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macfrog · 5 months

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little aphrodite sex on fire chapter nine

the amount i had to write jean-marc in this chapter makes me nauseous. anywho. these two heal my soul and make me weep. please enjoy a little look back at the ceo's experience of paris.

pairing: ceo!joel x fem!reader

summary: we're going back to paris. this time, through joel's eyes.

warnings: age gap (reader is late 20s, joel late 40s), workplace relationship, imbalance of power dynamic, alcohol consumption, ostentatious flaunting of wealth (eat the rich i say), sugardaddy!joel, softdom!joel, oral (f and m receiving), daddy kink, praise kink, cursing, angst & pining, and...well. the ceo falls in love.

word count: 7.5k

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He wasn’t even sure you’d say yes when he asked. Thought you’d find it a bit much, flying halfway across the world just for one lousy meeting. He had what he’d say when you turned him down in mind, already: Sure, yeah, no problem. No, I just thought – Yeah. ‘s alright. I’ll bring you back som’ as a souvenir.

But you didn’t.

Oh, yeah? you’d said. Your face seemed to light – humored, impressed even. It made Joel feel braver. Reassured. You’ve a habit of doing that to him.

Mhm, he replied, chewing on the sub you’d ordered him after his conference call. He can’t remember what he promised Human Resources he’d have done within the hour. You walked in as he was saying it, and – well. Two days, he said, swallowing, Saturday Sunday.

And are you gonna make me take minutes while you meet with this Jean-Marc? You wiggled your fingers as you said it, letting the name drip through your lips in some kind of dreamy song. I don’t make the flight back unless they’re typed up by the time we leave? That the catch?

No catch. You don’t even gotta come to the meetin’.

I don’t have to –? Wow, Miller. You’re spoiling me, no? You kicked your leg, one knee hooked over the other. Your skirt shrinking up your thigh.

You were sat in the chair on the right, opposite his desk. You always sit in that one – and Joel’s still trying to figure out why. The working theory so far is that it’s at a good angle to watch the city below, and at the same time, see exactly who comes and goes in and out of the office during lunch.

But there has to be more to it, he thinks. He suspects. Martha’s desk is, like, five feet from yours. She spends her lunches in the conference room with Deb, shaking salads doused in balsamic vinegar and sharing cross-floor gossip. They invite you every day, and almost every day, you turn them down in favor of his shuttered office, the muted swish of cars on the street, the mock gasps and clutch of invisible pearls when you share that same fifth-floor gossip with him over the desk.

You’d been talking while he’d been thinking about the damn chair. He hadn’t heard a word of it. Huh? he asked, and you rolled your eyes.

Ain’t never listenin’, you muttered, peeling the damp paper back from your own sub.

Say it again, Joel said. Was just making a mental note to book dinner for us over there.

You scoffed, licking mayo from the corner of your lips. Why you making mental notes for anything? That’s what you pay me for.

And you were right – it is what he pays you for. Pays you to be his shadow, his right-hand man, his eyes and his ears and his entire brain, some days.

But lately – he doesn’t know. It’s different.

Truth be told, he has no idea what’s gotten into him. Looking at you the way he is. You’ve fucked around twice, now, and both times have been…nothing short of fucking amazing. Both times, Joel’s thought he might come within the first two minutes. Pushing inside your velvet walls, watching the way you roll forward, hearing the lewd moans pour across your lips.

He’s always thought you were attractive. It’s pretty fucking hard to ignore. Physically, sure – the look of your body, the way you know how to dress it. And the prettiest, softest face he’s ever seen. You can win him over in any discussion without a word, just by fluttering your eyelashes at him.

But you’re more than that. He thinks of you both as friends, maybe something more. Something deeper. It’s in the glances you steal, the silent lines tossed between one another. The way you read one another like an open book. Sometimes, he wonders if you actually can read his mind.

You’re intelligent, you’re funny, and you’re a hard fucking worker. Always on time, always seemingly juggling thirty things at once, and never letting him down. Nothing is too much, it seems; everything just is as it is. And he likes that about you. Simple. No baggage.

The morning of the flight, you send him a voice note telling him you’re downstairs. “And I ain’t lugging two cases up to the top floor only to bring ‘em back down when we’re leaving, Mr. CEO.”

He’s striding past Martha for the elevator before he’s even done listening to the message.

“Uh-uh!” she chirps, dashing over to slip between the brass doors behind him.

Joel sighs under his breath.

“I know better than to rely on you to remember all this stuff,” she says, holding up a file he’d asked her to put together for the trip.

She’s right not to – he’d probably leave that file in the car, or put it down somewhere and walk off without it. You’re the only one who can be trusted with it – with anything. You’re good at your job. And yet, he resents the fact that Martha’s about to lump you with even a fraction of responsibility for the next four days.

So when the Rolls pulls off and Martha is nothing but a pin-sized silhouette through the back window, still waving from the sidewalk, he pinches the folder in two fingers and tosses it to his left hip. Out of your grasp. You smile, eyes rolling, and pop your earbuds in. Joel breathes a laugh, eyes dipping again to skim read some contract on his phone. His hand is locked around your thigh. He likes that you just let him do it now.

Likes a lot of things about you. Likes that you put your music on shuffle, and then skip eleven tracks until you find one you actually want to listen to. Likes that your fingers twirl around the light chain of your necklace – the way they do anytime you’re nervous – and when he asks if you’re alright, you bareface lie to him and squeak, Yep.

Likes the glow the morning sun casts on you when you emerge from the car on the tarmac, pooling in the dimples on your cheeks, bright gold. The way you tug on the loose cotton of your sweatpants, bashful. Shy. And he likes that, when he follows you up the steps to the plane cabin, your awestruck expression lasts all of five seconds before that quick wit kicks straight back in.

“Feelin’ pretty guilty about all the air pollution,” you tell him, and Joel silently says his fifth thankful prayer this morning that he thought to ask you and not Martha.

He watches you settle into a seat by the window, watches you crane your neck to survey the view from the tiny circle of thick glass. He thinks about what he’d do if you were alone right now, if there weren’t crew slowly filing into the jet behind him.

He floats the idea. Tells you about the bedroom up back, tells you it’s cozy. You read between the lines just like he wants you to. And when the plane’s in the air, you follow after him.

You fall into bed together the same way you do when you arrive at the hotel. A tangle of limbs, of sweat and stuffy plane air. He sleeps the soundest he has in months – years, maybe. Pushed off by the sound of your breathing, the dip in the mattress by his side. The warmth which radiates from your body, the soft brush of your hand against his.

He puts it down to the travelling – the eight-hour flight, the plushy super king waiting on the other side. He puts it down to the way the world feels different, this side of the Atlantic. The privacy he feels come over the two of you, like sneaking into the next room: your voices muffled through the wall, your movements reduced to vague shadows beneath the door.

He watches you through sleepy eyes as you prance around the suite in the morning, twirling in and out of the bathroom while you get ready for the day. He wonders if this is what you’re like every day – if you spend your Monday mornings beaming like a little kid, toothbrush hanging lopsided from the corner of your mouth, white bubbles lining your gums. He wonders why he’s wondering. Why a part of him wants to see that version of you, too.

This version – now following his lead down Avenue Montaigne, doe-eyed and wonderstruck – is over all too soon. He’s dragged from her, from you, before he’s ready to leave.

His phone vibrates in his pocket right as he’s leading you out of some ridiculously overpriced jewelers – an irritating reminder of his meeting in an hour’s time.

“Fuck,” he whispers, holding you steady as you spin around to glimpse at the baroque building. “Hey, pretty girl,” he squeezes your hand, “I got some bad news.”

Your bottom lip pouts, eyes gleaming. It’s enough, he thinks, to convince him to stick around. If you asked him to, he’d text Jean-Marc right now and tell him to fuck off. But you tell him to go, tell him you’ll meet him back at the hotel once he’s done and you’re tired. With a teasing smirk and a tiny wave, you see him off down the cobbled street. He watches from the back window as you set off again, heading towards another iron-gated store.

Denis pulls up alongside the towering hotel, totters around the car to meet Joel as he stretches out of the Maybach. The square-jawed man stands with his hands linked, and nods enthusiastically when Joel thanks him.

“The shopping – I will take it back to the hotel,” he assures his boss, a wide smile on his lips.

He’s a good guy, Denis. He’s chauffeured Joel to five of these meetings over as many years – he knows the drill by now. Knows it’ll be a couple hours and a few whiskeys before he gets another call to pick him up.

His nodding doubles, more obedient when Joel asks him to make sure he listens for your call. “You mind stayin’ nearby that part of town?” he asks. “Just so – when she’s done, y’know…”

“Not at all,” Denis says, flapping two palms to the ground. Swatting away Joel’s concern, his worrying, his missing you.

He replies, a little absentmindedly, passing by the head of gray hair with a distant smile. “Thanks, Denis. See you later.”

Five meetings, five trips over here to be pestered by some obnoxious little man in an obnoxious little robe and obnoxious little loafers, and still, Joel never knows what to expect. He strides beneath the golden archway entrance into a domed lobby, every surface spotless and shining; marble counter in the center with a symmetrically-suited clerk sat behind.

She stands and smiles politely to Joel as he approaches, recognizing him with a flutter of her eyelashes. He feels the absence of your arm on his, an ache at his elbow.

“Monsieur,” she croons, pale fingers reaching for the telephone. She whispers something softly into the receiver and then nods, folding her painted lips together as she places the handset back into its cradle. With a floating hand aimed at the elevator behind her, she says, sultry and dreamlike, “He is ready for you.”

Joel fights an eyeroll with every fiber of his being. He wanders round the circular desk, bunches his shoulders into the tight elevator, and jams his thumb into the button marked P.

The doors shudder open when he reaches the top floor. He steps out slowly, waiting for the Frenchman to pounce on him like some kind of wild cat. Wouldn’t put it past him, Joel thinks. As he’s scanning the room, counting the six bouquets dotted around, there’s a single clap from behind the veiled curtains. A silhouette out on the terrace.

Jean-Marc swings between the sheer white, calling out to the lonely figure in his entryway. “If it isn’t my favorite American,” he sings, taking Joel by the arms and squeezing roughly. “How lovely to see you again, Joelie. Please, come.”

The sunlight blinds Joel when he steps out into it, peering over the city skyline under low brows. Jean-Marc is already sat at the top of a thin, glass table, pouring golden whiskey into a square glass and scooping two bulky ice cubes in. The nectar swirls around when the glass is held out to Joel, the ice tittering as he accepts it.

The table, a rocky terrain of pain au chocolat and brioche, pools of citrus spreads and dishes of butter. Joel keeps his hands to himself as Jean-Marc slaps jam onto a croissant, bronze flakes fluttering all over the table as he attempts to regale Joel with some investment into a casino.

“Riccardo says it is too much; I told him to go to hell. We will double the cost of the place, I know it, Joel. We have the eye for things like these, men like you and I, hm?”

Men like you and I, Joel thinks, lips tilting. He balances the glass on his thigh, watches the ice cubes turn over themselves. He thinks of you, thinks of the man you see him as. Thinks how tall he stands against the man Jean-Marc must see sat opposite him right now.

Thinks how rotten, and ugly, and how small the latter is. How easily you and your words could crumble him. All show, all sitting on perfect terraces with pretentious dickbags disguised as friends, drinking pissy whiskey with a plastered smile on his lips.

How comical it all is – the sound of yapping across the tabletop, These idiots would pay millions for manure if you painted it golden, the sprawling sheets of green-leafed plants, the headache-inducing flowers, the buckled loafers and the signet ring catching the sun.

How much he misses the weight of you on his hips, forearms flat on his chest, ear against his heart. The sound of your laughter lilting in his ear. The rosy smell of your skin and the feel of your eyelashes, featherlight on his cheek. He feels the distance between the two of you like elastic strung apart, stretching thinner and thinner, weaker and frailer, ready to snap into two halves at any moment.

“Anyways,” Jean-Marc says, lifting the wine bottle shakily. It clinks brashly against the lip of his glass, a painful scrape. Joel wonders if he’s already halfway to hammered. “Tell me how you’ve been, Joelie.”

Joel tells him he’s been fine. Business is fine. Money is fine. Company’s doing fine. Everything’s fucking fine. Easiest answer to avoid further questioning, to satiate Jean-Marc’s constant thirst for news, or intel, or just plain gossip.

He slips up, though. Makes the one colossal mistake he spent all morning hoping and praying and drilling directly into his brain that he wouldn’t.

Jean-Marc asks how his flight was, sticking the damp end of a cigarette to his bottom lip.

Joel says, “Good, yeah. We got here, maybe, ten o’clock last night.”

And Jean-Marc’s eyebrows arch. His hands freeze, match held against the striker strip. “We?” he asks, white stick flapping between his teeth.

“Uh,” Joel shifts in his seat. Your gentle wave, the corners of your lips, the toss of hair over your shoulder. It’s as though Jean-Marc can see his thoughts played on a reel before him, the haste with which Joel attempts to wipe you from his own mind. “Yeah,” he clears his throat, “Jerry ‘n Lisa. Len and Pol.”

The Frenchman’s eyes narrow, a grin pulling on his pink lips. “We,” he says again, whipping the match roughly against the strip. Speaking into cupped hands, a cloud of white billowing from his leathery fingers, he murmurs, “Joel brought company with him to Paris, yes? Who is the lucky tourist? Une petite amie?”

Joel’s tongue dabs at the sickly wash of whiskey on his lips. He thinks to grab the fucker by the throat, throttle him until the idea of you rattles from his skull, spilling back into Joel’s safe hands where you belong.

He almost fucking lies. Almost says it’s just Martha, or Drew, or his fucking mother. But Jean-Marc is like a rat, scurrying along after a source of water. He’ll find it in the end. They always do.

He breathes your name, reluctant to let it go. Jean-Marc cocks his head, leans in, a swirling snake of silky smoke lifting from the cigarette between his fingers. Joel repeats it, voice louder, but flatter. Breaks it into too many syllables. Lets his host hear every bite of annoyance.

“She’s my assistant,” he says, and Jean-Marc claps again.

“Your assistant! How wonderful. And where is she today? She is not…” his fingers circle the air, disturbing the trail of smoke, “…assisting you?”

“Gave her the afternoon off.” Joel lifts his glass to his lips. The geometric shape amplifies his voice, bass like the growl of a bear. “Busy couple days. She deserves some downtime.”

He hates the sound of your name as it peels from Jean-Marc’s tongue. Like a hangnail, the residue a gorge of bloody, torn skin. Your name is Joel’s favorite sound, he realizes now, and the way this little asshole keeps butchering it boils an anger so hot and so quick under his skin that he’s not sure he can hold it at bay.

It’s not as if he owns you or your name – far from it. He has no desire to be anything more than a placeholder: somewhere for you to slot your hand, rest your head, curl your body against. Still, he feels a direct protectiveness over you right now. An impulse to stand in front of Jean-Marc’s tiny figure, arms wide, stopping him from picturing you or learning about you or meeting you.

Which is, of course, exactly what the little fucker suggests.

A wet pff sound as he rids his mouth of bitter smoke, and he offers to host breakfast in the morning.

“No, no, we, uh –” Joel’s hands are up, like pleading with the man, whiskey kissing the lip of its glass, “– you don’t have to – Look, Jean-Marc, I’m sure you’re busy enough with all –”

“Nonsense!” Jean-Marc waves a hand. Ash sprinkles down the cuff of his robe. “It would be my pleasure. Shall we say, ten?”

Joel grumbles, eye following the flight of a bird in the distance. What are you doing right now? Are you back in the suite, trying on the outfit you picked out together? Are you still wandering down the streets, drinking up the lavish city like a perfect little cocktail of bliss and wonder?

And what the fuck does he have to do to excuse himself, to come find you, to wrap his arms around you and never let you leave his side again?

He feels idiotic. Juvenile. Like a stupid little teenager, pining for his junior year girlfriend. The feelings all sharp and brittle, prodding his heart roughly anytime he thinks too hard on them.

When he looks back to Jean-Marc – the cigarette tearing closer and closer to his fingers, an expectant smile on his lips – he concedes.

“Ten is fine,” he says, and suddenly, the sky casts over.

You’re on the terrace when he finally returns to the hotel room. Head aching from the alcohol and forced conversation, he drags himself over to you.

The sight of you, hair lifting in the breeze, the sweet smell and soft touch under his hands feels like the pouring of honey on a raw throat, like cool water lapping at his waist on a scorching day. And he needs more, and he feels the saliva pool beneath his tongue, and you’re touching him and talking to him and all he can think about is replacing his saliva with you – with every drop of you that you’ll lend him.

You follow his every request – parting your legs, making room for him between them, opening yourself to him like coming home after work, like sinking deep into your shared bed, like pushing your salt-slicked fingers on his tongue and chanting taste me taste me love me need me.

Petals opening, shards of orange separating. His cock throbs in his pants when he feels the circle of your hips against his jaw, the taste of sweet, sweet nectar spilling from your center. His clothes still smell of the smoke from Jean-Marc’s weedy lips; the sweat on his skin borne from three hours sat in the sun, dehydrated by whiskey, discussing money and gold and then money again.

He doesn’t want to fuck you here, like this. As that puny, pompous prick he’s felt like since the second he wandered through the Frenchman’s hotel doors. He can’t. You deserve him clean, new. You deserve the Joel you think he is – yours. Affected by your touch alone, moved by the gleam in your eye. You deserve him, Joel decides, on your terms.

And that same night, stood in the same spot, dregs of sunlight replaced by molten moonlight, staring at the dazzling Eiffel Tower against the deep blue sky – that same night, when he turns and clocks the silhouette of your body just feet from him, he realizes that this is it.

He’s sure he thinks you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on, standing in the dim light, your fingers playing with the bust of the silk robe draped over your body. The jewelry on your neck catching the light like his own private attraction, his own little spectacle. Just for him.

He forgets any other version of himself. Shakes them off like seawater flying from his body as he emerges from the ocean. Venus stood before him; hair lifting in the light, palm over her breast. And he doesn’t notice the departure of those old versions; doesn’t feel the way they tear from his skin. His eyes are glued on you, only you, everything around the two of you reducing to dark matter. There is only his awestruck gaze pointed to your radiant form, as though the scene sits alive in the eye of Botticelli or Michelangelo.

Baby, he whispers, and you move forward, dragging him with you under a wave of lust and rebirth.

He stirs the next morning to the feeling of a weight shifting across his body, two divots in the mattress either side of his waist. Something nuzzling, warm and featherlight, into the nook below his earlobe. Wet kisses trailing down his neck.

There’s no weight of you in the crook of his arm anymore. He’s scooping thin air. He lifts it, and his palm meets the baggy cotton of his own T-shirt, draped over your body, draped over him.

A laugh brushes between his lips. “Mornin’, darlin’,” he croaks, voice still low and broken.

“Hi,” you whisper back, voice like silk and sugar and tufts of lustrous clouds.

He opens his eyes and you’re hovering over him. Tip of your nose circling his, hips light as air across his own.

You look so fucking cute, he thinks. He’d take what he had last night – you, dripping in black lace and bound by satin straps – every night for the rest of his life, if he could. If you’d grant him it. But, this. This.

You – in Joel’s clothes and nothing else. You – the curl of your hair now a lazy wave, the smoky afterthought of your half-removed makeup. The smell of sex still lingering on your skin, the taste of Joel still home on your tongue. Each part of you laced with a part of him.

You – holding yourself up over him, less than an inch apart, and all Joel thinks to do is wrap his arms around your back and let you drop onto his body; his strong, solid body, which accepts the weight of you with only so much as a tiny grunt over his lips when you fall on top of him.

You giggle. He swears he feels butterflies in his stomach. He prays you don’t feel them, fluttering purposefully against your ribcage.

“You’re an idiot,” you mumble into his collarbone, words curled by the smile on your lips. You suck a mark into the hot skin, teeth and flesh and sel et sucre, and then push off from his chest, nudging his thighs wider with your knee.

Your tongue drags a wet trail down his chest, from solid sternum to suppler stomach, following the thickening of hair the lower you move. You leave wet kisses along the crests of his hipbones, the gentle slope of skin leading you to the wide base of his cock, already stiff.

Joel’s breath hitches when your tongue sweeps across it. Your eyes lift and lock with his, fingers taking a heavy hold of him. He smiles, tongue sitting patiently behind his teeth.

“Go on, angel,” he nods, “put that pretty little mouth on daddy.”

You obey instantly, as hungry for it as he is, your tongue swiping from the base of him up, curling around as you reach the head. Swollen, gleaming, slit dripping with slick precome that you lick with just the tip of your tongue and send a roll of pleasure across every nerve in Joel’s body.

He falls back, hands searching for the back of your skull as your lips sink further down down down, tightening around the smooth skin, stopping only when they meet the tuft of hair decorating his dick. His tip pushes against the back of your throat. His head begins to spin.

His back arches, hands anchored on your head, holding you steady as you bob up and down. His shoulders push heavy into the mattress, tummy sucks in until the points of his ribcage mold through his skin. And, oh – you’re so soft with it, so wet and so warm and so good with your tongue, kitten licks over his tip, wet fist wrapped tight around the width of him.

You lift your hand and meet his halfway up his stomach, fingers intertwining, Joel’s knuckles instantly whitening.

“Doin’ so good, baby,” he groans, gasping when your throat constricts around him again.

You gag, choking with a wet grunt, but you never pull away. A quick pause, a heavy breath from your nostrils, and your movements resume.

“’s alright,” Joel coos, fingers rubbing against the back of your hand, “you got it. Atta-girl, fuck.”

His hips begin to lift, slowly jerking up into your mouth. He looks down, loosens the grip you have on his hand only to run his thumb delicately across your cheek, dabbing lightly at the tears in the corner of your eye.

You suck hard around him, cheeks hollowing, tongue flattening to his underside to let him fuck your mouth – a rhythm of sopping sounds and heartbeat hums from your throat. He’s close. He’s so fucking close.

“Just like that,” he tells you, and you blink up at him. Moans muffled by the mouthful of cock, saliva and sex slipping from your swollen lips. “Fuck, baby, I’m gonna come. You’re such a good girl – you want daddy to give it to you?”

Mhm, you mumble into the warmth of his cock, the vibration of your throat on the eager skin enough to send Joel over the fucking edge. He throws his head back, lifts his hips up to you, and fills your mouth at the same rate he fills the room with the sound of his orgasm.

You take every last drop. You’re so good for him. Once he stills, once the screaming in his ears subsides, once the room slowly desaturates back to normal, a faded, blurry normal – he sits up and hooks his hands under your arms, pulling you up into him.

You collapse against his chest for the second time this morning, giggling and licking the last of his come from your mouth. Joel guides your jaw towards his, lips meeting in the middle, and licks the salty aftertaste from your tongue.

He rolls you both over, your thighs sitting safe on his hips.

“I know,” you sigh, head rolling against the curve of his arm beneath, “I know. You don’t gotta tell me.”

“Tell you what, angel?” he asks, one eyebrow lifting.

“Best head you ever had. I know.”

He scoffs, lips finding the hinge of your jaw. You giggle into his ear, a sound softer than birds cooing at the break of dawn, sweeter than the first bite of ripe fruit – the sharp taste bursting across his tongue and coating his teeth in sugar, numbed by the holy coaxing of feathered doves.

“You’re good with it, I’ll give you that,” he murmurs, and the giggle erupts into a laugh which fuels him enough to follow your roll out of bed, tear his shirt from your shoulders, and slip into the shower behind you, kneeling before you when you turn to look.

Joel’s second encounter with Jean-Marc in as many days, goes about as well as the first.

He balls his fists as he introduces the pair of you, watches like a caged and bound animal as Jean-Marc’s eyes loop all around your face, your shoulders, the pull of your dress around your waist.

He knows he’s being quiet. The glances you keep stealing at him tell him you know it, too. He wishes there was something he could say, something his lips might be able to carve into a neat little sentence. Tongue sanding the jagged edges of what he’d really like to say into a joke, a quip to ease the tension you so obviously feel.

But he can’t. His tongue isn’t blunt, isn’t defensive. It’s sharp like the kiss of venom, protective and aggressive. He knows he’d do better to hold it tight between his teeth.

The best he finds himself able to do is keep a heavy hand on your thigh, let you wrap your fingers around his own, squeeze you in place of whispering in your ear.

You hold your own, up against Jean-Marc. He knew you would. He learned less than a week into working with you, not to underestimate you. Your quick tongue, the million and one observations hidden behind the flash of a frown. He knows you can read Jean-Marc – probably better than he can, having known the guy ten years.

It doesn’t make it feel any safer, though. Luring you into a lion’s den. He knows you’ll make it out alive, but he can’t stand the thought of the claw marks in your skin.

That feeling washes over him again – that urge scored so deep into his bones that it hits marrow, to put himself between you and anything which might come to harm you. He swallows it down with the acidic sting of orange juice – slots it somewhere safe in his chest until he can assess whatever the fuck it is. Whatever the fuck it means.

His hand tightens around your leg when Jean-Marc mutters something to his assistant. Joel decides against asking you what it means, for fear he’ll tear the Frenchman limb from limb, strips of satin robe strung across the paved patio.

The assistant – tall, thin, looming over you like impending doom on legs – offers to show you the view of the city. And as Jean-Marc settles into your empty chair, the image of that torn satin robe shunts closer towards reality.

“I wonder if you might indulge me,” Jean-Marc slithers, pinching thin air with one hand and resting the other on the back of Joel’s chair.

“I wonder,” Joel mutters, finger tapping angrily on the table.

“She is a wonderful character. Beautiful, and very smart, I can see. I would be crazy not to ask, you must understand, Joel –”

He can’t help himself. He bites before Jean-Marc lays the trap. His head shakes. “She’s – she’s –”

And suddenly there isn’t a single word in the English dictionary worthy of describing you. Not a single combination of letters, of sounds, of syllables and phonetics that would do you justice.

He settles for, “I wouldn’t be anywhere without her.” It feels fucking redundant. It is fucking redundant.

Jean-Marc nods. “And you know that I see the value in things, hm?”

Joel dead-eyes his opponent, gaze narrowing. “What are you sayin’, Jean-Marc?”

“Well,” he shrugs, gesturing to the shadow pointing out the Eiffel Tower, “Paul is fantastic. Dedicated, hardworking. But it is a lot, for one person. I am sure you can understand, being that you have two assistants yourself.”

“And you wanna take one of ‘em out from under me?”

Jean-Marc chuckles, shaking his head. Tutting. Teeth grinding. He senses the bitter tone, hears the distortion of words squeezing through gritted teeth. “Not at all, my dear Joelie, not at all.”

Placating. It pisses Joel off more.

“I simply would like to raise the question of: would she like to be…taken?”

“Taken?”

“Hired. By me.”

The smug grin which pulls over taut lips incites Joel with a desire to punch the luminous veneers from their gummy holders. His fist balls again, nails digging harshly into his palm. He swallows roughly.

“She seems…she seems happy enough where she is to me.” He glances over, catches your eye for a fleeting second before Paul’s ghostly hand perches on your shoulder and turns your attention away again. Resigned, he adds, “You would have to ask her. I ain’t speakin’ for her.”

Jean-Marc’s leer only grows. “Ask her,” he repeats, nodding. “That is an idea.” He pushes out of his chair with a squeal of wood across stone, calling to the party, “Why don’t we take a drive? There is so much of the city I would love to show you – both of you, of course.”

Before he knows it, Joel’s on his feet, too, panic hammering through every muscle in his body. He tosses some half-assed excuse to the breeze; a half-truth, a desperate attempt to pull you away from the beady eyes and sharp claws of Jean-Marc and his assistant, and back over to his side. He takes your arm and scatters, pulling you past four, five, six bursting bouquets, your heels clicking along the polished floor, your head spinning.

He can feel the blood thrashing through his veins as the elevator arrives back in the lobby. Can see the shadow of Paul the assistant still over your shoulder, the place his hand sat like charcoal on white linen. He feels red hot, anger mixed with panic mixed with a word he hasn’t let slip just yet. He covers it by answering your questions shakily, diverting the ones about the conversation on the terrace.

And then you’re back in the safety of Denis’s car. You’re back to being on your own, together. No third set of eyes watching your every move, studying you like you’re some doll to be observed, or worse. You’re touching him again, holding his arm, caressing his cheek. His breathing eases, his body relaxes into the backseat of the Maybach.

You tell him you’d like to see the Louvre. So Joel takes you to see the Louvre.

Joel Miller has never been in love.

He’s said it, sure. Said it plenty to Avery.

G’night, love you.

I’m so proud of you, sweet; I love you so much.

Thanks for makin’ dinner, babe, I love you.

It began to take the form of breath, passing over his tongue with as much ease and instinct as his lungs would push out air. She looked at him a certain way – he’d say he loved her. They’d talk about the future – he’d tell her he loved her. They fought, over his working hours or the interest rates at different banks or whose family to spend Christmas with – and he’d remind her he loved her.

He meant every single one. He did, truly, love her. He loved her auburn hair, the way it’d sweep over her shoulders like a wave of fire. He loved the way she would pause to take thirty photos of the sky at sunset. He loved how homely she was, how simple and warm she could be. Her recipe books lining the shelves in her kitchen. Her pajamas folded neatly at the foot of her bed, waiting for her at the end of the day.

He loved her enough to spend four years with her, a life split nearly down the middle. Never seeping into one another. His side of the bed, and hers. His items in the fridge, and hers. His fucking bathrobe, and hers.

But right now, standing in a jam-packed room, maneuvering awkwardly around museum guides and backpacked tourists, avoiding the knee-height glass barriers and dodging fucking selfie sticks – Joel knows: he has never been in love.

Not until the moment he turns from some headless bust to search the room – the dark marble walls and great, carved arches; the white Parisian sky illuminating everything in a pale glow. Not until he catches a glimpse of you amongst the sea of bodies – stood before the Venus de Milo, staring up in wonder at Aphrodite like she’s the first thing in the world you’ve ever truly seen. The gentle lean of her body, the low sling of marble fabric around her waist, the soft dimple of her navel.

The way your eyes scan every detail of her form – every fold draped over her thigh, ever chisel mark and chip in her torso. The round swell of her breasts and the wavelike swirl of her hair. Barely blinking, afraid to lose sight of her for even a second.

Joel’s never been in love. Not until this very moment.

He only turned to make some quip about…well, now he can’t fucking remember, can he? Something irrelevant. Something so mundane, so meaningless, so dull that he wishes he could take back every word he ever said to you and use the breath more wisely – use the time spent making stupid jokes and work orders, just to look at you. Watch you, like he is right now. Every other thought, every worry and concern drop weightlessly from his mind, with such ease that he doesn’t feel the loss.

Your fixed stare up at the statue’s set face, the slow pacing of your heels, ankles crossing over one another as you pivot around her. And the look of wonder on your face – as if Joel instantly recognizes eight-year-old you, thumbing through the pages of the first art book she was ever gifted, copying the curled hair and round shoulders of the marble goddess in a pencil sketch.

Haloed by the towering windows behind you, arms crossed over your chest. Lips melting from a content smile to agape, and then pinning back in a smile again.

And suddenly – he can’t remember the flame of hair over his ex’s shoulder. Doesn’t remember a single meal she ever cooked for him. In the blink of an eye, he realizes he doesn’t want a life neatly split anywhere.

He realizes that his life, the way he wants it, was always meant to be meshed with yours. Intertwined so tightly that there is no his and hers. Last night at dinner, you couldn’t decide between the bœuf bourguignon and the confit de canard, so Joel ordered both – as well as what he wanted – and the two of you picked at three separate meals. Holding out forkfuls to feed one another, comparing and judging them like professional chefs on a fucking cooking show.

Back at the hotel, you fell asleep in his arms. Your head nestled under his chin; your arms curved around his shoulders. In the center of the bed, laying at an angle. When he got up this morning, the robe he threw around himself smelled like your perfume. The terrycloth on your shoulders, tinged with the weak scent of whiskey.

None of it – not the relationship you had before any of this happened, not the strolling over one boundary to the next, not the blurring of lines between colleague, and friend, and lover – has been neat. None of it has made any sense. And maybe that’s why he fucking trusts it so much.

Joel spent the first two weeks after you fooled around in his office swearing he wasn’t that guy. Staring himself down in the mirror with a balled fist, a pointed finger that said, You don’t sleep with your fucking assistant, you idiot.

And now, standing opposite you in a crowded room and only seeing you – he knows. He finally gets it.

He loves you. He – no, fuck.

He doesn’t just love you.

He’s on his knees, dagger through his heart –

blood spilling all over the pristine floor –

pathetic and adolescent in its nature –

butterflies tearing through his stomach as destructive as a hurricane –

in love with you.

He thinks to say it. To wander over and kiss your shoulder, hook his chin into your collarbone like he did in the Dolce and Gabbana store, and whisper, Hey. I love you. Did you know that?

But he knows that’d be fucking insane. Knows you’d probably unstick yourself from him and back up, tripping in your step. Paris ruined.

He knows he’d probably get so far as curving around your back and then bottle it, anyway. The words would die in his throat. You’d just lean back into him, none the wiser. You’d still make his heart pound.

Pound the way it does when you reach for his wrist and drag him off into the next room, and the next, and the next. And with every piece of art your eyes fall upon, another fragment of your soul is revealed to Joel. The depth of da Vinci, the color of Bruyère. The scale of Veronese and the beauty of Canova.

And with every part revealed, a desire blooms in him to learn the next part. Understand you; know you better than he knows himself. See you, the way he’s seeing you right now.

He takes his ex’s lead, when you’re stood in front of the Mona Lisa. All those fucking sunset photos, like she was afraid to forget what it looked like. The thought becomes urgent, pushing past every other meaningless word in his head.

He taps you on the shoulder, says your name lightly. When you turn, he’s already holding the phone up, watching your delayed motions through the screen. Please don’t let me forget this. Don’t let me forget you, like this.

“Smile,” he says, and you do.

“You’re cheesy,” you tell him, wandering off from the painting.

He’s still staring at the photo. At your dimpled cheeks, your red lips. Staring at your eyes, seeing a new glint in them that wasn’t there before. Like eight-year-old you smiling back at him, trusting him, knowing him.

Joel breathes, “She’s beautiful,” taking your waist in a steady arm to guide you out of the room.

You misunderstand him. He knows it. He doesn’t correct you.

She’s beautiful – the Mona Lisa. But she only became beautiful the second you laid eyes on her. The second she handed you a piece of your soul, the transaction laid bare for Joel to witness. A bucket list item ticked, or simply your childhood self, stood before one of her own seven wonders.

Everything is only beautiful after it comes into contact with you.

There’s a change in you, the morning that you leave. Something low-lying, melancholy and blue. Joel feels it under your skin, in the grip you keep on his hand the entire car ride from the hotel to the airport.

“You good?” he asks, walking up the steps of the jet, shelled around you. Safe, with him, safe with him.

You nod, but you’re watching the Maybach roll off, rounding the corner back to the airport. The same way you watch the city disappear beneath the clouds as the plane takes off.

The same way you glance over to him, your glossy eyes twinkling, pearly tears swimming across your waterline. Joel gets it. Figures he feels much the same.

He leads you slowly back through to the dark cabin bedroom, where you peel the shirt and sweats from your body. He watches from the bed, arm outstretched and inviting you to burrow into his side, curl around his body, loop your legs through his. His own little Aphrodite, the curves and the dimples and all the beauty to go with her.

He sinks his shoulder to let you nuzzle into him, let your slow-closing eyes follow his movements like rocking you back and forth to sleep. You link your arm through his, locking your bodies tight together. Joel slows his typing down, moves gentler, so you can fall asleep without being nudged too much by his arm.

You mumble something into the sleeve of his tee. He pauses. Looks down at your already closed eyes, your parted lips.

“What’d you say, baby?”

You take a deep, slow breath. Already sleeping, he thinks. And then, in the sigh that escapes from your mouth, you whisper to him.

“Please don’t ever leave.”

#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #ceo!joel miller #ceo!joel #sugardaddy!joel miller #the last of us #the last of us fic #tlou #pedro pascal #joel miller smut #sex on fire

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eideticmemory · 7 months

Text

ALONE TOGETHER | SPENCER REID

A chance meeting on a dating app spirals into an odd type of…friendship? Relationship? Who knows, but it means a lot to you.

Word Count: 8.6k

Warning/Includes: Excessive smut, fluff, 7 year age gap.

You are so sick of crying. You are nauseated from lying in bed, staring at a ceiling fan that does nothing but spin. You’re angry. You’re restless. You’re impulsive. And it is this impulse that takes you on Bumble, but more specifically, makes you set you preferred range between the ages of exactly twenty-eight and forty. You think, I just need someone to pay attention to me. You think, I need someone to make this go away because I just can’t.

Old men are gross, but they like you. They just can’t get enough of you. You’re flooded with hundreds of admirers, but you rarely match with any of them. You swipe. You swipe again. Again and again and it is with the teeniest, tiniest little bit of hope that you wish for someone to take your breath away. You wish for a man with a pretty face and kind eyes and a name that sounds nice when you say it with a moan.

And there he is.

Spencer. Age 30. 5 miles away.

You actually gasp.

You swipe right and it is a match!

You gasp!

It’s up to you to make the first move. There’s prompts you could send, questions you could ask, and just down the street, Spencer, who has just landed back home recieves a message only saying -

Hey :)

He immediately covers the notification on his phone as he exits the jet. When he swiped on your profile, truthfully, he didn’t expect a match. Let alone a message. So in less than three seconds, he becomes anxious and flustered and cannot stop shaking his hands because he can’t feel his fingertips.

He waits until he’s alone to message you back. He has no idea what to say, no idea if you’re even still interested, but down the street, you are lying on your belly and kicking your feet and you get a reply -

Hi, [y/n] :) How are you?

It’s not a lot but Spencer feels like he’s going to pass out.

You squeal, cover your mouth and type: Good! How are you?

And Spencer doesn’t even know how to answer the question. It’s not a hard question, it’s not a trick question, but he can’t figure out what to say so he stays objective.

I’m okay. I’m leaving work now.

You furrow your eyebrows, A little late, isn’t it?

He chuckles under his breath, Kind of early for me, actually.

Here, is where you decided to get bold. You make the decision before you even figure out what to say. How to say it.

I’m sure you’re worn out from a long day. Was hoping I could see you tonight. If not, maybe another time?

And aside from the millions of things that rush through his head, that are always rushing through his head, the first thing he thinks is: Oh, god, I wish Morgan were here. Although Spencer’s a little mad at him at the moment, he knows Morgan would tell him what to say. But no one’s here. It’s just him, pacing the empty halls of the bureau, a satchel with tums in it, and a pretty girl trapped inside his phone that wants to see him in person.

He types and he goes back, he types and he goes back, and then he asks, Do you like coffee?

You smile as you type, I love coffee.

So he has you meet him at this coffee shop in town. You stand outside, cradled in a cozy jacket, your hands stuffed in your pockets. Spencer sees you before you see him. And anyone with common sense would’ve walked up to you right away. Except, Spencer doesn’t really have common sense. He’s worried that you’ll figure that out. Still, he walks over to you and you’re only alerted by the sound of his timid footsteps. You turn to him with a grand smile and he immediately forgets how to breathe.

“Hi,” you greet him, holding your hand out. “Spencer?”

He looks down at your hand and then back at you and then back at the floor and your brain goes: ???

“Are you…not Spencer?”

“No, no, I am. Me…Spencer, yes. I just…I don’t like to shake hands.”

“Oh,” you retract, hold your hands behind your back.

“I mean not that there’s anything wrong about your particular hands. They’re just dirty- Not! Not-you’re not dirty, I know, you smell really good. I…” he stops, takes a breath, “The number of pathogens passed during a handshake is staggering, it’s actually, uh, safer to kiss.”

You tilt your head at him for two reasons. One, because you cannot believe he just used the word pathogens in casual conversation. And two, because you take his fun fact as a challenge that is readily accepted. You step towards him, slowly, because with the way his eyes go wide, it looks like he might run away. He grips onto the strap on his satchel so hard that his knuckles turn paper white. He goes cross eyed trying to look at your face as you lean in. And with a tiny smirk on your face, you press your lips to his.

It’s kinda, awkward. Spencer stays frozen in place and you mush your face into his and he doesn’t start to lean into you until the last second.

His face has gone bright red and you smile and say, “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice t-to meet you,” he stutters.

You look around, “What is this place?”

“Oh, um, it’s, uh, it’s a coffee shop. It’s also a library. It’s, uh, it’s open late and I come here a lot when I can’t sleep.”

“It’s cute,” you smile.

He holds the door open for you and buys you a latte and you two sit at a table by the window. You sit in silence for a minute, neither of you really sure what to say and then when you do go to speak, you do it at the same time. It cuts the tension and you both laugh.

“You go first,” you tell him.

“I, uh, I was just going to ask if you’re from here?”

“Oh, oh no, I just moved here for med school. I’m in my first year at Georgetown.”

“Oh! Nice. That’s cool.”

“Yeah, it’s alright so far. We’ll see how I’m doing in the spring.”

“I’m sure you’ll do great.”

You smile, “What do you do? What has you getting off work so late?”

“I’m, um, I’m a profiler…for the FBI. I, uh…”

“Analyze criminal behavior,” you nod. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard of that. I love forensic sciences.”

He can’t help but smile at you, “Yeah. It’s tiring but I like it,” he shrugs.

The conversation goes dead again and you sip on your latte, “Should we…should we just keep asking each other questions?”

“I guess so.”

“Okay, I asked the last question so it’s your turn.”

“Um…” he ponders. “What’s your favorite color?”

You snicker and he instantly puts his face in his hands out of embarrassment. You giggle, “My favorite color? Seriously?”

“I couldn’t think of anything else,” he shakes his head, smiling, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Blue. You?”

“Purple.”

“Ooh, that’s a fun one.”

“I like it. Okay, your turn.”

“Okay, um, what’s your biggest fear?”

He raises his eyebrows at you.

“What? We got the favorite colors out of the way.”

He nods, agreeing, “Having nothing to show for my life.”

You nod, “Same. Your turn.”

“Why do you want to be a doctor?”

“Oh. You got me with that one. Um…because I’m not squeamish and I’m good under pressure and I want…to make a difference. Y’know, actually do something with all this ambition. Aaaand, I’m good with anatomy. I’m good with people. I like medicine.”

“Did you say all of that in your interview?”

“That’s two questions…” you grin.

He chuckles, “You can ask me two.”

“No…I told them what they wanted to hear. And admissions doesn’t wanna hear that you’re doing this for yourself. They wanna hear that you’re selfless, Mother Theresa, Princess Diana selfless.”

“And you’re not selfless?”

“That’s three!”

“Okay, okay, your turn,” he laughs.

“How’d you get into the FBI?”

“Um, about 8 years, 11 months and 3 days ago, I attended a lecture on criminology hosted by some members of the BAU. I…became fixated. I wanted to join. I wanted to make a difference-“

“Oh now you’re just copying me.”

He chuckles, “I applied and, uh, yeah.”

“That’s so cool,” you tell him. “So you’ve been working there since you were…22?”

“Yes.”

“How did you become a profiler at 22? It takes forever, I thought?”

“That’s three!” he laughs.

“Oh, c’mon! You can’t leave me on a cliffhanger here.”

“I, um, I graduated college when I was 16. Had my Phd at 20. I’m…not the fittest guy so I skipped a lot of physical assessments.”

“16?” you gasp.

“That’s four!”

“20?” you shout. Emphasis on the ???

“That’s five!”

“Oh, no, nuh-uh, forget that, you’re filling me in on this.”

And so, he does. He tells you everything. About the eidetic memory and the IQ of 187 and you just sit there in awe. You fire questions at him and the last one is, “What’s…” you type in your calculator. “34 times 106?”

“That is a different genre of question.”

“But what’s the answer?”

He sighs and shakes his head, “3,604.”

You look at the calculator and he’s right and you gasp, “You’re a fucking genius.”

“That’s what I’ve been told.”

“Are your parents geniuses?” you ask.

“My dad is a…” he pauses. “I guess the colloquial term is deadbeat?”

You burst into laughter but quickly cover your mouth. That’s not funny. But Spencer is smiling.

“And…my mom is…smart. Yeah, she’s a genius.”

“Is she…dead?”

“What?”

“You just got, like, super sad there.”

“She’s not dead. She, uh, she has schizophrenia.”

“Oh. I’m an asshole.”

“A little bit,” he chuckles. “But, I’m-I’m not sad…she’s been that way my whole life.”

You can see on his face that it’s a sore subject, so you say, “Okay. Your turn. Ask me a question.”

And he wants to ask something that will get you talking. Something he can poke around like you have at his brain.

“Who is…” he starts. “Your very best friend?”

He asks this as you’re taking a sip of your latte and you very suddenly slam your cup down on the table.

“Whoa,” he says.

“Sorry.”

“No, no, I’m…I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“I haven’t spoken to her since I moved. Any of them. I…we…we had a disagreement.”

Spencer studies your face, “How many friends are we talking about here?”

“Three,” you spit out. “Three. I’ve had the same three friends since I was twelve and I’m not talking to any of them.” Your hands shake around your mug and you clear your throat, avoid eye contact.

Spencer feels so bad for dulling your light that he doesn’t even know what to say. He knows it’s an illogical guilt, but a strong and pulsating guilt nonetheless.

He watches you take an anxious sip of your drink and he sighs, “Today’s my birthday.”

You almost spit out your latte, your hand flying to your mouth, all of your own thoughts and worries dissipating as you look him in the eye, “You’re…you’re kidding?”

“No.”

“You’re joking. You’re just saying that to distract me. A psychology trick.”

“As of…” he checks his watch. “Twenty-three hours and ten minutes ago, I’m thirty,” he can hardly say it. “Thirty years old.”

You sit for a moment. You realize your mouth is wide open so you close it. You realize your eyes are wide so you shrink them. You stutter, “You’re…not kidding?”

“No. I’m thirty, and I…worked a case for days straight and…and it was awful and we were too late and…I’m scared I’ll sound self-centered…”

“And…” you encourage him.

“And…it wasn’t enough. The case. The chaos. It wasn’t enough. I hoped…I hoped it would help. That I would…that I would get so lost in the rush that…that I’d forget I’m having an emotional crisis. I don’t know how to be thirty. I don’t know how to be an adult. I’m a child progidy…I’m a child prodigy and now I’m thirty so, what does that make me? What am I now?”

The question hangs in the air because you cannot answer it. You just reach across the table, put your hand over his, and trace his knuckles.

He releases a long sigh, “I’m having an emotional crisis and I’m thirty and my-my team…my friends…my family, the closest thing I have to a family…they, um, they forgot. And it was…it was a really bad case, it was a really tough case and it was enough for them to forget. But not me. It wasn’t enough for me.”

He lets you take his hand in yours, your pathogen ridden hand, and he can hardly look you in the eye.

“Hey…” you whisper.

His eyes flicker up to you and he looks so sad.

You give him a small grin, “Let’s get out of here.”

He lets you drag him outside into the cold air and the two of you stand under the soft light.

“Do you drink?” you ask him.

“Um. No. No, I used to do drugs so I’m scared if I drink, I’ll forget to…not do drugs.”

“Oh!” you raise your eyebrows. “Okay, fair enough. So, no weed then?”

“I…” he laughs. “You do know I’m a federal agent?”

“Ah! So scary!”

He cackles, “No marijuana.”

“Marijuana,” you roll your eyes, “Okay…okay…” you look around and the city is asleep. It’s cold. Another block over, there are clubs and people fighting the weather for a chance to party. Spencer does not want to party. “Okay, my place?”

He looks at you, “What are we going to do there?”

“Have a birthday party!”

“I don’t want a party…”

You pout, look around, “Do you want a donut?”

He nods.

You grab a couple donuts from a late night bakery down the road and you drive him back to your place. He grips onto the door as you whip your car into another lane, his breath trembling.

“Dude, chill out,” you tell him. “I’m a good driver.”

“Good…in the way that tsunamis are good waves.”

You look over at him and your eyes lock and he smirks at you. It has you so flustered that you’re quiet for the rest of the drive.

You let him inside your apartment and close the door as you two step into the entryway.

“Okay, wait here,” you tell him, quickly taking the donuts and taking off into the kitchen.

“What? Why?”

“Just wait!”

He can hear you banging around, drawers opening and slamming shut. Things falling to the floor. You muttering, “Shit!” under your breath. You rush by him and into the living, so quickly that his brain can hardly process it.

“Okay!” you call. “Come in!”

He slowly steps inside, a bit anxious at first, but then he sees you and his shoulders relax.

You finish lighting the last candle and look up at him, throw your hands in the air, “Happy birthday!”

His face breaks out in this great, big smile and he can’t help but laugh. It’s not much. One single glazed donut with chocolate, sprinkles and candles on top.

“Three candles?” he questions, stepping over to the coffee table.

You stand beside him as he sits on the couch, “Well, yeah, three because three and then none because zero. Three zero. Thirty!”

He furrows his brows, “Actually-“

“Hush,” you cut him off, putting your hands on his shoulders, “You gotta blow out your candles.”

So he goes to blow them out and you shout, “Wait!” and his heart stops for a second. “I have to sing the song?”

“Oh, no, really, I don’t need the-“

“Haaaaappy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…”

He covers his face to blush and laughs into his hands.

“Happy birthday, dear Spencer, happy birthday to you! Mwah,” you kiss his cheek. “Now make a wish!”

“Okay, I wish-“

“Whoa, stop! What are you doing? You can’t say it out loud, it won’t come true.”

“Well, actually-“

“The candles are melting.”

“Yep, right,” he nods. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, makes a wish and blows out all three candles.

You cheer and clap your hands. You go to remove the candles from his donut and stop, “Oh. Should I? Can I?”

“You’ve already touched it. I think, uh, that ship has sailed.”

You take out the candles and sit down beside him, “Should I have picked it up with my mouth?”

He giggles and picks up his donut, holds it out to you, “Cheers,” he smiles.

You pick yours up from the table and touch it to his, grinning, “Cheers.”

As you eat your donuts together, you can’t help but watch him. “I hope this made your birthday a little better.”

He shoves the last of his donut in his mouth and the corner of his lips is covered in chocolate, “It did,” he says with a full mouth.

You chuckle and lean in, wiping the chocolate from his lip with your finger and sticking it in your mouth.

He watches you, chewing slowly until he swallows and clears his throat, “Is this…is this weird to do with someone you just met on bumble? Genuine question because I have no frame of reference.”

Your mouth turns up in a small smile. And you nod. Slowly, quietly, “Yeah. Yeah, it’s a little weird. But I’m having fun.”

“Me, too.”

You look around, awkwardly rolling your next words around your head until you can say them out loud, “Do you…wanna do something that’s…not weird with someone you met on bumble?

His raises his eyebrows at you, “What’s that?”

You take a sip of water, eyeing him in your peripheral and set down your bottle. You lean your body into his and this time, Spencer is ready. You catch his mouth on yours and he kisses you back, even though his heart is racing under your palm. Your hand travels down his chest, over his tummy, and to the hem of his pants.

His breath catches in his throat as you kiss his neck, “What…what are you doing?”

You pull away and undo his pants, taking his cock in your hand. He whimpers and his body goes limp and you furrow your eyebrows at him, “It’s your birthday?” you explain. And then you kiss him again.

His neck. Down to his chest. Down to his tummy. And Spencer watches you drop down to your knees in front of him and he goes, “Oh, my god,” and he only says it once but his brain keeps going: oh, my god, oh, my god, oh, my god, oh, my god, oh, my god.

“Is…is this okay?” you ask.

But he can’t talk! He can hardly breathe! You’ve got his dick in your hand and he’s looking at you with these wide eyes and you look perfect and he’s just worried that he’ll bust all over you before you get a chance to do anything. So, he nods. He nods and nods and nods and leans his head back.

You smile and with a few pumps of your hand, his whole body tenses up. He grips onto the couch and struggles to breathe. Then your mouth is on him and he goes limp. Dead weight, not a feeling in his arms or legs or chest, just the warmth of your mouth around his cock, taking it all the way to the back of your throat. His nails scratch at the fabric of the couch and as undignified as it feels, Spencer gets noisey.

You bob your head, up and down, in slow and sticky motions, swirling your tongue over his tip and a loud moan burst from the back of his throat.

“Oh…oh, my god,” he pants.

You move your mouth on him and run your hand up his tummy, feel it heaving up and down in your palm. He nearly breaks a nail on the couch so he grabs onto your hand, squeezes it really tight and groans. The sounds he’s making are so whiny and breathless and sexy that you have to squeeze your thighs together before you go leaking down your legs.

His other hand takes hold of your face, caressing your cheekbone with his thumb. You lean into his palm a bit but you keep your pace, letting him hit the back of your throat, feeling him twitch between your lips. You look up at him and all you can see is the veins on his neck, his jaw clenched tight. His fingers slip through your hair, over your scalp and you hum, but just quietly.

The soft touch encourages you to speed up just a bit. His whole body trembles as you take the base of his cock in your hand and jerk him in unison with your mouth. It overstimulates him immediately and he yells out, gives your hand another tight, tight squeeze.

“Oh-oh, my god, [y/n],” he moans, and you squeeze your thighs tighter.

He doesn’t ever want this to end. And so he fights the fire burning in his belly with everything he’s got, but he knows it’s useless. You’re too good. You’re so good.

He lifts his head and looks down at you, his face red all over and his eyes locked on yours. He holds your hand against his chest, caresses your face softly and lets out these soft, desperate whimpers. His body tenses up, leans towards you a bit and his jaw hangs wide open with very little sound coming out. He gives you this look, maybe a little warning, and then he’s gripping onto your hair and hunched over your body, filling up your mouth and whining into the air.

You put your hands on his waist and keep him in your mouth until he rides it out, falls back onto the couch.

You tower over him, wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and put your hands on his shoulders, “Good?”

“Yes. Wow,” he pants. “Thank you.”

“You’re so welcome,” you smile.

He huffs and he puffs, yet he can’t seem to catch his breath. “You know…” he breathes out. “That entire time…I actually forgot I was thirty.”

You burst into laughter and put your forehead to his, your giggles mirroring one another’s.

Spencer fixes his pants and huffs, “Will you…will you lay with me for a second?”

Your heart melts a little. You climb onto the couch, taking a seat beside him and swinging your legs over his lap.

And you sit like that. For hours. Talking until it’s no longer Spencer’s birthday and he’s just…thirty. You try your best to convince him to stay the night. He declines. And he declines and he declines.

Then he falls asleep in your arms.

In the morning, he wakes up alone and for a one whole minute, he forgets where he is. Then he remembers you and he goes looking for you and finds you in the kitchen.

“Oh,” you smile, “Hi, you. Breakfast?” you hold out the box of cereal that you’re eating out of.

He glances at the box and then back at you and he stares.

“What?” you ask.

“I…” he trails off. “I thought…I thought I dreamt you. For a moment, I thought it all was a dream.”

You tilt your head at him, “I’m very real.”

He chuckles, scratches the back of his head, “And…and the…the…”

“Blowjob?” you laugh. “Yeah, that was real, too.”

“The donuts?”

“Yes,” you laugh. “All of it.”

He continues to stare at you, this soft smile on his face and you hold out the cereal again. Shake it around.

“I’m okay,” he chuckles, stepping over to you. “I should…I should probably get going.”

“Oh, but why?” you whine.

“Because I…need a shower,” he laughs. “And to brush my teeth and lay in bed until I get called in again.”

“Yeah, I should probably start preparing for my lectures this week, too.”

You stare into his pretty, pretty eyes and you set the cereal down, hold his face, “You’re not gonna ghost me are you?”

He furrows his eyebrows, “Ghost you? What does that mean?”

“Oh, I forgot you’re old,” you laugh.

“Stooop,” he whines. “Stooop.”

“Ghost me. You’re not gonna go radio silent? You’re not…not gonna act like this never happened? Like I don’t exist?”

And Spencer instantly thinks: I don’t think I’m ever going to leave you alone. But instead of vocalizing it, he strokes your waist and he says, “No. Of course not.”

And he really meant that.

The next time he got called out on a case, he let you know that he’d be gone for a while but he’d be back. And he’d really, really like to see you when he’s home. He tries his best not to text while working, but when he’s laying in a hotel bed, unable to stop thinking about you and what you’re doing, he opts for a phone call.

“Hey, Sherlock,” you greet him. “Crack the case yet?”

He chuckles, “No. Almost. I wouldn’t be surprised if we were home in a few days.”

“And then you’ll come see me?”

“Yes,” he nods. “I’ll come see you.”

“Good.”

“What about you? How’s your journey to being a selfless doctor going?”

“Terrible. I missed like half of my lecture this morning because I blew a tire on the way.”

“Oh, no, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, just hit a pot hole and swerve a little bit but it’s not my first time.”

“Oh?” he nods. “That’s…not good,” he laughs.

“I survived. I’m tough.”

“Yeah, you are, aren’t you?” you can hear the little grin in his voice.

You bite down on your lip, “Okay, tell me what’s going on there. Serial killer? Kidnapping?”

“Confidential.”

“Booooo!”

“Okay, okay,” he laughs. “Um, a couple days ago a body washed up on the beach and…”

You talked until you both were nearly asleep. In the morning, Spencer rolls out of bed and the lack of sleep hits him like a truck, but he thinks about you and your sleepy, soft voice and he smiles. He smiles out the door and down the hall and Morgan strides up beside him.

“Morning, kid,” he says.

“Morning!” Spencer replies and Derek eyes him because it was just sooo cheerful.

Derek bites his tongue for a moment, but is incapable of doing it for any longer so he asks, “Who were you on the phone with last night?”

Spencer trips over his feet at the question and stutters, “O-oh, me? Me? I wasn’t talking to anyone.”

“Mmhmmm,” Derek hums.

“No. N-nope, just the voices in my head.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

Spencer comes back home on a Thursday and immediately hops on foot, on a train, to get to your apartment. You open the door for him and pull him inside, taking him in a big hug.

“Hi, you,” you whisper in his ear.

“Hi,” he snuggles into you.

“I made dinner. Pasta. It’s the only thing I know how to make, but there’s plenty. You hungry?”

“Yes,” he nods, pulls out of the hug. “Thank you.”

He goes to walk into the kitchen, but you grab his hand, “Hey, wait,” and you throw yourself into his arms and take him in a long kiss. He grips onto your shirt and goes weak in the knees, smushing his face into yours.

You step back, “Okay, now we can eat.”

He mumbles something incoherent and walks into the wall and you laugh, putting your hands on his shoulders to guide him into the kitchen.

The entire time that you two are hanging out on the couch, his arm around your shoulders, you can feel him looking at you. The one time that you catch his eyes, you lean in for a kiss and he is much more forward when it comes to kissing you back. He pushes his body into yours and a soft moan empties from your lips. It gives him enough courage to drop to his knees in front of you.

“Whoa,” you exclaim. “What are you doing?”

“I…well, I…I wanted to do this for you and I’m ready, I researched it.”

“You…researched how to eat me out?”

“I just want to return the favor.”

“But it’s not my birthday?”

“Is that a…requirement, or?”

“No,” you laugh, cover your face, “Okay. Okay, show me what you learned.”

And so Spencer disappears under the hem of your shirt, pushing it up your thighs and grabbing onto the thin straps of your underwear. He pulls them off your legs and you chuckle as they fly off. His face flushes bright red and he gives you a soft smile, taking a deep breath before he leans in and kisses your thighs. You hum under your breath, spread your legs for him out of instinct.

He’s very timid at first. Peppering gentle kisses on your hips, teasing his tongue on your clit. Then your back arches, his face falls into you and all the notes and research just fall right out of his mind. He wraps his arms around your hips and moves his tongue in this rhythmic up and down motion that he can tell you love so he keeps at it. And at it and at it, stepping off with a sharp suck that makes you yelp.

You rest your head on the couch, licking your lips because they’re so dry from your gasping, your constant moaning. You grip onto his hair and moan his name, only twice because you’re losing your breath. His fingertips press into your skin, spread your pussy open so he can bury his face in you.

Your body starts to twitch and tremble, your toes curling into themselves so tightly that it cuts off circulation. Your voice is high and whiny, growing louder by the second. Spencer feels your thighs tighten around his face and he knows now is not the time to let up. He swirls his tongue over your clit and you tighten your grip on his hair, straining your throat from moaning so loudly. You try to say his name, one last time, but then your back is arching off the couch and your orgasm washes over your entire body. From the tip of your head to the tip of your toes.

Spencer wipes his mouth off with your inner thigh and stands up looking so, very proud.

“Fuck,” you laugh. “What did you read?”

He cackles and gives you a wet kiss on the cheek and then the lips. Immediately after, you push him down and suck him off and as he holds you afterwards, he breathes off, “Remind me to return the favor again.”

“Oh,” you giggle. “Believe me, I will.”

The next few days, you two are inseperable. He spends two consecutive nights at your place, bitching and complaining and listening to each rant for hours at a time. He helps your study for your next exam. It’s not until he gets called out again that real life creeps in. It’s the first time goodbye is really hard.

You joke over the next month that he should just move in. This constant pattern of fly out, fly in, visit and repeat is a lot of run around.

“You’d get sick of me,” he replies.

And you hold him real tight and shake your head, “Never.”

When he’s on his next trip and calls in the middle of your lecture, you only step out and answer because a feeling in your gut tells you something is very wrong. Spencer never calls in the middle of the day. He’d never want to inconvenience you. But, today, it has to be you.

“Hello?” you answer.

“[y/n]? Hey…” he huffs.

He sounds distraught, like his chest is tight as he speaks and you take a seat on the floor, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I’m…I think I’m having a panic attack. I think…I think I’m dying.”

“What? What happened? Honey…”

“Just tell me something to calm me down, anything. Anything. Please.”

“Um, um, um, uh,” you sutter. “I think we should have sex.” As you say it, someone walks by giving you a dirty look and you shake it off, wait for Spencer’s response.

His breath has slowed, but just a little, “Oh…that works.”

“Yeah,” you clear your throat. “You know, I’ve just been thinking about it. A lot, aaand yeah, when you get back, I-I think we should do that.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” you whisper. “Do you wanna tell me what happened?”

“When I see you,” he says. “I know you’re busy and I should get back.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Glad I could help,” you laugh. “Call me back tonight, okay?”

“I will. I miss you.”

You smile to yourself, “I miss you, too.”

When you hang up, you’re happy and giddy, grinning to yourself like a fool. Then you look up to find the same person from before, whispering with their friend as they watch you.

You roll your eyes and shout, “What the fuck are you looking at?” and you walk back into the lecture hall.

The day Spencer tells you they’re flying back, you start preparing. Shaving, showering, spraying on some nice perfume. You walk around your apartment in a silky, short nightgown, lighting candles in the hall and all over your bedroom. When you’re content with the atmosphere, the only thing left to do is wait.

And wait.

You check your phone several times and when there is still nothing hours later, you think it’s time to blow out the candles, lay in bed and cry. For a moment, you feel so stupid and confused and angry that you almost throw a lamp at the wall. Then there’s a knock on the door.

Spencer stands there, immediately saying, “Don’t be mad.”

“Too late, I’m mad,” you snip, turning away from him.

He lets himself in and grabs your hand, stutters when he finally notices your nightgown, the candles, “Oh. Wow. You did all this?”

“Spencer!” you whine, crossing your arms.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I…I bought you a donut,” he holds the bag up to you. “Your favorite. I’m so sorry, please don’t be mad. Not tonight. Any other night but tonight, please?”

Maybe if he wasn’t so good at the kicked puppy eyes, you could’ve held out a little longer. But you’re happy he’s here and your horny and this is happening no matter what time it is. You snatch the bag from his hand and just as quickly as you drop it, you pull his body into your, gripping his waist, your mouth open on his.

He trips over your feet as you pull him down the hall and into your bedroom, the two of you tangled up so tight that you collapse on the bed in one big sweep. He falls on top of you, between your legs, kissing you hungrily.

“Wait,” he huffs, breaking the kiss. “Wait.”

You stare up at him, his face only visible due to the candles, “What is it? Did you…already?”

“What? What? No,” he laughs. “I just…uh…um…I’m not an expert at this. I…I don’t…I’m not experienced in this area and I will do everything I can to make it good for you. I just don’t want to disappoint you.”

“Aw,” you whisper, caressing his face. “Take your clothes off.”

“Huh?”

“Spencer. I’ve been thinking about having sex with you since I first saw your picture on bumble. Now it’s happening and you were late so we gotta catch up.”

You pull him back in for a kiss and reach between your bodies, undoing his pants so you can grab his cock. He gasps and moans into your mouth.

“Don’t overthink it,” you mumble, staring in his eyes, “Just do whatever you want to me.”

He moves his hips forward, stroking himself with your palm and whimpering against your cheek. He starts to kiss your neck, gripping onto your waist, bunching up your nightgown in his hands. You push his shirt up his waist and he quickly pulls it over his head, catching you in a kiss as soon as he can.

“Can I take this off?” he pants, pinching the hem of your clothes. And you sit up, allowing him to pull it right over your head.

His eyes rake down your body, lingering on your breasts, “Can I…?”

“Oh, god, yes, please,” you nod and lay back on the bed, holding your hands above your head.

Spencer chuckles and leans down, taking your nipple into his mouth ever so gently, swirling his tongue around the hard bud. You purr, grab a fistful of his hair, and lick your lips. He presses his body weight onto you, holding your other breast in his hand and sucking on your skin.

“F-fuck,” you moan. “Spencer…”

And he moves to the other side of your chest, now more confident, now unstoppable, flicking his tongue on you so fast that it makes your body twitch. He kisses down your tummy, looks up at you as he slides your panties off, kisses on your thighs. He knows how to do this. He’s good at this, per your review and when he puts his mouth on you, the most broken, whiny little noise falls from your lips.

He hums between your thighs, holding your hips tight and flush against his face. With your moans rattling around his skull, he loses all inhibition. He works his tongue on you slow, methodical, in all the right places. You give his hair a soft tug and he grunts, his hand trailing up your waist. You brace your hands on his biceps, squeezing them between your fingers, sighing out his name.

You hook your legs over his shoulders, tightening your thighs around his face, moving your hips up and down to feel his tongue gliding. Wet and sticky like he’s drowning inside of you.

“Oh, god,” you moan. “Yes, Spencer, yes, yes.”

He moans under his breath, quickening his tongue, clamping his hands down on your thighs. You pull at his hair as your back arches off the bed and your legs tremble around his head. He gives your clit a sharp suck and you cry out, gripping onto his hair at the scalp. And when your voice gets so high and whiny that it could break glass, he knows you’re close and he spreads your pussy open, works his tongue on your clit and doesn’t stop.

Your body tenses up and you hold him tight, tight, tight, crying out his name, your breath catching in your throat. And when you come, you collapse with a long and drawn out groan, shoving your fingers in your mouth to catch your breath.

You instantly reach over to the nightstand and grab the condom that’s been waiting all night to be used. Spencer brings his face back to yours and you kiss him instantly, grinning when you feel him pushing his pants down his legs. He lets you roll the condom onto his hard, leaky cock and asks, “Do-do you wanna be on top?”

“No,” you shake your head, wrap your arms tight around his waist. “Stay on top of me,” you say against his lips, “I like it.”

“Okay,” he nods into a kiss with you and settles between your legs. You help him align, you kiss his neck and hold him close as he pushes his cock into you. The both of you gasp, your noses smushed together. “God…” Spencer moans. “You okay?”

You nod, “Mhm. Are you?”

“Mm…” he hums. “Trying not to explode.”

You two chuckle, catching each other in yet another hungry kiss as Spencer starts to move in and out of you slowly. His breathing in low and jagged, hot against your face. He’s so gentle with you, pushing into you with little pressure and caressing your face.

“H-harder…” you pant. “You’re not gonna break me, I promise.”

So he plunges into you a bit harder, a bit deeper and you gasp, “Harder.”

He obeys and angles himself above you, watching your face as he pushes into you with the right amount of force. You moan, your eyes rolling back and your head along with it, “Oh, fuck, yes. Like that.”

“Yeah?” he repeats the movement, his moan blending in with yours.

“Yes,” you nod. “Yes. Yes. Just,” you reach down and start rubbing your clit. “Fuck, keep going.”

And he does. He focuses on keeping his rhythm, slow, but intense, the bed squeaking everytime he moves his hips into yours. You gasp against his lips, wrap your arm around his waist, your hooded eyes focused on his. He runs his hand over your hair, whimpering to you, melting into you, and taking short breaks to keep himself from finishing too soon.

Your fingers get cramped and soaked from the incessant rubbing on your clit but it’s like you can’t stop. Spencer leans in to kiss your neck, his hand absentmindedly running up your ribs and gripping your breast. You hold onto his hair and groan into his ear, his low and breathy moans vibrating against your skin.

“F-fuck!” you cry out as he slams into you. “I’m gonna come, don’t stop. Fuck, please don’t stop.”

But he does, only for a moment because the dirty combination of your voice and your hand tugging his hair and your pussy tightening around him, he’s dangerously close to bringing this entire thing to a premature end. So, he pauses. He takes a breath and he pounds into you. Even slower, over and over and over, watching your face closely, watching you fall apart.

“Oh,” you whine, your fingers quickening on your clit. “God, Spencer,” you moan and then body trembles, tensing up underneath him as you come so hard that you lose your voice. He grunts, falling into a sloppy kiss with you and following right behind you, his body suddenly going weak as he comes, his entire weight placed upon you.

Spencer collapses beside you and instantly pulls you into his chest, squeezing you in his arms and peppering your forehead with kisses. “How was that?” he asks, looking down at you. “Was that good for you?”

You touch your fingertip to his chin and smile, nodding, “Oh, yes.”

“Good,” he hugs you. “Good, good, good. For me, too.”

You smile into a long kiss with him and giggle against his lips. Lying there, your breathing falls in sync and you trace the center of his tummy, sink into the bliss.

“They, uh…” Spencer starts. “They remembered my birthday today. That’s why I was late, they threw me a party.”

You glance up at him, but only for a moment and then you put your head back on his chest. “Oh.”

“It was nice,” he shrugs. “It was fun, but the whole time, I just…thought about you. I thought about how angry I was that they’d forgotten at all and how…how you just made everything so much better,” and he tilts your head up to say this next part directly to you, “You always make everything so much better.”

And as you stare into his eyes, the corners of your mouth turned up ever so sightly, your eyes start to water and your lip starts to quiver.

“Oh,” he softens. “Oh, no. Nooo. Are you crying?”

“No,” you shake your head. Then you put your face in your hands and nod, suddenly sobbing.

“Oh, no, no, [y/n], no, I’m sorry. Did I say something?”

You shake your head.

“What is it? What-what just happened?”

“I-I-I-“ you stutter. Lifting your head from your hands, you cry, “I-I just wish I could tell my friends about you.”

He frowns and takes you into a tight hug, rubbing your back and kissing the top of your head, “I’m so sorry,” he whispers to you. “Oh, [y/n], I’m so sorry.”

And because he’s never really seen you cry before, his only thought is to ask, “Do you-do you want me to go down on you again?”

You look up at him, your lip poked out in a dramatic pout and you nod.

“Okay,” he says, climbing on top of you and wiping the tears from your face. “I can do that for you.”

It works. It leads to more sex. The two of you don’t go to bed until the sun has nearly risen and don’t get up until well in the afternoon. Spencer thinks you’re using his dick as a distraction and you fear there’s no respectful way to say: I just can’t get enough. He gives you a few days and nights worth of it and still, it’s not enough.

He’s actively trying to get inside of you when he gets called into work. He’s on top of you, between your legs, pushing his tongue into your mouth when his phone goes off. He pulls away to check it and you whine, “Nooo, noooo, don’t goooo.”

“I have to. People are dying,” and as he speaks, you kiss his neck, touch your tongue to his jaw and he moans, “Oh, god,” before he can stop himself. “[y/n]….”

“Just-stay. Stay. They can save one day without you, can’t they?”

“Actually, I don’t think they can.”

“Ugh. You and your big, useful brain. I’m sick of it.”

“I’ll be back,” he gives you a kiss.

“Nooo, stay,” you hold him tight so he can’t move and he busts out laughing.

“I have to go, I’m sorry.”

So he showers and gets dressed and you sit on the bed pouting the entire time. He comes out of the bathroom and frowns, matching your pissy and childish expression.

“I will be back,” he tells you as he takes a seat on the bed. “I always come back.”

“I know, I know, I’m just being dramatic. Let me be dramatic.”

“Okay,” he chuckles and gives you a kiss. Nuzzling his nose against yours, he whispers, “You should call your friends.”

You instantly recoil and he puts his hands on your shoulders, “Okay, okay, I know. I know. But I think it’s time. You need them. They need you. You’re an easy girl to miss.”

You roll your eyes and he sighs, kisses your forehead and squeezes you in a hug. “Call them,” he says and then he leaves.

You sit there for a moment, ponder on his words. Ponder on the entirety of the past few days, past few months. You pick up your phone. You stare at it in your palm. You dial your friend’s number and though you don’t expect an answer, she picks up with a, “Hello?”

You take a deep breath, “Hey…”

When Spencer arrives at work, he finds himself heading up the elevator with Morgan who is so completely and totally normal that Spencer thinks he can smell the sex on him. He watches Derek from the corner of his eyes, fidgeting with the strap of his satchel and shuffling on his feet.

Suddenly, Derek smashes the emergency button on the elevator and brings it to a halt. Spencer falls back and grabs onto the wall.

“Why-why-why did you do that?” Spencer stutters, his pulse starting to rise. “Why did you do that? You remember what happened the last time you messed around with the elevator? Turn it back on.”

“Not until,” Derek says, turning to him. “You tell me whatever it is that you’re dying to tell me.”

“I’m…I’m not dying to tell you anything. I’m just scared of dying.”

“Pretty boy. I step in the elevator, you start sweating. I act like I don’t notice, you’re giving me the side eye up four floors. What’s up?”

Spencer closes his eyes and shakes his head. Then he stands up straight. Then he falls back again.

“Kid?”

“I’m…” Spencer starts. But he can’t finish. “I’m…” He thinks he doesn’t know what to say. Key word: thinks. But there’s only one sentence swirling around his brain and he has to say it, but he doesn’t want to say it and so he bites his tongue. He shakes his head and then looks up at Derek, “I’m having sex!”

And he says it with such a whiny voice that Derek can’t help but laugh. Visibily.

“I knew it,” Derek says. “You’re shaking in your converse to tell me that?”

“What? What do you mean you knew it?” The response sobers Spencer up a bit, his anxiety weakens just enough so he can figure out why Derek is laughing.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed you walkin’ on in here everyday with a lil’ extra pep in ya step,” Derek chuckles. “You’re not that sneaky, kid. I knew there had to be someone.”

Spencer sighs, lets his shoulders relax. “It’s-it’s not that big of a deal. It’s just…sex…lots of sex. Lots of really, really good sex. I think. I think it’s good. It…feels good, seems good. I don’t have much to compare it to but, um…yeah…”

“My man,” Derek laughs and Spencer breaks a smile. “Who’s the lucky lady?”

Spencer smiles wider, “[y/n]. She’s gorgeous and smells good and makes me laugh and I…don’t feel weird around her she makes me feel so unbelievably not weird and y-yeah, she’s a little bit younger but I hardly ever notice.”

Derek puts the elevator back in motion, “How young are we talkin’ here?”

“Um, she’s twenty-two.”

Derek replies with nothing more than a whistle and Spencer rolls his eyes, “Stop.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You said plenty.”

The elevator dings and they step off, Derek swinging his arm over Spencer’s shoulder, “Don’t worry, pretty boy, we’ll get you back to your lady soon.”

And Spencer laughs it off but in his head, he’s thinking: yes, please.

It’s the first week out of town that Derek is suspicious every time Spencer checks his phone. When the case starts to get heavier and harder, Spencer missing a few of his nightly phone calls, you worry. You can’t help it. He texts you when he lands and it’s stupid how wide you smile.

Library? he texts.

Y: Literally on my way.

You approach each other at the front doors, and from far away, you can see the bags under his eyes and the hunch in his shoulders.

“Hey, you,” you cradle his face in your palm. “Tough week?”

He leans into your touch, nodding and closing his eyes to take a moment and reset. When he opens them to find your face, illuminated by the light, he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you in for a kiss. You giggle against his lips and your leg lifts behind you, almost uncontrollably.

You smile at each other and Spencer asks, “Do you like coffee?”

You cackle, “I love coffee.”

He holds the door open for you, asking, “Hey, what do you think about meeting some friends of mine?”

You smile, turn to him, “I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

#mine #spencer reid #spencer reid imagine #spencer reidxreader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fluff #Spotify

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fanficsdumpomg · 4 months

Note

Hi! I really liked your NSFW headcanons for the brozone bros. I was wondering if I could request something for Clay and/or Floyd with a reader who's a lot younger than they thought. Like they're in their 30's at least and reader is 23/24. Reader is very mature and put together, so they thought reader was their age, if not older. Really how they would react, if they would tease about it, anything like that. Can be sfw and/or nsfw both are great. And if you're uncomfortable writing this, maybe just boyfriend headcanons for either of them too would be just fine. Thank you <3

Clay:

*(I headcanon Clay was around 16 when Brozone broke up and present time is 15+ years later so i would imagine he would be 36 during the time of Band Together; i headcanon there's an age difference of 10 years between the two of you)

*Clay and you had been dating for a while after meeting each other at Putt-Putt village. You both had met each other while working for Viva; you as an inventor of defense items and clay working administrative duties.

*Clay is already a strict dom in bed; loves to control your orgasms, tie you up, punish you, etc. Basically he loves having any ounce of sexual control over you.

*So, when Clay overhears some Putt-Putt Trolls talk about how someone so young as you could be so talented, his brain first goes into shock; how could he not know this about his partner? But then his brain goes into overdrive and he starts to feel hot thinking of all the ways he could use this against you in bed; so he plans.

*Clay plans a romantic evening for the two of you that ends in passionate kisses, fangs marking each other’s neck and chests and you tied against the bed you share.

*Clay spends the night teasing you in the most deliciously way possible, edging you with a vibrator until you begged to come, gagging you with a ball gag when you get too loud, and breeding you.

*”Dirty Baby…Look at how wet you get for an old man…..god you’re such a slut”.

_____________________________________________________________

Floyd:

(I head canon clay was 13/14 when Brozone broke up and in Band Together i imagine he would be around 33/34 with a 10 year age gap between you too.)

*Floyd and you had been dating for awhile after the two of you met while you opened for one of his solo shows.

*Floyd is a big, big crybaby switch in bed. Loves to get bitten, teased and manhandled by you; (please throw him around he is begging you).

*He usually doesn’t like to be degraded or degrade you but that all changes after he hears an advertisement for your band; advertising you as the hottest young talent to come to the stage. He feels a rush of emotions after learning you're younger than him, first embarrassment because how could he not know this about his partner, then shame… is he a dirty old pervert?!

*Then the shame in a weird way turns him on and you very quickly pick up on it during heated moments between the two of you. After some planning on your part you plan a special intimate evening for the two of you.

*You tie him up during the session, pull his hair, bite him and tease him; but what really surprises him is when you start with the degradation; your refuse to touch him unless he admits that he is a dirty perverted old man. The humiliation/Shame of your degradation immediately turns him rock-hard.

“Fuuuck…yes…I am a dirty old man… please fuck me..do anything!”.

#brozone x reader #trolls x reader #trolls floyd x reader #trolls clay x reader

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fuckmyskywalker · 6 months

Text

NSFW Alphabet — Dilf!Anakin.

— CW: 18+! Smut. Age gap. Kinky shit (Letter D mentions fauxcest so if you are uncomfortable with it, do not interact) Anakin is 40 - Reader is 23!

— a/n: Oh my god! Anya! Finally more Dilf!Anakin content?! Yes! I had this idea a while ago and I couldn't get it off my mind </3. This will also give more context to my lore of the DA!Series. Enjoy!

— Anakin Masterlist ! ! !

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

When he was young, Anakin couldn’t care much about aftercare. He was used to random hookups and leaving before sunrise (That is until he accidentally got his high school sweetheart pregnant… with twins). So, he was never big on it; he didn’t know how much it meant and how important aftercare was. Needless to say, he was kind of a bitch.

As he grows older, he realizes sex is more than penis in vagina action. Yes, Anakin actually matures by the time he meets you, he is a whole different person; He will kiss you, ask you if it was good, if he hurts you, he will make sure you are satisfied. Anakin takes great pride in how he treats you after sex. You want dinner? He’s on his way, you want a bath? You won’t move a finger. You want more? Say the word and this man will be on top of you again. When he is particularly rough with you, and if you feel the urge to cry, Anakin will keep you close to his chest and caress your hair, kiss your tears away, and tell you how proud he is of you for allowing him to use your body, and that no matter what he says/does during sex, he loves you.

“You did so good, darling. Let me take care of you now, okay? Let me spoil you.”

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Dilf!Anakin loves his hands. I see him as a very physical person, so he enjoys touching you and feeling your warm skin underneath his fingertips (even if he has a prosthetic arm but… that’s a story for another day). He gropes, squeezes, slaps, touches anything within his reach, He will always have a hand on your waist, your hips, on your lower back, and since age made him a hopeless romantic, holding your hand.

His favorite body part on you is either your breasts or your legs: The first one because like I said, he loves to touch. He will cup your tits and play with them, jiggle them; and of course, Anakin could spend entire hours toying with your nipples until they are puffy, swollen, and aching… ready for him to suck them. The second one goes in a similar fashion, he loves to caress your legs from your ankles to your thighs, but he also loves to have them wrapped around his hips as he fucks you and squeezing his head as he eats your pussy until you cry from overstimulation.

“I could die happily in between your tits…”

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Before he wasn’t a big of coming inside; it was messy, risky, too many problems. But Dilf!Anakin loves to come inside you. Not only because he has a huge breeding kink— but because the sensation gives him ten more years of life. Don’t get me wrong though, Anakin will gladly allow you to swallow his cum (which with age get’s heavier, more sticky, and less liquidy) and it’s not a secret that he enjoys covering your tits and ass with cum. But let’s be honest, this man will always prefer to cum inside, to let you feel how good he fills you, and definitely with the intention of getting you pregnant.

“I’m gonna fill you up real good, darling— gonna fuck you until you are full of my cum, uh-uh? Until you are round and swollen with my baby.”

D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Okay. Okay. This is dirty.

Anakin likes it when you call him “Daddy” while he fucks you, sure. But, there is something that he never really thought about until he started formally dating you and that is… being called “Dad” instead of “Daddy” during sex, and not even during sex!

He knows it’s wrong, he knows he shouldn’t be attracted to it, but he is. It gets worse when sometimes due to the age gap between you guys, he ends up scolding you like an actual dad would do. He would rather die than ask you to do it, but the ick is always there. The dirty thought is constantly circling around his head. He wants you to call him dad and cry for him to fuck you harder, the mere idea gets him hard as fuck and he has to rush and find you to release the tension. Maybe one day he will gather the courage to speak.

“You are taking Dad’s cock so well… do you like it, baby? Say it.”

E = Experience (how experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

I’d say very experienced. Age gives you that experience, and it’s no news that Anakin had multiple partners before he “settled down”. He knows how to use his dick, his hands, his tongue… yeah, he knows how to find the clit and what to do with it. Dilf!Anakin knows what he is doing, and he will use that experience to make you cry and beg for more. Believe me, you will never experience better, bigger orgasms than the ones this man gives you.

“No one will fuck you like I do, sweetheart.”

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Either cowgirl or doggy; depends on his mood.

Cowgirl because he likes to see you work for it. The way your face melts into a burning pleasure, how your tits bounce, and despite you controlling the pace he still can control you. Anakin will slap your thighs, use your ass as leverage to bounce you up and down his cock, and definitely suck your nipples while you ride him.

Doggy for when he is feeling more dominant, frustrated, even angry; Anakin will yank your hair, slap your ass, even your back if you let him. This is when he is the most rough. The view of your ass and thighs jiggling every time slams his hips against yours gives him all the relief he needs.

“That’s it, ride my cock dollface. Bounce your tits for me.”

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? Are they humorous? etc.)

Definitely more on the romantic side than goofy. He can still smile and chuckle, but more at you than with you. He will mock you constantly, and most of his jokes are derogatory. However, Anakin will be dead-serious if he is in full dom-mode. Not even a smile, and if he smiles it’s going to be a mean, venomous smile (probably followed up by an insult).

“Look at you darling, all stupid for my cock. You are gorgeous.” He says with a breathy chuckle, kissing your sweaty jaw.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? Does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He keeps it trimmed, but not completely shaven. When he was young, he was barely groomed, so you can imagine the difference. Now, he shaved not because he thinks it’s better, but because he feels more comfortable keeping it at bay. Plus he hates how itchy it is when he shaves completely. If you want him to grow it more, he’ll do it, he isn’t picky in that manner.

On you, he doesn’t really care; I can see him having a preference for his partner not shaving regularly (I don’t know why, Dilf!Anakin just gives me those vibes). But as long as you are comfortable he is pleased.

“I don’t care about that baby, I’ll eat your pretty pussy anyway.”

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? The romantic aspect)

Very intimate! He likes to make it private, memorable, even if you fuck a hundred times Anakin will do his best efforts to make sure you are satisfied. From the first time, he emptied his load inside you the words “I love you” escaped his lips; and that’s a trait that never wore off. Since his youth, Anakin was extremely passionate and obsessive, and the few times he fell in love he was head over heels for his partner. For a while he thought that part of him died (after his divorce and the bad experiences of an unhappy marriage), but when he met you and began dating you, that side of him lost gone was back. Like I said he is a hopeless romantic and he will spoil you rotten.

“I love you, sweetheart. You make me the happiest man in the world.”

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He used to jack off twice a week, maybe three if he was too stressed (either work or the twins who got on his nerves). He isn’t a fan of it so he would do it quickly, He isn’t a fan of visual porn so he might just use his imagination and call it a day.

Now, that he is with you, he can use you instead.

“Your hand looks so tiny around my cock, baby.”

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Breeding: Speaks volumes. Anakin realized with age that he wanted a larger family, but after the twins, his ex-wife wasn’t thrilled with the idea of another baby. You are young, pretty, fertile. After discussing it and after you gave him the green light, Anakin will be a menace. Fucking you over and over not only because he wants you and loves your body, but because he is dying to see you carry his children. The ownership undertones that come with it are absolutely thrilling.

Cum play: He is nasty. He is disgusting. He is filthy. He loves to gather the cum that leaks down your thighs and push it back with his fingers. He would even lick it and spit it in your mouth. Anything related to cum is okay with him. Anakin thinks that men who are disgusted with kissing their girl after she gave them a blowjob aren’t real men.

Free use (this one includes other kinks such as degrading, housewife kink, ownership, even dumbification but I will use it as a generalization): This is more of a guilty pleasure. And once he makes sure you are comfortable with it he won’t stop. Anakin will be rough, pushing you against the kitchen counter, against the shower wall, against his desk just to fuck you, claiming is his right as your boyfriend. You aren’t allowed to deny him (and being honest, you don’t want to), and if you try to push him away, he will punish you by fucking your face or slapping you with his belt.

“Shut up and spread your legs for me, that’s all you are good for.”

L = Location (favorite places to do they do)

He prefers his house because is more intimate, he can take his time, but Anakin won’t deny an opportunity. He can (and has) fuck you in his car, your place, in a restaurant’s bathroom… if he can make it quick he can put up with fucking you in a more public setting. His favorite places will always be his bed and the couch.

“You have five minutes to cum before the waiter returns or I’ll leave you high and dry here.”

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

He is still as horny as when he was 20; so, pretty much anything you do will turn him on. He has a preference for when you do housework, he thinks you look hot (and it kind of makes him feel guilty), and when you are mad. Anakin is hard as a rock when he sees you arguing on the phone with one of your coworkers, that fiery attitude, witty responses, and aggressive body language… be ready for a long night.

“I can’t help it, you look so gorgeous making dinner for me…”

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs)

Dilf!Anakin is still very much possessive. So, sharing you is a big, red no. He is strictly monogamous so the thought of a threesome of seeing you with someone else, or even him being with someone else makes his stomach twist with jealousy. You belong to him and him only.

“Say you belong to me. Say it. Scream it so the whole neighborhood knows only I fuck you this good.”

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

When he was young he was more of receiving, he was kind of selfish and pretty much an idiot. Now, he loves to eat you. Anakin could spend hours buried in between your legs, lapping at you and forcing orgasm after orgasm until you are so drowned in pleasure you can’t even talk. This old bastard knows how to use his tongue well. He sucks on your clit, fucks you with his tongue, and he loves to spit on your pussy. Still, he is very much a fan of receiving so he will never deny you if you want to suck him off. He can be a little rough so prepare for a lot of facefucking.

“You taste so fucking good, come for me, darling. Make a mess on my face.”

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He is fast and deep. He likes to see your body shiver with pleasure and when he gets rough he throbs at the view of your tight pussy struggling to accommodate his size. When he is feeling more gentle he will slow down but normally he still fucks with his whole soul in it.

“Take it, take my cock like a good girl, okay?”

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

If he needs it, he will take it. Not his favorite but it works. Anakin will prefer a quickie if he has to leave in a bit and he is really horny, for example, he has to pick up the twins in 20 minutes, or he has to leave for work in 15 minutes. He prefers to take his time to pleasure you and he firmly believes in the importance of foreplay.

“I gotta go dollface, let me fill you up before I do.”

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? Do they take risks? etc.)

He is more versatile now. He listens to your proposals and opinions. The only risk or experiment Anakin will never consider is a threesome. You managed to introduce new activities to your sex life and Dilf!Anakin learned that being pegged and having his ass eaten is actually pretty good. If his partner wants to try something new, he will try it first before he judges it.

“Where did you even buy a strap that size?”

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? How long do they last?)

Three to four rounds. But they are long and heavy. Like I've said before he prefers to take his time. Anakin will at least make you come one or two times before he does. Even overstimulates you if he feels like it. Each round varies on his mood as well! From 40 minutes to almost two hours. He always says there’s no rush. He can go from 9 to 5, 5 to 9.

“Gimme me another one, princess. Just one more okay? And it’s done.” (it’s a lie!)

T = Toys (do they own toys? Do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Young Anakin was stupid. He used to say he would never allow a toy to replace his cock but now he is more than happy to leave your hands tied up and press a bullet vibrator against your clit. He will even make things that aren’t toys into toys. This one time he won a back massager at a Christmas lottery at work, and he used it on your for hours. The massager was kinda shitty so the motor burnt after an hour or so, and multiple times he has used the handle of your hairbrush to fuck you. He isn’t opposed to toys on him, and his favorite (embarrassing!) is a prostate stimulator you surprised him with.

“Spread your legs further baby. if you can fit my cock in you, you can fit this.”

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He loves to tease. He is so mean when he feels like it. Anakin won’t stop until you are begging for him to let you come, for him to stop, for more… it makes him feel young again and gives him a surge of power that keeps him going.

“You can take it, shut up. I’m not even halfway done with you.”

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He isn’t loud but he groans and moans with that husky, deep voice of his. When he is about to empty himself inside you he might get slightly louder, more aggressive even. He is very talkative though. He will never shut up with both praises and degrading.

“I’m gonna come inside you baby— don’t fucking move. I’m gonna fill you up— fuck— real good…”

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He is into anal play. And it’s entirely your fault. When you finger his ass while he is fucking you missionary, he climaxes almost instantly. He wasn’t sure in the beginning but he is so happy he listened to you. Subsequently, he also enjoys having his ass eaten.

“You are such a dirty whore eating me like that.”

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

OH— 8.5 inches, not 9, God isn’t that graceful. It’s more thick and slightly curved upwards. Uncut. Due to age his balls are heavier and his sack hangs a bit but it’s hotter. Even his dick is dilf material. His pubes are a slightly darker blonde color than his hair and he has a pretty vein on the side that pulses every time he comes.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make it fit.”

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

High. High. High when he is next to you. He is a horny old man. I won’t say he fucks you daily because you both have work schedules and things to do, but he will gladly fuck you daily if he has the chance. You make him feel like a hormonal teenager all over again.

“It’s not my fault you are so hot, dollface. I just want to make you scream my name all day.”

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterward)

He sleeps until you are asleep. He makes sure you are comfortable and pleased. Anakin loves spooning so prepare for him to wrap his arms around your waist and nuzzle his face on your neck. When he sleeps he snores a bit so sorry if that’s a problem… it is not, shut up. Cuddling and waking up tangled in each other's arms is always guaranteed with Dilf!Anakin.

“Sleep well baby, you did soo good. You make me so proud, I love you.”

#𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 anya writes!#dilf!anakin skywalker #dilf!anakin #anakin skywalker smut #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker fanfiction #anakin star wars #anakin skywalker one shot #anakin skwalker #anakin skywalker x y/n #anakin skywalker x reader smut #anakin skywalker x female reader #anakin skywalker x you

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leighsartworks216 · 7 months

Note

"are you sure about this?" & nervous kisses for Astarion?

I changed the prompt quote a little bit so it would fit better. I also hope this is nervous enough for a nervous kiss lol

Astarion x gn!Tav/Reader

Warnings: nervousness

Word Count: 563

Main Masterlist

Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

You cradle Astarion’s face in your hands, running your thumbs gently over his cheekbones. He looks up at you as though you are one of the gods who’d just given away all your powers just to hold him. His eyes are full of love and adoration.

The dirt of his grave cradles your knees as you kneel with him before the headstone marked with his name. The current year sits freshly carved beside the dates of his old life. The year of his new life. A life no longer governed by fear.

“Are you sure?” you whisper. “Are you sure you want this?”

He holds one of your wrists, keeping your hand in place as he leans into it, brushing his lips across the battle-calloused skin. “Yes.”

“Because we don’t have to. We can wait as long as you need before-”

“Darling,” he softly cuts you off. He smiles. A real, genuine smile. “I want this. I want you.”

You relax into his words, a smile of your own creeping on your face. You nod slightly. He slips your hand from his face and brings it to his lips. His eyes never stray from yours as he places gentle kisses along your knuckles, your palm, and your wrist. Intertwining your fingers together, he lowers your hand in his to his lap and cups your cheek with his other. You look at him like he’s made of pure starlight, as though he’s just come from the heavens to gaze at you like the brightest constellation in the sky.

He leans in slowly until your noses brush, and he stops. He wants this. More than anything. But he doesn’t quite know how. He’s followed a script this whole time - how could he possibly know what’s genuine? His eyes, previously admiring your lips, raise to meet yours. You squeeze his hand, understanding. You make no effort to close the gap for him - you simply wait until he is ready to.

The first time your lips touch, it’s barely a kiss at all. A light brush of lips, testing out the waters, getting a feel to know if this is what he really wanted. And yes, gods yes, it was. He sighs shakily and goes in for more. A proper kiss. Eyes closed, noses side by side. It was still slow, still uncertain, but it was so, so good.

He pulls away minutely so you can catch a breath, and the words fall from your mouth unbidden. “I love you.” A faint whisper in the cool night air. His eyes snap open, studying your face. Before, that admission - a true confession and not some silly lie - would have sent him reeling back, sent him running for any sort of barrier to build between you. But now, he couldn’t imagine a life without them uttered from your lips like a prayer.

He kisses you again, brief but passionate; meaningful. When he pulls away this time, he presses his forehead to yours. “I love you, too. I…” You open your eyes to watch as he finds the words. He sighs quietly, “I mean it.”

You know he does. You smile up at him, bright and sweet, and he can’t stop himself from tasting it. Again and again, until the gravekeeper shouts at you and shoos you off into the dark streets, giggling and holding hands and utterly in love.

---

Tag List:

@hypopxia @flsalazar @beverlybeav @angelofthorr @emiemiemiii @marina-and-the-memes @lynnlovesloki @aurasyn @furblrwurblr @cappsikle @mjmygd @thegirlsadventuresinwonderland @kindadolly @httyd-chocolate @bloopthebat @pandimoostuff @chesb0red @black-star1472 @sessils @olitheghostboy-blog @puppyg1rl666 @maruichio @cyber-dump-171 @katharynmarie @twinkliker3000 @cherifrog

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cozymaples · 5 months

Text

job offer (part 2) | steve raglan x reader

a/n: hi hi!! he's back.....! also, you literally do not have to have read part 1 for this, but that link is right here in case you decide to! contains: degradation, bondage, breeding kink, power imbalance, afab!reader, age gap (however the reader is not a minor of course!) DUB!CON, very brief, reader says she doesn't like something when answering a question, but does, and clearly gives consent following.

word count: 2.1k

It had been two weeks since you’d seen Steve. You’d started your new job, as promised, but you couldn’t help but wonder why he hadn’t called you, and you couldn’t help your mind from racing. Did he bend every girl looking for a job over his desk like that? Is that why he has such a high success rate? Your typing grows more aggressive on the keyboard in front of you as your thoughts wander, finally sending your last e-mail of the day.

To be fair, your new job was good. Great, even. You’d made a great first impression on your boss without fucking him, and people seemed to like you well enough. You collect your belongings, heading out for the day with a sigh. Giving a small wave and grin to your coworkers on your departure, you finally exhale all of your stress as you leave the building. You check your phone, reading the time. 5:15. You knew that Steve’s hours of operation were at least until six, so what was the harm in dropping by?

When you arrive, it’s desolate. The last few employees are packing up their things, and suddenly you feel like a burden-not wanting to hassle anyone. You opt for a middle ground, walking up to the receptionist window with a warm grin. “Hi,” You say. The woman looks back at you, silent. Irritated. “I just, uh, I was wondering if Mr.Raglan was still here?” The woman looks..confused. “Sure is,” She says, assuming you're a late appointment. “You head on back, though. He’ll lock up.” You can tell she doesn’t want to be there a minute longer, so you nod gratefully. “Of course, thank you so much.” You grin at her, and she offers a small one back.

Making your way down the hall, you see the bold letters of his name embellished on his door, which is ajar. You knock lightly, sticking your head in first, cautiously. He looks up from the stack of papers he’s got piled on his desk, meeting your gaze. His expression goes from stressed to amused..perceptive. “Hey, you.” He says, sing-songy. His eyes return back to his papers, and your brows furrow at the reaction. You take the opportunity to walk to the chair in front of his desk, plopping yourself down as you fold your hands in your lap. You’d expected more of a reaction, and he can tell. He sighs, a smug grin adorning his features as he looks up at you, finally putting the papers down to settle.

“Job not what you were lookin’ for?” He asks.

“You didn’t call me.”

“Didn’t know you wanted me to.”

You sputter, scoffing at his words. “You didn’t-you didn’t know?” You repeat. He shakes his head, elbows on his desk as he holds up his hands with a defensive shrug.

He has to be joking.

“You have all of my contact information, I mean-” Is your next line of defense. He raises his hand in a ‘stop’ motion to quiet you, easing you into silence. “And you..wanted me to..go through a private file of employee confidential information for..what, exactly?” You can’t tell if he’s testing you, but the way your clit is throbbing makes you want to ace it. “To fuck me.” You say, plainly. Clearly there’s no other way around this, and if he wants to hear it, so be it. He chortles, exhaling harshly through his nose.

“To fuck you.”

“Yes, but if there’s something funny about that to you, then I can just-” You start, aggressively, wondering why you even came here in the first place. “Shhh,” He hushes, raising his hand gently once more. He stands up, closing the door to his office. You swallow harshly. He walks slowly back to his desk, coolly, speaking softly to you. “Come here,” He says, gently. You’re confused at the sudden change of heart, but oblige anyway. You can’t ignore how badly your pussy needs him anymore. You walk around his desk, standing where his chair would normally be. It’s pushed back behind him, to grant you more room. He stands in front of you, towering over you as he cups your face in his hands. You take a step back, gazing up at him, doe-eyed as he studies your features. “Pretty thing like you came all the way back here for me?” He asks.

So it was a test.

“Yes.” You say, nodding.

“Good.” He says. He presses a kiss to the top of your head before lowering himself to his knees, guiding you up onto his desk as he sinks lower. When you’re finally adjusted, he’s knelt in front of you, large palms running up and down your nylon clad thighs. The skirt you’re wearing gets bunched up from the motions, hiking higher and higher up your legs. “See you couldn’t be as much of a slut today, considering your new job and all.” He says, referring to the nylon tights as he pinches a piece of the fabric between his fingers. He pulls it from your skin, letting it snap back against your flesh as he lets go. You nod, inhaling sharply through your nose. “Corporate job.” You say. “Yeah, I know.” He replies. He seems uninterested, but it’s far from the case. He just..knows. Knows what you’re going to say before you say it. Knows what you’re thinking, too, it seems.

Before you can say anything else, he roughly rips the tights off, and you gasp as the fabric tears. The sudden movement causes you to lean backwards, leaning on your palms for support. It’s as if you’ve fallen into a trap, but one that you want to be in. One that you shouldn’t want to be in, but you do. He spreads your legs for you, the torn fabric falling around your thighs as he tears the only thing left in his way; your panties. The actions leave him eye level with your exposed cunt, and you gasp harshly.

“Jesus, do you have to destroy everything I own?” You’re exasperated, trying to catch your breath just from that alone. “Watch your mouth.” He replies. Your breath catches in your throat, and you can only nod in response. He tugs you closer to him, leaving you on the edge of his desk. Your palms once again steady you, of which he takes note. “Good girl. Keep yourself steady-can you do that?”

You nod. “Yes-”

His mouth finally latches to your pussy, and you gasp loudly as you fall back onto your elbows. “Fuck!” You hiss, and you can hear him chuckle into your pussy, the vibrations against your clit making you dizzy. His mouth works on your clit, spitting on it just to lap it all back up. Moans spill tirelessly from your mouth, and you finally lay fully on your back. He uses the opportunity to tug you fully towards him, shelving your legs on his broad shoulders. You lay there, your hands lunging from your sides to tug at his hair, babbling his name over and over again. He’s quiet, which normally would irritate you, but you don’t want to risk making him talk right now; considering the way he’s feasting on your pussy. You feel yourself dripping, even more so when he slides two thick fingers inside of you. “Ah-!” You gasp, and he soothes you, pulling his mouth from you. “Come on, sweetheart. You’re alright, yeah?” He asks, feigning sympathy as he rubs his thumb against your clit, his fingers no longer pumping inside of you; only a standstill.

You nod rapidly, desperate for him to do anything. “Uh-huh, m’okay, please-” You beg, “Want more, m’sorry-”

“Bet you are.” He tsk’s, resuming the motion of his fingers pumping inside of you. You tilt your head upwards, chin to your chest as you look down at him. You whine, desperate for his mouth, but willing to take anything at the moment. He talks to you again, still on his knees. “Gave you that job, now you wanna come here and have me fuck you, again, after hours, nonetheless.” He scolds, and you whine. “Spoiled fucking rotten is what you are. Fucking whore.” You can’t help the way your pussy clenches at his words, sobbing from pleasure as he licks at your clit, sliding his fingers in and out of your dripping pussy. You hear him moan from beneath you, chuckling softly afterwards. “Yeah, you like that, huh? Like when I call you a fuckin’ slut?” You writhe above him, your elbow knocking his mug off of his desk, hearing it clatter against the floor as it shatters. He’s unphased, still waiting for an answer to his question. “No,” You say, but your moans prove otherwise, as does you clenching around his fingers. “No?” He repeats. “I’d say you’re fuckin’ lying. And lying sluts get nothing.” You whine, tugging at his hair.

“Of course I fucking like it-is that what you wanna hear?” You pant.

“Only wanna hear it if it’s true.”

“It’s-!” You want to scream, wondering how someone so collected and calm can make you so frustrated. “It’s true! I swear, it’s true-” A thin layer of sweat graces your features, and you can feel your orgasm rapidly approaching. “God, m’gonna fucking-” You babble, and he immediately pulls away.

Now you really want to scream.

“Are you kidding?!” You ask, your features flushed and cherried red with warmth. You regret your sentence as soon as you hear the jingle of his belt coming undone, tossing it harshly to the side as it hits the radiator with a clang!

“You’ve got some fuckin’ mouth on you, you know that?” He asks, and you immediately retreat back into submission. “I’m-I just don’t understand!” You snap, exasperated. He makes fleeting eye contact here and there, focusing on the surroundings as he lines you up at the edge of his desk. You can tell he’s frustrated, and it’s your fault. “And what don’t you understandl? Huh?” He asks, lining his cock with your entrance. The way the head of his cock brushes against your clit makes your eyes roll backwards, lips parted and jaw slack as it bumps into the bundle of nerves. “F’you even want me here or not-” He laughs, as if he’s never been asked something so ridiculous before. He slides his cock into you, pulling you closer by your hips to help you sink further onto it.

“If I even want you here.” He repeats, baffled. He holds you steady, and you’re hanging off of the desk just enough for him to fuck into you steadily. He wraps his arm around your back, pulling you impossibly closer to him. You breathe heavily, expelling moans as you stay chest to chest. He presses his lips to yours, and you feel your worries wash away. Why did you even have worries? This was disgusting-vile-to return to the workplace of a man older than you, just to have him fuck you.

“Do you-think-I don’t-want you here?” He grunts through thrusts, pounding into you deliciously. You shake your head rapidly, wondering why you would even care if he wanted you here in the first place. The way he’s fucking into you makes your brain go fuzzy, dumb with lust. It makes you anxious, fearing you’ll say something you shouldn’t under the guise of intimacy. “Do you want me to want you here?” He asks, the question buried into the flesh of your neck as he kisses it. Your head lulls back, feeling like putty in his hands. “Yes,” You answer, and he groans into your flesh. “Fuck,” He takes the confession as a cue to fuck you harder, which you’re not complaining about. Your arms drape over his shoulders, fingers tangling in his hair as you pull him closer into you. You’re both flushed, features graced with rosiness. His thrusts grow more sloppy, inconsistent. You know he’s close and you nod rapidly. “Come in me.” You beg, plead. “He pulls his head from the crook of your neck, holding you by the back of it, free hand tight on your hip. “Of course you’d want that.” He scoffs, but who is he to deny you?

You feel his load shoot into you, warm and thick as you babble his name, cumming around his cock as you drain him. As he finishes, he still holds you close to him, both of you steadying your breathing. He finally pulls his cock from you, his load pooling onto the desk beneath you. You quickly avert your gaze, biting the inside of your cheek. It seems you’re both thinking the same thing, and he dresses himself in the silence.

“We shouldn't.” He says, gazing at the wall with folded arms. “But we are.” You reply.

#maple writes raglan!#this is insane i know #part 3??? mayhaps.#steve raglan fluff #steve raglan x reader smut #steve raglan smut #steve raglan x reader #steve raglan #william afton smut #william afton x reader #william afton #matthew lillard smut #matthew lillard #fnaf #fnaf smut #steve raglan imagine #steve raglan x reader imagine

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greatooglymooglyyy · 2 months

Text

The Last Ride Chapt. Three (AU Cowboy!C.Sturniolo)

series masterlist

summary: when spoiled and sheltered city girl Y/N finds herself in running in the wrong crowd, her dad gives her an ultimatum. it's either spend the summer of her gap year on her uncle's ranch or face being cut off and finding a job. just when she thinks it can't get any worse, she meets Chris, the brooding farmhand who thinks he knows her type. but as the summer goes on, they both realize there may be more to the other than meets the eye.

requested and advised by @rootbeerworshiper

contains: strained parental relationship, flirting, sexism, 1.8k words

a/n: this my work, do not replicate it. do not repost as your own. this is such a filler chapter y'all but i think we needed some character development

“You have anything else for me today?” I ask Chris as I yank off my work gloves and shove them in my pocket. He shoots me a quick glance over his shoulder before he goes back to unloading the truck.

“Did you fill the watering-”

“Yes.”

“Did you walk the fence to see-”

“Yep. And told Uncle there was a loose spot by the north pasture.”

Chris turns and studies me for a second before his mouth pulls up in the ghost of a smile. “Well, alright then, little miss farmer. You can go.”

“Thank god.” I sigh in relief at having survived my first week and spin to leave before tossing Chris a curt, “Have a good weekend.”

He nods back at me in recognition, opening his mouth like he wants to say something else before apparently thinking better of it and turning back to the truck.

*******************

I can’t believe that I’ve become a person whose most exciting plan on a Friday night is a long bubble bath. But I’m not even mad about it. After a week of chasing down animals and lifting feed, I have muscles aching that I’ve never even felt before. Not even after pilates.

When I’m done soaking away my sorrows, I get dressed and head into my room. But before I can follow through on my plan to sleep for approximately the next 22 hours, my phone begins to ring.

I know before I even look down that it’s my dad and I sigh deeply. I’ve been dodging his calls and texts since I got here, using work as an excuse, but he knows I have weekends off. Flopping onto my bed in defeat, I slide the bar over to answer.

“Yes, Dad?” I try to keep the bitterness out of my voice but the pause in his response tells me I failed.

“Hey, honey. I was just, um, calling to check in on you. How’s the ranch?”

I give a sarcastic laugh. “Yeah, it’s great. A dream.”

There’s silence on both of our lines for a few beats as we each wait for the other to give in.

“Look…” Dad starts, his normally strong voice wavering a bit. “I just wanted to tell you…”

I wait as he trails off, hoping he’s about to open the door for us to get over this but he seems to bail out on his original thought.

“... I wanted to ask how you’re doing on cash. There are some cool shops in town. Don’t just rot inside all day while you’re there. Here I’ll transfer something to your card.”

Disappointment floods over me as my bank app notifies me of a deposit. “Cool. Thanks.”

We say an awkward goodbye a few minutes later and I throw my phone on the bedside table. I turn off my lamp and stare up at the ceiling, deep in thought. As I drift off to sleep, I can’t help but wonder if my dad and I will ever have more in common than just money.

*******************

I take his advice and take my uncle’s truck into town to explore. The experience of driving a pickup truck is every bit as humbling as I expected it to be, especially with the loud backfiring. But when I pull into the parking lot for the shopping strip, I see that I fit right in for maybe the first time since I got here.

I step into the first clothing store I see, a cute little boutique with pink cowboy hats in their window. It’s pretty busy when I enter so I stick to browsing the walls, smiling to myself at the section of belts with huge buckles.

I pick up a shirt that says “Say howdy, stay rowdy” intending to take a picture but sit it down when I remember I don’t really have anyone to send it to.

A pretty girl in a camo Chevrolet hat taps me on the shoulder and gives me a friendly smile when I turn. “Hi! Can I help you find anything?”

“No thank you...” I glance down at her nametag and return her smile. “...Abby. I’m just looking.”

She nods and leans in close to whisper. “Girl, I really just came over to say how much I love your purse. It was all over my vision board this year.”

I laugh at this and look down at my Marc Jacobs tote bag. “Do you want it? I hardly ever carry this one.”

Abby’s eyes widen and she shakes her head quickly. “No! I couldn’t-”

“Girl, seriously. It’s no big deal. I open the bag and pull out my wallet and lip gloss, having not even bothered to switch the rest of my belongings over this morning, then hand her the bag.

She takes it slowly as if she’s sure it’s a trick and then beams at me. “Thank you so much! That’s way too sweet.”

We talk for a few more minutes, exchanging socials before her boss comes around the corner and calls for her.

“Ugh.” She groans, rolling her eyes. “Let me get back before he has a cow. Don’t be a stranger, okay? Text me.”

I promise I will and leave the store, hiding a smile.

As I start making my way over to the next boutique, the door to the ice cream shop bursts open and a small girl runs out. She just may be the cutest kid I’ve ever seen in my life with her huge blue eyes and pigtails that curl delicately at the ends. The girl skips my way, her little hand holding a cone, and almost bumps into me. She stops short and smiles up at me sweetly. “Sorry!”

I smile back, squatting down a bit. “No problem, honey. I love your shoes.”

At the compliment, her face brightens up even more, stepping back to show off her cowboy boots better. “Thank you! My brother got them for me. They have my name on the side, look. E-V-I-E. Evie!”

I laugh and nod my head. “Very cool, Evie.”

The ice cream door opens again and a familiar frame steps out. “Little girl, what have I told you about walking away from me?”

I raise my eyebrows as Chris comes over and places a hand on Evie’s head. Without my permission, my eyes trail themselves over Chris' outfit, taking in the rare sight of him out of work clothes. Somehow he looks even better than usual in his simple white tee tucked into his jeans, a gold chain hanging casually around his neck. He’s got a cowboy hat in his hand and he pulls it on, adjusting it as he looks up and finally notices me. His brow furrows in confusion as he looks between the two of us. “Scotch?”

I wave awkwardly and smile. “Hi.”

Evie looks up at me blinking slowly. “Your name is Scotch?”

“Y/N.” Chris and I say in unison, making heat creep up my skin.

“This is Mr. Buck’s niece, remember?” He adds, looking down at Evie who nods. With them standing next to each other, the resemblance is striking and I can't believe I didn't make the connection immediately. His eyes dilate with love when he looks at her and I can't help but grin at their sweet bond.

Chris looks back over and me and raises his brow, reaching out and tugging my sleeve. “Ain’t it a little hot for this?”

I scoff and gesture down at myself, smoothing a hand over my faux leather jacket. "You do what you must for the look,” I say with fake cockiness and he laughs. “Why are you always hating on my style?”

He grins, clicking his tongue. “Believe me, Scotch, the last thing i'm doing is hating.” I raise an eyebrow and he adds a quick, “I mean, it don’t make me no nevermind is all.”

My lips pull up in a smirk and the moment stretches on for a bit too long as he holds my eye contact until Evie taps her foot and interrupts. “Why are you looking at her so funny, bubba?”

We snap out of it and look down, Chris giving her a confused look. “What are you on about?”

“Like your eyes are sparkling. It’s weird-”

“Okay! We gotta go. Let’s have a little chat about strangers on the way.” Chris cuts in, taking her hand to lead her away. “See you Monday, Scotch.”

“See you.”

“Bye Y/N!” Evie yells over her shoulder. She turns back to Chris lowering her voice only slightly. “You’re right. She is pretty.”

“Shh-”

Oh wow. My heart does something funny but I ignore it and cross the street, deciding to head back home. As I walk past a group of boys my age, someone lets out a low wolf whistle and I turn in disgust.

A boy with the greasiest mullet the world has ever seen runs over from his group of friends and starts walking backward beside me.

“Well, damn girl. You gotta be the finest thing on this side of the Mason-Dixon. Where they been hiding you at?”

“Jesus. Does that usually work for you?” I say, picking up my pace a bit. He grins, clearly taking my tone as a challenge, and steps into my path so I stop walking. “Get out of my way.”

“Oh c’mon on, darlin’. They don’t let y’all smile in the big city?” The boy flashes me what I’m sure he thinks is a sly smile and leans in closer, running his eyes down my body. “Let a country boy give you a reason to.”

I scoff and cross my arms, opening my mouth to give him hell, when Chris appears behind him and claps a rough hand on his shoulder.

“How about you take a few steps back, man?” Chris suggests, setting his jaw around his toothpick and giving the boy a dark look from under the brim of his hat.

He seems to wilt immediately under Chris’ gaze, cutting his eyes from his to mine. “My bad, bro. Is this you?”

I narrow my eyes, annoyed that the only thing stopping him from harassing me is another man. “Or maybe I’m just a girl who isn’t interested?”

Chris lets the boy go, stepping closer to my side. “You heard the boss, Mason. Why don’t you go mack on your girlfriend?”

He smacks his lips and puts his hands up. “Whatever man. I was just being nice. She ain’t even all-”

Chris levels him with a dangerous stare and he snaps his mouth shut. “Watch your mouth.”

Mason rolls his shoulders back in forced nonchalance and heads back over to his boys who yell out taunts and ooos.

“I could have handled it,” I say stubbornly, looking over Chris’ shoulder and noticing Evie waiting a few feet away.

“I know you could have.” He replies without hesitation. “I don’t think there’s much you can’t handle.”

He doesn’t wait for my response, spinning on his heel and heading back to his sister. I stand there and watch them fade down the street, forcing down a smile as my understanding of who Chris is shifts in my mind.

🏷️/ @sturniolho @sttzee @tillies33ssss @miloisdone1 @sstvrnioloo @junnniiieee07 @sturnioloslurps @mrsmiagreer @asturniolos

@teapartyprincess4two @whicked-hazlatwhore @sukiipjs @accio326 @sturniolosmind @imfromthediningtable @rootbeerworshiper

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millerscoffee · 10 months

Text

dancing is a dangerous game | part one

you're a bandit like me, eyes full of stars.

5.5k | joel miller x f!reader

masterlist

rating: 18+ MDNI

tw: brief mentions of using your body for trading purposes, you shoot at joel miller????, light dub-con but that goes away quickly

warnings: post-outbreak au. no ellie. angsty smut, semi-dom!reader and dom!joel so that's fun, power struggle, age gap (joel is 56, reader is late 20s or early 30s), enemies to lovers, voyeurism (f watching m), masturbation (m and f), pet names/degrading names (baby, honey, darlin', brat, bitch, slut, etc.), dirty talk, choking, oral (m receiving), fingering, spanking, p in v (unprotected - wrap it up folks), joel is mean but not unkind. no use of y/n.

summary: inspired by "cowboy by me" by our lord and savior taylor swift. this is a post-outbreak world and joel has his own land. think bill, but a little less... deranged. kind of. you essentially are a raider, but make it fashion. when you stalk joel's cabin for the third day, that's when you get interrogated by none other than joel miller himself.

A/N: hi, i'm bee! this is my first fic on tumblr, and my first stab at this whole stratosphere. longtime listener; first time caller 💅. i was ALSO inspired by an ask i saw on @swiftispunk's page (hi! i love your writing sm??) and kinda just... ran with it. i honestly wasn't anticipating writing stuff during the outbreak, so i apologise if it's not quite right. imagine me living during that time with a tube of lipgloss and one (1) bullet in my pocket just in case. this... may be a series. i don't know yet. see ya! enjoy!!!

The first time you meet Joel Miller is down the barrel of your gun.

You can hear your father's voice telling you 'Back out, girl. Don't get too big for your britches.' Look where that got him. His ashes against your chest in a makeshift pendant necklace, buried by your clothes.

Still, you listen.

"It don't have to be like this," you drawl with index over the trigger guard. You've heard of him. Joel Miller. He's notorious, and even though you've kept to yourself most of your life, his name still roamed throughout the abandoned towns you passed. Someone always owed him, and he always owed somebody.

Your dad would've been older than him, but not by much. You knew of the world before this, was just a little thing. Still, you heard stories undulate from your father's southern voice that mostly left you bored on long days searching for food or shelter. You'd give anything to hear them now.

Part of you died when he did.

You were young when the outbreak happened. Resourceful, your father made it work in raising you. Taught you how to fend for yourself, rely on no one. Which was no easy feat considering how unbelievably stubborn you were. Were? Are.

Maybe he loved you. Maybe it was the chip on his shoulder. The kind of anguish that comes from not being able to give your mother the same kind of life. A promise to her.

Yes, you were young when the outbreak happened, but flashbacks of her getting attacked by a clicker burn you alive at night.

"Y'er on my land." A gruff voice calls you back to reality. Few words for someone who held your life in his hands. His own gun pointing back at you. Of course it would be.

"I was just passin' through." The lie flies through your teeth. You had been circling the place from a reasonable distance for a few days now. Scoping out when this man in front of you was his busiest, when he patrolled, when he slept. This was a heist situation, no doubt about it.

"Bullshit. This s'the third fuckin' time I seen you 'round here. And it's y'er last."

Shit. Fucking shit.

Your eyes dart to the side, really trying to pattern a plan in escaping but your breathing would say otherwise as calm and collected as it was.

In any other situation, you wouldn't be so willing to comply, but considering he's got you cornered and his gun is quite literally cocked and ready to go – you're not exactly in the position to make hasty decisions.

Goddammit if there wasn't something about him that made you nervous.

"Listen. Just was lookin' for somewhere to sleep. It's fuckin' cold and your stables look warm." Your head tilts in the direction of a lone horse's home in a bed of hay, and you're not fully lying. It's not that you have set up camp by any means, but you've noticed.

"We could trade. You give me y'er ammo, and I g–"

"You give me your cock, I get it. You really could be more original." You were used to this. Bartering, some might call it. Living out here on your own was dangerous, and running into men who wanted to use your body in order to get supplies wasn't that uncommon. If they were that kind, even. You'd heard the horror stories.

Albeit, most of these men met your gun in the end. Enabling you acquire their supplies, keep all yours, and your dignity. Win/win.

"...I give you the pleasure of livin' another day. Really? Y'think it's that easy?"

There was something in the way Joel says this that makes you grateful for the jacket you're wearing. Goosebumps prickle your skin, bile creeping up your throat and you will it back down again. Y'think it's that easy? As if he thought you wanted it.

If circumstances were different, you'd be rubbing the crimson off your cheeks. Flashing him a sheepish grin in an attempt to resolve whatever misunderstanding there was... but this wasn't the environment to elicit such conversation.

And you weren't that type of person to begin with.

Instead, your index sweeps from guard to trigger when you fire off at his leg. Hasty decisions be damned. You're quicker than him, so why're you tryin' to save him? You're a 'shoot to kill' type of person, and as the bullet grazes past his calf – part of you wishes you had.

Because not only did your bullet not make contact, Joel gets worse. You two lock eyes. His rifle is thrown over his shoulder as he grunts and walks perfectly fine over to you – despite the way his eyebrows knit together, jaw ticked. Was that a grin? Do something, anything – run.

Joel grips the nape of your neck, and you yelp in surprise.

Who the fuck does this man think he is?

His large hand eclipses your wrist as he maneuvers the gun from your hand. The action makes you writhe in pain, and it sends a shiver down your spine to know he's only using an ounce of his power.

You dig your elbow into his ribs despite him stronger than you. Stomping, kicking, punching anything you can find.

"What the fu–"

"Little girl, you picked the wrong one." His breath edges at the shell of your ear, and every sign should be pointing for you to hate this, but it almost feels familiar. Like yourself. It's only then when you worry.

---

You don't realise it, but Joel is pushing you inside his cabin. Keeping your head in direction of the ground, thud of the door heard somewhere behind you.

"You want to be treated like a big girl? Get these fuckin' pants off."

"What... what? No I'm fuckin' not–"

Joel chews up the space between you when he pushes you to the nearest wall. Your back at his chest, a cheek flush against the cabin's support.

Pine, tobacco, and whiskey fill your senses and you bite back the urge to whimper. He wouldn't see you like that.

"You're not? That why you were watchin' me jerk off last night? 'Cuz you don't wanna give it up?"

That alone makes blood creep up your neck and spill over your cheeks. You have to squeeze your legs together to quell the ache.

It was lonely on your own.

Most nights were spent half asleep on a cold, hard surface. Tired and hungry more days than not. You don't remember the last time you got a hot meal, much less been touched. So when you heard Joel's low grunts coming from the window (a window from a cabin you don't know quite yet that he built with his own hands) you become intrigued.

It's in this moment you're certain it must have been the rustling of branches just outside his room. You remember it happening last night, cursing to yourself for making noise. His fist stalled around the girth of his fat cock before spilling his seed over his stomach. As if that is what caused him to come.

It makes sense now, and it equally causes you to become dizzy and filled with rage. You bite your bottom lip, unable to think of a response.

"Mouthy thing ain't got much to say now. Now c'mon. I ain't taking these off you, doin' it y'erself." More of a warning, Joel lets up on his grip on you, but you're defenseless. No weapons, no pack. He's got your world in his hands.

With the newly found space between the two of you, you turn around – back of your head against the wall as your eyes find the other set for, perhaps, the first time. And they're deep. Deeper than you were aware of. Dark, impossibly round. Wrinkles reside on the sides of them, and if you knew any better, you wouldn't admit they were doing something to you.

But not only are you stubborn, you're too forthright to beat around the bush.

"I shot at you, and you want my cunt? You must be lonelier than I a–"

"Now."

Your words don't match your actions as your hands fall by your sides. Fingers play with zipper of your old, faded jeans that have seen better days.

You can't help but snicker an awkward laugh from how he's just watching you. Insecurities rise when you realise you're not laughing at him, but more his eyes on you. How intense it feels suddenly. He wants this. Wants you.

His eyes draw impatiently, broad frame leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed.

"Ain't got all day. Still considerin' your death."

His arms. Bulging through the fabric of his shirt, his body was built in a way that you could tell he worked with his hands... maybe in his past life, too. Throat dry, you shimmy out of your pants until you're left in your cotton panties.

Ones that you are becoming more aware the condition of. A small pool of wetness forming at the core of you clings to the fabric.

"Top, too."

Is that? It is. Your eyes wander down to see the growing bulge in Joel's pants. Not even the hem of his flannel could hide it. Sure, you'd seen it in its full form the night before, but that was with distance and without the heat rising between the two of you.

You bite your lip without hesitation, pulling the layers of jacket and a handful of tops onto the ground until you're bare. The cool air passes over your nipples and wills them into stiff peaks.

"Ain't you somethin', baby."

That's the first time Joel Miller draws a shaky exhale out of you. All from a single sentence.

When Joel steps over to you, that calm and collected breath is nowhere to be found. Your chest rises and falls at a random pattern, feeling more and more naked by the second as his clothes are completely kept on his body. A purposeful tactic.

He bends down to collect your clothes along with everything else that yours, and you are truly at his will. So busy on the precipice of pleasure that you don't even think about trying to get away.

"Stay."

"Ain't a dog." You glare, standing with your legs brushing together.

"Then quit actin' like a bitch. And quit movin', I'm gettin' to you."

It shuts you up quick, jaw snapping shut. You're certain if he told that to anyone else they'd be reduced to tears, but you can take it. It coils a heat inside the pit of your stomach that you've never felt. Causes your clit to feel as if it's on fire from the need to touch it.

Joel turns on his heel to walk away and it's as if you're able to breathe fresh air from the humidity he brings. You notice he's putting your things and his rifle away on his kitchen counter before coming back to you. He must really trust his ability to keep everything out like that.

Then again, have you even moved in the last five minutes?

The last thing he is, is worried.

You're able to look around, if only for a moment. Though, is it really looking? Your adrenaline is pumping, pupils blown from the fact that not only are you in the house you'd been stalking... you're about to fuck the man in it. And you almost tried to kill him. You definitely didn't miss on purpose. Couldn't have.

All the same, the cabin was nice, and you could take in briefly the light wood – old and weathered. A record player in the corner beside a guitar. This stuff could get you a lot in return, but for whatever reason that doesn't even cross your mind. Maybe your heart beating in your ears is a handy distraction to keep you walking the line.

Your eyes track the rugged man instead.

---

"Here's how this is gonna go," he announces, coming back to you and not phased that you haven't moved a muscle. "You are gonna take your ass over there on the couch. You're gonna make me come, then you're gonna go. Understand?"

"Well... I guess it is that easy."

Your bratty mouth getting you in trouble again. As if you're in the position to say anything. Naked as you are.

---

Joel's jaw ticks forward in a way that makes you feel fear, yet there's a direct correlation between it and the slick gathering between your folds. The same wide hand that gripped the nape of your neck wraps around the front of your throat while he pushes you against the wall, and your shoulders slump – all but folding instantly.

His mouth is inches from yours, forcing you to look him in the eyes.

"Listen here. I've been real kind to you. Coulda killed ya day one, tryin' to steal my shit like that. Was gonna be real kind in where I fucked ya, too. Now we're gonna fix that mouth a'yours and fast. Knees. Now." You soon come to know this isn't a suggestion. It's not even a warning. It is what's happening.

It's in the way Joel's hands guide you down onto your knees. He goes for his belt and you hear and see that distinct clang of metal untangle before your very senses. Your mouth waters instantly, teetering into fully giving into this struggle of power.

Joel's hands are calloused. You can tell he takes care of them, but that doesn't hide the wear and tear. Specifically on his fingertips. They grip your jaw roughly, and you choke back a moan as your mouth hangs open pliantly from this. Every nerve ending buzzing to be touched.

"Where'd that bratty girl go, huh? You done bein' big and bad – wanna be a slut, don’tcha?"

Your eyelash splay along your cheeks as you nod, and you feel his grip tighten, tugging your chin up higher.

"Look at me. You want this cock? I need your words. Tell me you wanna be a slut."

You're not sure when it happens, but hot tears run down your cheeks as everything comes to a head. Your body is trembling with raw desire right at your fingertips, just within reach. You can't hold back anymore, it physically hurts to.

"I wanna be a slut for this cock... please."

"Fuck, even a please. Oughta eat you out for that, sugar. Maybe next time."

Your brain is swimming at the thought. Next time?

With his free hand, Joel sets his cock free from his jeans, giving a satisfying smack to his abdomen quickly. No need for another piece of fabric keeping him from getting what he wants as you soon take note he isn't wearing boxers.

There's no denying what you're met with as you get to view it from this close. Joel Miller has a pretty cock. There's a soft, but bulging vein on the underside to match how big and thick it is. The rosy tip greets you, and it's the first time you get to see how much you've turned him on.

Your mouth is drooling while it's pried open and meets the tip of him. A moan from you is instantaneous, yet feels so distant from yourself, it doesn't affect you until much later. The taste of his precum coats your tongue as he slips past your lips and it's all you can experience. Your moans slip in and out of the sloshing sounds of your mouth. Keeping your hands by your sides, you don't tempt to touch him in fear he would pull away, so instead you twirl your tongue around his leaking head. Bob your head up and down in a slow, but sultry rhythm that causes him curse under his breath. He's not stoic above you, he's reacting.

He's clawing for every last bit of the upper hand.

"S'a lot, innit, babygirl? That's alright, you can take it." It's then you can sense Joel's guard slipping. Could be the fact that your mouth is suctioned perfectly around the length of his cock, but his voice gets damn sweeter the longer you go like this. His hips also have no problem in thrusting shallowly every now and then to knock the drool off of your dripping chin.

Even if you could form a thought, you don't know you would.

His fingers tangle in your hair, pulling it out of your face as you maintain eye contact. Intuitive in your approach, he told you to look at him earlier, so maybe he likes it? The groans filling the room lead you to believe you are correct. It feels so removed from who you were moments before: snickering because his gaze felt intimidating. Now, his pupils are blown as they pour into yours and his neck hangs back when your mouth makes those pretty, sloppy popping noises – testing your gag reflexes as you will them to relax.

It's way more intimate than anything you've ever done with anyone you've ever been with, and this stranger is pulling it out of you. Within the mess your brain is in, you remind yourself if you want to stop you can, and not a bit of you does.

The hot tears that were once down your cheeks swell in your eyes once more, but this time from the sheer size of him. You moan vibration after vibration against him, shifting and pushing your cunt against your calf, thigh – anything to feel some sort of friction.

He lets out a growl when he notices you, "Honey, if it's that bad, touch yourself." If your cheeks weren't red before, they are now.

It's him calling you out, slight embarrassingly, but not letting up with his hips. It's the way the embarrassment builds the fire in the pit of your belly. It's your hand pushing inside your panties at the sound of his command. And it's you practically choking on his cock from the gasp you let out through your nose – stunned at how wet you are.

Your fingertips barely brush over your clit when you notice the slick collecting, bubbling right at the very top of your slit and slutty moans fall out of you. Your eyelids droop as you try to keep your gaze up to Joel, but the way your fingertips roll over the hood of your clit in satisfying circles sends you over the edge way quicker than you anticipate.

"Shit, baby. Just like that. You filthy thing, can't hold off another minute longer, can ya? Need it right fuckin' now."

The sound of Joel's deep voice looms overhead as you come completely undone.

Unable to stop yourself, the suction on his cock pops free for a moment. Your moans hitting the air as your eyes roll back. Your body rushing to find each wave of pleasure roll off your back. Joel's cock still nestled in your mouth, but his hips still. "Goddamn, look at that little slut come out. Such a needy fuckin' kitten."

When Joel makes sure you've ridden it out, he pulls his cock from your mouth. Your body feels weak despite how eager your mind is now, face-to-face with Joel's cock, you watch as his scarred hand glides your saliva over his length entirely. It puts you in a trance, quickly getting out of it when he taps his cock against your cheek. "Pretty kitten want this? C'mon."

If your moans felt foreign to you, you don't even know what to do with yourself at the twinge of a grin that spreads on your face. The sheer audacity of his taps right against your fucking cheek. Orgasm-drunk, you shuffle to your feet and Joel has no problem in tossing you – finally – to the couch.

Your back is to him while the front of your body brackets the width of his couch, arms hunched over the back of it, knees dig into the cushions. You're grateful for the lack of eye contact in this position as it gives you a moment to press your face into your bicep, an attempt to collect yourself. But all of it obsolete when you sense Joel's presence at your ass.

His body heat unmistakable to miss. You bite at your own skin, neck craning to behind you to watch him.

"Shit, darlin', look at you. Ass up like this like y'er in fuckin' heat for me." You whine at the fact his clothes are still mostly on, and you know he must be sweating underneath them, but he won't give it to you like that. Not yet, 'maybe next time'. "You know I can't go any further 'til you get a spankin'. Need to be punished for tryin' to hurt me like that. For tryin' to take my things. Ain't right. Need you to learn your lesson."

Where are you? A part of you knows this is a tactic. That Joel is lulling you into a position you can't say no to. It already shows itself in how you're splayed on his couch. Yet, you can't find the person you were before you stepped into the cabin. Not yet, not like this. You nod weakly, and Joel swipes the cotton undies down to your thighs so quickly the rush of air cools the heat of your folds. A flutter runs through you.

"Count. To ten. If you don't, we start over. Say, yes sir."

"Y-yes... sir. Yes sir."

A searing, mind-numbing spank wallops over your ass and it causes your hips to jut forward. Whimper hitting the top of your throat, you almost, almost, forget to count. Everything in your senses distracting you from completing the simplest tasks such as fucking counting.

"O-one." Another. "Twooo." And again. "Th-three!"

You start sniffling by the third smack of his wide hand, and you hear mocking sniffs behind your head. "Aww, pretty baby can't take the hurt she tries to give to others? That must be really tough. Y'heart's bleedin' all over my couch, honey."

Your cheeks burn, you really feel sorry for what you've done. Or at least, what you were planning to do.

The next spank leaves a welt of Joel's handprint across your skin. "FOUR!" Your body begins to feel weak, sliding against the couch, you know talking back is useless as you silent tears stream into your arm.

There are six more blinding slaps to your ass by the time he's done with you, and you feel him pull back when he's through. You imagine him wringing his palms, the roughness of them. You begin to wonder if that's how they got to be so weathered, and pretend not to be weirded out by the ache of jealousy.

"Y'know for somebody whinin' the whole time, your pussy is just droolin' from that," any narrative you wandered off with disappears in its replacement of Joel's fingers gathering slick between your folds. No announcement, just go. It was just within reach, feeling him inside you. You ride the shudder your body makes, licking your lips as you realise the unspoken rule is free and you can speak. "N-need it. Need your cock, please... please." "Need it, and you don't even know my name?" His index and middle finger waste no time in pressing into your aching core. Sounds of your wailing mix with his words as he lurches over, lip close to your ear. "Or maybe you do already."

"Please, please, please," your fingertips grip for the worn fabric of his couch while your hips that try to jut back are quickly halted by his other palm, a strong stopper at the base of your spine. "Not 'til you tell me my name." "I-I don't know. I don't know it, I swear." Joel's thick fingers slip completely out of you and you mewl pathetically, pussy clenching around nothing and he can see every last detail of it behind you. "Last fuckin' time, better tell me the truth." "It's Joel," you cry, hips pushing back against the resistance as much as possible. Anything to be filled again. "Joel. Joel. Joel. I was... I was– I don't know anybody. Not with anybody, I swear! Joel, I swear. Please! Just grew up hearin' your name. I swear on my life, Joel, please! I know I lied, didn't think you'd believe me."

You don't know why you're begging like your life depends on it, but your pleasure surely does, and there's a longer pause than you want lingering behind you. As if you can palpably feel Joel contemplating whether you're being truthful or not. But if there's one thing about you, aside from this moment in this compromising position: you don't answer to anybody.

Joel's cock bottoming out inside of you at the drop of a hat is confirmation enough that he believes you.

And you not only wail, but scream at the stretch and irresistible contact that punches you straight to your gut – right where you can feel the tip of him. Half-moon prints dig into your hips by his short fingernails when he grabs ahold of you and you're on your forearms, head hanging between your shoulders. Your panties keep your thighs straying too far apart if there is such a thing.

"This what you wanted when you watched me?" Joel grips your torso now, pulling you closer to him as you become more upright, his cock more accessible to the spongy spot inside of you and your nipples stand erect, eyes rolling back as it takes all of you not to rest your head back against his shoulder, and you fail. Hard. Your occiput makes contact with his shoulder. Joel brushes your hair back to the side, lips graze but never fully touches the column of your neck. "Thought about this tight cunt last night. Left the window open on purpose, but you knew that already, didn't you, pretty girl? Clever little thing and so fuckin' dirty."

Joel's hand snakes around the front of you, spreading your folds as he dives his fingers over your glossed-over clit your wetness claimed and that sends a whine off of your depraved lips. "That's it, honey. Show me what this cock does to ya. Makes you downright brainless from how well you take it." While his skilled fingers, toy with your clit, the other set of digits graze over your breasts on their way up to your mouth. You take them inside the warmth of your wet mouth easily, rolling your tongue over the digits until you can only focus on the white hot pleasure beginning to boil over. You keep his fingers between your teeth, a faint realisation that you can taste yourself on them. That's what does it.

His hips are relentless as they pound into you, the repetitious slaps of his skin against yours, of his balls tapping your cunt again and again sends you into a place that he knows you're approaching when you tighten and pulse.

"Y'know how tight and wet you feel around me, darlin'? Never had a fuckin' cunt like this. Let it out, let it out, just like you wanna. Just like you did last night around your fingers. Nothin' like this cock though, and you know it now, don't you? Oh, fuck yeah– thaaat's it. Look at you." "Joel... Joel!!!" Joel talks you through it, sending your body diving off the cliff that is your second orgasm. The undeniable gush of your fluids around his cock. His name stays stuck at the your tongue, the constant thud of it vibrates your lungs.

It starts at the attention on your clit. The raw bundle of nerves send signals outward as it spreads down your legs, up your stomach, to your nipples and down your spine. Your brain feels effervescent, toes curl, and it comes back again right to your heart. Your beating heart, wild, and every moan, whimper, scream that comes from you sounds like it is from someone else's chest. But it's yours, and you know that when you start to feel hazy, unable to hold yourself up anymore.

"Good for my cock after all. Ain't ya, baby? Shit."

Your torso leans forward while your cheek rests on the top of your hand that's gripped on Joel's couch, and your body is relaxed and fucked. Comfortably silent, just the way Joel would want you. His cock slips out of you, unable to stop the slew of grunts and groans that acts as an anchor to keep you from slipping under. You lick your lips, looking back at him with a nod, unable to stay silent for long. That struggle of power coming back for vengeance. "That's right. Come all over this ass you ruined. See those handprints? Dirty fucking man, you just met me. Show me how much you enjoyed doing that."

That's as far as you get when you feel the heavy streams of his hot, white come rope over your skin, and for someone who is no position to be smug, you sure do have a shit-eating grin on your face. Pure, and the simplest thing the two of you accomplish.

Joel shakes his head, shallow breaths become him as he staggers back and you pretend not to notice. "Gonna kill me, kid."

"Almost did."

---

You don't know why, but neither of you hold the promise of you leaving right away. You linger, both of you half naked and spent. You take your time cleaning yourself off, slipping your clothes back on. Day becoming night.

You tiptoe into the living room where Joel is unfurled on his couch. His eyes are closed, the back of his head inches away from where the two of you just had sex.

Planning your goodbye, you sit at the edge of the couch cushion, knowing he wasn't really asleep. Just restin' his eyes.

"I am sorry...," you finally say into the dimly lit room, pangs of annoyance fizz at your tongue for even apologising. For shooting him, for trying to steal from him. All of it.

It's not his fault. It's just how you are.

This is dichotomous in relation to your eyes. They're bleary when a yawn pulls deep from within you. As if rest had been climbing up to the surface this entire time.

"Maybe you should be apologisin' 'bout your shitty aim. Could teach you a thing or two." Joel's eyes remained closed, arms crossed. If you could let yourself experience this, you would notice how soft he looks in this moment. Instead, your stomach is recoils in fight or flight.

You're glad he can't see you swallow the knot in your throat.

There was no magical solution for your life, and a part of you wishes you hadn't chosen his cabin to raid. You wish you hadn't met him, because now you could feel yourself want to notice the small things in him. Already.

You felt it dangerous to let anything that close to you.

You scoff to play it off, giving his chest a light shove and very accidentally getting lost in the light landscape of hairs that resides at the top of his flannel. "I could teach you a thing or two." A pathetic response for a pathetically spent human.

"We could both teach each other," he resigns and you're grateful he doesn't point out your lack of wit for how worn out he's made you. Perhaps the smugness settles in the things he doesn't say. Really, it's in what Joel spouts off next that throws you upside down.

"S'why you should stay. One month. That's it."

"Excuse me?"

"Didn't stuttered," your eyes roll and somehow, despite Joel's own being shut, he tuts his teeth. "Don't roll your eyes at me, little girl. You need a place to sleep. Besides, I could use an extra set of hands. Way I see it, best offer you've had in a while. Got a shelf life, though. Don't like to wait."

A part of you is suspicious, and if this man didn't make sure you orgasmed twice, you would suspect yourself to be dead within a matter of minutes.

There's something true about him, though. You're unwilling to look at it directly, but you trust him.

"Fine."

"Gonna need clearer confirmation, darlin'. Really need you to want this if you're gonna stay with me." He knew exactly where to press.

"Fuck, I shoulda killed you when I had the chance. I want to stay with you. One month." You try to ignore the grit between your teeth as speak, but your shoulders eventually soften. And you really do mean it. It's just... you're hardened from years of misplaced trust.

Your hand goes to the pendant around your neck subconsciously.

Joel either doesn't notice, or gives you the space.

You're grateful either way.

"That's that, then."

If anyone could understand the concept, it's Joel.

"That's that."

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller smut #joel miller #tlou fic #by bee #dancing is a dangerous game

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delopsia · 4 months

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Ok so I’m assuming Rhett is 30 ish because Lewis is 30 (almost 31 in like a month) but like Rhett with reader who is younger than him by a good number of years (reader being 23 at youngest probably) what’s the relationship like? Was he super reluctant at first because of the gap? How do we meet him? How does the family feel? What if he’s her first “real” boyfriend? How would he react to reader asking him to take their v card?

When I tell you that this has been stuck in my head since you sent me this, oh my GOD. I've been meaning to write this concept with Rhett and Bobby for over a year and keep forgetting to 🤤 I got a little carried away. Hope y'all don't mind 🤍

Canonically, Rhett is twenty-four, but I think we as a collective have chosen to ignore that 💃 here's my proof post on that, if you're curious 💕 TLDR: Rhett was born June 12th, 1996, and OR S1 takes place in November 2020

For the sake of this post, I'll just leave it and say he's noticeably older than the reader ✨ I don't want to set a specific age for him and accidentally exclude someone :(

I like to view an older version of Rhett as someone who's still into the rodeos; he's gotten up there in the bull riding ranks, and though he's a year or two away from aging out of it, he's still up there kicking ass when you first encounter him. It's your first time coming to this rodeo, and you're not sure what to think when you see him leaned up against the fence in that quiet, rugged glory so many cowboys seem to carry. Older than the rest of the riders, so jaded by buckle bunnies that he hardly notices the ones trying to get his attention.

The first time you walk past him, he lifts the corner of his lip and nods his head toward you as if to say hello. Some simple little thing that gets you smiling, hoping to high heaven that your friends don't notice the sudden weakness in your knees. Three Sundays in a row, you go to the rodeo with your friends, and three Sundays in a row, you walk past him on your way to the food trucks. Three Sundays in a row, he smiles and nods his head at you.

You think he's just being nice.

Rhett just thinks you're hot.

But he's too tired of entertaining relationships with folks who only want him for what lurks beneath his championship buckle and to tell all their friends they fucked a real cowboy. It was fun when he was younger, but after a while, like most things, it gets old.

So when he sees you at the bar after a rodeo one night, he doesn't think too much about it. Sneaks a few glances at you out the corner of his eye, sure, quietly wondering how pretty his name would sound coming out of your mouth, but that's it.

Until some hotshot decides that he's going to give you hell while your friends are in the bathroom. And Rhett's within the perfect earshot to get rightfully pissed off. He's not particularly one to get into someone else's business, but he's also not too fond of this whole "badger someone 'till they give what you want" technique the younger boys have been employing recently.

"'s this guy botherin' ya?" He asks, in that gravelly voice, his elbow propping against the bar, speaking to you but his eyes never once leaving the steer wrestler giving you trouble. He's got a history with this kid; this isn't their first confrontation.

Of course, you don't know that when the younger man goes nose-to-nose with Rhett. But oh, if it doesn't make you the slightest bit dizzy when Rhett's jaw hardens at your meek 'yes.'

He only means to scare the guy off and go back to watching his buddy eat shit at the pool table, but your friends are taking forever to come back, and he's found himself offering to sit with you until they do. You're asking his name, and he's ashamed to admit that his heart jumps at the sound of his name on your tongue.

You don't seem to care all that much about the age difference, and Rhett's got no reason to be concerned; your age doesn't end in 'teen,' and you can legally drink, but he's found himself a touch hesitant to flirt with you. Isn't all that fond of breaking his heart over another sweetheart who stumbled into Wabang.

But you just keep running into each other. You're in line with him at a food truck; he sees you at a rodeo bonfire and chats you up until your friends are begging to head home. He's given you his number, and he's catching himself looking for you at the end of his rides.

And then he's busting his left shoulder after a ride, and somehow, he's found himself outside of the ambulance, being backed up against a wall as you kiss him hard on the mouth. It's the first kiss he's had in years, and your hands on his big chest are the sweetest thing he's ever felt. It's everything, and it takes every ounce of his will to draw your hand off of his belt buckle.

"Y' don't wanna do that," his whispered warning drips off his tongue like honey, and oh do you want a taste, "'m 'fraid if I let ya have me, I might follow ya 'round for the rest of my life."

He really doesn't know what to do when you smile and ask, "But what if that's what I want?"

How he survived that, he doesn't know. But a kiss-filled conversation ends in him agreeing to take you on a real, proper date. He takes you to Odessa's diner for lunch, pulls your chair out for you, and never lets you touch a door, and he gets along with you so well. It helps a lot that he's been on a funky little life path that has given him many of the same experiences as you. There's an age gap, sure, but his stage of life isn't too different from your own. Especially because he was a bit of a late bloomer with this whole 'adult' thing. The perks of being emotionally stunted by Royal...

Rhett doesn't differ that much if he's your first boyfriend; he's sickeningly sweet, regardless. No amount of experience or inexperience will stop him from going all out on you; if there's one thing his momma did, it was raise him right. You might as well be royalty. That being said, he's happy to take the lead (or give it up) depending on your experience level.

The relationship isn't all that different from how it would be if he was your age. There are some generational references that take time to understand, and Rhett's age shows the most when you try teaching him to use Instagram, but that's a given. He's a little bit smug when you're with him in public, especially at rodeos. He knows he's struck gold, and he intends to show you off as much as you're comfortable with. Protective, too. Those bull riders know better than to linger and try their luck with you. More times than you can count, you've overheard the whispered warning, "That one's Rhett's."

Rolls his eyes when you (affectionately) call him old man...

To be fair, Rhett does try to wait until a few weeks into your relationship to start getting intimate; he wants to take things slow with you, but then you're cupping him through his jeans, and he's breathless as you massage him through the fabric. And when you sit in his lap, wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, and grind your ass down into him? He's a goner.

If you're a virgin, then he's extra careful with you. Takes some more time to draw your clothes off, slow as he kisses down your belly until he can run his tongue up your sweet little pussy. But he's obscene about it, regardless. Groaning around your clit, letting you yank on his hair all you need. Frustrates you to no end because you're trying so hard to get him to fuck you, and all he wants to do is eat you out. Four times. Four times, you rile him up, and the most progress you make is getting his jeans off. He doesn't mean to upset you, he's just a whore for giving oral.

Until that one time at the bar when you hauled him into a bathroom stall, dropped to your knees, and wrapped your mouth around him before he could get under your skin.

That got him. You couldn't take all of him, gagging every time his plush tip hit the back of your throat, but his knees were shaking. Moans muffled by the palm of his hand. Trying his best to pull you off when he came and damn near hit the floor when you instead chose to swallow him down.

Again, if you're a virgin, then there isn't a huge difference in how he treats you when he takes your virginity. Not out of impatience or anything of the sort, but it's your first time together. He's going to treat you like a virgin regardless. Overusing the lube as he introduces you to a thick, calloused finger, watching your reaction for the slightest hint of pain. "'s this hurt? No? You sure?"

Annoyingly pushes the tip of his cock against you, then lets it slide through your folds, obsessed with the sight of it. But just as you're going to complain, he finally nudges inside, and it silences you completely.

If there is one thing about Rhett Abbott, it's that he's huge in more ways than one. Splitting you open in all the right ways, big hands stroking up and down your skin, whispering the filthiest things into your ears. "Think 'm almost too big for your lil pussy, angel." "Shhh, we'll make it fit. Jus' relax 'round me." "'s that feel good, sweetheart? Y' like bein' stretched 'round my cock like that?"

He ruins you either way. You never pegged yourself to be this insatiable, riding him in his truck, fucking him outside the bar, in bathroom stalls, cheap hotel rooms, bending over the hood of his truck while he had a flat tire. It's not your fault; Rhett's just that damn good, and he's somehow able to match you entirely. Rolls his eyes a little, sure, but he's just doing that to annoy you. "This old man fucks you that good, hm? Cute little pussy ain't satisfied 'till I pump it nice 'n full of my cum?"

Sometimes, he tells you he's too tired for sex and then turns around and pounces on you because he heard you whimper once and had a second burst of energy.

Which...is how your relationship gets found out. He's left a mark on your collar, and at some point, you bend down to pick up a fork you dropped, and it gets noticed. So you either got in a fight with a vacuum cleaner and lost, or you have a little someone.

The worst part is telling everyone how old he is. Rhett's got this funny charm where he looks younger than he actually is, and it nearly makes someone choke at the dinner table. And Rhett's not the best with people, but he's quick to make a good impression. He's like a fine wine; he's gotten better as he's aged.

You'll likely never meet Rhett's family, and if you do, it's a handful of times for no longer than two hours. After Rhett moved out, there's been tension every time he sees his folks. He was supposed to stay and spend his life helping the ranch, to honor his family loyalties, not run off and find love in someone else. Cecelia's sweet, doesn't say anything about the age gap, so long as you're both happy. Royal...you don't know what he said, but you had to grab Rhett by the belt to reign him in.

All that being said, Rhett's a sweetheart to you, regardless of your age gap. There are some differences that wouldn't be there if he was your age, but he's keen to work on those things together. Rhett doesn't fall in love often, but when he does, he falls hard, and he's going to give you the world. Even if you do call him old man every now and then.

Like I said...I got carried away

#rhett abbott #rhett abbott x reader #delgato's asks

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norrisleclercf1 · 1 year

Text

Wrong Team, Right Person

Pairing: Carlos x TotoWolf!Daughter

Warnings: None, messy first date, Carlos is a mess, age gap

Rating: PG

You never once thought you'd be sitting in this kitchen. Of course, thinking it sounds almost like it was against your will, but it wasn't. Looking back, you knew it was crazy to try to hide from your father when this all first started, but you were young, only 22, when you first met your husband.

Your feet touch the warm dark walnut floor heading to the patio as you watch the sunrise. With a slight giggle, you recall the first time you watched this sunset. You snuck out of your hotel room after your first date together, meeting him at the secluded beach, sitting on the blanket he laid for you.

It still makes you feel like that young 20-year-old who was very impressed by the gorgeous F1 driver. It did help the sexiness of him being your father’s rival. Resting your head back on the rocking chair, your body shivers from the slight ocean breeze but more so from the body that was now hovering behind you.

“After all these years you should know not to sneak up on me.” You mumble into your coffee mug as that deep chuckle brushes your ears.

“Sorry, mi alma, I woke and didn't feel you next to me and didn't like that.” He mumbles, sitting down in the rocking chair next to yours.

You huff a laugh and look into those whirls of sun and walnut in his eyes, setting the cup down.

“Do you ever think about how we met?” Watching the mix of emotions on his face, the love, happiness, anxiety.

“Yes, your father hates me.” He grumbles swiping your coffee taking a sip as you adjust your husband opening his arms to you. Getting comfortable on his lap, you both watch the sunrise.

“He doesn't hate you, maybe.....” You stop seeing the look on his face making you both laugh as his grip on you tightens.

“I drive for Ferrari; we're lucky it wasn't Red Bull that would have sent him to an early grave.” He grumbles in your hair as you smile at the memory.

“Oh yes, the Spanish heartthrob with the sex hair, who wears red.” You laugh as Carlos’s fingers run over your stomach, making you laugh.

“God, I still remember when you crashed that meeting.” Carlos kisses your neck as you grow quiet, thinking about that day 10 years ago.

“Oh, God, I’m late, fuck I’m late Dad going to kill me.” You rush through the paddocks heading to the main building for the meeting.

Being Toto Wolf’s daughter, you were held to specific standards especially being the head of Engineering at Mercedes. You rush to the door and throw it open but grind to a halt seeing every driver and director of the teams in the meeting.

“Y/N, something wrong?” Your father asks, standing up fast, seeing your frantic state.

Listen, you were good at thinking on your feet, and of course, now it dawns on you that your meeting wasn't till the evening.

“Fuck, im sorry, but yes, yeah, I need to speak to you.” You gasped in a way since you ran throughout the entire paddock.

“Excuse me, everyone,” Toto mumbles, ushering you out of the room but not before you look up, locking eyes with Carlos Sainz and turning into a tomato.

“Shit, Papa, I thought our meeting was this morning, and I was late; I’m sorry.” You grumble, making it look like something is wrong since everyone can see you both; just your luck; you didn't look up to know that you could've looked up to see who was in the meeting.

“Esh, Y/n, it's fine, but really?” He asks, pushing hair out of your face and making you slap his hand slightly and fix it yourself.

“Sorry, I was up late going over the engine and how to push it, but not to much to hurt it.” You grumble throwing your hands up making your Papa shake his head.

“We’ll talk later, but take the night off honestly; you need it.” He whispers before heading back into the meeting.

Turning slightly, you notice that the 2nd Ferrari driver is still watching you with this look that makes you anxious, but in a way that goes to a specific part of your body as you rush away from the meeting room.

You don't know why you did it, but you grab your stuff and hunker down in front of the Mercedes motor home enjoying the warm Spanish sun. It was the week of the Spanish Grand Prix, and you were here at Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya, a gorgeous track with a city to match. You didn't pay much attention to Lewis or Geroge, that say hello to you, but you make a noise, and they shake their heads, moving inside.

“You’re not too hot?” A voice asks, making you freeze, knowing that accent. Turning your head, you see Carlos Sainz standing next to Charles, Lando, and Daniel, the pairs heading to their motorhomes.

“Excuse me?” A slight bite to your reply made Daniel smirk. Daniel was one of the first drivers to get to know you when you were a simple engineer intern and forced you to become friends with him.

“The Spanish sun gets scorching, im shocked you can withstand it.” Carlos comments, a confused look is crossing his face making Daniel and the other two snort slightly.

“I think what Carlos means, Little Wolf, is that you've been out here since you left the meeting, and he's wondering how you didn't notice you were sweating,” Daniel explains, which has you finally regained awareness of how you felt.

“Oh, you're right; I got lost in my work and didn't even notice,” Daniel smirks, and you notice the slight nudge he gives Carlos.

“Come get a drink with us,” Carlos demands as Charles's eyes narrow at his teammate.

“Y/n, why don't you join us for food and drinks? It's hot out, and you look like you could use it; come on, im sure Mercedes can afford to let you go.” Charles counters, making you smile slightly at them.

“Sure, but Papa can't know.” You give them a pointed look which makes them all nod as you gather up your stuff and sit inside without being noticed. You turn and look down at your outfit, wearing a pantsuit, and shake your head.

Taking off your jacket, you show off the plunging V tank top, and changing from heels to flat opentoed sandals, pulling your hair into a messy bun you walk out and move next to the boys.

“Ready?” You ask drawing their attention to you noticing the way 3 of them ere staring at Carlos who’s eyes you soaking you in.

“Yes.” Carlos answers, not even thinking when he grabs your hand and pulls you next to him as you walk through the paddock.

Carlos spoke to you about the city as it wasn't a long walk to the city, showing it to you, even explaining the history of it all. You ask questions, not even noticing the way the other three back off as Carlos brings you all to a local restaurant.

“I love it here; you can see the ocean and the people. It's wonderful.” Carlos smiles, full of pride for his country and his love of it.

“I don't get to explore often, but.....Barcelona is my favorite so far.” Not even looking at the view but starting at Carlos, who turns and smiles at you, but a slight blush on both your cheeks.

“Let's eat, im starving.” Land whines breaking the moment and making Daniel grumble something in Lando’s ear, who whispers back.

“I don't know what to order.” You say out loud not knowing why you said it for everyone to hear.

Carlos smiles and looks over the menus and turns to the waitress, who orders in Spanish; the others are not bothered by it, as they don't even look over the menu.

“We let him order, no point; he knows what we all like,” Charles explains, grabbing your menu to hand to the waitress.

You want to question how Carlos knows what you like, but you don't, just enjoying your time. The food comes being explained that there was Jámon, olives, olive oil, a garlic spread, thin pieces of bread, paella, a very famous dish in Spain, and other things on the table.

Food and laughs are passed around you, five trading stories and even some drinks, but you don't get too much having to go to a meeting soon. Carlos can't help but stare at you; he’s been watching you for a couple of months now. The way you fit in with his friends, embracing the city and food, he couldn't help but fall deeper for you.

He would've asked you months ago, but when he found out that Toto was your father, he backed down and even stayed away when Toto found out about his feelings for you. The age gap didn't help, but Toto didn't care for that, it was more so for who Carlos drove for.

He was enamored with you, the way youhow your hair shined in the sun, how you watched the people and looked....relaxed. This was the first time he saw you truly relaxed, and he loved it. Honestly, he craved for you to look this simple around him, to know he could take away the stress from you without you even noticing.

“Shit, I’m late.” You gasp, looking at your watch, bringing Carlos out of his thoughts and looking at you confused.

“What do you mean? Stay.” Carlos grabs your hand, stopping you from getting up as you stare at him.

“I can't; I have a head of engineering meeting, and I have to go.” You explain, trying to get up again, but Carlos stands.

“Fine, I’ll walk with you then.” He grumbles and lays down some money to pay for the dinner, and follows your quick walk back to the track.

“Y/n.” Carlos reaches for you, but you move faster than he grabs you and groans in frustration.

“Y/n.” Carlos stops you making you falter as you stare up at him.

“Today.....I wanted this to be a date, but I couldn't exactly ask you, and now you're running off for work and feel like this is a complete disaster, and now im rambling this out of the blue.” Carlos groans, pulling his hair as he rambles into Spanish.

“Carlos, I would've said yes. If you asked.” You mumble, making the Spaniard freeze and look at you with a smile growing on his lips.

“I know Papa told you to stay away from me, but I was shocked you listened to him.” You smile, and Carlos groans, shaking his head.

“I don't know how to do this with you; normally, it's easy, but I become a mess with you.” Carlos laughs, making you laugh.

“Okay, I still have that meeting to get to.” You laugh, starting to walk again, but Carlos stops you.

“Meet me here at 5 in the morning; I want to show you something.” He whispers and kisses your cheek before you both part ways.

You couldn't pay attention throughout the meeting and barely slept until the alarm went off, letting you know it was time to meet with Carlos. Getting dressed in sweats and a t-shirt, you slip on your tennis shoes and drop out of your hotel room, being careful not to run into anyone as you smile stupidly.

Rushing to the area, you see Carlos, who stands straight and swoops you up into a hug holding you close, and pulls away. “Come, I want to show the best view.” He whispers, kissing you on the forehead, and pulls you toward the beach.

You both walk talking about anything and everything as the beach gets closer Carlos walks closer to the ocean and stops laying out a blanket and helps you sit down. Carlos moves and sits behind you having you lean against his chest.

“It doesn't bother me.” You whisper making Carlos hum feeling his head move to look down at you his chin now resting on your shoulder.

“The age gap, it doesn't bother me.” You giggle, making Carlos huff and kiss your neck. “I’m not that old.” He grumbles, making you smile, pulling his arms tighter around you. “I'm not going to wear red.” You mumble, making him laugh as you both fall back into a comfortable silence watching the gorgeous sunrise.

“Honestly, it really was a bad first date.” You laugh with you husband who shakes his head knowing it was pathetic. But he made up for it later in Monaco with a fantastic date.

“Yes, yes, Charles and Lando still make fun of me for it after all these years,” Carlos whispers but stops hearing the familiar pounding of the floor.

“Incoming.” He warns as two small bodies come running out on the patio.

“Mama! Papa!” The little voices yell as they crush you and your husband, trying to sit on your lap. You smile down at your little boys as they talk to your husband, still trying to get comfortable. Carlos tells them to calm down, but you smile, pulling them close to you.

Carlos might have been from the wrong team, but damn, was he the right person.

#f1 #f1 x reader #f1 x y/n #formula 1 #f1 fandom #f1 imagine #f1 2022 #f1 scenario #formula one #carlos sainz x you #carlos sainz jr x reader #carlos sainz 55 #carlos sainz jr imagine #carlos sainz one shot #carlos sainz jr

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redpenship · 6 months

Text

an: a little fic i wrote in a couple of hours about sonic having terrible hedgehog eyesight <3 (1.6k words)

Sonic can’t see very well.

There’s a lot about the hedgehog that Tails doesn’t know. He doesn’t know Sonic’s birthday, where he comes from, why he doesn’t like to talk . . . his new friend is a big mystery to him, and one that would apparently prefer to remain unsolved, at that.

One thing he does know, however, is that Sonic has very poor eyesight.

Of course, Sonic has never directly revealed this to him. His weak vision has simply become increasingly obvious over the course of their short two months of friendship.

Tails curled up for a nap on their shared blanket around half an hour ago, but despite his growing body’s need for rest, he can’t fall asleep just yet. He’s too busy watching Sonic through the gaps in his tail fur, which he has placed over his snout to conceal his face while he ‘napped’. It’s probably wrong to look at people without them knowing, but he’s too intrigued by Sonic’s bizarre actions to look away.

A few minutes ago, Sonic had put down their pack of matches on a stump in front of him while he opened the canteen to take a sip of water. After putting down the water, he’d looked back up and apparently, in such a short span of time, lost the pack of matches needed to light the fire. He’s been searching since then, notably patting down his surroundings with his hands in lieu of conducting a visual sweep of the area. If anything, it almost seems like he doesn’t trust his vision at all.

It doesn’t take much longer for Sonic to find the matches. He turns the once-missing box over in front of his eyes, a hard expression on his face. Is he upset?

Suddenly, Sonic stiffens in place. His right ear swivels towards Tails, and the young fox knows he’s been found out even before Sonic’s head can follow through on the movement.

They meet eyes through Tails’ fur. Sonic frowns, blinks once, twice, and then turns back to the fire pit.

He avoids Tails for the rest of the night. Tails learns something important that day: Sonic knows he has bad eyesight, and he doesn’t like it when other people know about it too.

Quietly, to himself, Tails swears to pretend he never saw anything. If Sonic doesn't want him to know that he can't see very well, then he'll just act like he never figured it out in the first place.

Sonic's eyesight goes unacknowledged for a whole year, until there’s a storm bad enough to ground the Tornado on Angel Island during what was supposed to be a brief trip to visit Knuckles. The storm winds up passing not too long after sundown, and the clear skies reveal light years of stars and constellations above where they’re resting in the grass.

“The three dots are called Orion’s Belt,” Tails says, pointing to the sky in an effort to guide Knuckles’ gaze to said constellation. “Do you see it?”

Knuckles squints. After a moment, he nods. “Yes, I do.”

They take turns pointing out different stars to each other. Tails is having fun until he remembers the hedgehog sitting beside him.

He glances over. Sonic is staring at the night sky with that same hard expression from the time he lost the matches, lips turned down into a scowl. He isn’t happy at all.

It dawns on Tails for the first time that he might not be capable of seeing the stars. Thinking back, he can’t recall many times Sonic has actually looked up at the sky. His gaze is usually set straight ahead, focused only on what is right in front of him. It does not wander because there is not much else it can see.

“Hey, hedgehog,” Knuckles begins, pulling both Sonic and Tails’ attention towards him. “Are you going to help, or are you just going to sit there and do nothing?”��

Sonic’s jaw tenses. He snaps his head away from Knuckles, staring straight ahead at nothing instead. “I’m going to sit here and do nothing, thanks.”

Knuckles smirks. “Why? Do you not know any?”

It’s the wrong thing to joke about. Sharply, Sonic says, “No, I don’t know any.”

In a flash, he’s on his feet at the other side of the meadow. Knuckles rolls his eyes and accuses him of melodrama, but Tails stops listening as he watches Sonic disappear into the woods at the edge of the grass. A rock as big as the Master Emerald has settled in his stomach. He wants to follow him and try to make things better, but knowing Sonic, that would only make things worse . . .

Tails sleeps in the meadow. He doesn’t see Sonic until the next morning, where he largely avoids talking to both Tails and Knuckles until it’s time to go.

Sonic’s eyesight does not impair his ability to forage. His nose twitches continuously while he looks through he forest for food, leading Tails to believe that his sense of smell and hearing carry the bulk of this spatial awareness.

They help him fight badniks, too. Eggman’s machines are loud and smell like metal and oil. During a raid on one of the doctor’s bases, Tails puts this theory to the test by closing his eyes and trying to detect the objects around him.

It works. Even without his sight, he’s able to keep track of nearby badniks pretty well. Sonic isn’t blind, per se, but it becomes evermore clear to Tails that Sonic’s resistance against Eggman would be much more challenging if he didn’t have his other senses to fall back on.

The issue, today, is that those senses have been taken out by an explosion.

It had started as a standard attack on an empire base. As they’d approached the last room in the base, neither of them had noticed the razor-thin tripwire stretched across entryway.

There had been no time to escape. Before Tails could blink, a fiery force knocked him off his feet and slammed him against a metal wall.

His head hurts. He moves to get up, but comes to a stop when he notices a shrill ringing noise overtaking his hearing. The rest of the world is muffled, as though his head were underwater.

If he can’t hear, then Sonic probably can’t, either . . .

That thought is enough motivation for him to slowly rise to his feet. He can’t see Sonic through all the smoke, so he tries to sniff him out to no avail. The excessive smoke is blocking his sense of smell, too.

His heart skips a beat. He needs to find Sonic and get him out of the base before Eggman’s badniks launch their counterattack—without his additional senses to guide him, Sonic has no chance of defending himself.

Tails stumbles around the room, calling out Sonic’s name as he climbs over rubble despite knowing the futility of communicating with sound right now. The chaos of the scene around him is making him desperate. He knows a single explosion isn’t enough to kill Sonic, but the pain in his skull is sharp enough to stunt his logical reasoning and he struggles to resist the anxiety trying to pull him towards his darkest thoughts. There’s always a chance, after all, that Eggman has already arrived with his badnik forces and Tails just can’t hear or smell where they’re fighting Sonic . . .

Eventually, he finds the hedgehog on the other side of the room. A small army of badniks have entered through a recently-blasted hole in the wall. Sonic has not taken notice of them, back to the horde as he digs through a pile of rubble nearby.

One of the buzz bombers is charging a shot. It makes the pain in his head spike almost unbearably, but Tails manages to spin his tails for a boost and tackle Sonic out of the way just before the beam could release from the bee’s stinger. The shot rang out beside them, making contact with the wall instead.

Tails fell on top of Sonic during the tackle, so he quickly scrambles off and turns to face the badniks. They’re charging more shots, and it looks like the Motobugs are going to start moving any second. Tails has to get them out of here now.

He looks back down, ready to pull Sonic to his feet, but stalls for a brief moment when he registers the look on Sonic’s face. There is no hard, bitter expression this time—he just looks terrified. His ears are pinned back against his head, and his eyes dart every which way in desperation to get a grasp on his surroundings. His quills are flared up in a way Tails has never seen before, sharp and poking in all directions to maximize their protective properties. In all their time together, he’s never once witnessed Sonic appear to openly vulnerable and helpless.

He has no desire to prolong Sonic’s suffering. Tails pulls him to his feet, keeping a paw in Sonic’s own so they won’t lose each other. Then, as fast he can without using his tails, he leads them out of the base through the hole the badniks made in the wall.

Tails refuses to stop until knows they aren’t being followed anymore. They stop next to a small stream, where they’re able to wash the soot out of their fur and rest until they’ve recovered enough to begin the trek back to the Tornado and head back to the workshop.

It doesn’t take too long. A couple hours later, Sonic breaks the silence. “Okay, the ringing is gone. I can hear again.”

Tails stares at him for a long time. Sonic squints a little while he looks back at him, and this action is enough to finally make Tails break his promise.

“Sonic, I think you need glasses.”

#sonic the hedgehog #miles tails prower #get this guy some fucking contacts please #redposts #my fics

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sinsandsweetness · 7 months

Note

i have stepdad!rick brainrot rn, i’d love one where he punishes the reader for being out past curfew, rick sitting by the door watching another boy drop her off

i’m so excited to see where you go with this omg <33

cw- stepdad!rick, dub con? kinda toxic tbh but… it’s fictional so… all for funsies <3 oh and um… not proofread (is it ever anymore?)

The porch light is on and you know you’re screwed. Walking up the creaky steps to the front door and gently turning the handle. Your stepdads figure, standing at the counter sorting some papers. He glances over at the sound of the door latching behind you.

“Nice of you to finally show up,” His gaze goes back to the stack of papers he’s sorting.

You place your bag on the stool next to him and go for the fridge. Grabbing a glass of water and taking a sip before answering.

“We lost track of time, I didn’t mean to-“

“It’s 1 in the morning. Curfew is 11.”

“I’m an adult. I don’t have a curfew that’s ridiculous.” You almost laugh.

“You live under my roof don’t you?”

He’s fully focused on you now. Standing there. No papers in hand.

You want to scowl back. But you’re already in trouble. And being a brat won’t help your situation. Not when Rick is already coming in at you. Backing you into the corner cabinet. Your ass hitting the cool marble as he approaches. Cornered.

“Answer.” He demands. Annoyed. No. Angry.

“Yes. I do.” You day through a clenched teeth. He’s still in his work clothes. The police uniform that Deanna gave him way back when they first arrived here. When he first met your mom. When he first took notice of you.

“Who were you with?”

“A friend.”

He breaths out what you assume is a laugh. An unimpressed huff of air and the smallest hint of a smirk pulling at his lips.

“A friend, hm. Don’t know many friends that touch eachother like that.”

He must have seen you. Watched the boy drop you off from his spot on his chair under the living room window. Watched you kiss the boy goodbye after he opened the car door for you. No doubt catching the way his hand grabbed your ass when he pulled you in for another.

Though Rick seems exceptionally calm if he had seen.

“I’m sorry.” It’s not sincere. And Rick can hear it too.

“About the boy? Or about being out past curfew. Curfew that’s been set in place for all of Alexandria by the way. Not just you.”

“Since when?” This is news to you.

“Since one of your friends fucked up and got three of our people killed.”

There was an incident. A recent one. Only a few days ago actually. Some pretty heavy drinking was involved. Shitty decisions were made and it cost the community three precious lives. An open gate in this world will do that.

“I didn’t realize. No one told me.” You’re telling the truth. He must sense it because his jaw relaxes slightly.

But he moves in even closer. If that was possible. You feel trapped. A heavy weight pulling you further into the counter space between his hands. Ricks strong arms framing your entrapment.

“You missed the meeting,” he leans in, though it doesn’t feel particularly intimate. More intimidating than anything. “I wondered why that was. Wouldn’t have to do with some… friend would it?”

You shake your head. Your heartbeat is off the walls and you want him to close the gap between you so desperately. You want him to bend his own house rules and make a fucking mess out of you right here on the counter. Right here in the kitchen where your mother could walk in at any moment.

Right where he refuses to touch you out of his own moral agenda. Outside it didn’t matter. But in this house, touching you was rare.

He’s so close it hurts. His nose almost brushing your cheek. The stubble on his jaw scratches your cheek as he moves to whisper in your ear. Lips so warm against your ear. Brushing the gold metal hanging from your lobe.

“I don’t believe you.”

His voice is quiet. Soft and deep. But It makes you shiver as if he’s just yelled at you.

“I-I…“

“Shhh,” he cuts you off. He’s smirking against your cheek. Though nothing about his demeanour is funny. You’re in trouble. That’s all you know.

“You broke the rules. And you lied to me-“

“I’m sorry-“

“Sweetheart, if you interrupt me one more time, your ass is gonna be sore for a week.”

You gulp. Fuck. Ok.

“You’re not getting away with just a slap on the wrist this time. Not tonight, baby.”

He kisses your lips. Gentle and warm. And you’re more than eager to kiss him back. To make it up to him. Anything. Everything. All for him.

It’s not like the boy from outside means anything. He’s nothing compared to the man you live with. The one that sleeps down the hall from you every night. Tempting you with just the smell of his skin and the blue in his eyes.

Your arms wrap around his neck to pull him in close.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper against his mouth between kisses. Muffled and faded into the moans that can’t seem to stay put.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it this time, sweetheart.”

You tug on his hair. Hoping he’ll just let you give him your body as a form of repentance. But it won’t be enough. He needs to punish you himself. To show you some real discipline.

“What are you gonna do?” You ask finally, pulling away for a moment. Just for show really. Giving your most innocent doe eyed act in hopes of even a smidge of pity from the officer.

He doesn’t buy it for a second.

He smiles and your heart skips a beat. You know by the look on his face that you’re in for a night. A week. Maybe longer.

You realize quickly that it isn’t a matter of what he was going to do to you. It was a matter of what he would refuse to do to you. No matter how hard you begged.

And judging by the arousal already seeping through your panties, he’d have you begging on your knees in no time.

—

taglist- @rickswh0r3 @elnyrae @catt-leya @miinbun @ankhmutes @eternalrose81 @cl0wnb0yyy @grimesthinker @whatthefuuuck @olive3oil @taylormarieee @virtualreader @lust4lovee @fanngirl19 @movidita @cavillsgirl105 @dylanisstilladumbass @dixonslvr @aangelbabysworld @raininhell @gvf23 @iamacowboi @dqllgarden

(lmk if I missed you or if you no longer want to be tagged)

#Rick x reader #stepdad!rick x reader #Rick grimes x reader #Rick grimes x you #rick grimes x y/n #Rick x you #rick x y/n #rick x fem!reader #twd smut #rick grimes smut #stepdad!rick #Rick daydream

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youvebeenlivingfictional · 1 year

Note

Hey! I was thinking about the other half and...

Bruce has saved her a couple of times now. What happens when he gets injured and she saves him and then takes care of him?

Previous Part | Masterlist | Next Part

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader

Length: 3.5K

Warnings: Angst; canon-typical violence; not beta-read; use of a needle (to administer a shot); ends in fluff (kinda. well, you'll see)

“How was the interview?”

“Fine, I guess.”

“...Actually fine, or are you just telling me that to get me off your back?”

You shoot Bruce a guilty smile where he’s standing beside you at the counter, relieved as his own smile widens.

“Actually fine,” You insist. “It was okay. A little intimidating, but not awful.”

“If you want me to do some leaning—”

“No leaning!” You insist as he holds his hands up in surrender. You sigh. “If I get this job, I want it on my own merit, not because the boss asked them to give it to me.”

“I understand, baby,” He soothes. You nod a little, looking down at your drink as Alfred unpacks the takeout that you’d ordered. The interview honestly hadn’t been all that bad. You’d like the manager, and had a nice conversation with them outside of the interview itself. They’d been easy to talk to, and had put you at ease. You'd felt comfortable talking about your retail background, and how the skills you used there could be parlayed to a position as a Fundraising Operations Associate with the Wayne Foundation. Sure, it wouldn’t be the smoothest of transitions, but it could be done, and the interview had made you feel good. Even if you didn’t get this job, there was a chance for you to get another.

“What about you? What’d you get up to?” You ply. “What time did you get out of bed?”

“Late to bed, late to rise,” Alfred tuts beside you, making you grin. Bruce shoots him a sidelong glance before he meets your eye again.

“I got up around noon.”

“Noon,” You groan. “Damn, that sounds nice.”

“You could do it, too.”

“Don’t start that again.”

Bruce doesn’t hold his hands up in surrender this time. He just watches you with smiling eyes as he lifts his drink to his lips. You shake your head a little bit, turning your gaze from his. He’s offered time and time again to simply take care of you. You trust that he would—that if you came in tomorrow and told him that you didn’t want to work anymore, he’d give you anything that you needed. But there’s still a part of you, a skittish, nervous part, that worries—what if things don’t last? What if you have to go back to work with a gap on your resume? How would you explain it? Bruce Wayne was my sugar daddy, but we’re sort of on the outs now, so. Please let me in? Besides, there’s no way your previous manager would give you a recommendation.

“I’m not starting,” He insists.

“Sure you’re not.”

“I won’t say a word.”

“You’re thinking about it.”

“You’re a mindreader now?”

“No. I just know you.”

Bruce reaches out, gently cupping your chin and tipping your face toward him.

“Yes, you do,” He murmurs before giving you a soft kiss. You smile, sliding your hand over his hip and pressing into his side. He hums softly as he draws away, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“C’mon,” He urges, resting a hand on your lower back and steering you to sit at the table as Alfred sets out the food.

“Thank you, Alfred,” You smile.

“Enjoy.”

You look after him as he goes before you turn back to the food, humming happily as you reach for your food.

“...You going out tonight?” You ask lightly. You tend not to talk about these things if you can possibly help it, but sometimes, you do have to ask. It’s disconcerting to wake up to an empty bed, but it’s worse if you don't know that he’ll be leaving in the first place. Bruce doesn’t answer you right away; he seems to mull it over as he pokes through his food.

“I can wait until you fall asleep,” He offers. It’s as good as a straight-forward yes.

“Don’t worry about that.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mhm.”

You try to sound as light, as relaxed about it as you possibly can. You glance up as you feel Bruce’s ankle hook around yours, tugging your leg closer to his under the table. The subtle touch makes your stomach flutter, your giddiness nearly overtaking your worry.

Nearly.

The worry swells viciously again as you watch him suit up.

You don’t usually see this, but every time you do, it’s a jolt. There’s a line that's crossed in your mind—a difference between the Bruce that you know, the Bruce that you met, and…This. Within the suit, Batman is all hard lines, no-nonsense. There’s a harshness to him that you’ve only seen a couple of times. He’d been focused after the robbery at the store, imposing and fierce, but just a few hours later, when he’d turned up at your doorstep, he’d been Bruce—your Bruce.

Now, your stomach twists with worry, your arms folded tightly over your chest. He forgoes the cowl as he turns to you, though the piece is in his hands. You find yourself gazing at it as he nears. Its eyes are hollow, and dark; its points seem as if they’d be sharp to the touch; if you look closely, you can see the odd scuff and dent in the surface. What must’ve hit him that it could leave a mark in such a dense material?

Your attention is drawn from it as Bruce raises a hand, cupping your cheek. Your face pulls with a reassuring smile on instinct, eyes widening with attentiveness. Bruce smiles, too, but it seems wary, almost pitying.

“Get some sleep,” He urges.

“Of course.”

“They’ll call.”

Is that what he thinks you’re worried about? The interview? You’d turn down a hundred job opportunities if it meant Bruce came home in one piece.

But you just nod, arms tightening around yourself a little.

“Sure,” You agree. You can’t chase the topic down now, or tell him that he’s wrong. It’s easier to let him think that you’re preoccupied with work, and not with what condition he’ll be when he drags himself in—so long as he’s able to drag himself in—

Your mind is quieted as Bruce gives you a sweet kiss. Your eyelids flutter closed, and your arms unwind to hold him. You can’t ask him to stay in. Bruce takes this city into his arms every night. How can you be so selfish as to ask him to reserve that space for you alone?

It’s a crashing sound that wakes you up.

It’s jolting, and sends you springing to sit up in bed. The room is pitch black, as it always is. You can’t see a damn thing. You listen in silence for a moment, straining to hear anything over the pounding of your heart. For a moment, nothing. Then, the swipe and scrape of something coming down the hall.

You can’t turn the light on, right? Whoever it is, they’ll see you, they’ll make a beeline right toward you. They may not even know that you’re here. You carefully climb out of bed, swinging your legs over the side. You can take your phone, creep over to the bathroom and call the cops from there. You’ll deal with the fallout of being the woman in Bruce Wayne’s apartment later. You slide your phone off of the bedside table, wincing as it lights up. You jump as the light to the room flicks on, mouth falling open to scream. It hangs for just a second at the sight you’re greeted by:

Bruce, pal, suited, and staggering, a dart sticking out of his jaw. You hurry over to him, breathing, “Oh my god,” As he stumbles, catching himself on his hands and knees. You reach up, hurriedly pulling the dart out and flinging it away. “Bruce! Bruce, what happened?”

He doesn’t answer, just reaches up, helplessly pawing at his cowl. You draw it off, tossing it in the direction of the dart and steadying him as he slides to the floor, drawing in tight, greedy gasps. You look over him, shaking your head.

“I’ll call an ambulance—” You’re half a step back before he grips your wrist. You can see him shaking his head. Shit. Shit. His breathing grows tighter, and you reach down, wincing and struggling to draw him up onto his side. He tries to pull in a deep breath, seeming to wince with it. You round him, grappling with the fastenings and helping to tug the top of the suit away from his chest. You can already see the mottling of bruises. You reach for your phone with shaking hands, hurriedly explaining, “Alfred! I’m calling Alfred,” When you see Bruce’s eyes widening. You know that you sound panicked when you get him on the phone, but you can’t help it.

You don’t ask Bruce what happened. You know that he’s not in any state to tell you, and some panicked, terrified part of you is certain you’ll never get the answer.

“Look at me,” You plead, cupping Bruce’s cheeks. His jaw quivers in your hands; his body shakes within the confines of the suit. You glance down at it, hesitating. Move him at the wrong moment, you could hurt him. But if you can help him out of the suit, it could help him breathe more easily.

“Okay,” You mumble, more to yourself than to Bruce. “Okay—Just hold on, we’re going to get you out of this."

It takes all of your strength to shift him and the suit. You wince as you have to tug it from his body, murmuring your apologies as winces twist Bruce’s already pain-riddled features. But once it’s off, his body seems to sag with relief. You reach out, drawing him back onto his side and scrubbing your hand over his bicep. His body is too hot. What the hell was in that goddamn dart?

You look up, doing a double-take and relaxing a touch as you spot Alfred hurrying down the hall.

“He just came in, he just—” You struggle to explain, “He had that dart over there in his jaw, I didn’t know what to do.”

“I was afraid of this,” Alfred lowers himself beside Bruce. You see Bruce’s eyes slide toward his caretaker, as if he’s at once grateful and warning him to hold back an I told you so.

“Have you ever administered a vaccine before?”

“Why the hell would I’ve done that?” You snap irritably as Alfred draws a kit out of his pocket.

“Here,” Alfred slides it over to you. "Clean his bicep, and then give him this. It should set in within a moment or two. He’ll need plenty of fluids. Once you’ve administered the shot and the shaking stops, we’ll get him to the bed.”

You open your mouth to ask another question, but Alfred is already up and heading for the kitchen.

“Oh—Damnit, goddamnit,” You hiss, sweating fingers fumbling with the kit. You groan at the sight of two syringes, already loaded with a clear liquid.

“Are they the same?” You call after Alfred.

“Yes!”

You look around, taking up an alcohol swab and swiping it all over Bruce’s bicep.

“Okay. Okay,” You mumble, more to yourself than him. “It’s going to be fine, this is going to work, you’re going to be fine.” You’re not sure which of you that’s for, but you’re certain that you both need it. You take up the syringe, trying to steady your shaking hand. You glance at Bruce’s face before you rest your hand on his arm. You wince as the needle pierces the skin, pressing down on the plunger with slow pressure.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” You tack on as Bruce groans in pain. You draw the needle back out, dropping it into the kit. You watch as Bruce draws in a deeper breath than just a moment ago. You push a relieved breath of your own out as you raise your hands back to Bruce’s face, pushing his hair back from his pale, sweat-sheened forehead. You look up as Alfred comes back in, a wide bowl of water in one hand, glass in the other hand, a towel slung over one of his arms. You watch as he sets them down before waving you up.

“I’ll get his arms, you take his feet.”

You do as he says, standing and rounding to Bruce’s feet. You wince, lifting him with Alfred. At least you took his suit off. You can't imagine trying to carry him with it. You and Alfred waddle together, helping Bruce onto the bed.

“I haven’t had a chance to call Fox.”

“What do you need to call him for?” You ask.

“We will need more of that antidote as soon as possible. You said that the dart was in his jaw?”

“Yes.” You scooch to sit at Bruce’s bedside, taking up the towel and dunking it into the lukewarm water. You dab Bruce’s forehead and neck gently, shushing him softly as his breathing speeds with pain, then slows again as the sensation seems to ebb. You hardly look away from him as you hear Alfred’s footsteps retreat. The rise and fall of his chest is taking on a steady rhythm. You’re not sure if you should be relieved or more relaxed, but your heart thuds—he’sfine—he’sfine—he’sfine—he’sfine—

Alfred makes up the guest room and tries to coax you away to get rest for an hour at least, maybe two. He seems reassured that Bruce is alright, that he simply needs to rest, to sweat it out of his system. He lingers for a little while, but ultimately retreats to the living room after tucking away the suit and leaving you with Bruce.

You stay by Bruce’s side. Nothing could draw you away from him. Hell, you’re almost certain that Commissioner Gordon could storm in with the entire force of the Gotham PD, but they wouldn’t get you out of that room until Bruce opened his eyes and told you himself that he was okay.

The color has returned to his face as light creeps in under the floor-to-ceiling shades. He still looks somewhat palid in the lamp’s light, but compared to the complete lack of tone just hours ago, it’s a vast improvement. Your eyes are dry from staying up; your nose is stuffy from uncried tears; your belly squirms like a nest of twisting vipers.

His fever’s broken, but his hair is still damp with sweat. Your fingers comb through the strands, eyes searching his face for anything—a blink, a flinch, a shift, anything. It’s a few hours yet before it comes. By then, Alfred has been in and out a number of times, with coffee, with tea, with food. But you’re too wired, to strung out with panic to do anything but watch, and wait.

By the time Bruce comes to, night is falling in Gotham again. As his eyelashes flutter, then slowly blink open, you’re certain he’ll ask you for his suit, tell you that he has a job to go and do. But he raises his hand to his jaw, smoothing his fingers across where the dart made contact and wincing. He draws in a deep, steady breath before he lowers his hand to rest atop yours, giving your hand a squeeze with his clammy one.

You pull in a deep breath for what feels like the first time in hours, pushing out a shaky, relieved exhale. Oh, you’ll take him to task later. Right now, you just bow over him and rest your forehead over his steadily beating heart.

He doesn’t try to tell you that nothing’s wrong, or that it’ll never happen again. He does tell you, as Alfred and Fox do, that this is rare—that something like this has only happened a time or two before.

Alfred and Fox hold your gaze when they say so, reassuring smiles on their faces. Bruce’s eyes stay set on the kitchen table, jaw set with resolute determination. He’s not going to stop for you. You don’t think he’ll stop for anything. You’re certain that one of these days, this’ll kill him.

And for once, you fucking tell him so.

You’re alone when you say it. Bruce is still staring at the table, and Alfred and Fox have left, speaking hushed tones as they'd gone. Bruce doesn’t dispute it. He doesn’t nod, he doesn’t argue. For a few moments, he doesn't say a fucking thing.

“I need to adjust my precautions.”

That’s what finally comes out of his mouth. Not, I’m sorry for scaring the life out of you or Thank you for taking care of me.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” You bat back icily. He gives a small shake of his head.

“I can make changes—”

“You know what you could change? You could fucking stop. This is not your job, Bruce. Leave it to the authorities—”

“Most of them are crooked, and the ones that aren’t are biding their time behind a desk. There are a few good ones out there, but they can’t do this alone.”

“Neither can you!”

You push yourself back from the table, rounding away from Bruce. Your hands flex on your hips, heart thudding with anger.

“You scared the shit out of me!” You’re too tired to cushion or sugarcoat it anymore. “Every goddamn night, I worry whether or not you’re going to come back in once piece. You stagger in half-dead and all you can say to me is that you’ll make adjustments?”

Bruce’s jaw is tight, his hands flexing in his fists. You shake your head, turning from him and scrubbing your hands over your tired face. You hear the scrape of his chair, the whisper of his slippers before you feel his hands rest on your hips. He always gives you a little squeeze when he knows you’re pissed. It's happening more and more these days. You don’t lean back into him; you don’t trust his strength yet. He’s only been up and around for a few hours. But Bruce presses his face into his neck and breathes you in. He murmurs his apology over and over into your skin, like the words won’t make it through your ears; like you need to soak them in the same way he soaked in whatever poison was in that fucking dart.

“...Where’s the first aid kit?” You finally ask.

“Why?” He frowns. “What’s wrong?”

“Just…I’ll need to know, you know. For next time.”

Bruce uses his grasp on you to turn you around to face him. He presses a kiss to your cheek before resting his temple against yours.

“I am sorry,” He insists.

“You better be, Batboy.”

“...I’m letting that one go.”

“Well, that’s one of us.”

Bruce chuckles softly, nudging his nose tenderly along your cheekbone.

“You ever get a call back?” He asks.

“What?” You frown.

“From that interview.”

“Oh…I don’t know,” You shake your head. “I haven’t checked my phone.”

“Wayne Foundation policy is to get back to applicants within 48 hours.”

“Nice diversion, you fucking know-it-all,” You mumble. You turn your head, pecking his lips gently. “You should go lie down.”

“Come with me?”

You grab your phone off of the table as you trail him, fighting off a smile when you see that Alfred has already changed the sweaty sheets.

“Are you excited?”

“I guess. More nervous, I think,” You admit.

“You’re going to be fine.”

“You’re so frickin’...Sure of yourself.”

“Well, that gets a little easier when you’re the one whose name is over the door.”

“Mm, I bet,” You mumble. Bruce smiles, reaching out and cupping your cheeks. His look, his touch—it’s all so damn relaxed. Bruce is out of the woods, he’s fine. He’s in front of you, giving you that charming smile that you know and love. Standing in the lobby of the Wayne Foundation, he’s the picture of health. He seems to glance around at the empty lobby before he cups your cheeks, drawing you in for a tender kiss. You lean into him, sighing softly. He pecks your lips twice before leaning away.

“Can I you to lunch?” He mumbles.

“I don’t know. Maybe not for the first week.”

“I’ll pencil you in for the second week.”

“Very generous, Mr. Wayne,” You chuckle, backing toward the elevator. “I’ll see you tonight.”

The whispers start around noon. The glances quickly follow. You think that it’s just the fact that you’re new—but when you leave to get lunch, you’re greeted with a veritable wall of paps calling your name. You blink rapidly at the flashing of cameras, stumbling back into the building. Your heart pounds in your chest as you peer to the window before you draw your buzzing phone out of your pocket. You have several missed calls from Bruce, and Alfred, and Michelle. There’s a text from Michelle, too—an article with two pictures right up top: one of you and Bruce kissing in the lobby, and another of the two of getting into the car together in Gran Canaria. Bruce had said that he’d thought he’d seen something. Apparently he’d been right.

Your gaze scans the headline—Prince of Gotham Slumming with Shop Girl turned Wayne Foundation Employee

Aw…Hell. So much for his fear of your being linked with Batman. Now you’re linked to Bruce Wayne.

Next Part

#Bruce Wayne x Reader #Bruce Wayne x You #Bruce Wayne/Reader #Bruce Wayne/You #Bruce Wayne fic #Bruce Wayne imagine #The Other Half

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morganbritton132 · 1 year

Note

Idk if you’ve mentioned it before but what is everyone in the Party’s jobs?? We already know Erica is a kickass politician and Lucas is the family embarrassment doctor but what does everyone else do besides bug Steve lol?

Also is Dustin still with Susie or did that ship sail away in the EMTTS?? <333

So, fun fact about me: I am not a big fan of future AUs. I don’t particularly like reading them and I’ve never written one prior to the Tiktok Saga. I think the problem I have with them is that it’s really hard to determine where a character should be thirty-odd years down the road. How or why a one-off post about Eddie being bad with technology turned into all this, I do not know.

I don’t have everybody’s job picked out because I don’t really think about it until it’s relevant to the story, but luckily, I do spend way too much time thinking about this AU so I have few that haven’t been mentioned.

The ones that have been mentioned: Steve is a teacher, Eddie’s a musician, Nancy’s a journalist, Jonathan’s a photographer, Lucas is a doctor, and Erica is a senator.

I think Argyle owns a very successful marijuana dispensary in California where him and Jonathan live and it gives him the freedom to travel with Jonathan when he goes out of town for business. Argyle just has the vibe that should not be working a nine-to-five. Also, I think that Argyle as an old man stoner with long completely gray hair is just so cool.

Robin is also a teacher, but she teaches at a university in the linguistics department. She spoke four languages when she joined the party, she now speaks nine. She’s written a book. She has a kickass rating on Rate My Professor. She’s likely the front runner to take over the department once the current dean retires next year.

I really like the idea of Max becoming a physical therapist. She had a long road to recovery after Venca and spent over a year in physical therapy just learning how to walk again. She knows what it’s like. She knows when and how hard to push her patients, and she’s good at the job. This also makes Max a doctor so Erica includes Max when she says that Lucas is the worst Sinclair.

I’m less defined on what kind of careers that Will, Mike, and El have. I just haven’t found a job that I’m like, yes, that makes perfect sense for that character. I do think that Will has a career where he can be creative and that he’s successful, I just haven’t narrowed it down to what exactly he does.

Mike and El, on the other hand, I have no idea. I mentioned before that Mike had a band that opened up for Eddie on CC’s first national tour and I imagine that he did one summer or during his gap year before college (if he went to college). El, I like to think, travels a lot and has got to see the world and be free of the responsibility of saving the world. But those two, I think, are tough to pin down to a specific career.

Now, for Dustin.

Dustin has had a very successful career as a researcher and his career has taken him all over the world. Now what exactly does he research? That’s up to you. This man is a scientist and that’s all Steve and Eddie can tell you about Dustin’s job because it’s just over of their heads. He loves it and that’s all they need to know.

Dustin and Suzie are currently not together. They have dated off and on since they’ve known each other and have always split on good terms. It has just always been the wrong time for them because when they’re together, they’re great. They hit it off and decide to start dating again, and then they just get busy. They’re both top of their field and work crazy long hours all over the world, and the cost of that is their relationship.

I think they both kinda know that one day, they’ll meet up at the right time, but for now, they’re good friends and they date other people. Steve thinks that they’re soulmates and he’ll randomly give Dustin an update that Suzie is single again. Dustin is always like, “How do you know that?”

“We’re friends on Facebook.”

#Dustin: Why are you friends with my ex on Facebook?#Steve: I gotta know what my daughter in law is up to #steve harrington #eddie munson #eddie munson tiktok saga #the party

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marcellaasblog · 9 months

Text

Eyes for the Geezer.

Main masterlist

Summary: Your boyfriend Wyatt takes you to go meet his parents for the first time.When you find out Wyatt has been cheating on you threw out y'all whole relationship,you take Eddie up on his offer but will that do you any good in the end?

Warnings for whole series: cheating, divorce, angst,smut, smoking,p in v,daddy kink, pervert Eddie, Wyatt's mom is an ass to you, mention of Steve, insecure reader,dom Eddie, switch reader, Wyatt mom is a cheater,huge age gap,insecure Eddie,Eddie is not all nice as he seems to be, and of course fluff with a Happy ending??

Author's notes: Eddie is 50 reader is 27 . I'm gonna keep the same names from the old story. Beth (Eddie's wife) Wyatt (beth & Eddie son) mack/Mackenzie (Wyatts ex girlfriend)

I am very sorry about this part💜

Part 1 // part 2

Part 3

"An offer?" You asked

"Yes, are you willing to take up my offer?"

"What is it ?" You curiously asked as you looked at him with a questionable face waiting for him to answer.

"You hate Wyatt right." He asked as he moved your hair out of your face.

"Yes." Your lips wobbled as you said ,you never thought you would say those words.

"Well if you haven't noticed, I hate fucken wife and will do anything for her to divorce me,so" Eddie says as he fixes up your hair. "I was thinking we can know…"

"What can we do?"

"You know." Eddie says as he points to you and him.

Oh..

"Oh you mean us , like uhm' you stutter.

"If you were gonna say fucking then yes." Eddie Said as he pats your cheek returning back to his side of the booth.

Your face went pale and your cheeks went red.

Was Eddie really asking to fuck you?

'uh why?" You asked about messing with your rings.

"You know why dolls don't play dumb with me now." Eddie chuckled, grabbing your shaky hand.

You knew why you just wanted to hear it come from him, but I guess he was playing hard too.

'But I don't wanna be the reason your family breaks apart." You say as Eddie plays with your fingers between his thumb and pointer finger.

The waitress comes up to your table once more with your food .You thank her as she walks away popping her gum loudly.

"So" Eddie continued "yes or no?'

Wyatt returns home in a Rush.He throws down his jacket and keys on the floor as he runs up stairs calling your name frantically.

"Wyatt what the hell is going on.' Beth asked as she took off her reading glasses, setting her book down.

"MOM! I FUCKED UP, FUCKED UP BADLY!" Wyatta says as he rubs his face pacing back and forth in his parents' shared room.

"What did you do this time?" She asked, sitting up in her bed.

Wyatt starts breathing heavily as his skin goes pale and his lips wobble.

"You slept with her didn't you?" Beth asked as she put her hands on her side.

"Yeah.."

"And y/n caught you this time didn't she?" Beth said

"Wow" Beth said in defeat, looking at her son with disappointment.

"Yeah.." Wyatt said as he sat down on the edge of his parents' shared bed .

"Now why the hell would you hook up with her while your girlfriend is in town." Beth asked with a calm tone resting her face in her hands.

"I don't know mom , I didn't know that she was gonna come back to the hotel." Wyatt groans, putting his hair back with his finger as he thinks of what he's going to say to you.

"Did she say anything to you?"

"No, she was with dad and they took off right when I was heading down there.

"She was with who?" Beth asked

"With dad,I guess she asked for a ride."

"That bitch what makes her think she can ask him for anything." Beth huffs as she grabs her car keys.

"We're are you going?"

"I'm going out,can't be here right now."

"Mom, don't!"

"What! if your father can go out with another person, so can I .Beth grabbed her purse and coat off of their door heading down stairs as Wyatt followed her.

"You serious right now , I need help on what I'm gonna tell y/n."

"That's your problem sweetie." Beth kisses Wyatt cheek "next time be careful." Beth said as she headed down stairs slamming the bedroom door on Wyatt.

"So you want to fuck me."

"Yes, if I didn't, I wouldn't be offering." Eddie lights his cigarette.

"Okay,so how would this work?" You golf your arms as Eddie passes the cigarette to you taking a hit of his cigarette.

"Well it easy we just need Wyatt and beth to catch us fucking and boom she has a reason to divorce me and you " Eddie points to you. "You get to be free." Eddie giggled seeing the ways your eyes lit up he thought it was so adorable.

You smirked as Eddie put out his cigarette.

"Let's get this started shall we."

Eddie knew by now beth would be out some where doing god knows what.

Eddie slams you against the Front door as he smashes his lips into yours. You grab a full fist of his hair as you yank his head back leaving sloppy kisses all over his tatted thick veiny neck. Eddie groans at the connection of your wet lips to his sensitive neck.

"You liked getting your hair puppled Mr.Munson?" You whispered into his ear kissing his ear lobe trailing back down to the side of his neck.

Oh now it's Mr.Munson.

"Mhm." Eddie moans as he grabs onto your ass digging his fingertips into your soft bottom.

"Jump."

" Eddie i-"

"I SAID to fucked jump, I'm not asking you." Eddie growled into your ears sending chills all across your body especially to your throbbing pussy.

You jump and Eddie takes you to the kitchen table setting you down on the marble countertop.Eddie harshly grabs the back of your neck, he growls into the kiss letting his tongue slide into your mouth, you start to unbuttoned his red button up t-shirt feeling every inch of his chest as you Wonder your fingers all around his tattooed chest. Eddie breaks the kiss as you look at your flustered eyes and down to your shaky hands barely on the fourth button.

"You need some help from their angel?" Eddie asked as he moved his hands off of his shirt as he started to take off his shirt looking right into your eyes.

"You wanna know how it is to get your pussy fucken by a real man?" He asked me to take off his shirt and let it drop down to the floor.

You try to squeeze your legs together but Eddie pulls them apart as he stands between them messing with the strap of your tank top.

'Do you?" You let out a little whimper as you nod your head repeatedly.

"Yeah?"Eddie mocked in a high pitched tone.

"Mhm,I want you to show me." Eddie let out a deep giggle as he bit his bottom lip.

"Good baby,I'm glad you're using your words." Eddie pushes you down on the counter top as he starts to take off your jeans pushing them to your ankle. Eddie was shocked to see a couple of tattoos on your leg right next to your covered pussy.

"Fuck me." Eddie whispers as he gets down on his knees,he could smell the sweet scent from you. He runs his thick fingers over your covered cunt making you squirm under his touch.

"You like that baby?" Eddie takes off your panties, putting them in his back pocket.

'I need those back Eddie." You giggled.

"Yeah,yeah I know." Eddie said as he kissed your inner thigh rubbing his thumbs on your swollen clit. You threw your head back letting your body relax on The table.

"Fuck." You whimpered.

Eddie removes his thumb licking your red sensitive bundle of nerves. You could feel his piercing swiping on your clit, it felt warm and cold at the same time,you grab Eddie hair pushing his face in a little more as he brings his thick fingers up to your clenching throbbing wet hole swiping the wetness between your folds as he enters two of his finger easily by how wet you already were.

"You taste so fucken good baby, making daddy's cock hard right now." Eddie said, pumping his finger in and out of you slowly as you both could hear the wetness from inside of you meeting his fingers.

"ShIt.." you moan as you start to take off your top, closing your eyes only to feel his thick fingers press into your warm wet walls. You start to clench on Eddie's fingers as he speeds up his pace moving his tongue away from your clit to look up at you.He looks at your blissful face she's closes one of his hands hold on your thigh as he drills into your hole with his finger making you gasp as you open your eyes.

"Yeah keep your fucken eyes on me princess."

"Fuck, FUCKKK I'm sorry." You remove your bra looking down at Eddie as he has a blissful expression on his face as if he was the one with 2 thick fingers in his hole.your boobs fall out from your bra as Eddie eyes wide at your pierced nipples.

"Fuck what else are you hiding?" You giggled at Eddie making you clench around his fingers as he groaned.

" you have to find out?" Was the last thing you said before Eddie pulls his fingers out of you licking your juices off of his finger moaning at the taste of you.you stare at Eddie as he takes off his belt setting it to the side and zips down his pants.

"Are you sure you want to do it here?" You asked to move your hair out of your face.

"Only way they will see us." Eddie chuckled, letting his pants fall to his ankles.

"Shit I don't have a condom, I'll be right back." You stopped Eddie before you could move.

"No, I wanna feel you." You pouted tugging Eddie back to you taking him into a deep kiss again.he moans as you grab his bulge in his boxers He whimper biting down on your bottom lip removing his lips from yours.

"Fuck your so pretty you know that?" He's breathing heavily as he talks to you.

"Really?" You asked, looking into Eddie's eyes, holding on to your arms.

"Well yeah I always thought you were pretty." Eddie chuckled looking down at yours and his exposed body.

"Always?"

"Ha, funny story I kind of been stalking your social media."

Your eyes widened as you giggled, kissing Eddie flustered pink cheek.

"Wow,Sexy and scary. You whispered into his ear.

"Mhm" he bites down on your folds as he spreads them apart with his 2 fingers licking at your throbbing clit.. He takes his fingers away as he buries his face in your wet pussy.

You squirm under his touche so Eddie wraps his strong tattooed arms around your legs bringing them up to his shoulder as you lock your legs around his neck. Licking and nibbling on your clit.

"Oh fuc-k Eddie" you push Eddie his head into your cunt pulling on his hair. He speeds up his finger and tongue.

" fuck I' I'm gonna cum Eddie." You squeeze your thighs around his head not wanting him to ever stop.

"Yes yes yes! Daddy's right there! OH FUCKKKK I'M CUMMING! He speeds up as he feels you cum in his fingers as you pulse around him.you drop your head looking up at the ceiling as you smile.

"That was probably one of the best orgasms I had In a while." You giggle, feeling Eddie kiss you all over your face.

"My boy doesn't treat your pussy right?" Eddie whispers into your ear kissing your neck down to your breast.

You feel so small under him, shy to even make eye contact with him.

"Mhm no…"

" Stuiped boy." Eddie yanks you off his table as you yelp from the sudden movement he turns you around pushing your feet out so he can get a clear view of your hole.

Eddie drops his pants to his ankles leaving him in his boxers.He takes out his cock from the hole of his boxer as he strokes it slowly. You try to look back but before you could Eddie slams into you.

"HOLY FUCKKK! Eddie growls out loud feeling your pussy clench on his sensitive thick cock.

"Oh OH FUCK EDDIE." you whimper feeling Eddie smack down on your ass.

"God I FUCK Love your ass,jerked off to all your bikini pic with your ass in the view wondering how you would feel."

SMACK!

Eddie pounds into you more seeing your ass jiggle every Time your ass meets his pelvic.

"Your so fucken beautiful baby,so fucken pretty." You whimper at Eddie words, it made your heart flutter when he called you beautiful, Wyatt never said that to you during sex.

"FUCK! Tell yourself you're beautiful." You didn't say anything lost in the feeling of him being in you.

Eddie smacks your ass hard as his palm stings and you moan.

"SAY YOUR FUCKEN PRETTY, COME ON SAY IT!" Eddie growls into your ear yanking you up by your hair.

SMACK!

"SAY IT YOU FUCKEN BRAT!" He fastens up his pase hearing the wet sounds of your pussy swallowing his cock as he goes in and out seeing the silk if you cum on his patch of hair sitting above his cock.

"FUCK FUCK ! I'M PRETTY EDDIE,SO PRETTY!" You yelled

"FUCK YEAH YOU ARE!" Eddie reaches around rubbing your clip as he pumps into you faster than before. You could hear little whimpers that turned into growls as he lowered his head to kiss your shoulder.

"FUCK YESS! HARDER BABY HARDER!" At this point you don't care how loud you were you wanted to make sure Eddie knows how good he's fucking you. You were so close to cumming on him feeling every part of your body heat up by the way Eddie was hitting your g stop or how high pitched his moans and whimpers were and how he was manhandling you. Everything was so fucken perfect….

Until it wasn't.

"EDWARD MUNSON WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!" Beth runs up behind Eddie as he still has his dick in you she pulls him out of you. You quickly cover yourself before you feel a punch hitting your stomach.

"YOU STUIPED BITCH!''Beth grabs you from your hair slamming you against the wall.

"MOM STOP IT!" you heard Wyatt voice as you get free from her turning your body punching beth right in the jaw, she falls onto Wyatt as Eddie goes behind you.

"Shit are you okay doll?" You huff as you put your hands to your stomach looking straight ahead at you Wyatt as he whispers down at his mother.

You could feel your eyes start to water. You didn't know why you were crying but it just hit you that you probably just ruined a family Just to get back at Wyatt.

Real classy of you.

"I WANT YOU OUT OF MY FUCKEN HOUSE RIGHT NOW!" Beth screamed as she sobbed into Wyatt's shoulder.

"YOUR HOUSE? THIS IS MY HOUSE I'M THE ONE THAT LET YOU MOVE IN WITH ME!" Eddie said, pulling you into his arms.

"OH WOW SO YOUR TAKING HER SIDE, WHAT A GOOD HUSBAND YOU ARE!" Beth said sarcastically, looking up at Wyatts teary face.

"Baby?" Wyatt asked, looking at you, you could see his brown eyes widen.

"Didd,did you- sleep with- with" he couldn't finish before Beth throws a mug straight at you but it hits the wall.

"STUIPED BITCH LOOK WHAT YOU DID TO MY SON!"

You hated how Wyatt and Beth were acting so innocently.

"EXCUSE ME! YOUR SON SLEPT WITH SOME BLONDE BIMBO BITCH AND YOU" you point at beth "AREN'T YOU STILL FUCKING YOUR EX STEVEEEE! you slurred out your words as you viciously and angrily pointed at the two people In Front of you.

Beth launches herself at you as Eddie puts his body between y'all Beth hits and hits Eddie trying to get to you.

"Go stand outside." Eddie tells you holding his wife back

"Are you serious?" You asked putting your hands out in disbelief

"JUST GO BEFORE YOU MAKE IT WORSE Y/N THIS IS MY FAMILY AND I NEED TO TALK TO THEM BY MYSELF!"

He didn't mean it, he just didn't want to see you get hurt and he knows she won't stop until you're on the ground or in a coma.

"YOU KNOW WHAT! FUCK YOU! AND WYATT WERE DONE! you turn back to Eddie. "SEE HOW FUCKED EASY THAT WAS EDDIE!. you say to him slamming his front door shut.

Eddie huffs as he feels a smack across his face.

"YOU ASSHOLE!

" IM THE FUCKED ASSHOLE REALLY! Eddie asked

"YOU WENT SO LOW JUST TO GET RID OF ME YOU FUCK YOUR SONS GIRLFRIEND!"

"OH SCREW YOU BETH DONT ACT YOU HAVEN'T BEEN FUCKING STEVE SENCE OUR WEDDING NIGHT ÀND WYATT YOU DON'T DESERVE Y/N YOU CHEATED ON HER SON AND YOU EXCEPT HER OR ME TO FEEL BAD."

Wyatt laughed in his dad's face.

"FINE!, You can fucken keep her for all I care." Wyatt pushed past his dad leaving through the front door.

"I wanna divorce." Beth added.

"Oh now you want a divorce." Eddie was about to walk out to the front until Beth stopped him.

"Look." Beth takes Eddie's face into her hands. "I'm sorry I really am. I didn't want to hurt you. I didn't know what to say. You looked happy and I couldn't take that away from you."

Beth rubs Eddie's tears off his cheek.

"But you were my everything,Elizabeth." Eddie hugs Beth not wanting to let her go.

"I know but I don't feel the same and I shouldn't have never led you on. I'm sorry Eddie but I don't love you and I don't think I ever did."

A little whimper comes from Eddie's throat as he sobs into Beth's shoulders.

Yes beth was an asshole but in a way he still loved her.

Beth legs go of Eddie smiling at eachother.

"I'm gonna go I'll come get my shit tomorrow." She applied she was stopped by Eddie as she had her hand on the door nob looking back at her now ex husband.

"WAIT" Eddie stop's beth.

"Yeah?"

"Please tell Nancy ,she deserves to know." Beth huffs as she nods her head slamming the door.

You didn't wait outside any longer. You could hear the screams from Beth and Eddie. It made your stomach turn knowing you did something so nasty just to get back Wyatt.

Yes he did cheat but two wrongs don't make a right.

You heard the front door open and slam. You see Wyatt walk out, shoving you to the side.

"WATCH IT ASSHOLE!"

Wyatt turns around.

"FUCK YOU! YOUR THE REASON WHY MY PARENTS ARE FIGHTING YOU HAPPY!"

You scoffed at Wyatt's words.

"REALLY! DON'T ACT SO FUCKED INNOCENT YOU CHEATED ON ME WILLIAM AND YOU EXCEPT ME TO SIT BACK AND LET THAT HAPPEN"!

"NO I DON'T AND I'M SORRY BUT THAT DOESN'T MEAN TO GO SLEEP WITH MY DAD!

He was right .

Wyatt looked at you with an annoyed face as his nose flared up he steps in front of you as your face is to his chest you look up at his teary red eyes.

"You're fucken discusting y/n, because of you." Wyatt pokes your chest. "My parents are getting a divorce. Because of you." He pokes your chest again. "I don't get to have my parents under the same roof no more." You look up at Wyatts flustered face as he stares down at you.

"Just because your parents didn't have a good bond with each other and ended up getting a divorce because of you doesn't mean for you to ruin my parents relationship too."

Wyatt knew he was in the wrong but he didn't care he was mad at you his dad and himself.

"Have a good life y/n." Wyatt walks away to his car driving off into the empty street of his neighborhood..

You let a couple of tears fall rubbing your face as you heard the door open and shut,you saw Beth walking out.

You wanted to apologize but your body was stiff and your mind was wondering.

"Have a good good one y/n." Beth waved at you getting into her car.

You waiting for her to hit you but she didn't she jumped into her fasting her seatbelt.

Before yu could think your body started to move to Beth's direction.You knocked on her window before she could drive off.

"I'm sorry, I'm so fucken sorry." You cried as you looked at beth face

She was smiling.

Why was she smiling?

"Don't be, you did me a favor, was it fucked up of you, yeah. but I deserved it and to be honest I think it was best for you to do that because I would have just dragged him along with my lies and I couldn't do that to him. So thank you." You put her hand on your arm patting you.

She smiled as she rolled up her window, backing out as she drove off.

You couldn't stay there any longer ,so you ran.

You just ran.

You couldn't see his face, you didn't want him to be mean like Wyatt was, you couldn't look at him, not now.

So you ran hoping to find a cab on your way out because you needed to get out of there you couldn't face Eddie. You didn't want him to scream at you or blame you for splitting up his family .

Eddie ran out of his front door wanting to apologize to you But You weren't there.

Yeah.he saw that coming.

It hurt that you didn't wait for him. Eddie kicked his door multiple times as he screamed but stopped as he saw his next door neighbor watching him.

"ARE YOU OKAY SONNY BOY." she yelled asking Eddie.

"No I'm not.why do you care?" He heard the venom in his voice.

"Girl problems?" the older woman asked.

"He walks through the grass leading to the fence that slips his and his neighbors house.

"Yeah." Eddie exhaled as the older woman passed him a cigarette. He giggled, thanking her before taking it from her shaky short hands.

"Who cheated on who?" She coughed.

Eddies huffed as he was getting ready for any insult that was going to be thrown his way.

Would it be bad if I say we both did." He looked at the lady as she shook her head.

"Who did first?"

"My wife."

"Never liked her." Eddie and the older woman laughed.

"Who was the other women?" She pointed to Eddie front Yard where you were standing.

"My son's girlfriend." he blows out the smoke from his mouth watching the lady's eyes widen.

"Ohhhh." She exhaled.

"Yeah. Am I a bad parent?" He asked, trying to hold his tears in not wanting to cry In Front of his neighbor he barely knew.

"Well may I ask what he did wrong? She throws her cigarette on the floor stomping the bud with her cane.

"He cheated on her so we slept together, well not ready but kind of." He rubs his forehead just noticing that be didn't even get to cum.

Not the right time Munson he argued with his thoughts.

"Well looks like he takes after his mama. I don't think you're a bad parent. I don't think you're a bad person at all. I think you're just trying to teach your boy a lesson was it a little messed up for you to sleep with his girlfriend a little bit, but I see what you were trying to get at."

"What do I do?" He asked.

"Nothing."she stated. "If that woman wants to come back or if your son wants to come back they will reach out to you, don't waste your time on those people. I think it's best to focus on yourself for now until you're ready."

"Yeah but I don't want to be alone." Eddie sniffs

"Sorry but sometimes it's good to be alone. It's good to get to know yourself and I think that's what you need to do."

Eddie smiles at the older woman tapping her fence.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. But all I have to say is that woman, I see the way you look at her, and there is a different look in your eyes. I saw the way she looked at you and she will definitely come back when it's time" The older woman said standing up from her chair.

"You think so." Eddie smiled.

"I know so." She smiled fixing her glasses. As she turns to her front door.

"Wait, I didn't get your name."

She smiles at Eddie.

" Joyce Call me Joyce"

"Joyce. Eddie smiled. "Thank you."

"No problem sweetie. Now get inside that house and get some sleep, boy."she giggles as she opens her front door.

"I will." Eddies jogs back to his front door but he looks back at his neighbor's yard making sure Joyce went in.

He swears he heard that name before.

Eddie sat in his empty quiet house as he thought.

Eddie was in love with everything about you,but he was too late you ran from him like everyone else did.

He just hopes you were willing to come back to him one day.

He was Done chasing after people to love him,for the first time in his life he wanted someone to chase him to show him that he's worth of love.

He turns off his kitchen and living room light as he locks the door he felt something in his back pocket as he pulls out your red panties,It made him Laugh a little.

At least he had a little reminder of you.

2 months later.

Eddie was making breakfast for him and his new friend Joyce tuning into the daily news as he heard his phone go off.

*Friend request from Facebook*

He wipes off batter on his apron as he opens up his notification.

*y/n y/l/n friend requested you.*

Eddie smiled at his phone knowing this could be a new beginnings for the both of you.

Only him and you this time.

No Wyatt. No Beth.

But were you ready for a fresh start and a new beginning with him? I mean that's the only reason why you followed him, right?

Was he scared to start something with you ?

Yes.

But Was he willing to start to start over?

Definitely.

*Edward Munson accepted your friend request.*

The end.

This is the final chapter for eye's for the Geezer.

A/n: sorry about the cliffhanger but it felt best to me.

Thank you so much to everyone that liked the fic I really appreciate i love all the feedback y'all give me it's make me really happy, so thank you for tuning in for this series!☺️💜

Tag list: @userlaiss7 @ali-r3n @eddiemunson95 @names-were-taken @nope-thanks @taylorswiftspeaknow @alyisdead @peachy-bunnns @hellfirefiend @eddiesguitarskills @daniellabrandt @lunamoon444 @briamunson92 @howlingco @thewitchesofart

The @ that are crossed out did not let me tag y'all I'm very sorry about that.

#eddie x reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie stranger things #eddie munson smut #eddie x fem!reader #eddie munson angst #old!eddie #older eddie munson #older!eddie #eyes for the geezer

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