#just watching for the first time this is what I thought
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oblivious!reader x downbad!spencer who’s not even nervous to flirt with reader anymore cuz she just doesn’t get it (probs older episodes spence)
CLUELESS | Spencer Reid x reader
description: Spencer's got a crush, too bad you're entirely clueless to his dilemma. (S3!Spencer in mind)
length 1.2k
At first he’d thought it was the world’s gentlest form of rejection, how you would dodge his questions, barely bat an eye at him laying himself bare for you, thought that maybe you were pretending not to see the way his hands shook and voice quivered to save him some face.
“I-I was wondering if you wanted to go see Zodiac at the movie theatre?” He stammered, obsessively tucking his hair behind his ear because it felt like it was ticking his cheeks, or perhaps that was just some residual sweat gathering on his temple because you were just so pretty when you looked at him like that, your eyes wide and excited, waiting for him to finish speaking because you always loved to listen to him, “I was thinking we could try comparing it to the actual case and figure out how accurate their hollywood version of it is,”
Your face lit up like the fourth of July, and your smile was blinding, “Oh, I love the movies! It’s going to be so fun, Spence!” You chirped, whirling around in your desk chair to meet Emily’s bored stiff expression as she scrolled through her computer, “Em, Spencer wants us to go see Zodiac, you in?”
Spencer paled, because that was not what he’d meant by we whatsoever. It wasn’t that he held anything against Emily, nor JJ or Penelope as they were quickly roped into the plans as well, he just hadn't had them in mind when he thought to ask you out on a date. From what he could tell you hadn’t escaped spending time with him alone on purpose. He just hadn’t quite been specific in his question, it was an easy mistake to make.
But you looked so excited as you organised who was getting what snacks, quickly dibsing the seat slap bang in the middle of everyone so you wouldn’t feel like anyone got left out. He thought his chest stuttered when you grabbed his hand and asked if you could sit with him since he’d remember the most about the original case, and you’d need his big brain for the little game he had planned.
Spencer agreed, instead of trying to make it clear what he’d meant by his original question, because he hated disappointing people and the other girls seemed just as thrilled to go see the movie as you were. It wasn’t until Morgan slapped him on the back with a chuckle, having watched the whole thing from his own desk that Spencer felt truly dumb.
“You’re going to have to try better than that, pretty boy,” He exclaimed, and Spencer bit his lip in thought, “Try asking her to do something in a way that leaves no room for confusion, girls like it when you’re direct,”
And he nodded vehemently, because dating advice from Morgan was usually sound and bulletproof, how else would would he have garnered the ladies man reputation?
Direct, he could be direct. Sure, Spencer could be direct.
He swallowed heavily just thinking about it.
–
“These are for you,” Spencer jumped in before you could get sidetracked by chatting his ear off about the squirrel you’d nearly ran over on your way to work, and your expression flitted into surprise.
He handed you the big bunch of pink roses and baby’s breath, and your mouth cracked into a smile immediately. “Oh, Spencer, these are beautiful, you shouldn’t have. My birthday’s not for another week,”
“And I booked us a table at that Thai place on your block that you always get- wait birthday?” Spencer stumbled over his script, the words he’d been practising all morning coming to an effective halt as he realised once again his intentions had flown right over your head. And yet before he could set his record straight, just like you had last time, you’d jumped at the chance of spending time with him without understand just what you were agreeing to.
“I love Thai food, that’s so thoughtful of you, Spence,” You said, hopping up out of your chair to give him a bear hug around his lithe waist, the flowers still tightly in the palm of your hand. He reciprocated, even if his expression was a terrible mix of frustration and confusion.
It was like someone had cast some sort of spell over his words so that he’d never be able to ask you out on a date, like he was trying to speak in a dream, the words never really coming out. You weren’t dumb, not by any means, you could be a little naive sometimes, but never cruel. Spencer had no idea what the answer was. He guessed he was right back at square one.
–
“I don’t know man, I tried asking her to the movies, she thought it was a group thing. I tried taking her out for dinner, she thought it was for her birthday, I even asked if she wanted to come over to mine and she thought I meant a sleepover. What’s romantic about pillow forts?” Spencer sighed, leaning his head into his palm as he watched you swan around the office without a single inkling of his affections, “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I had fun at every one of them, but I just want there to be more. Maybe she just doesn’t feel the same,”
“Don’t lose hope, pretty boy,” Derek comforted, the seemingly appointed love Guru that had had to witness two weeks of Spencer’s advances get sidelined. He followed Reid’s gaze to where you hummed a song to yourself as you collected files from Emily’s desk to take them over to your own. He bit his lip in thought, “I don’t think it’s personal, honest, I don’t think she means anything by it. You just need to be clearer,”
“Clearer?” Spencer said with raised brows, using a single prod of his converse to swivel himself around to face you, and your expression perked into a smile just from seeing him. Derek watched the two of you closely, his theory all but game set and match as you seemed genuinely excited to see their resident genius who was convinced there was nothing there, “That shirt is really cute on you. It makes your eyes look really pretty,” Spencer said, in his most direct tone possible, because the nervousness seemed to dissipate when he knew you wouldn’t pick up on his intentions. The only sign you’d heard him at all was the way your fingers ruffled his hair affectionately.
“Aw, thank you, Spencer,” You said, a little bounce in your step as you passed his desk to your own, running a gentle hand over his arm, where his blue striped shirt bunched around his biceps, “I like your purple one the best, but this one’s quite handsome too,” You replied, grabbing the other wad of papers from your drawer without much of a reaction and heading up the stairs to Hotch’s office, and he turned back to Morgan, throwing his hands up in exasperation.
Morgan laughed, shaking his head and yanking his cup of coffee towards him, “She’ll figure it out some day, lover boy. I give it a month, tops,”
And Spencer huffed, wheeling himself back to his desk, his eyes naturally trailing up to the large window that divided them from Hotch’s personal space, the two of you discussing something jovially as if you were none the wiser to his internal predicament.
He made a note to wear his purple shirt more often.
#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid imagine#criminal minds x reader#spencer reid fanfiction#matthew gray gubler x reader
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get you alone | ljn ( m )
ideally, jeno should have his hands full with teaching. (un)fortunately, he only seems to have his head full of you.
pairing: tutor!jeno x reader
verse: college au
rating: r ( minors, do not interact! )
warnings & tags: jeno is a college algebra math tutor & reader is failing, written in lapslock, not beta’d in any shape or form so please excuse mistakes, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it, folks), piv, oral (f!receiving), use of pet names (kitten, angel, sweetheart), praise, reader calls jeno ‘sunbae’ until she doesn’t, size kink i guess if u squint!
word count: 8.5k
a/n : actually this was written for a different fandom but i’ve decided to make it a jeno fic bc idk why not! first time writing in a different perspective so it’s a bit odd for me & i can't say i fw with this style nor am i particularly proud of this fic but she is ... sumn! also i fear i have a thing for the math tutor trope but that’s neither here nor there AHA enjoy !!
if you liked it, please consider reblogging to support (especially because this may get flagged for mature content)!
there wasn’t anything special about your case; at least, that’s what jeno had thought when he picked up your request before he met you. before he met you, you were just another student trying to demystify the painfully enigmatic art of getting through college algebra. before he met you, he had already tagged this case as another charity stint — a good way to get brownie points with the dean’s office and the mathematics and natural sciences department. in fact, thinking of all his tutoring cases as community service made them somewhat palatable, if not a little forgettable. he was quite sure, at the time, that you’d be in and out — both of the tutoring center and his memory. such was the case with most of his other tutees, anyway.
he hadn’t expected you to be… well, you — a pretty little thing, with your sweet smile and your wide doe eyes. on the first day, you’d stood out; you’d arrived at the tutoring center’s lobby in a short dress, knit cardigan, and coquettish makeup, as if every fiber of your being were bidding the spring a solid farewell. multiple heads had turned, including his, as you came up to the front desk and asked for one lee jeno for college algebra. you were eager for summer, jeno had learned as you broke the ice little by little, in part because you looked forward to visiting okinawa with your family, but also because you were eager to get your first semester out of the way. that much, you had in common with most of his other students — almost all of the ones seeking help in college algebra only took it as a depressing core requirement of whatever degree they were doing. you, specifically, were focusing on fashion design; that very vividly explained your attention to your looks. this mathematics class was a thorn in your side, a mandatory thing that was simply supposed to get you through later business-oriented classes in your degree program. for jeno, however, college algebra had become the perfect excuse from the moment he’d laid eyes on you.
the more time he spends with you, the more he thinks you’re exactly his taste. it starts off with little things he finds attractive, things he picks up while he’s watching you fill out the practice sheets he’s prepared for you on quadratic equations or while trying to get you to understand logarithms — your neat, tiny handwriting, almost like print; your habit of boxing your final answers in firm strokes, even if they’re hopelessly wrong; your colored tabs, cascading down the page side of your textbook. but as the weeks wear on, he sees all the little things in between — the way your long eyelashes quiver when you stop and close your eyes as you think for the answer, the upturn of your plush lips when you have the same answer on the practice sheet as he does, the deepening of your artificial blush with a natural hue when you realize you don’t know the answers to his gentle questions. he notices that you refuse to wear anything longer than a knee-length skirt despite the still-strong winds, notices that your tiny palms are always smooth and pink, that your hair always smells of coconut milk. these are things he can’t help but jot down in his memory — that was exactly what you were, after all: memorable.
and the more he remembers about you, the more jeno wants you. yet he’s never made a move, never given so much as a hint of his interest, not only because there are prying eyes all around the building but also because you have never so much as shown a smidge of desire back. in fact, he has to wonder if you’ve ever thought of him in a different capacity — not as a tutor, but as a man. if you have, you’ve never made that obvious; you always talk to him respectfully, the little wall you’ve erected between the both of you remaining steady, and you never let your eyes linger on his face for longer than it takes for him to explain what you don’t know. jeno has had his fair share of female students, and in all of them, he’s seen the same kind of hunger — to few, he’s catered to their whims, if only to pass the time, if only for his own benefit. but you, with your ribbons in your hair and your sweet, sweet mouth, have never once shown that same kind of desire.
he doesn’t know if it frustrates him, but he does know one thing — it makes him want you all the more.
he wants you even now, as you sit across from him, dolled up as usual. even now, as your eyes take on a glassy sheen of defeat, your cheeks puffing out in the way that tells him you’re admonishing yourself once again, he craves you — maddeningly so. and he realizes that it doesn’t really matter if you're not the one to fall first, as long as he can still have you.
“time out,” you beg, your fingers meeting the palm of your hand to signal a break. “my brain feels like it’s going to explode.”
“you just had a break ten minutes ago,” jeno reminds you, though there’s a lighthearted amusement to his voice that makes you smile sheepishly. “at this rate, you’ll be on more breaks than you’ll be taking the time to actually learn.”
“i’m trying,” you groan, your fingers curling against your forehead as you bump your head against your fist. “i just don’t think i’m cut out for this polynomial whatever — trial and error bullshit.”
“you’ll hate me for saying this — but you’ll never know unless you keep trying.”
“funny.” your sigh rustles the papers in front of you gently. “how do you do it, sunbae?”
“hm?”
“you’re not only good at this stuff, but you’re so good you’re able to take the time to teach people like me.”
“strengths and weaknesses — it’s the natural way of the world.” jeno smiles gently at you, and he notes how his chest feels tighter when you return the sentiment shyly. “i could never do what you’re doing in your own degree, try as i might. anyway, you’ll get there. i won’t let you become my first ever failed project, you know.”
“i wouldn’t want to let you down either, sunbae, but—” the back end of your pencil taps lightly against the surface of the table. “it just feels hopeless. i can’t focus on anything. it’s so… so abstract, and everyone here is talking all at once, and i don’t even know what i’m ever going to get out of this class in the long run.”
even when you’re dejected, you look pretty; your bottom lip juts out naturally when you whine like this, and for a moment, jeno can’t say anything in response. he’s too busy wondering what your mouth would feel like on his — on him. when he snaps himself out of his brief reverie, he notices you’re looking around at everyone else — and he has to agree that with the noise level in this whole building, it isn’t the most conducive site for learning, especially when the learner is already so averse to the subject matter.
“i can’t help much in the way of it being too abstract,” he says kindly. “but it’s not a requirement for us to have our sessions here. i know it can be quite distracting, all these voices flying around, so why don’t you look for a place that better suits you, and we can start meeting there instead? the more comfortable you are in your environment, the better you’ll be able to absorb the material, i’m sure.”
“you think?” your pencil comes to a slow halt as you refocus on him, a thoughtful light glimmering behind your gaze. “yeah — yeah, i actually wouldn’t mind that. then, i’ll look for a different place for us to meet, and we can start there next week. how does that sound?”
“whatever suits you suits me,” he responds easily.
he lowers his gaze immediately after you flash him a blinding grin; there are far too many people here, as you both very well know, and if he keeps looking at you and your pretty little expressions any longer, he might just give them something to actually look at.
it had been your idea, not his, so why did jeno feel like he’d dragged you into a compromising situation?
you’d texted him over the weekend that your search for a new venue had been absolutely fruitless; every cafe and study space you’d been to was either too expensive or equally as packed with people, if not both. jeno had seen the preview to your message, but he hadn’t been prepared for what it read out in full when he’d actually opened it.
sunbae, would it be too difficult to just meet at my apartment? i attached a map, so let me know!
it wouldn’t be too difficult; logistics-wise, it was walking distance from campus and almost directly across the train station he takes home. it also definitely promised an environment you were comfortable in, and you wouldn’t have to worry about excess noise from any other tutoring groups. no, the difficulty really only lied in himself — you two, all alone, would certainly mean his mind would be up to no good for the two hours every monday, wednesday, and thursday you would be together.
but for your sake, he’d try to rein it in, with the operative word being try.
your place is as neat and as pretty as you are; he doesn’t know if you’ve cleaned up for him, or if you’re naturally this organized, but he likes it all the same. it smells of toasted marshmallow and expensive perfume, and all your furniture matches. jeno supposes he likes that in a woman — someone able to care for herself, someone who cares about herself. and you’re always just as neat and pretty to match, with your hair always styled sweetly, your makeup always enhancing your features.
the problem is that now that he’s in here, where you live, and where you spend most of your time, jeno’s mind seems to wander too much towards thoughts about what you do in private. he rejects studying on the couch, not just because it’s bad for posture and concentration but also because he can’t help but imagine you pressed into the cushions by his hand. he suggests the small dining table you have, but on the second meeting at your place, he starts thinking about what you might look like seated on the table, your ass hanging over the edge and his face buried between your thighs. whenever you look up to ask him something, he drinks in your lovely, made-up face again, and starts wondering what your makeup would look like ruined before he interrupts that trainwreck of a thought with the answer to your question.
by the end of the week, jeno’s defenses are all but shot, and he realizes that this situation might be optimal for you, but it definitely isn’t doing him and his now constantly straining cock any great favors.
he supposes that your performance has somewhat improved; you’re less likely to trail off when you’re thinking and can actually do practice sets for a lot longer without all the noise and hubbub around you. your only real hindrance is yourself and your frustration; you have a habit of giving into your carelessness that sends you spiraling into despair, and it doesn’t help that when you press your cheek against the surface of your dining table and whine, the comfort jeno offers is noticeably delayed because he’s too busy thinking about his cock between your lips.
“my dad’s going to kill me if i fail this midterm,” you grumble, stabbing the practice sheet with your pencil; it skids sideways, and jeno robotically fixes it back into proper alignment for you, careful not to brush against the arm that’s folded inwards, supporting your chin. “he only agreed to let me take this degree because of the business aspect of it. as if i’ll need to know about—” you check the header of the worksheet. “domain and range when i’m doing actual design work.”
“you’ll never know what might be useful later on in life. i definitely thought this was nonsense back in high school — and then i got this job.”
“and now you’re rolling in dough?” you smile slightly. jeno chuckles.
“i’m a long way away from having myself a scrooge mcduck golden pool, but i make enough to get by very comfortably, thanks to this.”
“thanks to me, you mean.”
“you’re not my only student,” he snorts, pinching your elbow; you cry out exaggeratedly. “focus up. the hour’s almost over, and you should have finished with this much earlier.”
“can you leave it as homework?”
“not a chance.”
you blow out a sharp puff of air. “my mom used to do this thing where she’d give me rewards if i did well with my homework. i wish i’d still get something out of this.”
“what kind of rewards did she give you?”
“chocolates — candy, or sometimes we’d go out for milk tea together, if i did a particularly good job.”
“this is math tutoring, not a trip to the dentist,” jeno says, amused.
“a trip to the dentist would be more enjoyable,” you mutter under your breath, picking up your pencil and doodling an angry face next to the number you’re only halfway through solving. “this totally blows.”
“try to finish this before the hour’s up, and i’ll see if i can get you something nice. out of my own paycheck,” he stresses, prodding at your cheek to shift your attention back to the paper. he doesn’t miss the fact that your eyes light up, childish as the promise is.
he doesn’t know if that’s really what motivates you, but you do manage to finish the worksheet with a few minutes to spare before the clock hits seven, and that earns you some light, solo applause. it isn’t much by way of true praise, but you flush with pride all the same. jeno packs his things in silence as you get yourself a glass of water, and you see him to the door. only there does he notice your eager eyes, your expectant smile.
“what’s going through that pretty little head of yours?”
“are you really going to give me a reward? i did great today, you know,” you respond bluntly.
“you were serious about that?” he laughs.
“absolutely. i earned it.” you raise a slim finger, wagging it in his face. he trails it with his gaze, no shortage of amusement in his eyes. “next monday, i want something sweet.”
jeno takes in the sight of you, keeping your door open with your hip; he wonders if you know what you’re doing to him, what you’re asking of him — if you even know there’s nothing that could possibly be sweeter than you at this very moment. he drinks in the sight of your feigned haughty expression on your pretty features, the unnervingly low dip of your tank top, the tempting hemline of your shorts, and feels like you must be aware of what he’s going to do next.
“if it’s something sweet you want, you don’t have to wait until next week.”
he does it before he can think it through — surely, there’s nothing too harmful about a quick kiss? he angles your chin upward with his thumb and forefinger before you can even react to his words, and he tastes you like that for the first time. you’re just as soft and as sweet as he’d imagined, if not more so.
when jeno pulls away, you step back; there’s shock written all over your face, your mouth still hanging open slightly. your voice is gentle, shaky when you start speaking.
“sunbae, wha—”
“see you next week. rest up over the weekend, or there’ll be consequences.”
he finds it easy to joke with you now, even after what he’s done — finds it easy to wave goodbye with nonchalance as he walks to the elevator, now that he’s gotten one thing out of his system. the look on your face, the growing blush across the bridge of your nose and your temples is indication enough for jeno to feel confident — if you hadn’t thought about him that way before, you were sure to spend the next few days doing exactly that.
it’s exactly a week before your midterm exam, and jeno notices you’re less than focused.
he’d let you stew over the weekend, not expecting much by way of communication; indeed, his phone hadn’t once been jostled by your texts. he’d taken that silence to assume that you’d been wrapped up in thoughts of the kiss he’d left you with, and you did not disappoint on that front; the next monday saw you fidgety, flushed, and constantly faltering in your words. you asked less questions, which normally indicated a problem, but today, he’d let it slide; you definitely had a little too much on that pretty little brain of yours.
he notices you’re still dolled up — your eyelids are shimmery, and your lips are glossy; you’re wearing a tennis skirt that hits all the right buttons for him, too. it’s true that you’re always pretty well-dressed and put together, but today somehow feels different. if before, jeno had always seen you dressed up simply to look good, today it feels a little more like you’re dressed up to look good for him. he knows it’s a little bit egotistical to assume as much, but he also doesn’t miss the side glances you throw at him when you think he’s not looking at you answering your textbook or the way your cheeks glow when you make the slightest bit of eye contact.
still, you try to focus as much as you can; it’s adorable, in fact, to see all your valiant efforts to appear unperturbed. he figures he’ll play along for as long as you will — what matters to him, after all, is that you’re in the game to begin with. you complain less today, focus on your worksheets, and jeno even manages to witness the sight of your forehead creasing up as you concentrate on a particularly difficult item. you’re adorable, in the kind of way that makes him want to pin you down and have his way with you.
you finish your work without a fuss today; you only actually asked for his help twice, which was a feat in and of itself. and again, when the session is over, you walk him to the door.
this time, when you linger, he waits; you’re clearly not good at hiding your true intentions, as it’s become clear you have something you want to say. as you try to piece your thoughts together, jeno reaches into his backpack’s front pocket and extracts today’s gift — an actual chocolate bar, albeit a rather run of the mill one.
“what’s this?” you ask, your thought process clearly derailed as confusion takes over your features.
“your reward. for a good job last week and today — you said you wanted one, didn’t you?”
“but i thought—” you stop yourself, your mouth opening and closing, suddenly wordless. jeno grins.
“not good enough? i picked that up from a convenience store on my way here, so it definitely isn’t anything special, but i thought it would at least be a good motivator.”
you’re turning red, and there’s turmoil in your eyes — he enjoys this, he realizes, the way he flusters you. if he had known this would be the result, he would have made a move much sooner. you shift your weight from one foot to the other, back and forth, obviously weighing out your options too. finally, you say, “alright.”
“you seem disappointed.”
“i’m not.”
“i’ll get you a better brand next time, if you really don’t like it.”
“it’s not that.”
“so what is it?” he doesn’t expect you to say it, and you don’t defy expectations; your bottom lip just quivers, and jeno chuckles low under his breath, stepping forward just past your doorway, just a little bit closer to you. “don’t tell me you wanted something completely different?”
you don’t say so, but he knows; he can tell by the way you tilt your head back, the way your lips part slightly, the gloss still trailing along the seam. he can tell by the way your torso arches just a little bit closer, almost like an accident. he can tell by the way your eyes bore into his, almost pleading.
“what you did last week…” you start, but your voice trails off into nothing soon after. he chuckles again.
“ah, that. i might have gotten ahead of myself.”
“was that all?” you press.
“and what would you do, if it wasn’t?”
“well — do you always like to play games?”
“i have a penchant for playing with my food before i eat it, if that answers your question.” he smiles down at your still-reddening face. “i was giving you a reward, as you wanted. i came up short on options then and there. you’ll let it slide this once, won’t you?”
“you did that just because i did well last week?”
“of course.”
“well, i did well today, too.”
“you did, and that’s why you have this.” he gestures to the chocolate bar in your hand.
“i don’t want this.” your voice is stubborn now, heated and frustrated, and you stuff the chocolate back into his hand. you must not like having to ask for something so blatantly — it’s too bad jeno wants to hear it in those exact words.
“tell me what you really want, then.”
you’re still unable to find the words, but your hands do the talking for you; they press into his shoulders and give you leverage to tiptoe until you’re just close enough to his lips. but you don’t close that gap, your mouth quivering only inches away from his, and oh, jeno wants to toy with you, but you’re just too irresistible this close to him. his warm palms press against your jaw, keeping your face steady as he closes the gap, and this time, he doesn’t just get a brief taste of you — jeno claims your lips with the thirst of a man who’s stumbled upon an oasis in the desert.
you must have thought about this moment long and hard over the weekend, because the nonchalant side of you that’s turned a blind eye to him is completely gone; he drinks in your soft noises and short, breathless gasps — all signs of your eagerness — until he’s drunk on the taste of you. the deeper the kiss gets, the less you can keep up, but you try, and jeno always likes rewarding your efforts, his wide tongue taut and flush against your tiny one in the sweet, warm cavern of your mouth. he licks every inch of it, leaves the mild nicotine taste of himself there, before he pulls away slowly. your eyes are still closed when he creates distance, fluttering open in a happy haze a few seconds later.
“good enough for you?” he murmurs, tucking a soft lock of hair behind your ear. you hum in assent through your dazed smile, and jeno knows he won’t be the only one looking forward to this coming wednesday.
you’d done really well today.
jeno’s proud of you — prouder than he’s been of most of his students in his career here at the university, actually. you’d finally answered a worksheet almost perfectly, save for a couple of numbers where you’d forgotten to round up, and those things are absolutely negligible at this point (by his books, anyway). you’ve been on your best behavior yet, avoiding all forms of complaint, and he knows fully well why, but he won’t criticize you for your hard work all the same, no matter the motivation behind it.
in fact, you’ve done so good that he doesn’t wait until he’s about to leave to give you your sweet reward — which is why, twenty minutes before he’s meant to go, he’s got you on your couch, your legs spread, each one hooked over his shoulders.
truth be told, you’d been good way before the lesson had started; you’d answered the door in a crop top and the tiniest pair of shorts you’ve dared to wear yet — all clothes that you couldn’t yet wear outside yet, given the weather. selfishly, jeno is thankful for this fact, and if he had to list down other things he’s thankful for, just off the top of his head, it’s that you no longer meet in the tutoring center and that your apartment’s walls seem thick and well-reinforced.
“sunbae, don’t tease me.” your silly little whining voice makes its first appearance of the day, but all jeno does is smile — it’s an almost wicked expression, set firmly between your thighs. “you said i did really well today. don’t tell me you’re backing out on rewarding me?”
“not at all, sweetheart,” he hums, pressing a small kiss to your inner thigh. he likes seeing you shiver at the contact, likes the way you’re chewing on your lip in what appears to be slight agitation. “just thinking of how much of a reward you deserve.”
in all honesty, jeno would like to take every bit of you now; you’re already so ready for him, anyway. he can smell the faint perfume of your arousal, can see the way you’re anticipating the most from him, and a part of him doesn’t want to deny you of that. the larger part of him has dreamed of burying his cock into you, anyway, and why wouldn’t he do that? but something also tells him to wait — or, rather, to make you wait, to make you want him just a little more.
and so, he decides.
his mouth finds your skin again, pressing kisses up your thigh; they get wetter, hotter as his mouth moves up, until his nose and lips are buried against your clothed core. you squirm in response, but his grip on your thighs keeps you relatively steady, even as his tongue presses against thin fabric. the wet muscle pushes sharp against your tiny entrance, the tip meeting slight resistance against your shorts and panties, but he finds a way, burying half his tongue in alongside damp cloth.
you’re already wet like this, and so needy that it might be possible for jeno to get you off just like this, still clothed, but the hunger in him spikes once you call out to him.
“sunbae, please…”
with a groan, his fingers yank the fabric aside, exposing your pussy to the warmth of his breathing. it’s as pink, as pretty, as tiny as the rest of you, as fuckable as he’d imagined it would be, and he wastes no time in pressing his tongue flat against your folds, dragging it up in a wide, messy stripe; the muscle only tenses when it bumps against your clit, his tongue flicking upwards to tease it.
you’re so reactive, even at the slightest things — you whimper, you squeeze your eyes shut, you squirm. you’re begging to be fucked, and jeno’s cock is strained tight against his jeans, but your taste is so addicting that he can’t help but dive back in. his tongue eases between your folds now, spreading them apart until they’re lewd and sticky with his saliva, and the nub of your clit has grown so pronounced now — so pert and lovely that he can’t help but purse his lips around it and suck with excess force.
“sunbae — f—fuck,” you mewl; you almost sound tearful. “f—feels so good…”
jeno wants to tell you how fucking good you taste, how beautiful the sounds you’re making are, but his mouth is too busy; his teeth rake down your cunt lightly, earning him a jerk of your hips, and he has to place pressure down on your thighs again to make sure you’re still enough for him to slip his tongue into your cunt.
he can tell even just by that how tight you’d be around him; your walls are warm around his tongue, and there’s a pressure against the muscle that tells him how good it’d feel for his cock to take its place. as if to simulate his desires, he presses his tongue deeper in, fucks you shallowly with its wetness until your whimpers become little sobs, broken and choked back. his thumb drags across your slit then settles against your clit, and he can feel the thrum of your pulse against the pad of his finger, beckoning him. he complies, easily, thumb tracing circles around the nub that start off slow, only for him to ramp up the pace alongside his tongue.
you’re easily at fault for that; the way you whine for him, call him sunbae, tell him how good it feels over and over — why wouldn’t he want more of you?
he’s not sure which of you really earns the sweet reward today; you cum on his tongue, your cunt trembling against his mouth and your fingers threaded into his hair, but he’s the one who comes out licking his lips like he’s had the best treat of his damn life.
come the middle of next week, jeno finds himself face to face with a test paper — one already clearly marked, with a number circled on the top-right corner. ninety. a stellar grade for anyone, and especially for you.
you know it, and you look absolutely triumphant; you’re practically shining as you perch on your little dining table, your perfectly manicured finger jabbing at the score in emphasis.
“flying colors, wouldn’t you say?”
“color me impressed,” jeno replies smoothly, a genuine smile of pride tugging at his lips; he turns the page over, scanning your responses. you still draw your parabolas a little on the small side, making them a bit difficult to discern, and you’ve still got the habit of not rounding your answers up, but this is tremendous work, and he’ll be the first to praise you for it. “your dad must be filled to the brim with joy now, right?”
“i haven’t told him yet. you were the first.”
“well, i’m proud of you, sweetheart.”
“proud enough to give me a reward?”
he looks down at you in feigned thoughtfulness. here you sit, back in your little tennis skirt, looking up at him with hopeful eyes under those long, curled lashes. for someone who spent the first half of this semester acting ostensibly nonchalant, you’d very easily shown your true colors soon after — not that he really minds. in fact, he’s taken a decided kind of liking to how eager and willing you’ve come to be.
“we’ve only just started our session, though,” he hums out, an idle thumb grazing his chin as he watches your expression turn from bright to cloudy, the beginnings of strategy darkening your gaze. it’s not like he wants to say no; he has no real intention to. but seeing you squirm in want makes him feel good about his decision to hold out a little longer — never mind the ache in his cock even then. “don’t we usually leave the rewards for a later time?”
“i was thinking — since it’s the start of a new lesson —”
“we wouldn’t want you falling behind from the start, would we?”
“i promise i won’t,” you pout. “i promise i’ll put in my best effort next time.”
“next time? sweetheart, don’t tell me you’re thinking to get off scot-free today…” jeno trails off, his hand falling to the nearest surface it can reach — which, logic seems to dictate, is your soft, milky thigh. he feels you tense under his palm, and he bites back a smile, keeping his expression level. “i just don’t know.”
your small hands grip at the front of his shirt, and he hears you, for the first time, doing something he’s always wanted to hear you do.
“please, sunbae?”
how could he say no to you? he hadn’t really planned on it, had only wanted to see you do this, but it’s still too much and beyond his expectation — your misty gaze, your quivering lip. it’s almost laughable that you don’t think he’d notice the way you shift yourself so that his hand, still warm against your thigh, slides up your skin, the hem of your skirt bunched up in the junction between his thumb and forefinger.
jeno chuckles — isn’t this exactly where and how he’s always wanted you? “how could you ask me like that and expect me to refuse, angel? in that case, i have no real choice but to dedicate all our time today to your reward.”
your breathing hitches — in anticipation, in desire, in excitement — as his hand continues its trail upward, deliberately now, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties. his head dips down, rests into the crook of your neck, and he inhales the thick, sweet scent of your perfume, your shampoo, of you and all that he’ll take from you.
“just remember, you asked for this,” he murmurs against your skin. “so i’m going to take every bit of you until there’s nothing left for anyone else.”
you’re so willing, so ready even before he can get his full bearings; your hips are rising slightly off the table, and jeno feels like it’s you that’s telling him to move faster. he tugs down your panties, letting gravity take its course until they’re a tiny puddle of fabric on the floor, and he slots himself between your legs. like this, you have no choice but to spread, and you do so without hesitation, your knees locking against his sides as he pulls you in for a tight, hungry kiss. there’s that taste of you he loves, that clean, sweet buzz that draws him in, and his hands are bruisingly tight on your waist as he reclaims your lips.
you already look dazed when he pulls away, which is always cute, but a little unfair — jeno wants you to be aware still when he takes you, and damn, if he doesn’t want to take you right fucking now. he kisses you again, harder and more demanding, as if willing your attention back to him, while his hands explore you — run up your thighs, fingers brushing against the plush curve of your ass. it’s not enough, not by a long shot, and he’s pushing the waistline of your skirt up your stomach with his hands, letting his warmth transfer onto your skin; he chuckles as your stomach sucks inward at his touch, just as you let out a gasp against his lips.
and he wants desperately to hear that noise again; in fact, he wants to know what you sound like in every capacity. his mouth works down your neck, pleased to find that suckling wet and languid on a spot just above your collarbone has you writhing and whimpering. are you sensitive or touch-starved? whatever the reason, he wants to draw all of that out of you, his hands drawing back down to hook under your thighs. jeno drags you to the edge of the table, until your bare cunt is flush against the front of his jeans, and he lets you feel him — a brief tease of what’s to come.
“i’m s—so wet already,” you whisper, as if he doesn’t know — as if you know it’s exactly what he wants to hear anyway. “sunbae, please, i need you.”
“not that,” he murmurs, his teeth grazing your collarbone as he speaks. “not sunbae. jeno. call me jeno, angel.”
“jeno,” you exhale shakily, and it’s music to his ears — as if the last thing holding him back from you had shattered.
“that’s it — what a good girl,” he purrs, his hips rocking forward against your pussy before they retract, leaving just enough space for his hand to slip between. slender fingers trail down your folds, sticky and slick. “you are all wet for me, aren’t you? ready to take me deep inside?”
even the way you nod, a tiny movement of assent, drives him wild, yet a part of him still wants to test the limit of your patience, his middle finger stretching to circle your entrance.
“wouldn’t want to shock your tiny little pussy, though, would i? will you let me stretch you out first, kitten?”
“yes,” you mewl, sounding almost tearful. “anything— anything, please.”
jeno drinks in the long, drawn-out keen you set free when his digit sinks into you; he’s already felt your walls against his tongue, but a small part of him is still surprised at just how tight you are. that same part nags that he might not fit easily into you, but whatever that voice is is easily drowned out by a more assertive promise — he’ll make it fit.
“can’t tell you how much i’ve wanted to feel your pretty little hole around my cock,” he presses on, his finger pushing deeper in; he feels you tense a delicious kind of tightness, as if it’s almost too much for you. is it? “ever since that first day you came into the tutoring center, dressed up all cute — did you do that on purpose, sweetheart?”
“yes,” you admit, breathless; the syllable is lengthened into a weak moan as jeno pumps his finger into you, slow, deep strokes that tease your tacky walls open. “wanted — wanted to make a good impression…”
“and you did, didn’t you? kept looking so sweet for me, so pretty every single time — got me thinking about all the ways i wanted to have you. got me so fucking hard every time we’d meet — is that what you wanted?”
jeno doesn’t give you much room to respond, but he can make his own answers to appease himself anyway; he reclaims your lips, already eager for another taste of you, and you comply with the same amount of desire, your soft whimpers melting against his teeth. in the space of pseudo silence, wet, messy noises, he manages to tease another digit into you, and you cry out against his lips as it pushes in, joining the first in how deep it reaches. he absorbs that too, takes in every minute sound you make, relishes the way you pulse around his fingers. even without the noises, he can tell your pleasure’s heightening, with the way you clench around him, your hips rocking pitifully as you’re eager to rut against his palm.
“look at you now.” he’s selfish, but he doesn’t care — he wants to ruin you, and if the telltale squelch of your cunt as he fucks his fingers into it isn’t indication enough, then the way your mouth hangs open as he pulls away, letting his name fall freely from your lips, definitely is. “legs spread, all desperate to feel good for me. what a needy little kitten you are. this good enough for you, angel?”
you shake your head, only to squeal as he pulls you closer, his fingers shoving deeper into you; your hips are re-angled, allowing him to brush the pads of his digits against the rough, sweet spot, and he feels triumph bloom in his chest as you throw your head back, teary eyes squeezed shut.
“no, no, no,” you babble, and he can see the bob of your throat as you swallow hard, clutching at sense to make words. “want — need your cock, want to cum on your cock so badly, jeno — want you to fuck me, stretch me open, please —”
“greedy, aren’t you?” he murmurs, leaning in to nip at the spot he’d left reddened above your collarbone. “go on then — show me how much you want it. show me what a good girl you are, and cum on my fingers.”
“but—”
“come on, angel,” he urges above the squelching noises, increasing surely in volume. his fingers meet resistance when they spread apart inside you, but all it does is create a delicious friction that has you squirming in his hold. “don’t hold back. let me see you fall apart.”
and you do, so prettily, your eyes rolling back and your voice unrestrained. jeno’s fingers ride you through your orgasm, pumping deep and steady despite how slick you’ve gotten, your juices coating his hand and wrist. he watches the flush rise to your neck, stopping at your cheeks, watches the heaving of your chest, the shine of your skin from a thin sheen of sweat, and he doesn’t want to let you come down from this high, but his cock is aching — practically bursting from his jeans — and all he can do is make the silent vow that the next time you look like this, he’ll be balls deep in you.
“that’s my girl,” he coos gently, watching the tension slip from your shoulders; his free hand is at the small of your back quickly, easing you down as your torso falls back, and you’re laying on the table. “pretty little thing, aren’t you? cumming so sweetly for me.”
“jeno,” you groan out weakly, your tiny hand clasping around his wrist. “cock — i want your cock, please—”
“can’t wait?” he’s indecent for sounding amused, but even that does nothing to stay his arousal; how eager you are simply makes him want you all the more. “okay, angel — since you asked so nicely.”
a slight twinge of disappointment runs through him as he pulls his fingers out, but it’s quickly buried by the feeling he gets once he gives you a clear sweep of a once-over; how slutty you look, still half-dressed but already half-ruined, your thighs shaking in an effort to keep them open for him, the remnants of your last climax still leaking out of your hole. the sight of you has him so distracted that unbuttoning and unzipping his pants feels like a fever dream of an act; he barely notices what he’s doing until he’s already bare in front of you, and alertness has crawled halfway back into your consciousness as you push yourself up on your elbows to look at him.
“it’s so—” you have the decency to blush, though there’s a pleased look on your face that tells him you’re not really embarrassed. “i didn’t think you’d be this big.”
“does that worry you?”
“i’ve never had anyone… this big.” pride blooms in his chest — good, he thinks, because if he can’t be as memorable as your first, then he’ll take being the most in something as a prize. “i don’t think — will it fit?”
“does it matter?” he chuckles, and your blush deepens. “no matter what — you’ll take all of me in, won’t you?”
you chew on your bottom lip, as if considering your options, but to jeno, there’s really only one choice — the correct one, and you make it when you nod your head.
“it’ll feel good, though, you know,” he muses. his hand wrapped around his base, he lines himself up with you, the tip grazing against your folds. “even better than just now.”
with just a little more pressure, he has his shaft flush against you; his girth sits against your slit, the tip pressed against your clit, and he starts to rock his hips — into his fist, against your cunt. your hips quiver, and a shiver runs through you as your pleasure spikes again, but he can tell it isn’t enough. your bottom lip is back between your teeth, and your eyes are flitting between his face and his cock. jeno reaches out, eases your lip out from between your teeth, strokes it gently, almost tenderly.
“say it,” he commands in a soft, silky voice.
“fuck me, jeno,” you breathe out, barely missing a beat. “fuck me, fuck my pussy, please.”
and if you ask that desperately, he’ll waste no time; he draws his hips back, dragging his cock down until he’s aligned with your entrance. his eyes are trained on your face, even when he pushes in, so that he can take in your expression — the widening of your eyes as his tip breaches the first wave of resistance, the way your mouth falls agape as his fingers dig hard into your flesh. he’s never seen a prettier sight in his life.
“stretched you out already, but you’re still so fucking tight,” his voice is a soft, melodious croon, a stark contrast to the way he’s forcing past your tightness. “tight and wet, like a good girl.”
“so big,” you whimper, your fingers stretched far enough to tickle the front of his shirt. “can’t — can’t take it.”
“of course you can, angel.” jeno doesn’t give you the time to brace yourself fully before he’s rocking his hips in a little more sharply, his cock now halfway into you. your fingers curl into a little fist, immediately flying back to block the noise from your mouth. “ah ah. don’t get shy on me now; you’ve been so noisy for me all this time.”
but he doesn’t really mind the way you clap your palm over your mouth to muffle your high-pitched squeal as he thrusts in fully, the adjustment period after the last movement close to nothing; he’s too busy focusing on how good you feel around him, how warm and wet your insides are. this is heaven, easily, and jeno wants to stay here for as long as he can.
“god, you’re fucking tight,” he repeats, an appreciatory gaze running over where you’re joined. his thumb stretches over your folds, rubbing them — something of an apology, perhaps, although all it does is stimulate you more, and you shiver at the extra contact. “how deep is it, baby?”
“can feel you here,” you mumble out, your small hand pressing just above your pelvis. he feels the tightness multiply as you place pressure, even just for a moment. “your cock’s so much deeper than anyone else.”
your hand falls away, limp, as he draws his hips back; you inhale, long and deep, before letting it out as a broken moan when he pushes back in. it drives him crazy, to start off this slow, when all he wants is to find a pace that has you sobbing, but the resistance of your pussy against his length isn’t easy to ignore. jeno works you open, his jaw set and his grip tight against your frame, and it isn’t long before he’s picking up speed, the slap of his flesh against yours fueling him exponentially, mingling with your cries, steadily increasing in volume.
“that’s it. let everyone hear you,” he eggs on, his thumb now circling tight around your clit; your legs are quivering, threatening to close, but he keeps you steady, one arm wrapped around your thigh. his thrusts grow rougher, more deliberate, and when he looks up from where you’re joined back to your face, he sees your expression as a mixture of incredulity and ecstasy. a thin line of drool hangs from the corner of your mouth, your pretty pink lip gloss smeared, and fuck if he doesn’t want to make sure you look like this every single time he comes over. “let them know who’s fucking you good, angel.”
“j— jeno!” your voice hitches, lilts up as he presses in at a different, deeper angle, and he almost cums right then and there from the way your walls pulse around him. “your cock feels so good, fucking me just right— more, god, more—”
he complies without hesitation, gathering both your thighs and pushing them closer to your chest; you look even lewder like this, folded in half with your sopping cunt presented to him like it’s all his to take, and it is, isn’t it? there’s an increase in the intensity, the vigor in which he pumps his cock into you, and he knows he’s brushing repeatedly against your spot by the way you’re blubbering his name out in a way that suggests you sincerely think no one else in this building can hear you.
“that’s my girl,” he hums approvingly, though there’s a thickness in his voice that has him sounding a little more strained. “such a good girl, with your cunt all nice and sloppy for me. do you like it when i go this deep? does it feel good when i fuck you where no one else can?”
“yes!” you sob out, your hands crumpling the end of your skirt up into tight fists. “jeno, i— cum, i need to cum again, please—”
“i’ve got you, kitten,” his tone is reassuring, a stark contrast to the rigor of his hips. “don’t have to hang on for me, you know; always love seeing you fall apart.”
“m’close, so close —”
“let go, then,” he urges, his blunt nails digging into your flesh. “let me feel that sweet cunt cum on my cock.”
you comply without hesitation, though if you’d done it willingly, he can’t really tell; he has to pin your hips down to stop you from bucking up and causing him to slip out, and you writhe against him as you sob in ecstasy, your walls fluttering before they clench. stray tears leak from your eyes, squeezed shut, and jeno wants nothing more than to eat you up like this — broken, fucked out.
you’re not even fully down from your high when he feels it — that sudden wrenching in his gut that tells him he’s about to follow suit. with a low groan, he peels your thighs apart again, lets you watch him as he bullies straight into your leaking hole. your voice is a staccato, punctuating every deep, sharp thrust into you, and it’s exactly to that melody that he wants to get off.
“tell me where you want it, angel.” he doesn’t trust his voice, sharp and short as it is now. “should i mark your pretty face? your stomach?”
“want it against my pussy,” you whisper out, and jeno almost loses his mind as he watches you spread your folds apart with your forefinger and middle finger, inviting him. “make a mess of it, sunbae.”
he’s barely able to pull out before he’s spilling against you; he ruts against your slit, coating your folds and the insides of your thighs in thick, creamy white. you hold your legs apart for as long as you can until they start to tremble, and he catches them and gently eases them down.
when you sit up to kiss him, you’re still demanding; he feels your hips rock closer, your sticky cunt pressing against the underside of his cock.
“not enough,” you murmur against his lips, and jeno chuckles as you bind your hands around his neck.
“don’t worry, kitten,” he hums back. “we’ve got all afternoon.”
#jeno x reader#jeno x you#jeno scenario#jeno scenarios#jeno imagines#jeno drabbles#jeno imagine#jeno drabble#jeno smut#nct x reader#nct dream x reader#nct dream x you#nct x you#nct drabbles#nct dream drabbles#nct dream imagines#nct imagines#nct scenarios#nct dream scenarios#nct smut
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Vintage | Rooster x Reader
Summary: You love teasing your husband about his deep and unwavering devotion to his Bronco, but he's insistent that it would come in second place to you every time, and he intends to prove it. While you're away on deployment, he concocts a plan to get you behind the wheel of your very own vintage beauty.
Warnings: Swears, fluff, mentions of smut
Length: 2700 words
Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader
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"Sometimes I swear you love that thing more than you love me."
Your voice startled Bradley as he ran the wet, soapy sponge along the hood of his vintage Ford Bronco, pulling him from his thoughts. That was something you frequently said to him, jokingly claiming that you were the second love of his life. But you both knew it wasn't true. Especially not tonight.
"Hey, Baby," he whispered, coaxing you closer to him as he tossed the sponge back into the bucket. "Come here."
The setting sun painted your face with orange and gold, and he noticed the sadness in your eyes. He quickly wiped his hands on his jeans and then held them out to you, and you were in his arms in an instant. "Bradley," you mumbled against his chest as he squeezed you, getting your shirt a little damp in the process. But you didn't seem to mind. "I'm going to miss you."
Detailing and cleaning what used to be his dad's 1973 Bronco had become a way for him to relieve stress. He would get out the soap and turn on the hose when he needed a few minutes to himself. It was easier to be alone in his head, processing his thoughts and worries when he was washing the light blue masterpiece he'd spent so many years and a lot of money preserving. He always found himself in a better headspace to deal with whatever was troubling him when he spent some time with the Bronco. And today was no exception.
"I'm going to miss you, too."
Sometimes it felt like the nearly five years you and he had been married were just spent alternating deployments. First he would be gone on an aircraft carrier for months on end, and then it would be your turn. You'd be sent abroad with the Navy before returning to him, and then the cycle would begin anew. Everything felt harder when you weren't around, and maybe that's why Bradley was out on the driveway right now instead of helping you pack for your early call time tomorrow morning.
With your cheek pressed to his sternum, you cried softly. "It's only two months this time. And I'll have access to my phone. And I'll even be home in time for our anniversary. I don't know why I'm feeling so emotional about this."
He pressed his lips to your hair and whispered, "It's not like it gets any easier. You know that. I know that. It's going to feel like two months of hell on my end."
You sniffed hard then looked up at him with a little smirk. "At least you'll have the Bronco to keep you warm."
Bradley groaned and started to walk you backwards toward the house. "I mean, she's pretty and all, and I've definitely spent a night or two curled up around her gear shift, but I never gave her a diamond ring."
Your lips and your soft laughter against his neck sent a jolt of physical pleasure through his body, but he didn't want to rush this. He needed this to last, to hold him over for two months without your touch. Both of you tripped along to the bedroom where he smiled and whispered, "Let me show you that you're my number one girl. Let me prove you always will be."
Bradley was meticulous. He knew every inch of his Bronco, inside and out, but he knew you better. The sounds you made were prettier. The way you clung to him as he brought you pleasure was unparalleled. Your fingers laced with his as he connected his body with yours in the most intimate way, and it left him breathless.
"I love you."
-----------------------
Two days. He'd only been alone for two days, and he was already halfway through binge watching a season of a show that wasn't even that interesting. When he got home from work, he eyed up the couch and TV before ultimately changing into some sweats and heading back out to the driveway. He looked over the Bronco from hood to taillights, making a mental list of what she needed: new wiper blades, two new tires, and an oil change.
When he took his phone out to order the parts from his favorite website, he must have typed something wrong. It rerouted him to a vintage Ford resale page that left him staring at a sage green 1975 Bronco in rough condition. Man, she was still pretty though, with her original chrome and hubcaps. She was just an hour away, and the price wasn't too bad...
He glanced up at the blue gem in front of him. An idea started to take shape. He wondered how you would feel about it. With a smile, he ordered the wiper blades and oil filter that he needed and went inside to make dinner. But he couldn't stop picturing that chipped, green paint, and the vinyl that needed to be patched.
If he knew he could get you hooked on a Bronco of your very own, he'd make this purchase. Two months to go. Shit, he might have just enough time to pull this off. He could practically picture you cranking the engine to life and waving goodbye as you pulled out of the driveway and took your Bronco for a spin. He wouldn't be able to say it with a straight face, but he'd say it anyway. "You love that thing more than you love me, Baby."
When he was stretched out on your side of the bed later that night, enveloped in your sweet scent that clung to the pillows, he closed his eyes and thought long and hard about what he wanted to do. It would be fun to prove to you once and for all where his loyalties lie. Or maybe it could just be a project that would keep him busy, and if you didn't like the idea, he could resell it after you got home. Either way, he drifted to sleep as he thought about you behind the wheel, and he knew it was too perfect to pass up.
----------------------
"Hey, Baby," Bradley said with a smirk as he answered his phone.
"Bradley! I miss you like crazy!"
"I miss you, too," he promised as he looked at the rather beat up, green Bronco before him. He got it for a great price when he offered to pay cash, and the tow truck just dropped it off a few days ago. Half of the engine was taken apart on a tarp at his feet, and it was currently jacked up so he could replace the oil pan. But he thought it was gorgeous. "I have a little surprise for you when you get home."
"A surprise?! Tell me. You know I can't wait that long."
"Nah," he said, kneeling down to check the wiring for the headlights. "I think I'll make you wait this one out."
"Rooster!"
"What?" he laughed, wedging the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he slipped his work gloves on and pulled at the loose wire. "You know, this is what you get for always giving me a hard time about my dad's Bronco. I love you so much, Baby, I'll make you wait for the surprise. It'll be sweeter that way."
"You're the worst," you groaned playfully. "Now I'll be thinking about what it could possibly be the whole time I'm gone. I'll be wondering what you have up your sleeve."
"As long as you're thinking about me, I'm happy," he rasped, and your pretty sigh in response left him a little breathless.
"I'm always thinking about you. Promise me as soon as I get back, we'll go for a long drive? Up along the coast? Late at night?"
He loved that idea. It would just look a little different than you were probably imagining if he could get this thing up and running again in time for your return. "We'll make a night of it," he promised. "I'll pack some blankets, and we can sit in the back and look out at the ocean. Can't guarantee I'll be able to keep my hands to myself though."
"Mmm. That's what I'm counting on."
----------------------
After about two weeks of watching a lot of YouTube videos posted by professionals, Bradley finally had the engine rebuilt. He was just waiting for some parts to arrive before he could put it back in place. "You're a needy one, aren't you?" he asked the green Bronco. "Nothing like her. She's a saint." He nodded his head toward the blue one before kneeling to replace the taillights.
He was quickly realizing that the money he saved on the cost of the actual vehicle was being eaten up in the expensive, vintage parts. He was lucky he knew how to do most of this himself, even if it took twice as long. Today he was replacing the brakes and listening to a Motown playlist, and he fully realized that he felt calmest when he was with you or a Bronco. He snorted at how ridiculous that fact was as he scooted under the vehicle, but it was true. And having you tucked away in the back with the tailgate dropped, all wrapped up in a blanket while you turned him on just by existing.... well, that's when he would be happiest of all.
As the weeks wore on and the project progressed, the day finally arrived when it was time to try to start her up and take her for a little drive. Everything smelled like new rubber from the tires he'd just put on. The vinyl seats were still in bad shape, but when he slipped the key into the ignition and turned it, the engine purred to life.
Bradley's head tipped back as he groaned softly. "So fucking pretty. My god." He tapped the accelerator gently with his foot, enjoying the rev of the engine. He smoothed his hands along the steering wheel and the dashboard before he adjusted the rear view mirror to accommodate his height. Then he flicked the chrome switch and turned on the radio which he was surprised still worked.
My Girl by the Temptations poured from the speakers as the station crackled to life, and that felt like a very good sign. "Let's get out of here, Sweetheart," he whispered before shifting into reverse and leaving the driveway and his toolbox behind.
She was smooth and steady and everything he was hoping for. Would it ever fully compete with Goose's Bronco? Probably not. Was it worth the investment anyway? He'd find out next week when you got home. There were just a few things left to do before he dropped it off to be repainted and have the interior patched, and then she'd be good as new.
Bradley's phone rang in his pocket, and he smiled when he saw it was you. "Hey, Baby."
"Bradley! I miss you so much. I swear, if this thing was longer than two months, I wouldn't make it. What are you up to?"
"Oh, I'm just out for a little drive."
--------------------------
After eight weeks of nothing more than a few scant phone calls, Bradley was more than ready to have you home again. Maybe you and he could take a few days off from work. He'd help you catch up on some sleep after initially keeping you up all night. He already had some blankets ready to go as soon as you said you wanted to drive up to Carlsbad and watch the surfers at sunset before making love in the back of your Bronco.
Your Bronco. His wife's Bronco. It would take some getting used to, but it already made him smile every time he thought about it. With his hands on that familiar steering wheel, he drove toward the Naval base where both of you spent so much of your time. He waited, leaning against the light blue hood until you came running toward him in your uniform with your bags.
"Bradley!" you shrieked as you landed in his arms where you belonged.
"I missed you," he promised, finally kissing your lips again after so many weeks. He felt your bag hit his foot, and he smiled as he tilted your face up for better access to your mouth.
"I missed you, too," you moaned softly, and he was already making the move to get you back home and remind you what you meant to him. But you dug your feet in outside the passenger door.
"Where's my surprise?" you asked as you tucked your fingers into the top of his jeans and grinned up at him. "I've been thinking about it nonstop. Is it you?"
"No," he replied with a chuckle as his gaze drifted toward the Bronco. "You'll see soon enough."
You glanced at where he was looking, and you rolled your eyes before kissing his chin. "Did she keep you company while I was gone? She looks pristine, like you spend some time working on her."
Bradley kissed your forehead. "Just get in, Baby," he rasped. "The sooner we get home, the sooner your little surprise will make sense."
He knew the routine by heart now. The short ride home would start out with you holding his right hand and playing with his fingers while he drove. Then your hand would migrate to his thigh when the Bronco was about five blocks away. Then as soon as the tires touched the driveway, you'd unbuckle your seatbelt and make your way over to his lap.
The routine was important to him. He loved it. He loved taking you inside and directly to bed before coming back out much later to get the bags. He thrived on the return to normal life that was triggered by the routine. But today, he knew you weren't going to end up on his lap, and that was more than okay.
When your hand settled on his thigh exactly five blocks away from home, Bradley smiled. Your fingers crept up inch by inch as you leaned closer and whispered in his ear that you had their fifth wedding anniversary all planned out for the following weekend. You were playing with the zipper of his jeans by the time he could see the house, and he just waited for it. He was not disappointed.
"What the fuck is that?" you gasped, both hands going to the dashboard in front of you as you leaned to check out the freshly painted green Bronco as he coasted into the driveway. "Bradley?" you asked, glancing at him with wide eyes as he shifted into park.
He smiled and leaned over to kiss your softly parted lips. "This is your surprise. You're always joking about how much I love my Bronco, but I'll never love anything more than I love you."
You pressed your lips to his once before pulling away, shaking your head slightly. "So you got me one of my own?" you asked, jerking your thumb toward the green one.
He nodded and pulled his key from the ignition before pressing it into your palm. "Yep. She's all yours."
"Wait," you whispered, your brow creasing in confusion as you looked down at your hand. "This is your key."
"No, it's your key. The key to the green one is in the house. That's my key."
You gaped at him as your eyebrows shot upwards. "You're giving me your Bronco?"
"Yep."
"But," you whispered, turning to look out the window, "I can drive the other one."
"No, I bought the green one with myself in mind," he replied, taking your chin gently in his hand so you were looking at him again. "This one's better. She's sweet. Like you. She's yours."
"Oh my god, Bradley."
He was wrong; you did end up in his lap. Right where you belonged. His hands settled at your hips as you kissed every inch of his face while he laughed.
"I want to take her for a spin," you whispered, nudging him out of the driver's seat with your knee. "Go."
He smiled as he walked around to the passenger side of the blue Bronco, and he barely had the door closed before you started the engine and shifted into gear. "Pretty soon you'll love this thing more than you love me, Baby."
---------------------------
He gave you his Bronco. The green one was for him. That's how you know he loves you. I hope they do some nasty shit in the green one to break it in. Thanks @beyondthesefourwalls
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The Exception (Max Verstappen x y/n)
Summary- 4 times Max let y/n get away with whatever she wanted and 1 time he didn't.
I just have so much love for maxie and I wanna show it so it came out as this. Hope you like it!! I hope maxie is only loved tbh
Max was very young when he had moved to a Netherland. If someone asked him when it was, he'd probably never be able to tell. But he could tell you about the annoying neighbours he had growing up. Yes, he did spend most of his time karting and didn't have the time at home or in school like normal kids his age would but the fleeting moments spent at that house in Netherland left behind fond memories that he can look back and only because of a certain little girl with chubby cheeks and two identical braids on either side of her head who had made quite a place in his life. Jos wasn't very happy with Max wasting his time entertaining those kids but he couldn't do much when the children's father was a tall bulky man who could take Jos out in one punch, insisted on letting the kids play together. The tall man had 3 kids Max noticed when he had dinner at their place for the first time; the oldest being the girl who we mentioned before followed by 2 younger brothers who seemed to love karting. They asked Max so many questions about it that they got scolded by their mother for ruining dinner for everyone but Max thought was cute because the youngest couldn't even pronounce karting but had a lot to say. Every time he would spend time with his neighbours, it would always be with the 2 young boys who wanted to learn how to kart better and become like Max like the younger one put it. Even now it makes Max laugh reminiscing about those days. They never really made it professionally though.
2008
Max and the 2 boys were playing around when their older sister asked if they would like to join her for a session of afternoon tea with Mr Whale and Miss Teapot. The brothers made a face of disgust and ran away from her, dejected she turned around when Max agreed. Her face lit up like a Christmas tree. She quickly dragged him into her room and had him sit next to Mr Longneck, the giraffe. An hour later Max was found in Y/N's room with two pigtails if you could call them that on the top of his head, a tiara and the prettiest necklace Y/N owned. Looking at himself in the mirror he couldn't help but laugh. Y/N on the contrary looked pleased with her handy work. She thanked him for being a good and compliant customer and to come back again if he ever wanted to look pretty. It wasn't easy to get Max to do what you wanted except he couldn't say no to her puppy eyes. She even gave him a drawing of him in his kart saying that it would bring him good luck since she couldn't be there and placed her favourite bracelet on his hand.
If Y/N was to ask him about the bracelet, Max would say he lost it as soon as she gave it to him, but deep down in the watch drawer of Max's Monaco apartment sat a brightly neon pink bracelet with Y/N’s initials.
2014
Y/N had started highschool and remained the annoying self Max had come to love. Her over the top demeanor and affection to screaming at the top of her lungs whenever she spotted Max never failed to make him smile. Having joined Formula one this year, meant Max was way to busy to be home but Y/N seemed to never forget to text him regularly. She would ask him to get autographs of other drivers or souvenirs from different countries. It was a regular race weekend when Y/N texted Max asking him to explain how the engine in a go kart worked. In a split second Max was on call with her asking "why she needed that?" to which she replied "I'm doing a project on that. I even made a small scale replica of your cart Look here!!!" She exclaimed. "I just need to shrink you and place you inside it" Y/N laughed. Max told her not to worry and that he would text her the details in a hour or so. Actually it took a couple hours and Y/N was starting to get agitated and called him back. Max replied with a almost done and smiled at her. He had literally written her entire report for her and sent it to review. Y/N almost screamed when she saw the assignment. She thanked Maxie for doing this for her and that she owed him her life. Max was just happy to be of help, he told himself more than he told her because who stays up till 5 in the morning on a race weekend doing someone else’s project.
He kept the small scale replica of his Kart on the mantle above the fireplace if anyone wanted to know what happened to the kart.
2018
Y/N was freshly 18, so getting drunk was the only thing on her agenda. On a night out, she was so drunk that no one could get her to move because she wanted her Maxie and would only leave with Maxie, she enunciated. Her friend was able to open up Y/N phone and thankfully find a Maxie in her favourite contacts. She called the number to be met with a groggy but worried voice. "Hi! This is Y/N's friend Kate speaking. Am I speaking with a....maxie?" she said tentatively. Max let out a sign while rubbing his eyes, "Yes, this is Max speaking." "Can you come pick Y/N up?" She asked hesitantly followed by, "She won't leave with anyone but you apparently." Max was already out of bed and near the door when he said "I'll be there in 10, where are you guys at?" She sent him the location and waited for 'maxie'. Nothing could've prepared them for this. They had thought Maxie was a friend, a boyfriend maybe even a neighbour; they did not think Maxie was Max Verstappen, F1 driver for Redbull racing. He apologised for the inconvenience and crouched down to Y/N level who seemed to have realised that he was here. She cupped his cheeks and giggled while turning his head to the crowd of people standing, "Look, this is my Maxie." Hearing Y/N say my maxie made his heart beat faster then it should've, he admits but that girl had a tight hold on his heart and he couldn't really do much about it. She stood up and wrapped her arms around Max asking him to carry her since her legs felt like mush. Max gladly carried her back to his car, as he fastened her seat belt she asked him to take her back to his place since her parents would probably disown her if she come in drunk for the 6th time this week. Max looked shocked and asked her to stop drinking so much since it wasn't good for her. All Y/N could mumble was that the alcohol made the pain in her heart bearable. This broke Max's heart. Who would dare hurt his precious little angle, if he met that guy he was so dead, Max thought. Little did he know that guy was the one driving her back home.
Y/N was a nuisance when drunk, she reminded him of the little girl he had befriended when he moved here. She wouldn't listen to anything he asked her to do that night until he agreed to let her do make up on him which he would gladly agree to, real or not.
2022
Y/N had recently graduated and was looking for a place to stay. It was one of those nights after a fruitless apartment hunt Y/N facetimed Max. He looked very comfortable in his sim racing chair in his luxurious apartment in Monaco having moved recently. "Maxie" the younger girl sighed. "Meisje, what's the problem?" came a concerned voice. "I can't seem to find a decent apartment, I've been at it for months now." she said. Max offered to help her find the right place and Y/N started listing out all the things she wanted in her apartment which was sounding a lot like Max current apartment which was true, that was Y/N's dream apartment currently; after seeing it a couple months ago when she had visited him as a housewarming surprise and even held a party for him. "You can move to Monaco, the house you're looking for is here" Max said. After a long pause Y/N replied with a chuckle, "I don't make formula 1 money. I'm too broke to afford a house here. In Monaco, I'd have to sell my organs to afford a place there." As if it was the most obvious thing, Max offered her to stay at his place and look for a job here.
The allure of Monaco was too much and Y/N was able to thankfully find a job there so that she wouldn't be completely dependent on Max which he wouldn't have minded. Max never let her pay rent, he'd always tell her to cook good food and that was rent sorted.
2023
It was the night of the Abu Dhabi grand prix. Max had just won his third WDC so him and his friends decided to go out to celebrate, Y/N included. The night carried on as usual, Max not touching much of the alcohol since Y/N decided to down drinks like a thirsty person. She was now in the middle of the dance floor making herself familiar with Lando's crotch, much to Max's dismay. He made his way to her and led her away from Lando while she shouted at him to let her go. They were now stood in the quieter part of the club but you could still hear the music blasting. Y/N looked visibly annoyed at being taken away from the dance floor. "You are drunk, you'll regret it tomorrow." Max said. "That's for sober me to deal with. Drunk me just wants to forget about everything and having an eventful night with a guy would do just the trick." she said. Max winced at the words and held her arms so that she could steady herself. "I don't wanna feel like this," was this the alcohol giving her the confidence, "the guy I've been in love with for ages can't seem to see me as a woman. I've been trying for years now. If I walked out naked, I'm sure he wouldn't even be phased." she sounded dejected. "Any guy would want you, Meisje." Max whispered. "But not the one I do" she stepped closer, enough that their breaths mingled. The woman in front of him was driving Max mad, had she not been drunk he would've shown her how much any man would want her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and looked into his eyes before saying, "He's so dumb, can't even see the woman in front of him." The statement felt oddly targeted. "You know, he's a 3 time world drivers champion and he doesn't even get that I love him so much." she said while looking into his eyes. "You're in love with me?" Max exclaimed. "I have been since the day you let me make pigtails on your hair but thanks for realising now." she replied sarcastically. "You're drunk, you don't know what your saying" Max replied. "Well, sober me would never tell you this but I love you Max Verstappen. So much that you make my heart beat faster and my chest swell when you look at me. I think about marrying you and having a family with you, but you think I'm joking." she declared. Max couldn't help but smiled, "Tell me all of this in the morning when you're sober so that I can tell you that I love you too schat and then I can finally kiss you." "You can kiss me now" Y/N made a kissy face and eagerly leaned in. Max shook his head and carried her back to the hotel room.
Y/N indeed remembered everything and the first thing she did even though she wreaked of alcohol was finally kiss those soft pink lips.
this is just brain rot at this point. hope you liked it
#max verstappen#max verstappen x reader#max verstappen x you#max verstappen imagine#max verstappen fanfic#max verstappen fluff#f1 x you#f1 x reader#f1 imagine#f1 fic#f1 fanfic#lando norris
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Being a professional masseur for players and taking care of our boy art.
Hes just so sad and so pretty that you just giving head to make him feel better 😔
Plot twist: he falls in love with you because duh? Hot+sex=you being promoted pookie, you are now the donaldsons elite employes!!!!!!
Baby, show me where it hurts...
pairing: art donaldson x fem!reader
summary: you never intended on becoming a "celebrity" massage therapist. you just wanted to be a massage therapist, the whole celebrity thing just sort of happened, you blame cali for that. but the novelty of your job wore off long ago, you hardly blink at the clients on your table nowadays. that is until tashi duncan calls you and absolutely fucks everything up.
contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, oral (m!receiving), oral (fem!receiving), p in v, fingering (fem!receiving), angst? maybe? could this be considered angst?, slight age gap, no tashi duncan erasure because i don't stand for that, cheating but not really cause tashi knows, she always knows, she is an all seeing eye, and she kind of orchestrates it, SOOOOO much plot, like way too much i'm sorry, art being sad and tired, art also being kinda pathetic a little bit, malpractice? unprofessional massages, no use of y/n.
word count: 10k+ (someone stop me....pls still read this lmao)
authors note: this ask was blessedly placed in my inbox and it was all i’ve thought about since. this is my first big fic since my mike schmidt days so hopefully i'm not rusty! i've seen this damn cursed hell movie ten times, so hopefully i do it justice. i'm also still struggling sooo much with art and tashi as characters so please bear with me if they aren't movie accurate i'm trying my best. okay. thank you. hope you love it! mwah xoxo.
You don't get starstruck often, not anymore at least. The clients that find their way onto your table are just that in your eyes, clients. You don't see them as big time "celebrities”. Just men and women who need your professional help.
That being said, you almost dropped your phone the first time the Tashi Duncan called you.
It was a normal work day for you, spent buried in paperwork and training a new secretary. You're folding the steam room towels on your lunch break when your phone rings. No caller ID, you answer it anyways.
"Hello, you've reached Lush Retreat Med Spa," you rattle off into your phone, placing it between your ear and shoulder to continue folding. "How can we help you?"
"This is Tashi Duncan calling for Art Donaldson, we've heard great things about you and were hoping to schedule an appointment."
The towel drops from your hands, your mouth falling open in shock. You reach up to tightly grip your phone, not wanting to embarrass yourself by dropping your phone with Tashi fucking Duncan on the end of the line.
Of course you know who she is, but doesn't everyone? The tennis prodigy from Stanford who was on top of the world when a tragic knee injury stole everything from her in a single second. You absolutely idolized her when you were in high school and playing tennis competitively. You watched all the recorded matches you could get your hands on, wore your DUNCANATOR shirts to practice constantly, only bought the tennis rackets she used. You had her fucking posters plastered on the walls of your old bedroom for Christ's sake.
That was until you, ironically, shattered your wrist in a car accident and had to hang up the racket and pleated skirts forever. Just like her.
Now, Tashi Duncan and Art Donaldson are California royalty. An unfairly beautiful couple living what seems to be the dream. You'd never kept up much with Art's career like you did Tashi's, but you follow them both on Instagram and you see his face on billboards all over the city almost daily so you can assume it was fruitful. It may help him that he's extremely easy on the eyes, or "super fucking hot!" in your coworkers words.
"Hello?" Her voice ringing out from the tiny speaker ripped you out of your thoughts and back into reality.
"Y-yes, sorry," you cringe internally at yourself, stuttering over your words like a loser. You force yourself to sound professional when you speak again, "We'd love to help you any way we can. Do you have a certain time and date in mind already?"
"We're not home right now, we were thinking next Thursday. Around four." There's no question mark on the end of her sentence, you know that she isn't asking you, she's telling you. You don't even bother to check the schedule before you're answering.
"We will be free that day. I'll go ahead and put you in our system." you rush over to the front desk computer and open the calendar, thankfully you are actually free for Thursday. "I'm assuming you know our location?" you ask as you type in the appointment details, ignoring how your fingers shake ever so slightly as you type Tashi into the slot.
"Actually," Tashi's voice has a different tone to it when she speaks again, it’s something you can’t quite place, your fingers slow down slightly as you listen, "we wanted to make this a home visit."
You stop typing completely, brows furrowed in confusion as you stare at your computer screen. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Donaldson but we don't do at home appointments…per our policy." you reply meekly, almost surprised that you're denying her.
"Duncan, actually,” she corrects you nonchalantly, you don’t have time to unpack that before she’s speaking again. “We did read that on your website, but we'd hope you might make an exception. You wouldn't need to bring much. We have our own table." Her tone isn't harsh or impolite, just firm and certain, like she knows you'll give in to her.
You do.
"Well," you bite your lip as you wrestle internally with yourself, torn between what you want to do and what you should do. "Okay, we can do that for you."
"Great. I'll send you the address. See you then." She hangs up without saying goodbye.
You plant your phone next to you and stare at the filled out appointment slot taking up your computer screen, processing what just happened. You're going to Tashi Duncan's house. To give her hot pro-tennis player husband a massage. In their house.
"What the fuck."
SIX DAYS LATER...
The walk up to The Donaldson's huge mansion on a mountain has your stomach turning in on itself. All week you were a ball of nervous energy just floating around your office, trying to find anything to distract you from your upcoming appointment. Now that it's here, you feel you may have bitten off more than you could chew.
You hardly got any sleep last night, tossing and turning in your bed for hours before you gave up, barging into your building's gym to try and sweat your nerves out. When that didn't work you just retreated back to your apartment and got ready.
You try not to think about why it took you so long to get ready, longer than most work mornings. Taking more time in the shower, more time doing your hair, more time doing your makeup.
You even choose an outfit you'd hardly ever wear in front of regular clientele. A matching white polo set, a skirt in place of shorts. You tell yourself that you just want to look good, who wants to look like a mess in front of Tashi Duncan?
Your hands white-knuckle the steering wheel of your car on the drive over. You couldn’t even play any music, the noise in your head already too loud as it was, only cranking up the AC and silently following the crisp voice of your GPS reading off the directions Tashi sent you.
The closer you get to the door the more you want to turn and run down the insanely long driveway, get back in your car and haul ass home without ever looking back.
You don't because you're a professional, or at least that's what you keep telling yourself.
Your hand shakes as you ring their doorbell, hearing it echo back at you from the inside. You only wait a few seconds before the large door swings open and there she is.
Tashi Duncan is every bit as beautiful in person as she is splashed across the pages of magazines and blown up twenty feet on billboards. She looks so effortlessly classy in her Ralph Lauren sweater and flowy black dress pants.
Your name falls from her lips, and all the blood rushes to your ears. Her silky voice wraps around each syllable with an enticing heat that makes you weak in the knees. You feel sixteen years old all over again, standing at the woman who basically molded you into who you are today. It's a dizzying sensation, the rush of nostalgia and emotions flooding in like an avalanche. The memories you have locked away in your brain of the countless late night practices, the hundreds of hours spent on the court, the trophies and ribbons littering your moms basement collecting dust, the refusal to give up and pushing your body past its own limits because you wanted to be just like her. You wanted to be Tashi Duncan, and when you catch yourself nervously rubbing your thumb over the scar spanning your right wrist, you guess in some sick twisted way that you kind of are.
"So glad you could make it," she greets breezily, stepping to the side to let you in. “We were worried you’d get lost.”
The house is, of course, beautiful on the inside. Tall ceilings, big fireplace, a beautiful staircase leading to the second floor. There’s toys strewn messily along the living room floor, the TV mounted on the wall is paused on ESPN.
You hope you don’t look as crazy as you feel taking in the space, taking in the fact that Tashi is standing right in front of you.
“No, the directions were very helpful,” your voice only slightly wavers as you respond, you count that as a win, “it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Donalds–uh–Duncan.” You cringe at your fumble, but try to power through by extending Tashi your hand.
She watches you for a second, sharp eyes flicking over your body quickly like she’s inspecting you. It makes your cheeks feel warm as you struggle to not squirm underneath her gaze. Finally, she takes your hand in hers and gives it a firm shake. You ignore the way her touch makes your palm burn.
“Art should already be in the massage room, it’s in the pool house,” Tashi says, gesturing to the huge windows in the living room showing off a lavish underground pool with a smaller building situated next to it, “I have to take a phone call here in a few minutes so I trust you’ll find your way there.”
You nod slowly, adjusting the strap of your supply bag on your shoulder. Tashi doesn't even pause walking further into the house as she speaks to you, heels clicking with each step as she makes her way to the large staircase in the middle of the room. There’s still no question marks tacked on to the end of her sentences, just like over the phone.
“It’s just through that door, first room on the left. I told him to leave the door open for you.” She continues, reaching the stairs and making her way up slowly. She tosses her head over her shoulder to make eye contact with you again. “He’s been complaining about his shoulder acting up. The right one, it’s what needs the most attention. He serves with that arm, we need it at a hundred.” she fires off casually, like she’s recited this information before.
You go to speak but her phone ringing cuts you off, echoing off the house's crisp white walls. “Thank you for coming to see us, it was nice meeting you.” Tashi says politely, giving you one final once over before she’s answering her phone and disappearing up the stairs.
“It was nice meeting you too…” you trail off quietly, fully caught off guard by whatever the hell that was. Out of every single time you’d fantasized about what meeting Tashi Duncan would be like, none of them were quite like this. At least it’s over you figure, and you even managed to not make a complete fool of yourself.
You hold onto that tiny win as you walk through the living room doors and outside, making your way to the pool house like Tashi instructed. The entrance is unlocked as you step inside, thankfully you spot the cracked door a little ways in front of you.
The sound of your footsteps are loud as you make your way down the short hallway, tennis shoes making small thump sounds against the concrete floor. You pause for just a second outside the cracked door, taking a deep breath before pushing it open and stepping inside. The room is empty, the only things inside are some shelves lined with various essential oils and lotions, and an expensive looking massage table in the center. You muse over the fact that their table looks a little better than the ones in your own spa, no wonder they wanted a home visit.
The room is well lit as you walk around, dim in a way that promotes relaxation. The soft, ambient lighting bathes the room in a gentle, golden glow, complemented by the flicker of aromatic candles placed strategically around the space. You wonder who lit them, Tashi? Or maybe Art? You let out a small laugh at the idea of Tashi Duncan and Art Donaldson fawning over the room before you showed up, setting up candles and mood lighting to make it feel nicer, less clinical.
You’re probably just reading too much into it. You always urge clients to ask for anything that will make them feel more comfortable, apparently Art just likes eucalyptus sage candles and mood lighting. It has nothing to do with you.
Your name being said from somewhere behind you rips you out of your own mind. You whirl around, and find yourself face to face with six time Grand Slam Champion, Tashi Duncan’s super hot husband, Art Donaldson. And he’s only wearing a fucking towel.
“Hello,” he greets with a kind smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “it’s nice to finally meet you, thank you so much for taking the time to come out here.”
Art is already worlds different from Tashi, or that’s what you’re inferring after spending less than five minutes with each of them. It’s still extremely apparent, Tashi has an almost overpowering presence to her, everything about her commands respect and she knows that. She uses that to her advantage, she likes it like that.
The man standing in front of you is nothing like that. The Art Donaldson in front of you doesn’t seem like some big shot tennis player with more impressive stats than you could wrap your head around. You’ve come to know that a few pro-sports guys like to swing their dicks around, bragging about their booming careers non-stop during a session. Yet everything about Art is unassuming as he stands in the doorway like he’s trying to make himself look smaller.
“Hi, Mr. Donaldson,” you’re not sure if it's appropriate to offer a man wearing a towel dangerously low on his hips your hand, you decide against it. “It’s no trouble really, I’m happy to help.”
“Please, call me Art.” The tone of his voice makes you want to shiver, smooth and warm like honey.
You try your best not to stare, but it’s so hard to ignore the toned expanse of Art’s body when it’s right there. He’s all broad shoulders, firm pecs, sculpted legs, with a cut Adonis belt. He’s like a marble statue, made in Michelangelo's perfect image.
Your eyes trail back up his body, lingering on his chest before rising up to his face. You’re mortified to see he’s staring right back at you, effectively catching you in the act. Your cheeks burn as you tear your gaze away, looking at anything and everything other than him. In your panic, you don’t notice the way his eyes rake over you in the same way.
“Okay, Art,” you say a little breathlessly, tightening your grip on the strap of your bag. “It’s nice to meet you. Mrs. Duncan let me know about your major problem areas, I’ll be sure to focus on them.” Involuntarily bringing up Tashi has your stomach clenching up in guilt, you just got done ogling her husband's body. You hope he takes the silent cue you're giving him to get on the damn table so you can start the massage and get the hell out of here.
Art nods silently, walking over to the table and moving to lie down on his stomach. You busy yourself with prepping your oils, taking them out of your bag and setting them on a small side table next to the massage bed uncapped for easy access. You can’t help but sneak glances at the rippling muscle of Art’s back as he shifts, his skin looks soft and is littered with freckles. You don’t miss the hiss he lets out when he lays his weight on his shoulder.
You usually don’t speak much during appointments, only engaging in conversation when your client initiates it, but you feel the need to fill the silence between you and Art. The quiet atmosphere makes everything seem far too intimate, and sure on some level it always is, but this feels different.
“How’d you hurt it? Your shoulder. If you don’t mind me asking.” you ask once he’s settled, placing your fingertips to the middle of his right shoulder, feeling around for any tension. Art tenses slightly at your touch, taking a sharp breath. You guess you should have warned him, you open your mouth to apologize but he lets out a small breath and relaxes onto the table again.
Art sighs, his voice tinged with weariness. "It was, uh, during a match. I overextended trying to return a serve. Haven't been able to move it properly since."
You nod, hands starting to move in slow, deliberate circles across the muscle. “That sounds about right. Most people don’t realize how brutal tennis is to the body, injuries are common,” you pointedly try to ignore the flashbacks of your wrist failing to swing a racket properly after you healed from your accident, flashbacks of watching as the bone pierced through your skin. “Sounds like you might need to take it easy for a while.” you continue, trying to keep the conversation light.
Art chuckled, though it was devoid of real humor. "Yeah, I’ve been playing a lot lately. Guess I pushed myself too hard." He winces slightly as you work on a particularly tight knot, shoulder tensing under your hands.
You pause, your hands stilling momentarily as you catch the underlying tension in Art's voice. "The season’s almost over, maybe it's time to give yourself a break, take some time to rest and recuperate." you remark softly, your tone gentle yet concerned.
Art's gaze flickers to yours, a flicker of vulnerability shining through. "I wish I could," he admits, his voice heavy, "But it's hard to step away, especially when it feels like it's all I have that’s still keeping everything together."
Your heart clenches at the raw honesty in his words. He’s completely silent afterwards, you wonder if he’s regretting telling you something like that, like maybe it just fell out of his mouth before he could stop it. Without a word, you continue to knead away the tension in his muscles, offering a silent gesture of support.
As you continue to work, hands skillfully moving over Art’s shoulder, you can’t help but notice the weariness in Art's demeanor. His presence feels heavy, almost broken, as if the physical pain was just a small part of what he was carrying. You feel a pang of sympathy for him. You can feel the weight of struggles pressing down on him, the way his shoulders sag slightly even under your careful touch.
“I can feel the tension here," you say gently, applying a little more pressure, "Just try to relax.”
With each knead and press, you remind yourself of your role. You’re here to help him heal, and that was all that mattered. But as your hands move over his warm skin, you can’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t what you had anticipated, something that made your heart race with both excitement and anxiety. You were so worried about meeting Tashi you completely forgot about Art. It’s a different story now as your hands explore the smooth planes of his back to the steady sound of his breathing.
"You're really good at this," Art says after a while, his voice a bit lighter.
You smile, a genuine one, the first real smile you’ve had since you got here. “Thanks. I’d hope so after all this time.”
Art lets out a small chuckle muffled by the table, it makes your stomach flutter. “How did you get into this? Massage therapy seems interesting.”
You laugh but it’s a bitter sound, moving your hands down to focus lower on Art’s shoulder. You try not to think about your tennis career, even after all this time you struggle with the memories despite all the good it brought you. “That’s a long story.” you mutter under your breath, even to your own ears you sound resentful.
“I’ve got time.” It’s a simple reply, but it’s so honest. Like Art’s genuinely interested in you, in getting to know you. It makes you feel dizzy.
“I, um,” you worry your lip between your teeth, working your hands harder over Art’s back. “I actually used to play tennis. When I was in high school.”
Art makes an interested noise, shifting under your hands as he moves his head to lay on the side of the table so he could look up at you. “No shit?” he looks more shocked than anything.
You nod, humming in confirmation as you finally move onto his other shoulder. “Yup, I was pretty serious about it back then, until I got injured.” You don’t meet Art’s gaze, but you can see how his face falls in your peripheral vision. You kind of want to laugh at how ironic this moment is, you wonder if Art’s thinking about Tashi’s knee. You know he was at the match, you’ve seen the blurry footage of Tashi Duncan’s fall from grace, watched Art vault over the net to get to her.
“That’s awful. I’m sorry.” He sounds like he means it.
“It’s okay, wasn't like it was my fault or anything,” you say, finally meeting his eyes with a rueful smile and raising your right wrist to show him your scar. “I got hit by a drunk driver coming home late from practice one night. Nasty fracture, bone went straight through.” You hope your voice is coming out as nonchalant as you’re trying to make it sound.
Art's eyes widen in disbelief as he takes in your scar, a mixture of shock and sympathy evident on his face. "Wow, that's...terrible," he murmurs, his voice tinged with compassion.
You shrug, the memories still vivid despite the passage of time. "It was tough, it was awful actually. All the physical therapy in the world couldn’t get a racket back in my hand,” you confess softly, fingers tracing the outline of the scar absentmindedly again. “But it also forced me to reevaluate things, in a way. It made me realize that life doesn't always go according to plan.” You see Tashi’s knee buckling in your mind's eye. “When I finally realized that I could take all the hate and all the anger I was feeling and channel it into something good, something like massage therapy, I never looked back."
You immediately regret over-sharing, feeling silly telling Art your sob story, but when you meet his eye again, he has an odd look on his face. His expression is soft as he looks up at you through long lashes, understanding and empathy swimming in the blue of his eyes.
"Well, silver linings, huh?" he says after a few seconds, there’s traces of a smile playing on his lips. You let out a small laugh, nodding your head slightly.
"Yeah," you agree, a small smile on your lips. "Silver linings."
As the conversation fades into a comfortable silence, you and Art find yourselves locked in a silent exchange, your eyes meeting and holding a depth of something you can’t quite pick up on. In that moment, the world around you seems to blur, leaving only the two of you suspended in a shared moment of vulnerability. There's a subtle shift in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the bond that has formed between you, as if you've uncovered a piece of each other.
The shrill ringing of your phone’s alarm pierces through the moment, both you and Art jump at the sudden sound. It’s like a cold bucket of water pouring over your head, washing away whatever just happened between the two of you. The session’s over, you’re done.
“Okay,” you say a little too loudly, taking your hands off Art's back like his skin could burn you any second. “Looks like we’re all done.” You try to smile but it feels fake, forced, so you turn your back to Art and start capping your oils to shove them back in your bag.
Art’s voice breaks the silence as you pack up, sounding a little less confident than it did earlier. “Uh, my neck has been bothering me too, recently,” he says offhandedly as he sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the table. “I think I may have slept on it wrong.”
You stop what you’re doing, turning to face Art again, silently cursing him for not just letting you leave. “Do you want me to take a look before I go?” You pray he says no. You should know it won’t be that easy, not with your shit luck.
“If you don’t mind?” His tone is so hopeful and his eyes are so big that your feet are walking towards him before your mind can catch up.
“Not at all,” you reply, your voice steady despite the tightness in your chest. You step closer, practically between his slightly spread legs, feeling the warmth of his skin even before you touch him. Your fingers brush against his neck, and he shivers slightly, the muscles tight and knotted beneath your touch.
"Just relax," you murmur, trying to maintain any shred of professional demeanor. As you work, you can't help but notice the way his breath hitches, the tension in his body melting away under your skilled hands. The room feels smaller, the air heavier with each passing second.
He closes his eyes, a soft sigh escaping his lips. "That feels amazing," he whispers, and you swallow hard, trying to focus solely on the task at hand. As you work, the intimacy of the moment isn't lost on you, and you can't help but wonder if he feels it too.
Minutes tick by like hours as you work the tense muscle of Art’s neck. You're acutely aware of every sigh, every shift in his body, every subtle reaction to your touch. You finally pull away when you think it’s been enough time, eager to get out of this damn house before you do something you’ll regret.
You didn’t notice how close you really were to Art until you pulled back only to be met with his face mere inches away from yours. Startled by the sudden proximity, you freeze, caught off guard by the intensity of Art's gaze. His eyes, dark and searching, seem to hold a silent question, a silent invitation.
Now, Art’s body is one thing, it’s objectively perfect. He’s a professional athlete, of course it’s perfect. It has to be perfect. It’s his damn face that gets you.
He’s beautiful, beyond beautiful. He looks like he should be splayed across canvas hanging in the Louvre. The dim lighting in the room illuminates his face beautifully, his golden hair haloing around his head makes him look ethereal. Each of his features look as if they were handcrafted by a master sculptor, each contour and line a testament to perfection. His chiseled jawline speaks of strength and determination, while his lips, soft and inviting, seem to beckon you closer with every breath. His eyes are deep pools of ocean blue, though this close you can see a small splash of brown in his left eye you didn’t notice before, swirling with emotions that stir something deep within you.
Something more shocking than Art’s beauty, is how fucking tired he looks. Lines of exhaustion are etched along his face, subtle but undeniable. The weariness in his eyes speaks volumes, a silent plea for respite from the relentless demands of tennis. And yet, even amidst the exhaustion, there's a flicker of longing. He’s staring at you like he needs you, eyes wide and yearning. His chest rising and failing a little more harshly than it did before, each exhale coming out ragged and sharp.
“Art…” you whisper, heart threatening to beat out of your chest. He’s so warm, the heat emitting off of him makes you want to lean into it. You want to crawl on top of his powerful thighs and bury your face in his chest and never leave. Your hands flex where they’re draped over Art’s neck.
It happens in slow motion, Art’s hand trails up the skin of your thigh as your name falls from his lips like a prayer, and it’s like you’ve been electrocuted. You’re rearing back with a sharp breath, dropping your hands from his neck and taking a couple steps back.
“It was really nice to- uh to meet you, Art.” you say frantically, swinging your bag firmly over your shoulder and rushing to the door. Art’s still sitting on the table, silently watching you panic. He doesn’t try to stop you. “I hope your shoulder feels better,” is all you say before bursting out the door and speed walking out of the pool house.
Your heart's racing as you walk through the backyard, hands shaking even through the death grip you have on the strap of your bag. What the hell was that? What the hell was that? Did Art Donaldson just make a pass at you? You must be imagining things.
The thought rattles around in your mind, refusing to be dismissed. His words, his tone—they seemed to linger in the air, haunting you with their implications. The way he touched you, like he couldn’t help himself. But no, it couldn't be. He was married to Tashi, and besides, he was just being polite, right? You try to convince yourself of that as you make your way back to the house.
As you walk inside, still slightly shaken up, Tashi’s the first thing you see. She’s sitting in the living room, laptop open on the coffee table in front of her.
“Hey,” she says, sitting up straighter on the coach, “how was it?”
You swallow, urging yourself to calm down. “It was great, he should be seeing some improvement over the next few days.”
Tashi nods her head, seemingly pleased though it doesn’t show on her face. “Could this be a weekly thing, these appointments. He could really use them.”
No question marks. Motherfucker.
You flounder, stomach dropping. “Weekly? As in every Thursday?”
Tashi’s brow raises, eyes looking over you inquisitively. “Yes, preferably all home visits.”She stands from the couch, taking a couple steps towards you. “We read on your website you take permanent clients, is that not the case anymore.”
You shake your head, eyes wide as they follow her while she walks. “N-no, Mrs. Duncan we do. We could pencil you in if you’re willing to pay monthly for the time slot. Would you like to talk to some of my other employees to work out a rotating schedule?”
Tashi stops a few feet away from you, hands in her pockets. “Actually, we were hoping you’d be the one coming down. The only one.” You blink, her words slam over you like a ton of bricks. Just you, in a room with a half-naked Art. Every single Thursday. That can’t happen, not after what just went down between the two of you.
You can practically hear the warning bells blaring in your mind, urging you to refuse, to put an end to this before it spirals out of control. Yet, there's another voice, quieter but no less insistent, whispering seductive promises of what could be if you were to stay.
Your heart pounds in your chest as you grapple with the conflicting desires warring within you. Tashi's expectant gaze weighs heavily on you, waiting for your response, and you know that whatever decision you make will irrevocably alter the course of things between you and Art. With a shaky breath, you steel yourself, the weight of your choice settling like a stone in your stomach.
"I...I'll do it," you finally say, the words leaving your lips before you can stop them. "I'll make sure to pencil you in for weekly sessions, Mrs. Duncan."
Tashi's lips curve up slightly, satisfied, but beneath the surface you can sense the tension thrumming through the air. You've made your choice, for better or for worse, and now you can only hope that it won't lead to the downfall of everything you've worked so hard to build.
“Wonderful,” she says, gesturing for you to follow her to the front door. You trail behind her like a loyal pet, silently allowing her to drag you wherever she pleases. “Thank you again for coming out, and please,” she pauses with her hand on the doorknob, turning to meet your eye, “call me Tashi.”
"Thank you, Tashi," you murmur softly, the weight of her name feeling foreign on your tongue when you’re actually saying it to her for the first time. "I'll make sure to arrange everything at the office."
Tashi's smile widens, though there's a glint of something unreadable in her eyes. "I look forward to seeing you, then," she says, her tone laced with a hint of anticipation. "And please, if there's anything you need, don't hesitate to reach out."
With a final nod, Tashi opens the front door, the outside world beckoning beyond its threshold. You take a hesitant step forward, the weight of your decision pressing down on your shoulders like a heavy burden. As you step out into the cool evening air, you can't shake the feeling that you've just crossed a line from which there may be no turning back. But for now, all you can do is steel your nerves and hope that you haven't made a huge mistake.
A LITTLE MORE THAN SIX DAYS LATER…
Your sessions with Art continue on. The guilt settling deep in your stomach each time you set foot in the Donaldson/Duncan house also continues. It worsens each time the two of you are alone in that damned massage room. Technically you’ve done nothing wrong, but you know deep in the back of your mind that what you’re doing isn’t normal. Each meeting is a strange mixture of tension and familiarity. When you arrive, Tashi always greets you warmly, her trust in you unwavering. It feels like a dagger each time, twisting deeper and deeper into your conscience.
Neither of you talk about it, what happened during your session, and Art doesn’t treat you any differently. He still goes out of his way to make polite conversation, asking you about your life, about your business, he even brings up old anecdotes you told him offhandedly. He doesn’t talk about tennis, and he has to know you can keep up in conversation with it since you told him about your history with it, you just assume he doesn’t want to.
That makes sense, you always think back to the first time he met you. How he brushed off any conversation about his career, how his demeanor changed when he spoke about it. How drained he looked. There was a sadness in his eyes, a weight he carried that seemed to go beyond just a few standard aches and pains. You remember how it struck you then, and it strikes you still, each time you see him.
His shoulder is getting better, you can tell. He can lay on it, or raise it above his head, without wincing. That makes your heart swell, knowing that despite how weird and kind of fucked up everything is, he’s healing.
The familiar sound of your timer ringing pulls you out of your thoughts. You’re shocked at how fast this appointment flew by, but you could tell as soon as you walked into the massage room to find Art already sitting on the table waiting for you, that something about this session feels different. It’s silly to call it “sensing a bad vibe”, but that’s exactly what you felt entering the room's threshold.
Art didn’t speak much as you worked, just laying on the table silently after saying hello and asking you about your week. The silence is definitely odd, Art’s not a chatterbox by any means, but he usually keeps some form of conversation flowing. After a while, you start to think it might be something you did, like maybe he’s mad at you. It sounds so stupid in your head, like you’re some poor high school girl getting hung up over a fucking guy giving you the silent treatment. The only thing more stupid than that is how much it’s actually affecting you. Art has you over analyzing everything you’ve said or done over the last couple visits, you dread that maybe he just came to his senses after all this time. That he finally snapped out of whatever trance he was in and remembered he has a beautiful wife, and that he doesn’t really want some random massage therapist.
“Alright,” you say softly, stepping away from the table, “All done.” As you turn off the timer and gather your thoughts, you can't shake the feeling that something is off. You force yourself to bury it, Art doesn’t owe you an explanation, he doesn’t owe you anything. You aren’t his.
You glance over at him as he slowly sits up, his expression unreadable. "Thank you," he murmurs, his voice barely audible. You offer a small smile in return, trying to squash all the ugly feelings mixing in your stomach. You turn to busy yourself with packing up, feeling a weird sense of déjà vu.
Art’s voice cuts through the silence, sounding weary. “Are we still pretending it didn’t happen?”
It catches you off guard, making you drop the bottle in your hands back onto the table loudly. Your heart races as you turn back to face him, unsure of how to respond. The weight of his words hangs heavy in the air, demanding a response you’re not sure you’re ready to give.
You take a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves. “I...I don’t know,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “I guess I was hoping we could just…forget about it.”
Art’s eyes search yours, filled with a mixture of longing and uncertainty. “I don’t think I can,” he confesses, his voice tinged with sadness.
The same feelings from that day rush back in your mind, flooding all your senses. It's as if time folds in on itself, bringing you right back to that moment where everything changed. You feel panic clawing its way up your body, fight or flight response waging a war inside of you.
You chose flight, shoving the last bottle in your bag and making a break for the door. Ready to run just like you did back then, run and come back next week with your tail between your legs desperately trying to forget that this ever happened, again. Art’s voice stops you just as you have your hand on the doorknob.
“Please…” he whispers, he sounds so broken, so vulnerable. “Please, don’t run.”
You don’t know what it is, maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you, or the repressed feelings, or your shitty back bone, but whatever it is makes you pause, hand falling off the doorknob to lay limp at your side. You turn back to face him, the raw need in his eyes mirrored by your own emotions. It tugs at your heart, making it impossible to leave. You feel a surge of guilt and hesitation, but the longing in his gaze holds you captive. Slowly, you make your way towards him, taking small slow steps like you could still leave at any minute, but you know you won’t.
You walk until you’re crowding him, standing between his spread legs just like you did all those sessions ago. His eyes are wide, almost disbelieving, like he thought you’d turn around and slam the door on him instead. Which is what you should do, you should walk about that door right now and never step foot in their house again.
Art whispers your name, his voice a soft caress that sends sparks zapping down your spine. You're close enough to feel his breath fanning over your face, warm and intimate. You inhale, like you’re trying to absorb his words, his essence, his everything.
His hand takes yours, bringing it up to his chest. He presses it firmly against his pec, right on top of his heart. You can feel the rapid, uneven thumping beneath your palm. His thumb caresses your wrist gently, making goosebumps pebble over your skin.
It’s easy to get lost in Art’s eyes, so you’re shocked to notice something that very quickly grabs your attention. Art’s towel is tented obscenely, hard cock straining against the thick material. You swallow roughly at the sight, feeling the need to touch, to take, to help.
Your knees hit the floor before you fully realize the entire gravity of what you’re doing. You don’t care about any of that anyway, not right now.
Right now Art Donaldson is swiping his thumb across the scar on your wrist with his big sparkly eyes desperately looking into yours, unashamedly begging for you to touch him.
Who are you to deny him?
Your hands find the knot of his towel and yank it roughly, ripping it off Art's hips and tossing it aside. His hard cock springs out, slapping up against his stomach enticingly. Your mouth waters at the sight of him, pleased to see he’s perfect all over.
Art’s cock is long, and thick. He’s big, but in an exciting way, not in an intimidating way. He’s already steadily drooling pre-cum from his soft pink tip, already so hard and you haven’t even touched him yet. You reach up, tracing your finger along the length of him lightly. Art inhales, his eyes fluttering closed as you touch him for the first time. The anticipation in the room is palpable, a heady mix of desire and need that seems to swirl around you both.
You circle your hand around the base of his cock, stroking up and up until your hand bumps into the head, where you start to rub your thumb back and forth gently, spreading the wetness from his pre-cum before sliding your hand back down. Slowly, you lean in, placing a soft kiss on the tip of his cock before taking him into your mouth, savoring the taste of him as he groans deeply, hands gripping the massage table tightly.
“Shit,” he grits out, casting his gaze to the ceiling, chest already heaving raggedly.
You slide the warmth of your mouth down the shaft of his cock, moaning at the heady taste of him, skin soft and velvety on your tongue.
“Fuck, your mouth…” Art whispers above you, his words trailing off into a string of breathy moans. You hum in response, working his cock faster to draw out more of those noises. Hollowing your cheeks, you sink down towards the circle of your fist still holding the base of his cock with wet, slippery slurping sounds. Art’s hand lets go of the table, coming up to cup your cheek in a move way too intimate for what the two of you are doing.
You chance a look up, and your heart skips several beats at what you see. Art’s already staring down at you, his face twisted up in pleasure. His pale cheeks are flushed, brows drawn together tightly, plush bottom lip caught between his teeth. All that is enough to make you feel ten feet tall, but that’s not what makes you pause.
It’s his eyes, the way Art’s looking at you.
The look in his eyes is…worshipful. Reverent. Like you’re a celestial being, a divine grace walking among mortals. Not some girl on her knees for a married man in his house’s private fucking massage room.
Yet the longer you hold his gaze, while still working your mouth over his hard cock, you feel something strange stirring inside you. Art’s eyes holding such a longing reverence so intense, it was starting to elevate you to a pedestal of adoration. Of devotion.
Right now Art’s like the sun, burning so brightly you feel you need to look away before he consumes you, but you don’t.
“Please,” Art begs desperately, voice so soft you barely even hear it. There’s tears welling in his eyes, his red rimmed and so so tired looking eyes. It breaks your heart, how could such a wonderful man be reduced to this?
You pull off Art’s cock, hand still pumping firmly over him. He whines at the loss of your mouth, hips bucking up to chase after the warm heat. His tip bumps over your lips as he moves, trailing a thin line of pre-cum across them.
Without breaking eye contact, you speak.
“You’re so good, Art.”
It’s those four words whispered against the tip of Art's leaking cock that has him coming with a hitched breath and a soft cry. A few bursts of his warm come land over your parted lips before you take the head of his cock back in your mouth to greedily swallow down the rest.
"Thank you, fuck, thank you...!" Art grates out as his body trembles above you, hand squeezing yours so hard it borders on painful. You know you’re never coming back from this, but you still squeeze back as hard as you can all the same.
A LITTLE MORE THAN SIX DAYS LATER…
Maybe this is just your life now, fucking the husband of the woman you worshiped like a God for years on end. It’s like you can’t stop, like you’re an addict or something. No matter how disgusting and shameful you feel every time you get home from Art’s appointments, you can’t help but give into him. It’s a twisted dance, a cycle of pleasure and regret that you can’t seem to break. One look into his sad, kicked puppy eyes and you crack. You’ve convinced yourself it's just you reveling in the feeling of being truly wanted for the first time. But deep down, you know it’s more than that. It’s the way he makes you feel alive, the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters in his world.
Art wants you. He needs you. He’s made that more than clear every single visit since you dropped down on your knees for him. The guilt gnaws at you, a constant reminder that you can't escape. Yet, every time you see him, every time he reaches out to you with that desperate need in his eyes, you find yourself powerless to resist.
You’ve never kissed, not on the lips. Art’s certainly tried, lips seeking yours out as your oiled up fist slips up and down his cock, as you sit on his lap and grind against him until he’s dirtying his towel. You just turn your head every time, letting him trail kisses along your jaw and neck instead somehow feels less real. Kissing Art will make it feel real, you know it will. So you don’t.
Funnily enough, you think things are going well. Maybe even as well as getting a married man off every Thursday can go. You can see a change in Art, in his behavior and the way he holds himself. He smiles more, he laughs more, it’s like he’s giving more of himself to you each time you meet with him. It’s exhilarating, the way your presence has this effect on him, almost as if you’re breathing new life into him.
Art’s newfound lightness is infectious. You find yourself looking forward to Thursdays with an anticipation that borders on impatience. The way he looks at you, the tender touches that linger just a bit longer, the conversations that flow more freely–it all feels like a dream you’re afraid to wake up from.
You should have known it was too good to be true, that this little world you created in your head was just the calm before the storm.
Everything about this session was normal to start. It’s a little less intense since Art’s shoulder is doing better, now you have free reign over the rest of his body. Greedy hands free to glide over the planes and planes of muscle you’ve become familiar with.
As you work on his lower back, your hands moving in practiced, soothing motions, you notice a subtle rigidity in his muscles. “Everything alright?” you ask, keeping your tone light.
Art hesitates before answering. “Yeah, just…a lot on my mind.”
You frown, “Do you want to talk about it?”
Art stays quiet, still laying silently on the table face down. You stare at the back of his head, like if you stare hard enough you’ll be able to tell what he’s thinking. Taking his silence as not wanting to talk, you continue on. You don’t want to pressure him to confide with you, not when he already has a wife for that.
As your hands continue to move over Art's tense shoulders, he lets out a deep sigh, breaking the silence. "I need you,” he whispers softly, his voice filled with an unexpected vulnerability. He shifts on the table, leaning up to look you in the eye; his own eyes are watery, lashes clumped together with unshed tears. “It's not just the massages. I need you in my life, no more of this half-assed bullshit. I need all of you.”
You feel your whole world turn upside down in a single second, the distinct feeling of your heart lurching out of your chest and your stomach dropping to your feet. It’s like the walls of the room start moving in on you, caging you in. It makes your chest feel tight, breath coming out in short jagged rasps. Panic grips you, and you violently rip your hands off Art’s body, stumbling back from the massage table.
"I-I'm sorry, I can't," you stammer, voice choked with emotion, as you turn to flee from the room, not even bothering to grab your stuff. But before you could escape, Art was right behind you, reaching out to catch your wrist, his grip gentle yet firm. "Please don't go, please," he begs, his eyes pleading with you to stay and talk. You wrench your hand free and run out of the room.
You think you hear Art calling out your name through all the static rushing through your ears, but you’re not sure, and you don’t look back to check. Your feet pound against the tile as you run out of the pool house feeling like you’re about to throw up, or pass out. Art’s confession is the only thing running through your mind. The only thing that’s still clear through your dizzying panic.
You finally start to breathe again when you burst into the house, leaning back against the cool glass of the door to try and relax before you start to spiral. The silence inside is almost oppressive, the only sound the rapid thudding of your heart in your ears. You close your eyes, willing yourself to calm down, to find some semblance of control.
Your name being said grabs your attention, and you open your eyes to find Tashi at the top of the stairs.
“Is everything okay? I heard the door slam.” Her expression is a mix of concern and confusion as she takes a few steps down. You push yourself off the door, you need to leave as soon as possible, before Tashi can reach you and coerce you into staying.
“Everything's fine!” Your voice sounds shaky despite your best efforts to calm yourself, you’re basically speed walking to the door. “I just, I got a phone call, and I need to leave. Right now. I’m so sorry.”
You don’t even wait for her to reply before you’re yanking the door open and rushing outside. You hope to God that she doesn’t follow you outside. She doesn’t.
You walk, arms wrapped around yourself tightly in a feeble attempt to stop shaking. There are tears burning your eyes and making everything in front of you blurry. The wind whips your hair around your face, stinging your cheeks as you walk further away from the house.
Each step feels heavier, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you try to make sense of the storm inside you. The chaotic weather seems to mock your turmoil, perfectly matching the chaos you feel. You struggle to piece together what just happened, the intensity of Art’s words echoing in your mind.
“I need you.”
His voice had been so raw, so vulnerable, and it scared you. You weren’t ready for that kind of emotion, that kind of responsibility, that kind of guilt. The weight of it had sent you running, and now you’re left grappling with the aftermath.
Fuck.
A LITTLE MORE THAN SIX HOURS LATER…
The drive home was a blur. Rain and wind beating against the windshield nearly the whole time. You’d laugh at how ironic it was, like God’s punishing you with shitty weather, but you’re too busy fighting tears to find the humor in it.
The dread didn’t set in until you got home, stumbling through the front door on shaky legs until you reached your kitchen where you promptly emptied everything in your stomach into your trash. After you force yourself into the shower to wash the rain, and guilt, off of your skin. You scrub yourself raw, skin pink and sensitive to the touch, like that will somehow erase all that you’ve done.
When you finally step out, the bathroom mirror is fogged, a ghostly reflection staring back at you through the mist. You avoid its gaze, wrapping yourself in a towel and padding through your room to collapse onto your bed. The silence of the house presses in on you, letting your thoughts consume you.
Art’s words play on a loop inside your head, the look on his face burned to the forefront of your mind. The weight of his confession hung heavy in the air, rocking you with its intensity. Running away had seemed like the only option at the time, a knee-jerk reaction to the overwhelming flood of emotions threatening to engulf you.
You know you didn’t run from Art because you don’t want him, you ran because there’s nothing you want more. In the aftermath, running felt less like a choice and more like an instinctual response to the storm of emotions threatening to consume you whole since the first day you met him. Every step away from Art was a battle against the gravitational pull of your desires, a struggle against the overwhelming urge to surrender to what you both shared.
The truth is crystal clear: you didn't run from Art because you're devoid of feelings for him. You ran precisely because your heart beats in synchrony with his, because the depth of your longing for him is as boundless as the universe itself.
Your phone pings from the dresser, you ignore it. A second later, it pings again, and again, and again. You furrow your brows, glaring at your nightstand until you reach over and pick up your phone. It’s an unknown number, but you know who it is.
UNKNOWN NUMBER
I need to see you.
Please, I can send a car.
It's Art.
Tashi isn’t home tonight.
Maybe you’re the worst person in the world, but all the fight leaves your body the second you read Art’s texts. You need to see him as much as he needs to see you. Your fingers type out a response before you can think twice.
Art
okay.
You send him your address, jumping out of bed to throw on the first things you see. A black SUV was waiting for you as soon as you got downstairs, just as promised. You climbed in after getting confirmation from the driver, and sat in the backseat quietly as you went down the familiar streets.
As the house comes into view, you can see the front door’s light is still on, waiting for you. You barely wait for the car to stop before you’re opening the car door and stepping outside. The rain immediately drenches you, seeping through your thin sleep clothes. You take two steps before the front door swings open and Art comes rushing out into the rain. He’s only wearing sleep pants, his bare feet smack wetly on the concrete as he runs to you.
Art stops short of you, hesitating, like he doesn’t know whether to touch you or not. You want him to touch you so bad you’re scared it might kill you. The air between you feels charged, every drop of rain a tiny spark. Finally, Art reaches out, his hand trembling as he brushes a soaked strand of hair from your face. The warmth of his touch sends a shiver down your spine, and you step closer, collapsing into his arms. The rain continues to fall around you, but at this moment, it’s just the two of you.
"Art," you breathe, your voice trembling. "What are we doing?"
He gazes into your eyes, the raw emotion in his expression mirroring your own. "I don't know," he admits, his hands gently sliding down to your shoulders. "But I can't let you go. Not now." His words hang between you, a fragile thread of honesty that binds you together. You can feel the weight of his words, the sincerity in his voice, and it tugs at your heartstrings.
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as his words sink in. The honesty in his gaze, the desperation in his touch—it all overwhelms you, leaving you breathless. The only thing you can think of, the only thing that feels right, is kissing him. So you do.
You lean closer, your heart pounding in your chest, and gently cup his face in your hands. His eyes widen for a moment, a flicker of surprise mingling with the intensity of his emotions. Then, as if drawn together by an invisible force, your lips meet his.
The kiss is soft at first, tentative and sweet, a question and an answer all at once. His lips are cold and slightly trembling, matching the fluttering in your chest. You can taste the salt of your tears mingling with the sweetness of the moment. Time seems to stand still as you lose yourself in the sensation of his mouth on yours.
Gradually, the kiss deepens, becoming more urgent and fervent, a silent expression of everything words can’t convey. Art’s arms wrap around you, pulling you closer, his fingers threading through your hair. The heat between you intensifies, both your breath coming faster, mingling as the kiss grows hungrier.
Art’s heartbeat echoes against your chest, you can feel his grip on you getting tighter like he's scared of letting you go. Your hands slide down to his shoulders, your fingers digging into his muscles as you press closer, your bodies molding together. His tongue flicks against your lips, seeking entrance, and you part them eagerly, welcoming him in. The taste of him is intoxicating, a mix of desperation and passion that makes your head spin. A soft moan escapes your lips, and he responds with a low growl, his hands roaming down your back, pulling you impossibly closer.
“Art,” you say in between kisses, panting into his slick, open mouth. “I need you to fuck me.”
You can feel Art’s whole body shiver, groaning unabashedly into your mouth like he’s dying for it. “I’ve been waiting weeks for you to finally admit that.”
The two of you tear through the house, all tangled limbs and bumbling steps, you trail water all over the floor. Somewhere in the chaos you drop your phone and keys on the large kitchen island. Art refuses to let go of you to walk properly, blindly leading the way so he can keep kissing you breathless.
Art only stops kissing you when you finally make it to his bedroom, pulling away to wrestle the now soaked sleep pants off his legs. You follow by example and peel your shirt off, skin damp and cold but you could care less, not when Art’s pants are pooling at his ankles and he’s throwing his boxers carelessly over his shoulder.
“God,” he breathes out, shaking his head like he can’t believe you're giving him this, “You’re so beautiful.”
The raw honesty in his tone has your cheeks burning, you cast your gaze to the floor instinctually, feeling too overwhelmed by his charged gaze raking over you. You can hear his feet softly padding against the floor, making his way closer. You watch his feet come to a complete stop in front of you, he takes a hold of your chin gently forcing you to look up at him.
His eyes, intense and unwavering, lock onto yours. “You’re fucking perfect.”
With a gentle push, Art lowers you onto the bed, his weight a comforting presence above you. He tilts your head back and kisses you breathless, one big hand sliding lower and lower on your stomach till he’s got his hand down the front of your shorts, he groans when his hand makes contact with your bare skin. You’d almost forgotten you hadn’t worn any underwear. His hand so close to your aching center has your breath hitching as you kiss, hips bucking up towards his palm.
You reach for his cock, an angry shade red and leaking steadily, but he catches your wrist before you can touch. You meet his eyes confused, but he just shakes his head.
“It’s been about me the whole time, baby. Let me fix that,” he whispers.
You nod your head wordlessly. You wouldn’t dream of denying him, not right now. He smiles, pecking your lips again before he starts to kiss his way downwards. He explores your body with his mouth with such care it has you shaking under every brush his lips. He kisses all down your jaw and neck, taking extra time on your chest to map out the skin of your breasts with his tongue. He circles your right nipple with the tip of his tongue a few times over before he takes it in his mouth, rolling it between his teeth gently. It has your back arching into his mouth, hands scrambling for a purchase on the silk sheets. One long finger slides around your entrance and dips inside, shallow, then deeper, stretching you slowly, carefully, while his other hand rubs your clit with light, gentle touches. “Is this good?” Art asks quietly, voice tinged slightly with insecurity, like you’re not completely unraveling because of him.
“God yes! Yes – fuck! – Art,” you mewl loudly, hips grinding down roughly onto his finger, desperate to take in more of him. You can feel him smile against your skin, pulling off to blow cool air over your hard nipple and repeating it all over again on your left. His finger slides through the wetness collecting in your hole, spreading it to your throbbing clit. He finally sinks a single finger into the warm, tight, heat of your cunt.
Art pulls away from your chest to kiss his way down your stomach, sliding lower and lower on the huge king size mattress, he doesn’t stop the rhythm of his fingers as he peels your shorts down your legs, tossing them aside. A guttural groan leaves his lips at the sight of your slick cunt parting over his fingers, taking them so well. He pitches forward like he can’t help himself, like his lips are magnetically drawn to your cunt, and presses a small kiss to your clit.
“Fuck!” You squeal and writhe as his finger fucks in and out of you, hands tangling in his messy hair, cheeks flushing at the sound of your leaking cunt squelching against his wrist with each thrust. Art's lips tighten over your clit, sucking for a brief second before he moves back to start laving his tongue over your cunt in careful, slightly clumsy, strokes. The sounds he's making, almost filthy slurping, accompanied by little moans now and then send small vibrations through you that shock your system, making you fist his hair even tighter.
Art’s lewd noises fill the air, mixing with your own moans to fill the room. His eyes stay closed for the most part, fluttering open every couple seconds to watch you fall apart. Your thighs shake uncontrollably around his head when you make eye contact, threatening to clamp around his ears and keep him there.
A sob tears from your throat when he adds another finger, then he curls them inside you and pulls back and god, shit, shit, fuck, fuck me, god, Art, please fuck me.
“Fuck me Art please fuck me I need it so bad please-” you ramble nonsensically, pulling at Art’s hair desperately. You can feel the warmth starting to pool in your stomach, but you don’t want to come on his tongue, or on his fingers, you want to come with him inside you.
Art lets you drag him up, the bottom half of his face is slick and shiny, drenched in your wetness. He makes his way up your body quickly, hands gripping tightly to your hips, not hesitating to kiss you even as your juices decorate his lips. You kiss back desperately, tasting yourself on his tongue. The head of his cock bumping against your twitching, empty hole has you whining.
“Fuck me, Art,” you breath hotly, hips canting up needily. “No condom, I’m on the pill. I want you to come inside me. Please, I need it.”
Slowly, he starts to sink in. Feeding you inch by inch torturously slow. He kisses you the whole time, greedily swallowing the moans flowing out of your mouth as he stretches your cunt on his thick cock. You grab at his shoulders like a lifeline, kissing back with everything you have.
“God, you’re so fucking tight,” he says through gritted teeth, hands gripping your hips hard enough that you know you’ll be bruised in the morning. “So fucking perfect for me, such a perfect pussy for my cock.”
“Move.” Is all you can manage to squeak out, nails digging into the meat of his shoulders.
Art starts to move, thrusts slow and gentle, like he’s easing you into it. You’re grateful for it, you’ve never taken anyone as big as him. Slowly, his thrusts speed up, cut hips smacking against the fat of your ass a little rougher than before. You revel in it, pushing your ass back greedily for more more more. From this angle, the thick head of his cock drags against your g-spot perfectly every time he plunges back into your dripping cunt.
“Shit! Right there, don’t stop,” you slur breathlessly, feeling the familiar warmth swirling through your stomach as he fucks you.
“I love you.” Art confesses against your lips, his breath hot and erratic. His sweaty forehead pressed to yours as he pounds in and out of you, the motion both relentless and tender. His eyes are wide open now, so blue and so big and so honest as they bore into yours so intensely it’s suffocating.
It’s soon, it’s way too soon. You’ve barely known each other for a couple months, but you can't deny the warmth spreading through your chest, mingling with the heat of the moment, making everything feel both overwhelming and perfect.
Now that you're here, with Art’s cock fitting so perfectly in the wet heat of your cunt, you can’t believe it took you this long. You love Art. You’ve been in love with Art since the first time he spoke to you. Since the first time he touched you like you were the solution to all his problems.
Art must take your stunned silence as rejection, head falling to rest on your shoulder dejectedly, but his hips don’t slow their rhythm. If anything he speeds up, hips thrusting against you desperately.
“Please, please say it back,” he begs, voice thick with emotion, “Say it back, I need to hear you say it. Please,”
You surge up, wrapping your arms around him as tightly as you can, ankles locking together across his back. Art couldn’t pull out of you if he wanted to, judging from the long whine he lets out, he doesn’t mind.
“I love you, Art” you whisper back, barely audible over the lewd slap of his hips stinging your ass. Art groans so loudly you can feel it reverberating off the sensitive skin of your neck.
Hips speeding up even faster, Art turns his head to catch your lips in a searing kiss. This kiss is different than any of the other ones you’ve shared tonight, full of so much emotion and unspoken words. You swear you feel your heart grow three sizes, almost full and threatening to break out of your chest.
“I’m gonna come, fuck, I’m gonna fucking come,” he breathes between kisses. You can only moan in response, right on the brink of your own orgasm. His hips start to lose their rhythm as he chases it, fucking into you faster and harder.
Art’s cock gives a final twitch inside you before his hips are stilling and he’s coming with a broken moan, unloading everything he has into you. You’re right behind him, vision whiting out as you come, thighs shaking where they’re draped around his hips.
Art collapses onto you, both of you breathing heavily as you come down from the high of your orgasm’s. You lay like that for a while, heaving and sweaty wrapped up in each other's arms. You feel something slot into place, something that you’ve been missing.
Art’s soft voice pierces through the afterglow, “Will you hold me?”
“Yes,” you whisper back, circling your arms around his shoulders.
…
When you wake up hours later you’re beyond thirsty, dehydrated from all the crying, and maybe from the sex. Art’s head is laying across your bare chest, tousled hair tickling your jaw and arms snug around your waist. He looks so peaceful, eyes closed with his long lashes fanning over his cheeks. The sound of his steady breathing is almost enough to lull you right back to sleep. You smile softly, running your hands through his hair slowly. Savoring how at peace he looks, so different from the battered, broken man you met.
You slip out of his arms as carefully as possible, not wanting to wake him. Rolling out of bed to search half-assedly for your clothes in the darkness. You can’t find your shirt, only your underwear and shorts. You notice a red shirt strewn over the dresser next to the bed, illuminated by the moonlight pouring through the blinds. You pick it up without thinking, it's soft in your hands, the fabric thin and worn down. You toss it on before padding out of the bedroom.
You get a little lost in your thoughts as you make your way to the kitchen, Art loves you.
The thought has you biting back a giddy smile. Art loves you and you love him too. It sounds fucking crazy, but you know it’s true. Your life is so completely fucked, you don’t know if you care.
Art loves you.
Your smile doesn’t leave your lips as you turn the corner, arms wrapped around yourself tightly, the warmth of Art's affection lingering like a gentle caress.
“He smiles more.”
The soft voice ringing out from your left makes you stop in your tracks. You turn, and there in the kitchen illuminated by the soft glow of the ceiling light, like an angel, is Tashi Duncan.
Tashi looks at you from her spot across the room with an impassive look on her face, she’s got your keys in one hand, fiddling with them boredly. When you don't reply she speaks again, "He's playing better, won the last three tournaments he was in." She says casually, setting her half full wine glass down on the island.
You don't need to ask her who "he" is.
You're silent for a few more beats as she stares at you expectantly, silently urging you to say something. You rack your brain for a response, caught like a deer in headlights under Tashi's gaze.
"What?" you softly mutter, words cutting through the air weakly.
Tashi sighs in exasperation, like you're a child who doesn't understand the simple question she's asking. She raises her wine glass back to her lips, draining the rest of it before setting it down once more and making her way over to you.
You know you should flee, make a break for the door before she reaches you. Running away from the woman whose husband you’re fucking - whose husband you just got done fucking, and who told you he loved you - while she pays you seems like the easiest thing to do in the moment, but you don't.
You find yourself glued to the spot as Tashi's commanding presence looms over you, until she's all you can see. Until her expensive smelling perfume is all you can breathe, until she's towering over you, miles of soft skin on display in a classy black nightie.
She stares down at you, her face completely unreadable. It feels like hours as her brown eyes burn into yours, your heart must be beating a thousand beats per second.
When Tashi finally moves, it’s her hand you see rising up in your peripheral vision. At first you think she's going to hit you, get you back for sleeping with her husband, for falling in love with her husband. You tense up, bracing for the slap, it would be the least of what you deserve, but it never comes.
Instead, Tashi's hand finds its way up to the side of your face, cupping your cheek gently. You can feel the chilled metal of her wedding band make contact with your warm skin.
You feel like you might pass out staring into the eyes of Tashi Duncan. Everything you ever wanted in high school flashing rapidly right before your eyes.
If Art Donaldson is the sun, Tashi is the moon. Her light draws you in and keeps you looking at her, and never wanting to look away.
Her thumb slides across your bottom lip, the same lip that’s kissed her husband. Ever so slightly, she pushes the tip of her thumb into your parted lips, far enough to touch your bottom teeth. Your breath catches in your throat, eyes widening in shock, your pulse is fluttering wildly. You distantly wonder if she can feel it on the inside of her wrist.
“I’m his coach, I need to be hard on him or he fails. I refuse to let him fail,” she says softly, tone casual like she’s not brushing the tip of your tongue with her fingers. “But I’m not stupid, I know what he needs. Someone sweet, someone gentle, someone who looks at him and doesn’t see tennis.”
You couldn’t answer her if you wanted to, but you wouldn’t trust yourself to speak anyway. You feel far away and floaty the longer her fingers sit in your mouth, your brain feels like molasses.
“I can’t give him what he needs. I’m not that kind of person,” Tashi says, eyes roaming your face languidly, like she’s window shopping your features. Her voice is nearly a whisper the next time she speaks, “but you are. You could be that for him.”
Your heart drops, the haze surrounding your brain rips away so violently, like someone took a leaf blower to it. Her words make everything start to fall into place, the at home visits, the “exclusive deal”, the weird ass run-ins you’ve had with her over the weeks.
This was never about the goddamn massages.
For a few seconds you both stay like that. Standing inches away from each other in the half-lit kitchen of her and Art's house. For a second, you think you can see the tiniest smile playing on her lips before she drops her hand from you completely.
"There’s a car waiting for you outside,” she says, still close enough that you can feel her breath fan over your face, “See you next Thursday."
Tashi turns on her heels and leaves you alone, disappearing down the long hallway leading to her and Art's bedroom. You watch the whole time she goes, until she completely fades into the shadows. Your lip still tingling from her touch.
There’s only one thing on your mind as you incredulously stare down the now empty hall…
These people are so fucking weird.
taglist!
@ebodebo @yuenity @artemis-b-writes
#✧: 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘢 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴#natalia cant write anything under 1.000 words#this took me so long#it's seven in the morning lmao#someone help me write faster#cause it's such a problem#like seriously#okay bye#love you hope you like this#challengers#challengers movie#challengers x reader#challengers fanfic#challengers smut#art donaldson#art donaldson x reader#art donaldson x you#art donaldson smut#mike faist#mike faist x reader#mike faist x you#tashi duncan#tashi duncan x you#sort of
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|| What’s Your Favorite Scary Movie? || Part 2.
Pairing: Dom!Bucky x Sub!female reader
Summary: After accidentally revealing that you have a masked man kink, Bucky starts taking it to the next level. The reveal!
Warnings: Smut- MDNI please!, unprotected sexual intercourse (p in v), don't forget no glove no love, edging, asphyxiation, fingering, mild dirty talk, language, praise kink, masked man kink, stalking, harassment, implied harm, breaking in.
Word Count: 5.4
A/Ns: Hi babes! Sorry this took an extra day than intended. Tumblr is being super finicky tonight, I’ve edited and re-edited this so many times. If there’s mistakes just ignore. I hope you like the conclusion!
In case you missed it, Part 1
You didn’t sleep much the next couple of nights, and decided to take some time off of work. Bucky finally reached out, and you updated him as to what was going on. He immediately offered to come home, which you refused and started to downplay the situation.
Hailee has been great with letting you borrow some clothes and little things, since you only grabbed a small bag in a rush before heading to her place to stay a few days ago. You’ve been dreading going back to the apartment, scared to find someone in there waiting for you. But it’s at the point where you need to grab some of your stuff.
Walking into the apartment, it was eerily quiet and uncomfortable. But nothing looked out of place, and was exactly how you left it. Deciding not to spend any longer there than you had to, you promptly tossed a large duffle bag onto your bed and started stuffing it with clothes and any other necessities.
Zipping the duffle closed, you felt a light gust of cool air. Scanning your bedroom window assuming it was the source, you realize it’s open. You never open this window. In fact, it’s always locked. All of the hair on the top layer of your skin stands up to the extent it almost feels like tiny pinpricks. Flight mode is instantly activated; before you can even think, you grab the bag and run, practically tripping over your own feet out of the room.
Grappling with the door knob, the pure panic starts to set in. Just as you’re twisting the knob open, you hear a distant bang coming from another room in the apartment. You freeze at the realization:
I’m not alone.
You know when you’re watching a scary movie and yell at the tv, wondering why the one of the characters was so fucking stupid to do something?
Well, you did exactly that. What possessed you in that moment, you haven’t the faintest idea. But, with your heartbeat pounding in your ears so loudly that you thought your eardrums might rupture, you started to turn around to look.
What primitively catches your attention isn’t what you expected, but quickly makes your chest tighten. The fruit bowl on the kitchen counter that is normally overflowing with lucious, red delicious apples, now just has all apple cores.
The flashback of one being on left on the countertop after Bucky had left blazes in your mind. It suddenly makes sense. Bucky would never leave a mess and it wasn't long after that you saw someone outside your window.
Attempting to swallow the growing dryness in your throat, you continue to turn around. And that's when you see him for the first time. About fifteen feet away, stood an obviously immensely tall man. He wore thick, black shiny leather boots that gleamed lightly in the natural daylight within the apartment. Fitted black jeans with a loose, black hooded sweatshirt that failed to hide how muscular and broad his chest and shoulders were with the hood pulled up.
But two things stuck out the most about his appearance. First, was the tight, black leather gloves he wore on his hands that were currently clenched into rigid fists. The second, was the fact that you couldn't make out his face. All you could see was an elongated paleness, caverned by the blackness of the hood, and it seemed... sinister. He didn't move or make a sound. It was as if you would blink and he would be gone, like a cloud of smoke.
But if anyone was going to disappear, it was going to be you. So taking a chance, you ran. And you didn't stop running. Even with the faint vibration in your pocket alerting you to the new text notification on your phone, you kept going.
It wasn't until you got back to Hailee's place and frantically, out of breath explained to her, that you even remembered about the text message.
"Here," You toss the phone in pure detestation onto her bed, "I don't even want to fucking know what it says." You lean against the opposite wall of her bedroom, crossing your arms across your chest in an attempt to control the body shakes as you come down from the adrenaline.
Hailee watches you for a brief moment, still not having said much aside from asking if you were okay. Her expression was soft and sympathetic and yet had an dissenting undertone. You couldn't blame her, this all sounded absolutely insane.
Letting out a small, exasperated breath, Hailee sits on her knees from her previous crossed legged position and grabs your cell. As the screen comes to life, her teeth clench down reading whatever is on the screen.
“What?” The concern is evident in your voice as you pry away from the wall, though still holding onto yourself.
Hailee inhales deeply through her nostrils, faking a tightlipped smile, “it’s nothing,” her tone is flat. She’s lying. Clicking the sleep button on the side of the phone to make the screen go black, she makes her way off the bed, “hey, how about we head down to the cellphone store and get you a new phone and number?” She asks, trying to sound like her usual carefree self as she grabbed her crossbody bag.
“Hailee,” you uncross your arms and step in front of her, forcing her to make eye contact, “what is it?”
Searching your eyes, you can see that she is torn. She wants so badly to do the right thing, but isn’t sure what exactly that is in this situation. On one hand, she could just keep it to herself. Let the unknown and curiosity eat you alive from the inside out like it inevitably will. But only because she wants to protect you, shield you from anything that brings you the opposite of joy. Or, she can show you what you’re actually dealing with, and the two of you can come up with a plan and handle it together. Hailee decides on the latter.
Hesitating, her hand shakes slightly as she holds out the phone to you. It appears that now both of you will take this predicament more critically now. Grabbing the phone a tad more aggressively then you meant to, you unlock it and open the messages. But it's not often Hailee gets rendered quiet. Scrolling through the back to back texts, you understand why.
Taking your best friends advice, you immediately went to the cell phone store. She tagged along as you got a completely new phone and number, not transferring anything over, not wanting to take the risk. You didn't download any social media, deciding to take a much needed mental break for a bit. The only thing you did do, was take a few phone numbers that you needed out of your old phone, and even then you wrote them down on a piece of paper to manually add them into your contacts later.
Walking out of the store, you felt as if a weight had been lifted. Hailee locked arms with you, leading you around the corner to the nearest cafe to get iced coffee. It was her answer for everything. Bad day? Iced coffee. Need a pick me up? Iced coffee. Need to clear your head and just ramble about random shit for a bit? Iced coffee. Your best friend has an apparent stalker and we're hoping that changing phone numbers is the end all solution?! Obviously, iced coffee.
Sitting at a small table outside the cafe, enjoying the slight crispness in the fall air, you let out a huge, relieving sigh that makes your shoulders sink. You take the opportunity to add Bucky to your contacts and text him your new number. Although, you decide not to go into detail about your most recent encounter while he's still away on a mission.
Putting the phone down on the table and not have it incessantly go off with calls and texts, let's you feel as though you can finally breathe. "Thank you for coming with me, Hales, I really appreciate you."
Hailee is sucking the remnants of her drink through the straw as she looks up at you. She gives you a small, genuine side smile, "you're welcome," before smirking, "so I'm supposed to have a date tonight, with that guy Noah I've been seeing..." she leaves it open ended. "But, I should totally cancel after everythi-"
"No, please. Go out and have fun. You've been dealing with my shit enough," trying to make your words sound affirming, even with the lingering dread that you still felt.
That's one thing about Hailee. You never quite really have to twist her arm to do anything.
After showering and changing into your comfy jeans and oversized cropped sweater, it was hard not to feel the slightest tinge of jealousy watching Hailee do her finishing touches for date night in the mirror. Jealousy in the sense of missing Bucky and going out and having a carefree night, not in comparing yourself physically.
She swipes yet another layer of clear lip gloss on before fluffing her beach wave blonde hair. Turning to face you, her thick heels clack on the wooden floor as she starts adjusting her boobs in her sleek, dusty rose colored dress.
"What do you think?" Her hands glide down over her curves, "Dress is okay?"
"That dress is fire," and it is, she looks amazing. By the smile she's wearing, she's feeling it too, "too bad it's going to end up on Noah's floor ten minutes into your date." Hailee dramatically gasps, as if that's not true. It totally is.
You're both laughing until she abruptly stops, "I have to go!" She gives you a quick hug and starts scurrying towards the door, a bit awkwardly in the heels, "Bye! Love you! Lock the door!" As she goes to close the door behind her she yells back in, "don't read too much smut on your kindle while I'm gone!" and the door slams.
Shaking your head with a small laugh, you lock the door. Hailee just gave you the perfect idea of how to spend your night.
About an hour had gone by, you comfortably laid in Hailee's spare bed, a few chapters deep into your latest book. It was quiet, so when your phone vibrated on the bed next to you- you jumped slightly. Assuming it was Bucky finally having the chance to text you back, you pick it up fairly quickly. But the message you received isn't what you expected at all.
Before even unlocking the phone, you had a text alert from Unknown. There was nothing written, but all the way to the right of the alert, you could see a picture was included.
Promptly, you sat up in the bed and stared at the notification. That familiar wave of unease dispersed throughout your body as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped over your head.
This phone number is only a few hours old, how the fuck did he get it already?
The notification banner and you were in a staredown. You had to know what the message was, but you were absolutely terrified at the same time. Your thumbs hover, occasionally twitching over the screen, until you pull the trigger and swipe up.
Us. Hailee...
Driving to your apartment, you broke nearly every single traffic law that there is. The entire time you tried calling Hailee’s phone back to back, just repeating the same mantra; please pick up. Please, please pick up. She never did.
“Hailee!!” You run through your apartment door, not having to mess with it for long as it was already unlocked. You had a feeling it would be. “Answer me!” You yell, breathlessly. The apartment is eerily dark and quiet.
Coming to a halt in the main living space, you whipped your head around looking for clues and try to listen for any signs of distress. But it was so difficult to hear anything over your own breathing and pulse drumming in your ears.
You knew where you had to go, the last picture of your friends dress laid out on your bedspread was the roadmap. The bedroom door was just barely closed over, a creepy orange glow lining it and trying to escape from underneath. Each step closer that you took, felt as if a large spider made entirely of ice was crawling down your spine.
Pushing the door open slightly with just a fingernail, you peered into the room. You knew this is exactly where this person wanted you. For what? There’s only one way to find out.
There didn’t seem to be anyone in the room, so you took a few small steps in. The glow was more prominent now, giving the room an uncanny romantic ambiance with numerous amount of white candles lit all along the dressers, night tables, and bookshelves.
Taking a broad step forward, your attention is now focused on the bed. Hailee's dress is no longer laid out like it had been in the picture. Instead, there are flower petals sprinkled across your comforter. The intriguing curiosity drew you even more into the room without you even realizing. Picking up one of the petals, you rub it between your fingers, feeling it's supple and delicate smoothness as you examine it more closely. In that moment you recognize it- the familiarity of it's dark appeal. They're black dahlia petals.
Some of the petals congregated in one particular area on the bed, revealing an elegant, black gift box about the size of a large book. Your lips part slightly as you pick up the box, captivated by it's alluring magnetism. Taking off the lid, your brows furrow slightly in confusion. It's a chain. A long, thick slip chain that looks like a necklace but almost long enough to be a leash.
As your finger smoothes over the cold indentations of the chain, you hear a creak come from the floor behind you. In a startled jump, you drop the box- a slight ringing sound deafens the scene even more from the chain hitting the floor. But that's not your concern. Because as you turn around, you see him.
Within arms reach, you are confronted with the person that's been behind all of this. He's even taller up close, broader. Dressed in all black attire, this time swapping the black hoodie for a black t-shirt and black leather jacket. And without the hood, you're able to see the elongated white face from earlier.
It's a Ghostface mask.
He stands as still as a statue, watching you intently, waiting. Your eyes persist in looking him over as your chest rises and falls deeply. When your gaze meets his face once again, his head creepily tilts ever so slightly to one side.
"What's the matter?" He speaks, his voice deep and low, "you look like you've seen a ghost," the tone almost mocking.
Squinting your eyes, you look at him again. And this time you really look at him. His body frame, the clothes, the familiarity of his voice. Your eyes widen at the realization.
"Bucky?" you gape, completely stupefied. Taking the first fearless step in what feels like months, you wrap your arms around him. He returns the sentiment and you feel safe, for the first time in what feels like forever. It suddenly dawns on you that he's not actually on a mission. And probably never was.
"What- What is this?" You ask, looking up at him, slightly pushing the mask up to reveal his stubbled chin and promiscuous grin.
"There’s just something so dark and exhilarating about an unknown man behind a mask that stalks and is obsessed with you. The anonymity of it..." He repeats back the words you said to him a few months ago watching the Scream movie.
The memory of you how you told him about this kink of yours curls around your mind. That this entire time, you were never in any kind of serious danger, he just brought it to life. Weeks and months of preparation went into this, here, tonight. You should have known all along that Bucky would never have been so nonchalant about you in any type of significant situation. You're safe. You always were and always will be.
The tiny icy footprints that had trailed up your spine were long gone, now replaced with a burning and tantalizing desire. You've missed him, thinking he was away while you were dealing with this on your own. But now he's here, fulfilling your deepest desires.
Looking up, Bucky's Pacific blue eyes are already gazing down into yours, a built up and unsatisfied hunger prominent. Moving up onto your tiptoes and grabbing him behind the neck, you bring down his head and capture his lips.
Your mouth parted his, gliding and massaging his tongue with your own. A low growl reverberated from within his throat with approval, and promise to make everything up to you tenfold. Bucky's intoxicating cypress scent fills your nostrils as your inhaled deeply, pressing your breasts up into his chest. Taking off the leather gloves and shrugging his jacket onto the floor, his hands started to wildly wander around your body, giving light squeezes on your hips before settling and interlacing gingerly in your hair.
That didn't last long, though. There was a sudden and hard tug from where Bucky held your hair, enough to pull the two of you apart. The aggressiveness of the gesture was unexpected, but you'd be lying if you said you didn't fucking love it. His eyes linger on your already swollen lips, now wearing a pursed, provocative grin. His hand releases the tight grip he had on your loose curls, watching the relief from the sting flash across your eyes. Bucky has always been tender, gentle and using your body as a place of worship-but tonight is different.
Grabbing the hem of your sweater, he maneuvers it up and off to join his growing pile of discarded clothes. Dropping to his knees with a loud thud, he undoes the button and zipper of your jeans, pulling them down and weaving his tongue along the freshly exposed skin. Hissing through your teeth, your hips instinctively press forward. He lets out a dark laugh, before grabbing the chain you dropped before. Standing back up, he takes your hand, "Come," he says, leading you towards the cornered edge of the mattress.
Sitting down on the edge of the bed, his muscular body causes it to sink slightly. His free hand, still holding the chain, grips his own thigh before giving it a light pat, "Sit," he commanded, again keeping that firm edge in his voice that you weren't used to. You enthusiastically follow his orders, sitting delicately facing outward in just your matching ivory lace bra and panties. It's hard not to notice how you just fit. And how much you secretly love his significantly large frame pressed against your much more petite body in comparison to his.
The soft tip of his nose runs along the outside of your neck, his large hands coasting along your shoulders, down your arms, sides, before settling on your thighs. The calluses on his hands leaving a sensational trail of tingles and heat to disperse under your skin.
"Look," his head nods forward once to get your attention, and now you see the reason why he sat you here. In the corner of the bedroom, just a few feet away, is a full length standing mirror angled perfectly to reflect everything.
You see yourself, already flushed with arousal and breathing heavily as you make eye contact with Bucky in the mirror. His devious smile pins you in place as you watch his hands pry open your legs, entrancingly over his. They willingly spread open wide for him, your restless hips now squirming, aching for more. His fingertips trace small circles on your inner thigh.
"I want you to see your face as you fall apart, " he taunted, his voice sultry in your ear, still holding your gaze in the mirror. His middle finger skims across your already embarrassingly dampened panties, causing your back to press against his rigid chest.
There was a vague rattling sound, followed by Bucky placing the large opening of the looped chain over your head and around your neck, “Bucky, what are you doing-” you watch curiously in the mirror. Part of the chain dangles between your breasts, which he wraps around his hand once and slowly starts to pull, causing the loop around your neck to compress.
It’s a choker.
Your eyes go wide, nervousness rippling through you as you grasp his intentions, “Bucky, I don’t know-”
“Do you really think you have a choice?” he barked, pulling the Ghostface mask down back onto his face. Talking to you through the mirror, “I won’t hurt you. Trust me,” he whispers, breaking character for a moment to assure you’re safe.
You nod in response, your reflection visibly eases in the mirror as the necklace slackens around your throat. He lets the chain lax too, for now.
Large hands are back to kneading your thighs, a lone finger brushing between your legs when gravitating along the inside. It’s not long until the sensation has you starting to wriggle once again.
Cupping your sex, his hand gently moves up and down, keeping a firm, yet delicate and delicious pressure. Your greedy hips tilt forward, wanting more from his right hand, while the coolness of his left continues to lazily stroke over your skin. But when that icy touch quickly grabs and tears your underwear off in one jolt, you gasp at the tiny bite the ripping cloth left behind.
Now you’re left wide and exposed- to yourself, to Bucky, to the reflections of yourselves staring intensely, watching every movement. The warmth of his hand is back, leisurely gliding two fingers between your already achingly wet pussy. Swallowing hard, your breath hitches as you can not only feel, but see, yourself start to lose composure.
Bucky pulls the two fingers away, holding them up just to your mouth, "wet them for me," he instructs, his voice silk like satin. Taking the two fingers into your mouth, your tongue swirled rapidly around the digits, savoring the salty-sweetness of your arousal. Slowly pulling them back out, you see them shine with your saliva.
Something comes over you in that moment, call it gluttonous, but you pool some extra moisture into your mouth and spit onto the fingers. Just for good measure.
There's a murmured hum of approval in your ear as he spreads your folds, teasing your increasingly sensitive clit between his two fingers. And getting Bucky's praise will only enhance the entire night. Your legs quiver at the deliberate sluggish pace, letting out shaky breaths as the overwhelming throbbing demands more attention.
Finally, the pads of those fingers start to rub your bundle of nerves in unhurried circles. Gripping onto his thigh to steady yourself, your nails clutching his jeans, a whine escapes as your hips try to buck against his hand.
That dark laugh is in your ear again, "good girls don't come until I tell them too," Bucky breathes, overly indulging in how you respond to his touch. It feels like torture, in the best possible way. The combination of his words and caress... you have never felt this good. This wanted.
Your head falls back slightly against his shoulder in small disappointment, whimpering, knowing that he's going to make you beg. And you're getting desperate enough to do so.
The leisurely pace of his fingers picks up, causing your back to arch away from his chest as you start panting. Each swipe building pleasure, layer on top of agonizing layer. Finding yourself in the mirror again, you unapologetically watch as your body vigorously writhes against his hand, your moans spilling from your mouth more and more.
"How badly do you want to come, princess?" The Ghost breathed, his chest rising and falling heavily now, trying to fight off his own desire, evident from the hard protrusion you keep rolling your hips against.
"S-so bad... Please! Please," you pleaded, not caring how desperate it sounds. Adding some additional pressure, your hips stutter. Your breathing practically stops as your moans transform into one long, drawn out strangled whine as you come apart, "O-ooh...oh my god. Oh god!"
Not even fully coming down from the repeated waves, you hear, "God's not here," growled into your ear. In one sudden movement, Bucky stands up with you in his arms before tossing you onto the bed, "just me.” the low rumble emits from his chest. Ripping off the mask, he kneels on the bed and uses his left arm to support his weight. Using those same damned two fingers, he plunges them into your drenched pussy, siphoning a sound from your throat that’s unrecognizable.
“Again,” Bucky breathes, his eyes glazed over with a new kind of wickedness as they lock into yours, “Come for me again. I fucking love all the sounds you make,” With his palm face up, his fingers start pumping you from the inside, running over your g-spot in a come here motion.
Since there was no remission from your last orgasm, the tightness in your belly never fully went away. Watching Bucky, seeing him in the tight black t-shirt while his bicep flexes from working you, his slightly furrowed brow and his lips slightly parted in determination, you could feel it building up once again.
Feeling your walls contract around him, he grinned. He changes his hand motions to going in a frantic up and down movement, and if you know, you know. Your rasped whimpers became silent as you forgot how to breathe and your vision blurred. The build up came on so fast and so strong, the only sound in the room was your ever increasing wetness.
Your mouth dropped open into a silent O, not able to think not a single coherent thought, "Thaaat's it..." Bucky coaxed, "I want you to gush all over my fucking hand," and with his words, your body quivers as you completely shatter with a loud cry. "Goood girl. God, what a good fucking girl," he soothes. You winced slightly as he pulled out his fingers, collapsing back more into the bed as you try to rein in remembering how to breathe. Bucky sits back on his knees, and almost entirely up to his elbow is glistening with how hard you just came.
With a flat tongue, he presses it to his palm, and licks all the way up to the tip of his middle finger, "Perfect," Bucky hums in satisfaction to himself. Your throat goes dry at the sight, being the cherry on top of all the mouth breathing you've been doing. Am I fucking dreaming?
Pushing his jeans down to his knees, his thick, flushed cock rebounds out of his boxers. Bucky grabs you by the hips, pulling you down the bed before flipping you over onto all fours. Each of his hands grabs a fistfull of your ass, before slapping one side. You moan at the bite of the smack, feeling delusional from needing him inside you so badly. He rubs the reddened cheek before dropping a teeth grazed kiss on the sensitive skin.
There's a coolness between your legs, and you realize that it's your juices sliding down your thighs. Not needing any preparation, you feel the tip of Bucky's fat cock lining up to slide into your tight little slit. He rubs the head up and down, lubricating just enough to push himself in. As he started to sink into you, it took every bit of will you had not to collapse as you felt his slight struggle to get in.
"Fuck, you're tight," he sighs. But truth be told, he's just that big. As if he had a direct roadmap, he slides in effortlessly right to the hilt, poking the sweetest spot of all making you choke out a sob, "You can take it, can't you angel?" He breathes huskily, amusement draped around the words as he dragged his cock back maliciously slow, letting you feel the ridge of each vein, every delectable centimeter of his length.
You feel your eyes roll closed, enjoying the all consuming sensation. With one quick thrust all at once, Bucky simultaneously yanks on the chain of the forgotten choker forcing your eyes open with a loud cry to find him glaring at you in the mirror, "Look at me when I'm fucking you," he reprimanded, in a subdued yet stern voice.
He started to move in a merciless rhythm, keeping the chain taut in one of the hands that clenched your hips. Each thrust delivered not only a delectable deep nudge against your cervix, but a small slap of his balls to your achingly sensitive clit. The combination of internal and external stimulation has you singing your own personal explicit cry, almost on the verge of tears with the intensity.
It's almost cruel the way that he fucks you, like he's dismantling you piece by piece, mentally, physically, emotionally. Never have you been treated like such a prize possession and a cheap whore at the same time. Your walls flutter around his cock, swallowing him needing moremoremore. You're body's accepted that this pussy is Bucky's. It's meant for him. It was made for him.
In the reflection you can see Bucky wet his lips, his eyes darting between yours and your ass bouncing off of his snapping hips. He continues to murmur soft, filthy praises as he fucks another orgasm from you. The choker tensed as you came, making the edges of your vision blurry- your walls clenching so tightly, causing each stroke to become more intense than the next. After you completely shattered, the chain went slack once again.
Manhandling you one last time, Bucky lays back flat on the bed and positions you to straddle him. You shake your head in an almost delirious state, "I-I can't. Buck, I-" you whisper, thoroughly cock drunk, "I can't," you pleaded.
"Yes you can, angel," his hands glide over your sweat coated thighs, a lecherous expression on his face. You nod ever so slightly, because even as spent and exhausted as you feel, you want to see him come apart. You want to look down into his eyes as joins you in the fucked out bliss.
You grab the base of his cock, using it to align yourself before sliding back down on top of him. Bucky's eyes widen, watching intensely as your bodies joined one another. All the air releases out of his lungs at the sight of your greedy pussy sucking him all the way in- deeper, your thighs already trembling. His hands clench your hips as your they start to grind back and forth.
His ab muscles flex under your nail piercing grasp- that pressure once again starting to build. He's just so deep, you're still just so wet from coming 3 times in a row, and now his wide tip is nestled so perfectly against your cervix that each motion of your body feels like you're going to spontaneously combust and die. But there's no way that heaven could be better than this. Those painfully beautiful sapphire blue eyes filled with an rapacious hunger that only you can fulfill.
You're mouth opens in attempt to say his name like a prayer, or something as equally dirty, but all that comes out is a sputter of shuddered gasps. Bucky's unapologetically loud moans grow more frequent, turning into their own long, drawn out beautiful melody, "fuck," he whispers, "that's so good."
Leaning down, chest to chest, you capture his lips in yours- swallowing those gorgeous sounds. Bucky takes this opportunity to thrust his hips up, massaging your inner walls as you push back against him. The loud smacking of flesh borderline drown out the sounds of both your orgasms, but you could feel the vibration from deep within Bucky's throat through the kiss. Rope after rope, you could feel his warmth emptying inside of you.
The strokes became laguid as he maintained the kiss- Bucky's hands cupping your face gently, which was such a dichotomy compared to the way he fucked you tonight. You finally pull your lips apart, collapsing fully on top of his body. Laying in silence, all you can hear is each other's ragged breathing and the drumming of his heart in your ear against his chest.
"I am... never getting rid of that fucking mask," Bucky chuckles lightly.
"Just so you know," you prop your chin up on your palm, "there's 5 other movies in the franchise."
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Random thought! Baby Daddy Gojo x Complicated Baby Mama! Reader
But just imagine fighting with your baby daddy Gojo. He wasn't yours to begin with a wild man on the run looking for some good pussy to fuck. He got a taste of you and knocked you up with his child on the first night. It wasn't intentional. He just forgot to put the condom on, promising to not ejaculate inside your hole. But he couldn't resist a good pussy.
So now here you are, the mother of his two year old child arguing back and forth with him all because you refused to spend the night over at his house.
It's no secret. Almost everyone knew, including your family, that you were still sleeping with your baby daddy. So if that's the case, then why not make the relationship official already? The answer is simple, Gojo is not ready for a committed relationship like that. But he begs to differ.
"Y/N, stop fighting with me. Come on, baby girl, you know you wanna ride this dick so stop playing with me and get back in bed," he whined as he watched as you fixed the ends of your sundress. "Come on baby, it's just after 10. Where are you gonna go at this time of the night?
"Can you shut up and go put some clothes on?"
He sighed heavily and rolled his eyes as he got out of bed, grabbed his robe that was close by, and put it on. "Seriously, Y/N, are you really just gonna leave after we had some amazing sex?"
You took a deep breath before turning to face him. "It wasn't supposed to happen, I only came here to drop off our son."
"And you somehow ended up in my bed, yeah, right."
You rolled your eyes, pushed past him, and made your way towards the door. You weren't in any mood to have this conversation. Yeah, he's right. You both just had amazing sex, something that you needed after the rough week you had, and you're in such a good mood right now. You'd be damned if you allowed Gojo to sully your mood.
But be damned all you want, Gojo had a few words he wanted to get off his chest before you walked out that door.
"Why do you always keep running away from me? Why do you treat me like this? For fuck sakes, we have a child together and you treat me as though I'm just a one night fucking stand."
"Gojo can we please not do this right now, I just wanna..."
"No! We are going to talk about this. Why do you keep running away from me?” He asked as he grabbed a hold of your hand, spun you around, and pressed you up against the door. “Huh? Don’t you wanna be with me Y/N? Is this the kind of relationship you want to display in front of our son?”
You swallow, eyes looking up to meet his eyes with a frown. “Of course not.”
“So what’s stopping us from being together? Huh? What excuse do you have this time?” he asked, as he rested his hand upon your hip, squeeze it a bit before pressing you even more into the door. “You still think I’m not ready to be in a committed relationship with you?”
He knew that that was exactly why you won’t be with him. He was a good fuck, and of course an amazing dad to your son. He did what he needed to do for you (during your pregnancy) that is. And even after that he ensured that you, the mother of his child, wants for nothing. However it still doesn’t change the fact that he only just a good fuck, nothing more, nothing less. He’s incapable of being in a committed relationship, after all you knew about his reputation for being a slut, the playboy tattoo on his hip bone just reminded you everytime that he conquered more pussy than one could ever count. He’s just too untrustworthy for your taste.
“If you already know the answer, then why ask?”
“Because I think you’re just being very stubborn and judgemental at this point,”he whispered as he released your hips and pushed himself away from. “Leave if you want to, I’ll go jerk off in the bathroom once you leave.”
You frowned, “Seriously Gojo?”
“And there you go using my last as if you didn’t just squirt and cum all over dick,” he said sarcastically as he sat on his bed, pointed at the door just waiting for you to leave. “I don’t want to waste your time and kill your good mood with idiotic rambling. I’ll drop our son off at your place next weekend, okay?”
You let out a frustrated sigh and yanked the door. “I never once judged you Go…" Satoru.”
He scoffed, “Yeah right, give me a fucking break yeah. You do, you always do.”
“I never…”
“Fucking hell, you do Y/N. Always calling me a slut whenever you're around my friends or yours, making sly remarks and disgusted faces whenever you hear something as it regards what happened in my sex life. Don’t make me go there,” He half yelled, quickly remembering that the sleeping boy’s bedroom was closeby. “For fuck sakes, you’re always using the fact that I love having sex to judge who I am without even giving me a fucking chance. If I’m such a fucking slut and a disgusting whore, then why sleep with me, why do you keep coming back to ride my fucking dick off into next dawn? Why, Y/N?”
“Sa…”
“I’ve waited two years for you… I’ve tried showing you that yeah I may be a slut, but I’m more than ready to have family with you. How many times have I confessed to you? How many times have I told you that I love you, and what do you do? Discard my fucking feelings, say that I’m unworthy and you don’t trust me. And oh yeah my favourite, I’m too much of a slut. Yeah Y/N, Fucking ok, no problem, like I said, you can leave. I don’t want to waste your time and I need to go jerk my cock, since the woman that I love doesn't wanna be with me.”
Too stunned to even come up with a proper response, you blurted out without thinking, “I’m pretty sure… You have other women on speed dial to come fuck you if you so badly wanted to have sex.”
He turned around, looked you up and down, then laughed, “The other woman that is now in my block list and deleted contacts all because I wanted to have a family with you. Yeah, thanks for reminding me that being faithful to one woman sucks.”
You stood there in silence, not knowing what to say or what to do. You only just watched as he removed his robe from his shoulders and let it pool around his legs as he dug through the drawer on his nightstand. You watched as he pulled out a flesh light with a bottle of lube. “Do you mind?” He asked, not sparring you a glance as he got comfortable on his bed. He picked up his phone along with his earpods, clogged his ears, and then went about to do what he should have been all these years instead chasing after your judgemental ass.
You didn’t bother watching, you just walked out the moment he squirted lube all over his cock before grabbing the flesh light. But as soon as you made it down the stairs, and tried leaving through the front door, a voice stopped you, knowing how desperately you wanted to go back and let him fuck you.
But can you really do that, after all that was said only a few moments ago, and Gojo practically turned out his door after he confessed his love to you. Can you really go back? There is only one way to find out.
You rushed up the flight of stairs and into the room, gently closing the door before turning to see Gojo with the flesh light around his cock, pumping away as he stared dead at you with his phone turned to your view for you to see a video he made of you a few months, masturbating and rubbing clit all so prettily for him.
“What? Came back to watch the slut jerk off to a video of his baby mama?” He teased, whimpering too as he did so.
“No,” you answered quickly.
“Then what? I'm busy as you can see… I'm pretty sure you know how to let yourself out… ugh! I kinda… fuck. I kinda don't want to see you right now… so go.”
But you didn't. You only stood there watching as your body went into heat. Pussy started leaking, legs trembling. You wanted to fuck, but also you wanted to take his words into consideration and maybe give the relationship a shot, but right now you wanted his dick.
“Y/N… can you please just…”
“Satoru.. fuck me please!” His phone fell from his hand, but he never stopped pumping that flesh light. “I know I'm being selfish right, and I know what that seems like, but please… I'm willing to hear whatever it is that you have to say, after we have sex.”
“But what if I don't want to have sex with you?” He asked, still pumping his hands up and down and around his cock.
You pouted, but still you quickly turned around and rested your chest against the door, lifted up the ends of your dress, and shifted your panties to the side. It was a bit silent for a moment, except for Satoru whimpering and moaning, fleshing gripping and fapping away at his wet meaty cock. You knew stood there for more than a minute with your wet drip pussy and ass just patiently waiting for him to fuck.
And oh boy did your patience pay off when he finally got out of bed, after coming in his flesh light that is, with his cock still standing, his hand down ripping your dress from your body. “And I'm the slut?” He whispered before slapping your ass.
He spun you around, pushed you up against the door once more, held on to your hips as he dived in for a kiss. Though he was bit pissed off at you, he could never resist the sight of your pretty pussy just patiently waiting to get fucked out by him.
He wasted no time, kissing and marking you as his own, loving the sounds of you softly moaning throughout the kiss as his hands slowly worked to get rid of your panties. There was a need for any sort of prep on his end. His cock already did an excellent job, stretching you out earlier.
He successfully ripped off your undies, and you quickly lifted on leg and rested it just a little but above his waist, arching your back just waiting and ready for him to slide in.
He never hesitated, and with practise movements, he was able to slip his cock into you hole, slamming deeply into your g-spot, kissing and drinking up all your moans from the sudden impact.
“Fuck and I'm the slut… I wonder what they would say about you baby momma,” he whispered, as he began, pounding mercilessly into your hole, his balls slapping up against your ass with each thrust.
“Ugh! Ugh! FUCK fu… Toru… ngh ha! Ha!” You cried incoherently, hands quickly wrapping around his neck, your lips still pressed against his. He quickly held onto the leg that was already on his waist before tapping the other leg signalling that you need to raise it up for just and bit and you did.
“Who's the slut now? Begging her baby daddy to fuck her hmmm? He teased you.
“Fuck… fuck you!” You managed to blurt out, feeling the force, girth and swelling of his cock penetrated you, the moment he lifted both your legs and slammed you down on his cock.
“That's exactly what I'm going to do. FUCK THE HELL OUT OF YOU TONIGHT! But keep it down, our son is sleeping, yeah.”
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How about the first time Wanda gets called Mama? R can be like 5 <3
Mama
Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Reader, Natasha Romanoff x Daughter! Reader
Summary: You call Wanda mama for the first time.
Tiny Angst (blink & you might miss it), Comfort
Warnings: None | 1K
Translations: милый (darling)
AC: Thank you for sending this! I hope it’s okay that I made reader 6 in this, I hope you enjoy it! x
A Widow’s Sunshine Masterlist
Wanda couldn't help but smile softly when she entered the compounds kitchen to see Nat making peanut butter sandwiches while you were sat the dining table drawing. "There you are" Natasha looked up and smiled at her girlfriend, "I was just about to text you and see if you wanted to join us" she added.
"As if I would miss out on your famous peanut butter sandwiches" Wanda chuckled as she took a seat across from you. "Hi Wanda!" You smiled sweetly, only looking up at her for a brief moment before your attention returned to the crayon in your hand. Nat wasn't a big fan of bring you to work, she liked to keep work and her personal life separate, but you loved coming to the compound and seeing your extended family so sometimes on the weekend, Nat would bring you here to hang out while she did some training or caught up on mission reports.
"How are you today?" Wanda asked you.
"I'm good" you replied, not looking up from your drawing. Wanda chuckled lightly as she watched you pick up a different color crayon, "what are you drawing over there?" Wanda asked. You quickly covered the drawing with your hands, "don't look yet!! it's not finished" you replied just as your mom placed a place of sandwiches in the center of the table. She placed a kiss on the top of your head and asked you to put your drawing away and wash your hands before the three of you enjoyed lunch together.
After lunch, you were quick to get back into your drawing, Wanda and Nat sat around the dining table talking over coffee and tea while you were in your own little world. "She's really focused today" Wanda commented with a soft smile, your mom nodding at the comment. "Ever since they started art classes at school, the refrigerator at home is becoming full" Nat chuckled.
"I take it she loves school?" Wanda asked. You started elementary school a month ago and to say you loved it was an understatement. Of course, the first two weeks was touch and go but once you started to make more friends and got to know your teachers, you were excited to go to school each morning.
"She'd skip breakfast to get there early if I let her" Nat replied, causing both women to chuckle once more. There was a moment of silence as the two of them watched at how focused you were on your new piece of art. "So" Nat said, breaking the silence, "have you thought more on our conversation the other night?" She added once Wanda made eye contact with her.
"Are you sure that's what you want? I don't want to do anything that might interrupt your routine with Y/n" she replied. Just before your mom could say another word, you came running to them with your drawing in hand. You ran straight over to Wanda and smiled widely, "I made this for you!" You said as you handed her the drawing.
Wanda smiled softly as she took the drawing and looked down at it. Nat noticed the small build-up of tears in Wanda's eyes as she picked you up and placed you on her lap, "милый, what did you draw?" Your mother asked you, slightly worried. You turned slightly and looked up at your loving mother, "you, me and mama at the park!" You replied. Natasha's heart basically melted at your reply, Wanda looked up at the two of you and smiled softly at you.
"Are you okay mama? Why are you crying?" you asked, letting Wanda's new title sound so natural. Wanda nodded, "you've made me so happy, these are happy tears" she replied, "come here and give me a hug" she added. You didn't need to be told twice before sliding off your mom's lap and running into Wanda's arms. She hugged you tightly, not too tight of course but enough to let you know how much this drawing meant to her.
"My friend, America, has two mommies and she said that it's the best thing in the world!" You boosted, "now I have two mommies!" You added.
----
Later that night when you were fast asleep with Liho curled up at the end of your bed, Nat and Wanda were enjoying a movie in the living room. Wanda's head resting comfortably in Natasha's lap while she twirled with her brunette locks. Wanda could sense something was on Nat's mind and decided to pause the movie. She got up and straddled Natasha's lap.
"Talk to me baby, what's going on inside that mind of yours" she said, placing a kiss on her forehead. Natasha instantly wrapped her arms around Wanda and smiled softly, "everything I thought I wouldn't have, is happening and I'm a little worried something might stuff things up" the red head admitted in honesty. Wanda gently ran her fingers through Natasha's hair, "is this because Y/n called me mama?" She asked causing your mother to nod and her eyes to drop.
Wanda gently lifted Natasha's head up to look at her once more, "you asked me if I wanted to move in with you and Y/n and I was worried that if I said yes that it might interrupt what you already have with your daughter but today when she gave me that drawing, I have never felt so much love for the two of you. I fell in love with you the moment you asked if I were wearing your jacket and I fell even harder for you when you allowed me to meet your little girl. Your worries are mine and mine are yours" she said before kissing Natasha softly, "I am in this for long run baby. You, Y/n & Pietro are my family and if you're okay with it, I would love to be Y/n's mama" she added, stroking Nat's cheeks with her thumbs gently.
"She's going to be so happy when we tell her" Natasha smiled softly, "you're probably going to have to spend the first few nights in her room with her" she added with a chuckle.
"Do you think Liho will mind?" Wanda joked before Natasha captured her lips in another soft kiss.
Taglist: @koinsss | @liloandstitchstan | @marcia-maximoff | @skittlebum | @katethewritersblog | @taliiiaasteria | @nova-kyle | @daddipantherr | @riyaexee | @sgm616 | @elle161989 | @alphalesbianwolffoxdragontribrid | @mathxa |
If you want to be on the taglist for this series, please see the masterlist. It's linked at the top of this post.
#yelenasdiary asks#anon#fanfiction#marvel#natasha romanoff#natasha romanoff x reader#wanda maximoff#wanda maximoff x reader#wandanat x reader#awidowssunshineau
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What about Casper with a vibrating buttplug? 😏
If not, just Casper with a buttplug that one sounds interesting 😌
Love your work <3
An: ohh 😏. I love this. Your wish is my command and I hope you like this. Don't forget to drink water and have a night day/night/afternoon :)
Butt Plug Beauty
Sub/Bottom Casper x Top/Dom Male Reader
Prompt - Butt Plug
Warnings - Butt plug, praise, degradation, fingering, overstimulation, handjob
You pulled away from the kiss.
You stared at Casper as he breathed heavily from the rough kiss. You smirked as you crawled away from Casper and got off the bed. Casper watched as you pulled a box from out under the bed.
Casper furrowed his brow as he watched you pull out two things. Casper knew the first thing was a butt plug, you had told him about them when you took him to a sex shop.
The other thing was a remote, that’s what scared Casper.
“I got this when he went to the sex shop”, you said with a smirk. You got back on the bed and pulled Casper’s legs apart. You rubbed your fingers over Casper’s already lubed hole.
“Hmm~”, Casper moaned as you pressed a couple fingers into him. Once you thought he was stretched enough you pushed the plug in without warning.
“Ah~”, Casper moaned from the stretch.
It felt a little cold but Casper liked it. You held up the remote and waved it in front of Casper’s face. “Time for the fun part”, you said while pressing the on button. “Ah~, w-what”, Casper said as he felt the thing vibrating.
You smiled and took Casper’s dick in your hand. “Ah~ ah~”, Casper moaned as you stroked him to the speed of the vibrator. It was slow. It was stimulating but not enough to make Casper cum.
“M-more”, Casper grunted while glaring at you. “If you say so, pretty brat”, you said before raising the vibrator. To the highest setting. “AH~”, Casper screamed as he came.
You didn’t stop stroking his dick or turn off the vibrator. You just stroked his dick faster with a smirk on your face. “W-wait~, s-stop~, f-fuck~ to-o~ mh-much~”, Casper said while moving his hips.
His cries fell on deaf ears as you just watched Casper wraith in overstimulation. “Nnggee~, AH~ AH~, Casper moaned. His dick felt hot as pre cum leaked out of it.
You felt your dick get hard just watching Casper writhe and moan.
You leaned to the side and rested on your arm. “Pl-please~, t-too m-much ah~”, Casper moaned before cumming again. Casper whined as moaned as you let go of his dick.
You circled Casper’s rim with your fingers, making him whine. You slowly pushed the vibrator in Casper till it was against his prostate.
“Oh~”, Casper moaned as he dried. You smirked and turned off the vibrator. Casper relaxed and took in short fast breaths.
You scooted up till you were laying next to Casper. You kissed his forehead. “You were perfect, but I still need help”, you said. Casper looked over at you and soon his gaze fell on your erect dick.
Casper moaned, seems like he’s going to cum one more time.
#lgbtq#male reader#male reader imagines#dom top male reader#top male reader#dom male reader#sub character#bottom character#casper x male reader#casper x reader#sub casper#bottom casper#casper x mc#grim x male reader#adwd grim#a date with death grim#grim x reader#a date with death#a date with death casper#a date with death x reader#two and a half studios#adwd casper#adwd x reader#adwd azrael#adwd x male reader#adwd
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THE UNNOTICEABLE ; HAJIME IWAIZUMI
🏐 : ̗̀➛ hajime iwaizumi doesn't expect much when it comes to girls, but he thinks he might've finally found one thats out of his best friends reach.
CONTENTS // fluff / light angst / jealous iwa / i switch between iwa, hajime, and iwaizumi a lot so i hope that doesn't bother anybody / some cursing?? idk this is mostly fluff // 1.3k
PAIRINGS // hajime iwaizumi x fem!reader
A/N // I watched the haikyuu movie yesterday and it was so good icl... I wanna write for kuroo now he's so sexy. i tried out a different header theme for this one and I honestly like it more than the other one idrk. anyways enjoy this little drabble 🩷.
// MASTERLIST .
HAJIME IWAIZUMI has always been the less noticeable friend.
It's not like he doesn't get attention. He gets plenty of that. But when it comes to girls, or anything in the dating category at all, most of them flock to Tooru.
He doesn't resent his best friend for his popularity, Hajime just wishes girls didn't come up to him to get closer to his friend.
Him and Tooru are grabbing fast food after practice and a girl approaches him as he sits at the table he chose for him and his teammate. Tooru is in line, probably flirting with the girl across the counter as he orders for him and his best friend.
Iwaizumi feels a little pathetic for hoping that she's going to ask about him. That maybe, just maybe, he might be getting a chance for once. He gets his hopes up, only to be completely shut down when she asks for Tooru's number. He thinks she might notice the light in his face dim, but she doesn't acknowledge it.
"You'll have to ask him. Not sure if he wants me giving out his number to randoms." He says as he turns his attention away from her, a lousy attempt to hide his annoyance.
She nods understandingly, "W-well, thanks anyway." She stammers a bit, her voice small and nervous.
He stops assuming so much when girls approach him after that, always prepared to slide his friends socials and move on with his day.
So, when you approach him, obviously a bit hesitant as you clutch your sides and stare at him nervously, he doesn't even let you speak before he starts spouting his friends socials.
"Huh?" You ask a bit cluelessly, and Iwaizumi looks over at you.
"You're here to ask about Oikawa, right?" He says, staring down at you. He's obviously confused, a thick brow raised as he eyes you.
"N-no..? I wanted to talk to you." You reluctantly say, and he tenses up. You don't even spare a glance at Oikawa, who's entertaining a few girls a few meters away.
"Me..?" He asks, surprised.
"You." You respond, dead serious.
The puny sparks of your attempt at conversation light a wildfire in Hajime's weak heart. The small talk you try to make forms into real, genuine talking.
Although, even when you ask for his number, he can't help but think you might be trying to get close to him just to get with Tooru as he types in his number.
He doesn't tell you that he thinks you're playing him. And even if you were, you would've already had him beat because it's barely been two weeks of talking and he's already wrapped around your finger.
Hajimes lack of need for attention wasn't something you acknowledged at first. You thought it was natural because not only was this his first time talking to a girl, but it's your first time being the one approaching. You don't know what guys like unless they tell you, so you just do what you think is right.
And then you came to the subtle realization that maybe he's not desperate because he doesn't expect much from you. Is he toying with you? Was the first question you asked yourself.
On the other hand, Hajime doesn't expect much because he thinks he knows how this goes (he doesn't).
Hajime respects Tooru. And usually, he wouldn't add a but to that, but... he is willing to go to any lengths possible to keep you as far away from him as he physically can.
He knows how his friend gets with crushes. He'll either do everything in his power to completely embarrass Hajime, or he'll flirt with the girl and make her realize that maybe she doesn't like him as much as she thought.
That's his version of a loyalty test. Take the girl he likes around his best friend and observe her reactions to everything he does. So, that's exactly what he does with you.
Hajime had no idea that you've already met Tooru many times before. You light up when you see him, and Iwa can already feel his heart shattering into a thousand pieces. And then, to put the cherry on top, you go in for a hug. You're even on first name basis, no honorifics or anything. He might aswell lay in his coffin early, because watching you hug Oikawa is the closest to dying he's ever been.
You look over at Iwaizumi to see him glaring daggers at the two of you, a green eyed monster taking over his body as he scowls. Your smile drops, and you wonder what he looks so mad for.
"Are you alright, Iwa?" You ask obliviously, tilting your head and taking a step towards him. His eyes land on you, and they soften ever so slightly.
"I'm fine, don't worry about me." He responds, blinking softly.
And for the rest of the day, all you do is worry about him. The pain on his face and the damp look in his eyes whenever he looks at you interacting with Tooru.
When the two of you go back to his place that afternoon, he asks to talk.
Iwa starts, "Is there something wrong with me?" He asks. You're taken aback, but you can tell he's serious by the look in his eyes. He looks hurt.
"Why would there be something wrong with you?" You ask, reaching over to grab the hand at his side.
"I just-" His voice cracks, and you want to fall to your knees right then and there. Hajime is about to cry and you don't know what to do.
The lump in his throat grows bigger the longer he stares at you. "Why didn't you tell me you already knew Oikawa?" He asks, blinking back the tears that threaten to spill like water from a faucet. He didn't exactly mean to ask that, but he thinks it's much better than 'I thought that maybe for once someone might like me, but as always they go to Tooru.'
"What do you mean? I thought you knew?" You ask, oblivious to the thoughts running rampant through his mind. Your grip on his hand tightens when a tear breaks past the defenses he's put up. You want to ask what you did wrong. You want to ask why he's crying. But the lump in your throat from watching his sadness grow and grow is unbearable, keeping you from asking for some much needed clarification.
"Knew what?" He asks, unable to think of anything rational or any kind of explanation for this other than you're interested in Oikawa.
"Me and Tooru grew up together- He's my cousin." You say, eyeing him confusedly and sadly.
Iwaizumi pauses. A wave of embarrassment washes over him. He was getting jealous over your cousin this entire time?
The night you met Hajime, Tooru invited you, his cousin, to get drinks. He must've forgotten to clear this information with Hajime because now he's standing in front of you, his deep eyes wide and filled with tears of anger.
"What? Did I do something? Are you okay?" You begin asking questions profusely, and Hajime just stares at you.
And then he begins laughing.
You're confused at his sudden change in emotion, the humorous chuckles leaving his mouth catching you completely off guard. "Hajime, what's going on?" You ask as he brings you into a relieved hug.
"For a second there I really thought you and Oikawa had something going on." He responds as he places his head on top of yours comfortably.
You audibly gag. "Are you serious?! This entire time I thought you knew I was his cousin!" You say into his chest. He tightens the hug, a deep laugh leaving his lips.
"Man, this is so fuckin' embarrassing." He laughs, and you can't help but join in.
"Like I'd ever choose his annoying ass over you anyways."
And suddenly, the unnoticeable Hajime Iwaizumi feels seen for the first time in forever.
© AAJXS
#iwaizumi hajime x reader#iwaizumi hajime#iwaizumi x reader#haikyuu iwaizumi#hq iwaizumi#iwaizumi fluff#hajime iwaizumi#hajime iwaizumi x reader#iwaizumi hajime x you#iwaizumi x you#haikyuu#haikyuu x reader#haikyuu x you#( 📝 aajxs — written works . )
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It is done! This is The Death of Translation, originally written in English by @landwriter, translated into Mandarin by @thirrith. Binding is dos-à-dos, with English version on one side and Mandarin on the other. Bookcloth was handwoven by me, on my rigid heddle loom :3
More under the cut!
Typeset: Fanbinders are Liars
Full stop, this typeset would not have been possible without Eth and all their patience, enthusiasm, and willingness to do even more translating! I reached out to them *checks watch* nearly a year ago in July 2023 (lololol), asking if I could use their translation of TDOT in a surprise bind I wanted to send along with Gloam's author copy of Flower King. They were kind enough to say yes, and even kinder to answer my questions when I reached out six months later in January, when I was finally able to start work on the typeset.
We talked about the many delicious things that are bound to come up when discussing translating not just from English to Mandarin, but also from digital space to meatspace. Some topics I had anticipated, like font questions, translating the colophon, etc. But even with the topics I thought I'd prepared for, there were still things that came up that both surprised and delighted: for example, while AO3's website allows for italics in Mandarin--
--my publishing program doesn't (or at least, it doesn't without needing to manually tilt every character by about 10 degrees). So as a workaround, Eth suggested changing these cases of italics to the font 华文楷体:
Through no one's fault but my own, this ended up being only slightly less work than manually tilting every instance of italics--I wanted to be sure that I got all of them, so I ended up doing a lot of double-checking manually anyway, instead of relying solely on the Search function. There was a lot of cross-referencing with the Word document that Eth was kind enough to provide, as well as squinting and general swearing. I also did the same for the uses of Latin script, manually styling each instance as Garamond to keep it consistent with the English edition:
The only other time I've had to do font surgery this intensive is probably for my typeset for Tell Me About the Big Bang, which I had to port over from a PDF. Folks, hell on earth. Do not recommend XD I remember squinting at my monitor as I had to visually confirm every instance of italics, thinking I will never do this again. Welp, four years later, here were are: fanbinders are liars, LMAO. At the very least, using Eth's Word document at least allowed me to search by styles, so it was a little easier on my eyes. 🙏
Is there a script that I might've been able to use if I was more code-savvy? Probably. But I figured going at it sledgehammer style would be the least hair-pulling way to get the job done, weirdly enough. Still, despite my best efforts, there are a few instances of PMingLiU to Garamond and PMingLiU to 华文楷体 that I know I missed, and I know I missed them because I caught them after I'd printed/cut/folded/sewn/glued (cue more swearing), so Gloam and Eth, my apologies >.< please consider them artifacts of a uniquely handmade object ajslkdjfs
In addition to the fonts, there were also some other fun things Eth and I discussed, like how to translate the notes I usually provide on the colophons! In addition to information on fonts, I also usually include some variation of:
This private, limited edition published by chubsthehamster (Moonham Press, imprint of Renegade Publishing) in 2024. This is chubsthehamster's personal copy. Out of three existing copies, this is the first.
The thing that came up with this, which still tickles my brain to this day, was how Eth chose how to translate "Moonham Press, imprint of Renegade Publishing." To get a better sense of what word to use for "imprint," they asked what the relationship was between Moonham Press and Renegade Publishing, which got me thinking about the relationship between my lil imprint and the wonderful @renegadeguild:
What's all very funny about all of this is that we are now, in fact, going by the name "Renegade Bookbinding Guild," per our most recently updated Code of Conduct. While this renders the wording I asked for out of date (and thus, the wording that made it into the book out of date :'D), I think it's also a testament to how cool the work @renegadeguild is doing--like any artform, fanbinding is alive, with its own evolving language, communities, and ideas about the craft. And I love it, I love it so much. (Was this also a plug for our new-ish website? Perhaps).
There's more I could say here, but this post is already going to be long enough, so I'll move on for now! If you get anything from this section, it's that @thirrith is amazing and very patient and kind, and I'm so grateful that we got to talk shop together. Thank you so much for all your invaluable help with this, Eth! I hope the typeset, though undoubtedly flawed, does your hard work justice!
Binding: Or, SO Much Math. Like, So Much, Guys. (It was worth it, though!)
Whoo, boy! So math was never my strong suit in school, but when I set out to do this bind last year, that wasn't an issue. At first. The dos-à-dos binding, if anything, just requires a little bit of finagling on the usual case-bound format--a bit more math if you want to do an all-cloth cover, like I planned on doing, but nothing I couldn't work out with some trial and error. (My prototype below!)
Then came February, when I took a weaving class with my friend, and then everything kinda exploded.
My original idea was to use some green Duo bookcloth I had on hand (this color, actually)--for those of you not initiated into the Duo cult, Duo is a Rayon bookcloth with a very devoted fan following in Renegade. It's very pretty; the Rayon weave is one color, and the paper backing is usually complementary color, so it has this cool two-toned effect. Duo is in high demand in Renegade circles because sadly, the company that manufactures it went out of business last year. (Although I've heard rumors recently that there's another company making something similar, but the cloth has a really high purchase requirement and is, like, for businesses only I think).
Anyway, I also wanted to have a gold line around the whole book as a kind of bellyband/obi to further connect the two versions of the story (another reason why I chose the dos-à-dos format to begin with heh), as you can see from my scribbled notes here--
But alas! I knew going in that adhering things to Duo is often Problematic, thanks to one very painful experience trying to get some iron-on foil on another bind (the textured surface of Duo just makes it kinda hard to stick or paint stuff on it). So if I wanted a clean, continuous line, the remaining options were to either paint it on a strip of paper that I'd somehow...adhere to the cloth? Or maybe cut different slices of bookcloth and glue them on. I wasn't satisfied with either of those options, though.
Then--the weaving class. I made a scarf, and I love it and I loved making it. But the whole time, I'll not lie, my thoughts were elsewhere.
In short, my decision to weave my own bookcloth kinda came from a few different factors:
The desire to attempt to recreate Duo, that elusive beauty, the one that got away, etc. (I have several yards in my stash, but still). Others have also attempted to recreate it, and I thought I'd throw my hat in the ring.
My current spiral into the deep hole that is fiber arts (it started with crochet, then knitting, then sewing, then weaving, then spinning, and now I'm eyeing quilting! Please help me).
The gold line. It kept bugging me. And when I found weaving, I just thought there was something very neat about the process of actually making the cloth for a dos-à-dos binding from scratch, and especially for this binding. I wanted to bind a story about translation (or rather, the death of it, and yet still the necessity of it--how we must try to communicate, despite of, or perhaps precisely because of, everything that gets lost in the spaces between people, and the tragedy of that loss, and the beauty of what makes it through, and the love always present in the effort regardless), and also, the translation of that story. Weaving is a very meditative process, and with every pass of the shuttle, back and forth, building slowly but surely the fabric that would hold the story that Gloam had written and that Eth had translated, I thought a lot about translation, and the gaps between people, and how we choose our words not just when translating, but when we speak at all. From a design perspective, I used the same colors I would've used had I chosen the Duo bookcloth--green and gold--so the design wasn't too altered in terms of color scheme. But I think the choice to weave the bookcloth--the thing that bound it all together--made the project take on a completely new meaning for me, both in process and in scope, one that hadn't been there when I started. I saw the warp, perhaps, as the original story, laying the groundwork for the weft, the translation; or maybe it was the other way around, with the translation providing the scaffolding for its own, new meaning, choices that Eth had to make with this word or phrase or another building something new, something translated, and the original a live, moving thing that wove over and under each word turned phrase turned story; or maybe it was both. Maybe it didn't matter which was which, in the end. And as I wove, the thing that connected them, that gold line that had started all of this, slowly formed.
All that to say: Good God, was there a lot of math. So much math. That prototype pictured above was actually made specifically so I could calculate exactly how much I needed to weave, lol, because while I certainly had enough thread, I didn't want to have to warp more than once. I'd learned the basics in my class, but the training wheels came off here. I wanted to make my own custom fabric, which meant calculating things like ends per inch, picks per inch, loom waste, shrinkage after washing, the width of that damn gold line, how much I'd need for the hinge, the turn-ins, the boards--the whole nine yards (I didn't actually weave nine yards tho heh). It was all absolutely worth it in the end--so challenging and so, so rewarding!
(And my final reason for weaving the bookcloth? Not gonna lie, It was because I just wanted to see if I could do it LOL. I love trying at least one new thing with each of my binds, and this was it for this project. While I've been bookbinding for a few years now, I'm still very much a beginner weaver, and I'm so excited to continue to learn and experiment! Also, here's a video of me unwinding the cloth from the loom, heh. I used 10/2 Perle cotton in gold and green colors :3)
Also, turns out, you can back handmade cloth the same way you can any other cloth! I backed it using my usual heat-n-bond method, and with some Unryu Tissue in the color Forest. Since the cloth itself is a bit transparent, there are a bunch of really fun fibers you can see when it's held up to the light, but which aren't visible when the cloth is glued down to the boards. Still, knowing they're there still makes me happy :D
Finally, capping all this off, is one final, small detail I really liked: ginkgo leaf endpapers :3 this one's for me and Eth and Gloam specifically <3
Aaaand that's all from me for today, folks! Thus ends (several months late XD) my last Binderary project for the year. This was probably my most ambitious bind to date, and gosh it was so, so much fun.
And, of course, thank you so much to Gloam for sharing your story, and Eth for translating it. I can't wait for y'all to receive your copies soon!
All my love! <3
#the sandman#The Death of Translation#bookbinding#fanbinding#binderary 2024#<<<lol#landwriter#Ethiseth#also IF YOU SAW THIS POST BEFORE I FINISHED WRITING IT. NO U DIDN'T AJLKSDJFS#weaving#rigid heddle weaving
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੭୧ ⼂ PRINCESS ﹗
ー☆ㅤㅤ [ lmh x fem!reader ] ㅤ੭𓂃 ㅤfluff 𓏧 being your enemy’s passenger princess is a dream that he likes it as much as you do ㅤ warnings drunk reader ㅤ ﹢ㅤ 0.8k wc
“Why am I her emergency contact?” your friend’s boyfriend cowers under his pointed gaze and hastily explains how you did not have an emergency contact so he just dialled your most recent call. Halfway through that explanation your friend drunkenly starts kissing her boyfriend making that the cue for them to leave.
Minho looks at you, who has been suspiciously quiet the whole time before he sighs, accepting his fate and drags you to his car. His glares do nothing to soothe the ache in his heart as he softly places you down on the passenger seat and carefully tucks your legs in before attaching the seatbelt.
Closing the door, he moves to the other side, sets himself down on the driver’s seat and puts in your house location. As soon as he starts the car you mutter your first sentence for the night, “You really came.”
“Yes, you called me so,” he reasons, more to himself than with you, hating the pang in his heart formed at the thought of what if you had called someone else and not him. God, he would have hated it!
You giggle under the influence saying, “Do you know how many times I have dreamed of being your passenger princess?” His heart flutters at the sound of your light laugh filling the car making him bite back a smile as he asks, “Why?”
“Because you look hot driving,” your blatant voice makes him choke on air as he feels his face getting hotter at the compliment. Minho tries to focus on the road and less on his thumping heart as you continue blabbering, “I am so cliché, I like my enemy.” After a short breath you continue, “Will you tease me about this tomorrow? Well, that’s okay, I will just make myself believe.”
When you suddenly stop his eyes widen and he hastily asks before he can stop himself, “Believe what?”
“That you tease me because you like me, like those book-boys,” your eyes fix on his face and it takes him all his self-control to not look at you or he knows he will straight up crash.
“Passenger princess huh? You like being that?” he quickly changes the topic as the air around him gets hotter. He makes a mental note to get his car's air conditioner checked. Maybe it is malfunctioning.
You nod lightly, eyes hazily fixed on him, making him grip the steering wheel as if his life depended on it and say, “You always call me that to tease me, the joke’s on you, girls love being called a ‘princess’.”
“Do you now?” the teasing edge returns to his voice, his cocky demeanour coming back instantly. “Most do,” you say softly and add, “I would hate it so much if you called someone else that though.” Minho doesn’t know how he kept his sanity after that sentence leaves he knows but he somehow brings you to your apartment and stands in front of the door.
“Password,” he asks, making you giggle and flirtingly pointing at his chest, “To your heart?”
“To your home,” he deadpans but can’t help a lovesick smile take over his face as he watches you cutely stumble to put it in. The low light of the hallway accentuates your features and he finds himself blaming the high of the night for wanting to grab your face and kiss you right then and there.
When the door finally unlocks he carefully holds you and walks inside as he finds himself spilling, “You don’t need to worry about the heart you have already got that unlocked.”
“Have I?” your eyes widen in anticipation as you sling your arms around his neck looking up at him and Minho swears he never saw as many stars in the night sky as he did in your eyes that night.
“Yes, the day I realised you were borderline tolerable, I knew I was screwed,” he whispers back, eyes fleeting between your lips and your eyes before he sighs panting lightly. He somehow makes you drink a glass of water and you plop down on the bed, pulling you with him but he stays upright making you pout. Mustering all his self-control he goes to find a change of clothes in your closet.
He waits outside patiently and after what feels like almost twenty minutes he hears the door unlock as he enters, your hair is ruffled, and your face is puffy and warm from all the alcohol yet Minho finds himself fighting all his demons to not press his lips to yours.
When you finally plop down on the bed he pulls up the duvet to your chin and sighs saying, “I find drunk confessions awful, but I am here swooning over shit like this, so yes, I am stupidly in love with you, I guess.” Your eyes light up even in the haze of alcohol and sleep overtaking your features and he finds himself resisting to kiss you for the third time that night.
“Remember it till morning, for me,” he whispers to you lightly and prays silently that you will, before turning off the lights and saying one last sentence, “Sleep, my princess.”
ー☆ㅤㅤ [ ara's notes ] ㅤ੭𓂃ㅤ okay but to be minho's passenger princess asfsjsjejsl (divider my me) ㅤ𓏧ㅤ libraryㅤ skz shelfㅤ navi
੭ 𝅄ㅤ ꒰ TAGLIST ꒱ ㅤ⏤ㅤ @haneagerr @sxmmerberries (beta) ㅤ𓏧ㅤ fill this or comment or ask to be added
ㅤㅤ(ㅤㅤ© arafilez on tumblrㅤㅤ)
#ㅤ── ㅤara posts ㅤ𝜗𝜚#k-labels#stray kids#skz x reader#skz#skz imagines#lee know#lee know fluff#lee know x reader#lee know fanfic#lee know imagines#lee know drabble#lee minho#lee know skz#lee minho x reader#skz lee know#skz lee minho#skz fluff#stray kids x reader#stray kids fanfic#bang chan x reader#changbin x reader#hyunjin x reader#han jisung x reader#felix x reader#seungmin x reader#jeongin x reader#˖ ⋈ ˚ ‹ skz ›#ㅤ──ㅤ requests ﹒ ★#𓂃 fic : princess 𒉽
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They were gonna put Eddie down like a damn dog.
The group had insisted that Steve visit the hospital today, one year and two months after the incident. It was a random day, and he thought, ‘ why the hell not?’
Family Video had been closed for months, doing ‘ repairs’, so he really didn’t have much else to do.
He thought it was weird, the way the group was as far away from the bed as possible, and how when he entered the room, Hopper almost blocked the exit.
He doesn’t question it though, sidling up to the open chair beside Eddie, who was still asleep after all this time, and punching his shoulder lightly.
“ Hey, Hero.”
He’d taken to calling it sleeping instead of what it was, a coma. Sleeping sounded more peaceful, because with sleeping came dreams and relaxation.
Eddie doesn’t respond, doesn’t react. Steve didn’t expect him to.
He turns his head to Dustin, the one who’d called him in the first place. “ So, why’re we gathered here today? Any updates?” He asks, addressing the whole room.
The boy swallows, and something tells him something’s wrong. Really wrong.
“ Yeah, actually. Uhm, since it’s been so long, we were thinking-“ He cuts himself off, crosses his arms and starts tapping his foot. Thinking, probably.
Hopper glances to him, and sighs, deciding to lead. “ We’re gonna have to let Munson go.” He states.
Steve takes a sharp breath.
“ What?”
‘ Let him go’ like this is a job. Like this isn’t him losing his life. He wonders when they decided to do this, in the hospital room for the ten minutes they were waiting.
Eddie doesn’t give any indication he hears what’s being said, the beeps from the heart monitor still steady and even as ever. A constant metronome of the exact same sound on the exact say beat, all the time, always.
Except maybe not always.
Dustin takes over again, arms placating. “ It’s been a really long time, Steve. We’ve come to terms that he probably won’t wake up, and it’s doesn’t have to be sad-“
“ You’re killing him.” He hisses, “ You’re killing him and it’s not meant to be sad?”
Nancy steps forward, seeing it as her time to speak. “ Steve. You barely knew the guy, and you spend all your time here, it’s not good for you.”
“ There’s been no good signs, no nothing, not even when El looks into his brain.” Dustin nods at the girl across the room, who’s fiddling with her fingers.
Steve furrows his brow, “ Oh, so I guess you’re gonna pull the plug on Max too?”
Lucas’s eyes widen, mouth dropping open, and Nancy glares. “ That is not fair, Steve.”
“ This whole situations pretty fucking unfair, so I guess you’re gonna have to explain to me how this is different from Max.” He stands, stance wide as he points to the man in the hospital bed.
“ Max is making progress.” Lucas says weakly, and El sets a hand on his shoulder. The boy deflates.
He turns toward Hopper and Joyce, the latter still not having spoken. The Byers family had moved back to Indiana for God knows what reason, and Steve knows that if he had the money, that he could’ve moved somewhere else long ago.
“ Does Wayne know you’re killing his kid?” He asks.
He’d met the man while visiting, and they’d usually sit in silence and watch baseball or whatever was on. He never questioned why Steve was there, or why he was holding a limp body’s hand and taking off it’s rings and putting them back on.
When they did speak, it was stories he had from Eddie’s childhood, about how he buzzed his head because a spider crawled on him and he was convinced it was hidden in his hair, making babies.
Hopper pinched his nose, like he was being a pest. “ Stop using words like killing, and yes. He said he didn’t want Eddie to have to suffer, and his bills are getting expensive.”
And he blinks, realization dawning.
This hadn’t just been decided, had it? This wasn’t a ten minute decision while Steve was getting ready to come here.
He speaks, his voice low and keeping even through each word, “ You guys had a meeting.” The ‘ without me’ goes unsaid, but still echoes throughout the room like if would’ve if he shouted it.
They’d decided this whole thing beforehand, somehow knowing that Steve would hang on. And he would, will. He can’t let him die, he can’t lose.
Will nods, and next to him Mike and Dustin look ashamed. He would’ve thought they’d hold out more.
He racks his brain for any reason they should keep alive, can’t find one. Somehow, even without one for them, he has a million for himself.
“ If the bills are the reason, I’ll pay the damn bills. He’s fucking alive.” He tries.
“ You don’t have a job, Family Video is closed. Just let it be, Steve. Please.” Robin had been eerily quiet during this entire conversation, and it brings him chills him when she speaks.
His best friend had been in on it.
He crosses his arms, “ I’ll get a job. Listen, I’ve been having dreams,-“ He lies. He lies because there’s nothing true to prove Eddie is getting better. “-dreams that he’s alive in like a dark space, I don’t know- his mind maybe? I just- I really think he’s in there.”
The hope Dustin gets on his face hurts, but he doesn’t care. The guy will wake up and it won’t matter that the ‘ dreams’ never existed.
Maybe it’s because he’s an optimist, and that’s why he’s trying so hard, as pessimistic as he can be sometimes.
“ Why didn’t you tell us?” Dustin asks and Steve licks his lips.
Why didn’t he tell them? “ Despite all this crazy shit, me having dreams that he’s alive still sounds crazy.” He doesn’t look at the boy as he says this, eyes roaming over Eddie’s face.
He looks serene, the bat bite on his face as healed as it can get. The doctors had mentioned swelling on his back shoulder blades, but Steve thinks his would be swollen too if he sat on them for a year.
‘ A year and two months.’ He corrects himself.
He stares at the hair that, occasionally when it got matted, Steve would go through and brush it, not wanting him to wake up to being bald because a doctor seemed it necessary.
Wayne mentioned how much he hated the shaved head, and he wouldn’t put him through that again.
As he looks at him, he thinks ‘ I’m doing this for you, so you better wake up, asshole.’
Dustin’s eyes are wide, staring at the members of Hellfire. Steve could only describe the look as ecstatic.
“ Holy shit, I mean, holy shit!” He laughs, and Mike breaks into his own grin.
Jonathan chimes in, disbelief sketched into the lines all over his face. “ Sorry, but doesn’t that seem too convenient? I’m not saying you’re lying Steve, just… If El didn’t find anything, that’s pretty much it.”
His lips form into a line, determined. “ I told you, I’ll be paying for whatever. It’s no skin off your back, or money out of Wayne’s pockets.”
Joyce nudges Hopper when he goes to speak, and nods at Steve. “ If you wanna try, sweetheart, you can. But I don’t want you visiting too much, it’s doing you more harm than good.” She wraps him in a hug, before leading the ex-chief of police out of the room.
Slowly, everyone vacates, until it’s just Steve, Eddie, and El.
She doesn’t make a move toward the door, eyes locked onto his face.
“ You’re lying.” She whispers like a secret.
He nods.
She looks toward Eddie, nervous, and she messes with the hem of her shirt when she starts to speak again. “ I lied too.”
She doesn’t elaborate, walking out of the room without anymore information, and Steve blinks.
The hospital has to call Wayne to confirm the transfer, that's how he learns of the circumstances. He doesn't say much of anything, aside from a promise of a visit on Tuesday before he hangs up.
That night, that same fucking night, he gets a call.
It's the front desk lady, voice distressed rushing through an explanation.
" Eddies gone...Only blood in his bed...We don't know where he is."
Steve stares at the wall, the rest of the words falling upon deaf ears.
Someone had probably found out where he was being held, murdered him a year later for his crimes, and stashed the body away.
He sets the phone back in its holster without saying anything to the other line. Not even a goodbye, or a thanks.
He thinks, it only for a second, that he should've let them just pull the plug, it would've been far less painful.
A creaking brings him out of it, and his eyes dart to his door.
It's dark, too dark, and Steve's aware the Upside Down fucked him up in incomprehensible ways, and now every shadow looks like something,
But there was definitely someone in his house.
He keeps slumped on his bed, the same position as when he'd answered the call. He doesn't flinch when the door pushes open enough for a body to slip in.
There's the sound of something dragging along the carpet as they come closer, probably a shotgun, or maybe they're gonna beat him with his own nail-bat.
He doesn't care to decipher the shape, instead shutting his eyes.
A hand grabs his, sets it on dry skin. His thumb touches a rough patch, a scar like feeling.
One his hands had roamed over while patching up his stomach, refusing to get looked at. That concave patch of scratchy skin that they tell you eventually will just be soft, scarred, but normal.
The skin stretches, and he feels a cheek.
Somehow, he thinks if he keeps his eyes shut, he doesn't have to face the thing in front of him, that it somehow isn't real.
A scratchy, disused, and croaky voice sounds out.
" ' Hey, Hero.' "
#stranger things#steve harrington#eddie munson#steddie#eddie munson x steve harrington#steve harrington x eddie munson#camazotz eddie munson#rottenaero#rottenaero rots#rottenaero writes#steddie drabble
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Needed to write a blurb to calm myself down after THOSE photos.
Plot: Jude’s girlfriend’s reaction after seeing the SKIMS photos
Jude*female reader. Posessive plus sexy. Some Nsfw language.
………………………….
‘So, you broke the internet today.’
Jude returned from the training camp to find this message from his girlfriend. Her reaction was the one he was waiting for the most.
All the lads in the team had given him enough stick since the photos dropped. Calling him a whore. He had laughed at some and just flipped off the others. But why was she taking so long to respond? He knew she was working but he had almost dialled her number to ask her to check insta.
Well, finally she had. Jude quickly changed into his sleeping shorts and climbed into bed, face timing her. She answered on the first ring.
‘Hey.’
‘Hey, doll.’
She was in bed too, in his favourite tank top. Jude’s smile widened immediately.
‘Some heads up would have been nice, you know.’
He tore his eyes away from her cleavage long enough to smirk back at her.
‘I did say it was a big one.’
‘Right. Big one. I see what you did there.’
Jude rolled on the pillows laughing, flashing his pearly whites & boyish chuckles. Eyes sparkling with charm. He switched from a sweet, young boy to a sexy boy-toy so often and in a split second - always blowing her mind.
The blanket fell down till his waist, revealing his abs.
She had experienced them from up close many times. Traced her fingers through them, felt the rough edges, bit at the skin and also licked her way through them at length. So yes, she was very very familiar with and fond of his abs but the oiled torso had disrupted her brain chemistry. That was new, and downright sultry. Slutty. Sensuous. And oh so sexy.
They looked almost the same right now, minus the oiled bit. Her eyes moved up to his perky nipples as she wondered if they had oiled them too. If he had done it himself or if someone touched him there. And rubbed the shiny liquid all over him. The thought was unpleasant yet arousing. She wondered how he would have reacted to that, knowing fully well how sensitive Jude was around his nipples. How he always moaned with his head thrown back when she sucked him there. And how he invariably returned the favour by vigorously assaulting her boobs.
He watched her reaction with amusement and glee.
‘Eyes are up here, doll.’
‘Yes and they are very pretty. But damn the rest of you….you killed people today, hope you know that. I bet some girls dropped to their knees, cried and passed out with longing.’
Jude leaned back, resting his hands behind his head. Flexing his arms and the bouncing muscles. Giving her a show.
‘That good, huh?’
‘More. And we haven’t even addressed the star of the show yet.’
He figured she was talking about his thighs. His girl was obsessed with them - having them cage her in, wrap around her, even choke her sometimes, or just her stroking & biting them.
But no, it wasn’t his thighs that had made her pant when she saw the pics.
‘They left nothing to the imagination. Everyone SAW you today. Like fully. In those clinging tights. Women have wagers going on over your size, Jude. And horny, wet dreams. You have ruined lives today, hope you are happy.’
Full-body guffaws reverberated through his chest, bouncing off the walls.
‘Oh doll, you could join in the wagers and actually win y’know. Inside info and all.’
She declined the suggestion, telling him that women would be queuing up outside his door if she actually DOES tell them the inside info. He was enjoying the ego boost massively - it was rare for her to lose all semblance of sanity like this.
But she didn’t care. Not today. He had just dropped a sexually charged nuclear bomb on the entire female population & this was the after-effects of it.
‘Women sliding into your DMs huh? Sending nudes? Broke some kind of world record for that already today or nah?’
He just shrugged casually. Couldn’t deny it coz it was true. His inbox had exploded but his team had systems to filter out such messages. Some still seeped through & he knew she knew that.
It was just her luck that he was so far away right now. Else, she would have tied him to the bed tonight, and then vice-versa. Jude anyway loved restraining & pinning her any chance he got. She would have let him toss her around anywhere, any way he wanted. However many times he demanded. But that was not to be.
‘Strip for me.’
She said without hesitation, commanding him. He spluttered the juice in his mouth, sticky liquid dropping around his face and neck. His tongue came out to lap it up. Fucking hell - temptation personified. Biblical sinful apple.
‘You too. It’s already unfair that I am shirtless while you’re still hiding your tits. C’monn lemme see my babies. Been so long since I kissed them goodnight.’
They moved the laptop angle to cover a full body view, then proceeded to strip together. Stroking themselves in unison, eyes glued to the screen. Calling out each others names. Reaching their highs together.
She looked at his fucked out naked form, & her body burned lesser for the first time since looking at the photos. Others will only get to thirst over him from afar. But she is the one who gets to have the view, the taste and the pounding from him.
#real madrid#jude bellingham#bellingham#bellingham x reader#jude fanfic#jude#jb#jb5#jude bellingham smut#Jude bellingham imagine#jude bellingham one shot
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i think…i think about art fucking me…but then patrick fucking art…sandwhich style…yk?
get out of my head anon.
it would be art’s idea, 100%. he’d be fucking you so stupid while patrick had you suck on his cock, getting it nice and messy and wet for him. the thought came to art as he watched patrick tap his cock against your pouted lips, mesmerized by the glossy coat of saliva dripping from the entire length.
“pat—pat,” art slowed down the movements of his cock into you, completely ignoring the whine and squirming of your hips and the begs to ‘keep going!. “what’s up, man?” patrick says, a little breathless but flushed in the cheeks, lips, and chest, turning him godlike in any mortal’s eyes.
“i want you to fuck me.” the blonde was blunt, unwavering as he stared stone into his best friends eyes. patrick doesn’t trust his own words after feeling his cock twitch against your face at the ask, so instead he just nods. slowly. “like—like at the same time?” he clarifies, hand moving down to massage at the fat of your tits, less in hopes to please you and more trying to keep himself grounded. “mhm.” art nods once, eyes fiery as though they were offering a challenge.
patrick cursed at his friend with a smile. his attention is drawn down on you as he placed a little peck to your lips, a promise to return, all before his weight is lost at the head of the bed. very soon, however, you feel it redistributed behind art, gentle kisses pressed onto his shoulder blade as patrick pumped two saliva-lubed fingers into his friends taut asshole.
gently, he eased the blond’s hips back into yours and encouraged the pistoning of his mean cock into your pussy through the push of his digits in and out of art’s ass. “so pretty,” patrick cooed at both of you into his best friend’s ear, forcing him to whine and nod as his eyes, glued onto the mesmerizing giggle of your tits through every pump, fluttered shut in pleasure. he found himself very close very quickly, warning patrick through breathy huffs and curses. “fuck, pat, i’m gonna—“ his sentence trailed off as all he could do was whine when patrick’s fingers found themselves missing from his hole, which now pulsed and breathed with want.
“i’ll take care of you, baby, don’t you worry. hey, dont stop fucking her, understand?” patrick placed a biting kiss onto the lobe of art’s ear which burnt bright red as he kept fucking into you with a certain and desperate rigor and adoration. it seemed art’s entire world flipped upside down as he let out the sluttiest moan probably ever conceived at the delicious stretch of patrick’s envy-inducing cock into his asshole. “god! please, fuck, i need it, need it so bad,” art begged as he pulled nearly all the way out of you and backwards onto patrick’s dick.
“i said, don’t.” thrust. “stop.” thrust. “fucking her.” thrust. patrick’s needy, incessant, sloppy, pounding into his best friend had the blond falling on top of you, sucking on your tits as the unforgiving ramming of his brunette’s hips into his did all the work for him. “that’s so good,” art whimpers at both you and patrick, practically drooling all over your chest.
cumming came fast for all three of you. you were first, and also priority for both the men. as art nipped at the fat of your areola, patrick reached around art’s body to make a mess of the arousal drowning your cunt. your orgasm came over you in twitches and tears, biting down on art’s shoulder—unintentionally triggering his own climax.
“gonna cum!” art hardly warned through the spurting of white ribbons painting your insides, washing over his body in shakes and tremors. “fuck, you’re so tight,” patrick’s voice is up nearly 2 octaves, his clearest sign of being close to his peak, and art swears he can feel his cock twitch inside of him.
“please cum, pat. for me.” your eyes were round and pleading, his fucking kryptonite, and you knew it—so it was no surprise that with a whine and a curse, patrick is pulling out and splurging his load onto art’s back.
falling down next to you and easing you in between the both of them, art and patrick don’t bother cleaning up as they let their exhaustion win and pull them under, responsibility a mere, distant, irrelevant, obligation.
#i hate how much i need them#.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ 𝐤𝐚𝐢𝐚 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬 !#angelnon 🤍#kai's got mail <3📑#art donaldson smut#art donaldson x reader#art donaldson#art donaldson imagine#art donaldson x patrick zweig#art donaldson x you#patrick zweig#patrick zweig smut#patrick zweig x reader#patrick zweig imagine#artsy nd tricky🎾#kaia writes patrick#kaia writes art
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I Want to Know What Love Is
ao3
Steve doesn’t know when it’ll stop hurting. Everyone says time heals all wounds. But it’s been three years and that feels like more than enough time for the Eddie-shaped wound to heal.
Why does it still hurt?
“Steve?” Robin’s quiet when she peers around the corner.
Steve’s sitting alone on their couch in the middle of the night, staring at the blank television screen, with tears slipping down his cheeks.
“You ok?” Robin slides in beside him, immediately wrapping her arms around him and tugging him in close.
“I don’t know what’s wrong.” He wipes the back of his hand across his cheek, and then hugs her closer. “I’m just feeling lonely, I guess.”
“You got me,” she tries to sound upbeat.
“I know,” he pats her arm. “Thank you.”
They sit together in silence, rocking in each other's arms. The darkness feels like a vice around Steve’s heart, squeezing him until he can’t breathe.
“I miss him,” he murmurs.
“I know,” she presses a kiss to his head. “You could probably call him. You know he’s not asleep.”
“I know but it’s not the same.”
“I’m sorry, bud.”
“I think I should’ve gone with him.”
He’s regretted letting Eddie leave for the west coast without him, pretty much from day one. But that guilt, fear, and obligation of protecting everyone still in Hawkins was too strong to let him tag along.
“You could still go.” Robin nudges his shoulder.
“He doesn’t miss me like I miss him. He’s probably fucking all kinds of groupies. Y’know, people can’t resist a rockstar.”
“Steve,” her tone is soft but sad. “Don’t do this to yourself. First, they’re not rockstars. Eddie has a day job. Second, you know he misses you. I can always hear him through the phone when he calls. The way he says your name. That man is still crazy about you.” She runs her fingers through his hair softly. “Call him.”
Steve sighs but doesn’t respond. He wants to believe her, but also can’t withstand getting his hopes up only to be devastated later.
He just needs more time.
“Eddie?”
Eddie’s pulled from his thoughts when his coworker Dale waves him down.
“Sup, man?” Eddie leans his arms along the bar, ducking his head under the hanging martini glasses.
“You think you can take my shift tomorrow? Rach has to go to the hospital. Her mom’s in for something with her heart. I gotta watch the kids.”
“Yeah, man. No problem.”
“Fuck, you’re the best. Oh my god that’s such a relief. Thanks. I’ll owe you one.”
“No problem. Hope everything is ok.” Eddie’s heart always tugs a little bit when he hears someone’s mom is sick.
“Sounds like it. They’re just keeping her to make sure.”
“Good, don’t worry about tomorrow. I got it.” Eddie slaps his palm on the shiny bar top and slides down to a new patron at the last stool. He sets a napkin in front of the man. “What can I get ya?”
It’s a quiet night in the bar. Slower than molasses quiet. He hates nights like this. Not only does it hit his pockets it gives him enough time to think. And time to think is bad for Eddie’s mental health.
He’s been in California for three years now and he’s not anywhere closer to making it big than when he showed up. The guys are getting over it. Tired of burning the candle at both ends and hearing ‘no’ at every single turn.
Plus…
He’s fucking lonely.
He has been trying so hard to get over Steve. When he first got to L.A. he was able to distract himself with a new place, a new job, a new dream, new surroundings everything, but that fizzled away quickly.
He’s avoiding the party scene. There’s a lot harder drugs being passed around than in Hawkins. And thanks to his dear old pops, he’s learned stay away from that shit. He doesn’t want to be a washed up rockstar before he even becomes a rockstar.
He pours the new customer a beer then goes back to organizing the receipts. His thumb is tapping mindlessly along to the music pumping from the jukebox, when the tune changes and he feels it in his heart.
I wanna know what love is
I want you to show me
I wanna feel what love is
I know you can show me
Fucking, Foreigner. This song always reminds him of Steve and that night he, Steve, Robin, Nancy, Jonathan, and Argyle went out to the Robinson’s farm. A few six packs, some California Grade-A purple palm tree delight, and drunken karaoke style singing under the stars.
Steve was hanging off Eddie. His arm slung around Eddie’s neck while he sung his heart out into his beer can. Eddie couldn’t pull his eyes off the man. They hadn’t kissed yet. Hadn’t even acknowledged what was happening between them.
But under the August night sky of finally saved Hawkins, Indiana, Eddie Munson fell in love with Steve Harrington.
“You ok, man?” Dale suddenly appears to Eddie’s left, and Eddie has to clear his throat to hide the emotions trying to crawl up his throat.
“Mhm, I’m good. Fucking hate this song.” Eddie keeps his eyes pointed down because it would be painfully obvious he was lying otherwise.
Dale chuckles. “Yeah, hear that. Rach loves it. She belts it out whenever it comes on the radio and she’s in the kitchen.”
Eddie’s heart aches a little more at the idea that maybe Steve would do the same thing.
The phone behind the bar rings and Eddie jumps to grab it.
“Mickey’s.”
“Eddie?”
His heart drops to his feet because how could he know Eddie was thinking about him?
“Steve? Are you ok?” Eddie’s ears are pounding as he waits.
“I don’t know.” Steve sounds too sad for Eddie’s heart.
“Hold on, ok? I’m gonna take my break and pick you up back in the office. Ok? Just give me two minutes.”
“Ok,” Steve whispers.
Eddie presses the hold button and asks Dale to watch the bar, then races to the back room. His fingers fumble to pick up the phone as he drops into the ancient office chair.
“Stevie? What’s wrong?” Eddie’s heart is racing.
“Nothin’, really. I was- I was thinking about you. Robin said I should call.”
“I’m glad you did,” Eddie’s fingers wind through the phone cord anxiously. “Y’know what was playing on the jukebox? Just now?”
“What?” Steve’s voice sounds soft and fluffy.
“I wanna know what love iiiiiissss,” Eddie sings softly down the line. He hears Steve chuckle and it pushes him to keep singing. “I want you to show meeeeee.”
Eddie hears Steve take a shaky breath. “Eddie?”
“Yeah?”
“I miss you.”
Eddie can’t stop himself from smiling. “I miss you, too.”
“No-no you don’t understand.”
“What?”
“I miss you. I miss your smile. I miss your laugh. I miss poking your dimples. I fucking miss you. I should’ve gone with. I’m so stupid. I should’ve gone with you. And it’s too late and I miss you so fucking much. I’m sorry. Shit,” Steve clears his throat. “I shouldn’t have called you. I’m sorry. I’m a fucking mess. I’m sorry. I’m gonna go. Sorry for calling you at work.”
“Steve? Don’t hang up. Please. Don’t hang up.” Eddie rushes out. “Listen to me, don’t hang up.”
“Ok.”
“Stevie? Baby?” Eddie hears Steve whine at the pet name. “I miss you, too. I do. I miss the smell of your hairspray, and the way you crinkle your nose in the morning when your alarm goes off. I miss you and Robin giving me a hard time about my smoking. I hate it here, baby. Fucking California sucks. I miss the stars. But I miss you more. Don’t come out here. I wanna come home.”
He’s been thinking about it for months, waiting for his sign. If Steve calling him out of the blue, while Foreigner is playing on the jukebox, and tells him how much he’s missed him isn’t a clear sign then nothing will be.
“I love you, Steve. I never stopped loving you. I’m glad you didn’t come out here. You’d hate it and probably hate me because of it.” Eddie drags a knuckle under his eye.
“I love you, too. But I don’t want you to give up on your dreams. What about the band? What about The Garden?”
“They hate it here too. Gareth is a week away from quitting. I can feel it. Jeff has a girlfriend and a really good job that he’s not going to give up. It’s over. We tried. Music is different now. New decade means new sound. I wanna come home.” He takes a deep inhale and feels a million pounds lighter. “Fuck, I’d come home right now if I could. Sneak into your place and snuggle under your covers.”
“Yeah?” Eddie can hear Steve’s smile.
“Yep, scoop you up into my arms and kiss every single beauty mark across your skin. Fuck, I miss biting those two on your neck. Are they still there? Do they miss me?”
“You’re ridiculous. Yes they’re still there.”
“And??” Eddie leans forward in his chair.
“Yes they miss you,” Steve says quietly like he’s trying to hide his face.
“I knew it,” Eddie groans. “Tell them I’m gonna be home soon, ok? I gotta get back to work, baby. I’m gonna call you tomorrow and we can talk about it.”
“Ok,” Steve hums. “I love you.”
“Love you, too.” Eddie’s cheeks are hurting. He can’t stop smiling. “God, I love you. Fuck, that feels good to say. I love you, Steve Harrington. I fucking love you. Ok, I gotta hang up. Tomorrow. I’ll call you tomorrow. Ok?”
“Yeah. I love you, Eddie Munson. Night.”
“Bye, baby.”
Eddie slowly lowers the phone down before jumping to his feet and punching happily into the air. He spins around a few times before trying to collect himself and heading back to the bar.
Dale raises an eyebrow at him. “Everything good?”
“Yep, great. Everything’s fucking great.” He slaps the man on the shoulder and beams brightly at him. “You know what? We should play Foreigner again.”
Eddie bounces around the bar and giddily drops change into the machine. He punches in the corresponding buttons, leans against the device and waits for the music to fill the air. Dale watches amusingly from across the almost empty bar when Eddie starts to shimmy his shoulders to the music.
I've gotta take a little time
A little time to think things over
Eddie can’t help himself and sings along. His chest is filled with too much joy to hold it back.
I better read between the lines
In case I need it when I'm older
“Dude? What are you doing?” Dale yells across the room.
“I’m fucking singing, man. Someone still loves me back home. I’m fucking singing.”
Dale rolls his eyes fondly, shakes his head, and turns back to the bar.
Eddie doesn’t care.
He’s going home.
Steve still loves him.
He’s going home.
coffee? ☕️🍩💕
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