had been any trouble. Tommy shakes his head, leaning against the side of the truck. “Nah,” he lies easily. “They were perfect angels as usual.”

When he can no longer make viable conversation points, he very nosily helps them bring their luggage and souvenirs inside. He finds you and Sarah cuddled up on the couch, both reading books that Tommy knows you’ve never cracked open a day in your life.

You both look so out of place that it almost gives you away. He tries not to laugh, but it doesn’t quite work. Joel stares at him in confusion while you and Sarah glare at him from across the room, and so Tommy dismisses himself quickly. “Gonna head home,” he says. “Have to, uh…check on the neighbor's cat. Watching it for the weekend, too.”

He leaves through the front door, but sneaks around through the gate and quietly grabs the trash from the backyard just as he promised. It takes two trips to get it all, and he throws everything into the back of his truck on the off chance that Joel checks the bin before trash day.

Tommy’s tossing the last one when he sees you come sprinting off the front porch. He thinks maybe he’s forgotten something, or maybe Joel and your mom had seen right through the lie and all that acting was for nothing.

But then you’re throwing your arms around his neck and wrapping your legs around his waist, face buried in his shoulder.

Holding you is as easy as breathing. He keeps you upright, keeps you close, with his big hands spread wide over your back.

You say, “Thank you, Uncle Tommy,” and the air is punched from his fucking lungs.

It’s the first time you've said it. The very first time, and he feels giddy and nervous, and his stomach gets all tied in knots like he’s some teenage boy. He squeezes you tighter, and his laughter slips out unrestrained this time.

It’s filthy and dirty and disgusting, but he loves it. “I’ve always got you, darlin',” he says. “You know that.”

You lift your head to look at him, and your pretty mouth is suddenly so close to his that you share the same breath. “Yeah,” you giggle. “I know you do.”

It warms him from the inside out to hear it. He loves being this for you. A holder of secrets, a shoulder to lean on, a solver of problems. He loves that you make him feel needed—wanted in a way he’s never been before.

He loves being your Uncle Tommy.

You press your forehead to his, and desire creeps up his spine, hot and thick and asphyxiating. His limbs feel heavy, and his breath gets caught in his lungs. It’s painful how badly he wants you. Like a peak he can’t quite reach, an itch he can’t quite scratch. You thread your hands in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling gently, and his eyelids flutter closed.

Nothing has ever felt as good as it feels to be touched by you, Tommy realizes. And he knows nothing will ever compare.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Fuck, sweetheart, I…”

There are no words to say. They get all jumbled in his head, and the only thing he can make out in the chaos is his yearning.

“I know,” you say. Because of course you do. You’ve always known him, have always understood him in a way no one else has. Have always been able to see the look on his face and read the thoughts in his head. “I know.”

Slowly, carefully, you untangle your legs from around his waist. You slide down his body and he knows you can feel it. Knows there’s no way in hell the throbbing of his cock could ever be mistaken as just his belt buckle.

But you say nothing. Just smile up at him with those hungry eyes and press a sweet, soft kiss to his cheek.

He drives home in silence.

No music, no news station. Even the windows he leaves up. Tommy can’t think beyond the taste of your oxygen, can’t see past the absolute fucking shit show he’s gotten himself into. He sits in his truck outside his apartment for twenty minutes before he moves again, scratching the stubble along his jaw.

And then, as if he hadn’t almost kissed you in broad daylight, the world keeps turning.

He cleans out the bed of his truck, showers the smell of paint and cheap beer from his skin, and then he goes to work the next morning. He teases Joel about the swan-shaped towels, but there’s no salt to it. Truly, he’s happy for his brother.

Joel’s been so selfless his whole life. Has given the first half of it up to raise Tommy and the second half to raise Sarah and never complained, not even once.

If anyone in the world deserves that gooey, cliche kind of love that’s just good and uncomplicated and easy, it’s Joel. They really are perfect for each other, he and your mother.

Tommy tries not to think about how his happiness for his brother is paired with a simmering jealousy underneath. Decides to take that green-eyed confession to his grave.

Friday afternoon, one of the electricians Joel hired a few months ago invites Tommy out to a nightclub. “The whole team’s going tomorrow,” he says. “Booze, girls, drugs if you’re into that kinda thing. One of those pop-up ones. It’s in that old warehouse on the other side of town.”

Sounds tempting, he’ll admit. Right up his alley. But Tommy knows himself, and knows that in a place like that he’s likely to go a little overboard. Spend too much money, have too many drinks, wake up the next morning with a girl in his bed he doesn’t remember talking to. And if he does that, he likely won’t make it to Sunday dinner at Joel’s.

Which means no time with you.

No stolen, longing glances across the room. No heat of your thigh pressed against his. No thieving fingers on his plate.

Tommy shakes his head. “Thanks, Mike. But, uh…I’m—I’m good.”

He thinks that’s the end of it. But then Joel asks, real gently, “You got a girl or somethin’ I don’t know about?”

“What? Nah, man. No. Definitely not.” Tommy knows his answer comes too quickly, too dismissive for it to be even remotely believable. But it’s true, isn’t it? You’re not his girl. You just…well, you’re his niece. Sort of.

Joel eyes him suspiciously. All he says is, “Never would’ve imagined you’d skip out on that.” But it’s enough to convince Tommy that his brother doesn’t believe him for even a second.

He lay awake that night, head filled with thoughts of you. Because Tommy knows Joel’s right. Before you’d waltzed into his life and altered its course, he would’ve been all over that. Would’ve jumped at the opportunity for an exclusive warehouse party, even knowing what would likely happen. He’d take the migraine and the dehydration and the overdrafted checking account at just the plausible idea of a good time.

And he’d declined so quickly. That’s the part that gets him. The thing that gives him perspective. He hadn’t even debated it for a single second because the things that once brought him joy pale in comparison to simply being at your side.

Saturday morning, Tommy makes a phone call. Says he changed his mind and gets the address of the warehouse.

He spends his afternoon running errands, doing everything he knows he won’t have the energy for tomorrow. And then he showers and puts gel in his hair and picks out a nice outfit. Starched blue jeans that fit him nicely and an expensive leather belt and a white t-shirt. He puts on a simple gold chain and sprays his favorite cologne (trying not to think about the fact that it’s only his favorite because one afternoon you’d said he smelled so good he was ‘edible’).

On the drive over, he has to hype himself up. Has to try and convince himself that this is a good thing. It’s what he needs. To get out there again, to find someone who makes him feel the way you do. Someone nice and age-appropriate and not loosely familial. Someone who doesn’t know Joel or your mother or Sarah or you in any fucking capactiy whatsoever.

Tommy doesn’t think it’s likely that he’ll find that person here, of course. But there’s a possibility, right? To meet someone who could be the love of his life. A slim chance, but a chance nonetheless.

There are more people than he expects. The warehouse looks almost dark on the outside. Quiet and empty. But once the bouncer checks his ID and lets him through the double doors, the inside is a different world entirely.

There are three different bars. One on the left wall, one on the right, and one in the very center of the room in the shape of an oval. There’s a big stage with a live DJ and house music playing loud over the speakers. The dance floor is lively and drenched in neon lights and the air is thick with humidity and the smell of liquor.

Excitement trickles into his bloodstream. It’s been a long while since he’s been in a place like this, but Tommy thinks it might just cure him.

All it takes is a quick text before he finds Mike and the rest of the guys from the work site that decided to show up. There’s only a handful of them, but they all split the bill for a round of shots, and Tommy orders a whiskey and coke.

They’re here for one reason, of course—and Tommy’s no different. They chat for a while, but eventually the guys all peel off from the group one by one after buying a girl a drink and then proceeding to disappear into the crowd of dancing bodies.

Mike has a wife, but even he finds someone to dance with, and eventually Tommy sits at the bar alone.

He pulls out his phone. Opens your thread of messages and smiles to himself as he scrolls through them. It’s filled with silly photos and dirty jokes and the occasional text from you that reads, ‘miss you today<3’ and his perpetual response, ‘I always miss you more. Be good, sweetheart.’

Tommy’s so deeply focused on his phone that he nearly jumps out of his skin when his drink is pulled right out of his hands.

He looks up with a scowl on his face, not anticipating a fight but preparing for one, and then—

“Can I have some of that?” You don’t wait for his answer before sipping from his glass, leaving lip gloss stains in the same place his mouth was moments ago.

“What in the fuck?” A crease forms between his brows as he takes in your familiar face, backlit by green and yellow lights. “They’re checking IDs at the door,” he says. “How did you even get in here?”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, come on, Uncle Tommy. You’re telling me you never had a fake when you were my age?”

Tommy knows he probably should say something…responsible right now. Should probably warn you of the dangers in a place like this, especially for a girl like you. Should be taught about covetous men with wandering hands and powders dropped in drinks and cigarettes laced with God knows what.

But he did have a fake ID at your age and could be found at places a whole lot like this one. Two peas in a fucking pod, he thinks.

So, instead, he asks, “Did you, uh…come here with someone? Friends or…I don’t know. A boyfriend, maybe?”

He steels himself in preparation for your answer. You’ve never mentioned a boyfriend before, but you’re at that age. Probably experimenting a little, sifting through the options to find which one suits you best.

But you’re standing at a bar, all alone, buying your own drink. Shitty fucking option, Tommy thinks.

“Why? You jealous or something?” There’s a teasing lilt to your voice, and Tommy knows you’re just trying to get a rise out of him. But the sad part is that you’re not too far off, and that’s what has him turning to the bartender and ordering another.

“Got no reason to be jealous,” Tommy answers with a shrug. “Ain’t exactly like I’ve got a spot on the roster, darlin’.”

Your smile falls. Just barely, almost undetectable. But Tommy notices. Would notice it even if you were across the room. “Is that what you think?”

“It’s what I know.”

“Well, then you’re a fucking idiot, Tommy Miller.” You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. The words are sharp, icy. You take a long drink from his stolen glass. “What stops you?”

His brows furrow. “Stops me…?”

“From doing what you want to me.” It gives him pause, laying it out so boldly like that. The truth he’s never spoken aloud falls so easily from your tongue. “We get so close,” you elaborate. “Just one moment, one choice away…but you never do it. You always hesitate, and then the moment’s gone. So what stops you?”

His morals, your age, your vibrance. You’re so good, so lively and carefree and happy. How does he explain that he doesn’t want to ruin this? Ruin you? How does he explain that taking that next step with you would tarnish both of you forever? Red to blue, green to yellow. It would never be the same.

He’s supposed to protect you. Supposed to give you a shoulder to cry on and a soft landing in your time of need and spot you a twenty when you’re short on cash. Supposed to be a guiding hand as an uncle should. He’s not supposed to be…whatever this is.

Tommy’s relieved when the bartender hands him his drink. “You know what stops me,” he says as if it’s obvious, throwing back half the glass in one long drink. The whiskey burns.

“Would it be different if you didn’t know me?”

“Very,” he answers honestly, his mind filling so easily with those obscene possibilities. “But I do know you, so it doesn’t matter.”

That familiar, troublesome smirk finds its way to your glossy lips. You toss back what remains in your glass, set it on the bar, and say, “I’m going to walk away. Okay? And you’re going to have one of those cases of temporary amnesia.”

Tommy laughs and shakes his head. “You’re crazy,” he says.

But you don’t pay him any mind. “You’re going to forget everything you know about me. Every last detail. I’m just some girl at a club, and you’re just some guy at the bar.” You put your hands on his shoulders, shaking lightly, staring up at him with starry eyes. Tommy’s heart races behind his sternum, but he can’t stop grinning. “I’m not me, and you’re not you. And tomorrow, you’ll be cured. Everything will go back to normal, just like it was. Okay?”

“S’a real bad idea, darlin’,” he warns.

“So don’t make me do it alone.”

Tommy swallows hard. He’s never said no to you in all his life, and it’s just…it’s just one night, right? Maybe it’s what he needs. A slow release of pressure, a controlled indulgence to prevent an explosion.

You see the decision as he makes it. Know what he’s thinking without him speaking a single word. Tommy covers his mouth to stifle his rugged amusement as he watches you take five steps away from him, turn in a complete circle, and then make your way back to the bar.

In a dramatic show of film-esque seduction, you lean against the bar and say, “Well, aren’t you a tall glass of water?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Tommy mutters to himself, smiling so hard the apples of his cheeks hurt.

You playfully slap his bicep with the back of your hand. “Aren’t you going to ask if you can buy me a drink? Wine and dine me?”

He recalls your very first conversation, that one in Joel’s kitchen when you’d promised not to let any man inside your mouth without properly romancing you first. “Alright, then,” he resigns. “What’re you havin,’ sweetheart?”

“Whiskey,” you say, and he’s not the least bit surprised.

Tommy buys your drink and says, “You look…really beautiful.” You’re wearing a silvery satin dress, sinfully short, tight in all the right places. The straps are thin against your otherwise bare shoulders, and he reaches out and gently runs his knuckles down the curve of your collarbone. He thinks it might be the very first time he’s ever touched you here, and it’s not inherently a sexual caress, but it feels so… intimate. Heavy.

You glance down at yourself, at the strappy black heels on your feet. “Thank you,” you say. “But I think it’d look even better on your bedroom floor.”

“Fuck yeah it would,” he agrees, chuckling.

“Do you wanna dance?”

Tommy’s never abandoned a drink so fast in his life. He takes your hand in his and says, “I thought you’d never ask.”

He leads you through the crowd while the DJ plays some bass-heavy pop song he’s heard on the radio a hundred times. He finds a reasonable space and raises your hand above your head, turning you so he can properly appreciate the sight of that dress.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he says. “Do you know that?”

You roll your eyes like it’s a joke, but Tommy’s being dead serious. You say, “Shut up.” But he sees the way your cheeks heat, even beneath the flashing lights.

You sway your hips in time to the beat, body moving in sync with the music. There’s nothing shy or timid about it; that allure of yours comes so easily, glowing from the inside out.

Tommy’s never been a good dancer, and he knows it, but it doesn’t feel that way at all. You seem to find such amusement in his nonsensical movements, not a drop of apprehension trickles into his psyche.

When you grab his hands and place them on your hips, he lets his instinct take over. Pulls you in close, chests pressed together, his thigh between your legs. You sing the lyrics as if every song is your favorite with a face-splitting grin and those sweet giggles falling from your lips. He pushes you away and spins you around, only to pull you right back. Right into his waiting embrace, right where you belong. Your breath comes fast, but you don’t slow down, and neither does he.

He’s not sure he’s ever felt like this in his entire life. This open, this full. A strange sort of nostalgia passes through him, a homesickness, missing the moment before it’s even passed, knowing he’ll eventually look back on this night as the best he’s ever had.

The air is hot and stiff, but he breathes in your oxygen, and it gives him life. You move together so seamlessly, and Tommy thinks about how he’d come here seeking the possible love of his life and wonders if it’s fate that you were here.

Fate that you had a fake ID, that you somehow knew about the same exclusive pop-up party he’d declined and then came to anyway. Fate that you’d be here alone, that you’d choose one bar out of three others, and that he just happened to be standing there at the very same time. In a warehouse filled with a thousand strangers, you’d somehow found him.

The songs flow and fade, bleeding from one to the next. You dance and dance, and Tommy watches you—enthralled, obsessed, in love.

He loses track of the time, thinks hours could have passed without his notice, and he wouldn’t have even cared. But when he sees a bead of sweat trickle down your neck, he asks, “Wanna step out for a minute?”

You nod once, and Tommy grabs your hand again and pulls you out of the crowd. He gives the bouncer a tight-lipped smile as you slip out of the wide doors. There’s a designated smoking area near the entrance, and that’s where Tommy leads you.

The music can still be heard outside, muffled and low. He pulls the pack of Marlboros out of his back pocket, lights one, and inhales deeply. When he looks up, he finds you watching him, leaning back against the concrete wall of the warehouse, the blue light of the moon reflected in your eyes.

You outstretch your hand and take the cigarette from between his fingers, taking a slow drag. “Do you bring girls you don’t know home often?”

Tommy can see right through you. Sees that unease beneath your smile, sees the way you feel the need to ask but don’t want the answer, and relates to it. It makes his stomach turn, though. Because he doesn’t ever want you to think of yourself that way, doesn’t want you to think for a single second that this is anything like that.

Because you’re not a girl he doesn’t know. Not just a means to an end. You’re you.

You’re everything.

“I don’t like this,” he admits quietly. “The pretending.”

You pass the cigarette back to him, and when he puts it to his mouth, he can taste the cherry flavor of your lip gloss on the orange filter. “Would you have as much fun, though? With all that added weight.”

Tommy doesn’t know. Has never had a fucking clue about anything in all his life, really. Never knew what he wanted to do or who he wanted to be.

The only thing that has ever been clear to him is you.

“If we stopped pretending,” you say. “What would you do?”

He hesitates.

And then decides not to let this moment pass him.

He places both hands on either side of your face and kisses you hard, hungry. Tasting you feels like a breath of fresh air, like relief. Your bottom lip slots between his so perfectly that he thinks you must have been made for him, that there could never be anyone else. When you let out the most delicious whimper he’s ever heard, Tommy slides his tongue into your mouth and moans.

It feels like time wasted, like this is what he’s been meant to do his whole life, and now he has to make up for the opportunity lost.

When he pulls away, it’s reluctant, still cradling your pretty face in his hands. Your eyes are wide, and your breath is labored.

“That’s what I would do,” he says.

A minute passes, and you just stare at him, searching his eyes for something. Doubt, maybe. But you won’t find any, because Tommy Miller has never been more sure of anything in his entire life.

And then, finally—

“Uncle Tommy?”

No more pretending. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

“I want you to take me home. Right now,” you say.

“Now?”

“Yes. Right the fuck now. Please.”

He smiles widely. “C’mon, baby.”

Tommy takes you to his truck and buckles you in. The ride back to his apartment feels like a blur. He’s barely had two drinks, but you make him feel drunk.

You can’t keep your hands off him. It only takes three seconds once he pulls onto the road before you’re unbuckling your seatbelt and sliding across the cab. You press wet, open-mouthed kisses to the side of his neck and run your hands over his strong thighs, giggling all the while.

He has to reel you in a little after almost running a red light. “Careful, now,” he says, taking your hand in his free one and pressing a kiss to the back of it. “If I die before I get to eat your pussy I’ll come back and haunt the fuck out of you.”

You throw your head back and laugh, but Tommy means it.

It’s a relief when he pulls in the parking lot in one piece, but before he even cuts the ignition, you’re crawling into his lap.

His pretty, desperate girl.

You kiss him deep, tongue sliding against his, hips tilting over the already hard cock in his jeans. He could cum just like this, Tommy knows, with you on top of him and your hands tangled in the curls at the nape of his neck. You smell sweet and seductive, and he can think of nothing beyond this singular moment.

“Let’s just do it right here,” you say, panting, hands sliding beneath his t-shirt. “I want you so bad. I’ve wanted it for so long, please.”

There are no words to describe how much it satisfies him to hear it, to hear you beg for him. But you deserve better than this. Deserve so much more than a back seat fuck. He wants to give you everything, wants to give you all of him. “I know, sweetheart, I know,” he says. Because he does. “Wanna see you in my bed, though.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, and Tommy uses it to his advantage, holding you close as he quickly gets out of the truck and locks it behind him. You’re a giggling mess, pressing kisses to his face as he makes his way inside and up the stairs to his apartment. “You’re so handsome,” you say. “Have I ever told you that?”

“A hundred times,” he says, kicking the door closed behind him. “But one more won’t hurt.”

His apartment is a mess. There are dishes in the sink and clothes on the floor and an empty plate on the coffee table, but just seeing you here makes his heart swell in his chest.

He begins to wonder if this is where you’re meant to be; taking up room in his space, kicking off your shoes at the front door.

Tommy’s cock pulses in the confines of his jeans.

“Kiss me again,” you say. “Kiss me like you mean it.”

He does. His mouth clashes against yours, tongue licking into your sweet mouth, savoring the taste of what remains of your shimmery lip gloss.

Tommy’s hands drift lower, squeezing at the round globes of your ass, pulling you impossibly closer. One of his hands dips between your thighs, feeling the soft lace you wear beneath that sinful dress. “Fuck,” he hisses. “Fuck, I need to taste you. Been dreamin’ about it.”

“You dream about me?”

He wraps his big arms around your waist and lifts you. “Every fuckin’ night,” he admits, turning towards his bedroom.

Doesn’t make it very far, though. Because when you wrap your legs around his waist and rut against him, Tommy lets out a low sound from somewhere deep inside his chest before laying you back against the kitchen island.

“Fuck it,” he murmurs to himself. Close enough, he thinks.

You look so fucking pretty like this. All sprawled out for him, flushed with your swollen lips parted and your pupils blown wide. He’d always known it would be a sight to behold, but this…it’s something else entirely.

Cataclysmic. Divine sacriliege.

He leans over you and kisses your chest softly. “Tell me you want this,” he says. “That you want me.”

Your answer comes fast. “I want you, Uncle Tommy.”

And he feels a deep-seated desire swirl low in his abdomen. Because it’s fucked up. He knows it is. Is completely, lucidly aware that this is all wrong. Filthy and twisted.

Yet he wants it anyway. Maybe not despite it, but because of it. Pleasure heightened with this sick perversion.

He slides his hands under your dress and hooks his fingers around the lace, pulling it down your legs. You’re so wet for him he can see it stick, webs of slick snapping as he groans at the sight. “Goddamn, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Didn’t tell me it was like this.”

“I need you so bad it hurts,” you tell him. “Get so wet just thinking about it.” Your voice is low and desperate, almost a cry.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he says. “Uncle Tommy’s going to take care of you, okay? Gonna make that ache go away.”

He kisses you slowly. Starts at your ankle and slowly works his way up. He kisses and bites the insides of your thighs, savoring the moment not for you but for him, leaving indentations of his teeth in your flesh. A memory, he thinks. A promise that you’ll think of this tomorrow and the next day. That you’ll remember the way he made you feel.

Then he’s rolling your dress up your hips, delighting in the way you get all shy and squirmy as he takes you in, unashamed in his study. “Such a pretty little pussy,” he says. “Gonna make her feel real good, sweetheart. Don’t you worry.”

He surges forward, licking through your folds. memorizing the way your slit feels beneath his tongue because he never wants to forget this. Never wants to forget the way you gasp beneath him or the way your hands pull at his hair. “Oh my god.”

“Shhh,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you, pretty girl.” he kisses your clit. Once, twice, before sucking it between his lips. He spreads your legs wide and presses his mouth to you, nose crinkling against your pubic bone.

He could die here a happy man. You taste divine, better than anything his mind could have ever conjured up. He licks and sucks until you’re writhing, and when he presses two fingers gently into your opening, your back arches off the counter top.

Tommy hooks two fingers inside you, hitting that sweet spot, your perfect moans echoing through his kitchen. He wraps an arm around your thigh and pulls you roughly to the edge of the counter. His tongue is warm and wet as he uses it to circle your clit, groaning against you, sending vibrations through your body.

His name falls from your mouth between gasping breaths. You grind yourself against him, making a delicious mess of his face and pulling at the roots of his hair.

He can feel you clenching around his fingers, chasing that high, chasing release. Tommy decides to give you a little encouragement. “Go on, now,” he mutters against your spit-soaked clit. “Take it, baby. You deserve it. Been so fuckin’ good for so long. Deserve a reward.”

Your breath halts, just for a second. And then you let out a long, salacious moan and your legs tremble around his head. Tommy feels your walls pulse around his two fingers, squeezing them hard. “Fuck, fuck—”

“That’s it,” he praises, flicking his soft tongue gently over your clit, fingers working you through it, pressing in deep. “There you go, shhh. Just like that.”

He looks up at you, branding this image in his brain. The arch of your back, the strain in your throat as you desperately take in oxygen, the way the shimmery, silver sequins on your dress cast little rainbows across his apartment. He’ll never forget it for as long as he lives.

“You look so beautiful, darlin’,” he says. “So pretty when you cum for your Uncle Tommy.”

Only when your writhing stops and your breath evens out does he slow the rhythm of his fingers, caressing your insides slowly, gently, making sure he coaxes it all out of you and delighting in the little whimpers you make in response. And then he carefully slides them out of you, digits slick and glossy with your release. Your eyes are glued to his as he brings them to his mouth and licks them clean, not wasting a single drop. That smirk of yours forms as you say, breathless, “Kiss me.”

Tommy grips the back of your neck and pulls you forward, grinning as he gives you what you need. He kisses you eagerly, tongue finding yours, licking into your mouth.

“Can taste it,” you mutter, giggling against his lips. “I made a real mess of you.”

In more ways than one, Tommy thinks. “Tastes fuckin’ good, though,” he says. “Just gettin’ started, anyway.”

He lifts you off the counter, laughing as you squeal in surprise when he tosses you over his shoulder so easily. You fist your hands in the bottom of his wrinkled t-shirt, seeking stability. “I bet you have blue sheets,” you say.

Tommy snorts. “You’ve thought about the color of my sheets?” Such a simple thing, an irrelevant part of his life that has never mattered to him in any capacity.

“Duh,” you say as if it’s obvious, and Tommy’s suddenly overwhelmed with warmth. He likes that you think about it—his sheets, his bedroom, him. Likes knowing he’s not been alone in his mania. “Always knew I’d end up in them.”

He laughs darkly as he pushes open the door and shoulders you onto his bed, right in the center of his navy blue sheets.

You smile up at him, beaming with pride, and he shakes his head as you say, “Told ya.”

It doesn’t surprise him that you’d guessed correctly because you know him. Better than anyone else ever has. Because you and Tommy are one and the same, two sides to the same twisted coin. “Yeah, yeah, alright,” he teases, crawling over you, knees braced on either side of your thighs. “S’enough outta you, know it all.”

You open your mouth, probably to make some filthy joke, but whatever it is never sees the light of day because Tommy hooks his fingers around the thin straps of your dress and pulls them down your shoulders. He tugs at the fabric until your breasts are bared to him, pretty and soft and perfect.

He cups them tenderly in his hands, thumbs grazing the hardened peaks of your nipples. He watches goosebumps rise across your chest, and it brings a sick smile to his face. “S’that feel good, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you breathe, eyes heavy. “Touch me more. Wanna feel you.”

Tommy’s never heard a more tempting request in his life. He leans over and presses his mouth to your chest, hands roaming over your skin. He takes your nipple in his mouth and flicks his tongue over the sensitive flesh, sighing against you at the sound of your moan.

He pushes your dress down to your hips and lets you shimmy the rest of the way out of it, kicking the shiny fabric onto the floor. You lift your hips to meet his, and his cock is so hard and needy that the smallest bit of friction nearly knocks him on his ass. “Shit,” he hisses, trailing kisses across your chest, spreading his worship. He plans to take his time, wants to see just how close he can get you with just his mouth on your tits.

But then your voice breaks through your breathy whimpers. “Uncle Tommy,” you say. “Wait. Wait, I—”

He stops, pulling back, giving you room to breathe. The coldness of fear begins to trickle in as he anticipates your next words. Has he gone too far? Said too much, moved too fast?

“I want you in my mouth,” you say with those pretty eyes, and he convinces himself he’s dreaming. “Please.”

Because this can’t be real. There’s no way in hell he’s looking at you, naked in his bed, begging to suck his cock. His pretty, perfect girl. Tommy runs his hands down his face, and a sound of utter disbelief escapes him. But then he’s nodding, just as eager. “Yeah, baby,” he says. “Course you can.”

Your responding smile sends a shiver down his spine. Carefully, you move from beneath him, hands tugging at the buckle of his leather belt. He can do nothing but watch with reverence as you unbutton his jeans and pull at his zipper, tongue wetting your lips.

The air gets stuck in his lungs as you reach into his boxers and pull him out with gentle fingers. It’s hypnotic, the way you touch him. You press a sweet, chaste kiss to his tip and with that one touch alone he’s already fighting for his fucking life.

But he lets you do what you want to him. Lets you move at your own pace. Tommy’s grateful you’re slow in your pursuit, though. Tasting him, tongue gliding down the underside of his shaft, savoring.

When you finally take him fully in your mouth, his head falls back and he sighs deeply. It’s almost too much to feel you and look at you, but Tommy doesn’t want to miss it. He strokes your hair as you hollow out your cheeks and greedily swallow him down. “Fuck,” he groans. “Look so good with my dick in your mouth. Yeah, there you go. Just like that.”

You suck harder, take him in deeper. His vision blurs, and pleasure builds and builds and builds, rushing to the surface of his skin.

“Easy,” he warns. You look at him through your lashes, lips parted around his heavy cock. It’s the most pornographic image he’s ever fucking seen and it’s going to have him cumming down your throat. “Easy, easy, easy—” Tommy takes a handful of your hair and pulls you back, dick pulsing as he watches strands of your spit stick to him. “Jesus Christ, sweetheart.”

Pure, sprightly giggles bubble from your glossy lips. So beautiful it hurts him. “Can I tell you what I want?”

“Always,” he promises, and means it.

You move across his bed, crawling back towards the headboard. Your voice is low, a seductive whisper as you tell him, “I want you to take off your clothes.”

He does. Starts by pulling his t-shirt over his head and tossing it to the floor. Then he takes off his boots and shoves his jeans and boxers down, discarding them beside your pretty little dress.

“I want you to come over here and kiss me,” you say. Tommy moves on instinct, crawling towards you. He’s nearly there when you speak again, mouth hovering over yours. “And then I want you inside me, Uncle Tommy.”

He shivers as you spread your legs slowly, putting on a sweet little show. All for him. “Yeah?”

“Mmhm,” you murmur. You slide your hands down your body, that troublesome look on your face, teasing. As you glide your fingers through your pussy, slick and glossy, you continue. “Wanna watch it go in. Wanna see it here,” you say, pressing hard against your lower abdomen.

Tommy’s always given you everything you’ve ever wanted. Has never had any problem satisfying all your needs. And that doesn’t change now, either.

He kisses you slowly. Meaningfully. There’s intent behind it. Love. Adoration. He hopes you can feel it. Hope you can sense it.

With his forehead against yours, he lines himself up at your entrance. He cradles your face with his hand. Says, “Tell me if it hurts.”

And then he’s pushing inside you, and his hands shake. You watch it, just as you wanted. Watch his cock split you open, watch your pretty pussy make room for him. And Tommy watches you, delighting in the way your eyes go wide and watery, in the way your lips part in a gasp.

He sinks into you all the way, hips pressed tight against yours. And when he pulls back out his cock is covered in your slick. “How’s it feel, baby?”

You nod frantically, chest heaving. “S’good,” you answer. “So fucking…God. You’re so big.”

Tommy tilts his hips, quickly finding a cadence that makes you cry out his name. You feel like heaven. Warm and wet, soaked. The sounds echo in his bedroom, obscene and filthy. He kisses your forehead, your nose, your temple. Every part of you he can reach. “This what you wanted? Hm?”

“Yes, yes, please—”

“Shh, s’alright, darlin’. Ain’t gotta beg me. Uncle Tommy’s got you.” Your silky walls grip his cock tighter as he says it, and he knows then and there that you’re the same in this, too. Knows that you like the perversion, the corruption, the filth.

He thrusts harder, deeper. Your back arches, and your hand reaches for his. Tommy laces his fingers through yours and has never felt closer to anyone in his life. You say, “I needed you,” and he agrees.

“I know, baby. Me too. I’m here now. Gonna make you cum for me.” He uses his free hand and presses it to your lips. “Open your mouth.”

You do. His perfect girl. He presses his fingers past your lips, into your mouth. Your tongue swirls around them, coating them in your spit. And then he snakes his arm between you and circles your clit, tortorously gentle. “Oh my fucking God,” you cry, squeezing your eyes shut.

But Tommy won’t have it. “Nuh-uh. Look at me, baby,” he says. “C’mon. Wanna see the way you look cumming on Uncle Tommy’s cock, huh?” You do as he says, and a tear rolls down your cheek. “There you go. Just like that. Good job.”

“Tommy,” you whimper, pussy fluttering around him. He’s not going to last long, not like this. Not when you cry for him so beautifully.

He circles your clit faster, fighting off the bliss that creeps up his spine. “Right here,” he says, kissing your tears away, salt clinging to his lips. “Stay right here with me, sweet girl. Takin’ it so fuckin’ well for me.”

Your fingernails dig into the back of his hand and he knows you’re there, can feel your pussy sucking him in deeper. “Cum with me,” you say, breath ragged. “Cum with me, please.”

“Fuck, fuck…baby, I don’t know if—”

“It’s okay, I promise,” you tell him, voice pleading. “I’m on birth control, I swear. Just…I want to feel it, Uncle Tommy. Want you to fill me up.”

This will damn him, he knows.

“Please, please, please. I’m gonna—I’m gonna cum, oh my God—”

He’d do anything for you.

“Always gonna give you what you want,” he says. “My favorite girl.”

Your eyes are starry as you crest that high, somehow even more exquisite than the first time. Sweet moans fill the room, and your thighs shake as your release rocks through you, spine bending off his blue sheets. You cry out his name, and that’s what sets him over the edge.

His cock pulses inside of you, painting your insides with thick, sticky ropes of cum. It’s the most intense orgasm he’s ever had, and he knows he’ll chase this high for the rest of his fucking life. “That’s it,” he whispers, his breath hot against the shell of your ear. “Such a filthy little thing, beggin’ for your Uncle Tommy to fill you up with his cum. You’re so perfect for me.”

He gives you ever last drop, thrusting in deep until his cock is so overstimulated it almost hurts. But he circles your clit with his spit-soaked fingers until you come down, walls spasming uncontrollably around him.

When he finally pulls out of you, he does it gently. And then he collapses on the bed beside you, panting to try and slow the racing of his heart. He turns his head to look at you and catches your eye, and he’s not quite sure why, but you both grin and just laugh.

There’s no dirty joke or any sort of amusement. Nothing’s funny, but Tommy supposes he’s just…well, he’s happy. Seeing you on the right side of his mattress, all naked and fucked out and satisfied, it just feels so right.

And he knows it’s not. Knows it’s so far removed from the idea of right that it’s absurd, but you’re stifling your laughter behind your hands and turning away from him to try and find some sort of composure, and Tommy thinks maybe he just doesn’t fucking care.

Doesn’t care about right or wrong, doesn’t care about what anyone would think or say. Because how could he when you’re at his side? How could anything else on God’s green earth ever matter to him as much as you?

It can’t happen again. He knows that.

But this is enough, Tommy thinks. This one night. A stolen moment in time that will forever belong only to the two of you, where nothing and no one matters beyond his apartment. The life here, the love between you, encased so perfectly in these four walls…it’s a gift. One he doesn’t deserve. Sweet as maple syrup and warm as the hot summer sun.

And yet it’s been given to him anyway, and Tommy Miller’s going to cherish it for the rest of his life.

When you finally turn back to him, you lie on your side with a face-splitting grin. “We’re so fucked,” you say.

Tommy laughs. “Oh, absolutely,” he agrees, pulling you close. He wraps his arms around your waist and treasures the weight of your head on his chest. “Totally, completely fucked.”

“Well, at least we’re together.”

He smiles. Presses a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Yeah,” he whispers. “At least there’s that.”

Two peas in a fucking pod.

(ermmmm ik i said i wanted to write more single part fics this year but if literally just one person asks for a part two I'll cave)

[divider by @bernardsbendystraws]

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