#this is why i like the ao3 tagging system more
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HAI! i rlly like your platonic 141 fics and I'm wondering if we could get some more dad price and/or brother gaz sleepy cuddles? :3
stretched too thin â python333
â â â â
synopsis gaz notices you overworking yourself one night and decides to step in before you end up pulling an all-nighter.
relationships platonic!gaz & gn!reader.
characters gaz.
word count 2.05k
warnings 2nd person pov [you/yours/yourself], usage of pet names [love, darling], usage of c/n [code name/call sign].
note oh my god im so sorry i disappeared for like. a month. ill try my best to not be gone for more than a week at a time, but with all of my schoolwork and just over all stress ive been experiencing lately, i dont know if ill be able to get fics out every week :< ill try my best though! please accept this fic as an apologyâits another big bro gaz one!! special shoutout to everyone else who has an older sibling thats very distant with them, you and me are in the same boat fr!! also, last thingâim thinking about making a discord server where i announce when fics are being written and published and stuff, but i dunno if yall would join or anything, so if u would pls lmk!!
You havenât left your office in five hours.Â
Recentlyâjust about two days agoâyou finished up an assignment fairly quickly and, as a result, had to write a detailed report of said assignment. It went over the mission youâd gone on, and listed off every major detail you could think of, though because you just canât give yourself a break you were constantly thinking of other details you mightâve missed even though there was little chance youâd missed anything.
The mission wasnât anything too important, honestly. It was originally going to be a week-long camp-out reconnaissance by an enemy task forceâs base, obtaining information on their schedule and what they did throughout the day and whatnot. However, only a day into the mission, the small squad of soldiers that had accompanied you saw another small military group observing the same group youâd been observing.
So, naturally, you observed them as well. Arenât you just the best multi-tasker?
The task force eventually found out about the other group, just a day later, while your squad was still in the clear to continue your observations. So, your mission had quickly come to a closeâbut, because of the circumstances under which the mission had come to a close, you were required to write an extremely detailed report on the other group and the group youâd been observing.
It would be an understatement to say you were tired. Youâre exhausted.
Between the non-stop writing, the coffee sitting on your desk thatâs been microwaved five times and has been refilled thrice, and the uncomfortable chair youâve sat in that you have yet to replace, youâre extremely exhausted. Your movements are sluggish, your fingers arenât as swift on the keyboard of your computer as they usually are, and worst of allâyou still have more to write.Â
Your eyes stung and felt dry, your hands felt like they were going to stop working completely at any moment, and you were overall just exhausted.Â
You look over at the clock on your desk, and it reads 02:28 AM, indicating that you would only have about four hours to sleep if you went to bed now. Iâm too far into this report to stop now, You tell yourself, sighing as you blink slowly at your computer screen, If only my vision didnât keep getting blurryâŠÂ
Suddenly, you hear a knock at the door. Your eyebrows furrow together in confusion, and for a second you think youâre hallucinating until the knock sounds once more.Â
Reluctantly, with a voice raspy from not using it almost all day, you call out, âCome in!ïżœïżœÂ
Your voice is softer and quieter than youâd like it to be, but it doesnât matter too much to you at this momentâat least, not in your foggy mind that still begs you for sleep, even when you have far more of your report to finish.Â
The door opens with a creak, and in walks Gaz.Â
âSarg,â He greets you, not bothering to close the door behind him as he walks up to your desk, âPleasure to see you for the first time in, what⊠three days?âÂ
âTwo days and eighteen hours,â You correct him, taking a moment to crack your stiff knuckles, not taking your eyes off of your monitor, âAnd you know you donât have to call me âsargâ or âsergeantâ or anything. Weâre the same rank.âÂ
Gaz promptly ignores you, âRight, well, anything over a day is way too long for me to go without seeing you. Whyâre you all cooped up in here on your computer?â
ââCause I need to write a report on my assignment,â You briefly explain, before lightly goading Gaz, âNot all of us need a shit ton of attention every day like you do.âÂ
âEhh,â Gaz theatrically makes a thinking face, before shrugging, âNot sure what you mean by âusâ, but alright.âÂ
âBy âusâ, I mean everyone but you.âÂ
âSurely that doesnât include you, right?âÂ
âIt does.âÂ
Gaz gasps quietly at your reply, before dramatically responding, âOh, you canât be serious.â
âI absolutely can,â You hum, finally taking your eyes off of your computer screen to look up at Gaz, âIs it so hard for you to believe that I donât need to talk to you every waking hour?âÂ
âIt is, actually,â Gaz scoffs, âBecause I know that you do need to talk to me every waking hour.âÂ
âUh, no I donât,â You childishly argue, raising an eyebrow at Gaz.
âUh, yes you do,â Gaz immaturely argues back, crossing his arms, âLook me in the eyes and tell me that the past two days and eighteen hours havenât been shit because I havenât given you any attention.â
You open your mouth to form a response but quickly close it, realizing that yeah, actually, I kind of do crave his attention.Â
Fuck.
âYouâre not the only person that gives me attention,â You point out, hoping to find some way to change the subject.
âSure, but you like the attention I give you the most,â Gaz hums, leaning forward to rest his crossed arms on your desk opposite of where you sit.
âYou donât know that.â
âThen tell me that Iâm wrong,â Gaz challenges you.
You narrow your eyes at him, glaring at him for a moment before sighing, âYou suck.â
âMaybe I suck, but you look like you havenât slept for the past week,â Gaz points out, âYou look exhausted, by the way. And dehydrated. Actually, you just look like the human embodiment of a headache.âÂ
âWhat the fuck?âÂ
âI mean that in the most loving, non-offensive way possible.â
âYou come into my office, accuse me of needing attention from you, then you insult me by calling me the human version of a headache?â
âIt wasnât an insult!â Gaz raises his hands in surrender, before sighing, âIâm being serious. You look dead, [c/n]. You need sleep.âÂ
âWhat I need is to finish this report,â You huff out, beginning to turn your attention back to your computer, before Gazâs hand is quickly placed on your chin and forces you to look back at him.Â
âNo, what you need is some rest,â Gaz argues, more serious this time, taking his hand off of your chinâsomething you shouldnât miss nearly as much as you do, the warmth of his hand fading far too quickly from your faceâand bringing it back to rest on the desk.Â
âMaybe you need rest, Gaz.â
âSure I do,â He shrugs, âBut Iâm only going to sleep if you do.âÂ
You raise an eyebrow at him, âReally? Youâre pulling that card?â
âI am.âÂ
You stare at him for a moment, mentally weighing your options, before sighing and bringing your elbows up to the table so that you can place your forehead in your hands.
On one hand, if you stay in your office you can finish up your report before four and then go to sleep, and hope that you magically feel active even with just an hour or two of sleep in the morning. On the other hand, if you go to sleep now, so does Gaz, and then you both get more than just two hours of sleep.Â
After another moment of consideration, you huff out a frustrated breath and mutter, âFine.âÂ
Gaz smiles down at you and walks around your desk to your side of it, holding out a hand for you to grab to help yourself up from your chair and using his free hand to save your report and power off your monitor.Â
You take his hand and stand up, your legs a little weak and balance iffy from sitting down for so long, but within the next few minutes youâre sure youâll be able to properly walk. You let go of his hand once youâre positive you wonât fall over, and once he sees that youâre able to walk, Gaz silently walks towards the door of your office. Just as quietly, you follow him.Â
He turns off the lights for you and lets you walk out of the office first, locking the door from the inside and closing it once youâre out. Once heâs done, he takes the lead again and you follow him down to his sleeping quarters. Itâs not too long of a walk there, only two minutes at most.
Once youâre there, Gaz opens the door and lets you walk in first. Once youâre inside and Gaz has closed the door, you shrug off your camouflage patterned jacket and toe off your already loosened tan boots, leaving you in just your camouflage cargo pants and army green undershirt.
You look down at your pants with a frown, knowing from experience that sleeping in them was incredibly uncomfortable and left you regretting your whole existence the morning after, but before you could even look over at Gaz to tell him of your situation, you felt something being thrown at you.Â
You immediately turn your attention to the item that had been hurled at youâthe item in question being a pair of gray sweatpants, some that would probably be a little bit looser than youâd prefer on your figureâand then look over at Gaz with a questioning look.Â
âFigured you wouldnât wanna sleep in that,â Gaz shrugs, nodding to your cargo pants in response to your nonverbal confusion.Â
You hum in appreciation, not wanting to talk too much at the moment, instead waiting for Gaz to look away before slipping off your pants and replacing them with the sweatpants Gaz had thrown at you. The fit isnât as uncomfortable as you thought theyâd beâtheyâre loose and hang low on your hips, just like you thought they would, of course, but they donât feel nearly as weird as you thought they would.
Once youâve tightened the strings on the waist of the pants, you get into Gazâs bed, pulling the covers up and over yourself. Gaz quickly settles into the bed next to you, quickly getting himself comfortable under the sheets, and pulling the covers up and over his shoulders in one swift movement.
He gets closer to you, so close that his chest presses against your back and you can feel the tip of his nose ghosting over the top of your head. He wraps one arm over your body to pull you impossibly closer to him, and his other arm snakes underneath the side of your body so that both of his arms are wrapped around you.
He hums contently and his thumb rubs small circles into your clothed stomach, the actionâdespite being smallâcausing your stomach to warm up almost immediately.Â
âComfortable, darling?â Gaz asks quietly, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head.Â
âVery,â You mumble back, trying to subtly lean your head back against Gaz in hopes of getting at least one more kiss. Noticing your efforts, he huffs out a small laugh and presses another gentle kiss right at the edge of your hairline before pressing one last one to your forehead.Â
Even with the comforting atmosphere, you canât find it within yourself to fully relax, your body still tense and stiff underneath the blanket. Gaz, just like he did with your âsubtleâ movements, notices and frowns.Â
âJust sleep,â Gaz tiredly mumbles into the top of your head, âYou have to get up in three hours. The sooner you sleep, the more sleep you get.âÂ
You donât respond, instead simply sighing and forcing your eyes closed. You do have to admit, itâs nice being able to actually close your eyes for something other than blinking, and closing your eyes for longer than half a second has made you realize that they were even drier than you thought they were.Â
Exhausted and ready to finally sleep, you eventually get to a point where you no longer need to force your eyes shut, and as a result, your whole body relaxes for the first time in almost six hours.Â
âGânight, love,â Gaz murmurs, feeling your body relax next to his. You hum in acknowledgment of his words, not finding the energy within yourself to properly respond, instead finding yourself drifting off into a deep sleep.Â
And if four hours later, Gaz wakes up and simply lies there, not waking you and instead letting you get some more sleep despite you having to be up soon, nobody has to know.
#cod#cod hcs#hcs#task force 141#tf141#platonic task force 141#platonic taskforce141#platonic kyle gaz garrick x reader#kyle gaz garrick#kyle garrick#gaz#kyle gaz garrick x reader#cod mw2#call of duty mw2#call of duty#this is why i like the ao3 tagging system more#bro tumblr tags make no sense to me#trying my best tho!!#check me out on ao3 btw#pythonxyz :3#python333
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read the sunshine court and have never been more impatient in needing a second book my god
#tsc#tsc spoilers#tagging bc im talking in the tags but holy fuck im ngl i came into the book as a jerejean shipper but now im shipping him with EVERYONE#him and renee were so sweet god i cant#him taking her photo and thinking about rainbows đ#but also excited for my man Jeremy bc he's got layersTM like an onion#need to know why he doesn't like his family and if he ever confides in Jean to convince Jean to confide in him#but also them oggling each other was hilarious#jean said his name once and had jeremy kicking his feet and twirling his hear#jean's braim shutting off whenever jeremy is shirtless avdhdj#need them to get together but i love Jean and his story and im so glad i reread aftg before reading this book#obsessed with jerejean as individuals and i love how much Jean appreciates the othrler Trojans#GAAAAH#also heart was in my ass when Grayson attacked Jean and thank god my boy neil sent out a hit on that fucker#also people realizing neil looks insane to other people like um yes...literally everytime he opens his mouth even in his POV#he says some scary shit bro đ#adding more tags bc i forgot to talk about kevin but i also can't get over their angst its just so good#their time together at evermore and jean teaching him french only for it to be the used against him by accident#they're too fucked up to ever really be friends again but they've both got their own support systems now#thinking about them meeting to do the interview ... chewing on glass#i have to go ravage ao3 now
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start end of the week(ish) snippet
so the very wonderful @messrsage tagged me in this a couple days ago and i finally have my laptop back so youre getting a contextless snippet from chapter 6 of operation wanker now have fun :)
James would say that after years of practice of pulling pranks and having to evade any patrolling teachers he is good at hiding and sneaking around and perceptive enough of footsteps in the dark. Somehow he still doesnât see the green beam of light hitting him square in the chest coming. Neither does he expect the forearm pressing against his chest, pushing him back into the corner he is hiding in. âPotter.â Itâs no more than a whisper but the tone is sharp enough to make James stand up straighter. âCrouch,â James whispers back. Barty is close enough that James can see the angry expression on his face, even in the dim light. âWhatâs up?â âYou tell me. What games do you think youâre playing here?â âUh.â James looks around through the dark. âTag?â Barty huffs and presses closer against James. In the back of his mind James thinks that this would be a great opportunity to have some very intense make out sessions. If it wasnât Crouch that is. He wonders if Remus and Sirius are making use of the dark. He assumes they are, itâs been more than a week since they last got to kiss after all. âReggie told me to not say anything to you but someone has to and heâs not going to. Youâve been back for nearly a week. So. What exactly has kept you from talking to your boyfriend? And you better give me a good explanation here.â James doesnât have a good explanation. He also doesnât have a boyfriend, not a real one anyway, so Bartyâs anger is at least a little unjust, but he obviously doesnât know that.
no pressure tagging @iceprinceofbelair @aithusarosekiller @strwbi-laces @carrythispictureforluck and whoever else feels like doing it
#me having james be hit by green light in a non canon fic just for the fun of it? hell yeah!#fic: operation wanker#tagged#this is official chapter 6 tho#so like the prologue is chapter 0#thats one thing that bothers me on ao3 cause everytime i upload a chapter there#ill have to go like 'chapter 3 is up!!" even tho its only chapter 2#ah well yolo#james potter#barty crouch jr#jegulus fanfiction#the marauders#marauders fanfiction#my writing#mine#marauders#hp#jegulus#my tagging system is too intricate why did i ever start tagging things so specifically for myself#like just for example when someone posts a story thats not a fanfic on here#it always gets two tags#namely 'fanfics' and 'ish'#because its not really a fanfic#i could only put in ish but why would i do that when i can make my life more compliacted instead right
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New AO3 Tag Wrangling Policy and the Transformers Fandom
Edit in the event people come back to the original post: Please do not email AO3 about this issue. See their response about this issue!
(This is a long one, folks, but I think it's important.)
A new tag-wrangling policy on AO3 has the potential to create some massive confusion and chaos in the Transformers fanfic community, with regards to fandom tags. There is a Reddit post about it here with a focus on anime fandoms, but I want to give some concrete examples for the Transformers fandom on why we DO NOT WANT this, and why I think it's a horrible idea.
The Problem
Basically, AO3 is looking to get rid of the "All Media Types" fandom tag across the board, either by dismantling them or just not maintaining them. The Transformers - All Media Types tag has been an all-purpose tag that you could select when your story doesn't fall into any one specific continuity. Additionally, all most (see below) TF continuities on AO3 are considered a subtag of the Transformers - All Media Types tag. For example, if you look at the link above for all works in the All Media Types tag, you will see fics that are also tagged ONLY with Transformers: Animated, because it falls under the All Media Types tag.
One exception: With the upcoming Transformers: One movie coming out imminently, there will likely be a big influx of stories tagged with Transformers: One. In fact, there are several already. However, it hasn't been linked to the larger Transformers - All Media Types tag yet. I wasn't worrying about it though, because I know these things can take time.
With information about this new tagging policy, however, I'm now wondering whether it'll EVER get linked to the All Media Types tag. If that happens, and when more continuities are developed in the coming years (since you know Hasbro loves creating new universes) this has the potential to cause massive confusion when looking for stories to read.
Searching for Stories with the New Tagging System
So let's say the All Media Types fandom tag isn't accurate anymore, because it no longer includes ALL of the continuities (such as TF:One). You will need to include ALL the Transformers continuities when browsing for TF fics.
How many tags is that? Well, here are all of the tags currently listed under the Transformers - All Media Types tag:
Note that this doesn't include Transformers: One since it hasn't been categorized yet.
You will potentially have to have 40 or more different fandom tags in your search, just in case the author tagged their story with something you weren't expecting.
This massively decreases the findability of a story.
Tagging with the New System
The email response from the Tag Wrangling group (see the linked Reddit post above) seems to be a bit flip in the response to the user's concern. "...encourages creators to tag with the media they intend."
While I appreciate what they are attempting to do, this policy change feels like a solution in search of a problem, especially in larger fandoms with multiple continuities, versions, and media types that are all cross-pollinated in both canon and fanon. While I'm focusing on Transformers fandom, imagine a creator in the DC comic universe writing a story that incorporates bits and pieces from a dozen different reboots.
For example, let's say that I am writing a fic about Ratchet. I am using the setting of the original G1 episodes, but I also am using the characterization of him as a bit of an old man grump. That characterization originated in the Animated continuity, but I want to incorporate bits of pieces of his other characterizations as well (old friend of Optimus from TFP, Ratchet ran a faction-free clinic like he did in the War for Cybertron series, he's got a Decepticon boyfriend like in IDW1 - or maybe even Cyberverse, etc.)
With this new tagging structure, I might potentially have to tag the story with ALL of those continuities. So instead of just slapping down the "All Media Types" tag (and maybe one other fandom tag that matches the characters as best I can), I'll have to analyze my story and try to figure out how best to tag for the characters I used.
And what if you're doing a completely AU version of the story? For example, a humanformers story, or merformers? Using the All Media Types tag along with a Alternate Universe - Human or Alternate Universe - Mermaid tag worked perfectly, since you weren't writing the story to fit into one specific continuity. But now, that might not be an option.
What To Do??
The first thing I would suggest is to contact AO3 (using the Feedback and Support page) and let them know (nicely) that you think this is a horrible idea. Give them some examples on how you use the All Media Types tag to find stories to read, or to help you tag a story. People outside of the Transformers fandom don't always appreciate how absolutely tangled the continuities can be with each other, and providing examples might help them see why this would be a really messy change.
Readers: Be aware that when you are looking in the All Media Types tag, it will no longer show newer continuities. And if AO3 starts dismantling that tag like they suggested they are doing, be aware that some stories won't show up in that tag like they used to. You can also create and then bookmark a custom search page that includes all 40+ continuities. REALLY annoying, but it's a workaround.
Writers: Until they start dismantling the All Media Types tag, ALWAYS ALWAYS tag your stories using Transformers - All Media Types... Especially for newer continuities. This will be especially important if you are writing a Transformers: One story. Right now, anyone who is only browsing the All Media Types tag will not see a story tagged only with Transformers: One. Make sure you're aware of how tags work and how they can affect the visibility and findability of your story.
Epilogue
Ugh. That's a lot of words for a long-weekend Saturday. And maybe I'm overreacting a tiny bit. But my work involves information architecture, and this change just absolutely baffles me. It's almost as though they want to make it harder to find stories. Considering that AO3 won a Hugo partially because of its fantastic tagging system, this change seems like AO3 is doing its best to shoot itself in the foot.
When you have a square hole, a round hole, and a rectangular hole⊠Yeah, you DO want each peg to go in the "right" hole. But if all of the pegs fit in the square hole, who cares? You got the job done.
I love you @ao3org, but please reconsider this change... Especially for IPs that are as old and are as varied as Transformers.
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I'd Like To...
Pairing: Modern DILF Din Djarin x Plus Size F!Reader
Summary: Din has always struggled to prioritize his own happiness, even more so now that he is a single father. When some well-meaning friends create a dating app profile for him without his knowledge, he finds himself on his first date in years with a woman who seems determined to bring some much-needed softness to his life.
Tags/Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Present-day AU, dating app AU, dual POV, no use of Y/N, private security Din, photographer reader, reader is a plus size woman but otherwise minimal descriptions provided, age gap (unspecified but enough to be noticed), Grogu is a human toddler, Cara is the ultimate wingman, good dad Din, touch-starved Din, fluff, SMUT â exhibitionism, semi-public acts, brief oral sex (m! receiving), protected p in v sex, dirty talk, rough but sweet, switch-y vibes for both Din and reader
Word Count: ~18.3K (I have no excuse...)
Written for @hellishjoel's Hot DILF Summer Challenge. I am unforgivably late to this event, and Iâm so, so sorry. I hope the truly preposterous length makes up for it â it really got out of hand!
Dividers by @saradika-graphics <3
Read on AO3 | Masterlist
Cara Dune had never been good at subterfuge.
She was loud, decisive, commanding â a âdo no harm but take no shitâ kind of person who wasnât afraid to get her hands dirty in a risky situation or to stick her neck out for what she believed. Cara didnât have the constitution for stealth. She didnât do subtle or â god forbid â sneaky; it simply wasnât a part of her DNA. All of her colleagues were well aware of this, of course, so why, out of all of the consultants of Fett Security, Inc., she was the person that the group had selected for this particular mission was something she would never understand.
But, as a former soldier, if there was one thing Cara knew how to do, it was follow orders, so when the task fell to her, she took it on the chin and threw herself into it headfirst.
Which was how she found herself awkwardly hunched over at her desk, broad shoulders rounded protectively around her phone as she scrolled through various social media accounts, screenshotting as she went. A suspicious behavior for anyone, but even more so knowing that the images she was grabbing were all of the same man â her best friend and coworker, Din Djarin.
Nearly a decade ago, Din had been one of the first people Boba Fett had recruited to join his private security firm, and ever since, he had been the kind of man who ate, slept, and breathed the job. There was no doubt that Fett Security owed a great deal of its growth and success in the industry to Dinâs expertise, but that hadnât left him with a lot of opportunity for a full life outside of work. Or, perhaps more accurately, Din simply hadnât made such a thing a priority.
When pressed about it, he would say that it hardly mattered; all of his friends eventually came to work for the firm anyway, Fett collecting them all like trading cards over the years, so he saw them plenty. What more could he need?
Of course, he came to eat his own words about a year ago when he rather unexpectedly became the foster parent â then adoptive parent â of a little boy, a tiny thing with no living relatives in a part of the city that had had a severe shortage of foster families for years. Din himself had grown up in the system, a fact he talked about rarely, but nevertheless, the experience had shaped him in a fundamental way. He had jumped at the opportunity to take in the kid, and overnight, he transformed from a man who buried himself in his work to a man who lived for the whim of a little boy with floppy, sandy-brown curls, wide, dark eyes, and comically large ears.
It was clear to anyone who knew him well â Din had been meant to be a father, and as his closest friend, Cara had found a great deal of joy in watching the new role shape and soften him into a version of himself that felt truer and more authentic to who he was at his core. But all of his friends agreed: when it came to his personal life, having a child had done nothing but exacerbate the problem. He was still working just as many hours as he had before, only now, when he did have time to himself, he rarely left the house without his son in tow. He had stopped joining the team for drinks after gigs, his appearances at company barbecues were fewer and farther between, and who knew how long it had been since the man had been on an actual date?
Din was lonely â Cara could tell. He loved his job, and he adored his son, but it wasnât enough anymore. There was a hollowness to him, a shadow around his eyes. Something had to give, and so during their last group outing, the team had come together and formulated a plan. A plan which involved Cara harvesting a selection of photos of Din from various corners of the internet, writing up a quick bio, and creating an online dating profile for him.
Without his knowledge.
Cara hardly relished keeping this secret from her friend, but she knew that if she or anyone else had broached the subject with him beforehand, he would have dismissed it out of hand. He would have made up some excuse about doing just fine on his own, that he didnât need anyone else when he had his son; she could almost hear his low, rasping scoff now. His refusal would be swift and final, and that would be the end of that.
But sometimes, being a good friend meant doing something in the best interest of the other person even when that person would disapprove.
And Cara had found that sometimes it was better to ask for forgiveness than for permission.
Sending a surreptitious glance around the open office space, Cara breathed a quiet sigh of relief at Dinâs empty desk. The man didnât have any of his own social media accounts, finding the whole concept frivolous and a little bizarre, so she was stuck scrolling through her own and those of their friends in an attempt to harvest a few that would be acceptable for a dating profile. It was taking longer than she had anticipated, and she still had to set up his age, gender, and location preferences and write up a brief bio for him before she was due at a job in an hour. The time crunch had her clenching her jaw as she worked.
Tonight at the bar, she planned to recruit some of their friends to help her get Din set up with a selection of matches. And all of them would owe her a beer for her trouble.
 Din, the profile read. 45, 5â11â, Private Security Consultant.
Hardworking, outdoorsy, handy. Love vintage cars and motorcycles. Former boxer, teach self-defense classes at the community center on the weekends. Single father to a little boy who is my whole universe. Looking for someone to give me an excuse to get me out of the house, curb my workaholic tendencies, and show me the softer side of life.
ââThe softer side of life?ââ Bo smirked around the rim of her beer as she read, Caraâs phone in her hand sticky from being passed around all night. âCara Dune, youâve been holding out on us. Who knew you were such a romantic?â
The crew gathered around the end of the bar all laughed as Cara rolled her eyes, taking a sip of her own drink. âWhat can I say? A bitch contains multitudes,â she replied with a shrug. âBut the profileâs good, right? We can start swiping?â
The redhead nodded, neat bob brushing her sharp jaw as she passed the phone back to its owner. âYeah, I think youâve got him down.â
âGood call including the bit about the motorcycles,â Axe quipped with a grin. He waggled his dark eyebrows significantly, adding, âLadies love that stuff. Speaking from experience.â
From her place tucked into his side, arm wrapped around his waist beneath his leather jacket, Koska offered him a tongue-touched smile and butted her head against his chest affectionately. âYouâre not wrong.â
Paz returned from the other end of the bar then, shouldering his way through the crowd with six overflowing pints balanced in his massive hands. âWhat did I miss?â he asked as he passed each of them out to his waiting friends.
Fennec curled her lip in mild disgust as he sloshed a portion of her beer down the side of her glass, soaking her hand. She sat the pint down on the edge of the well-worn bar and drug her fingers demurely across her black jeans as she said, âNothing, weâre just about to start picking matches.â
âGood.â He downed half of his own pint in a single glug, thick neck working in the low light. âLetâs do this. The guy needs to get laid.â
With a mock-salute of his glass, Axe groaned his agreement. âMaybe if he loosens up a little, heâll get off my ass about taking over the Organa account. I swear to god, if I have to spend one more fucking charity dinner trailing after those stuffed-shirts, I think my head is going to explode.â
Fennec shot him an icy, closed-lipped smile. âWe both know that was my suggestion, not Djarinâs. Youâre a good fit for it, Woves. The sooner you learn how to play ball with the politicians, the sooner we can start putting you on more high-profile jobs.â
âYeah, babe.â Koskaâs dark eyes flashed teasingly. âMaybe then you can come join me and Bo on the Skywalker account. Finally start playing with the big boys.â
Bo snorted into her beer, sending a fine spray of the stuff flying as the rest of the group broke into peals of laughter.
âAll right, all right, settle down,â Cara urged, passing Bo a napkin. âThis has nothing to do with any of us, right? This is about Din. Heâs busted his ass for every one of us for years â itâs his turn to catch a break. So letâs stay on task, okay? NowâŠâ With a few taps and a swipe, she brought up the app once more and flipped to the matches tab. âWhat do we think of her?â
âDune.â
âDjarin.â
âPlease tell me youâre joking.â
The dark-haired, hawk-eyed woman quirked an eyebrow at him, phone in hand, the thing still extended toward him, waiting for him to take it. âI could do that. But then Iâd be lying, and we both know that doesnât fly with you.â
Din Djarin gritted his jaw and turned his back to her, focusing instead on tossing his towel, lifting gloves, and empty water bottle into his gym bag and slinging it over his shoulder. It wasnât unusual for Cara to join him for his daily pre-shift workout. She was a reliable spotter, and he liked the playlists she piped through the Bluetooth speakers in the company gym, but there had been something off about her that morning â something cagey and distracted where she was normally the picture of focus. After one too many attempts at getting her attention had resulted in a distant âhuh?â, he had decided that enough was enough and demanded an explanation.
With only the faintest traces of guilt shadowing her gaze, she had made her confession. A dating app. She had signed him up for a fucking dating app, and apparently, the whole team was in on it. The bunch of traitors.
âYou can go ahead and delete it,â he growled, casting a scathing glance over his shoulder as he made for the locker room. âIâm not interested.â
A strong, blunt-nailed hand wrapped around his elbow, pulling his retreat up short. âOh, come on, lighten up a little,â Cara entreated. âWhen was the last time you went out with someone, huh?â
He shrugged her grip off of him. âI go out with you and the team all the time.â
Behind him, his closest friend groaned dramatically. âYou know thatâs not what I meant. But, while weâre at it, you havenât exactly been doing much of that, either, big guy. In fact, maybe if you did come out with us once in a while, you could meet a nice girl at a bar or a sporting event or a festival like a fucking normal person, and I wouldnât have to resort to mining photos of you off our friendsâ socials and making you a dating profile in secret.â
âThat isnât fair,â Din snapped, whirling around to face her. âI canât just be out until all hours of the night anymore. I have my kid to think about. I thought you understood that.â
âOf course, I understand that! No one expects you to be there every time. Not even most of the time! But DinâŠâ Cara let out a sigh, and he watched as that contentious spark fizzled out of her dark eyes, fading into something softer and more earnest. âYou are an amazing father. Anyone who has ever seen you with that little boy knows that. But that isnât all you are. Just like work isnât all you are. How long have we known each other?â
He ground his teeth and ran his hand through his sweat-damp hair, pushing it back from his face. âAbout eight years.â
âEight years,â she echoed, nodding. âI know you, Din Djarin, and I can tell. Youâre burning out.â
Something squeezed in his chest at the raw honestly of his friendâs words, and he found himself having to look away. She was right, of course, as she often was. He had always struggled with giving too much of himself â first as a boxer in the ring, then as one of the founding members of Fett Security, then as one of its most senior consultants, and now as a father. As a younger man, he had thrived on it; the busier he was, the harder he worked, the more he proved himself, the better he felt.
But now, knocking on the doors of middle age, he found that the breakneck pace of his life was starting to fray him at the edges. He felt worn through in places and dangerously thin in others, and although he would never admit to anyone, his bed had never felt colder. The small handful of meaningless, one-night flings he had permitted himself over the last few years had left him feeling ill-used and unsatisfied, and when he took his son out to a new restaurant or to the zoo or to the beach, he couldnât help but feel the distinct absence of another person.
There ought to have been another person holding his kidâs other little hand in the park, patiently walking the unsteady toddler between them. There ought to have been another person feeding the boy ice cream afterward, singing him songs, telling him stories, settling him down for a nap.
There ought to have been another person in his bed â holding him close, playing with his hair, whispering his name in the dark as soft lips traced down his neckâŠ
Fuck. Din Djarin was lonely.
âListen, Iâll tell you what,â Cara said eventually, pulling him out of his musings. âWeâll get the app set up on your phone, you can log in to your profile, and you can justâŠtake a look at the matches we already got for you. You donât have to go through any on your own, just the ones weâve already found. And if you hate them all, weâll delete your profile and be done with it. But if any of them look even remotely interesting, I really think you should try to connect with them. There has to be more to your life than work and your kid. There has to be, or youâre going to run yourself into the ground. Iâm not going to let that happen on my watch.â
Her words hung in the air for a moment, blunt and painfully sincere, and then Din was squeezing the pressure points on the sides of his nose and releasing a reluctant sigh.
âFine,â he groaned. âIâll take a look at them over lunch. Happy?â
She grinned victoriously and cuffed him on the shoulder, the gesture warm and fraternal. âEcstatic. Now hit the showers, Djarin, you stink.â
Cara was at his desk at noon on the dot, barely waiting for him to finish sending off an email to a potential client before she was closing his laptop, dragging him bodily out of his chair, and escorting him out of the building and across the street to their favorite sandwich shop. A few minutes later, equipped with a pair of overstuffed Reubens and a couple bags of chips, the two were settled into a back corner booth with Dinâs phone between them.
âOkay, there you go,â she proclaimed, sliding the thing across the table to him with a triumphant grin. âAppâs installed, and youâre all logged in.â
The man wiped a napkin across his face and fought the urge to sigh. âLetâs get this over with.â Thumbing through the interface, he fumbled for a bit before finally landing on the tab that contained his list of users with bright pink heart icons next to their profile pictures.
âNow these are people that already matched with me?â he asked, suddenly feeling a bit out of his depth.
âYep! Me and the crew did some swiping for you the other night.â
Din simply blinked at her. âSwiping?â
Caraâs mouth twisted into a thin line, as though she were attempting to swallow a smirk and failing miserably, and he felt the distinct desire to melt into the plastic cushion of the booth and disappear. âItâs how you indicate whether youâre interested in matching with someone. Swipe right for yes, swipe left for no.â
âSo these are the people youâŠswiped right on?â
âNot quite,â she clarified with a shake of her head. âThese are the people we swiped right on who also swiped right on you.â
Dinâs brows nearly met his hairline at that. âThey wanted to match with me, too?â
âYeah, dumbass, they did.â
âHey. Watch it,â he growled, jabbing a finger in her direction as he felt his hackles raise. âYou know I donât know anything about this shit. Cut me a little bit of slack, okay?â
Cara sighed, and her expression shifted from needling to softly exasperated. âYeah, no kidding, Iâm aware. I didnât call you a dumbass because you donât know anything about online dating. I called you a dumbass because you act like youâre surprised that people want to match with you.â
Oh.
Cocking his head at her, he replied, âWhy wouldnât that surprise me?â
âUmmâŠâ All of the softness in her face disappeared, and instead she glared at him like he had just grown a second head. âHave you seen yourself? I donât even like men, and I recognize a DILF when I see one.â
âA DILF?â
Cara smirked lasciviously. âYeah, a dad Iâd like to â â
âI know what a DILF is, Cara, fucking hell, can you keep your voice down?â Din instinctually ducked his head, his gaze darting around the sandwich shop as he prayed to whatever deity might be listening that no one had heard them.
The woman let out a bark of laughter, dark hair swinging and eyes crinkling with mirth. âYeah, yeah, donât get your panties in a twist, old man. No oneâs paying any attention to us back here.â Gesturing at the phone in his hand, she added, âNow quit stalling and start scrolling. I think we ended up with ten or so matches before we called it a night? And we were really picky about it, too. Thereâs gotta be at least one lucky lady in there that tickles your fancy.â
âHmm.â He hummed dubiously to himself as he opened the first profile in the list, a blonde woman a couple of years his junior with her head tilted back, face in the sun as she posed on some tropical beach. Pretty. Nice smile. Looked friendly. âSuppose I just didnât think so many women would be interested in dating a single father.â
âLike I said,â Cara shrugged with a wink. âLadies love a DILF.â
Nearly an hour later, and Din couldnât help but feel a bitâŠunderwhelmed with the selection of matches his friends had chosen for him. Not that any of them were bad choices, per se. They were lovely women, all of them, with their sunny smiles and their glossy, perfectly-posed photographs and their quippy bios. They were from a variety of backgrounds with a variety of interests, though all struck him as approachable, intelligent, witty. He couldnât find a red flag in the bunch, which he supposed was a credit both to them and to his friends for sifting through the masses so thoughtfully.
No, it wasnât the women. It was him, he was sure. What else could explain theâŠnothingness he felt when he looked at them? The utter lack of interest? Perhaps he had missed his opportunity for such things, he thought to himself. Perhaps he had waited too long, been too content with his own company for too many years.
He could feel Caraâs eyes on him across the table as he came to the last few matches, could sense her impatience at his silence, at his steady, unenthusiastic scrolling. Their plates sat picked over and abandoned between them, chip bags empty and crumpled, sodas drained dry. They were due back in the office any minute, the lunch hour quickly expiring around them, and as reluctant as Din had been to agree to this entire endeavor, he somehow still felt a twinge of guilt at leaving Cara to report back to the rest of the group empty-handed.
But at least he had held up his end of the bargain. No one could say that he didnât give the idea a chance. It simply wasnât meant to be.
Of course, that was until he reached the second-to-last match on the list.
Absently, Din tapped on your picture, opening your profile, and almost immediately, he felt himself straighten in his seat.
You wereâŠstunning.
Wide, bright eyes. A warm, mischievous smile that teased him through the cameraâs lens, as though you had a secret you were taunting him with, daring him to ask, to figure it out. Your photos were unique â mostly candids, the focus soft, enhanced with a touch of grain and flawlessly lit. And you had a lot of them, more than any other profile he had viewed. As he swiped through them, he came upon one of you in an easy, flowing blouse, hair windswept around your face, a DSLR camera with a colorful, well-worn strap slung around your neck.
He quickly scanned your profile header, taking in your name, your age, your distance from his location. Photographer, the profession field indicated.
AndâŠshit. You were young. More than a decade his junior, on the very edge of what he would consider an acceptable age difference in typical circumstances. The gap wasnât enough for it to be an immediate disqualifier, but it certainly was enough that if the two of you were to walk down the street together hand-in-hand, others might take a second glance.
He should un-match with you. It would be the right thing, the responsible thing to do.
And yetâŠ
Din swiped through a handful of your other photos. Fuck, but you were sweet. Full, soft curves with wide, plush hips, heavy breasts, thick thighs. Little glimpses of soft skin peeking through comfortable clothing, airy cottons and silky satins and well-loved denims that his palms itched to touch. He wanted to feel the texture of you under his hands, the lush and the give of you beneath his fingertipsâŠ
Your last photo was one taken of you at sunrise, your soft body clad in nothing but an oversized T-shirt and a pair of barely-there spandex shorts. Your limbs were stretched and bent into some strange configuration he recognized as a yoga pose, your leg pressed back near your face at an angle that had blood rushing to his cock, his head immediately filled with images of your body contorted in a similar position as he pressed you into his mattress.
New to the city, looking for someone to show me all the best places to get a couple drinks and people watch. Professional photographer living my dream of documenting the most important moments of peopleâs lives. In my spare time, I like to get out in nature and go hiking, practice yoga, and travel. Excellent home cook, terrible at karaoke. Love dogs, love kids. Let me take your picture so I know itâs real.
Damnit.
You were perfect.
âOkay over there, Djarin?â
Dinâs gaze snapped up to meet Caraâs over the table, taking in the quirk of her brow, the suspicious twist of her mouth, and he felt a flush of heat rush up the back of his neck and settle high on his cheekbones. He had been staring. Really staring, and with his mouth open, he realized, mortified. He slammed his jaw shut, his teeth clicking unpleasantly in his skull, and he shifted in his seat.
âUh,â he muttered dumbly. This throat was so dry, his voice crackled around the syllable as though he hadnât spoken all day. He cleared it quickly and nodded once. âYeah. Fine. Uh â â Flipping the phone around to face his companion, he slid it back across the laminate tabletop. âHer,â he said, tapping the screen with the tip of his finger. âIâll go out with her.â
Had he not already been blushing, the cat-like grin of victory that Cara sent him certainly would have done it.
âGonna have to message her first, big guy. Think you can figure out how to do that, or you want me to show you?â
Dinâs flush darkened as he yanked the phone back toward himself, feeling a muscle in his jaw tick. âI can manage,â he snarked, and she scoffed a laugh.
However, as it turned out, as he opened the messages tab from your profile, he discovered that you had already taken the initiative and messaged him.
hey din â such a cool name! looks like we have a few things in common. iâd love to get to know you if youâre interested! đ
Short. Sweet. Polite. Direct.
He swallowed thickly, feeling something suspiciously like butterflies take up residence in his gut. Scrubbing his hand over the back of his neck, he looked back up at Cara sheepishly.
âActuallyâŠyeah, maybe I could use some help.â
You were sitting cross-legged in your oversized office chair, headphones on and iced coffee leaving a ring of condensation on the surface of your desk, when you saw the dating app notification pop up on your phone screen.
1 New Message, it read.
You glanced back and forth between your phone and your computer screen for a moment, debating. You had promised yourself you would be heads-down today, having started to accumulate more of an editing backlog than you typically preferred. The shoot you were working on this afternoon â an engagement session taken in the gardens outside the local art gallery â was due to the clients by the end of the week, and if you wanted to meet that deadline, you couldnât afford to get distracted.
And yet you couldnât help but wonder whether the message was a response â finally â from the man you had matched with a couple days ago. The one with the unusual name, the dark curls and even darker eyes, the strong nose and the sharp jaw and the soft, gentle smile. Broad shoulders, big, masculine hands, and a handful of pictures featuring a little boy, no more than two or three years old, his face either turned away from the camera or covered with a little green frog emoji for privacy.
Din the security consultant. Din the vintage car enthusiast. Din the self-defense instructor.
Din the DILF.
You had fired off a message to him as soon as you had gotten confirmation that he had liked you back, and he had been taking up space in your mind ever since. You had always preferred your men a little older, a little more experienced, and the fact that he was a dad, and a proud one at that, had gotten your motor running immediately. He looked like the kind of guy who knew the best bar in town to get an old fashioned and how to grill a good steak. He looked like the kind of guy who would open your car door for you, who would drive one-handed while the other rested calmly, possessively on your thigh. He looked like his palms were calloused and like his skin smelled good even fresh from the gym.
He looked like he had a big â
Fucking hell. It had been a long time since a man had given you this kind of brainrot without ever even meeting him. It was embarrassing and very much not consistent with your independent woman-about-town image you wore like a suit of armor. But you had never been the type of person to deny yourself. If you saw something you wanted, you went for it â full speed ahead. And DinâŠyou definitely wanted Din.
If there was even a slight chance it was himâŠ
Before you could overthink it any further, you saved your progress on your current edit, dropped your headphones around the back of your neck, and scooped up your phone. Tapping the notification, you brought up your messages tab and found one unread message staring back you.
It was from him.
Hi there. Itâs nice to meet you. You seem like an interesting person. I would like to get to know you, too. Where is your favorite place you have traveled?
You drew your lower lip between your teeth, smothering a grin as though others might spot it and tease you despite being alone in your apartment. Something about the way he wrote â the dry punctuation, the complete, grammatically-correct sentences, the lack of emojis â all of it screamed someone who didnât spend much time communicating electronically, let alone online dating. It was a refreshing change from the men you typically met on the apps, the whole thing endearing rather than off-putting and doing nothing to discourage your impression of his âdadâ persona.
Poking out your tongue a little in concentration, you tapped out a quick response before you could lose your nerve.
ooo good question! hard to pick a favorite, but if i have to choose, iâd say thailand. i went there with some friends after we graduated college and we got to volunteer at an elephant sanctuary for a few days. coolest experience of my life hands down! what about you? are you a traveler?
His response came much faster than you expected, certainly faster than his response to your initial message.
I used to be. When I was first getting started, I used to travel a lot for work. I have been all over. I am more settled these days. Itâs difficult to travel with a toddler on my own.
You nodded to yourself. That made sense. His boy looked young, and he was a self-described single father. You wondered what the story was there, but that was a level of personal that you didnât need to dive into just yet. For now, your focus was on making sure this conversation didnât fizzle out.
Frowning slightly, you realized he hadnât really included anything in that message to prompt much of a response. However, before you could begin to fish around for something to send in reply, another message appeared.
Your profile says youâre a photographer. Your pictures are very unique. I donât know much about photography, but I can tell that you have an eye for it. What made you interested in that field?
With a huff of a laugh and a mortifyingly strong flush, you closed out of Lightroom and abandoned your headphones on their stand. You werenât getting any more work done for a while â you could already tell.
The two of you messaged back and forth several more times that day, then again in fits and spurts over the next three days.
You shared how you got your start in photography and the way your best clients were the ones who embraced your photojournalistic style. You didnât care for shots that were staged or overly posed, you told him. You liked capturing peopleâs authentic feelings in the moment, and he quipped that he had never been comfortable posing for photos anyway, so you should get along just fine.
You talked about how both of you desperately wanted a dog but neither of you were in a place where getting one would be a responsible choice. You compared your favorite local hiking trails and determined that although he had lived in the area for far longer than you, you had significantly more experience trekking through the nearby national park. You learned a lot about the â81 Honda Goldwing that he had lovingly restored, how he used to ride it to and from work every day but that now it sat under a protective tarp in the back of his garage most of the time. It wasnât exactly a toddler-friendly form of transportation, he explained.
In a moment of vulnerability, you confessed that you had moved to the city as a result of a breakup, in an attempt to get a change of scenery far from the place where you had made a home with another man. He confessed that he had never really made time for relationships in the past, but that his son had made him realize that there was plenty of room in his life for love. He finally felt ready to try, and you finally felt ready to try again.
You told him you thought he was stupidly handsome, that you had no idea how he was single if he didnât want to be. He told you that he had thought the same about you.
Except I would call you beautiful. Not handsome. I guess unless thatâs what you prefer?
no lmao, you wrote back. beautiful is fine. beautiful is perfect.
On day four ofâŠwhatever this newfound acquaintance was, you spent the full day shooting a wedding â from getting ready to first looks to family photos to the ceremony to the reception. You swore you could feel your phone burning a hole in your pocket the entire time, but you managed to stay professional and present throughout the length of your contracted hours. By the time you stumbled into your apartment, you were so exhausted, you couldnât have been more eager to pour yourself some wine and melt into the couch with some trashy reality television. You were changed into your pajamas and a glass and a half deep by the time you allowed yourself to check your phone.
Buried beneath all of the other notifications you had gotten throughout the day, there was a single pop-up from your dating app.
1 New Message, it read. Received four hours ago.
Skipping past all of the other demands on your attention, you opened that notification first.
Hi sweetheart. I know you were photographing that wedding today, so donât let me interrupt you. We can talk tomorrow, but if you could please message me when youâre done for the night? It would make me feel better to know that you made it home safe. Â
Hi sweetheart, he had said.
Sweetheart.
A rush of heat passed over you at his words, and you swallowed thickly, wine burning its way down your throat at the thought of Din at home thinking about you, worrying about you. Had this been any other man, you might have found the message a bit overbearing, especially this early on, but rather than feeling controlled or stifled, instead you felt only warmth and safety. You feltâŠcared for. Protected. Important.
The sensation had you shifting in your seat, gulping down the remainder of your glass in a single go as you felt the apex of your thighs pulse with interest.
Din was so fucking hot, and he had no idea.
Setting your now-empty wine glass on the coffee table, you typed out a rapid reply and hit send.
heyy! made it home okay, thanks for checking in!
Fatigue pulling at your eyelids, arousal burning low in your belly, quickly-consumed wine flushing your limbs with a soft weightlessness, your thumbs seemed to move of their own accord as they tapped out a second message.
din idk how much longer i can keep this up without meeting you. i wanna see your handsome face in person. can i take u out sometime soon? please say yes.
You hit send before you could second-guess yourself, then immediately tossed your phone to the other end of the couch as though it had burned you. It disappeared into the stack of throw pillows there, and you breathed a sigh of relief. You couldnât look at it, couldnât stand to wait for his reply knowing that it was after midnight, knowing that he likely had been asleep for hours and wouldnât see your messages until morning. Taking a deep, calming breath to steady your nerves, you forced yourself to refocus on the television. One episode, you promised yourself, and then you would get some sleep.
Less than 10 minutes later, you felt the faint vibration of your phone travel through the couch cushions to where you sat, and your show was abandoned without question.
You tossed several of your unnecessarily large throw pillow collection onto the floor in your hasty search, and though you knew you would be annoyed at having to tidy them in the morning, in that moment, you could hardly bring yourself to care.
1 New Message, your phone screen read as you recovered it from the pile. With something akin to nausea roiling in your stomach, you opened the notification and resisted the urge to physically cross your fingers.
Glad to hear you made it home safely.
âŠ
That was all. âGlad to hear you made it home safely.â
Your stomach sank like lead in your abdomen, all of the soft, fuzzy warmth of the wine and your arousal evaporating from your body like sweat on a hot day. Only exhaustion was left in its place â exhaustion and the surprisingly poignant hurt of rejection sitting heavy on your limbs. You had come on too strong, it seemed, stated your desires and intentions too boldly and directly. You ought to have held back more, ought to have waited longer before asking or maybe couched the question in a joke or a suggestion of something more casual first. Or maybe you shouldnât have asked at all and instead waited for him to ask you out. You supposed men probably preferred that â to be the one to initiate, the one to take charge. Fuck, you were always so impatient, so goddamn eager â
In your sweating palm, your phone buzzed once more, interrupting your string of self-curses.
Nerves roiling beneath your skin, you risked a glance down at it.
1 New Message
You had no control over your body as you opened it, watching the action from inside your own mind as though walking through a dream.
As for your other message, of course my answer is yes. I want to meet you, too, sweetheart. But be warned. Even though you did the asking, I WILL argue with you if you attempt to pay for the whole date yourself. Itâs against my personal creed to let a lady pay my way without contributing.
All of the breath left your lungs as you took in his words, reading them over and over again until you could recite them from memory.
He wanted to meet you. He wanted to go out with you.
A high, breathy laugh bubbled over from your chest, spilling through your lips into your quiet apartment like the glistening champagne tower at the wedding this evening. You laughed as you typed, as you hit send. You laughed as you turned off your TV and as you completed your evening skincare routine. You laughed as you crawled into bed, as you burrowed under the covers, delirious and giddy.
i think i can allow it just this once. wouldnât wanna violate your creed.
It took a handful of messages to determine the best place to meet. Din had offered to pick you up, wanting to treat you right, to be a gentleman, but he did not hold it against you when you turned him down. He understood that meeting a stranger from the internet, particularly as a woman, came with a particular set of risks, and he had no desire to make you uncomfortable in the slightest. He was happy to simply meet you there instead if that would make you feel safer.
Eventually, you settled on a moderately popular restaurant not far from your neighborhood. Din had never been there before, but over the last several days, he had discovered that the two of you shared a love of spicy food, and you had promised that the âmodern Mexican fusionâ menu did not disappoint.
they also have the cutest patio so we can sit outside if the weatherâs nice đ , you had said, and he had been sold.
Under the assumption that Din would have a difficult time finding a sitter on a weekday evening, you agreed to wait until Friday to meet. However, the moment he had attempted to discretely broach the subject with Cara while on a jobsite, he immediately had three additional volunteers in Bo, Koska, and Axe, all of whom assured him that they hadnât been eavesdropping and insisted that he had just been âreally fucking loudâ with his question.
So perhaps finding a sitter would not have been as challenging as he presumed.
Regardless, the two of you continued to chat throughout the week leading up to your date, first using the dating appâs messaging platform and then, eventually, via text. Din had grown weary of the limitations of the messaging interface days before, but he had been concerned about coming across as too forward if he were to ask for your number. But he neednât have worried. You offered it freely late one night when the two of you were deep into a discussion about your favorite music artists, and something about getting to put your name and phone number into his contacts made the whole situation feel startlingly real. It had feltâŠpersonal, almost intimate. And it was nice.
If he was being honest with himself, it made him nervous â how much he liked you, how quickly he had begun to think of you as part of his daily routine. A text good morning after his pre-shift workout, when he knew you were just rolling out of bed. Checking his phone over lunch to find a whole stack of little videos you had found on the internet during your morning scroll, watching every single one of them as his coworkers rolled their eyes and laughed at how quickly he had fallen into line for you. Countless late-night conversations after he had tucked his son into bed, his tired body sprawled out on the couch or propped up against his headboard and wishing you were there with him.
He wanted to experience the laugh that went with that stunning smile from your photos. He wanted to hear you talk for hours on end about whatever crossed your mind while he justâŠlistened. And fuck, did he want to touch you. It had been almost two weeks since he had first matched with you, and that need he had felt deep in his gut that first day he had seen your pictures had only gotten more acute over time. He had to know â for certain â whether the skin at the small of your back was as soft and warm as it looked. He had to know whether your plush thighs and generous hips would give beneath his hands.
He wanted you in his arms, in his lap, in his bed. He wanted you in his life, and he had never even met you.
He needed to rein it in, he knew. He didnât want to come on too strong, and he didnât want to dive headfirst into something without the proper consideration. It had been over a decade since he had last been in a relationship, and he was a completely different person now than he had been then. Not to mention his son. His boy was his top priority â the most important thing in his world. He would need to be cautious about dating anyone seriously with him in the picture.
But something told him that he had nothing to worry about with you, that you wouldnât resent his priorities or demand things of him that he couldnât give. And if things went well, and he liked you as much in person as he did online⊠If after a while, you earned his trust, his commitmentâŠ
You and the kid would get on like a house on fire. He could sense it.
But.
Before you could meet his son, before Din could welcome you fully into is life, he had to meet you.
Din beat you to the restaurant that Friday.
You wouldnât describe yourself as the type of person who was chronically late (though some of your friends might have had a different opinion on the matter), but in your defense, you had had a new client intake call right at the end of the day that had gone on for longer than you anticipated. Thankfully, you had gotten yourself ready before the call so that by the time the talkative new parents were done describing in great detail their precise vision for their new baby photoshoot, all that was left for you to do was slip on your shoes, grab your purse, and run out the door.
The walk to the restaurant was brief but pleasant, the weather having worked out perfectly for an outdoor meal, and as you approached, you spotted him immediately. Tall and absurdly broad, posted up outside the restaurantâs main entrance with his hands on his hips and one leg popped in a stance that absolutely screamed âdad,â even from a distance. He wore a long-sleeved, charcoal gray henley with the sleeves shoved up to his elbows and a couple buttons undone at the collar, well-fitting, dark-washed jeans, and a pair of black boots with thick soles that you had a feeling he favored when riding his motorcycle. A classic pair of dark sunglasses perched on his prominent nose, and in spite of the warm weather, he had a black leather jacket grasped in one fist, hanging down by his side by its collar.
In the golden hour sun against the worn brick of the restaurantâs exterior, he looked like something out of a movie. Or maybe a menâs cologne ad â something clean but rugged, so masculine you could die. Taking a deep breath against a sudden wave of nerves, you made a mental note to bring your camera the next time the two of you went out. If he was going to look this fucking delicious every time you saw one another, it would be a crime not to document it.
You were in the middle of crossing the street when he spotted you, and you watched with heat rising in your cheeks as he visibly paused and swept you from head to toe with his gaze. His adamâs apple bobbed, and then he was straightening himself and eating up the sidewalk in a handful of long strides to meet you when you arrived.
âDin?â you found yourself asking as you came to stand before him, as if you didnât know, as if you wouldnât recognize that striking face, those powerful shoulders anywhere in the world.
He offered you a gentle half-smile, ducking his chin in a single nod, and you took notice of his free hand balling up into a fist at his side, like he was physically holding himself back from reaching for you. After a beat, he replied, ïżœïżœïżœItâsâŠgood to see you, sweetheart. Happy you got here safe.â
His voice. Low and rasping, worn and manly, strangely reminding you of metal scraping against leather. It was painfully attractive, and you felt your cheeks darken further even as a grin spread across your lips.
You had been right. The man was a certified DILF, and he couldnât have been any more your type if you had designed him in a lab yourself.
âSame to you,â you said, your voice sounding a bit breathless even to your own ears. âShould we go get a table?â
Din made an affirmative noise and gestured for you to precede him down the sidewalk. âI put our names in when I got here. The table should be ready any minute.â
A small thrill went through you at the realization that he must have gotten here at least 45 minutes ago if your table was nearly ready. This place notoriously didnât take reservations, and there was always a wait, especially for the patio. Which reminded youâŠ
Before you could think better of it, you asked, âOh, did you request the patio by chance? Sitting out under the lights is the â â
â â best part, I remember,â he interjected, his tiny smile quirking up in one corner. âYes, I requested the patio. They should text me when the tableâs ready.â No sooner had the words left his mouth and he startled unexpectedly, glancing over his shoulder as though to look at his own back pocket. He reached behind himself and pulled out his phone, the sleek, black thing dwarfed in his broad palm, and you caught a glimpse of his background picture as he unlocked it.
A little boy with floppy, too-long, sandy-brown hair, huge dark eyes, and big ears, grinning up at the camera with a toothy smile. He was adorable.
âAh. Speaking of. Itâs ready,â he said, showing you the automated text. âAfter you.â
He gestured again for you to walk ahead of him, and you drew your lower lip between your teeth as you acquiesced. Not a moment later and you felt the soft, warm press of his palm against the small of your back, the steady, unobtrusive pressure gently guiding you toward the entrance to the restaurant. The sensation had something low and hot simmering in your abdomen, the way the heat of it sank through the fabric of your dress into your skin, the way your body listened to his touch instinctually. It was protective in a way that felt comforting rather than overbearing, and it occurred to you that such a thing would be easy to grow accustomed to.
You had always needed to be the one to look out for yourself. How freeing would it be to be able to trust another person to carry that for you, even if it was only every once in a while?
Your restaurant recommendation proved to be a good one; the food was rich and delicious, the atmosphere was lively, and Din indulged in a couple of their house cervezas throughout the evening, which he found pleasantly light and refreshing. As the sun set behind the city skyline, casting long shadows across the flagstone patio, colorful strings of lights crisscrossing the seating area flared to life. The effect was charming, particularly the way the lights cast a warm glow over your face, arcs of gold and red and green streaking across your hair and illuminating your eyes. You were so pretty â even more than he had expected, even more than in your photos. He wasnât sure he had ever felt âenchantedâ by a person before, but he would say that was close to describing how he felt sitting across the table from you.
To his great relief, Din found that the time passed just as quickly while talking to you in person as it did over the phone. You were sweet, funny, and quite talkative, so even when he found himself dipping into introverted lulls or long silences, you were there to pull him back out of himself. You seemed to have an endless fount of things to chat about, which was perfectly fine with him, as it meant he didnât have to wrack his brain for things to say, and he got to listen to your voice.
You also seemed to find him funny, snorting cutely into your glass every time he said something even faintly amusing, and he would be lying if he said that didnât have his ego swelling a bit. He liked the idea of being able to make you laugh. And when your eyes flashed at him over the rim of your margarita, when you drug the tip of your slick, pink tongue across the line of salt there, when you offered him a slow, knowing smile with just the barest flash of sharp little teethâŠit wasnât only his ego that threatened to swell.
That was one thing he had not accounted for, he found, one facet of your personality that he had only barely glimpsed over text that was now staring him in the face as the two of you wrapped up your meal. You were powerfully, blatantly flirtatious in a way that felt completely foreign to Din after more than a decade of singlehood. Your lowered lashes, your intentional eye contact, your sweet compliments. Your little touches across the table, burning the backs of his hands and the insides of his forearms with the warmth of your skin. And that wasnât even mentioning the surreptitious peeks at your ample cleavage your dress kept allowing as you leaned and shifted in your chair. That one, perhaps, wasnât intentional, but it was still making it difficult for him to avoid embarrassing himself in the middle of this restaurant.
When it became clear that the two of you could no longer draw out your meal, the debate over the check began. Thankfully, you did not propose to pay for both your meal and his, seemingly taking his warning to heart. However, you did suggest that you pay for your own meal and drinks, and something about that still rankled. Eventually, after much back and forth, you compromised and agreed that Din would pay for the meals while you would cover the drinks. The waitress had looked at you a bit oddly when you made the request, but she hadnât protested, and a handful of minutes later, the two of you had paid and were making your way back out onto the sidewalk outside.
Din wasnât ready for the night to end. Spending time with you was the most fun he had had with anyone that wasnât a coworker inâŠwell. Too long. You were sweet and funny and full of life, and every moment he spent in your presence, he could feel warmth and vitality being breathed back into his lungs. He wasnât ready to let that go just yet.
Thankfully, neither, it seemed, were you. Slipping one of your manicured hands into his, you said, âYou know, thereâs a park a couple blocks from here with a really nice walking path. You want to go check it out?â
He glanced down at your joined hands, dragging the pad of his thumb across the ridge of your knuckles almost absently as he reveled in the feeling. You were so fucking soft, just like he knew you would be, and the sensation of your skin under his almost distracted him from his response. After a beat, he nodded, and you hit him with a thousand-watt smile that Din couldnât help but return.
You kept up a steady stream of conversation as you made your way to the park hand-in-hand. Din had proven just as easy to talk to in person as he had online, and although the evening had confirmed your suspicions that he was much more introverted than you, he was by no means reticent. He had matched you beat for beat all night, and even in the moments where he seemed to need a bit of prompting, you chalked it up to him simply being out of the game for a while and didnât hold it against him.
More than anything, though, your impression of him as you made your way down the block was one of an old-fashioned gentleman. There was an earnestness, a seriousness about him that you had never really seen in a guy your age, and it made you feel like you were the only person in the world to him. It was a heady feeling, to be the center of such focused attention. You wondered if he knew that if he wasnât careful, that attention was going to give you ideas. Ideas you werenât certain someone with his sensibilities would be interested in on a first date.
Just when you thought you might need to pull him to the side of the walkway and give him a little taste of what you had in mind, his phone rang, and he dropped your hand to fish it from his back pocket.
You couldnât stop yourself from taking a glance at the screen as he examined it. CARA DUNE, the caller ID read, and the photo that lit up the background was of a striking woman with raven black hair, sharp eyes, and smug smile.
Oh. You felt something in your chest deflate a little. Another woman.
Din pulled up short, looking at you with dark, apologetic eyes shadowed by the streetlamps. âIâm sorry, I have to take this,â he said, and you found yourself nodding your agreement even as your stomach sank further. And to think, you had been convinced that this man was nothing but a bundle of green flags held together by a gap-necked henley and a pair of slutty black combat bootsâŠ
Turning away from you slightly, putting one of his broad shoulders between you and the view of his phone, he swiped up to answer the call.
âDune? Everything okay?â he asked, a flavor of urgency to his tone that had you frowning.
Wait â Dune? He was calling her by her last name?
You couldnât hear what the voice on the other side of the line said in reply, but you watched as Dinâs shoulders dropped from up around his ears, and he brought his free hand up to squeeze the bridge of his nose in exasperation.
âYeah, yeah, itâs fine, put him on.â A pause then, and he sighed deeply. âNo, I donât mind, really, you just scared the shit out of me. A call from you at this time of night? I thought something was wrong.â Another pause, and you could hear what you would swear were several voices talking over each other ringing from the phoneâs speakers even as they were pressed against his ear. âOkay, yeah, thatâs fine. Put him on.â
Din pulled the phone away from his face then and tapped the âvideo callâ button on the glowing gray call interface. Half a breath later, the screen flared to life, blinding you a bit in the darkness, and the image of a little boy with unruly hair and dark, sleepy eyes blinked at him from the phone.
âDaddy!â the boy cried, a toothy grin splitting his chubby little cheeks as he seized the phone from whoever was holding it on his end. He was too close to the camera, the angle giving Din a spectacular view directly up the toddlerâs nose, and you smothered a giggle as you watched the boy make faces at himself in the viewfinder.
âHey, kiddo,â Din said softly, and oh, but you could hear the smile in his voice, could feel the fondness radiating off of him in waves even though you couldnât see his face. Every sinking feeling that had taken over your body disappeared at the sound as you realized what exactly you were witnessing. The other woman was his babysitter.
âAre you being good for Aunt Cara? Hm?â he asked, and you could just melt at the gentleness in his low, rasping voice.
âGood!â the little boy replied, nodding vigorously in a way that bounced his floppy curls across his forehead.
Another face appeared on the screen, the same woman from the caller ID photo, and you watched as she scooped the squirmy kid up into her arms with an exaggerated, theatrical groan. âTell him,â she prompted playfully. âSay we played with your airplanes and your cars.â
The little boy grinned toothily. âYeah, cars!â
âAnd we wrestled with Uncle Axe and Aunt Koska,â Cara prompted, to which the kid giggled.
âI winned!â
Cara nodded with a fond smile. âThatâs right, you won.â
From somewhere off-camera, another voice â this one male â called out in protest. âDebatable! I still say the ref was biased!â
The boy laughed again, the sound high-pitched and full of joy, and even the woman holding him seemed to be fighting back a chuckle as she plowed on. âAnd then Aunt Bo made dinner, and this little dude ate alllll his vegetables!â
âYou did?â Din replied, genuine surprise coloring his words. âThatâs great! Iâm so proud of you!â
âDaddy! When you come home?â
From your angle slightly behind him, you could see your dateâs shoulders fall slightly at the question, so sweetly and innocently asked in that little baby voice. On the other end of the line, Cara offered him what you would call an apologetic smile and shook her head. âSomeone doesnât want to go to bed without Dad.â
âKiddo, Dadâs not going to be home until after your bedtime,â Din sighed. His words were slow and patient on the surface, but you swore you could hear a note of guilt underlying them, and it made your heart ache in your chest. âRemember, we talked about that before I left tonight? Aunt Cara is going to do bedtime tonight, and then when I get home, I promise I will come give you kiss, okay?â
The boy was clearly disappointed by this response, his eyebrows pulling up in the center and his wide, dark eyes shining pitifully through the screen, and he let out a wordless little whine that you were sure would have had you caving in an instant had it been directed at you. However, Din held strong. Voice low and gentle, he offered, âHow about this â letâs say goodnight to each other right now instead. Is that okay? Just for tonight?â
He seemed to weigh that response for a moment, uncertain, but after a beat of silence, the kid tucked himself snugly under Caraâs chin and sighed. âOkaaaay.â
âOkay. I love you so much, kiddo. Get good sleep, have good dreams, and Iâll be there in the morning when you wake up.â Dinâs words, so soft and intimate, sounded almost rehearsed to your ears, and you realized that this man was completing a long-standing bedtime ritual with his son via video chat in the middle of a darkened sidewalk on a Friday night. The thought had your heart swelling behind your ribs, the core of you warming and softening with a rush of fondness that you were helpless against.
Fuck. Din wasnât just a DILF. He was also just a really good dad.
On the other side of the connection, Dinâs little boy yawned widely and snuggled his curly head deeper into his babysitterâs chest. âLove you, Daddy,â he murmured sweetly, and you knew that if it were possible to die of cuteness, you would have done so that those words.
âI love you, too,â Din replied softly. âGood night, buddy.â
âNight night.â
Cara shifted the phone away from the kidâs sleepy face then, refocusing herself in the frame. âOkay, that should do it. Iâm gonna go tuck this guy in while heâs still feeling cooperative.â
He was quick to nod his agreement, clearly not wishing to make this task any more difficult on his friend than he needed to. âYeah, go. Iâll text you when Iâm on my way back.â
âHey.â She sounded rather serious then, making intense eye contact with Din through the phone screen. âTake your time, âkay? I got this.â
âHave fun, Djarin!â another womanâs voice chimed from a distance, off-camera and seemingly getting further and further away as Cara carried Dinâs son to bed.
There was a chorus of good-natured laughter, then the manâs voice from earlier returned. âDonât do anything we wouldnât do, eh?â
This, of course, was met with an uproar on the other side of the connection, none of which could be seen. All you could really make out was a stern womanâs voice, one you hadnât heard before, groan, âAxe, I swear to god â â
You laughed softly at that, hiding your smiling lips behind one of your hands and Din quickly started to fumble with his phone. âOookay, thatâs enough of that,â he muttered, and with a swipe of his thick thumb, he ended the call.
Slipping his phone into his back pocket once again, he finally turned back around to face you, guilt and embarrassment tightening the corners of his eyes. Even in the dark, you swore you could make out a flush high on his golden tanned cheekbones as he said, âIâmâŠsorry about that. My kid, heâs got some separation anxiety issues. Heâs not used to me being out of the house at bedtime. Tried to talk to him about it before, but heâs not even three yet, and â â
âDin,â you interjected, closing the narrow distance between the two of you and resting your palm on his arm. âYou donât have to explain. Or apologize. Youâre a dad. Your kid comes first.â With a slow, sly smile, you slipped your hand into the crook of his arm, holding tight to it as you proceeded down the sidewalk once more. âBesides, that was an interesting look at your family dynamic. Or were those your friends? The one called Axe sounds like a character.â
He huffed a laugh at that. âFriends. Well, also my coworkers, but they were friends first. Iâm an only child, so theyâre the only aunts and uncles my kid has ever known.â
âHow many of them are watching him tonight?â
âFour,â he replied with a grimace. âI had originally only asked Cara, but the others overhead andâŠwanted to support me, I guess. I think I mentioned, I donât exactly do this often. I havenât been on a date inâŠwell. Letâs just say itâs been a long time.â
You smiled to yourself, feeling your cheeks heat at the idea that this man who didnât date had decided that he wanted his first date in however long to be with you. You would be lying if you said that wasnât going to go to your head a little. Leaning your forehead against his bicep so he couldnât meet your eyes, you asked, âAnd how are you finding it?â
With a low, rasping chuckle, Din brought his free hand up to cover yours, wrapping his long fingers around the back of your hand where it cupped his elbow. âIâm thinkingâŠif it means I get to spend time with you, I should do it more often.â
Not even an hour later, Din found himself in the back of a cab, arm around your shoulders, fingers linked together, your beautiful face flushed and grinning wildly as you traced the very tip of your nose along his jugular. Your voice breathless and on the verge of laughter, you gave the driver what must have been the address of your apartment, but he couldnât have repeated the words you said if you had paid him. He was far too distracted, too overwhelmed with where the night was heading to pay attention to such details. You were so soft against him, plastered up against his side. Your mussed hair on his cheek, your breasts against his chest, your round hip snug against his, and fuck, your lips â plump and swollen and glistening with his kisses, the ones he had stolen under the lamp light during your stroll through the park. He couldnât believe he had done that. He couldnât believe you had asked him to.
When the two of you had planned this evening, he had had a firm talk with himself â he would keep the physical contact to a minimum, he would not allow his eyes to wander inappropriately, he would be a perfect gentleman, he would treat you like a lady. First of all, because it was the bare minimum of what you deserved, and second of all, because tonight would be your first ever in-person meeting, and he wanted to be very clear that this meant more to him than just some casual hookup. Din had had plenty of those over the years to know that what he felt for you ran so much deeper than that, and he was loathe to give you the wrong idea about his intentions with you.
The moment he saw you walking across the street toward him â backlit by the golden hour sun, hair dancing in the breeze, all your perfect, curvaceous softness swaying with your perky stride â all of that chivalry had nearly been abandoned by the side of the road. And he had been fighting tooth and nail all evening to keep hold of the reins of his desire for you.
But the two of you had meandered through that park for a while. You had stopped along the shore of a little pond to admire the water, and you had looked up at him with these wide, soft eyes, your long lashes casting intricate shadows across your cheeks, and god, it had nearly killed him to keep his hands balled up in the pockets of his jacket.
And then you had taken the smallest step forward, eating up what little distance still remained between you.
And then you had whispered, in a voice so low he could barely hear you, âWill you kiss me, Din? Please?â
How could he have refused you?
Now your breath was on his neck, your lips softly brushing his skin, and he was slithering his arm down from around your shoulders and instead pressing his palm to your thigh. His fingers dug into the softness there of their own accord, tucking the tips inward and brushing his thumb across the cap of your knee firmly, possessively. He felt you exhale against his collarbone at the sensation, the softest, faintest sound of need reaching his ears, and then he was ducking his chin, finding your mouth again, pressing his lips to yours with an urgency that ought to have felt out of place with the poor cab driver sitting right there but somehow didnât.
Your kiss tasted like lime from your margarita, like salt from the rim. Your fingers threading through his hair felt like heaven. Your body under his hands melted like putty, warm and pliant and so fucking soft that it had blood rushing to his cock, the swell of it pressing uncomfortably against the zipper of his jeans.
And it wasnât enough. You needed more. He needed more.
Breaking the kiss with a soft gasp, Din pressed his forehead against yours, brushed the tip of his nose against yours. âEasy, sweetheart,â he murmured, his voice low and gravely in the hot, moist air between you. âWeâve got to slow down, or Iâm going to embarrass myself.â
You shifted beneath his grip on your thigh, hips squirming in your seat, thighs pressing together, and when he met your heavy-lidded gaze, he was struck with how dark your eyes looked just now, how wide your pupils had blown. Shaking your head, you whispered, âDonât care.â
He bit back a curse at the way his cock throbbed at your words, at the soft, panting tone of your voice. âNot going to fuck you in the back of a cab, baby.â
Giggling breathlessly, you tucked your face into the side of his neck to hide your blush. âYou canât talk to me like that and not expect me to be all over you, Din Djarin,â you huffed, the tip of your tongue darting out to taste the little patch of skin just beneath his earlobe. âSânot fair.â
âNot fair?â With gritted teeth, pure electricity running through his veins, he returned the favor and buried his nose in the soft, fragrant skin of neck. The scent of you there was intoxicating â warmth and musk with a touch of floral, a touch of sweetness. He wanted to sink his teeth into you, might have had you been alone. âFine. You want not fair? Iâll give you not fair.â
Shooting a furtive glance at the driver, who mercifully seemed committed to keeping his eyes on the road, Din delicately slipped his leather jacket from where it had been tucked around your shoulders and instead draped it over your lap.
You pulled away from him slightly at that, meeting his gaze with bright, burning interest in your eyes as you realized what he was about to do.
âIf weâre doing this,â he whispered, âyou have to keep your eyes forward and your mouth shut. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?â
Din watched as you swallowed hard, your swollen lips parting with lust. You nodded wordlessly, and your thigh muscles tightened under his hand, now hidden by the drape of his jacket.
âOkay then. Not a sound.â He cocked his head toward the front of the cab. âNow face forward, behave yourself, and Iâll take care of you.â
He felt the sharp exhale of your breath against his face, and then you were obeying â shifting your hips square to the front of the car, turning to face the windshield, and balling your fists up at your sides. Din shifted, too, turning to face forward and tapping into every ounce of discipline his profession had ever instilled in him to school his expression into something carefully blank and neutral. Beneath his jacket, however, was a different story.
He started with a soothing caress of his palm from the cap of your knee to the top of your thigh, using the heat and the weight of his hand to ease your tense muscles. After a couple of passes, he could feel that softness return, and unprompted, your knees eased apart â not quite spread, not yet, just parted slightly as you relaxed into his touch. The realization sent a surge of satisfaction through him, and he could not stop himself from slipping his fingers down, down, down to the very edge of your knee and slowly starting to gather the fabric of your dress in his grip.
Din heard your breath catch for a moment as you realized what he was doing, and then it sped up, and your knees dropped even further apart. Before he could wrap his head around what he was about to do in the back of a cab car, he had hiked the skirt of your dress up far enough to slip his hand underneath.
Now it was his turn to not be able to breathe. Fuck, your thighs were soft â smooth like silk, supple and pillowy and forgiving as his calloused fingers traced slowly across your skin, seeking your warmth. He could feel a muscle in his jaw jump as his fingers drew higher, as you subtly adjusted yourself in your seat so you could open your legs even wider, permit him even closer to where you both knew you needed him. Every instinct in him begged him to go faster, to give you more, to whip the stifling cover of his jacket off your lap so he could take in the sight of his fingers reaching the smooth, cotton gusset of your panties with his own eyes. Instead, he pulled his face into a scowl of concentration and kept his pace measured.
By the time the side of his pinky bumped into the apex of your thighs, Din felt ready to combust with urgency. He could feel the heat of you there through the fabric, could feel the slickness seeping through it to dampen his skin, could feel the tension in your hips as you tried desperately not to arch into his touch. You were being so good for him, staying silent, never looking his way, just sitting there, the picture of innocence as you let him touch you. It had something hot and nearly feral rising in his chest, the fact that he could give you such impossible instructions in such an impossible scenario and you would drive yourself mad in an attempt to obey them.
It made him wonder what else you would do, if he asked, and just the question had his cock pulsing in his jeans. Unable to hold himself back any longer, Din tucked his fingers under the seam of your panties and slipped them softly, gently through your folds.
A groan bubbled up in his chest, and he allowed his eyes to fall shut for a moment as he collected himself. You were absolutely dripping for him â hot and wet and slippery, trim little curls sticky with it, underwear soaked against the back of his hand. It coated his fingers, and it took every ounce of restraint in his arsenal to stop himself from pulling his hand from under the jacket and popping his fingers directly into his mouth. But no, he told himself. There would be time for that later. Now, you were practically vibrating in your seat trying to keep yourself together, and he needed to watch you fall apart before the cab arrived at your apartment.
Din allowed himself to gently pet you for another moment, reveling in the feel of your soft wetness, and then he was seeking your clit, finding it swollen and puffy and begging for attention near the top of your folds. With the first delicate caress, you lost the battle with your own vocal chords and let out a quiet, breathless whimper, and a rush of pride raced through him at the thought that he had finally overwhelmed you to the point where you couldnât keep silent anymore. Still, he couldnât stop himself from leaning over into your space and murmuring into your ear, âI said keep quiet, sweetheart. Or I stop right now. Understood?â
You let out a shaky exhale, and Din felt more than saw you nod your agreement.
âGood girl,â he growled, and he swore he felt your clit pulse under his fingertips at his words. Interesting. That was something he was going to need to explore more later.
For now, he offered you a few more gentle caresses, a few soft, tight circles around your clit as acknowledgment of your suffering, and then he dipped down to your entrance and slowly, sweetly slipped his middle finger into your throbbing pussy.
God, you felt incredible â hot and wet and so fucking tight that he could feel his cock leaking in his jeans at the idea that he might have the opportunity to be inside you with more than just his fingers. Your velvet walls fluttered around him in desperate little waves as he gently thrust inside you, in and out, in and out, pressing deeper on each pass, seeking that elusive spot inside that he knew would make you see stars. After a handful of strokes, he added a second finger, and your hips stuttered at the stretch, hitching against his touch in a way that felt both needy and overwhelmed. You were so tight, and his fingers were so thick; it was no wonder it was a shock.
Din turned and dropped a tender, comforting kiss to the crown of your head. Fuck, you were so good, just sitting there in the back of the cab, letting him touch you, letting him finger you, letting him make you feel good. The ease with which you gave it all up to him was driving him insane. How long had it been since he had been with someone like you, someone who seemed to know innately what he needed, who fit with him so perfectly it was as though some divine being had had a hand in your introduction? Had it ever been this good? Had he ever needed someone as badly as he needed you?
Grinding the heel of his hand into your clit, Din sped up his thrusts. In and out, in and out, pressing, stretching, seeking. Your knees fell farther apart seemingly of their own accord, as your eyes had taken on a faraway look to them, staring unseeingly out the front windshield as you took what he gave you. In your lap, his leather jacket began to slip, and one end of it fell suspiciously down between your spread legs. Although his hand and the apex of your thighs were still hidden, if the driver were to take a look in his rearview mirror, he would clearly be able to tell what was happening in his back seat.
The same idea seemed to occur to you then, because in that moment, you broke his second rule â you glanced over at him with a fucked-out look of urgency on your face, and Din could swear he felt you starting to tighten. Fuck, this was turning you on. The near-exposure, the precarious position the two of you were in, it was making you drip around his fingers, making you clench around his thrusts.
You were a wild thing; Din had known it from the moment he laid eyes on you. Now here was the proof. You were going to come on his fingers in the back of a cab car, and then you were going to invite him up to your apartment and let him fuck you senseless â
âHere we are,â the driver said, his voice slow and unaffected, almost bored as he pulled the cab off to the side of the street and turned on his blinkers.
No matter how nonchalant his words, the sound of them sent a bolt of terror through the both of you, and in a flurry of limbs and fabric, each of you scrambled to put yourselves back together as the car came to a stop. Din yanked his fingers from your body, the quick withdrawal pulling a little hiccupping whine from your throat, but he paid it no heed as he tugged your skirt back down where it belonged around your knees. You gathered up his jacket and draped it over your arm, running your fingers through your mussed hair. By the time the car rolled to a complete stop, each of you were looking mostly put together, save Dinâs raging hard-on tenting his jeans and your flush-cheeked, glassy-eyed stare.
Although he had already paid for the fare, as the two of you slid out of the back of the car, Din pulled a wad of cash from his wallet and discretely slipped it into the driverâs hand.
âThanks for the ride,â he murmured hoarsely, and before the man could reply, he threaded his fingers through yours and followed your lead to the door of your apartment building.
You would be lying if you said you hadnât been hoping that this would be where the night would end â Dinâs broad, calloused hand in yours, your dress askew and your thighs damp, the two of you moving with urgency down the hall outside your apartment, breathless laughter on your tongue. You had never been strictly opposed to sex on the first date, if the chemistry was there and you felt comfortable and safe with the person, and he had checked all of your boxes and then some from the moment you spotted him outside the restaurant that night. You had decided then and there; if the date went well, and he seemed to be on the same page, you would be taking him home with you that night.
You had worried that your advances might be a bit much for Din, but clearly, those fears had been unfounded. He seemed a bit overwhelmed, a bit in disbelief, but that hadnât stopped him from jumping at every chance you had given him â holding your hand as you walked, kissing you down by the pondâŠ
Giving you one of the hottest experiences of your life by stealthily fucking you with his fingers in the back of the cab while you struggled to stay perfectly silent and stillâŠ
Your pussy clenched at the memory of his thick fingers inside you, the perfect stretch of them, the way they had both soothed your ache for him while also somehow making it worse, knowing how much better it would be if it were his cock filling you up like that. Fuck. You needed this man, and you needed him now.
Thankfully, Din seemed to have no interest in stopping. When you finally reached your door, he wasted no time in crowding up behind you as you fumbled for your keys, hands slipping around your waist as he dropped hot, open-mouthed kisses to the side of your neck. Your eyelids drooped at the sensation, your hands halting in mid-air, keys dangling from your grip, and you felt more than heard him chuckle against your skin.
âDonât get distracted, sweetheart. Open the door,â he murmured, breath hot on the shell of your ear, making you shiver. What a little shit.
After another second of fiddling with your keys, you finally were able to work open your door, and the two of you nearly fell inside. He slammed it shut behind you as you tossed your keys onto the nearby countertop, and then he was on you â one hand gripping the swell of your hip, one hand slipping along the side of your face to cup your jaw, fingers tangling in your hair at the base of your skull as he cradled you. You could smell yourself on him, the scent of your arousal clinging to the hand that now held your face, and god, you could swear your insides turned molten at the idea. His mouth was covering yours before you could comment on it, and then every lucid thought evaporated from your mind.
For a man who claimed to have been out of the dating pool for a while, Din certainly knew how to kiss â he was passionate, meticulous, and completely relentless in the way he took you apart. His lips were soft, his tongue precise, and the single-minded focus with which he stroked your jaw, coaxed you open, and devoured you was enough to make you blush.
Almost absently, you realized his other hand had swept around the crest of your hip and taken a palmful of your ass, and you whimpered into the kiss, your hips hitching toward him of their own accord. His hands were fucking huge, warm through the fabric of your dress, callouses on his palms catching on the fabric. You needed them all over you â on your skin, in your hair, between your legs â
Pulling his lips away from yours with a gasp, he groaned, âIf this is too much â if this isnât what you want â â
You shook your head, digging your fingers into his dark brown curls, pulling his neck down to your mouth so you could suck on the skin there. âI want it, Din. I want it,â you reassured him.
You felt a shudder pass through him, and then both of his hands were on your ass, dragging you closer, pressing the full length of your torso along his. âKnow itâs early, know we just met, donât have to do anything you donât want â â
âDin!â Yanking his hair sharply until he hissed, you watched as he finally seemed to focus on you, eyes darkening as he took in your flushed face, your swollen lips, your glossy, heavy-lidded eyes. âI want to fuck you,â you proclaimed bluntly. His mouth dropped open, just slightly, pouty lower lip trembling as he stared at you. âDo you want to fuck me?â
The man blinked a few times, seemingly taken aback, but he didnât allow the question to hang in the air for too long. With a heavy, audible swallow, Din replied, âYeah, baby, I want to fuck you.â
A bright, electric thrill of victory surged through you, and you couldnât have smothered the grin that split your face if you tried.
âOkay, then fuck me. And donât hold back.â
You winked at him playfully, and a dangerous smirk that had your pussy fluttering pulled at the corner of his lips. No sooner had you registered the expression and he was toeing off his boots, leaving them abandoned in front of your door, and driving you backward into the apartment. A breathless yelp followed by a laugh escaped you as you allowed him to push you into your living room, shedding your own shoes as you went, and then you were kissing again, and just like before, all of your surroundings melted away.
A rush of cool air met your thighs as balled fists pulled up the hem of your dress, gathering the fabric in worn palms as more and more of your body was revealed, and you let it go gladly. Lifting your arms above your head, you allowed him to pull the whole thing off over your head, and through the wild, fluffed-up strands of hair dangling in your eyes, you watched as he took you in â your blushing cheeks, your heavy, heaving breasts cupped in a black cotton bra, your soft, rounded belly, your thick thighs and wide hips, the narrow strip your black cotton thong completely soaked through and clinging to your pussy lips. You had no name for the expression on his face, but if you had to relate it to something, you would say it was close to awe.
Din was in awe of you, completely and utterly gone for you, and the surge of power that sent through your veins was like a drug.
âTake off your shirt,â you murmured, lip between your teeth, and as he rushed to obey, you dropped to your knees in front of him.
âFuck, sweetheart, you donât â â he groaned, but your hands were already working his belt buckle open, already thumbing at the button of his jeans.
âBut I want to.â Looking up at him through your lashes with wide, soft eyes, you held his gaze as you slipped his zipper down, as you felt the hardness poorly concealed behind it swell and surge against your palm. âSo let me.â
He gave no further protests, simply watched as you tucked your thumbs into the waistband of both his jeans and his charcoal gray boxer briefs and shoved, pulling them both down around his knees in one, smooth tug. One more push and they were pooled around his ankles, and then Din was stumbling out of them, holding onto the back of a nearby armchair for support as he kicked them aside.
He was naked now, staring down at you with dark, heated eyes, broad, muscled chest rising and falling with every labored breath, and fuck, if he wasnât the most beautiful man you had ever seen. Thick and strong with long, powerful limbs and a soft stomach, a fine dusting of dark brown hair from his bellybutton down, and miles and miles of golden tanned skin decorated with a heavily curated collection of black and gray tattoos that you hadnât been able to see earlier. They looked like beautiful work, and you were eager to examine them later, but for now, something else was begging for your attention, and you couldnât ignore it any longer even if you wanted to.
Inches from your face, long and thick and curved, flushed and leaking precum, his cock was just as beautiful as the rest of him, and you needed it in your mouth. Now.
Holding yourself steady with one hand on his narrow hip, one hand around the base of him, you leaned forward and dragged your tongue along the underside before taking the tip of him in your mouth and suckling gently. Slick musk coated your tongue, and you moaned at the taste, immediately surging forward and taking more. Above you, Din let out a colorful string of curses and dropped a hand to the back of your head, cupping the bowl of your skull in his palm as you worked yourself over him. He never put any pressure there, never thrust himself deeper than you were choosing to take him, but you could feel his restraint in the tension in his hips, in the grip of his fingers in your hair.
He was trying so hard to be a gentleman for you. You kind of wished he would give it up already.
Pulling back, letting his cock fall from your mouth, you took up your strokes with your hand and said, âSâokay, baby. You can take what you need from me. Mânot gonna break.â
Din groaned, low and gravelly in his chest, and then he was using his grip on your head to coax you up and back onto your feet. âNeed to fuck you, sweetheart â I canât wait any more.â
Your cunt bottomed out at that, the swooping sensation deep inside you almost leaving you dizzy, and although you had been looking forward to sucking him off, you found yourself nodding your agreement anyway. âWhere do you want me?â you asked, and the question had him tugging you forward into a hard kiss.
âOn the couch,â he growled. âJust need to feel you around me.â
Pulling him deeper into the living room, you shed your bra as you went, tossing it who-knows-where in your eagerness. You could feel his eyes on you â on them â as your breasts swayed with your movement, and perhaps such direct attention ought to have made you self-conscious, but instead in made you bold. The moment the backs of your knees collided with the couch, you stripped your thong from your body while holding his gaze, and the pure, molten want in his stare had you feeling like the sexiest woman he had ever seen.
âLie back,â he rasped, and you were quick to obey, laying down with your head at one end and your legs stretched out along the length of the couch. Snagging one of your many throw pillows, Din tapped the side of your hip twice, adding, âLift your hips for me, pretty girl.â
You did, and he slid that pillow underneath your ass. Then he was clambering up onto the couch with you, all long limbs and big hands and sweat-damp curls, kneeling between your legs, urging one of them up to drape over the back of the couch, nudging the other down to drip limply onto the floor. You went where he guided you, happy to arrange yourself however he pleased as long as it meant you got to feel that gorgeous cock inside you.
But he started with his fingers first, coaxing and petting and caressing your dripping folds in much the same way that he had in the back of the cab, only this time, you were free to arch your hips into his touch and let out soft, breathy moans with every delicate stroke.
Din seemed to realize this at the same time you did, as he began to nod slowly, encouragingly as he slipped two fingers into your quivering, grasping pussy. âThatâs it, let me hear you now. You donât have to be quiet anymore, sweetheart. Let me hear you feel good.â
And fuck, but it did feel good â his fingers stretching you, filling you, pressing steadily against that soft, elusive spot inside you with every thrust, making you want to thrust against him, to drive him deeper, to take even more of him.
âGod, baby, youâre so fucking wet. Is that good? Is that what you need?â he groaned, and you nodded furiously, too overcome to speak, just knowing you needed him to keep goingâŠneeded him to give you more.
Again, it was like Din realized what you wanted at the same time you did. Gently slipping his fingers from you, he used the thick coating of your wetness on them to stroke his cock as he shuffled forward on his knees. Pressing down on the blunt, swollen tip with his thumb, he dragged his length through your folds collecting your slick, starting at your entrance and sliding smoothly up to your clit. You let out a low, startled moan at the feeling, and you couldnât help but grind against him, letting the tip of his cock press and circle against your puffy, throbbing clit. Shit, when was the last time you had hooked up with someone and been this outrageously turned on? You felt like you were on the ragged edge of your orgasm already, and he had barely touched you.
However, just as Din began to trail the head of his cock back down to your entrance, a shock of reality broke through your dazed, lust-fogged mind, and you found yourself pressing your hand against his stomach, stopping him from thrusting in.
âCondom,â you panted, sex-addled and breathless. âWe need a condom.â
His dark brown eyes widened with a sudden wave of awareness, and you felt him pull back immediately. âShit. Youâre right, Iâm sorry,â he stammered. âI wasnât thinking.â
You let out a winded laugh and shook your head. âMe, neither. Did you bring one? I have some if you need.â
Din nodded, hopping up from the couch and crossing back over to where the two of you had abandoned his jeans. Digging his wallet out of the pocket, he slid a conspicuous foil packet from inside then dropped the wallet back onto the pile of denim. A moment later, he was settled back between your legs, perched up on his knees with his hands on your thighs and the condom tucked securely between two of his fingers.
âYou ready, sweetheart?â he asked, and you nodded urgently.
âSo ready. Beyond ready.â
Your eagerness seemed to be all he needed to get back into the moment. With a few quick strokes of his cock, he ripped the condom wrapper open with his teeth and slid it on. You watched with hooded eyes, lower lip trapped between your teeth, and you couldnât stop yourself from reaching out to stroke him yourself as the latex stretched over his skin. Din groaned at your touch, and then he shooed your hands away and lined himself up with your entrance.
âEyes on me, pretty girl. Want to see your face while you take me,â he groaned, and with one long, smooth thrust, he filled your cunt with his throbbing length.
âAh! Fuck, Din!â
It took everything in you not to let your eyes fall shut as he thrust inside you. The stretch was incredible â just the slightest burn, but even with his size, it wasnât too much after how he well had prepared you, how long he had teased you in the cab, how turned on you were. It was enough to feel truly full â stuffed to the brim, the weight of him absolutely gorgeous as he bore down on all your most sensitive spots. Above you, your date was gritting his teeth, a muscle in his jaw twitching as his nostrils flared, as he dug his fingers into your thighs with a grip so hard it would likely bruise. He seemed to be fighting very hard to keep himself together, and you immediately felt the sinister urge to clench around him just to watch him struggle. Instead, you chose to take mercy on him and simply roll your hips against his, driving him deeper.
âNo â shit, baby, you canât â â he stammered, hands tightening on your legs even harder, hips surging forward in the smallest of thrusts completely out of his control. âI amâŠhanging on by a thread here, and if you â â
âIf I what?â you taunted, the power you had over him flowing through you like an aphrodisiac, making you bold, making you reckless. âIf I do this?â You rolled your hips against his again, smooth and lazy, and you could actually feel his cock throb and twitch inside you.
Deep in his chest, Din released what could only be described as an animalistic growl, and in an instant, he had one hand tucked behind the back of your knee â the one up on the back of the couch â and the other gripping the couch cushion beside your head. Arching his broad, muscular body over yours, bringing his face down to your level, he pressed your knee back toward your head and thrust so deep into you, you couldnât help but whine at the feeling.
âNaughty girl,â he rasped.
You nodded with a smile. âYou like that about me.â
He huffed a laugh into the hot, humid space between you, shaking his head at you exasperatedly. âYouâre right, I do. But right now â â He pulled back his hips until just the very tip of his cock remained inside you, brows drawn low in concentration. â â right now, I really just need to fuck you. Can I, sweetheart? Can I just fuck you?â He thrust back in, all the way to the hilt, and you could swear your cunt was literally dripping at the intoxicating feeling. Your body was writhing beneath him, completely out of your control, and you swore that if he didnât just fucking rail you in the next three seconds, your head might explode. Â
âI swear to god, Din, if you ask me one more time â â
His mouth sealed over yours before you could finish your sentence, and then he was finally â finally â fucking you.
With swift, firm thrusts, he drilled you into the couch cushions, all hesitance and restraint fully evaporated. The angle was perfect, the extra height and the little tilt added by the throw pillow exactly what you needed to have his cock dragging against your G-spot on every thrust, and that combined with the way his pubic bone ground against your clit had you moaning and whimpering and digging your manicured nails into his shoulders in your ecstasy. Din was like a force of nature, the way he fucked â gripping your thigh, driving your leg back toward your head, holding your eye contact, watching with deep, unflappable intensity as you trembled and shook beneath him. Every once in a while, he would drop his gaze to trace over your soft, folded stomach or to watch the hypnotic bounce of your tits, but mostly, he kept his eyes on yours, and rather than making you self-conscious, it simply drove the heat between you higher, made it more powerful.
âThought about this,â he confessed, a whine creeping into the edge of his low voice as his thrusts sped up. âAll those fucking pictures of you â doing yoga â all bent and twisted and â flexible.â
A smirk made its way onto your face, and you ran your fingers through his hair, brushing his limp curls out of his eyes. âYeah? You like a bendy girl, Din Djarin? Howâs it live up to the fantasy?â
He groaned, leaning even further forward to press his sweaty forehead into yours, driving your leg even further back toward your face. Tucking your knee up onto his shoulder, the angle of his cock inside you deepened. âEven better,â he admitted. âYouâre perfect â so perfect.â
âP-Perfect?â God, that soft, spongy tip was hammering your G-spot now; you could barely comprehend any of the words he said to you, let alone string together any of your own.
âPerfect body,â he elaborated, gritting his teeth, groaning loudly. âSweet, soft, perfect p-pussy. Perfect â hnng fuck â perfect girl.â
âDin!â you gasped. That low pool of heat in your abdomen was starting to tighten, starting to pulse. You could feel it rising inside you, threatening to take you over. It feltâŠmassive, life-altering in a way you hadnât known orgasms could be, but fuck, if this one wasnât promising to do it.
âShit, baby, can feel you,â Din groaned. âYou gonna come for me? Gonna come all over my cock? Hm?â
âY-Yes, Iâm gonna â youâre gonna make me â â You hiccupped a sob, raking your fingernails down his arms in a move that had him hissing and his hips stuttering as he thrust. âFuck, Iâm so close!â
âWhat do you need? Whatâs gonna get you there?â
âMy clit â can I â ?â
He cursed, dropping a wet, sucking, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh. âYeah, baby, touch yourself. Make yourself come. Need to feel it.â
Wiggling one of your hands into the tight space between your bodies, the tip of your middle finger found your throbbing clit and immediately began to play. You wouldnât need much more â just something a little more direct, a little more concentrated, a little more â
âYes! Fuck, Din, right there!â
And then you were gone â that tight, wet heat inside you bursting, dripping down his cock and flinging you into the stars on the edge of the event horizon. The walls of your cunt pulsed around him as you rode out your high, and Din was quick to follow you into his own abyss, unable to hold back anymore the moment he had felt you start to fall apart. With one final, deep surge of his hips, you felt his cock pulse and twitch inside you, and for a brief, wild moment, you regretted the use of the condom. You would have liked to have felt the warmth of him spilling inside you.
In the aftermath, Din was tender, as you had had no doubt he would be. After the two of you had taken a moment to catch your breath, he reached a hand down to hold onto the base of the condom as he pulled out. A low, husky groan escaped him as he withdrew, and you felt a sympathetic throb deep inside you at the sound. Even now, everything he did was unthinkably hot.
A moment later, he had removed and tied off the condom and retreated to your kitchen to toss it, returning with a warm rag he had clearly dampened in your sink. He was gentle and methodical as he cleaned you, wiping between and around your swollen pussy lips with steady hands before he moved on to cleaning himself.
He would need to go now, you realized. He had likely already stayed out later than he had planned, already imposed upon the generosity of his friends long enough. His little boy was waiting for him, and as much as you wished he could stay, you knew it would be unreasonable to ask him to.
So without prompting, you pulled yourself up to sitting, and when he came back from tossing the rag back into the kitchen, you rose to your feet.
You had to admit, you felt a bit exposed, a bit awkward, but even now, as Din looked at you, you could see all of the same warmth and affection you had seen in his eyes before the sex, and that eased your nerves a bit. The first real nerves you had felt since the start of the night, you realized.
âSweetheart,â he whispered. âIâm sorry, but I have to â â
âI know,â you interrupted, giving him a smile you werenât certain would reach your eyes. âI understand. Itâs late. You have to be getting back.â
âI do,â he agreed. Crossing to stand just in front of you, he reached out a hand and traced the backs of his fingers down your arm, leaving goosebumps in his wake. âThank you for tonight. I had a great time with you. And not justâŠthis.â He gestured awkwardly at the surrounding room, at his own nakedness that matched yours, at the trail of clothes between the couch and the apartment door. You giggled in spite of yourself, and he joined in, the whole mood lightening considerably as the two of you found your way back to laughing with one another.
âI had a great time with you, too,â you said, draping your arms around his neck. âIâd like to do it again sometime, if youâre interested.â
Din smiled, soft and genuine, and pressed a kiss to your hairline. âIâm definitely interested. And, ah, maybe next time Iâll call in a few favors. See if I can arrange an overnight sitter.â
You snorted, tucking your face into his neck as joy began to bubble beneath the surface of your skin, making you feel light and filling you with an impish energy in spite of the hour. âHey, if you can swing it, Iâm definitely not going to say no. Iâd like to actually, I donât know, make it to the bed next time? Maybe?â
He playfully squeezed your sides in response, and you let out a squeal. âCan you blame me?â he quipped. âDriving me insane all night.â
Offering him a tongue-touched smile, you pulled away and started collecting his clothing from around the room. âAgain. You like that about me, baby,â you teased. With a wink, you dropped the bundle of clothes into his waiting arms. âNow get your cute ass back in these jeans. And go kiss your son good-night.â
A handful of minutes later, Din was fully dressed and hovering by the door to your apartment, the scent of you still lingering on his skin, his heart lighter and freer than he had felt in years. You had gone and gotten yourself a robe to cover up with while he dressed, and now you stood, hip leaning against your kitchen cabinets, arms crossed over your ample chest, watching him attempt to delay the inevitable of having to say good-bye.
He didnât want to leave you â he hoped you knew.
He didnât want to sleep away from his son, but he also didnât want to leave you. An impossible conundrum, and one that didnât bear examination seeing as this was only your first time meeting in person. It was far too early for the direction his mind was heading; he headed it off before it could travel any further down the road.
Instead, he gathered you into his arms one final time for the night, cradled your face in his hands, and planted a soft, gentle kiss on your swollen lips. âGood night, sweetheart. Can I text you in the morning?â
âYou can text me anytime,â you replied with a smile. âYou could even, umâŠcall me. If you wanted. When you have some free time.â
Din drew back for a moment, eyebrows raised. âYeah, if thatâs okay with you. Iâd like to call you.â
Your smile widened, and he could swear he felt a piece of his heart leave his body and lodge itself in you at the sight. âGreat. Then Iâll look forward to hearing your voice again tomorrow.â
âTomorrow,â he echoed, and with one final kiss, Din slipped out the door.
#hotdilfsummerchallenge#din djarin#din djarin x you#din djarin x f!reader#din djarin x reader#the mandalorian#the mandalorian fanfiction#pedro pascal#pedro pascal characters#pedro pascal character fanfiction#ppcu#ppcu fanfiction
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dirty laundry ⥠re6!leon kennedy x puppy hybrid!reader
nsfw (18+) - minors dni or i will call ur mom. and also the cops
word count: 5.1k
tags/warnings: re6!leon, stubborn/reluctant puppy reader who pretends she hates him, brief chris redfield appearance, forced proximity (kinda), leon pining for u (he wants u to call him daddy btw), hybrid heat cycle shenanigans, thigh riding, dry humping, oral sex (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), no use of y/n
description: leon's had a tough time figuring out his new puppy hybrid roommate... outside of the fact that she's sweet on him, and just won't admit it. lucky for leon, he comes home from a mission to find her airing her dirty laundry.
a/n: this piece was commissioned by my beloved and adored @pupthepokemonenthusiast who is one of MY FAVORITE PEOPLE ON EARTH EVER ?!!!! and i luv yapping w them and that makes collaborating w them such a dream every time....
divider by @cafekitsune !!
my masterlist âĄ
my ao3 âĄ
fic under the cut, thanks so much for reading and i hope u enjoy ;w;
-venus âĄ
Loose gravel crunched beneath Leon's boots, uneven pavement glittering with moisture in the streetlights. It was somewhere between raining and snowing, the wind splattering his rosy cheeks with little drops of condensation, every breath puffing out in a visible cloud, head tilted down at just the right angle to protect the lower half of his bruised face from the cold while still being able to see where he was going.
He didn't have a specific destination in mind, and truth be told, he couldn't really read most of the signage around here anyway-- it was all in Mandarin, and his Mandarin was even less reliable than his Spanish, to put it gently. But he could read what he needed to, at least, enough to find the basics like food, bathrooms, lodging, or hospitals, and more importantly, he could discern the backlit lettering above the shop two doors down; antiques and collectibles.Â
That was a phrase he'd familiarized himself with in damn near every language under the sun by now.Â
A bell dinged quietly overhead as he stepped into the storefront, grateful that it was even open past 9 o'clock at night. It was only one room and didn't have much space to walk around, but every available surface was stacked to the brim with knick-knacks of all shapes, colors, sizes, and price points under no apparent system of organization. Where some might be overwhelmed or put off by the volume of things to look at, Leon felt his heart skip a beat with excitement. He still had some time to kill before his transport back to the States was due to arrive, and not a single minute of it would be wasted overlooking any potential gems.Â
Judging by the horrified stares he was attracting, Leon could imagine he looked fucking insane right now, clothes still splattered with wet, rotting blood and the barrel of his gun practically still smoking in his holster as he towered over a shelf in the back corner, scrutinizing a darling little plush bear in one hand and a set of hand-painted matryoshka dolls in the other like it was the hardest decision he would ever have to make.Â
Ultimately, he chose not to decide at all-- money wasn't a factor, so why not buy both? If it weren't for the issue of luggage, he'd just say 'fuck it' and buy out the whole damn store. Unfortunately, helicopters tended to be quite limited in space.Â
Self control was a skill Leon used to have mastered, perhaps even too well-- for a long time, every uncomfortable, unsightly, pesky little emotion was pressed down into a condensed cube to be neatly packed away in the very back corners of his brain, boxes upon boxes of dense feelings continuing to pile up and take over more and more space up there until the pressure became too much, the lid blew, and he went off the fucking handle. It wasn't something he was proud of by any means, all those long months blurred into mush through a lens of alcoholism and other reckless behaviors, but what he did try to let himself be proud of was his relative success in making it to the other side.Â
That, of course, was a feat he did not accomplish without help, nor would he ever claim to. Chris Redfield was instrumental in his recovery in more ways than one, and at times, without even realizing it. He was a listening ear, a dealer of tough love, a trusted confidant...
...and the reason he had you.Â
For obvious reasons, Leon had never gone out of his way to get a pet in his adult life. It just felt irresponsible with the inconsistency and uncertainty of his work situation, even with all the money in the world to spend on trainers and walkers and boarding and... whatever else, but at that point, it would feel less like a pet than an accessory, and Leon didn't have much interest in material. Never saw the need for it. Then one day Chris woke him up in the middle of the night banging on the door to his apartment with a gift he never expected.
"She's a... what?"
"A hybrid. She's a human-canine hybrid, Leon."Â
Leon glanced between you and Chris with skepticism in his eyes, only to find the same look peering back at him in you. It was almost kind of funny that he'd have a hard time believing there could be such a thing as a human-canine hybrid, considering all he'd seen in his line of work, a thought that made his shoulders and his expression relax almost instantly.Â
You were a real cutie, that was for sure, tucked behind Chris and staring up at Leon through your eyelashes with this grumpy little look on your face, a plush, patchwork bear clutched to your chest. The toy was equally as vibrant and colorful as your clothing, if not a bit worn with time. Your ears were long and droopy, your tail hanging low but swishing side-to-side with cautious interest, and the longer he studied you, the more he became endeared by you.Â
"The B.S.A.A. rescued a group of hybrids from an illegal facility a few weeks ago, but finding accommodations for them isn't as simple as it sounds," Chris continued, resting a hand on your shoulder in an apparent move to reassure you. "Long story short, the people who were in charge of that facility aren't too happy about the acquisition, and the hybrids aren't safe at the B.S.A.A. anymore. Would you be willing to shelter her for a while?"Â
The firm look in Chris' eyes-- and the fact that he just had to bring this up with you right in front of him-- made it clear he wasn't really asking. No mind, Leon would have done it anyway. It just would have been nice to have had a heads up to rectify the state of the apartment.Â
"Yeah, of course," Leon nodded gently, stepping aside to allow you and Chris further into the apartment. "Make yourself at home." He caught the way your head tilted up a bit, as if you were studying the scent in the air, and he supposed it made sense that you likely were.
That was four months ago. And for the past four months, Leon quite enjoyed having you around. You were silly and playful, always bounding around the apartment with a toy clenched between your teeth or lounging in the sunny spots in front of the windows, pawing at him for belly rubs and treats and infinite tug-o-war matches. All that being said, you were equally stubborn, resisting him at every turn like magnetic repulsion, always kicking up a fuss seemingly just for the sake of it.
He wasn't sure. You were tough to read. Not only did some of your canine personality traits make you a bit forgetful and distractible at times, but you were also just terribly inconsistent with your affections, and he wasn't always sure what to make of it. All he knew was that he was determined to win you over in one way or another, and if he was going to do that, he'd have to figure you out first, and so far that was shaping up to be quite the herculean task. At least it seemed you would be here for a while.Â
With the way he guarded your little treasures during the flight home, one might assume he was smuggling something, but he just couldn't stomach the thought of coming home without something to present to you. The hardened federal agent was determined to crack a smile out of you on his terms, to get you to admit what you both knew to be true.Â
You had a crush on him. A big, fat, embarrassingly all-encompassing crush on him, and you rejected the idea of owning up to it so staunchly that it was turning you into a bit of a brat. That was the one thing he could read about you, and it drove you up the wall.Â
He certainly wasn't judging you. It would be an absurd lie to say he didn't have a big, fat, embarrassingly all-encompassing crush on you too-- he'd be insane if he didn't. But the back and forth was far too enjoyable, and Leon was always up for a good natured challenge.Â
See, self control was something Leon had worked really, really hard to regain a handle on, and when it came to his drinking and brooding, he certainly had... but when it came to you? Not by a longshot. That being said, he would rather be pouring himself into courting you than pouring himself another bourbon. That's what he used to shut up that little voice in the back of his head that questioned whether or not he was putting too much energy into this, banking too much on it.Â
It was innocent, right? It's not like you were a bad influence or whatever. If anything, a lot of nights that he would have spent at the bar were instead being spent at home playing with you. Surely that had to be a net positive, especially considering you would have otherwise been getting poked and prodded at in a lab.Â
Stepping back into the apartment for the first time in weeks, Leon hadn't even bothered bringing his duffel bag in with him from the car, the only thing in his arms being the wrinkled paper bag from that antique shop. His own belongings could wait. As soon as he shut and locked the door behind him, stepping out of his shoes, the first thing he noticed was how quiet it was.Â
No lively music from the shows you liked to watch, no little bumps or growls from you playing toys, no quiet padding of your feet across the hardwood from you coming to see who was at the door. He glanced at his watch, finding it was only half past nine in the evening, and while you often proclaimed to abide by a healthy bedtime for yourself, you had a habit of napping all day and bouncing off the walls all night. Something was amiss.
Stepping further into the apartment to investigate the scene, Leon peered into the living room. The lights were on, the TV was off, there were a few toys strewn about the couch and the floor, but not a glimpse of the sweet puppy who left them there. Odd. Suspicious. Maybe even staged.Â
His lips came together in a whistle meant to grab your attention, knowing your sharp ears would hear it from anywhere in the apartment, even if you were sleeping. When that call garnered no response, he began to wonder if you were mad at him. After all, he was supposed to return almost three days ago, and while Chris had been able to stop by and check on you when he had the time, it just wasn't the same, and you didn't do well with loneliness, and Leon knew that.Â
Turning on his heel to head deeper into the apartment, he continued to find you nowhere. Not climbing the countertops in the kitchen, or playing under the dining table, or even reluctantly having a bath. As he reached the end of the short hallway, there were only two doors left to open.Â
Leon tried another whistle and called out, "Hey, pup? I'm home!"Â
He waited, and listened... and heard nothing. Your bedroom door was closed, and it looked like the light was on in there, judging by the subtle glow spilling out beneath it, but still, no response.Â
His bedroom door, however, was cracked open. The overhead light was off but the bedside lamp was on, and his dirty laundry basket was tipped over on the floor. When he stepped forward to turn it upright again, he thought he saw the bedding shuffle out of the corner of his eye. Closer inspection of the bed brought the case of his missing puppy girl drew to a close. Your soft tail was peeking out beneath the edge of the covers, the markings and patterns in your fur being undeniably familiar to him now.Â
It was perfect timing, really-- he was just about to tip over into the realm of worrying about your safety, but now he was back to just worrying you were mad at him... and he couldn't help the amused grin that tugged at his expression.Â
"Is that a little puppy in daddy's bed?" He asked aloud, his tone taking on a smitten and adoring lilt. Once again, he received no response... at least not verbally. Quietly setting down that paper bag, he stood there and watched with his arms crossed as your tail fluttered to life in response to his tone, the tip silently patting the sheets in a lazy and reluctant little wag that you might have actually gotten away with, if it weren't for the fact that your tail was in plain view.Â
He was initially going to try a few more times to get a response out of you, hoping to make sure you were okay and to see if you wanted to talk, but he quickly realized that wasn't going to work with you. You weren't all doom and gloom like he tended to be, you were silly, you were playful, you were fundamentally kind. A lighthearted approach wouldn't work with him, or with most of the people he dealt with on a day-to-day basis, but it would almost certainly work with you.Â
"Well," Leon stretched his arms up with a dramatic groan, "Since there's no puppies in the bed..."
And then he playfully toppled over the lump in the bedding, bracing himself on his elbows so as not to actually crush you, of course, music to his ears being the muffled squeal of stubborn discontent that sounded out from beneath the covers.
"Leon!" You whined, arms squirming around beneath him in a desperate flurry of moves to find the edge of the blanket, tugging it down to free your face for some air. Soon enough your head poked out from beneath the covers and your eyes were already narrowed into unamused slits at him.Â
But that wasn't really what caught his attention about the look on your face. You were panting for breath, your ears flopped back lazily and your hair an absolute mess, your skin hot to the touch and clammy with sweat. Now his eyes were narrowed at you in suspicion, because you were certainly frustrated, just... not the kind of frustrated he was anticipating, if his suspicions were found to be correct.Â
"You look guilty," He commented, brow raised as he took you by the chin and tilted your head this way and that, as though in observation. "Why do you look guilty, puppy?"Â
"I'm not," You were quick to defend yourself-- much too quick, in Leon's opinion-- and you stubbornly recoiled back from his hand, continuing to squirm and resist beneath him. "You're squishing me!"Â
You planted the palm of your hand dead in the center of his face in an attempt to push him away, the bedding slipping further down in the process to reveal your flushed collarbones and shoulders, both of which were bare. Were you naked? In his bed?Â
He took you by the wrists to pin your hands down with ease, staring down at you in scrutiny. "Don't lie to me, sweetheart," He said, tone firm, but not unkind. "You're red as a tomato."Â
With a stubborn whine, your ears flattened back against your messy head in what could only be read as shame, and that certainly wasn't what he was going for at all, even with the compromising position he had you in at the moment. It was just meant to tease you, but you looked mortified, and he could only imagine why that might be.Â
"Puppy," He softened, letting go of your wrists, one hand taking you by the cheek to gently caress you. "You know I can't help you if you don't tell me what's going on."Â
Your mouth fell open and then snapped shut again a time or two, a clear indication that you were tripping over your words in search of the right ones. Finally, you managed, "It's... I-It's hot."Â
"Then why are you all bundled up, huh?"
You didn't even really need to admit it at this point, because it was clear as day what was going on here-- after all, Chris had warned him this might happen, that hybrids could have... intense reproductive cycles-- but he also wasn't going to push it if you just wanted to ride it out on your own. He wasn't an expert on this, he didn't know exactly what you needed, and he didn't want to overstep and freak you out.
That being said, the thought that you'd retreated to his bedroom, desperate to surround yourself with his belongings in his absence just to cope with being in heat, was a remarkably good one.
This time you didn't seem to have a retort, still writhing under him and trying to push him off of you, which wasn't new behavior for you, though this time he did take it upon himself to give you some space instead of continuing to mess with you.Â
"Alright, alright, relax, daddy's not making fun of you--"Â
"You're not my daddy," You interjected stubbornly, but just like always, the rosy, searing blush on your face betrayed how you really felt about the topic, even as you added, "Stop trying to make me call you that!"Â
Leon dearly and sincerely adored you, that much was to be sure, but your hard-headedness could run him ragged sometimes, when you'd dig your heels in so hard about things that seemed so innocuous. Whether or not you should be expected to call him daddy-- which he regularly enjoyed teasing you about but would never legitimately force you to do-- didn't feel like the biggest issue at hand here. Not by a mile.Â
How was he supposed to focus on that when you were just... burning up? Panting for breath and shaking and whining? Oh dear God, this wasn't good, and for as much effort as he was putting into focusing on your wellbeing, it was becoming increasingly difficult not to focus on the way his pants were beginning to feel uncomfortably cozy in the front. He brought one hand down between you to adjust himself only to find he'd unintentionally solicited a faint, but distinctly needy moan from you in the process, presumably because you'd touched you somewhere he hadn't necessarily meant to.Â
"G-Go away, Leon," You insisted, eyes screwed shut as you turned your head to the side and maintained that stubborn frown he knew so well on you. "Get off of me!"Â
But your tail was wagging in an absolute blur, thumping mindlessly against the damp sheets and knocking in between his knees at an intensity that was impossible to miss. Leon's eyes narrowed and he bared his teeth in an intrigued grin before finally sitting back on his haunches, still straddling you, but at least freeing your upper half.Â
"Leon, quit--"Â
You poor dear, you were so, so close to finishing that sentence, if only it weren't for the way Leon swung one leg between your own, driving his knee right up to the apex until you felt the muted pressure lavish your clit. Whatever you were about to say fizzled out on your tongue and instead popped out in a string of whimpers, your back arching up off the bed. The movement caused the bedding to slip down just a little bit further, confirming his suspicion that you were in fact naked, at least from the waist up.
Taking the soft globe of your breast into the palm of his hand, Leon let his thumb brush over your already pebbled nipple and asked lowly, "Oh, c'mon, pretty puppy... you're totally sure you don't want daddy's help? I think you're just being fussy..."
Your chest rumbled with a little growl, but it was more of a moan than that, and the fiery glare on your face was the perfect image of it. You were pissed, and quite frankly, it was a good look on you. Maybe even one of his favorites. Suddenly you were baring your teeth at him too, just pretending it was in the opposite way. You were such an open book to him.Â
"You're being mean," Huffed the stubborn little puppy, but of course, Leon could be meaner.Â
So he was. Leon snatched the covers off the bed in one quick swipe, and what was revealed to him beneath had to have been a thousand times better than anything he might have expected. You were naked, yes, but tangled between your legs was a pair of his sweatpants, undoubtedly retrieved from the depths of the overturned laundry basket, the grey cotton soaked through in patches with slick all over the crotch and thighs.Â
Fucking Christ, you weren't just getting off to the thought of him, but also the scent of him, the feeling of his clothes on your skin, and presumably, an idea not unlike what he was already teasing you with; letting you rub one out on his thigh.Â
Squishing your cheeks in one hand, he said firmly, "Look at me. Do you honestly feel like I'm being mean to you?"Â
There was a pause while you stared at each other, your eyes searching his own skeptically. It didn't really seem he was messing with you, no, in fact he appeared like he really wanted to help you. The back and forth was fun and he enjoyed the little game you'd made out of getting to know each other, but when it came to your comfort and wellbeing, he wasn't interested in being forced to solve puzzles. You couldn't really blame him.Â
"N-No," You admitted.Â
"Exactly, so just... simmer down, will you?"Â
This time Leon didn't give you another chance to tell him to fuck off. He scooped you up at the waist and pulled you to your knees, drawing your body close to his until you were straddling his left thigh. Eyes wide, you stared at him stiffly, like you were too afraid to move. Huffing out a breath, he rolled his eyes with a smirk and gripped your hips, tugging you down until you were finally bearing your weight on him.Â
For as fast as your pointed teeth sank into your bottom lip to quiet yourself, it didn't even matter. You still let out a pleasured whine, ears flat against your head and your tail hung low, the tip swishing in a reluctant little wag that patted the outside of his knee with every other beat.Â
"You're too precious for your own damn good," He grumbled, thumbs brushing soothing circles into your hips. "Y'know that, pup?"
Breaths falling short, it felt like your head was full of warm mud, teetering for balance on your neck as your upper body tipped forward to grasp at his arms. As expected, Leon caught you effortlessly, steadying you by cupping your face in his hands so he could look you right in your braindead little eyes, your noses almost touching as your tongue lolled out in lazy gasps.
It was obvious he wasn't going to get much more out of you in the way of words at this point, so it was a damn good thing you had that pretty tail knocking about. He figured all that wiggling was the closest he'd get to a literal window into your mind.Â
"Go on, then," Leon smoothed your hair away from your sticky forehead, still mindful to hold you upright. His tone was low and, as always, far too sweet for you... but it was so nice, it vibrated down to the base of your spine and made you dizzier. You were just about to fulfill what he was encouraging you to do when he added wryly, "You've already made such a mess, don't get shy on me now."Â
A quiet whimper stuttered from your dry throat-- you couldn't sit still anymore, he was being evil and he knew it, downright evil... and you typically would have stuck up your nose at him and brooded on it for a while, but you didn't even have the strength of mind for that at the moment. You hardly even realized you were already rocking your hips back and forth against the clothed meat of his thigh, nails threatening to snap under the pressure as they begged to sink past his shirt and into his muscles.Â
It was pleasant, sure, but it wasn't nearly enough, especially not after hours and hours and hours of tossing and turning in his bed, rubbing yourself nearly numb with your fingers and your toys and his pillows and his clothes, aching for something tangible and warm to nurse the pain away. You let your forehead rest against his own for a moment to catch your breath, hoping to find the right angle, but you just weren't getting what you needed, and the frustration alone made your glassy eyes sting with the threat of tears.Â
That just wouldn't do.Â
"Oh, you really made a mess, didn't you, sweet girl?" Leon cooed sympathetically, shushing your delicate cries. Thumbs skimming over your burning cheeks, he asked quietly and carefully, "Why don't you let daddy lick it up, hm?"Â
Your expression scrunched up in a weak pout and your empty little head bobbed up and down in an airy nod, and just as soon as you gave him that go-ahead, he was moving to make it so. You were on your back in seconds, Leon's broad hands spreading your plush thighs apart to make space for himself between them, and for as cool and composed as he was trying to appear right now, he couldn't help the low moan that made it past him just at the sight of you.Â
Sure, he'd seen more than enough by now to guess that you were wet, but you weren't just wet, you were dripping all over yourself. It was all he could do to collect as much of you on his tongue as possible, groaning at the taste and dragging you closer by your hips until he was as close as he could get, the tip of his nose buried against the curls at the lowest point of your mound as he lapped you up with abandon.
You were writhing and crying, legs kicking out at the stimulation before drawing back up to dig into his shoulders and pull him further into you, into the mess of you. He'd managed to find it somehow, to become that something tangible and warm and redefine it, unraveling you from the root with a sanguine sense of desperation that was tempered by his undying commitment to treating you like you were made of glass.Â
Your tail was curling up tight against the base of your spine, your chest was heaving for breath, you couldn't keep your eyes open anymore, and he hardly could either.Â
But he also couldn't stand not to. If you had the capacity to pay attention to small details, you might have noticed his eyes were just as bleary and drunk as yours were. Leon recorded your every movement in his mind like scripture from this angle, his own hips rutting down into the bed while yours bucked into his mouth, and it was only when he found the strength to pull away for air that he found a moment to reorient himself in reality.Â
His lips were puffy, rosy, and slick with you as he caught his breath, two fingers toying with your puffy, aching clit in the absence of his tongue. It was almost like muscle memory for him to reach up with his free hand and pat your belly, an affectionate hum ringing from him at the near-immediate reaction it got out of you, even in a state like this. You were squirming and arching beneath him as your quivering body fought to determine priority over the attention brought by either hand, a rather endearing dilemma to have found yourself in.Â
"Oh, my poor baby," Leon preened, lavishing the inside of your right thigh with kisses. "You're so cute..."Â
Unable to help himself from letting you have the best of both forms of pampering, he replaced the tips of his fingers with his tongue yet again, freeing both hands to pet your soft tummy. The movements were lazy, but sure enough, your tail was going off as fast as it could while you laid there shivering and whining and clawing at him, tumbling over the edge into release before you could come up with a way to warn him first.Â
As if he would have cared anyway. A warning wouldn't have changed anything. Hell, it might have even spoiled what turned out to be a dizzying moment of unabashed indulgence for him.Â
Gentle, adoring hands kneading delicately at all your favorite spots, Leon willfully deprived himself of oxygen in pursuit of every drop of your syrup as it flowed from you, knowing he would come to regret being wasteful later if this should turn out to be a one-time thing. He lost himself to the throes of hedonism for several drawn out moments until he was confident you were licked clean, until he came to again and realized you had gone completely limp in the wake of your expenditure.Â
Rolling over onto his back, Leon spread out just as bonelessly across the bed as you did, the both of you a sorry sight of sweat and heat. He spent several minutes trying to find a way to break the silence. With the haze of lust wearing off a bit and clearing up space in his mind for more intelligent processes, Leon was already beginning to dread the inevitable conversation this would warrant between the two of you.
Lucky for him, that was so far outside of the realm of your current train of thought... or lack thereof. You certainly felt better, but that didn't mean your brain wasn't mud anymore. Little else mattered to your muggy, muddled mind but the here and now.Â
In an unexpected move, you rolled onto your side to rest your head against his chest. The way you struggled to meet his eyes was enough for him to know you were likely still struggling to talk, or maybe you just didn't really want to, but the olive branch you'd extended demonstrated your agreeable state, which was more than he could've said for you half an hour ago.Â
Shit, half an hour ago he was still hoping a couple presents from his trip would win your affections, yet here he was with the taste of you lingering on his lips, your naked body curled up to him for comfort.Â
Wrapping his arm tightly around you until you were tucked up comfortably into his side, Leon rested his chin atop your head and mumbled fondly, "What am I gonna do with you, huh? Can't even sleep in my own bed after a long mission 'cause this pretty little puppy made such a big mess... I hope you know how to work the washing machine."
#venustext#sintext#resident evil#leon kennedy#leon kennedy x reader#leon kennedy x you#re6 leon#leon kennedy smut
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Summer Camp Fanfic Fanart
(I'll just copy/paste a bit of my last post in case anyone missed it) So, we decided to make fanart of fanworks. Yeah, it's meta and chaotic, but that kinda feels right. If y'all like this we may do more in the future. This is the last one for today! Hope you had as much fun as we did!!
Ahahaha. So, listen. It was just too good a scene not to feature. This moment is from scouthearted's 'Neversmores' on Ao3. It's got six chapters out now and they're all nostalgic summer camp perfection. Everyone is camp counselors. Annabel is a hot lifeguard. Gay shit happens. Like, I don't even feel like I need to explain why this is good, right? Sapphics, we're all suckers for a summer camp story. That can't just be me. https://archiveofourown.org/works/50104561/chapters/126530674 --- And if you've never been on ao3 before, please understand that there's a WIDE variety of content there and some of it can be very over-the-line. Familiarize yourself with the tagging system before you go clicking around to make sure you're not reading things that are outside your comfort zone/age rating.
#nevermore webtoon#nevermore#red post#annabel lee#annabel lee whitlock#annabel lee x lenore#white raven#lenore#nevermore webcomic#lenore vandernacht#morella nevermore#summer camp au#whew lifeguards though#right?
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CTRL ALT DELETE- Task Manager (Vox/Reader)
Something's up with Vox and you offer to help troubleshoot- it both does and does not go how you're expecting it to.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/54688282
The least serious thing I've ever written: inspired by the time i started a timer in class one day to see how long my teacher talked about her son instead of teaching us; i ended up realizing 4 months later that i never stopped the timer and it was just running in the background and making my shit slow that entire time lmao there's a screenshot in the ao3 notes
Tags: Stress Relief, Sexual Tension, Chair Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Begging, Computers. Dirty Talk, very basic knowledge of computers
<3<3<3<3<3<3
Your new boss seemed stressed.Â
Not in the usual way that he was stressed, either- the note from the assistant you had replaced was that usually when Vox was having an off day he would call for Valentino or have you pull a list of low earners for the month, banishing you from the room in either case. But he hadnât spent any time with Val in months, basically the entire time that youâd been working with him as a personal assistant after getting promoted from a stage grunt for the news channel.
You had thought for a bit that he might make a move- that maybe that was why he promoted you, that he was charmed enough by you to end the on/off thing he had going on with Val, which made sense based on the timing. But when you tested that theory recently- made double entendres, brushed your hands against his arms or leg or back, blatantly invited him out for dinner and drinks- he didnât seem interested. He declined your invite, allowed you to touch him without being overcome with lust, and the sex jokes just seemed to go whoosh.Â
Right over his head.Â
He was on edge and twitchy. He took longer to respond to things than he normally did, his processors slow, occasionally getting a âbufferingâ message that flashed across his screen when someone asked a question. His hypnotic eye seemed to be suffering as well, the swirls having slowed down now to the point that they were no more mesmerizing than watching paint dry. It was frustrating and enraging him, and in turn frustrating you- he was fucking hot when he was angry, which didnât help your attraction to him that he was ignoring.Â
He was sitting at his desk in the control room when you entered, head in his hands as he stared at a piece of paper on his desk. The monitors were all lit behind him, showing recorded footage of the Tower throughout the day- you spotted a short recording of yourself talking to some of the marketing team a few hours ago. Like a Valentino caricature he read the paper, blinked his eyes a couple times, read it again. Picked it up and pulled it closer to his face like that would help, and his screen scrolled the words along the bottom like his internal system was trying to transcribe it so something he could understand. He finally dropped the paper with a groan, letting it flutter to the floor where it slipped under his chair and stopped just before you.Â
âAre you okay, sir?â The question is out before you can stop it, and as was the normal recently it took a few minutes for him to answer.Â
âI donât know whatâs wrong with me,â he muttered, swiveling around to look at you. He clutched the sides of his screen, eyes narrowed and mouth delayed in its movements as he spoke. âI feel like I canât focus on anything. I canât process anything. My- just, fucking everything is slow and useless in my head right now! How am I supposed to be a master media manipulator when I canât fucking concentrate for more than two minutes at a time?â
âYou have seemed more⊠stressed than usual,â you agree. âAre none of your usual relaxing activities helping? Or have you done any troubleshooting?â
He raises an eyebrow. âPardon?â
âTroubleshooting,â you say again, and at his blank stare you chuckle a little. âYou know, doing a couple âquick fixâ things to see if thatâs whatâs causing the problem. Do you have like, a cache or something that you have to clear? An archive dump to get rid of old files?â You let your eyes track his body from top to bottom. âIâm not super familiar with how your⊠anatomy works?â
God, but you wanted to be.
He blinks a couple times. âI think I used to have someone that did that for me,â he says. âYears ago. I fired them because it didnât seem necessary, I was running perfectly fine.â
âYeah, well, that might be what the problem is.â You offer him a soft smile. âSometimes stuff will work in sub-optimal conditions for a while before it starts causing issues. I used to do programming customer support when I was alive- itâs been a while but I could take a look if you want?â
His mouth twists in a frown. âI guess so,â he agrees. âIâm desperate enough to try anything. I need to be able to fucking concentrate if the Vees are gonna stay on top, everyone fucking knows that Val is hopeless with the business aspect of everything.â He gets the buffering symbol on his screen for a few seconds, groaning and shaking his head as he clears. âWhat do you need access to?â
âDo you have a way to access your⊠system? Externally,â you clarify. âIâm not a surgeon- I donât plan on cutting into you to get to anything.â
Vox gestures behind him. âI can hook up to the monitors,â he says, âbut weâll have to be pretty close, doll. I have to be sitting here to be hooked up, and since this is the only chair, looks like this will have to be your seat.â He pats a hand on his thighs, not so much an invitation as a statement.
You fucking wished. You know this isnât him trying to initiate anything though- youâd been trying for long enough that youâre ready to give it up and just accept that your hot, overlord boss didnât want to fuck you. Helping him out felt more important than that anyway, so you would do your best.
âYou got it,â you say, and cross the remaining space to perch yourself gracefully on his lap. You push the inappropriate thoughts about how firm his muscles are underneath you- how exactly did this manâs body work? Was it really just his head that was not organic matter?- and let him rotate the chair back to face the monitors.
The sight is intimidating, as is the position- youâre surrounded by reflections of yourself from every angle, Voxâs lithe frame seated behind you. This is where he does most of his business, the background site of everything that VoxTec handles. And heâs trusting you to help him fix whatever is wrong with him so he can get back to handling all of that, free of distraction.
You watch as thick wires come up from the floor to plug into the back of his head, the sharp hiss making you wonder if it was painful or intrusive. You wonât ask though, not when youâre getting ready to try to restore him to his usual ruthless self; he might consider that to be prying.
He pulls something up on the main monitor, the one that sits directly across from you, and waves a hand to it. A little keyboard and mouse emerge from the desk as the monitor powers on, and when you glance back you can see the same thing reflected on his face. âHave at it,â you hear him say, even though you canât see his mouth moving.
Ignoring his open programs for the time being in case he needs any of them, the first thing you do is go in and clear his archived files. Heâs got entire terabytes of useless information; employee records for people that have been dead or fired for decades; funny videos that he saved; resources for old news stories that are no longer relevant. Some of it you help him upload to a cloud server- after explaining to him what a cloud server is- and create files to designate for actual important shit.
You find the internal browser that he uses to pull information on the fly and help him clear the cache and cookies.
You help him sort security footage from Vee Tower and get rid of stuff that wasnât actually necessary, like the short bits of static and dead air that happened whenever he used the cameras to teleport around the building. Everything that he has saved about mentions of that fucking radio demon also goes into the garbage. There are some files you canât access, things like his memories and day to day recordings of conversations and things that he personally is part of.Â
You delete what you can and empty the recycling bin.
As the process has gone on, Vox has relaxed more and more behind you. âI still donât feel completely back to normal,â he murmurs, âbut this is already loads better. Itâs like a massage directly on my brain. You know, if I still physically had one.â
You hit the keys to open his task manager- CTRL ALT DELETE. âUnholy fuck- Jesus, sir, if you thought that was good this is gonna feel orgasmic,â you say absently, scrolling through the opens apps and programs that he has running. Has this man ever closed anything? You hadnât realized a person or device could even have so many things going at once. âDo you just leave everything open in the background?â
He peers around your shoulder, bracing his hands on your hips as he sits up a little straighter. The movement causes your stomach to drop, arousal threatening to make itself known, but you push the notion down as he sets his hands back on the arms of the chair. âI guess so?â He watches you scroll through the extensive list. âI guess it just never occurred to me to close them. Opening the programs to use is just like my stream of consciousness I suppose.â
âKay, well, thatâs stopping now.â You click on the first item on the list- VoxtaGram. âI recommend closing non-essential stuff out at least once a month. More, if you have the time to go through everything. For now, just in case, there is something important weâre gonna go through some of the more recently opened things, set them up to open automatically when you start up, before we reboot your system- wait, can we reboot your system entirely without killing you?â
âNo worries there, dear. I can, I just havenât done it in years because it can take a while to start back up afterwards.â He sneers at the social media page. âYou can close that shit. Any of Velvetteâs crap she can handle on her own. Same with any of the fucking games that Val loads up when heâs bored- can I delete those entirely? Or block them? Fucking moth and his blue-light addictionâŠâ
You get through a lot of the list, Vox kind of dozing off and only passively participating in the process. Youâve got the gist of it; things like his news sources, contacts list and phone, and the notes app are staying open and set to automatically launch when he does reboot and start back up. Pretty much everything else is closed out, things he pulled up for two seconds weeks ago to check on something or another before abandoning it. Youâre making excellent progress when the next thing on the list gives you pause.
âVox? Why is this- oh my god.â You canât help it- you start laughing, throwing your head back to rest on his shoulder as you look at whatâs now displayed on the screen.
A stopwatch had apparently been started and never stopped. The elapsed time was over three thousand hours, which came out to something like four months if your mental math was correct. He had had this running constantly in the background since you had started working for him, possibly even before. âI think I found the problem,â you chuckled, and his eyes were narrowed as he looked at the timer continuing to tick. âWhat is this?â
âWhat the actual fuck?â He buffers for a second- and youâre pleased to note that itâs already much faster than it has been lately- before you hear a dinging sound coming from him. âFucking Hell, I should have known this was all Valentinoâs fault.â He drags a clawed hand down his screen in an imitation of a facepalm. âI was timing him. He was fucking ranting about Angel Dust again while we were in a strategy meeting with Velvette- I had the stopwatch going to see how much of the hour session he wasted talking about that whore. I must have forgotten to turn it off.â He barks out a laugh, throwing his head back with the force of it while you look at him with amusement. âIâm gonna owe you big time for this, doll, youâre a lifesaver.â
You close the app out with a smile. âJust trying to help,â you say. âI think that was probably the worst of it- do you want to just try rebooting now?â
He lets out a groan when the app closes, and the sound shoots through your body straight to your core. âGo for it, hun,â he says, eyes closed as he leans back against the chair. âI think Iâm good to go now, but it canât hurt. You were right, sorting this shit out feeling fucking good.â
Youâre suddenly very aware of the dampness of your panties as you bypass âkinda hornyâ straight to âfuck me on this desk.â You scold yourself mentally: Donât jump your boss. Heâs trusting you to help him right now- do not take advantage of that. Do not ride his leg like you very clearly want to because his voice is fucking hot. Fucking focus.
You clear your throat, closing out the task manager and hitting the button to restart him. âSee you in a bit, sir.â
You stay seated on his lap just in case- he might still have something he wants you to do when he comes back online, some settings you could apply to close out things that are used for more than a week or so. Itâs definitely not because you like the feeling of his strong thigh underneath you, tantalizingly close to your cunt if you, by chance, decided to tilt your hips forward and start grinding down on him.Â
After just a few minutes get a message on the main monitor telling you to wait a moment- things start popping up on the other screens surrounding the central one, and it takes you a moment to recognize the pattern.
Its all videos of you- shot from Voxâs perspective, and a mortifying blush takes over your face. Theyâre all the moments that you had tried coming onto him. The innuendos and subtle entendres, the times that you touched him, pressed yourself against him in a tight space despite having another way to get to the copy machine, when you had invited him out for dinner. Thereâs also videos where he had just been watching you, apparently, taken from a distance as you spoke with Velvette or passed instructions along to a member of the team or discreetly tried to hide behind a vending machine when you noticed Val coming into a room.Â
Thereâs a satisfied grumble behind you, and before you can turn to look at him Vox has settled his claws onto either side of your waist and shifted you over a bit, to rest directly on the erection straining his pants.Â
Which is a surprise, albeit a pleasant one.
âThanks for the reset, doll,â he says, and his voice is a quiet growl as he lets his hands wander from your waist to your hips and back again, claw tipped fingers catching on the fabric. âI got a chance to look at some files while I was under and found quite the treat in your logs.â
This could either be very bad or very, very good. âSir-â
âYou know, Iâm usually pretty good at picking up what a woman is putting down. Imagine my surprise when I realize youâve been coming onto me for weeks and my shit was so fucked up and bogged down that I didnât even notice. Like that?â He uses one hand to point to a screen in the far left of the central monitor, while he snaked his other hand down to rest on your thigh, his hand large enough to encompass the muscle at the edge of your skirt. On the screen, you had come to his office to drop off meeting notes for something you attended on his behalf. You had dropped the stack as you came around his side of the desk, and got down fully on your knees to pick them up, glancing up at him through your lashes. You blush watching it now- it had seemed obvious to you even then, but watching it now, the way that Vox had seen it? When he didnât say anything about you being face level with his prick you had used a hand on his thigh to brace yourself to stand up, letting your fingers run along the inner seam of his trousers when you rose back to standing. Still no reaction, and you had left his office equal parts turned on and irritated with yourself. Him not having acted on it had been the final nail in the coffin cementing the fact that he was not interested in the slightest.
You let out a weak exhale as the Vox sitting under you gets his other hand in the same position as the first, using his grip to ever so slightly spread your legs on his lap. He lets his fingers skim your inner thighs and you shake with the effort of not begging him to just touch you. This was delicious, agonizing torture.
âHad I been in my right mind for that display, baby, I would have fucking áčÌŁÌŹÌ«ÌÍÍ©ÍỄ̟̎̎ÌÍÍĄi̧̻̻ÍÌÍÍȘÌŸÍnÌ«Ì«ÌÌÍÌČÌČÌÍ„ážÌĄÌ°ÌłÍÌ„ÍŹÍÍȘͧdÌ¶Ì”ÌŻÌŻÌŒÌÍšÌ yÍÍÌȘÌ°Í«ÍÌoÍÍÌÌÌ̀ͫÍỄ̟̎̎ÌÍÍĄ.â His voice crackles and glitches on the last words, and the sound of it forces a moan from your throat as you let your head fall back. You clutch your hands to the arms of the chair as his tongue- and who even really knew he had a tongue, what the fuck?- licks down the side of your jaw and at your exposed neck. âI would have had you choking on my cock before getting a taste of that sweet cunt and fucking you into the desk for hours.â
One hand finally slips under the edge of your skirt and you shiver when his fingers make contact with your soaked core. âIs that what you want now, babygirl? You want me to give you my cock as thanks for helping to set me straight? To make up for lost time?â He slides a finger under the thin material of your panties, groaning in your ear at how slick he finds you. âThatâs what I want, doll. I want you to ride me so hard you go stupid with the feeling, and you never feel whole without some part of me in your cunt for the rest of for-fucking- ážÌĄÌ°ÌłÍÌ„ÍŹÍÍȘͧvÌčÌčÌÌŒÌÌ»ÍÍ©ÌÍȘÍąážÌĄÌ°ÌłÍÌ„ÍŹÍÍȘͧáčÌŁÌŹÌ«ÌÍÍ©Í.â
âFuck, please,â you gasp out, the word devolving into a cry as Vox finally slides a finger into you, mindful of the claws as he pushes in and quickly follows the first with a second. He uses his free hand to hold your hips still as you try to grind into his digits, keeps you held firmly against his erection as you squirm in pleasure.
His sharp fingertips angle to prod gently at a spot inside of you that has you seeing stars; your eyes are clenched shut as you ride the feeling, so close to the edge you feel like youâre going to implode with the force of it when you finally tip over. âFuck, sir, please, so c-close,â you mumble, and his tongue is back to licking at whatever parts of your skin it can reach.
âYou wanna come like this, sweetheart?â The main monitor in front of you glitches out, and when it comes back into focus you see yourself on the screen- like a mirror, youâre reflected, and you can see Voxâs grinning face behind you. Your skin is flushed, sweat dripping down your face, the hint of tears along your lashline as your mouth drops open when he adds a third finger. âLook fuckinâ beautiful, baby, you were made for this- maybe we give Valentino a call, he could-â
âNo!â You release the arms of the chair to grab onto his wrists where his hands meet your body. âNo one- no one but you, sir. Vox, please, l- let me come. Please?â You let a little whine into your voice, and you can see the way his mouth goes lax and his eyes laser-focus on where youâre grabbing at his hands.
âI didnât mean to join us, dollface, just to record- but youâre right, youâre right.â He pulls his fingers from your pussy, slicing the center of your panties in the process before he brings his digits to his mouth- you watch on the screen as he curls his tongue around each one, licks the flavor of you from his skin and glitches out at the taste. âHow could I possibly share such a fucking vision with anyone else?
He shifts you to one side so he can get his dick out, and the sight of it in the monitor, his own arousal beading at the top and rock hard, has you whimpering before itâs even inside of you. He carried himself like a man with a big cock, but Christ.
âHope you like what you see, hun, cause itâs all yours.â He scoots forward in the seat, tilts his hips forward for the right angle, and moves you back into your previous position with ease- this time, the tip of him is pushing inside you, and you watch in the monitor as you sink inch by glorious inch onto him.
Once youâre fully seated, Vox seems to lose capability for rational thought. âFuck me, youâre perfect,â he moans, bracing his feet more firmly on the ground to thrust up into you, getting a firm grasp on your hips to pull you down into it. The result is a beautiful stab at that sweet spot inside of you that makes you clench and cry out, watching Voxâs hypnotic eye start spiraling at its normal speed on the screen, and you can see backwards scrolling text of his stream of thoughts- a bunch of nonsensical letters and cuss words interspersed with your name. âI want to fucking- chain you to my desk so I can have this perfect pussy whenever I want it. Fuck, I canât believe we- we could have been doing this for weeks.â He punctuates his sentence with a hard thrust.
âA-all the more reason to regularly clear your task manager, sir,â you say, so caught up in the feeling of him railing you from below that you can hardly believe you formed a coherent thought. He feels so fucking good and youâre a hair trigger away from collapsing and wringing him for all heâs got.
With one quick movement heâs shifted, and thereâs a hand on your throat arching you backwards at the same time that he gets a couple clawed fingers rubbing at your clit. The shock of the combination makes you flutter around his length, a choked noise escaping your throat before he tightens his grip- not enough to really cut off your air supply, but enough that your brain starts going soft and mushy and the vice grip your cunt has on his cock gets impossibly tighter. You can see the shine of your slick arousal coating him every time he pulls out to rut back into you, and the sights and sounds are threatening to rip you into the chasm of ecstasy that youâre flirting with.Â
âVox,â you whine, âplease, Iâm so fucking- please please please-âÂ
âChrist, babygirl, whatever you fucking want.â His eyes are wide and frantic as they watch the place youâre joined, his mouth set in a snarl as he fucks into your pliant body. The cry you release is nothing short of agonized- itâs so fucking close you can taste it, nearly overwhelmed with the tension.
âYou wanna fucking cum on my cock? Do it, angel, let me see it- come on, baby, cum for me-â
Your walls clench down hard as you reach your orgasm, Voxâs grip on your throat making your vision and mind go fuzzy with the force of it as you choke on a moan that tries to escape your tensed muscles. Youâre distantly aware of Vox thrusting hard into you, more praise and curses falling from his lips as he hits his peak as well, pressing his screen to the side of your face when he relinquishes his handle on your throat to clutch at your hips and grind into your cunt as he spills inside of you. The aftershocks of your release leave you twitching, milking his cock of everything he has to offer before he collapses into the chair behind you, a boneless pile of a man now simply running his hands over any bit of skin he could reach.Â
Itâs truly a testament to how helpful the reset and reboot had been that Voxâs system doesnât simply crash. âFucking Hell, I havenât felt this good in decades,â he mutters in your ear, and you shiver at the feeling of his tongue brushing the sensitive skin.
âHa, you think thatâs the reboot or the mind-melting orgasms?â
He hums contentedly. âJuryâs out on that, doll. Guess weâll have to do a re-run on both and see how it stacks up to this one.â
âIâll make sure to schedule some time out for it,â you chuckle before fixing him with a stern glare through the monitor. âIâm serious about clearing your apps and shit more frequently though. Christ, you had decades of backed up shit open-â
âDonât berate me while my dick is still inside you, fuck.â He leans you forward far enough to pull out, and you grimace at the feeling of his cum starting to spill back out of you. He notices the expression though- âWhoops, sorry,â he says, and after a quick second during which he tucks his softening prick away he scoops you into his arms, standing from the chair and stepping away from the desk. âLetâs get you cleaned up at the penthouse, angel, what do you say?â
âIf youâre carrying me then lead the way.â You gesture towards the door out of the control room. âJust donât start any timers to see how long it takes to get there or anything and we should be good.â
The glare he fixes you with shouldnât be hot, but it fucking is. âHardy har,â he deadpans, and rolls his eyes while he stalks towards the elevator, control room door closing behind you; but thereâs a small smile on his screen despite his ire and heâs functioning normally, and when you see the little stopwatch icon pop up in the bottom right corner of his face and start counting, you canât help but laugh.
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stress relief | spencer reid x reader
wc: 3k, rating: explicit/18+
warning/tags: established relationship, face fucking, blowjobs, vaginal sex, submissive!spencer, whiny!spencer, insecure!spencer (just a little, more like awkward lol), confident (and insanely horny) fem!reader
a/n: i'm back with more pwp!! surprise!!! i have no excuse. i wrote this in about 2 days. i needed to get it out of my system i think this spencer (s3-4) is crazy and perfect and i need him. also thank you for 100 followers on this little reid blog of mine! i hope to keep writing more on here <3
(p.s: you can find this fic on ao3!)
When you get on your knees between Spencerâs legs, looking up at him with wide eyes that spell sin, Spencer knows heâs in for a wild ride.
âYouâve been working too hard, Spence,â you say, shaking your head, speaking like youâre talking about the weather and not like you have a hand on his crotch, steadily stiffening under your touch.
You watch Spencerâs throat bob as he gulps. He blinks quickly, once, twice. âYeah? You think so?â
âI know so,â you hum, fingers already toying with the button of his work slacks. Spencer had gotten home late from work tonight, but was still fretting over the stacks of reports on his desk in his home office in the apartment you share. After dinner, youâd convinced him to lounge on the couch for a bit, instead of getting back to work â leading you to where you are right now. âI think you need to relieve some of your stress.â
Almost like heâs nervous, his tongue darts out to lick his lips. âWhat are you thinking?â
âOrgasms release endorphins which contribute to stress relief, no?â You parrot the fun fact Spencerâs told you countless times, a small smirk on your face. As if your hand gently palming his cock hasnât made your intentions more than obvious.
His eyebrows raise. âOh. Yeah. Okay.â
âWow, you could at least sound a little more enthusiastic about your girlfriend giving you head.â You deadpan, but you pop the button of his slacks anyway.
Spencer squeaks. âSorry. Iâ I really want you to blow me.â
âI know, darling,â you coo, pulling down the zipper of his fly slowly, feeling the hardness of his cock pressed against it. His underwear is a bright pink when it gets exposed. You chuckle to yourself. âCute."
Spencer flusters, laughing nervously. âOh my God. I kind of forgot I was wearing those. Haha. Sorry."
âBaby,â you frown slightly. Youâre not mad, not in the slightest, just amused with how heâs acting. You place your hands on his thighs, pausing with any of the action. âWhy are you sorry? I think youâre so cute, you know.â
âMy head isnât on straight right now,â Spencer sighs, shaking his head. âI just wantâ Like, itâs going to be good for me, obviously, because youâre so good at this. I donât need to want anything. I justâ Want this to be good for you too.â
âItâll be good for me if you stop overthinking it, Spence.â You smile. âItâs chill. Also, when do I not enjoy sucking your cock?â
Spencer covers his face with his hand, but you see him smile, laughing to himself. âYouâre so crude, yâknow? But I suppose you do really enjoy sucking me off.â
âI know.â You chirp. âAnd I do."
Your hand is down Spencerâs pants before he can even tell you to go ahead, but he knows that you know he wants it. Spencer hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear, taking them off. His cock jumps up and you watch, fascinated with the obscenity of it all. Spencerâs cock curves up towards his stomach, reddening at the tip already.
You wrap your hand around his hardening cock, as you start to jerk him off. He lets out a high-pitched whimper, like he canât control himself, and he cups a hand over his mouth. His eyes are wide as he stares down at you. You giggle, âItâs cute.â
âItâs kind of embarrassing,â Spencer says, his face a little red already.
You pout. âCome on, Spence. Itâs really hot.â
His hand falls from his face to his lap, coming up to cup your cheek gently. âYou like it?â
âYouâre so sexy.â You nod. âOf course I like it. Now, make those noises for me again, pretty boy.â
Spencer squeaks as you tighten your grip around his cock, eyes fluttering shut as you stroke him. You work him up to full hardness â not that it takes very long for him to get there. You flick your thumb over the head of Spencerâs cock, tease into his slit where heâs steadily leaking already. His precome makes everything slick and sticky, easing the slide of your fist over his length.
Your eyes flit between Spencerâs face and his cock, marvelling at the growing mess in your hand and how his face is slowly but surely revealing his pleasure. Heâs flushed, lower lip pulled in between his teeth, as you watch his chest rise and fall. His gaze pierces you, the intensity of how he looks sending shivers down your spine.
Knowing Spencerâs looking down at you, you open your mouth and stick your tongue out, pressing it flat against the tip of his cock. Spencer lets out a strangled breath, eyes bugging out at the erotic sight of you between his legs. You wrap your lips around him, suckling gently on the head of his cock. You hope to make Spencer lose his mind like this. With the way heâs breathing heavily, lips parted as he takes in all of you, you think itâs working.
His whines are more frequent, accenting his hard breaths. You see how Spencer doesnât know what to do with his hands, watch as he digs his nails into the flesh of his palms, and you instead hold him by his wrists to put his hands in your hair. The weight is comforting, and encourages you to sink down on his cock more. You take more than half of him into your mouth, but Spencer being⊠well-endowed meant that you often never were able to fit all of him in, unless you were in a particular mood.
The tip of Spencerâs cock hits the back of your throat, once itâs slid in. You gag at the intrusion, and Spencer lifts you off of him, slightly freaked out. âAre- Are you okay?â
âBaby, please,â you sigh, endeared but annoyed at the fact that heâs getting in the way of his own pleasure. âTrust me with this. Just focus on feeling good?â
Spencerâs brows furrow slightly, lips drawn into a little pout, but you nod to soothe his concerns. âSpencer, I want you to use meââ You stick your tongue out to lick at his length again, making him shudder. ââJust like this.â
âYou wantâ You want me toâŠ?â Spencer trails off, unsure if heâs picking up what youâre putting down.
âFuck my face, Spencer,â you say bluntly, tired of flirting in circles. Itâs fun flirting with Spencer, because itâs fun to fluster him when he isnât expecting it, but right now, when he isnât getting the hint, you need to lay it all out for him. âUse my mouth like a fleshlight. Whatever you want to do. Please.â
He inhales sharply, stunned at your explicitness. He pushes his hair back, out of his face, taking the time to process⊠everything. His gaze is tender, though, as he gently cups your cheek. âOkay. Yeah. I can do that. But if you donât want it anymore, youâ You have to let me know, okay?â
You smile up at him, pleased that heâs finally letting some of his inhibitions go, even if he still seems hesitant. You pat the side of his thigh thrice. âIâll do that if itâs too much.â
âI love you.â Spencer says softly.
âI love you too, Spence.â You hum. âNow hurry up and fuck my face.â
âJesus, youâre so crude,â Spencer laughs. He leans forward to press a kiss to your forehead. Pulling back, he guides his cock to your mouth, the head of his cock pressing against the plush of your lips. His mouth is open when he looks at you like this. He whispers, âFuck.â
You open your mouth to take him in, like you were before, sinking down inch by inch, until heâs comfortably settled in the back of your throat. Spencer doesnât move to fuck your face yet, so you make the first move. You bob your head up and down on his length, making sure your mouth is wet and slick as you suck him off. He lets out a moan, hand fisted in your hair.
And hereâs where it starts: You slow on his cock, and Spencer, finally taking what he wants, pushes your head down onto his cock for more. You gag slightly. Spencer pulls your head back up, pushes you back down. While you appreciate how much he cares about you, him putting his pleasure first in using you like this makes your toes curl.
Spencerâs cock in the back of your throat is not uncomfortable, not yet, but Spencer steels himself to fuck your mouth and you find your veins thrumming with adrenaline. Spencerâs first thrust is exploratory, cautious. Heâs nervous, or it at least feels like it when he fucks into your mouth. You would tell him off, but your mouth is kind of occupied right now. Instead, you glance up at him, and hope that your gaze tells him to just fuck me.
One arm against the backrest of the couch, Spencer thrusts into your mouth again. He gasps. Chasing his own pleasure, his eyes flutter shut as he fucks your mouth. His thrusts are shallow, desperate, hurried, but his mouth falls open in stuttered, eager moans. Heâs so gorgeous.
Youâve never heard anything so perfect, the way Spencer moans, the way he cries out your name. You press your legs together to stave off the arousal building between them. You feel like a mess, Spencerâs hand making a mess of your hair, Spencerâs cock making a mess of your mouth. You think spit is probably all over your chin right now, but heâd probably think you still look great anyway.
Spencer gasps, out of breath as he whimpers, âIâmâ Iâm close, I canâtââ
He fucks into your mouth once, twice more, before slumping back down onto the couch. Thereâs a slick, wet âpopâ as you pull off of Spencer, pouting slightly. âYou know Iâm happy to swallow, Spence.â
Spencer laughs, tired, and explains, âI know you do, dear. I just donât think I have it in me to come more than once. And I really want to come inside of you.â
His words make you blush. Spencer doesnât get too explicit too often, so hearing him say dirty things always turns you on. You reach up to wipe yourself clean, but Spencerâs already ahead of you with a tissue pressed to your face, gentle as he wipes your mouth and chin.
After cleaning you up, he helps you up off your knees and onto the couch. Youâre both still clothed, sure, but Spencerâs boxers and pants have been pushed down to reveal his cock; you must be even more of a mess, hair rustled and face messy, and the desperation that makes itself clear at the sight of the both of you makes you giggle.
Spencer smiles at you. âWhat are you laughing about?â
âWe must look insane right now,â you laugh. âWeâre not even naked yet and weâre like this.â
âWell, I think you look beautiful,â Spencer says earnestly in a quiet voice, his hand tucking your hair behind your ear. Spencerâs touch is gentle, it always is, and especially in stark contrast to the way heâd fucked your face, just like you told him to. âMy lovely girl.â
âSpence,â you purr, nuzzling into his hand as he cradles your face. âLove you.â
âI love you too.â Spencerâs answer is immediate, certain, and it makes you acutely aware of how turned on you are.
âI love you so much, and I really need you to fuck me right now.â You look up at him, watch as his face warms from serious to amused. You shift away from him slightly on the couch, but use the extra space to spread your legs. âUse this pussy, baby.â
Now, he presses his finger to his temple, shaking his head playfully. âYour mouth is filthy. Youâre filthy.â
You grin. âAww, Spence, at least tell me you like it!â
He leans forward to kiss you, hard and eager and desperate. You moan into the kiss, as his hand is pressed into the small of your back. You run your hand through his hair, where itâs starting to curl past the nape of his neck. When he pulls away, he says, looking deep into your eyes: âI like you. And your filthy mouth. Now let me fuck you.â
You giggle, wildly turned on as his long, deft fingers push your shorts and panties off. He kisses along your neck as he does so, then lays you back on the couch, and his thumb rubs circles into your inner thigh softly as he regards you, admires you. âYouâre fucking gorgeous.â
âYou are too,â you say, awed, as Spencer takes off his nerdy little button-up. His body is perfect â not skin-and-bones skinny, but thereâs a healthy litheness to him that you appreciate, especially when youâre grabbing at him while he fucks you. âWant you right now.â
âI know,â Spencer hums soothingly, leaning forward to kiss your forehead. âCome on, love.â
Propping yourself up on your elbows, you watch, slack-jawed, as he wraps a hand around himself. His eyes flutter shut as he strokes himself, but he quickly snaps himself back to reality: guiding his cock in between your legs. He presses the tip to your clit, messy and glistening with your slick, and rubs against you in circles. You moan, feeling a little pathetic as you rut your hips forward to find any more pleasure like this.
Now, he presses the head of his cock to your hole, teasing, pushing it in slightly before it slips back out and spreads more of your slick across the rest of your cunt. You whine, pouting up at Spencer. He coos at you, âOkay, okay.â
Finally, heâs settled against your hole, the blunt head of his cock pressing into you excruciatingly slowly. Itâs exhilarating, feeling him feed his cock into your hole, feeling him stretch you open, feeling like you were made for each other. He holds your leg up so he can press up closer to you, feeling so full as he puts his cock inside of you.
âSpencer,â you moan when he stops moving. âFuck me. Just like earlier.â
âOkay, love.â Spencer nods, trails his hand down your waist and hips, down your thighs. âMy gorgeous girl.â
Spencer thrusts into you, the first one sending electric pleasure through your body. He always loves to do it like this, make love to you slowly, intensely rocking into you until you feel all his love. You always do, but you donât want that tonight. He knows thatâs not what you want tonight.
When Spencer starts fucking you, his hips have gained a steady rhythm, your skin slapping together obscenely. Itâs so wet between you two, where heâs pressed inside you. He fucks you hard and fast, eyebrows furrowed as he chases his own high. Heâs so fucking cute, even while naked and trying his best to make you feel just as good as he does. Heâs panting and groaning, your own moans mixing in with his. He knows you want him like this, hard and fast and messy.
You canât form a coherent sentence, only able to babble and cry out for Spencer, for more, and you cling onto his arms as he pounds into you. Youâve never felt Spencer like this before. Sure, heâs always eager to please, doing whatever makes you feel good, but him going so hard, just like this, just the way you want makes you feel so needy, the both of you feeding off of each otherâs desperation. All you can focus on is Spencerâs skin touching yours, the in-out slide of his cock, the slapping of skin on skin, the wet, slick noises of his cock fucking in and out of you.
âCumming, Spence, Iâm cumming,â You cry out needily, desperately, and you moan when he presses his thumb to your clit. He flicks at your clit in rough, hurried little circles. The pressure is cruel but just what you need for your release, and your whole body shakes as you orgasm. The high is so good, a different type of pleasure coursing through your veins.
You clench around Spencer, your cunt like a vice grip on him. Moaning loudly, his hips are stuttering as he comes inside of you too. He fucks out whatever momentumâs left in him, but pulls out quickly and gently, because he knows how fast you get overstimulated afterward.
He kisses your cheek, the corner of your mouth, then presses his lips to yours. The kiss is soft, sweet, tame, unlike the depravity you were engaged in before, and the juxtaposition makes your head spin. Spencer, who is usually such a sweet, soft guy, being able to fuck you so hard and fast until the couch was creaking underneath you. You suppose thatâs what heâs capable of when you ask. You like it. You wonder what else you can ask him to do. You think heâd do it in a heartbeat, knowing him.
âThat was amazing,â you giggle breathlessly. âSpence, youâre a madman.â
âFor you, my dear,â Spencer smiles. âAnything for you.â
You snuggle into his side, resting your head on his chest as you lay on the couch. Youâre both sticky and gross, but youâre sure Spencer will be more than happy to clean up later. Right now, youâre just pleased to be cuddling your boyfriend.
âSo, do you feel less stressed out about work now?â You ask, after a moment of comfortable silence.
âWell, I certainly wasnât thinking about work,â Spencer laughs. âYou know, some sociologists believe stress can be caused by positive events too? I think you cause me stress, but itâs good stress.â
âWatch your mouth, genius,â you snark playfully. âYouâre lucky youâre cute enough that Iâd take being called a stressor a compliment.â
âI love you,â Spencer sing-songs.
You roll your eyes, but canât help the stupid grin that forms on your face. âYeah, yeah.â
#spencer reid x fem!reader#spencer reid fanfiction#spencer reid smut#spencer reid x reader#criminal minds fanfiction#spencerreidenjoyer writes#spencer reid#spencer reid x you
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Infected
Miguel O'Hara X F!Reader âą Rating: 18+ pals MasterlistâąÂ ao3âąÂ want to be tagged? | request info
Summary: An accident at one of Alchemaxâs labs has led to Miguel being briefly contaminated with cA1m - a prototype drug that is meant to calm animals. However it seems to have a very different effect in humans.
A/N: A massive thank you to @midgardian-witch for reading the beginning of this (catching a hilarious typo), making some excellent suggestions, and reassuring me that I hadnât just lost my mind completely (yet).
Reader doesnât know Miguelâs spiderman.
Warnings: dubious consent - itâs basically a sex pollen fic, blood, hair pulling (can I write a fic without an Oscar Isaac character getting their hair pulled?), so much cum, hand job, oral (both m and f receiving), things get a little rough, face fucking, cum eating, biting, scratching, p in v sex, typos, please let me know if Iâve missed a warning!
Word Count:Â 5433
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âItâs mainly preliminary.â You said with a smile. âYou werenât in the room, but the filtration system links four of the labs.âÂ
You check over Miguelâs notes, so far, he didnât have any symptoms.Â
There had been an âaccidentâ in Lab B2, an accident that was being rapidly looked into. Lab B1, and B4 had been empty, but Miguel had been in B3.Â
Miguel was currently in a rapidly repurposed testing room, sitting on the bed with his shirt rolled up his forearms. His specific request for somewhere with reinforced walls, doors and windows had been⊠unusual. But he was a big guy, couldnât hurt to be too careful.Â
âHow are the others doing?â He asked with a slightly raised eyebrow.Â
âOkay,â you nodded. There had been eight people in Lab B2 when the container had broken. Two people, like Miguel, werenât showing any symptoms.Â
The chemical compound, nicknamed cA1m, while liquid in its storage unit, turned to a gas at above zero degrees. Luckily it also denatured quickly, and there was a good chance that those who still werenât showing symptoms were unaffected.Â
The chemicalâs intention was for a more humane way to calm wild animals and livestock during veterinary checks. That way the animal in question didnât need potentially dangerous anaesthetic for basic to mild level medical care.Â
It also wore off in 24 hours.Â
However, it still needed some work. And while early tests had gone well, apparently it did not have the desired effect in humans.Â
Four of the six infected had gone feral, absolutely crazy with rage, trying to kill and destroy everything and everyone within their reach.Â
Luckily no one had been severely injured before they had been tranquilised.Â
The other two were different, they had⊠other urges.Â
âHave you found any links as to why Doctor Guerrero and Doctor Vaughan didnât react like the others?â Miguel asks. His voice was calm and controlled, like it always was. Politely interested, like he was listening to a presentation about your latest control data.Â
âWell, I have an idea. Though I havenât fully proven it yet.âÂ
He tilted his head to the side in a silent question. The action was endearing, it made your heart flutter and heat rise to your skin. And you hated it so, so much.Â
You smiled quickly and looked down, trying to cover the fact youâd been staring at him for a second too long.Â
âSo,â you continued, drawing the word out a little to give you a pause of breathing room. âBoth Guerrero and Vaughan are in relationships, both of them wanted to,â you pause for a moment, trying to find the most professional way to phrase it. âget to their partners. Unlike the others they also had a massively increased level of oxytocin.âÂ
âYour theory is that that cA1m causes a berserk level of rage unless the subject is in love?â There was the smallest smirk on his lips.
It sounded stupid when he put it like that.Â
âWell⊠yes.â You fold your arms. âLook, Miguel,â he grinned when you said his name and you fought, and lost, the urge to smile back. âIâve had fourteen hours and six people to base this off, plus three who are showing no symptoms. Give me a break, yeah?âÂ
He held up his hands playfully. âI didnât say anything.â
âYou gave me a look.â
âWhat look?â He teased.Â
âI know you want to be trying to figure this out yourself, but youâre the one who insisted on not being allowed any breakable, or expensive, equipment while youâre in here.âÂ
He smiled. âItâs true.â His gaze was heavy, crushing almost.Â
You shook your head and turned to the side table. âAnyway, are you gonna let me draw some blood or what?âÂ
He nodded and held his arm out to you.Â
You know why you had been ânominatedâ (begged) to be the one to see Miguel. He wasnât the easiest CEO to work for in the sense that he was both physically and mentally intimidating, but what usually threw most people was that he was quiet, tended to watch and listen.Â
And he had a bit of resting bitch face. Â
But he was actually pretty pleasant to talk to when you got to know him.Â
You brushed your arm against his as you moved to get your equipment. Miguel audibly gasped.Â
A flash of worry pinched at your mind, you turned to look at him. âYou okay?âÂ
Miguel nodded; he was staring straight ahead at the wall. Obviously in distress.
âMiguel?â This wasnât the same as those who had suddenly developed into a full-blown rage, but still you couldnât help the sense of apprehension that crawled along your skin. You glanced at the sedative on the side table and shook your head.
âMiguel?â You spoke again, a little softer and moved a step closer towards him.Â
He shuddered at your voice, screwing his eyes up tightly. Sweat was beading on his forehead, heat rolling off him in waves.
âMiguel, Iâm gonna-â
He moved faster than you could comprehend, one second he was sitting on the bed and the next he was looming over you, his hands clenched tightly around your biceps, and forcing you back.
You yelped as he pressed you into the wall, grabbing hold of his forearms.Â
His eyes were dark and wild, brimming with a terrifying energy.
âMiguel, wh-â
He crashed his lips into yours, swallowing down your words and slipping his tongue into your mouth frantically. It took you a fragment of a second to react, surprise freezing your limbs solid.Â
Miguel took your delay to his advantage, pushing his knee between your legs and pressing close. Not leaving a fraction of space between you as he devoured your mouth. Stealing your breath and igniting heat along your veins.Â
âMiguel,â you managed to push him back, the heels of your hands in his chest. This was the cA1m affecting him, it was the only explanation. Maybe the filtration system had diluted the chemical and caused a delayed reaction. âYou need to-â
He snarled, his eyes pinpoint focused on you as he leaned forward and kissed you, hard. All tongue and sharp teeth as he wrapped his fingers around the back of your neck and gripped your thigh bruisingly tight, hitching it high on his hip.Â
Youâd had dreams like this, fantasies, where he pinned you to the wall and kissed you until you couldnât breathe. But you couldnât do this, you couldnât take advantage of him like this-Â
There was a sharp pinch of pain as Miguel sank his teeth into your bottom lip. You let out a small squeak of surprise, pulling away from him. And raised your hand to your mouth, your fingers coming back red.Â
Miguel, however, seemed unphased as he trailed kisses along your neck, smearing your blood along your skin. He ground his hips into yours, rocking back and forth and- oh god, he was big, just like the rest of him.Â
âMiguel, you need to,â you swallowed down a whimper as he sucked at your pulse point, just managing to resist the urge to hold him closer, to run your hands through his hair. âItâs the cA1m, youâre not thinking straight.â
He murmured something into your neck, his mouth not leaving your skin far enough for the words to be intelligible.Â
âMiguel-â You gasped as he nipped at your throat, not enough to break the skin this time.Â
Heat was burning from his skin, scorching into your body like you were too close to a flame.Â
You grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back a fraction too forcefully. You thought the brief pain might snap him out of it, give him a second of clarity. But as his chin tilted upwards, exposing his neck, he let out a long groan, his eyes squeezed shut.Â
It went straight to your core, your thighs clenching at the sound.Â
âNeed you so bad, shit,â he rocked against you harder, pressing his length right up against your centre. âAlways need you, you donât understand,â he moaned and buried his head back into your neck, despite your grip on his hair, and sucked a love bite into your skin.
This time you couldnât resist the urge. You sunk your fingers deeper, scratching your nails along his scalp and pulled him closer, pushing his face in your neck.
Miguel groaned appreciatively, digging his sharp nails into your shoulders. He nipped just below your ear, the keen, yet sweet little sting of pain blended with the slow and steady roll of his hips was simply tortuous. Almost enough to make you lose all common sense.Â
Almost.Â
You couldnât do this, you couldnât do this, you just couldnât do this.Â
âMiguel-â
He whined as you said his name.Â
And you had to bite your lips together in order to hold onto your fading self respect.Â
âOn the table,â you swallowed, trying to get your words out quickly, âthereâs a sedative. Itâll help, itâll-â
âYouâll help, being near you helps.â He mumbles, the words barely audible. He snakes his fingers along your ribs, just teasing the hem of your shirt.
âWe just need to-oh!â
Miguel grabs hold of your shirt and pulls, ripping it open, buttons pinging off and going flying. Honestly, thereâs less resistance from the material than you expected.
And then he's everywhere, his face buried in your chest, kissing the tops of your breasts as his fingers pinch at your nipples through the thin fabric of your bra.Â
You can't stop the moan of surprise that escapes your lips as you arch into his touch.Â
You had to stop this, now. Before he did something you'd very much enjoy and he'd very much regret.Â
"Fuck," you hiss under your breath and act quickly, trying not to overthink and get yourself caught up.Â
Maybe if he⊠had some relief you could grab the sedative in the afterglow. Hell, maybe he wouldn't even need the sedative if he came once.Â
Before you can lose your nerve you quickly unbuckled his trousers and managed to squeeze your hand under the material despite Miguel's frenzied mind trying to keep the physical space separating you both to a minimum.Â
He gasps as you touch him, letting out a choked sob that your brain was already committing to memory and filing under 'for use later'.Â
The velvety soft skin was rock hard and burning hot against your hand. So big that you couldn't even get your fingers fully round his girth.Â
"Please." He muttered, pressing his forehead against yours, his hands resting tightly on your waist.Â
His eyes were screwed shut, his mouth slightly open and when you moved your hand, the smallest upwards movement. He let out the sweetest sigh.Â
You bite your lip and wince as you catch the broken skin, but it doesnât stop you from tracing your thumb over the tip of him, smearing precome along the head. You were trying to be quick, methodical, clinical, as you began to stroke him, setting an even pace. This was just a problem to solve. You should not be enjoying this.Â
But every glide of your hand, every touch, made Miguel gasp and moan as if it was the first time heâd ever experienced such sensations, made him bite his lip with his sharp (had they always been that sharp?) teeth, and it was intoxicating.Â
He pistoned his hips into your touch, thrusting faster and faster, and practically growling as he grew closer to his release.Â
You couldnât help but watch him, enraptured, as heat pooled in your lower stomach, your own need growing. But this wasnât about you.Â
Still, you couldnât help yourself rocking back and forth against his leg ever so slightly to just take the edge off.Â
Miguel grunted, his eyes rolling back in his head, and there was a sharp pinch of pain as he tightened his grip on your waist, his nails digging in much harder than they surely should have been able to.
He swore under his breath as he cums, twitching under your touch, and coating your hand and stomach with his release.Â
Thereâs so much of it, far more than there should be as he cums and cums, gasping for air. Another side effect of the cA1m - perhaps youâd be annoyed as his release soaks into your ruined shirt if the sight of him reaching his peak wasnât exhilarating.Â
You let go of him quickly, managing to disentangle yourself from him, despite Miguel low, exhausted whine of protest.Â
God, how were you going to get a new shirt without running into someone? And, you realised, probably a new pair of trousers too. Miguelâs spend had run down and soaked into the left side.Â
You grabbed the sedative from the side table. Your mind already racing, it wasnât Miguelâs fault but would he remember? Would he be awkward with you now? Would your little chats and jokes stop? You swallowed down a pang of fear and turned. Now wasnât the time for what ifs you-
Miguel grabbed your arms and you squeaked in surprise. How could he move so silently? His eyes were dark, hooded with lust, his trousers just hanging from his hips and⊠well, obviously so much for the idea that him cumming once would be enough.Â
âI need you.â He growled, his voice so low that you almost felt light headed. âI know you want me too, I can smell it.â He leaned forward scraping his teeth over your pulse point, and for a shameful moment you let yourself get caught up again, allowed yourself to revel in the sensation for the smallest second.Â
While he was distracted you pushed the needle into his upper arm, through his shirt, and injected the sedative.Â
It shouldn't take long.Â
He growled, pulling his mouth away from your neck to stare dangerously into your eyes.Â
You swallowed. A spike of fear dug into the base of your skull, some ancient urge telling you to run.Â
âItâs okay,â you said soothingly, unsure if you were really talking to Miguel or yourself. âItâs just the sedative.â You pulled the needle out of his arm. âYouâll be fine, letâs lay you down so-â
He kissed you hungrily, harsh and demanding as he forced his tongue into your mouth.Â
You allowed yourself to kiss him back the smallest amount as you waited for the sedative to work.Â
And waited⊠And waitedâŠ
Oh, no, just no, this wasnât right, this couldnât be right. There was more than enough in the injection to knock him out and yet he didnât show any signs of slowing down.Â
Okay, so, this definitely wasnât how it went with the others.Â
You side step, trying to twist past him and break his hold all in one movement. Maybe you could get to the door, maybe you could do⊠something. Your mind raced, there had to be a way to fix this, to help him, to be useful.Â
The side step didnât work, Miguelâs grip was too tight, and you stumbled, skidding around and to your knees. The edge of the bed thumped into your back.Â
You gasp, gulp and stare up at him. That spike of fear dragging itself down your spine.Â
He growls and moves closer, his length bobbing and perfectly at your eye level. His gaze is dark and desperate, his bottom lip pinched between his teeth. You could see his pulse thundering in his neck, echoing along the length of his dick.Â
Rapid heartbeat was one of the side effects all the others had experienced, the sedative being the only thing that had managed to return it to a normaler level.Â
Maybe there was only one way you could be useful.Â
Miguel shifts his weight, preparing to move, but you lean forward first and run your tongue along the length of him.Â
A deep moan rumbles in his chest as you touch him, a gasp of breath. The sound floods heat to your core.Â
You wrap your lips around the tip, grabbing hold of his hips to pull him closer as you swallow as much of him as you can. You bob your head, encouraging him to move with you and there is a moment where you can feel the tension in his muscles, the strain in his thighs as he tries to hold back, to keep himself in check.Â
It doesnât last long.Â
He snarls and thrusts forward, snapping his hips and nearly choking you. You splutter, trying to breathe through your nose but Miguel doesnât give you a second to recover. He pushes forward, the back of your head slamming against the edge of the bed as he plunges deeper and deeper into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat with ease and still not even half way in.Â
Your grip on his hips tightens and you donât know if youâre trying to pull him away or urging him on.Â
It burns, the size of him makes your jaw ache, tears roll down the sides of your cheeks from the force of his relentless thrusts.Â
His hands dig into the mattress by the side of you head, tearing into the fabric as he pounds into you, fucking your mouth with everything heâs got.Â
He groans, âyes, baby, yes,â his voice low and barely distinguishable as words.Â
You do your best to just hold on, to breathe and take as much as you can. The sounds of his moans filling your ears and mind, and god, how you wished you didnât have a gag reflex and could take him deeper.Â
He keeps ramming into your mouth, snapping his hips against you with a frenzied energy and you push against his lower back, silently begging him to keep going.Â
Your neck throbs from discomfort, bruising forming where the skin is repeatedly hitting against the hard outline of the bed frame. Your knees burn from where they continuously rub against the floor with every buck and thrust.Â
Miguel lets out a short, animalistic cry as he cums down your throat suddenly. You moan against him, trying to swallow all of it but thereâs just so, so much. It spills out of the side of your mouth and down your chin despite your best efforts.
He leans forward, breathing hard, his cock still in your mouth. And for a second you think this is it, the sedative will take hold or maybe this mindless lust has come to an end.Â
But heâs still hard when he pulls himself out of your mouth, his eyes still glazed over with the same madness when he looks down at you. He runs his hand over your chin, the pads of his fingers slightly sharp, and collects some of his spend that hasnât trickled down your neck and onto your torn shirt and bra. Another item of clothing youâd need to change.Â
He smears his cum along your cheek, the movement possessive, like he was marking his territory.Â
Thereâs a pause, the lull in the eye of the storm before he pulls you up from the ground with a shocking display of strength, moving as if you were no heavier than a glass of water he was eager to drink down.Â
You canât help the little yelp of surprise that escapes you as he practically throws you onto the bed, your back hitting the mattress and momentarily knocking the air out of your lungs.
But then heâs on top of you, pressing himself firmly between your legs as he growls and snaps his teeth close to your neck. He bites at your throat, hard enough to break the skin and you cry out as the pain quickly disappears into pleasure.Â
Your mewls only make his actions more frenzied as he tears your clothes completely off you with a speed that makes your head spin, before removing his own. The material rips so easily, as if he used a blade.Â
He runs his tongue along your chest, messily cleaning up the cum heâd spilt along you just moments before.Â
âMiguel-â You try to start, but then his mouth is back on yours, tasting like salt and iron as he drinks down your words to leave you breathless.Â
You gasp as he breaks away, trailing sloppy kisses down your body, his fingers running over your skin and leaving scratches. He bites your hip partially deeply and you keen, arching up into him as he moans.Â
âYour so fucking sweet.â He mutters before kissing lower and lower and, oh god. You nearly scream as his lips wrap around your clit and he sucks hard. Pleasure coils tight in your belly as a new wave of wetness leaks out and soaks into the torn up sheets beneath you.Â
His fingers dig into your thighs as he pushes his face into you, only breaking away so that he can lick through your folds hungrily, devouring you like a starving animal.Â
âMiguel!â You whine, letting out a series of high pitch moans that sound alien even to your own ears.Â
He sucks your clit once more, his teeth just grazing across it before he snarls and pulls away, pushing the back of your thighs and pressing them against your chest with a crushing strength.Â
You struggle to take a breath, barely filling your lungs before heâs thrusting into you with a guttural groan and a sharp snap of his hips.Â
The size of him hurts, itâs too much, too fast and you gasp in pain. You clench your jaw, your eyes screwing up as your hands fly to his shoulders, trying to push him back even though you know itâs no use against his strength.Â
But he stops instantly, stilling his movements.Â
You stare up at him in surprise. His eyes are still dark but thereâs something else there, something pushing through that lust haze.Â
âPain?â He whispers, sounding the most like his old self that he has since this ordeal began.
You swallow and nod, tears building at the corners of your eyes.Â
He slowly loosens his grip around your thighs, letting go shakily as if it is taking a lot of self control to do so. And while he doesnât pull out, he doesnât thrust in deeper either.Â
Carefully, he manoeuvres your legs down onto the bed either side of him, watching your face for any sign of increased discomfort. Itâs only then that he looks down to where youâre joined, completely split open with only a quarter of his length inside.Â
He groans lows and you brace yourself for a brutal thrust that never comes. Instead he keeps his hips still as he slowly trails his sharp nails down your stomach, teasing the very edge of your clit before pressing his thumb against it fully.Â
A small moan escapes you and you clench down instinctively. Miguel hums in approval and starts to slowly circle the bundle of nerves, the touch light and soft as he just borders on the edge of losing control.Â
The pain starts to dissipate quickly, replaced with a steady continuous build of that deep need from before. You start to squirm. The pressure of his thumb isnât enough and you rock your hips ever so slightly, your breathing hitching in your throat.Â
"More?" He whispers.
You nod your head rapidly.Â
âThank god.â Miguel sighs, the words mumbled like a prayer almost too quietly for you to hear, and lets some of his weakening control slip.Â
Slowly he pushes further in, the tension shaking in his thighs as he fights with every instinct to pound you into the mattress and turn you into a crying mess beneath him.Â
He keeps circling your clit, groaning as feels a fresh wave of wetness leaking out of you.Â
You moan, grabbing hold of his shoulders. But this time you pull him towards you, urging him deeper. God, heâs big. Already itâs like you can feel him in your throat.Â
The stretch burns, but itâs good, it feels right. Like he is going to reach a whole new devastating part of you. Make you cum so hard that heâll ruin any other sexual partner for good.
You hook your left leg on his hip and squeeze your calf over his lower back, encouraging him closer, deeper. While you plant your right foot firmly against the bed to rock up against him.Â
Miguel groans, his eyes closed. His movements on your clit falter as he slides further in.Â
Thereâs a sharp pain in your hip where his left hand holds you tight, his nails (it had to be his nails) dug in so deep that they broke your skin.Â
You let out a soft whine, clenching around his girth as he presses up against you perfectly and still pushes further in. The pleasure in your stomach tightening and starting to completely overwhelm all other thoughts, urging you to just chase your release.Â
Tears prick again at the corners of your eyes, a soft emotion beating hard in your chest. And you canât help yourself, you grab hold of the back of Miguelâs neck, pulling him down towards you and arching up at the same time to kiss him hungrily.Â
He moans into your mouth, pushing back against you and forcing you into the mattress. His hips snap forward, finally sheathing himself completely in your tight, wet heat.Â
For a moment itâs like you canât breathe, so completely full that not even air can enter.Â
Miguel stills, giving you a moment to adjust as he licks into your mouth and groans as your walls squeeze around his length. His pubis bone presses firmly against your clit, and you can feel the echo of his racing heart beat along his skin.Â
He breaks the kiss to breathe hard, his eyes closed and forehead pressed against yours. âI canât⊠I need toâŠâ
âPlease,â you answer desperately, kissing him softly as you start to rock your hips ever so slightly.Â
Miguel lets out a whine, his eyebrows pinched together in bliss and the expression alone is nearly enough to make you cum on the spot.Â
âCanât stop,â he mutters and you're not even sure if heâs aware of what heâs saying anymore as he grabs your wrists in either of his hands and pins them to the bed. âFeels soâŠâ He ruts into you, pulling out so that just the tip of his cock stays inside before slamming back into you. âFuck. So. Fucking. Tight.â
You wail under him as pleasure runs up your spine and down your legs as he punctuates every thrust with an upwards rock of his hips, continuously rubbing against your clit and pressing the head of his length to that perfect spot inside.Â
âSo. Fucking. Wet.â He growls. His nails are slicing into your wrists, but you donât care. Canât care, youâve lost all ability to feel anything but the glide of his cock and the heady build of your orgasm.Â
âSo. Mine.â He growls and bites down hard on your neck. You cry out, the brutal pace of his hips only increasing, bringing you closer and closer and-
You gasp, his name catching in your throat as you finally cum. Every muscle shaking as it crashes over you in waves.Â
Miguel tears his mouth away from your neck, blood shining on his lips as he watches you come undone. He moans, his thrusts not faltering for a second.Â
âThatâs it, cum all over me,â he glances down for a moment watching himself disappearing into you, amazed at how well youâre taking him, how tightly your walls are griping him, trying to milk him for all heâs worth. âSqueezing me so tight, oh shit-âÂ
He cums loudly, still pistoning in and out of you as he fills you up with his release. Thereâs still so much of it, some leaks out, spilling out of your abused hole and sticking to your thighs.Â
You breathe deeply, your mind foggy from how hard you came. Your legs ache from being stretched so wide, your pussy throbs from overstimulation.Â
Miguel doesnât stop, still rock hard and trusting. Pushing his cum deeper into you.Â
âMiguel,â you whine, your throat raw.Â
âI canât-â he bites his lip, âI canât stop, I need to, fuck, please, I need to-â
You kiss his neck, biting harder than you normally would at his jugular. He whines, the sound going straight to your core. Heat starts to build again.
âKeep going,â you mutter against his skin. âKeep going as long as you need to.âÂ
.
You wake up sore and sticky. Aching and in pain. Even the slightest movement brings out an array of discomfort. Every muscle throbs, like you had done a year's worth of exercise in one day, and all the bites and scratches sting as you shift, the scrapes making you feel like someone had tossed you naked into a bush of brambles and thorns.Â
It takes you a moment to remember where you are, the tiredness in your bones trying to coax you back to sleep.Â
âIâm sorry.âÂ
Miguelâs voice makes you jump. Heâs still close to you, laying on his side with his chest pressed up against your back. One arm around your waist. Thereâs tension there, you know he wants to move away but is scared to move at the same time.Â
His cock is pressed against your backside, soft and sated.Â
You turn to look at him, too tired to worry about your nakedness. Besides, he had seen plenty of it anyway.
âYouâve got nothing to be sorry for.âÂ
He scoffs. His mouth pressed into a thin line as he looks down.Â
Itâs only then as you turn around completely to look at him that you see tears in his eyes. âMiguel?âÂ
You softly touch his cheek but he flinches away from you. The action spikes through your heart. He canât even look at you now.Â
âIâve got everything to be sorry for, I, I took advantage of you, I rap-â
âNo, no, no, no,â you canât help but touch him again, putting your hand back on his cheek and rubbing your thumb soothingly across his skin.Â
This time he leans into it, letting out the smallest, shaky breath.Â
âYou were infected, Miguel, you couldnât control yourself. I donât know how much you remember but the sedative didnât work, and your heart rate was just, I mean, it was crazy high. And, if anything, I was the one that took advantage of you and-â
His eyes snap open. âYou? You took advantage of me?â He says disbelievingly. âLook at you.â He touches the bite marks on your neck gently.Â
You give him a little smile. âI donât mind.â
He breathes out another shaky breath, but thereâs a hint of a smile. âYou donât mind?âÂ
You shake your head. âHappy to help.âÂ
He chuckles a little at that and nods as he runs a hand through his hair.Â
Thereâs a pause, a silence that you canât stand.Â
âI guess I was wrong.â
Miguel frowns a little, confused.Â
âMy theory, about people having that reaction if theyâre in love, I mean.âÂ
Thereâs a pause, the only sound a little gulp as Miguel swallows. Something passes over his face for a second, a faint trace of heat rising to his skin.
Oh. Maybe you werenât wrong.Â
âMiguel?â
He breathes deeply, looking down. âI-â
You donât give him a chance to finish, letting your adrenaline overwhelm you as you quickly lean forward and press your lips to his. Hoping against hope that you werenât misreading the situation.Â
Heâs caught by surprise for a moment, but moans happily and softly kisses you back as his arm wraps around you and pulls you close.Â
The kiss is slow and gentle, languid and sweet. It makes your stomach drop like you were falling from a great height. His embrace the only thing keeping you safe.Â
He runs his tongue over your bottom lip lightly, careful of the cuts, but licks into your mouth hungrily the second you part your lips. Itâs not the same lustful need from before, this is deeper, sharper and desperate in a different way. As if after devouring your body he now needed to devour your soul.Â
He kisses you again, lightly before you both pull back for a second. He grins at you, a little shyly and you smile as you stroke his cheek. Â
âYou werenât wrong.â He muttered.Â
You frown and shake your head, confused.Â
He chuckles and kisses you again. âYour theory about love.âÂ
____________________________________
Thank you for reading!
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#miguel o'hara#miguel oâhara#spiderman across the spiderverse#miguel oâhara x reader#x reader#miguel oâhara x you#x you#miguel oâhara x female reader#x female reader#miguel oâhara x f!reader#x f!reader#miguel oâhara x fem!reader#x fem!reader#my writing#fanfic#oscar isaac#oscar isaac characters#miguel o'hara x reader#miguel o'hara x you#miguel o'hara x female reader#miguel o'hara x f!reader#miguel o'hara x afab!reader
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Pink : Part I : Humanist Seeking Person in Love
Series Masterlist
Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader
Summary: Humanism: an outlook or system of thought attaching prime importance to human rather than divine or supernatural matters. Humanist beliefs stress the potential value and goodness of human beings, emphasize common human needs, and seek solely rational ways of solving human problems.
The story of a son who wonât love you, and his father, who will.
-OR-
the father-in-law AU
Rating: Explicit 18+
Content Warnings: No outbreak AU; Fix-it-fic but the thing that needs fixing is a person; Daddy issues; Daddy kink; Divorce; Welcome to the father-in-law suck and fuck extravaganza; Possessive behavior; Jealousy; Slow burn but like not really; DD/lg dynamics; Older man/Younger woman; Self esteem issues; Discussions of emotional and mental abuse; Unhealthy coping mechanisms
A/N: Check the tags on the masterlist, as well!
Word Count: 7.4K
Read on AO3
Ko-fi
1. Humanist Seeking Person in Love
The video youâd watched had said that the differences between a jamb nut and a coupling nut should have been obvious. A jamb nut, which was what you were currently looking for, was typically half as tall as a standard nut, or a coupling nut, and would be of a small, stouter shape compared to the other options. As you stare at the wall of overwhelming stock, the incomprehensible mess of steel, PVC, aluminum and plastic hardware you feel, a little bit, like youâd like to start screaming as loud as you possibly can, for as long as you possibly can. Just a rip roaring and rageful, top of your lungs, screech. Maybe itâd scare the leering men around you. Maybe theyâd desist from the ogling of your ass in the tight confines of your ratty leggings, or the mildly pitying glances as your frustration and confusion becomes more and more obvious.
You try and take a deep breath, glancing down at your phone again and the screenshots youâd taken of the parts you need to fix your leaky kitchen sink. Zooming in, you hold the picture up next to the pipeware currently gripped in your sweaty hand and wonder again if what youâve chosen is the right piece. You donât understand why the hardware store, a local business, isnât as neatly and efficiently organized as the larger chains, and why they make it so damn hard for someone without experience to come in and shop. You donât want to buy the wrong thing and waste the money you already donât have, you donât want to have to make the trek back to this God awful fucking place. You hate the hardware store, you hate the way it smells, dusty and wooden, the cavernous hollow echo of it, the leering gazes of the men shopping, looking at you as if youâre some helpless child, something soft and easy to snap up and eat. You hate the memory of following your father around on many a Sunday morning after heâd forced you to come with him in some false attempt at bonding, at spending time together when really all it was, was another instance of you cowering behind him, trying to make yourself as silent and small as possible so as to avoid his anger and irritation.Â
You look back down at the piece of PVC in your clutch, at the picture of what youâre supposed to be buying again, back at the other option, a copper bolt you think might look right but canât really tell the difference, and you feel the backs of your eyes pinch and go hot and achy. A sharp, throbbing pain starting up behind your left eye and spiraling out like a stain to cover your forehead. You want to go home. You want your kitchen sink to stop leaking. You want the past year to never have happened. For your marriage to not have so irrevocably unraveled that the husband youâd so desperately fought to keep had left you out in the cold, divorced, very nearly penniless in a new apartment that you couldnât make feel like home no matter how many fall scented candles and throw pillows you stuffed into every nook and cranny. You want to not have to make decisions like these and take care of things like this. You want very, very badly for someone else to come and take care of you, help you, make the choices that seem very hard in the moment but that, in the grand scheme of things, arenât really so difficult, but that still sometimes call for a second opinion, wiser, more experienced hands.Â
And in that next blink, in a soft, deep voice that should not be as easily recognizable in your mind as it is given the handful of times youâve actually heard it, your name, being murmured from behind you. The lilt of a question, the gruff of shock coating the syllables as it pushes against your bare nape. Soft as a sledgehammer, like ice water down your naked back, your shoulders hitch up to your ears, going tense and frightened, a hot flush of shame spilling through you, the keenest desire to run away from that soft voice as fast as your stupidly October flip flopped feetâll take you. You hiccup the half sound of his name, not turning around, lashes fluttering quickly to prevent the dry heat of your eyes from spilling over, nerveless fingers going listless around the plastic nut. You donât want to turn around. This is a cursed place, this hardware store, and you should never have come, and you really do hate it here. Deep breath, deep breath. Be polite, be succinct. You donât need to talk to him. You donât need to think about the past. Fuck the sink, fuck the pipes. Youâll just move apartments. You let a long stream of air out of your mouth, and then turn on the ball of your foot to face him.Â
âMr. Miller,â you breathe with a limp smile you know isnât going to fool anyone.Â
He frowns, the line of his mouth wavering as he tries to contain his displeasure. âWe really back to that?â You shake your head, looking away from him as the last shopper in the aisle youâre inhabiting walks away, leaving the two of you alone. The store suddenly seems to exist in a vacuum echo, all other patrons seeming to disappear, all sound going out. You even feel the imitation of a hollow pop in your ear drums. When you look back at him, heâs really scowling now. His strong brow pulled down over those too pretty, thickly lashed hazel eyes that you know so well on another man, a younger version of him.Â
It was the first thing youâd noticed about him, the first time Sam had introduced you to his father, they have the same eyes. The same but different. There was a coldness to Samâs gaze that you hadnât recognized until it was too late for you, but you recognized it now, with a painful sort of awareness, recognized the lack thereof in his fatherâs eyes, how different they were even in their similarity.Â
He raises his brows at you, a pressing gesture, âJoel.â His name feels like salt on an open sore in your mouth. âWhat are you doing here?â And he looks at you, just a little bit, like youâre an idiot, or maybe thatâs only you, for his voice is gentle when he says, âPickinâ up supplies with some of the boys on my crew. Whatâre you doinâ here, sweetheart? Sam with you?â Your heart beats like that of a small and hunted creature, pounding painfully against the confines of your ribs while a hot, humiliated flush washes through your entire body, heat suffusing your face so intensely thereâs probably steam rising off the surface of your skin. You shake your head quickly, a barely there jerk. Youâre suddenly trembling so hard your throat aches as if itâs been pierced by a lancet straight through. Another sharp jerk, and he steps forward a concerned look marring his face.Â
âYou havenât spoken to him.â It isnât a question.Â
âHeâs been feildinâ my calls for months. Assumed Iâd done somethingâ something else, last time to piss him off again. Whatâs wrong? Everything okay?â He pauses, head tilting, and you canât look him in the face as you say it, gaze falling to your fingers twisted around the nut.Â
âWeâre not together anymore. Heâ he left me. We got divorced six months ago.â
Shocked into silence he takes another step towards you, the toe of his heavy boot coming into your eye line. The ends are thick and rounded, and you wonder if thereâs a casing of steel within, how much a kick in the ribs would hurt delivered by a boot like that, and the violent thought startles you, your eyes going wide, shooting up to his face as if worried he could read your thoughts. Ashamed that something like that in reference to him would even cross your mind, for looking at him, the gentleness in his gaze, the utter concern, a man like this would never hurt a creature softer than him, you know that.Â
Itâs funny, or strange, or a phenomena not easily understandable or explainable unless youâd had a certain type of experience with a certain type of man, but there was a sort of sixth sense instilled in a person whoâd dealt with cruel men that made it easy to recognize when one had the capacity to hurt you and when he didnât. There were, of course, those who were good at masking it, but there was always something, a way they held themselves or moved around others, the cadence of their voices, clues that spoke of the sort of man he was. And from the first moment youâd met him, youâd thought Joel had something that spoke only of gentleness. Despite his size and seemingly rough aspect, there was something about his voice, and the way he carried himself, the way he moved around those who were smaller or weaker or less, less alive, less potent than him, that was always careful and always aware.Â
âWhat?â He moves as if heâs going to reach for you, and you flinch back, the curve of your spine bumping into the framing of the shelves behind you, face turning away quickly. He goes tense, forcing himself into stillness, the white of his teeth flashing in a grimace, but he puts his palms up in a staying gesture, itâs alright, easy, he murmurs, I wonât touch you, hands lowering to fist in the pockets of his jeans into tight balls of false restraint. As if heâs afraid of what they might do of their own volition otherwise. âWhat do you mean he left you? What happened? Heââ
âI donât want to discuss this with you. Call him again orâ or I donât know. Itâs not my business anymore. He was never happy with me,â you stupidly add, finally braving a look back at his eyes again, a bitter laugh scratching up your throat, âYou know this. Call your son, Joel.â
You move to leave, to get away from him, but he shifts, blocking your escape, sending your heart up into your throat. âHoney, waitââ but youâre spinning on your heel the other way, stumbling in your flip flops, and you think he says something about the wrong way, but youâre rushing, blindly trying to get away from him down the aisle as fast as you can. Youâre going to cry, you can feel it, any second now. You werenât expecting to see him, the reminder of everything that had happened, your marriage and its failure and the part Joel had played in it. A painful and jarring shock to your nervous system that youâd not been prepared to receive. You blindly scramble through the aisles of the hardware store, losing yourself to the gloom of the dimly lit back rows where plywood and carpeting are stocked, that detested dusty hollow smell intensifying. You take another blind turn, another, until the sounds of the store have gone faint and then a frightening pressurized silence. Bracing your palms against one of the eye level shelves you let your head fall between your shoulders, your bag sliding down your arm to hang and sway at the bend of your elbow. You watch the slow back and forth pendulous movement, eyes wide and blurred. If you donât blink, you wonât cry, and youâre so fucking tired of crying over this.Â
âIf you were trynâa get away from me, exit was in the opposite direction,â comes his voice again. Your eyes flutter shut, a single tear drips from the line of your lashes onto the dusty concrete floor.Â
âPlease, go away,â you croak.
âTell me what happened.â
âWhat do you think happened? Donât ask stupid questions.â
âHeâ heâs a fuckinâ idiot, sweetheartââ
Your stomach lurches, âDonât call me that.â
But he doesnât listen, continues on unheeded. âThereâs gotta be something we can do. Iâllâ Iâll talk to him. Iâll make him see thatââ You let your head fall back the opposite way now, looking up at the high, cavernous ceiling of the store, another bitter laugh. Itâs the only kind left to you now.Â
âI donât want him back, Joel. Be serious.â
âHe needs youââ And oh, that makes you angry.Â
âFuck you.â You spin around to spit the words at him, rushing forward to shove at his rock solid chest. He doesnât budge even half an inch. You shove again, again, a humiliating sob making its way up your chest. You blink then, you canât help it, the tears fall unrestrained. Itâs a specific type of humiliating, facing the estranged father of the man who youâd been married to, whoâd been unable to love you, whoâd abandoned you.Â
Sam and Joel had been unaware of each otherâs existence for almost twenty eight years, but two years ago, Samâs mother had finally told him about his father, his name, where he lived, how theyâd gotten together when they were too young, and how sheâd split, scared and vulnerable, without telling him a thing. The two of youâd gone looking for the man, and youâd both been varying degrees of shocked at what youâd found. Sam, faced with a man so unlike himself heâd immediately resented him more than he already had for the fact of his absence his entire life. You, as well, faced with a man so unlike your husband that it had made you resent your marriage even more. Immediately welcoming, loving, patient, gracious and generous and forgiving of the fact that a son had been kept from him for almost three decades. Despite the severity of his character, his serious reservedness, heâd done everything in his power to open himself to this long lost son. Not once had the news been met with cruel anger or outrage. Joel had accepted his son immediately and without question, listening to his motherâs reasoning, accepting the fact that a mistake had been made, forgiving, willing to move on and embrace Sam in all the ways heâd been denied for so long. Sam hadnât been able to fathom it. Heâd been mistrustful, hostile, angry, all the things he always was but compounded and heightened to a terrible degree he eventually started taking out on you.Â
And it was funny because the fraught, or lack thereof, relationships with your fathers had been the thing that had initially bonded the two of you. Too young and alone and without direction, youâd met him in your last year of college. The relationship had immediately developed without boundaries or reason, youâd been obsessed, a little desperate, unquestioning, and then married a few short months later. Two too young, too lost people, burdened with daddy issues. A terribly sad cliche. Youâd never had a chance. You never should have been. And thereâs a part of you now, looking up at this man, your ex-husbandâs father, that wants to feel angry at him, that wants to spit in his face and say this is all your fault, everything that happened to me, everything that was done to me was in your name, and I blame you for all of it, but you know itâs without reason or countenance. And worst of all, anger, blame, resentment, itâs not anything near to the things you feel when you look at him. The memory of a small, dark restroom flashes in your mindâs eye, his eyes gleaming above your face, the thick slope of his shoulder, the patterned wallpaper behind him, sickening comfort.Â
You go still and frozen, fingers twisting in the front of his shirt, jerking with a painful shiver from the top of your head, down the length of your vertebrae, to the tips of your toes that cramp and spasm. Looking up at his face, you can feel a pulse throbbing in the muscle beneath your right eye, and the way he looks down at you, as if heâs never felt as sorry for any other creature in his entire life as he does for you in this moment, so embarrassing. You let your head fall forward again, landing with a soft thump against his chest, an uncontrollable tremble moving like fire through your frame. âFuck you,â you say again, whispered, soft and weak and without any sort of force behind it. âHow dare you say that to me,â another tear. âHeâs always needed you. It was never me he wanted, never me he needed. It was always you.â You watch as one hand withdraws from its pocket cage, lifting to push a soft tendril of hair back behind your ear. And thereâs fire left in the wake of the brush of his skin at the hollow there. Another shiver of a worse kind, one of desire, one of lust, moves through you.Â
âIâm sorry. I didnât mean it â Iâm sorry, honey.â Stupid southern charm and their stupid pet names. You clutch at his shirtfront more tightly, press your forehead harder into his sternum, and he brings his hand to your shoulder, tucking you into himself more securely. Heâs huge and warm and smells faintly of salt and sweat and laundry detergent. Something clean and fresh and masculine. He smells alive. His other hand comes up to the back of your head, moving through your hair. Fucking, Sam, he murmurs above you, and youâre sure heâs shaking his head in that disappointed fatherly way. âTell me what you were looking for. What had you lookinâ so confused and irritated in the plumbing aisle?â Youâd laugh if you could, a non bitter sort, but you donât have the ability anymore, and that makes you so angry. Angry and irrational.
âMy sinkâs leaking, and I canât afford a plumber because your son divorced me and left me with no money and no house and nothing for myself, and I hate this stupid place. I hate the way it smells, and I hate that nothingâs labeled clearly, and I hate the way you men,â you shove at his chest a little bit again, âlook at me like Iâm some dumb little girl who doesnât know left from right.â Even if thatâs what you kind of feel like, a dumb little girl who doesnât know left from right anymore. Slightly out of breath, you go limp and exhausted against him. His palm flattens at the center of your spine, supporting you, and itâs so fucking inappropriate. You should move away. You donât know him well enough for this, heâs your ex-father-in-law, you shouldn't let him touch you, but should and should not and right and wrong and inappropriate or not has never really mattered to you where Joel Miller is concerned. âThis is the worst place in the whole world,â you mumble, voice muffled from where your face is squished against the annoyingly hard and delicious muscles of his chest. You feel, keenly, like youâre being a little bit ridiculous, a little bit embarrassing, but his big hand is slowly moving up and down the length of your spine, soothing and comforting, and you canât bring yourself to care. Heâd been kind from the first second youâd met him, and then, at the worst moment, heâd been understanding, and youâd never really stood a chance against him either.Â
Youâd never had a chance with the son, youâd never stood a chance against the father, there had never really been much choice or possibility for you as a whole where either of them were concerned.
I was such a little person. Tiny in my insignificance, naivety, hope. Desperate to be as good as I could be, and pathetic in my failure to make myself into what I thought the world wanted of me.Â
âYou canât affordââ He breathes out roughly through his nose, stopping himself from continuing. âDo yâknow what it is youâre looking for? What part?â And you nod your head, still buried against him, unable or unwilling to pull away. âLet me help you,â and he says it so, so gently that it makes you want to stomp your foot and cry and throw a fit at the unfairness of it all.Â
âDonât want your help,â you canât help the muffled whine it comes out as. All you want is for someone to help you.Â
âOf course you donât, sweetheart,â he soothes. âBut let me anyway. Sâthe least I can do for talkinâ out of my ass.â You finally pull back, looking up at him, and he brings his thumb up to catch the wetness at the fine skin beneath your eye. âPlease, donât cry,â he whispers like it hurts him.Â
And even though heâs currently catching the salt of your eyes with his fingers, you lie obstinately, âIâm not,â whispered back just as quiet.Â
After he helps you find the correct piece for your sink, finally, which ends up being neither of the options youâd been previously weighing, a fact that almost sends you over the deep end again, and paying for it at his aggravating and overbearing insistence, he walks you to your car.Â
âIs he still in Austin?â He asks as he holds your door open for you, your shopping bag still clutched in his hand. One of the guys on his crew had come to find him while you were checking out, but heâd sent him away with a shake of his head, said he had something to take care of.Â
âI donât know, but he sold our house.â
âFuckâ Whereâre you living?â The sound of his spit curse has a wet flutter moving through you, shame following bitterly in its wake.Â
âI got an apartment in the East Side.â
âAnd he just left you to fend for yourself? Took your fucking house?â Heâs getting angry, and you donât think youâve ever seen him get angry. Something foreign like excitement jumps within you.Â
âWell, thatâs the point of divorce, Joel. You separate and are left to your own devices.â You reach for the little plastic bag, but he jerks it out of your reach.Â
âHe has a responsibility to you. Heââ
âAgain⊠the point of divorce.â
âJesus fuckinâ Christ, that boy,â he mutters, shaking his head. And thatâs the thing of it, you think, thatâs always been the crux of the issue. Sam was always a boy, has always been just a boy⊠there had never been any chance. âLet me come help you with the sink. Let me fix it for you.â Something to take care of, thatâs what heâd said, thatâs what heâd called you, what he sees you as.Â
Youâre shaking your head before he can even finish getting the words out, full of regret, and a wish that it could have all been different from the very start. âYou know that isnât a good idea,â and he goes silent because he does, he does know, heâd known since the first time probably. It had been obvious in the way that a secret thing can only be between the two people involved in the unsaid. âI can do it myself. Donât worry. Iâll find a way.â
âYou still got the same number?â He asks.
âPlease, donât call me. Call Sam. Heâs the one that needs you. Heâs the one thatââ
âAnd whoâs taking care of you? Whoâs gonna take care of you, sweetheart? You need someone too, we all do.â
A flash of that earlier anger again, and you reach forward to rip the bag out of his clutch now, angry because heâs right. Because heâd always seemed to have a grossly misplaced ability to read you exactly as you are. Heâd read you for what you were from the first second heâd laid eyes on you, naive and hopeful and falsely in love with a son whoâd never loved either of you in return. âMaybe,â you tell him, âBut that canât be you.â He looks away from you, gruff sound of irritation passing through his clenched teeth, and he drags a heavy palm down his bearded mouth. Fuck, again that provoking spit curse. The wallpaper in that dark restroom had been covered in little blue motifs, butter yellow details sparsed throughout. It had surprised you, the pretty and delicate design in the home of a, for all intents and purposes, bachelor. It spoke of intention and attention to detail, to his space, to care of his home. That dim moment was, strangely, sickly, the brightest memory of the entire two years of your marriage.Â
âYou still got my number?â He presses anyways. Unheeded or uncaring of you trying to push him away, and thereâs something about that, thatâs pleasurable, his inability to let a thing go where youâre concerned, his unwillingness to allow you to hold him at arms length. Like he doesnt care to be kept away from you, and so he wonât. You nod your head once, face burning, molars grinding to keep yourself still and in place. Youâd felt, for two years, trapped, running in place, and now left limp and exhausted and colorless, and you hope that he canât read that exhaustion in you. For some reason, that would be more embarrassing than everything else, for him to see just how defeated youâd been left. He gives you one of those looks, those direct, piercing, aggravating looks that youâve seen from him before, aggravating in a way that is inciting, like a relentless tongue against a slick swollen cunt, God. Your hands are shaking, and he bends his head down to your level to look at your directly, âYou promise me that if you need anything, anything at all, doesnât matter what it is â that youâll call me. No matter the hour, no matter what it is. Promise me.â Another sharp jerk of your chin, if you talk youâll scream or make a sound not wholly belonging to the body of a girl, woman, whatever you are. Another nod, the mute shape of an okay passing through your lips. And his face is so concerned, his hand almost lifted in the imitation of what you have to tell yourself, as a form of self preservation, is an ill intentioned caress or hug, but that you know heâd mean as nothing more than genuine comfort. You deflate in relief when he doesnât touch you, right here, out in the open for the whole world to bear witness to. Things like that, after all, are only meant for dark, wallpapered bathrooms. Heâd already taught you this.Â
-
The relationship had not been what either of them had expected, Sam and Joel, from the get go. There was a smallness to his son, a pettiness and a cruelty and a spoiled rotten vein through the core of him that was incongruous with who Joel was as a man, something that was glaringly obvious to all involved. And try as he might, in those early days, they could not overcome the disparity in their personalities. The attempts from Joel at closeness had been fraught with tension and unsaid resentments, and eventually Sam had given up, stopped answering his fatherâs calls, evading his attempts to connect. Your marriage had spiraled into dissolution shortly after that. As if the failure to find whatever it was heâd for so long hoped for in a relationship with his father had highlighted all of the things you yourself lacked, all the ways in which you were so specifically dissatisfying to him and always would be.Â
The marriage had not ended up being what either of you had hoped for, the honeymoon phase quashed and dead early on, no brightly lit halcyon. Reality had set in quickly when confronted with the disjointedness of your pairing, a bone out of place, your specific inability to please him in the ways heâd thought you would when heâd first met you. There was something about you that had always been a little bit lacking, something ascetic and cold natured about your personality at times. Since you were a child, trying to appease an unappeasable father, to emulate a singular mother. Always impossible, always falling just short of utter failure. Not so terrible that you were outwardly obvious in your mediocrity, but never everything you could be. Painfully, succinctly average. Sam had come to realize this quickly. Perhaps, unaware prior to tying himself to you because the only thing youâd ever been not average at, was being a little bit of a liar, of being placatingly complacent when the moment necessitated, manipulative in a way that you found protecting. But you see, thatâs what happened when you had a cruel father who always needed appeasing, something Sam, in his abject fatherlessness, couldn't understand. Funny, youâd said that to him once, near the end, called him abjectly fatherless, his weakness a consequence of his lack of a paternal role model, and oh, how heâd hated that. Endings could bring out such cruelty in people, youâd found.Â
But the manipulation of a moment had become, in some ways, your only talent. The art of superficial gratification at a moment's notice as a way to keep the people around you falsely happy and calm. Like all small and frightened creatures, youâd learned your strengths well, but as all truths do, yours had eventually surfaced. The fact that you werenât really so appeasing in the ways he desired, not so nice, not so perfect, not so subservient. That the persona was all just a way to keep him happy as a means of getting someone to love you, to stay because you didnât know how else to be.Â
Your mother always said you couldâve been nicer to him. She was a kind, soft, patient thing. Quiet and easy and always, always, above everything else, understanding. It was the worst thing about her. A detriment, a weakness, and she resented you for your resentment, for seeing her as such, but you could never help it. Always asking you why you couldnât just be a nice girl, a good girl.Â
You didnât think you had not been nice, not been good. You had only been yourself.
Your father had always hated that about you, you being yourself. The man youâd chosen to marry didnât seem to like it very much either. And sheâd tried to instill her better qualities in you, your mother, so you werenât all bad all the time. There could be a brightness and a lightness and a sweetness to you sometimes, itâs true. You werenât always all bad. But there was â is still â also a bitterness and a resentment and an anger, a screaming that you could not quell no matter how hard you tried. And so youâd attepted to give him everything you could, your husband, everything you had at your disposal in all ways, to do and be all he could have ever asked of you during those two small years of marriage. Because truly, they had felt so very small, made you even smaller.Â
Everything except for sex. Youâd never been able to give him that the way heâd wanted.Â
At first, it had been normal, sweet, soft missionary in the darkness, tepid insinuations of orgasms, always hushed, always exactly how he wanted it. But eventually, when the other parts of you began to fail, he got mean and callous and casually cruel. And as you pulled away physically, he called you frigid, a prude, boring, cold, bad in bed, didn't know how to make a man hard. And it had made you so agonizingly insecure, already a sensitive and anxious thing when it came to your physical form, heâd beaten you down, embarrassed you, belittled you.
With time, youâd realized the truth of it which had been nothing more than that youâd never really wanted him. He had never made you desperate, he had never made you wet. It was his character, his attitude, yes, but it was also him. He just wasnât it for you, and it wasnt that you were a prude or frigid at all, only that you needed patience and understanding and care, gentleness. Things he possessed none of.Â
You just needed a little time to warm up and someone who wanted to give you that time.Â
The reality that your life had not been full of varied and foolish adventures, and that time had seemed to simply slip away like an echo in the brain from one moment to the next was duly painful. A handful of months of wan and false lust, two years of cold, bitter marriage, and now, six months of barren aloneness. Too many mistakes had been made, too many regrets, three big ones that could be held like stones scorched to burn by the sun in the palm of your hand so that even if you let them go eventually, their imprint would still be scarred into your flesh afterwards forever.
So, perhaps the divorce had been painful in the moment. Or not perhaps, there was nothing uncertain about it, youâd fought tooth and nail to make it work, to keep him with you. Prostrated and humiliated and debased yourself. But with time, it became obvious that it was a fantasy you decided you should finally cast aside, as all children do childish things at a certain age. And then, it had been the easiest thing in the world. After all, and letâs be honest now for a moment, the reckoning had come in the shape of his father. That is, at the end of it, the reason youâre really here.Â
Sat now, before the open cabinet below your kitchen sink, leaky pipe drip, drip, dripping monotonously in front of your glazed over eyes, you think of him. Heâs a large man, intimidating and dark and stoic. Taller and broader than his son. Lush, mahogany curls streaked with silver that speak of age and experience like the smile lines around his eyes. Deeply grooved when he laughs that beautiful laugh of his. He looks exactly like the opposite of whatever his son is, like heâd have the ability to make the opposite of you, to pull out of you whatever the antithesis is of what his son was able to. It had been immediate, the nature of your thoughts towards him. The desire, the desire, the desire, you had wanted like youâd never wanted before â like an illness, like dying.Â
Your marriage had been circling the drain, and then youâd met him, and it should have been innocuous. Heâd been kind and polite and welcoming, but also, aloof. Holding himself at a distance, something afraid that he carried within himself, like he didn't want to hope, like he was just a little bit scared of what it meant now to have a son, something to lose. You knew a little bit about that, the worst part of it all is never the cruelty, itâs the hopelessness. Everything had become so much worse after meeting him. An unbearable sort of awareness of something that your listless, frigid self recognized as man, man, man, something like hunger. Something slanted about the desire, wrong, sure, for he was your husband's father, and yet, you wanted him. You wanted to know what he smelled and tasted like, and what the weight of his cock on your tongue would feel like. If it was bigger than his sons, you were almost positive of that, if it would stretch the corners of your mouth to near splitting, the hinges of your jaw to aching.Â
Youâd met your husband's father, and had realized, painfully, with uncompromising clarity, all that your husband could be, all that he was not, all that he would never be. There was no comparison between the boy and the man, and it made you hurt.Â
Your eyes flit back to the screen of your open laptop and the instructional video there, popping another fuzzy peach gummy onto the flat of your tongue, mouth full of sucking sugar. Youâre going to fix this sink if itâs the last thing you do, and youâre not going to think about him again. But tomorrow, youâll start not thinking about him tomorrow. The talent of a liar never really wanes.
The apartment is quiet, nothing but the cheerful crackling of your sweet pumpkin candle and the mocking splish splash of the drain pipe. You had, in recent weeks, come to think of your abandonment as something of an accomplishment. Perhaps, your loneliness is a good thing, youâll tell yourself as a comfort, a sort of friend; you canât be used against yourself again in this solitude, and oh, how youâd been used. That anemia in your character, the ascetic thread of your personality had been weaponized and wielded against you until you couldnât tell up from down and left from right. You were certain thereâd been cheating, even if youâd never had any proof to confirm it, merely grateful youâd never gotten sick as way of evidence. But you knew. And it could've been so much worse for you, of course, of course it could have. But heâd left your mind so off kilter, broken and confused and not yourself. Utterly damaged in a way that was humiliating and devastating when you thought of the way youâd been, such a little person. So often, not a woman, just a little girl.Â
And then his father. Joel. Seeing him today â you had never felt the way you should have felt towards him. Like your eyes were open, awake for the first time in your entire life. A man like that â he was changing. And you wanted, needed very much to be changed. Seeing him today, being presented with that reminder of what he was, how he made you feel, how heâd always made you feel. Thereâs something ghoulish about you concerning him â about this desire. That ascetic or anemic or under-grown, illformed thing about you, exterminated in the thrum of how alive he is. How unlike his son. Youâd never known what it specifically was, never been able to categorize it, and then there had been that moment, brought so low, six feet beneath the ground sort of debased, and heâd been there and you had been â unburdened from the weight of his own son, by him, and youâre not even sure he knew the extent of it. The power heâd wielded over you in that moment in the dark. And you canât say it out loud, what it is youâd want from him, you canât even say out loud what it is about him that changes you as it does â not a woman, just a little girl â but you think that if you could just see him, then youâd know, or maybe you could be brave. You donât know what it is, but youâd know it then, with him in front of you, youâd have the answer to this question thatâs plagued you for so long â how to be yourself in a way that is good.
Youâre pushing yourself to your feet, fueled by the thought, fingers gripped over the ledge of the counter to pull yourself up, sink forgotten, stumbling to your front door, shoving your feet into your shoes and fumbling for your keys. How to be yourself in a way that is good.Â
When you were seventeen, your father had been at his angriest. Angry in that way that all angry fatherâs are. Loud and brutish â an anger that is cowing, a sign of true weakness. Brute force in the shape of the man who gave you life. When you think of it now, even as a grown woman, you still feel that phantom limb of fear, and you know that it isnât normal for a grown woman to be afraid of her father, and yet you are. And then to think that youâd gone from your parents home directly to the bed of the same sort of man, one even crueler, if possible. Youâre forced to laugh your singular terrible, self deprecating laugh at the irony of it â even worse, if possible. For whatâs worse than a person who constantly needs to be soothed into kindness and patience and calm?Â
Once, in that terrible seventeenth year, funny and strange and unknowingly perfect, youâd been gifted the Farmerâs Almanac by your elderly neighbor. Sheâd said that sheâd read it since she was a girl, liked the peace in knowing that the year had been predicted by experts and put down on paper. It made life seem more secure, more in control in a small way. Youâd needed that during that turbulent time, locked in your teenage bedroom, lulled to sleep by the sound of your fatherâs anger and the yearâs long-range weather predictions before your blurry eyes. It was so comforting to be able to read the future in text, catastrophe or sunshine, at least it was there. You still read it to this day. And thereâs no congruity to the thought now, as you crawl into your car, a ghoul in the night, banging your knee on the hastily opened car door, sprouting gooseflesh in the cold; this desire, desire, desire that is the worst thing youâve ever felt in your whole life, and yet, you canât bring yourself to stop because there is something about control in this moment also. Control like knowing what the future will be like on paper, control like a man who is entirely grown into himself, who knows who he is and who he is not and is not uncertain, who will not yell, who will not hurt you. He has this â your husbandâs father â you know he does. There is something about control, there is something about knowing how a thing will be, there is something about being yourself in a way that is good.Â
-
Youâd picked up the wrong wine on your way here. Rushing, trying to fix your makeup in the car, youâd gotten confused, chosen the one he didnât want instead of the one he did. And it was nothing, or an accident, surely nothing to incite his ire, but heâs so fucking angry hovering in front of you. He looks at you, now sometimes, like he hates you, like youâre the worst thing thatâs ever happened to him. He said youâd humiliated him in front of his father. That he was going to think he didnât have good taste, couldnât afford a decent bottle of wine. And you donât know Joel very well, but he doesnât seem like the type of man to care about such things. Calling you an idiot in that poisoned shrill tone he takes on when heâs delivering a set down, and youâre trying to tell him to please, please keep your voice down, Sam, your father is going to hear you. Youâd heard someone say once that a truly powerful man never feels the need to raise his voice, it simply isnât necessary for him, and youâre reminded, terribly, of your father, with the sight of your shrill and seething husband in front of you. And then a low toned thatâs enough, son from the mouth of the kitchen, and itâs so much worse, entirely catastrophic in a way, and youâre rushing away so humiliated, face on fire, tear caught over the trough of your lower lid, trying the doors in the hallway for the nearest restroom. You hear the murmur of voices, one struggling to maintain composure, the other, cool and steady, then the slam of the front door, and finally, the silent din of his house settling around the two of you as you find a restroom to hide in. Your heart beats so fast it makes you nauseous, knees strangely aching, listening to the heavy steps of Joelâs boots, as if heâs trying to warn you with those measured, weighted thuds that heâs coming, coming, coming for you. Turning to face the far corner of the restroom, you press your palm over your mouth, face slippery and burning and so stupid, the soft swoosh of the opening door, a paused breath as he takes in your form huddled into the wallpaper, and then the muted snick of the door closing behind him, shutting the two of you away together.
Part II
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John Price x Reader
Your husband, Captain John Price, insists on teaching you how to shoot at the range. But you soon realize that his instructions involve a lot more than just handling a gun.
[4k+ words]
cw: piv sex, spanking, light dom/sub
âRemember what I just told you,â John said, and your grip around the cool material of the gun you held grew tighter. It was a foreign object in your hands, and even though youâd just received detailed instructions on how to hold and handle it, it didnât feel right. Youâd hesitantly taken it from his hands, and felt something unexpected, as if accepting a dangerous secret from him. It felt intimate, like a shared moment of vulnerability. He entrusted you with this part of himself, this dangerous expertise, never doubting for a second that you would accept it.
Then there you were, in the middle of a shooting range, and John was moving through the facility as comfortable as he was moving through your own living room. Youâd been to the base a few times, of course, meeting teammates and other partners, but never with the intention to hold a weapon.
Youâd told him, more than once, that you wanted no part in this side of his life. That ignorance was your safe haven, your way of pretending that the man you loved could leave the battlefield behind. But deep down, you knew it was a lie. John Price, for all his tenderness, for all the quiet moments of domesticity youâd built a life around, was a soldier to his very core. He breathed and lived it as long as his heart pumped blood through his veins.
It was in the way he moved, precise and controlled, and it was in the way he touched you â possessive, protective, as if you were the most precious weapon in his arsenal.
He insisted it was for your own safety. âYou need to be able to protect yourself, love,â heâd said. But you saw right through it. This wasn't about you. It was about him. About the nightmares that lingered in his eyes, the enemies he'd made in a life you couldn't begin to comprehend. This was his way of ensuring that no matter what happened, no matter how far apart duty tore you, he could rest easy knowing you had a fighting chance. It bordered on paranoid, the lengths heâd go to protect you â the home security systems, the calls to his former teammates, the subtle checks whenever you were out alone. But beneath all that, you saw the love, and you wouldnât deny him this. Youâd never shied away from his darkness, the stories heâd told that both terrified and fascinated you.
It was all part of the complex man that was John Price: both a trained, lethal weapon and a caring, loving husband.
Gentle but ruthless. Controlled, but capable of destruction. Dangerous in ways you probably never could even begin to understand, but you felt safer with him than you ever had alone.
He was a walking oxymoron.
âIâve never even held a gun before, John.â You admitted, your words echoing through the vastness of the range, uncertain how to explain the weird mix of emotions you were feeling.
âI know,â he said, his lips curving into that half-smile. âAnd I can see you hesitating, and thatâs the correct first step, love. Respect is most important.â
Heâd guided you to a secluded booth, the table stocked with more ammunition than youâd ever expected to see outside a warzone. Heâd shown you how to hold the pistol, how to check the chamber, reload the magazine and how to disable security. Heâd shown you the stance, the subtle shift of weight so that the recoil wouldnât punch you in the gut, and told you that itâs best to use both hands to aim, to steady yourself.
âFinger off the trigger, sweetheart,â he suddenly instructed, his tone serious. You hadnât even realized youâd moved it, your finger was hovering over the trigger with reckless curiosity, and you couldn't quite explain why. "Only put it on there if you really mean to take a shot.â
He put his hands above yours on the grip of the pistol, then chuckled lightly. âLoosen up a little. Donât make that a habit.â He then grabbed your elbow and lifted it up a little, so gentle, it was a weird contradiction to how controlled he moved around the shooting range like he was never meant to be anywhere else.
He stepped back, giving you just enough space to breathe, to remember you werenât his soldier to command. But he could tell you still werenât sure about your stance.
âWant me to show you?â He gestured to the target at the end of the range â a silhouette that seemed eerily human-shaped in the dim light.
You nodded, surrendering the weapon and retreating to a safe distance as John stepped forward, his movements fluid, almost graceful, belying the lethality he embodied.
He pushed the safety lever off with a sharp click. You could almost feel the energy in the air shift. You saw his hand gripping the weapon as it became more serious and alive, like not just a tool, but an extension of him.
John raised the gun. You were captivated, your gaze tracing the line of his arm, the flex of his bicep beneath the fabric of his shirt. It shouldnât have been so mesmerizing, watching him handle a weapon clearly meant to kill, and yet, you couldn't tear your eyes away.
His stance was relaxed, almost casual. He didn't even flinch as he pulled the trigger.
The gunshot echoed in the silence, sharp and startling. You flinched involuntarily at the sound. It wasnât that you werenât expecting it â but there was something different, something almost intimate, about watching him handle a weapon with such lethal grace, such unflinching control.
There was no time to feel anything but awe as John lowered the weapon, his eyes fixed on you. The air was thick, and you couldnât tear your eyes away from him.
âNow you,â he said as he clicked the safety back on and stepped aside. He didnât need to say anything more. You were ready, he had made sure of that, and he was waiting to see if you would rise to the challenge.
âDownrange, safety off,â you muttered to yourself, remembering his words. Your finger found the safety, disengaging it with a soft click that felt overly loud in the quiet space. You tried to replicate the stance. Feet shoulder-width apart, a slight bend in your knees that made your thighs ache. Taking a deep breath, you raised the pistol, lined the sights up on the target at the far end of the range, ignoring the tremor in your arms, and squeezed the trigger.
The shot caught you completely off guard. The recoil was sharper, more violent than you'd expected. It jolted your entire body, throwing you off balance. You stumbled back, a startled yelp escaping your throat before you could help yourself, the heavy weight of the gun almost slipping from your grasp.
You missed the target entirely.
âEasy, love, easy,â John's voice, calm and steady, was right beside your ear. You hadnât even registered his approach, your senses still reeling from the gunshot, the adrenaline that spiked through you sharp and bitter on your tongue.
You hadn't realized you'd stopped breathing until his hand settled on your waist, his touch firm yet reassuring through the fabric of your shirt, steadying you. Your body leaned into his warmth, seeking comfort, and found it in the solid presence that had always been your haven in the storm.
âDon't fight it,â he murmured. âItâs not about forcing the shot. You need to work with it. Let it flow.â
âEasy for you to say,â you muttered, but you didnât try to pull away. His closeness was more reassuring than you wanted to admit, the solid weight of him a stark contrast to the unexpected power of the gun. Youâd felt this way before, countless times: small beside his strength, intimidated but inexplicably drawn to the same danger that made you feel so vulnerable.
âAgain,â he commanded softly, ignoring your remark, as his hand tightened momentarily on your hip. You couldnât disobey, even if youâd wanted to. His other hand covered yours on the gun.
You tried to recall the stance heâd demonstrated, to feel more confident, but it felt awkward. Your body was tense, and you cursed the way your heart hammered against your ribs.
âYou have to relax, darling,â John murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear, his breath sending a shiver down your spine.
He leaned closer, his chest a wall of heat at your back as his hand moved from your hip to settle on the small of your back. âDon't let that little gun take all the control,â he whispered, his fingers splaying against your spine as he adjusted your posture, holding you steady. âIt's not about brute strength. Lean into it, find the balance.â
His heat seeped into you, chasing away the chill of the shooting range and replacing it with a heat that centred between your legs, a yearning you hadn't anticipated. His touch was doing things to your senses, sending a jolt of something hot and reckless straight through you.
You could feel his fingers, calloused and rough, brushing against yours as he made you hold the gun right.
âSee, like that â now, the grip ââ You could hear the amusement in his voice, the way he seemed to savour your discomfort. He wasnât going to make this easy for you, and something in you â something wild and hungry â revelled in the challenge. His fingers traced a searing path down your arm, his touch lingering for a heartbeat on your wrist as he guided your hand.
âUse your wrist â just like that ââ You shivered as his breath ghosted across your ear. âThatâs it. Thatâs how you hold it. It's all about control.â He pressed closer, your bodies moulding together.
His hand covered yours on the gun again, overlapping it as you held the weapon together. This different kind of intimacy touch sent a spark down your spine, scorching away every last thought, as you tried to focus on the instructions. âNow pull the trigger.â
You did. And this time, you hit the target. The bullet tore through the paper silhouette, a testament to his guidance, his control.
It was impossible to ignore how close he was. His fingers grazed your back, sending a shiver through you, and then â oh, God â you felt it, the insistent pressure of his knee between your thighs, adjusting your stance, bracing you.
âFeet apart, love,â he murmured, his voice husky as his knee nudged you wider, his hand a steady pressure on the small of your back. You felt like a toy in his hands.
You fired again. This time, it was a little closer to the target, but still far away from the bullseye.
âThatâs better,â he murmured, but there was an edge to his amusement now, something heated. You tried to ignore the pressure of him against you.
âLook at that target, focus on the sights, love.â He shifted, his lips finding the delicate skin beneath your ear, and you sucked in a breath. He was doing this deliberately now, pushing your buttons, testing your limits, and the worst part was that he knew you were powerless to resist.Â
You fired again. Same corner.
âThatâs not good enough.â His lips hovered over your pulse. âHit the target and youâll be rewarded. Hmm? Howâs that sound?â
A familiar heat built in your belly. The knee that was still holding your stance steady felt way too prominent. This position did nothing to hide his arousal, either.
You focused on the sights, tried lining it up with the middle of the target. The shockwave was not completely absorbed by Johnâs strength as he held you, and you were shoved back against his chest. You hit the target's neck.
âGood girl,â he said. âYouâre a fast learner.â
Every time heâd utter that phrase, every time he brushed his fingers against your hand as he guided you, it was like a surge of heat coursing through your veins. You were flustered, struggling to keeop your focus.
âStop it,â you pleaded. âYouâre distracting me.â
You aimed again, after heâd adjusted your stance, his breath ghosting over your neck as he leaned close to make a correction. âYes, just like that.â
That was your undoing, each word he said was laced with a playful, knowing intent. His hands guided you, but it wasnât about the gun, or the lessons, it was all about the feel of him close to you.
You fumbled, almost dropping the gun.
âWhatâs wrong?â He laughed.
Your cheeks burned. âI âI canât concentrate.â
You were so lost in showing him that you could do this, you didnât realize what he started to do. Lips on your neck, and his hand suddenly slowly snaked below the waistband of your gym shorts.
You froze. âJohn! Isnât this place covered in cameras?â
âMade sure theyâre out of order tonight.â He leans in a little closer as if to whisper it in your ear, his breath warmer than the summer air. âIt would take so much paperwork to have you here otherwise. Besides, my wife deserves a private lesson from her husband.â
You shuddered at the words, at the implied claim in them. You aimed again, but missed.
A sharp sting on your backside made you gasp, a sound that morphed into a startled moan as you registered what had just happened. He'd spanked you. It shouldn't have been arousing, not here, not now, yet a thrill shot through you as much at the audacity of it as the sensation itself.
âDo I have to punish you for missing shots?â He sounded so deceptively soft, sending a shiver down to the place where his knee still pressed insistent between your thighs. He was fully aroused, you realized, a thrill shooting through you at the knowledge, the feeling of it a branding iron against your overheated skin.Â
âWasting ammo like that?â He punctuated the question with another swat, harder this time, his hand lingering on your ass, his fingers flexing as though torn between wanting to punish you further and pulling you impossibly closer.
It was impossible to think straight, let alone concentrate on lining up the damn shot.
âJ-John,â you stammered, hating the way your voice sounded â breathless, needy â even as you pressed back against him, seeking out the heat that radiated off him in waves, making your head spin. You were caught in a delicious, dangerous game, and the only way to win was to surrender completely.
But you werenât quite there yet. You needed to hit this damn shot. Pride warred with something hotter, wilder, as you struggled to ignore the insistent pressure of his erection against your backside.
Just as you thought you could regain some semblance of focus, his other hand, the one that had rested so innocently below the waistband of your shorts, began to descend further. It was a slow, deliberate movement, and then you felt it â a finger, rough-tipped and insistent, slipping between your folds.
Pleasure shot through you like a bullet, so unexpected and potent that your entire body went rigid. You bit back a moan, the sound dying in your throat as you clenched around his intruding digit, the ache that bloomed low in your belly a thousand times more distracting than any recoil.Â
âAgain,â he commanded, his voice low and hot against your ear, as if nothing out of the ordinary were happening, as if his fingers werenât actively attacking your most sensitive flesh, driving you to the edge of madness. He held all the cards in this game he'd initiated. And you were a willing participant, your body already betraying you, arching unconsciously against his touch, seeking out the friction he so expertly offered even as you tried to focus on the task at hand.
You lined up the sights again, his scent filling your senses, so distracting and so dangerously addictive that it had you clinging to him, desperate for something you couldn't quite name. The barrel wavered as a tremor ran through you, and you swore you heard his breath hitch as your hips moved against him.
âClose,â John breathed, and you felt as his fingers snaked further along your folds. You gasped as a finger slowly pushed into you. âGood girl.â His other hand had a tight grip on your hip, his fingers digging into the flesh as though heâd hold you there forever, trapped between pleasure and denial. âBut not there yet, love. Again.â
The shot, when it came, was pathetic. The recoil almost knocked the gun from your grasp. The bullet ricocheted off somewhere, you weren't even sure where it landed. It hardly mattered.Â
Another sharp swat of Johnâs hand against your ass. It shouldâve stung, but all you felt was the heat of him, the pressure of his body against yours. His other hand, the one driving you wild with each deliberate stroke, didn't stop even as you whimpered, your hips rocking back instinctively against his touch, seeking relief, release.
âConcentrate, love,â he growled.
But how could you? How could you possibly focus on anything but the insistent ache that throbbed between your legs?Â
âJohn, please,â you breathed, arching against his touch, shamelessly seeking more. âJust â just let me ââ The words dissolved into a whimper as his fingers found that sensitive bud of flesh and squeezed, not cruelly, not yet, but with enough force to make you gasp, your inner thighs clenching involuntarily.
âThen hit the bloody mark, love,â he commanded, his voice rough with an emotion you couldnât quite place, a tremor running through his words as though he were fighting for control just as hard as you were.
You squeezed your eyes shut against the wave of frustration â no, need â that pulsed low in your belly. The pressure of his erection against your backside was a constant torment, a promise of a release he seemed determined to deny you.
âAgain,â John barked, his control finally snapping as his hips twitched against you. His touch, the way he moved against you, fuelled a fire in your veins hotter than anything you'd ever experienced. It was intoxicating, terrifying, and utterly addictive.Â
You were a moth drawn to his flame, even knowing you were destined to be burned.
You squeezed your eyes shut as his touch sent another jolt through you. âPlease, just ââ
âHit. The. Mark.â He growled, teeth clenched, while moving his hips against you, seeking friction for his own arousal.Â
You wanted to scream, to sob, to demand he touch you properly, to take what you were aching for. But some primal instinct â some deep-seated need to please him â had you straightening, lifting the pistol with shaking hands.
You tried to concentrate, blocking out the burning heat of his hands, the feel of his erection hard and demanding against your backside, the way his every ragged breath whispered against your ear, fuelling the fire he'd ignited within you. Your mind was a fog of need, your senses overloaded, but the promise of release, that sweet reward only he held the power to give - it was a drug more potent than anything you'd ever imagined.
Lining up the pistol again, you forced your vision to clear, found the target through the haze of arousal, and squeezed the trigger.Â
The sound of the gunshot, the feel of the recoil, your own ragged gasp of surprise - it all blended into one overwhelming sensation as time slowed, distorted. And then strong hands were on you, urging you forward with a force that stole your breath, but you couldnât bring yourself to care, not when the need to be touched, to feel him everywhere, was an inferno consuming every other thought.
You hadnât even registered what had happened until you caught a glimpse of the target -
Headshot.
You'd hit the mark.
You barely had time to process your victory before the gun was taken from your hands and safely put away - then you were tumbling forward, the world tilting, the cool surface of the table a shock against your heated skin as John's weight pressed you down, his chest a solid wall at your back.
The clatter of the spare ammo as it scattered across the floor was the only warning you got before he moved. You gasped, the sound muffled against the cold metal, your senses reeling as he yanked your shorts and panties down in one swift, brutal motion, baring you to the cool air, to his gaze, which you could feel burning into you.
He didn't waste his breath on anything but a low growl as he shifted, the sudden sound of a belt buckle ringing in your ears. His weight was pressing you deeper into the table, his erection, hard and insistent, nudging at your entrance. And then, in one swift, possessive thrust, he filled you, the force of it stealing what was left of your sanity, chasing away everything but the all-consuming need to feel him move, to feel him claim you as his.
The world shrunk to the feel of him: him anchoring you to the table, the possessive grip of his hand on your hip, holding you still as he moved within you. His thrusts were deep, powerful, each one a delicious torment that had you arching into him, crying out his name against the cold metal of the table.
âThat's it, love,â he growled, his voice thick and primal, something that went far beyond the controlled man you thought you knew.Â
You suddenly felt his entire weight hovering above your back, slowing pressing your full body into the table. The angle changed, and his movements became more intense. You felt his teeth graze your earlobe, and then he murmured against your skin. âYouâre mine. All mine. Say it .â
âYours,â you gasped, the word a broken plea. The hand on your hip felt like a hot brand against your skin, as if it was marking you, claiming you in a way that went far beyond reason. âPlease, John ââ
âPlease what, darling?â He chuckled, a low, rough sound against your ear, but his hips never stuttered, never slowed their relentless rhythm. âTell me. What do you need?â
âYou ,â you sobbed, the need, raw and desperate, clawing its way out of you with every thrust.
As if he sensed you nearing the precipice, the edge of control heâd deliberately pushed you towards, John shifted. The pressure of his chest eased, but before you could mourn the loss of his warmth, his free hand shot out, fingers closing around the back of your neck, not cruelly, but with an unquestionable force that demanded obedience.
He lifted you from the table, and then his mouth was on yours. It wasnât a gentle kiss, not with your bodies angled as they were, but it was possessive, desperate. The scrape of his beard against your cheek was a delicious torment, and you couldn't help but press closer, seeking more, needing to be closer still.
âIâm yours, my love,â he rasped, his breath hot and uneven against your cheek. âYou have me.â
You met his gaze, those ice-blue eyes were smoldering with a need that mirrored your own, and something reckless, almost feral, took hold of you.Â
âThen fuck me like you own me,â you breathed.
The effect was instantaneous. He didn't just snap, he shattered. The control that was as much a part of him as his own skin, gone. Vaporized. The growl that ripped from his throat had no semblance of human restraint left in it, the sound raw, feral, echoing dangerously in the silence of the range. You might have been his wife, but at that moment, you were something far more elemental: his to claim, his to conquer, his to brand so deeply with pleasure and pain that you'd never forget who you belonged to.
And he moved like it too: a rough shove pressed you back against the table, his hands grabbed yours, pulling them back, restraining you.
Your whole body trembled as his cock thrust so deep, so utterly possessing, that you cried out.
âJohn!â â a plea, a prayer, you werenât sure.
âFuck, you feel so good.â The words were a gasped groan, torn from him as his hips moved against yours, stroking a spot deep inside you that throbbed with desperate need. You whimpered, and your hands clenched into fists against your back as pleasure shot through you.
You instinctively began to meet his thrusts, your hips rocking back against him, seeking out the friction that sent sparks of need through your overloaded senses. It earned you a growl of approval.
âFuck, fuck, fuck,â he chanted, the words a litany against your ear. He sounded like a man possessed.
âPlease, John,â you whimpered, grinding your hips against him, desperate for that friction, that release. But it wasn't enough. It would never be enough. You needed more, needed his hands, needed him. âTouch me, I ââ
You didnât need to finish the plea. He heard it. He felt it, the tremor in your voice, the way your slick heat tightened around him, urging him closer to the edge.
His fingers were tracing the curve of your waist, reaching around below your belly and slowly started to pry apart your folds. His fingers were on your clit again, and a sound that was both a cry and a sigh left your lips. You were drowning in sensation, and it was glorious.
âMmm, thatâs it, love,â he rasped, the words a broken groan as his fingers stroked, circled, teased. âCome on my cock. For me.â
You felt it then, with the help of his touch â that sweet, white-hot bliss that washed over you, causing your legs to tremble and your cunt to contract around his cock. He groaned, so deep and primal it shook you to your core. Your orgasm shattered every last bit of control in him, the feeling of you losing yourself pushed him over the edge, too. You felt that familiar throb in your pussy, the way he painted your walls with his come, hot and thick. His fingers dug so deep into your skin you were sure they'd leave marks.
And you wouldnât mind. You were his, after all.
He finally released you, his hands leaving yours. âNice shot, love. You just needed the right motivation.â He chuckled, and you felt as he pulled up your panties and put your pants back into their place. His hand ghost over your pussy through the fabric. âKeep me in there,â he whispered. âConsider it your reward.â
You slowly straightened your back as you stood, your gaze meeting his, and you shook your head in disbelief, a smirk playing on your lips. âIs that an order from a captain? Or a request from my husband?â
âBoth.â He grunted, as he finished buckling his belt.
You tilted your head slightly, stepping closer to him. âWell, then. If this is shooting training, we need to do that more often.â
He froze, his eyes shooting to meet yours. âDon't make me have to explain why so much footage from the security feed is missing.â His expression sobered, that playful glint fading as he added, voice low and serious, âBut seriously, love, you did good. We'll keep practising, alright?â
You nodded, and then he closed the distance between you. His hand cupped your cheek, his thumb gently brushing away some smudged lipstick at the corner of your mouth. âI'm proud of you, you know,â he whispered, and before you could reply, he leaned down, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was surprisingly tender. There was no demanding heat this time, no desperate urgency - just the taste of him, and the lingering warmth where his come pooled between your thighs, a silent, undeniable reminder of exactly who you belonged to.
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You both like the thrill of the chase, but he likes being caught more. You were fully willing to take advantage of this fact (and him).
MASTERLIST | KINKTOBER 23' | AO3
wcâ 5.3k
pairingâ mean!dom!gn!reader x bunny hybrid!sub!choso
cws/tagsâ dubcon, hybrid sex, predator/prey dynamic in an incredibly literal sense, flatmates to fuckers, biting, ear/tail pulling (I promise it makes sense), thigh riding, petnames (âbunnyâ & âpetâ), degradation, humiliation, overstimulation, dacryphilia, choso is a closet pervert, implied masturbation at the start, this is a bit of a crackfic
Knock-knock-knock.
"Hey, are you free right now?" the unfamiliar, deep voice of your flatmate said, the sound muffled by the door.
You startled, quickly snapping your laptop shut, and straightening out your clothes and tugging up your shorts. The abrupt sound of the door and his voice had disrupted the peaceful cocoon of your solitude. The scent of your room, previously filled with the aroma of a fragrant candle, now carried a faint whiff of embarrassment as you hurriedly composed yourself. You cleared your throat, the dry rasp echoing in the room, and the sudden shift from the soft hum of your laptop to silence was palpable.Â
"Gimme a sec!"
You sighed in frustration after having been in the middle of your, ah, private activities, acutely aware of the residual warmth on your skin and the lingering taste of a guilty indulgence on your lips. God, why now?
You walked over to your bedroom door, partially opening it.
You were greeted by the sight of Choso, your reserved flatmate. In all the time you had shared this apartment with him since you moved in, you had spoken to him maybe half a dozen times, at a push. Your knowledge of him extended to a slightly obscure and dark recollection of his appearanceâyou were pretty certain he had black hair and black eyes, for example. The scant details of his existence in your mind were like faint echoes, and you couldn't recall the last time you'd even heard his voice.
The atmosphere around him was enigmatic, much like the dimly lit corners of your apartment at night when he was most active. Your sense of familiarity with him was akin to touching something in the dark and trying to discern its shape by feel alone. You hadn't even exchanged more than a few words with him since moving in.Â
So, it begged the question: Why now, of all Godforsaken times, had he knocked on your door? The uncertainty hung in the air, and you couldn't help but wonder what had prompted this rare interruption of your solitude. Nerves prickled your skin, and the soft buzz of anxiety hummed in your ears as you tried to read the situation.
His tall, broad, dark figure loomed over you in the hallway, his face hidden by the darkness. He had a lumpy-looking hoodie on, the hood drawn up over his head, and the strings pulled tight, making his silhouette rather unfortunately egg-shaped. In the dim light, the fabric absorbed the surrounding environment, giving him a spectral quality.
"I need to talk to you about something," Choso said flatly, his voice devoid of any discernible emotion.
"Something?" you repeated, the slight crease forming between your brows mirrored by a taste of irritation on your tongue.
The hallway closed in on you, and the tension thick between you, heightening your awareness of the detailsâhis hooded silhouette and the soft hum of the apartment building's ventilation system added an eerie backdrop to the encounter.
Choso stared at you and said nothing. His inscrutable expression was like a dark void, offering no clues as to the nature of his issue. You huffed.
Reluctantly, you opened your bedroom door wider, inviting him to step inside and speak whatever his piece was. The hinges creaked softly, and a cool draft wafted in from the hallway, carrying the faint scent of the outside world into your personal space. As he entered, the rustle of his lumpy hoodie echoed slightly in the confined space.
You shut the door behind you with a soft click and walked over to your bed, plopping unceremoniously onto it. Despite your bedroom being considerably better lit by the soft candlelight scattered around your room, you still had a hard time making out Chosoâs features clearly. Shadows danced across his lumpy hoodie, making his face remain hidden, and the flickering flames played tricks on your senses.
"Well?" you prompted impatiently, the sound of your voice breaking the silence and mingling with the gentle crackling of the candles.
He sighed, the faint gust of his breath causing the candles to flicker slightly. "Promise you won't laugh?"
You raised a brow, giving him a thoroughly unimpressed look. "No," you replied, your voice carrying a hint of stubbornness.
Choso nodded, as if a little sympathetic to your situation. He slipped his lumpy hoodie off, the soft sound of fabric sliding over skin filling the room. As he revealed more of himself, the candlelight danced across his now clearer form, allowing you to finally see his features more distinctly.
As you leaned in to see him more clearly, you couldn't help but be taken aback by the stark contrast between your preconceived notions and the reality before you. He was tall, muscular, and broad-shouldered, with a physique that seemed at odds with his reserved demeanour. His incredibly pale skin, like porcelain, was warmed by the hue of the candlelight, giving it an ethereal quality. Every contour and muscle came alive in the shifting light.
His black eyes were deep pools, absorbing the candlelight and reflecting it back with a certain intensity. His long, messy black hair, tied into two high ponytails that jutted upward and outwards, framed his face in a wild, untamed manner. Some strands of hair gently caressed his forehead, adding to his haunting allure.
Upon closer inspection, as you leaned in even further, you noticed his face was sharp and angular, with thin but expressive eyebrows that added depth to his gaze. His straight nose was perfectly sculpted, leading your eyes down to his distinctive featureâthe thin, black, horizontal, rectangular tattoo that adorned his nose bridge.Â
The tattoo was his most striking feature, but if you weren't counting that, then there were the unexpected elements that truly set him apartâa pair of bunny ears perched atop his head, their velvety texture contrasting with his dark, flowing hair. Completing this ensemble was a fluffy white tail, its cottony appearance inviting a touch to verify its authenticity.Â
Wait, hold on a second⊠Bunny ears and a fluffy white tail?
You clapped a hand over your mouth to muffle your laugh, the suppressed amusement creating a tickling sensation on your skin.Â
"Y'know Halloween is coming up, not Easter, right?" you quipped, your voice carrying a teasing note.
Choso groaned, hiding his face in his hands, his reaction palpable even in the dim candlelit room. Though it was hard to see, you had a good reason to believe that he was blushing, a subtle warmth colouring his porcelain complexion. This revelation only made you want to laugh harder, the sensation building like a wave within you.
"So you ordered the wrong Halloween costume. What's the big deal?" you chuckled, attempting to downplay the situation.
Choso's bunny ears twitched, a subtle movement that defied logic.
They... they twitched?
"It's not a costume," he muttered, his voice barely audible above the tumultuous thoughts racing through your mind.
Your jaw dropped, and you spluttered in disbelief. "N-not a costume? Those... Those are your actual ears?"
He grimaced and nodded, still avoiding your gaze. Those were his real ears? Is this why he had hardly interacted with you, because he was hiding his 'bunny features'? The discovery left you reeling, a cacophony of thoughts and emotions filling your mind as you tried to make sense of the extraordinary truth before you.
In good bunny fashion, he slowly tiptoed over to your bed and sat on the opposite side, his ears drooping. The way he moved was oddly endearing, a blend of hesitancy and vulnerability that tugged at your heartstrings.Â
"I didn't know how to tell you," he mumbled, his voice carrying a note of regret.
The pair of soft, black bunny rabbit ears were a delightful and charming sight, a surreal addition to this unexpected encounter. They looked velvety to the touch, with a plush texture that invited you to run your fingers across their surface. The deep black colour was rich and dark, blending in with Choso's hair, but creating a stark contrast against his pale skin. The enigmatic tattoo on his nose bridge gained new significance in light of this revelation, like a piece of a larger puzzle waiting to be deciphered. As you observed him, a profound curiosity washed over you, eager to learn more about the intriguing world that had remained hidden beneath his hoodie and in the shadows for so long.
You impulsively reached your dominant hand over and stroked one of his ears, unable to resist the allure of their intriguing texture. It was incredibly soft and plush to the touch, and running your fingers over them felt like stroking a delicate, silken fabric. They were adorned with fine, velvety fur that lent them a luxurious feelâso exquisitely soft to the touch.
"Wow... You're not kidding," you said with quiet awe, your voice hushed, afraid to disturb the delicacy of this revelation.Â
He stiffened and recoiled, looking at you with wide eyes, a mix of surprise and unease clouding his expression. He shifted away from you, instinctively retreating from your touch. You raised your eyebrows, curious about his reaction, and leaned forward, extending your hand gently to stroke his ears again.
"Hey, c'mere for a sec. Let me touch," you murmured, your voice soft and reassuring as you reached for him.
Choso, however, kept shifting away from you, his movements increasingly frantic, until he was almost completely dangling off your bed. The experience of revealing his hidden secret had left him clearly unsettled, and your attempts to comfort him had the opposite effect, pushing him farther away.Â
Your curiosity about his strangely endearing rabbit anatomy grew the more he recoiled from you. His eyes darted between you and the door, and the bedsheets rustled beneath you as you inched closer, your desire to explore this newfound aspect of his identity becoming increasingly difficult to contain. Then, unable to resist your impulse, you lunged forward.
Choso, however, was immediately ready to bolt away as you started moving towards him. His instincts kicked in, and he began to run, his legs and thighs moving quickly as he made rapid bunny hops, dashing away from your reach. His bunny ears flapped in the air as he ran, the delicate contrast of black against the dimly lit room a mesmerizing sight. His white tail wagged rapidly in this game of chase, and his athletic and swift movements made it clear that he was determined to elude your grasp.
Choso got to your bedroom door, threw it open, and dashed out into the hallway, his swift movements making it seem like he had vanished into thin air. But you, not one to give up easily, sprinted after him, your determination propelling you forward.
Choso, with his innate agility and a clear knowledge of the apartment's layout, made several quick turns and corners, using his familiarity with the space to his advantage and evading your pursuit. His bunny ears continued to flap in the air, and he occasionally glanced behind him to gauge your progress before making another sharp turn, running into yet another room and attempting to hide.
As you followed closely behind, your footsteps reverberated through the apartment, giving away your pursuit. Choso's white tail wagged rapidly in response to the adrenaline coursing through his veins, and he made more bunny hops, utilizing his speed and agility to the fullest in his quest to evade your grasp. The game of cat and mouseâor rather, cat and rabbitâhad taken an unexpected turn, and the chase continued through your shared living space.
You skidded around a corner, your fluffy socks proving slippery on the hardwood floors as you made a valiant effort to keep up with Choso's rapid pace.
Choso, ever the elusive bunny-eared flatmate, saw you coming around the corner and anticipated your move. With a burst of agility, he made another sharp turn, dashing out of the room and out of your immediate sight. His bunny ears flapped in the air as he continued to sprint away, his athletic legs propelling him forward with impressive speed.
As he reached the kitchen, he couldn't help but call out, "I can hear your footsteps!"Â
His bunny ears twitched, as if to listen further, and his white tail wagged rapidly. He continued to make bunny hops, each one like a real rabbit's bound, as the game of pursuit and evasion intensified.Â
You changed tactics and stopped running, realising that a more stealthy approach might be the key to closing the gap between you and Choso. Instead of chasing him, you began to stalk quietly around the apartment, moving with deliberate caution to ensure that your footsteps remained silent and didn't give you away.
Choso, ever alert, immediately picked up on the change in your movements. His bunny ears stood straight, their sensitivity tuned to the faintest of sounds, and his fluffy white tail had stopped wagging. Tension radiated from him as he shifted into a state of heightened awareness, his eyes flicking around the apartment in an effort to spot any sign of your presence.
He began to worry a little, his black eyes flicking around as he tried to catch a glimpse of your whereabouts in the apartment. Remaining completely still, he strained to hear any faint sound that might give away your position. His ears were perked, each subtle noise amplified in his perception.
Choso's ears twitched at the faint noise emanating from the hallway. His senses heightened, and he remained perfectly still, straining to decipher the source and nature of the sound. His black eyes narrowed as he focused his attention on the hallway, ready to react to any potential movement or disturbance.Â
As the moments stretched on in silence, Choso remained completely still, vigilant and on the lookout for your next move. His bunny ears stood erect, capturing even the faintest of sounds, and his body remained tense, ready to react at a moment's notice. His white tail remained motionless, a clear sign that he was in full-on alert mode, on edge and anticipating your next attempt.
In the hushed atmosphere, you could hear his breath, slightly faster than usual, as he held it in anticipation. Each inhalation and exhalation was more pronounced in the quiet.Â
"Boo!" you exclaimed from a few meters behind him, and you lunged forward.
Choso flinched in surprise at the sudden exclamation from behind him, his rabbit instincts momentarily taking over. He swiftly turned to face you, only to be caught off-guard the moment you lunged towards him. His bunny tail wagged in response to his flustered state, and he made a light bunny hop to escape your reach, his athletic legs propelling him forward in a rush.
Clearly, you had caught him by surprise, and he was running away as fast as he could, employing his signature bunny hops to gain distance. His slightly red face betrayed his flustered state, and nervous giggles bubbled up from him as he continued to flee.Â
You chased Choso into the living room, and with nowhere left to escape, he found himself cornered. In a final act of pursuit, you lunged forward and tackled him onto the sofa, your laughter mixing with his surprised gasp as you both tumbled onto the cushions. You managed to pin his wrists above his head, straddling him in a victorious pose.
As you caught your breath, you both panted heavily, the adrenaline-fueled chase having taken its toll on your energy. Choso's body flushed a deep, red hue all over, and his features displayed a mix of shock and deep embarrassment. Your body on top of him in such an intimate position left him blushing intensely, his pale skin providing a vivid canvas for the crimson flush that had overtaken him.
In this somewhat awkward and unexpected moment, you were both left panting and gazing at each other. Choso's bunny ears laid back slightly, and his large, expressive eyes met yours with a mixture of surprise, curiosity, and⊠and what on Earth was that?
"I win," you muttered smugly, your playful victory evident in your tone.
As you both caught your breath and your eyes met, you found yourselves in an unexpectedly intimate moment, just inches away from each other. Your gazes locked, and you peered deeply into each other's eyes, your chests rising and falling with each heavy breath. His heart was pounding in his chest, threatening to break through the bones of his ribs and run away.
"Well, I suppose you win..." Choso conceded, his rabbit ears drooping ever so slightly, a subtle sign of his disappointment. âLet me go now?âÂ
"Don't I get a prize?" you murmured, smirking ever so slightly as you inched closer, your proximity intensifying the charged atmosphere.
Your playful question hung in the air, charged with a newfound tension that neither of you could deny. You licked your lips, a subtle, teasing gesture as you maintained unbroken eye contact with Choso, your gaze locked onto his dark eyes.
Choso's eyes slowly traveled down to your lips, his gaze fixating on the subtle curve of your mouth. He was entranced, his rabbit ears twitching almost involuntarily as his breathing picked up ever so slightly. His dark eyes remained locked onto your mouth, where he noticed the subtlest details, including the hint of your smirk and the shape of your canines.
As he continued to study your lips, Choso's eyes widened slightly, and he found himself unable to move, mesmerized by your presence. A faint, involuntary moan escaped his mouth, the sound barely audible even in the hushed room.Â
âDonât⊠Donât do this,â he whimpered.
Instead of going in for a kiss, you tilted your head to the side and bit gently into Choso's neck. Your unexpected move elicited a sharp gasp from him, his dark eyes widening in response to the unexpected sensation. Your hands, still firmly gripping his pinned wrists, curled more tightly, keeping him in place as you continued to nibble at his neck. The room crackled, and the taste of his skin and the sound of his rapid heartbeat filled your sensesâGod, he looked so helpless.Â
Choso's body shivered involuntarily under your grip as you bit his neck, his sensitivity to the unexpected sensation causing a surge of pleasure and excitement to course through him. Despite how tightly you were pinning him down, he squirmed beneath you. His hips lifted slightly off the sofa, a reflexive response to the thrilling stimulation you were providing. A low, muffled groan escaped his lipsâsomething that sounded close to your name.Â
Your sharp canines bit deeper into Choso's neck, and he responded with a low, deeper moan that reverberated through the room. His hips grinded slightly against you, an instinctual reaction. His breath grew heavier and faster, each inhalation and exhalation punctuated by soft, low sounds of pleasure.
âNo, no, no⊠Donât, please⊠Ah, fuckâŠ!â
Choso's bunny ears continued to twitch, a visible sign of the tension that had taken hold of him. Despite your firm control and grip, he began to move slightly, a silent plea for closeness and touch. His movements became more pronounced under your control and grip, an unspoken desire to get closer to you and touch you. His skin felt hot to the touch, the evidence of his arousal undeniable in the heated atmosphere of the room, at war with his mind which was begging for it to stop.
âIt hurts⊠Youâre hurting me, stop⊠No, no,â he whined.
Choso's response to your biting was undeniable. He let out a deep breath of pleasure, his body shivering in excitement as your canines continued to tantalize his neck. His lips formed a perfect "O" shape as he released the breath, and his bunny ears twitched slightly, betraying the undeniable excitement and pleasure coursing through him.
It was clear that he wasn't trying to resist your bite; On the contrary, he thoroughly enjoyed the sensation, despite his whines about it hurting. The pleasure experience far outweighed any discomfort, and his surrender to the moment was evident in his quivering body and the sounds of delight escaping his lips.Â
You pulled back from his neck, your breaths heavy and your voice dripping with desire as you whispered in Choso's ear, "You taste good. I think I'll have you."
His response was immediate, a loud whine escaping his trembling lips as he squirmed beneath you. His body was a tempest of emotions, a cocktail of fear, adrenaline, and unmistakable arousal.
While maintaining your grip on his pinned wrists with one hand, your other hand ventured to gently stroke the soft, black, velvet-like fur of his droopy bunny ears. The sensation caused him to shiver, a powerful response to the intimate touch.
"D-Don't... P-Please, don't," he mumbled pleadingly, his voice carrying a mixture of vulnerability and desire.
But you weren't inclined to stop. With a wicked grin, you silenced his protests with a simple command, "Hush, bunny... Let me have my fun with you."Â
You didn't hold back as you ducked your head down and bit more harshly into the pale, sensitive skin of Choso's neck. He let out the cutest squeak of fear in response. You sucked and nibbled at his neck, your actions causing him to tremble and moan.
His moans, while not entirely lustful, were filled with a heady mixture of fear, excitement, and desire. Each tremor of his body and each moan that escaped his lips only fueled your passion and drove you to explore further. In another circumstance, you might have had the heart to stop, but the undeniable evidence of his arousal pressed against your thigh as he rutted his hips into you left little room for restraint.
âCâmon, now. Be a good pet and let me touch you properly,â you muttered into his ear, causing the last of his apprehension to crumble.
Your desire burned like a fire, and with fiendish strength, you tore Choso's thin cotton t-shirt, a symbol of your unrestrained desire for him. He gasped at the sudden action, his eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and anticipation.
As your hands traversed the now-bare skin of his muscular torso, Choso shuddered and groaned, his body responding eagerly to your touch. He leaned into your caresses, his desire mirroring your own.
Sensing his readiness and compliance, you shifted on the sofa to provide him with enough room to remove his trousers. Without protest, Choso stripped out of his trousers, revealing more of his taut, athletic body. With greedy hands, you pulled down his underwear, releasing his aching erection, which sprung free, throbbing with arousal.
"Well, aren't you a needy thing?" you laughed teasingly at Choso, the sound carrying a mixture of amusement and desire.Â
You pulled him onto your lap, and he now straddled you, his embarrassment causing a deep shade of red to spread from the top of his head all the way down to his shoulders. His bunny ears laid flat against his head with shame, unable to meet your eyes.
Your hands settled on his petit waist, and you dragged him along your thigh, pulling him closer. He couldn't help but moan as his throbbing dick rubbed against your skin. His arms wrapped around your neck, an instinctive desire to hold you as close to his body as you would allow. His tongue darted out to lick his lips, his gaze darting between your eyes and your lips as he looked at you imploringly, his need and desire laid bare for you to see.
"God, you're so fucking desperate to be touched," you laughed, your words dripping with desire, and you placed a possessive hand on the back of Choso's neck before crashing your lips together in a heated kiss.
Choso whimpered in surprise at the sudden aggression of your kiss, his cheeks flushing with desire and embarrassment. He couldn't help but emit light, quiet moans in response, the sensations overwhelming his senses. His bunny ears were twitching madly, and his entire body quivered at your rough touch.
His eyes remained closed as he surrendered to the passionate kiss, his lips moving in sync with yours as desire consumed both of you. As the kiss continued, the room filled with the intoxicating sounds of his heavy panting and the increasingly louder moans that escaped his lips.
Choso's face flushed even deeper as your fingers squeezed his bunny tail, the unexpected sensation sending a jolt of desire through him. Instinctively, he ground his hips against your thigh, seeking more of the electrifying pleasure you were providing.
His calloused hands roamed over your body, their touch possessive as they grabbed your shoulders and pulled you in closer and tighter. The intensity of his desire was palpable, his body tense and shaking as he felt the warmth from your hand on his tail. He couldn't help but make quiet, breathy whimpers and sounds as your deep kiss continued, your tongues exploring each other with fervour.
Choso continued to grind his throbbing cock against your thigh, the friction heightening his pleasure. Your hands fondled his ass and massaged the base of his tail, each touch driving him further into a frenzy of desire.
You pulled away from Choso's lips, and in a breathy, taunting whisper, you spoke to him, "You should see yourself, pet. Fucking my thigh like you're in heat."Â
Choso's response was a mixture of pleasure and desperation as he panted between moans, his voice a trembling with need. "Ah...! I-I can't help it... Feels too good."
Your hands continued to guide his hips steadily as he humped your thighs, his movements growing increasingly frantic. Pre-cum smeared messily across your skin where your shorts ended, evidence of his overwhelming arousal. His pretty cock was flushed an angry red at the tip, the desperate need for relief evident in every twitch and throb.
Choso's moans grew louder and more desperate with each passing moment, his voice a fervent symphony of pleasure as he whimpered your name. His thrusts against your thigh became increasingly frantic and messy, his body shuddering with the overwhelming sensations coursing through him. His fingers dug painfully into your shoulder blades, his grip on you tight and unrelenting, holding on for dear life.
Your taunting words only added fuel to the fire. "That's right, bunny. Moan my fuckin' name and let the whole building know I'm getting you off like a slut. Let them hear your voiceâlet them hear how disgusting you really are," you teased, your words charged with desire and dominance.
"Please, please... Oh, please! Fuck, I'm so... I'm so c-close," Choso cried out, his voice filled with desperate need and urgency.
Your wicked grin only widened in response to his pleas, and with a harsh tug, you pulled on the fluffy white tail at the base of his spine. The sensation was electrifying, and Choso practically screamed your name as he came on your thigh, his body trembling with the intensity of his release. He continued to rut against you, coating your skin in his hot, sticky cum, the sheer amount of it a testament to the depth of his need and desire.
As you watched him in the aftermath, you couldn't help but realize that your mysterious flatmate had been far more desperate for you than he had ever let on throughout your history of knowing him. And then it clicked:Â
He had wanted you all along.
Choso naturally began to slow his movements, his body slumping against yours as he buried his face into your neck. He whimpered your neck and pressed soft, damp kisses against your neck. Your grip on his hips didnât falter, though.
"You're a pervert, aren't you, bunny?" you said teasingly as you pulled back to look at Choso's flushed face.
Choso's breath hitched, and his lips parted as if he were going to protest or defend himself, but before he could utter a word, you forcefully moved his hips, causing him to grind against your thigh once more. He yelped in response to the sudden stimulation, his cute dick still sensitive from his recent climax, and it continued to throb and drip with cum, staining your thigh. You maintained your control over him, keeping him forcefully grinding against you, and despite his whines and keening, he remained a willing slave to your lustful amusement.Â
"Oh, my God," you laughed cruelly, your words dripping with taunting amusement. "This has been what's getting you off ever since I moved in, huh? You've been touching yourself, wishing it was me fucking you all along?"
Choso's protest was weak, his voice trembling as he moaned and squirmed under the relentless overstimulation you forced upon his weeping cock. "N-No... Stop, I wouldn't," he protested, his words a feeble attempt to deny the undeniable truth.
But you weren't about to let him off the hook that easily.Â
"Bunny," you continued, your voice low and sultry, "you've been wanting to fuck like rabbits this whole time, and you've been too embarrassed to ask. Now's your chance. Beg me now, like the dumb slut you are, and I'll be here to fuck you when you're desperate."
"Please⊠Please, please, please!" Choso cried out, his voice desperate and filled with longing as he moaned your name.
Your dominance over him intensified as you continued to drive him to the edge of ecstasy. "And what are you, pet?" you demanded.
"I'm⊠Please, please⊠S'too much⊠Too much," he gasped, his words coming out in short gasps as his powerful body writhed and shuddered. His hips continued to hump against your thigh, guided by your hands.
"You're a dumb fucking bunny, that's what you are. Now, say it," you commanded.
"I'm⊠I'm a⊠AhâŠ!" Choso's voice trailed off into a moan of pleasure and surrender, his body consumed by the intoxicating sensations you were inflicting upon him.Â
You narrowed your eyes, your superiority over Choso unwavering as your dominant hand reached up and clasped those soft bunny ears of his, tugging harshly. Choso's response was immediate and intenseâhe screamed and sobbed, the pain shooting down his neck and spine, sending waves of torment and pleasure right to his aching dick. Tears cascaded down his flushed cheeks as he moaned and whimpered, his pleas for gentleness and kindness filling the room.
"Say it, slut," you demanded, your voice firm and unyielding.
"I'm a⊠a dumb fucking b-bunny," Choso sobbed, his words a painful admission of submission.
You tugged on his ears once more, and his back arched in response, the sweaty muscles of his chest pressing firmly against your torso.Â
"That's right, pet. You're a dumb fucking bunny, and now, you're all mine," you laughed, your words filled with triumph.
Choso's response was immediate and explosive. He screamed your name and convulsed violently, his body wracked by the intensity of his climax as he came all over your thigh once again. The overstimulation proved to be too much for him, flooding his body with an overwhelming, painful pleasure that left him utterly and blissfully mindless. In that moment, all thoughts, inhibitions, and restraints were wiped away, consumed by the raw and uncontrollable desire that had drawn you together.
It was clear that he had become your loyal and devoted pet, forever bound to you. The future held untold possibilities, but one thing was certainâChoso had willingly surrendered to you, and you had claimed him as your own.
a/n: icl i got wayyyy too carried away with this. choso is such a gorgeous man and i need to ruin him LOL. god, i fuckin love bunnies. writing this has permanently altered my brain chemistry, i think. Happy Kinktober! :3
this work belongs to STARRIERKNIGHT . please refrain from plagiarising any of my works and do not repost/translate/modify/copy onto any platforms.
#ê° â ê± â tongues in trees#ê° â ê± â they kiss consume#ê° đź ê± â kt 23#choso kamo x reader smut#choso kamo smut#choso kamo x reader#choso smut#sub choso kamo x reader#sub choso kamo#tw dubcon
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Feverish | Ghost x Fem Reader
Tags: sick!simon, sub!simon, dry humping, p in v sex, penetration
Summary: Simon is sick and thinks he knows how to break a fever with the help of his girlfriend
Word count: 1.4k
Read here on ao3! __________
He only had a small cold. Or at least, what was a small cold. And of course he acted like a helpless animal, asking you to feed him, bring him an assortment of medicines, and help him walk to the bathroom where he would then, ask you to bathe him. A cheeky smile that he hardly tried to hide displaying on his face.
You of course, didnât mind caring for your afflicted boyfriend.
âYou canât take another Benadryl, Simon. You just had one.â Simon always prided himself on his flawless immune system. Now that his body has been compromised by harmful bacteria he wasnât sure what to do with himself. But thank god he had you. For the past two days all he could do was mumble and groan from the couch. Exasperated âehhggâsâ and whines of sickness filling the living room as the over 6 foot man struggled to lift his arms, begging for your help with the remote.
Thatâs why it surprised you to feel the searing warmth of his arms wrap around your waist as you stood in the kitchen. Your working hands coming to a stop on the meal you were preparing.
âSi- Youâve already contaminated our living room! Iâll be damned if Iâm nextâŠâ You argued while attempting to shrug out of his grasp, finding your efforts ineffective. Over the past couple days you had made a valiant effort to sanitize the house and frequently wash your hands. You know Simon would take care of you if you fell sick, but you also knew that the idea of wallowing in the two of yous illness together was appealing to him as well.
âMm, needa break this fever-â He murmured while burying his face into the crook of your neck. Laying hot kisses in his wake.
âThen let me make you a cup of tea. Or go take a warm shower donât-!â His hands began to roam your body. Grasping at the skin of your stomach before moving to knead at your chest.
âNot what I had in mindâ His words came out breathless. Whether that was because of his aroused state, his clogged sinuses, or both, you werenât sure. But the needy grips his calloused hands laid on your body began to have an effect on you.
âYou can go a few days canât you?â Simon responded with an unconcerned hum, a low groan soon leaving the back of his throat as he grabbed your hips. Grinding his half hard erection against the flesh of your ass.
âYouâve been so good tâme. Can you help me some more?â His fingers dug deeper into your flesh, rutting the length of his bulge languidly against your backside. âPlease.â He whined.
His hand came up to your neck, his index and thumb taking your chin and turning your face to meet his. It was too late to save yourself when his lips met yours, his tongue greedily working the wet room of your mouth as his hands massaged your breasts.
You sighed into the kiss, accepting the hunger that overtook you as well as the heat that gathered between your thighs. You soon gasped into Simonâs embrace as he was now turning you to face him, one hand resting on the back of your thigh as the other moved behind you. Haphazardly pushing the cutting board to the side so he could swiftly lift to place you on top of the counter. The cold stone of the counter caused you to arch your back as you pushed your chest into Simon, who now hurried to remove your top and bra. Exposing your hard nipples to the cold of the air that had previously worked to cool Simonâs fever, which only proved to be a futile attempt as the crimson on his cheeks only grew.
Simon pulled your waist so his erection could meet your clothed core. His eyes hung low with a fevered lust as you moved your hips to work against him. The both of you moaning as Simon hung his head forward between your chest, releasing sinful whimpers as he urgently rutted into you.
âNeed yaâ. Nowâ He demanded. Your brain began to cloud with its own brand of Simon induced fog. He was so desperate that you only wanted to provide for him.
Your boyfriend hooked his fingers around the waistband of your shorts pulling them down alongside your damp underwear to your ankles. Kicking them to the floor as he lowered his boxers and sweatpants, Simon revealed his hard cock, the tip smeared with a bead of pre-cum that you reached to run your fingers against.
He shuddered at the sudden attention from your delicate touch. His body was practically on fire. Having to separate himself from you only caused him to become pent up, needy for any attention that you would provide his weeping cock. Your hand wrapped around his length as you stroked him with expertise. Heavy breaths flooded the room. He placed his hands on the edge of the counter to steady himself as you worked his shaft. Your left hand came to cradle the side of his face. âPoor thingâ
You twisted your hand around him, your thumb swirling the sensitive skin of his head as you whispered in his ear. âIs this helping you hun?â
His head nodded fiercely against your neck. âMmm Mhm, thank you-â His delicious whines filled your ears as he began to lightly shake. Your own sex was becoming neglected when your left hand lifted his face so his eyes could meet yours.
âCan I fuck you,â he near but begged. âI can take care of you too.â His lips connected with yours for a passionate kiss. Butterflies spread in the pit of your stomach at his adoration for you. It wasnât often he got like this but when he did you happily let him succumb to his urges. He parted his mouth from yours, a string of saliva connecting to your now glossy lips, and Simon still pumping himself into your hand. âMake you feel good.â He enticed.
You nodded your head when he took the head of his cock to swipe between your folds. Circling the slickened tip around your swollen clit and dragging it back in between your folds. His hands came to rest softly against your lower waist, thumbs digging into the crest between your thighs and torso. He began to push his length into your hot walls, his eyes closing to keep him from cumming right then and there.
âF-fuckâ He sputtered pushing himself deeper into your core.
âSimon, pleaseâ Your legs lifted to wrap your calfs around his back. Your heels now digging into his ass to encourage his strokes. Simon got the message and pushed the rest of his cock into your begging cunt. Engulfing him with a boiling heat as you began adjusting to his size. He began to move in and out of you. His eyes locked to yours as he provided your pussy with slow, hard thrusts.
Each slap of his skin against yours elicited a moan from your lips that he returned with animalistic grunts of his own. 2 days too many away from your perfect cunt, and he was never a man of patience.
Your pussy squelched as he dragged the full length of his cock out of you before bottoming out again. His hand moved to the back of your head, bringing you in for a messy kiss while the other moved to your clit. Simon was amazed he had even lasted this long and as his orgasm began to approach its horizon he worked to bring yours to as well. You gasped into the kiss. His hand quickening its assault as his thrusts entered you at a new angle. Simon pistoning his cock against the patch of nerves that lay within your walls, your hold on him beginning to tighten as he talked you through your imminent climax.
âCum on my cock pretty girl. I know you need it. I need it.â His words came out in a gravel like tone. He couldnât hold it in any longer when your cunt began to spasm around his shaft, milking his own release from him as the coil in your stomach snapped. You threw your head back, your mouth falling agape as Simon growled against your neck. His hot seed filled you with a satiating intensity.
âSo,â your breathing now labored, âSo good Si.â Your hand came to massage the back of scalp as he littered your neck with kisses.
It wouldnât be until another 2 days when he denied his involvement in your oncoming fever. His own having been broken when he suggested a new at home remedy to cure you.
#call of duty#cod smut#ghost x reader#simon ghost riley#simon riley x reader#simon ghost riley x reader
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Enduring | Matt Murdock x AFAB!Reader
Masterlist
Pairing: Matt Murdock x afab!Reader
Warnings: Angst, chronic (lower abdominal) pain, mentions of spotting (blood), self-loathing, allusions to Doctors Not Listening To Patients With A Uterus, health anxiety (warranted), non-sexual intimacy, hurt/comfort, self-indulgent, not proof-read
Summary: Youâve been experiencing chronic lower abdominal pain for years regardless of the point in your menstrual cycle. Some days, itâs worse than others, but when the first heatwave of the year hits New York City and you have another flare-up, your day takes a sudden turn for the worse. Thankfully, Matt is there to comfort you in any way he can.
WC: 3k
A/n: Even though I tagged my tag list, don't read if this could be triggering to you! So, I know pain is a very sensitive subject and everyone experiences it differently. I used my personal experience with pain and chasing a diagnosis to write this. That doesnât mean itâs the only experience. Lower abdominal pain can have many causes, which is why advice from a medical professional is often necessary. That being said, I know how hard it can be to have been born into a female body and be treated like my pain is worth less for whatever reason just because I was born female. There is no shame in standing up for yourself in a manâs world that completely disregards womenâs health. I had to learn it the hard way to the point it has taken a toll on my mental health, so I just needed to write a little comfort piece for my own peace of mind before my appointment on Monday. I wrote this for the sake of getting it out of my system, meaning itâs probably not perfect, but if you can relate to what I said in any way, feel free to read it and make up your own mind. (I will not be posting this on AO3 for now. I hope you can forgive me for that.)
Matt always knows when something is wrong with you.Â
Sometimes, he can smell it. Other times, itâs the way you taste when you kiss him or the sweat that clings to your skin, or when he goes down on you and your essence is slightly tangier than it was the day before.Â
Matt knows when youâre ovulating because the changes in your hormones make him go crazier than he already is for you, and he is familiar with the metallic scent of blood when youâre on your period. He can tell when you start sweating more often, when your muscles tense up more than usual, or when you are slightly more emotional. He knows before you even do because he has to.Â
You are miserable almost every day, really, but more often than not it happens around the time of your period. So, he pays close attention to the signs. When the painkillers stop working, or when you get more tired, or when you stop moving around as much. When you tell him youâre fine even though he can feel the muscles of your abdomen tensing under his touch when he hugs you. When he can tell you have been crying and he wasnât there to help. He has to know because you need him.Â
Youâre not entirely dependent on him, of course; you have lived on your own before and while it was hell, you pushed through somehow. With him, you donât have to be alone on the days you canât get out of bed because the pain keeps you locked in a fetal position, or on the days you have to cower on the bathroom floor until youâre too weak to move. Matt has reached a point of knowing you where his four working senses donât play much of a role in telling what kind of a day youâre having; he just knows.Â
Tonight, he senses it when he comes through the door after work, finally escaping the raging heat from the streets that made him feel like he was dying on the commute home. He instantly loosens his tie to get some air into his lungs, feeble fingers working desperately to free himself, but it doesnât take a second longer for him to realize something is wrong. It is nothing but a mere hunchâsome kind of aura that emits from somewhere in the apartment that makes the hairs on his arms stand up. He calls your name, frantically searching for your heartbeat. Through the rattling of the fridge as it tries to keep up with the rising temperatures inside, he makes out the rapid drumming of your heart against your ribcage. If youâre not dizzy yet, he thinks, you soon will be.Â
Upon hearing you huff from the kitchen floor, Matt doesnât hesitate tossing his bag mindlessly into the nearest corner, followed by his keys before he makes his way to find you. Heâs overheated, itchy, and sweating through his clothes, but not anywhere near as desperate as he is to get to you.Â
âSweetheart?â he asks.
Hearing the sound of his voice, you realize that what felt like five minutes must have been hours spent on the cool kitchen floor. You canât even remember how you got there. The hours have blended into minutes, the tiles digging into your sweat-coated skin. Youâre curled up in a ball, wearing nothing but one of Mattâs loosest shirts. You couldnât stand the feeling of a waistband around your stomach, so you took your pants off, changing into the oldest pair of cotton underwear you could find. Itâs all soaked by now, and part of you wonders if you did finally get your period or if your pores just decided to drench you for the fun of it.Â
Everything hurts. Your muscles are tense, yet at the same time they are so incredibly weak, you donât react when the front door opens. Heâs worried, but you canât find it in yourself to care. It is as though the pain has made you entirely apathetic, coiling in your lower stomach and spreading into your legs like a parasite. All you can do is succumb to it.Â
Mattâs feet come into view. The purple cast of the billboard outside falls upon him, painting the shadow of a halo above his head. Itâs ironic, really; the man you love as your knight in shining armor, a Catholic looking like an angel in artificial neon light.Â
His gentle voice reaches for you, âWhatâre you doing on the floor?â
He doesnât ask if youâre okay because he knows it is futile, but even that question you donât know how to answer. What are you doing on the dirty kitchen floor?
You clear your throat, trying to sound nonchalant when you answer, âItâs too hot up there.â
He crouches down. âJust too hot?â
You sigh. âNo.â
It was a good day until it wasnât, and then you were in pain again and all the days you spent feeling a little more like yourself are suddenly gone with the wind. The tears wrap a noose around your neck for the second time today, your eyes burning with faint resistance. Every time you think it gets better, it gets worse again. And every time you try to pretend that maybe things are looking up for you and it isnât as endless of a pit as you thought, the exact opposite proves itself. Youâre tired; youâre in pain and youâre tired and you feel so silly for letting it dim the light Natt pointed out a few days ago that he had so deeply missed, but there is only so much hope you can have. Â
This isnât the first time he has found you like this, but it truly never gets easier. Hearing the strain in your voice, the quiver in your entire being as you try to catch your breath, telling yourself not to fucking cry. It never gets easier to know how much you beat yourself up for something that isnât your fault. Because the doctors that were supposed to listen failed you, and now the road to relief is paved with bricks you can barely climb over. You are on your way now, finally, but the future is still not certain. In the end though, what kills him the most is that he canât help you.Â
Matt reaches out, his hand shaking as he aimlessly brushes his fingers over your forehead. âCramps?â he says.
You nod weakly.Â
âSince when?â
âI donât know,â you confess, and that is when the glass overflows.Â
With a click of his tongue, he wipes the first of your tears away. His brown eyes bore into your soul, completely bare in front of him. Your body is like a complex crafted melody only he knows how to decipher. Â
The tears quickly form a barrier between you and the tiles. Matt tilts his head. The faintest hint of copper clings to your skin. âDid you get your period?â he asks.Â
You shake your head. âJust⊠some spotting.â
âExplains the blood.â
He is way too nonchalant about it, you think. The way he accepts your version of normal even though you feel like a failure trapped in a body that refuses to work like it is supposed to.
âHowâd you get here?â he asks again, his voice so soft you want nothing more than to hide your face from him and cry some more.Â
He refuses to let you go, gripping your chin to the point it almost hurts. âI was trying to do the dishes and thenââ a broken sob gets stuck in your throat. âIt hurts and itâs hot, and I canât breathe.â
He gently cradles your face in his hands. âI know,â he says like he can read your mind. And maybe he can.
Your chest heaves with every breath you take. âI couldnât stand anymore, so I laid down. On the floor,â you tell him. âI just⊠I didnât get anything done today.â
âDoesnât matter.âÂ
âIt does. Iââ
He cuts you off, âNo, sweetie, it doesnât. I can wash the dishes, but I canât replace you.â
His dedication hurts. You used to be called sensitive and not worth the drama, but with him, you count, and that hurts because you are barely hanging on by a fragile thread. You donât know how to ever give back to him what he has given you. The countless nights you patched him up after he got his ass handed to him do not seem to matter much compared to what he does for you.Â
He studies your erratic heartbeat for a moment. âYou want a heating pad?â he offers.Â
You physically cringe at the thought of a hot water bottle when the entire city could function as one, and you are quick to deny, âToo hot.â
Matt chuckles. âYeah, I figured.â He brushes a damp strand of hair away from your face. âHave you taken anything yet? Advil? Naproxen?â
You growl. âYou know none of the pills they gave me fucking work!âÂ
He doesnât seem deterred by your tone. All he does is smile softly at you, fingers tracing invisible patterns on your skin.
âI know,â he says. âIâm just trying to help.â
âWell, nothingâs helping,â you retort.Â
âThat why youâre lying on the floor?âÂ
Another tear rolls down your cheek and past your cracked lips. âI told you. Nothing helps.â
Snapping at him for only trying to care may be petty of you, but there is nothing you loathe more than feeling so utterly helpless.Â
Matt moves closer, your words pearling off of him like he is made of stone. He doesnât even flinch.Â
âOkay,â he murmurs. âCan I try something else?â
The voice in your head is screaming, what else is there to do? You are tired of trying everything and nothing ever working. Two more weeks until you will meet with a new doctor, but those two weeks might actually kill you. Thatâs what it feels like, anyway.Â
He sighs, âCâmere.â Without another word from you, Matt slides his arms under your sticky frame and lifts you off the ground. His skin offers a stark contrast from the cold kitchen tiles, but heâs clean, and he smells like home. Not this place, not this city, but him.Â
âWhere are we going?â you ask.
âBathroom,â is all he tells you.Â
Your brain is too slow to even dare protest. He carries you to the bathroom, setting you down on unsteady legs.Â
âMay I?â he asks. You nod, but even as he pulls his shirt over your head, he doesnât once let go of you.Â
You close your eyes. The pain in your abdomen is dull yet searing. You try to focus on anything else, but just when you think itâs getting better, it breaks through again, burning through you like a wildfire on the blade of a hot knife. And that makes you sad. It makes you so sad and angry you donât know what to do with yourself. You want to scream and cry and tear the apartment apart, but youâre exhausted and tired and you know that if this pain keeps rippling through you, you might fall apart.Â
You hate when he sees you like this. When youâre falling apart and thereâs nothing either of you can do, and you blame yourself even though there is nothing to blame yourself for. Matt knows that. You sometimes wonder if you are a burden to him and he just wonât tell you because he doesnât know when to stop. To stop caring, to stop helping, to stop trying to change everything. But then again, he has always told you that loving you isnât a burden. If you get lost in the what ifs, you might actually fall apart.   Â
âIâm gonna start a cool bath,â Matt murmurs next to you, snapping you out of your thoughts with his gentle baritone of a voice. âJust stay here.âÂ
You nod weakly, too exhausted to argue. The thought of immersing yourself in cool water, even for a few minutes, seems like a small mercy.Â
Water starts to run in the distance. His belt hits the floor, followed by the fabric clinging to his skin. Youâre afraid you might get dizzy if you open your eyes. Dizzy because of the pain. Dizzy because of him.Â
The cabinet behind you rattles when he reaches for it. âClaire gave them to me, but you took these before,â he says, skillfully working on the cap of an orange capsule. âTheyâre a bit stronger than Advil.â
You donât protest, you simply let him place one of the pills in the palm of your hand. He is right behind you with his hand on your waist when you take them, swallowing with a handful of water. Thereâs nothing sexual in the way he touches you, just a tenderness born from years of knowing each otherâs bodies inside and out.Â
Maybe that is why you could never be a burden to him; he has felt like one for most of his life, and the last thing he wants is for his love to feel the same way. And he needs you to remind him that he is everything to you, too, his hands never wavering when they find your skin. Youâre his lifeline as much as he is yours.
The cold water hits the inside of the bathtub, pattering down like raindrops on a windowpane. Matt gently tugs you closer to him and guides you toward the tub. At first, when he lifts you in, the cool water is a shock to your overheated skin, but it doesnât take long for you to welcome the change in temperature.Â
He eases you between his legs once he is sat, your back against his chest, wrapping his arms around you. His hands come to rest on your lower stomach, close enough to allow you to pull your legs up to your chest. Itâs the only position that doesnât hurt.Â
You remember nights spent crammed in the same position, not because of you but because of his nightmares. The roles were reversed then. When itâs too hot outside, he needs the world on fire to burn a little less bright. Today, you finally realize what he must feel like on days like these.Â
âHowâs that?â he asks, his breath warm against your ear.
You nod. âBetter,â you whisper. Better isnât perfect, but the pain is just dull now, and the gentle movement of his fingers against your sore muscles lulls you into a state where you can breathe. Itâs not perfect, but it is as good as it gets.Â
Your head falls back against his collarbone. âThank you,â your voice is barely above a whisper when you tell him.
He shushes you, lips moving to your temple. The gesture is supposed to say, donât thank me. But it feels wrong not to.Â
You lift your head enough to look at him, finally, your eyes fluttering open to look back into his hazel orbs. âMattâŠâÂ
âYeah?â he breathes.Â
âI donât know what I would do without you,â you confess. Itâs a truth youâve grappled with, the stark realization that his presence has become indispensable. It is a burden, to be loved so fiercely, as much as it is an addiction. Because a life without him seems like a sheer impossibility you donât ever want to face again.Â
Matt holds his lips against your skin, smiling. âGood thing you never have to find out, hm?â
You chuckle weakly. âYou sure about that?â
âMhm.â
âWhat if you get sick of me?â
âThen Iâll be sick of you for a few hours,â he says, âand youâll be sick of me âtil weâre not.â
Your eyes roam his face for any indication that he might not be telling the truth. âThat easy?â you ask.Â
He nods, fingers coming up to find your lips. He touches them for a moment, exploring the soft skin there. Instead of kissing you though, he halts.
âWhat?â You frown.Â
Matt shakes his head. âNothing. Just⊠Youâre gonna be okay,â his voice is barely above a whisper. âIâll make sure of that.â
A whimper breaks from your chest. He believes it wholeheartedly, but it is incredibly hard to hear it out loud because you donât believe it. You press your lips together, trying to hold back the tears that threaten to spill over again. âI just wish it didnât have to be this way,â you whisper. âI wish I could be⊠normal.â
Again, he nods, fingers brushing over your cheek to catch a stray tear. âYou are normal,â he insists softly. âYour pain doesnât make you any less. And âcause I know how strong you are, I know youâre gonna be okay.â
âEven if Iâll be ill for the rest of my life? Even if Iââ
âOf course,â he stops you. âWhatever it is, weâll figure it out. I promise. Not âeven ifâ but regardless of whether itâs endometriosis or⊠or something else. Your pain is a part of you, but itâs not all of you. I love all of you.â
There is no stopping the avalanche of tears that is forced down the hill by his words. They hit you harder than an arrow to the heart.Â
You crack under the weight of your emotions. âI love you,â you whisper. Those three words mean the world, but they feel inadequate to describe what you feel.Â
âI know,â says Matt. âI love you too.â
The once open wounds of the blood you shed just to find him are nothing but scars nowâscars you can learn how to live with once you accept that there is nothing wrong with you. Being a human being with an illness, both mentally and physically, doesnât make you any less worthy of love. It doesnât make you any less worthy of life.Â
With Matt by your side, you are no longer alone in this. You have him, all of him, and that makes all the difference.Â
Matt Murdock (Angst) Tag List: @acharliecoxedfan @gpenguin666 @itwasthereaminuteago @norestfortheshelbywicked @yarrystyleeza @littlenerdyravenclaw @thychuvaluswife @schneeflocky @imjustcal @pipsqueakkitten @merlinbtch @thatonegamefish @amberritonicole @pigeonmama @bohemianrhapsody86 @a-gir1-has-n0-name @winkev1 @callsign-ember @chittaphonstar @buckyyyismahhlife @trublu2u @xnatyx @zomtart @abucketofweird
Also tagging: @moncherriis
#matt murdock#matt murdock x reader#matt murdock x afab!reader#matt murdock x you#daredevil#daredevil x reader#matt murdock angst#matt murdock fluff#hurt/comfort#charlie cox#chronic pain
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Trailer park Steve AU part 65
part 1 | part 64 | ao3
cw: angst, weed
Eddie reaches out then stops, hand hovering just above Steveâs knee, something like panic in the tremor of his wrist. âSteve, for real, man, please let meââ
âNo, you for real, man.â Seriously? Man? As if there aren't so many more important things to discuss right now. Steve squeezes his eyes shut and pinches his nose, the voice of an old swim coach ringing in his ear. Game time, Harrington, câmon, whereâs your head?
âLook,â Steve sighs, fingers clenching around his shin. âWe can talk about... this," he gestures between the two of them, "later. Letâs justâ Important stuff only for right now, okay?âÂ
Eddieâs breath shakes when he answers. âYeah.â
âOkay.â
âCool.â
âGood.âÂ
This is somehow worse than silence.
Steve shakes his head, tries to focus through the fog of awkward energy. Important things. Important.
Like, how about âwhat were you doing with a pretty girl in my fucking trailer?â for starters, or maybeâ
Oh, fuck.Â
Steve looks sharply at Eddie. âWhy were you asking if I was real?â
Eddie stares back in silence, eyes huge, bottom lip trembling as Steve presses into his space; drops his voice, brings a hand up to wrap around Eddieâs arm â just above his elbow, soft leather and warm muscle shivering under the touch. God. Please. Not him, too. âEddie. Did youâ did you see something? Are youâŠ?â
âNo,â Eddie shudders. âNo, sorry, just, uhââ He shakes his head with a grimace, a shrill sound spilling out, some frantic braying thing that might have counted as a laugh if his face wasnât doing that. âPretty goddamn sure Iâm just losing my mind after seeing theâ the fuckingââ
His palm floats up to the ceiling in a wobbly zig-zag, looseleaf drifting to the classroom carpet in reverse, then he clenches his fist and lets it explode open with a âboom,â the sound effect ruined by another strangled laugh. âOh, my god,â he giggles. Humorless, horrified, nervous system overwhelm. His entire arm is shaking. âOh, shit, oh, Jesus Christ, Steve, Chrissyâsââ
âHey.â Steve tightens his grip on Eddieâs arm; waits for Eddie to take a breath, gasping and wet. âWe canât think about it, alright?â
Eddieâs voice cracks miserably. âThatâs not fucking fair to her.â
âI know.â Steve loosens his hold; smooths his palm over the leather sleeve; wonders who heâs really trying to soothe. âI know. But we canâtâ if what you and Dustin said is true, if itâs really someâ some monster that hurt Chrissy, thatâs trying to hurt us? We canât grieve yet, okay? We canât give him an opening to attack. We need a game plan.â     Â
Eddie exhales like heâs trying to mimic an owl. âOkay,â he nods eventually, slapping his thighs as he stands up. âOkay. Game plan. Yeah. Shit. Games and sports and plans andâŠâÂ
He trails off, mouth moving around mumbled gibberish as he wiggles his fingers and drums on himself, hands slipping up his torso, tongue over his top lip. He pats his front pocket. âOh, hell yeah, baby.â Whirling to face Steve, he slips his forefinger and thumb into the narrow pouch and pulls out the Altoids tin where he keeps his pre-roll stash. âHowâs this for a game plan?â
â
part 66
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