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joelscruff · 1 year

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feelings on fire (joel miller x f!reader) 18+ PART FIVE

previous chapters | kofi | i'm honestly amazed that i actually completed this chapter today; as a lot of yall know i've been dealing with a lot of shitty life stuff lately and part of me expected this to not even get posted this month. and yet!! here we are. thank you to everyone who has been so supportive and amazing, this chapter is for you and i hope you like it 💖 chapter summary: you're starting to feel a bit insecure about your relationship with joel. perhaps a late night visit to his house is what you need 👀 rating: 18+ explicit warnings: age difference (reader is in her 20s, joel in his 50s), innocent/inexperienced reader, corruption, praise kink (joel calls reader babygirl, sweetheart, etc), dirty talk, mentions of religion (reader’s family are very catholic), fingering, handjobs, comeplay word count: 9k (woops) ao3

The rest of the week goes by gruelingly slow. Joel is busy every day and has barely any time to talk, so you mainly communicate through texts. The "conversations" are slow and broken, Joel only able to text when he has a free moment, which doesn't seem to be very often. You don't talk on the phone again, as much as you want to hear his voice, and you don't sext again either. It's a bit weird, a bit confusing, but you navigate it as best you can. It's not like he's ignoring you, he always responds, but it's just not the same as that first day.

you still wanna do this, right?

You type it around midnight on Thursday, hands trembling a bit as you hover over the send button. In one way you're afraid to ask him, afraid to seem clingy or young or inexperienced; but you're all of those things. When he's actually talking to you directly there's no fear, no question about what he wants, but going so long without hearing his voice makes you more and more insecure about what exactly he's thinking.

You erase the first message and start to type another one:

i know you're busy but

You shake your head and erase that one too. This is so stupid. Of course he still wants you, you idiot.

He'd said he was okay with the lie you'd told, had even said he would actually teach you guitar now too, but you're an overthinker, always have been. You can't help but feel dread whirling around in the pit of your stomach; he wants to end it, it's too complicated now. You've turned something sexy and fun into something ridiculous and unnecessary.

You lock your phone without sending anything and roll around in bed a bit, trying to sleep. Your thoughts make it impossible though, nagging at the front of your mind worse than your parents. You sit up and slide the tip of your thumb into your mouth, biting down in thought and staring at the blank screen of your phone.

What if you just...

are you home?

He hadn't sent you anything earlier to confirm he'd gotten back; you've discovered over the past few days that contractors really like to drink after their shift. Joel's been at the bar every night since that first day, often 'til late; you have to admit, it makes you a bit jealous to imagine Joel and his contracting crew out having a great time while you're laying in your childhood bed with a curfew. Bar hopping and partying has never appealed to you before, at least not when your college friends did it, but now the thought of it doesn't seem so bad. Not if you were doing it with him...

Your phone buzzes and you feel excitement burst through you at his reply:

Got in about 10 minutes ago, didn't think you'd be up. You okay?

You soften at his concern, cheeks warming. You don't hesitate, knowing if you think too much about it you'll end up changing your mind. You type your your response and hit send before you can talk yourself out of it.

can i come over?

You stare at the screen with bated breath, watching as his typing bubble appears. It takes barely any time at all for him to reply:

Of course you can. Door's unlocked.

Sneaking out of your house is much easier than you thought it'd be. You've never done it before, had almost expected the bottom half of your house to suddenly have some kind of security system with lasers and cameras, but nope. Nothing out of the ordinary.

You're wearing one of your old nightdresses, pink and frilly; you'd opted to start wearing them again the other day, liking the way they made you feel, accentuating your legs and breasts like your old Sunday school dress. You'd changed quickly every morning before going downstairs to save your parents from the heart attacks they'd have seeing you with so little skin coverage. But there's no need to change now, not with where you're going. You yank on a jacket and sneakers and carefully open and close the front door, scurrying out into the cool night air.

Joel's house isn't far, just a street over. You try not to run, as much as you want to; you know you'll end up all sweaty and messy haired - the opposite of how you'd like to portray yourself tonight, but your skin is practically glowing with anticipation. You hold the short hem of your nightdress down as you speed walk through the dark suburban streets of your neighborhood.

Your heart starts pounding when his house comes into view; the living room window is dimly lit. You jog up the front steps and take a deep breath before turning the handle, smiling to yourself when it opens easily; he'd really left the door unlocked for you.

"Mr. Miller?" you call in a hushed tone, shutting the door behind you and turning the lock.

He emerges from the living room and you feel your eyes widen. All he's wearing is a pair of loose fitting plaid pajama pants; nothing else. No shirt, no socks, and probably no underwear. You swallow, eyes trailing up and down the naked solidness of his chest, the greying hair smattered along the skin. He's got a softness to him, a bit of a pudgy belly that makes you want to smile, but his rugged sexiness is even more apparent. His strong pecs, freckled arms, the hair trailing down his stomach and into his pajama pants... it suddenly leaves you unable to breathe or form a coherent thought.

"There's my girl," he says, voice low and husky; he must have talked a lot today, called people's names, ordered them around, "C'mere."

Your brain is still muddled and awestruck as you feel yourself rush forward, arms immediately wrapping around his bare torso. His skin is softer than you'd thought it'd be, warm under your touch as you carefully press your cheek to his chest. You feel the scratch of hair against your skin, reminding you of his age; fifty six. The thought gives you an ache between your legs.

He holds you close and rubs your back, presses a kiss to the top of your head. Your eyes flutter closed at his touch, fingers splaying across the wide span of his back. You find yourself able to breathe again, but all you inhale is his scent, fresh and masculine. It's then that you realize his skin is slightly damp, peppered here and there with little droplets of water.

"I just got out of the shower," he says quietly, answering your unspoken question, "Was about to get in bed when you texted but I figured if you were comin' over I should clean myself up a bit."

You hum against his chest, still not sure exactly what to say. The ache between your legs is growing stronger the more you stand here in his embrace; somehow you hadn't expected to feel this way just from hugging him, although you probably should have guessed.

"I wanna get in your bed," you say softly, opening your eyes again and pulling back to look at him. His expression says it all, eyes going dark as they fall to your lips.

"Then let's get in my bed," he murmurs, just as quiet.

The last time you were in Joel's bedroom there'd been more of a sense of urgency, when he'd sat with you in his lap on the edge of his bed and held you open in front of the mirror. Now things are much slower, more quiet. You slip in behind him and unzip your jacket, taking it off and hanging it carefully on the hook behind his door.

"That's pretty," he says behind you, and you feel him reach out to gently touch the pink material, hand ghosting the bare skin of your chest. Your breath hitches and he smiles, "Tiny little thing, isn't it?"

"I've had it for a long time, I thought you might like it."

"I do," he pulls you toward him, then reaches his hands up to thumb the thin straps of the nightdress. You watch with hooded eyes as he slowly pushes them off your shoulders, "I'm gonna take it off though, that okay?"

Your brow furrows; he notices your reaction and his hands freeze, "Not okay?" he asks, confused slightly.

"N-no, it's okay," you say quickly, "I just... I'm still a little self conscious."

His eyes widen slightly and he shakes his head, "You have nothin' to be self conscious about, sweetheart," he reassures you, "I wanna see you..." he pushes the straps down your shoulders and you stand there trembling slightly as he pulls the dress down, exposing your breasts to him, "There you are."

You shiver a bit under his gaze, but not out of discomfort or fear. You feel safe with him; you know he'd never do anything you didn't consent to. You're just not exactly sure what you want, what exactly you've really come here for. Before you'd left the house you'd been so afraid that he was losing interest, already getting tired of you; now he stares at you like you're some kind of rare gem, making you feel bashful and beautiful under his gaze.

"I wanna touch you," you whisper, the shakiness of your voice betraying your nervousness - or anticipation.

His hands freeze for a few seconds but he regains composure quickly, tugging the dress down further until it's cascading down your legs, putting you completely on display. He swallows audibly, taking you in. You look at his face and feel yourself pulse under his gaze, the way he's staring directly at your bare pussy.

"Let's get in bed," he murmurs, "I think there's a few things we can touch."

His words send a buzzing warmth through your body and you cross your legs unconsciously, an action that makes him smirk. You turn away from him with heat flooding your cheeks as you climb into his bed; it's large and comfortable, but you already know neither of you will be taking advantage of the big space. You sit up against his headboard and pull the duvet up over yourself, hiding your breasts from view - as if he hasn't already seen them.

"I'll keep these on" he says softly, tugging at the band of his pajama pants, "Don't worry."

Your heart leaps to your throat and you nod quickly - probably too quickly. It's not that you're scared to see him naked; you've already seen both halves now and that's taken away a lot of the fear, but the concept of being in bed together, both naked... you're not sure you're ready yet. And you're glad he understands that without you having to say it out loud.

You watch as he climbs into bed and positions himself up against the headboard like you, scooches in next to you so your sides are touching. His skin against yours is unlike anything you've felt with him up until this point; he's so warm, a firm and large presence at your side that immediately has you feeling intimidated. Your nerves are already beginning to set alight just by having him so close. You open your mouth to speak but are unable to say anything when he inches even closer, his bare waist pressing firmly against yours.

"Hey, you're okay," he breathes, reaching up to gently thumb your cheek in a calming motion, brow furrowing slightly, "You don't gotta be nervous, sweetheart, it's only me."

"I'm not nervous," you whisper back, and while you're not exactly being honest there's certainly something else you're feeling, "I'm just..." you cross your legs again under the duvet, "I'm getting really wet."

He makes an odd sound in the back of his throat that makes you smile a little, cheeks burning under his gaze. He reaches over and slowly pushes the blankets down from your loose grip, exposing you to him once again. He moves his hand down, fingertips trailing along your bare chest until carefully bringing one of your breasts into his palm and squeezing gently.

"You don't gotta hide these from me, darlin'," he murmurs, thumb dragging across your nipple, sending tingles throughout your body, "They're too pretty to stay outta sight."

You shiver when he carefully tweaks your nipple between his fingers, his gaze firmly set on his movements. You watch together as he plays with it, toys with it, rolls it between thumb and forefinger. The warm and tight feeling sends an odd tingling sensation from your breast to your pussy, like they're connected somehow.

"I'm gonna put this in my mouth," he says softly, "Suck on it a little bit, that okay?"

You can't help but feel a bit unsure, biting your lip, "Is that... does it feel good to do that?"

He nods up at you, thumbing your nipple again slowly, "Feels really good, I promise. You got a lot of nerves here, just like your pussy. Really sensitive."

Your eyes are hazy as you nod to him slowly, "Th-that sounds nice."

At your words he leans his head down and brings your nipple into his mouth, dropping his fingers and replacing his thumb with the warm suction of his lips. You gasp out in surprise, hand coming up to immediately cup the back of his head.

You've never felt anything like this; the suction of his mouth is so new and strange, that tingling sensation returning as you cross your legs tighter and whimper aloud as he sucks your nipple. His tongue is wet and warm, tracing the shape of you in little circles, while his free hand comes up to squeeze your other breast, tweak it with his fingers. Your breath begins to come out raggedly, brow furrowing and legs tightening together as he suckles.

"Oh my god," you hear yourself whimper, hand tightening in his hair, "Why does that feel so good?"

He pulls off your nipple with a quiet laugh, peering up at you, "Yeah, you like the way that feels, babygirl?"

You nod quickly, swallowing and trying to get your breath back, "Yes," you whisper, "A lot."

He smiles at that, "Then how 'bout you lay back for me?"

It's an offer that's impossible to refuse. You quickly pull yourself down from the headboard and slip beneath the covers, head coming to rest on one of his pillows. He slips under as well, then very slowly positions himself on top of you, a leg on either side of your trembling form. You look up at him with wide eyes, unsure whether you're more nervous or excited.

"You're okay," he reassures you again, inching downward a bit and pressing a few gentle kisses to your neck, "Gotta be on top to do this right, so it feels good."

You nod slowly, "I c-can feel..."

"What?" he whispers, "What do you feel?"

Your arms are loose at your sides and Joel's are pinned above you, but there's an unmistakable feeling of something prodding into your thigh, large and thick.

"Your cock," you manage to whisper, voice trembling, "I think."

"That's right," he murmurs, "It's 'cause I'm gettin' hard from suckin' you like that, touchin' you," he trails his fingers down your sides gently, making you shiver, "You like feelin' it there?"

You feel yourself slowly nodding, eyes going even more hazy and hooded, "I wanna touch it."

"I know you do," he whispers, "I want you to touch it too, sweetheart. But I'm gonna play with you a little longer," he leans his face down and licks a small stripe against your other nipple, making your hips buck, "Then I'll teach you how to touch it, that alright?"

"Yes," you breathe, "Please."

"You like when I play with you, don't you?" he murmurs against your breast, then captures your other nipple in his mouth and starts to suck.

"Y-yes," you repeat, hand coming up again to tangle in his hair, already overwhelmed by the sensation, "I missed it."

He hums, sending another cascade of tingles throughout your body. To think that less than half an hour ago you were laying in bed wondering if he still wanted you; now you're naked and he's on top of you with his mouth on your breast. How is this your life?

"What did'ya miss?" he pulls off for barely a few seconds, scruff scratching perfectly against your sensitive skin, "Tell me, babygirl, wanna know what you've been thinkin' about."

You whimper when he goes back to suckling, your fingers threading through his greying curls. It's hard to get your thoughts straight when he's making you feel like this, every tight suck and wet lick going directly to your aching core.

"J-just missed you touching me," you breathe, voice rough and wanton with pleasure, "Missed your hands on me, your fingers..."

At your words he carefully brings one of his hands downward, caressing your body gently as he goes. Your breath hitches when he swipes his middle and index finger down your wet seam, urging you to open up for him. You uncross your trembling legs, looking down to watch as he continues to suck on your breast while his fingers dip down to your wetness.

"Inside," you whisper, finishing your thought but almost giving him a command at the same time; he doesn't hesitate, immediately pushing both fingers past your entrance and slipping them inside your throbbing hole, "Fuck," you whimper, closing your eyes and throwing your head back, "Like that."

You can feel the head of his cock through his pajama pants, pulsing against your thigh, leaving a sticky spot in the fabric. The fact that he's getting hard just by doing this to you, getting wet in his own way, it just turns you on even more.

He pulls off your breast with a wet pop and tilts his head up to look at you, pressing little kisses around your nipple and then pulling himself up a bit to hover over you. You feel his clothed cock prod your lower belly and you shiver again.

"Wanted to be full again, huh?" he murmurs, eyes dark, "Missed havin' these big fingers inside you?"

You nod and tug at his curls, urging him to lean his face down toward you. He takes the hint immediately, smirking a bit before reaching down to press his lips to yours and kiss you hungrily. You sigh into his mouth, contentment and arousal flooding through you as he slowly pushes his fingers in and out of you. Your hand moves from his hair to cup his jaw, loving the feeling of his beard beneath your fingers.

"Wanna know what I missed?" he asks against your lips, voice deep and breathy, "Missed this tiny little hole, so tight, all for me," at his words he curls the tips of his fingers inside of you, making you emit a loud whimper that makes him grin, "That's right, takin' my fingers so well, angel. Bet you could take three now," you feel another one of his fingers prod you alongside his others, "You want that, babygirl? Want three of those big fingers?"

You swallow nervously but slowly nod, tugging your bottom lip into your mouth, "Yes, Mr. Miller," you whimper, "Wanna be full."

"Good girl," he murmurs, brushing his nose lightly against yours, "You're such a good girl, aren't you?"

You hear the sounds you're making but you're not quite sure where they're coming from or how you're making them; you sound pathetic and breathless as he fucks you with his fingers, teases the third at your hole and leans down to kiss you again. His tongue slips past your lips and you feel the vibration of your own moans in his mouth when his thumb gently teases your clit.

"There you go, angel," he mutters against your lips as his third finger breaches your entrance, slowly pushes past the other two, "Thaaat's it, babygirl."

You tremble underneath him, feeling your body tense up at the new intrusion. You've had three of your own fingers inside yourself, but not three of his, long and thick and so much bigger than your own. You hear your whimpers turn into cries as his fingers fill you up, your own hands coming up to grip his back, nails digging into the skin.

"Shhh," he soothes, trailing more kisses along your face in an attempt to relax you, "You're okay, sweetheart, you're okay." And you are okay, being underneath him like this, being entirely at his mercy as he pushes your limits, helps you discover something new. It burns a bit, stretches and pulls and stings, but he talks you through it, whispers reassuring words in your ear, and you know you're safe.

He stills once all three fingers are deep inside, then pulls himself up a bit to look at you, pushing a stray hair behind your ear and peering down with a soft expression despite the depraved circumstances.

"How's that feel?" he whispers, voice gentle and soothing, "Tell me."

You're still making whimpering noises, shaky and quiet, but you're able to reply with the only word you can bring to the front of your mind: "Full."

He smiles down at you, brushes his nose against yours, "You did so good, angel," he murmurs, eyes not leaving yours, "I'm prouda you."

He knows what he's doing with that phrase; immediately you feel yourself loosen beneath him, hands going slightly limp against his back. He presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth and slowly begins to move his fingers again, pumping them in and out at an even pace.

It's amazing. It's so different than just two fingers, so much bigger and fuller - you've never felt anything like it; something so dirty but somehow passionate and warm. He kisses you as he fucks you with them, hovering over you with his hot skin emanating onto yours, wisps of hair from his chest and stomach tickling you everywhere. He thumbs your clit again and you moan loudly against his lips, your orgasm swelling in your belly as your hands tangle in his hair and pull him closer.

"You gonna come, angel?" he asks you softly, sweetly, pulling back a bit to stare deeply into your wide eyes, "Yeah, you're gonna come on those big fingers, huh? Can feel your pussy gettin' all tight around me, she wants it so bad doesn't she?"

You moan even louder as you frantically nod, "Yes, gonna come, gonna come," you cry out, overwhelmed by the thickness of his fingers and the way he's looking at you, the way he's talking to you; everything is just him.

"That's right, give it to me, sweet girl," he urges you, plunging into you faster and faster as his thumb rotates mercilessly against your clit, "Make a mess for me, soak those fingers, there you go."

You keen, high and borderline ridiculous as you stiffen beneath him and begin to shake, pitiful sounds escaping your mouth as you come. He fucks you through it, watching your face every step of the way and not stopping his movements until you've come down completely. You lay beneath him, chest heaving and eyes closing involuntarily as he strokes your thigh tenderly, reassuringly. He keeps his fingers lodged deep inside of you, not moving but simply keeping you full as you come down from your orgasm; you find yourself hoping he doesn't pull them out just yet.

"Can I show you somethin'?" he asks softly, and you open your eyes to find him still peering down at your face. You can't speak, can only nod as you bite down on your lip and try to catch your breath, your entire brain focused solely on the way his fingers feel inside you. As if he can read your mind, he's suddenly pulling them out and bringing them up to hover between the two of you.

Your brow furrows in confusion, suddenly feeling beyond empty as you pout up at him. He just chuckles to himself, still holding his three fingers - wet and glistening - in front of you while his other hand reaches down to the waistband of his pajama pants. Your eyes go wide, lips parting a bit as you look from his face to where his hand is and back again.

Without words from either of you, he slowly reaches inside and pulls out his cock, thick and dripping. You make a weird sound in the back of your throat, sitting up slightly as you peer at it with wonder. He's showed it to you before, it's nothing new, and yet...

"That's about the same width, wouldn't you say?" he asks you quietly, bringing his dripping fingers down to his hard cock and aligning them side by side; he's right - the thickness of all three of his fingers is relatively similar to the thickness of his cock. There's certainly different aspects - the length being the main difference - but the overall width is pretty spot on.

"Y-yeah," you say softly, eyes glued to it, "Pretty close."

You watch as he carefully drags his fingers along the thick length of his cock, still soaked with your release. He spreads your juices along it with his thumb and fingers, fists it gently and very slowly fucks his fist once. Your eyes are hooded and dark, saliva beginning to pool inside your mouth for reasons you can't even begin to understand.

"You just took three fingers," he continues, thumb tracing the base of his wide tip, "So wouldn't you say that answers a question you've been worryin' your pretty little head about?"

Your eyebrows scrunch together, trying to figure out what he means. It's hard to focus on absolutely anything else when his dick is right there in front of you, practically begging to be touched, the fat head pulsing and drooling under your gaze.

"Oh, this is gonna be a problem, isn't it?" he says, amused as he continues to slowly stroke himself, "Can't even think when there's a cock in front of you, huh?"

The words snap you back to reality, but only slightly. You smile sheepishly as you will yourself to look up at his face and away from his dick, "Wh-what question, Mr. Miller?"

He chuckles, "You were afraid it wouldn't fit inside you, babygirl," he reminds you gently, "But it will, we just proved that."

Your brain slowly makes sense of what he's saying and you can't help but feel a wave of relief wash over you; he's right. It had burned a bit, been uncomfortable for a moment or two, but ultimately you'd been able to take all three and enjoy it. You feel a smile spread across your face, and you notice his eyes soften slightly as he looks at you.

"You're right," you say breathlessly, smile still wide, "I did it, didn't I?"

His expression softens even more and he smiles back at you, laughing quietly to himself. He opens his mouth to say something but then seems to think better of it, pulling one of his legs back and moving to sit beside you on the bed instead of over you. Your brow furrows a bit in confusion.

"What is it?"

He just shakes his head, still smiling softly to himself, "Nothin', you're just... you're adorable."

Your cheeks warm at that, unable to help feeling a little self conscious. Now that you've come down from your orgasm you're suddenly hyperaware of your nakedness, of the fact that he can see every inch of your body. You draw the covers up around yourself quickly, hoping he won't mind.

"Such a shy little thing," he murmurs softly, but makes no move to pull the blankets down again like he had before, just watches you with a smile as your gaze slowly falls back to where he's hard and aching.

"Can I...?" you can't bring yourself to say the words, feeling flustered and nervous at the very thought. He just nods and reaches over to touch your hand, strokes your trembling fingers in his grip.

You watch as he carefully maneuvers your hand toward his crotch and slowly places your hand on his cock. Your fingers curl around his girth almost instinctively, imitating what you've seen him do before. Your lips part, breath hitching as your skin touches his most intimate area, a place on a man you never thought you'd ever be able to feel, at least not until you were married.

It's soft. Not in terms of arousal but just in texture, a silky and smooth feeling you hadn't been expecting. You stare down at your own hand in slight awe as your thumb gently strokes along his shaft, brow furrowing at how different it is than what you'd imagined. It's surprisingly just a body part, just an extension of Joel that usually remains hidden and secret; it's not as scary or intimidating when you can touch it like this, play with it like he plays with you.

"Wow," you say softly, barely aware of it as your fist ever so slowly moves along his length, pumps him just once in that hypnotic way he'd showed you; he's still covered in your own release, wet and slippery, but somehow you don't feel grossed out by it.

"You're a natural," he replies just as quietly, and your skin heats again when you look up to see his face, see the desire and pleasure in his expression, "Don't think there's much I need to teach you, to be honest. My parts are a lot simpler than yours."

You smile to yourself and pump him slowly again, this time brushing against the wet and throbbing tip. He makes a faint grunting sound that makes your eyebrows go up.

"This part..." you say quietly, thumbing the head ever so slightly and feeling your heart race when it pulses beneath you, "It feels different?"

"Yeah," he murmurs, biting down on his lip for a moment, "That part's sensitive, kinda like your clit."

You nod slowly, pushing your thumb up a bit and slowly rotating it along the sensitive area. He inhales sharply, grunts again when you prod the spongey head with both your thumb and index finger, teasing it like he'd done with your nipple.

"Fuck," he mutters softly, voice heavy and breathless, "That's it, angel, you got it."

His praise is like a warm blanket, shrouding you in safety and comfort as you slowly pump his cock again, teasing the head intermittently and trying not to smile too much every time he makes another one of those breathy grunting sounds. You feel pride swelling in your chest, the knowledge that you're actually making him feel good pushing you to continue on.

"What about these?" you ask softly, stilling your hand on his cock for a moment to gesture toward his balls, round and heavy beneath the base, "Does it....do they feel good when they get touched, too?"

"Yeah," he murmurs, voice dark and full of arousal, "They do."

"Can I touch them?"

The sound that emits from his throat sounds almost like a growl, low and husky, "Yes," he groans, "Go ahead and touch 'em, sweetheart."

The tone of his voice is slightly desperate, bordering on depraved. Your eyes travel back up to his face and his jaw is slack, eyes hooded as he watches you touch him. You've never seen him like this, almost completely wrecked by something you did.

"Gotta be real gentle," he continues, taking a breath through his nostrils and reaching down to pull his pajama pants down a bit more for easier access, "They're sensitive too."

You resume your slow pumping of his cock with one hand while your other reaches down to lightly trail the tips of your fingers along the shape of his balls, round and tender. You cup them gently, teasing them one by one in your palm. He hisses in pleasure, eyes shutting tightly as he leans back a bit against the headboard.

"Feel good?" you whisper, trying your best to fall into the role Joel usually takes on, the role of the person giving the pleasure.

"Yes, baby," he groans, pressing the backs of his hands against his shut eyes, "Yes, feels so good, sweetheart."

Your pumping gets a bit faster, a bit wetter as precum continues to drool from the tip and down his shaft. It's unbelievable that you're really sitting here in a man's bed, a man about thirty years older than you, pumping his cock and making him come apart like this. You can feel yourself throbbing beneath the blankets, getting wet all over again at the reality of the situation, and when your movements cause the blankets to fall from your chest and expose your breasts again, you don't bother trying to cover up.

Joel groans at the sight, reaching over to tweak one of your nipples between his fingers, making you whimper, "You know what happens when a man comes?" he asks you suddenly, brow furrowing in pleasure, "You learn about that in school?"

You nod quickly, feeling sweat trickle down your face as you continue to stroke him up and down, "Yes," you whisper, "I know what happens."

He groans again, swallowing thickly and taking a deep breath as he begins to palm your breasts, "I'm about to come, darlin'. There's gonna be a lot, need to know where to aim it."

You bite down on your lip, trying to keep all your focus on making him feel good and not on the hands now squeezing your breasts, teasing your nipples. "Wh-where do you want it to go?" But you already know the answer.

"Here," he grunts, thumbing your hard nipples, "These. Wanna come all over these pretty tits, sweetheart, will you let me?"

You nod, "Y-yes, Mr. Miller."

It's everything he needs to suddenly pull himself up from the bed and pull your hands off him, gesturing for you to lie back against his pillows. Your heart races in anticipation, eyes going wide and lips parting again as he leans over you and starts to jack his cock, fast and unrelenting. This is what he'd done the other night, when you'd talked on the phone; you'd tried to imagine what he'd looked like, making his own mess... now you're about to find out.

"Stay just like that, babygirl, just like that," he grunts out, pumping himself over and over as he aims the tip toward your bare breasts, swollen from all the attention he's given them tonight. His expression is tense and so is his body, soft stomach suddenly taut with pressure, chest heaving as he works his hand. He looks almost pained, brows scrunched together as he pulls himself over the edge.

"Come," you find yourself saying quietly, a shaky whimper playing at the edge of your voice, "Come for me."

Within seconds of your words your skin is hit with long ropes of a warm, white liquid, splattering across your breasts in uneven patterns. You watch with hooded eyes as Joel slows his strokes, groans louder than he has all night as his release spurts continuously from the head of his cock, painting you all over. His tense expression eases into one of pure bliss as he tosses his head back again, moaning up at the ceiling.

Wow.

Without asking for permission, without even questioning whether it's proper sex etiquette to do so, you find your hand travelling quickly downward to your wet pussy. You frantically begin to rub your clit, still gazing up at Joel's pleasured form, feeling his come slipping down the sides of your breasts onto the sheets below. You throb and pulse beneath your fingers, whining softly to yourself as your body readies itself for your second orgasm.

Joel looks down at you then, cock still in hand, slowly beginning to soften. He sees what you're doing immediately, and the devilish smirk that crosses his face is enough to send you over the edge.

"Fuuuuck," you moan out as you come, trembling in the sheets and curling your toes in pleasure, "Mmmm," you squirm and writhe beneath his gaze until it's over, then lay still and loose on the bed with barely any thoughts floating through your mind.

The room is filled with the sounds of heavy breathing, both of you coming down from your orgasms and trying to collect yourselves. You can't help but look down at your chest, see the thick patches of come splattered all over your breasts, your nipples. How all of that could come from one person is wild to you; this certainly hadn't been taught in any of your health classes.

The memory of being so naïve, so innocent... it makes you grin. Because you couldn't be further from that person anymore, the one who did everything that was asked of her, never listened to her own heart, stayed on the sidelines and focused on math and extracurriculars and God while other people had these experiences. And now here you are - actually having them.

"I guess I'm not a good little Christian girl anymore," you find yourself saying with a shaky giggle; you suddenly feel reinvigorated, sexually liberated... free.

Joel laughs at that, breathless and genuine. He grins down at you, releases his cock and shuffles downward to lay beside you, "You're my good little Christian girl," he says softly, bringing a hand up to cradle your face, "You did so good."

"Did I?" you ask sincerely, "Be honest, I wanna know."

He just smiles and thumbs your cheek, eyes going crinkly, "You were perfect, babygirl, I swear." He leans forward and kisses you gently, sweetly, like you both didn't just do something completely filthy and depraved - but you're starting to realize that maybe it's normal to do things like this, not as taboo and sinful as you'd always thought.

When you part, you're suddenly painfully aware of the state of the bed, not to mention both of your bodies. You're both covered in a sheen of sweat, you've got come dripping down your skin, and both fluids are already beginning to stain the bedsheets. You make a face.

"Can we...can we change the sheets? And can I maybe take a shower?"

Joel chuckles at that, stroking your cheek one last time before pulling back to extricate himself from the bed, "I'll change 'em, sweetheart. You go get in the shower, it's right across the hall."

You slip out of bed on shaky legs, losing your balance a bit and having to grab on to Joel's bed side table for support. You both laugh, and you find comfort in the casual intimacy of it all - both of you standing there naked without any shame or embarrassment. It's strange and new but so refreshing, that familiar safe feeling warming your skin as you make your way to the bathroom. You pick up your discarded nightdress as you go.

You stare at yourself in Joel's bathroom mirror for a bit longer than necessary, eyes wide as they trail up and down your bare form. Splotches cover different parts of your skin, especially your breasts, nipples swollen and dark, not to mention covered in come. You feel an ache between your legs again at the sight and almost roll your eyes at yourself - when will you stop being this insatiable?

Unable to push down the urge to do so, you carefully drag one of your fingers through the layer of white splattered across your chest, fascinated by its sticky texture. He'd marked you, in more ways than one.

The shower is pleasant and relatively quick; you want to get back in Joel's arms as soon as possible. You try not to think too much about the implication of that desire, the safety you feel when you're with him versus the anxiety you feel when you're not and what exactly that means. You try to remind yourself of your roommates and their experiences, their ability to sleep around without catching feelings or getting attached. How do they do it? How do they do it when being close to another person like this is so intimate and special?

You change back into the nightdress after your shower and slip back into Joel's room, finding him laying in the freshly made bed beneath a new duvet. For a moment you think he might be sleeping, quietly shutting the door behind you and tiptoeing over to the bed. However when you get close enough he opens his eyes and looks at you, a sleepy smile spreading across his face.

"Hey there," he murmurs, reaching down to pull back the blankets on the other side - your side, "Get on in."

Your heart pounds harder than it probably should.

Climbing into bed beside Joel feels surprisingly normal, easy. You wriggle underneath the duvet and cuddle in beside him, immediately wrapping an arm around his solid form and nuzzling your head against his shoulder. He's wearing his pajama pants again but his torso is still bare, the hair on his chest tickling your skin. You feel him press a soft kiss to your hairline and you can't help but smile.

"I'm glad I came over," you whisper with a content sigh, "I was... I was starting to worry you didn't want me."

"Really?" he asks softly, brow furrowing, "Why's that?"

You shake your head and nuzzle in deeper, "Just me being self conscious and insecure, as usual."

His hand comes up to rub your back soothingly, circling it with his palm through your thin nightdress. He pulls you in a bit closer, kisses your forehead again with a bit more firmness.

"It's normal to feel that way," he murmurs against your skin, "But I do want you, babygirl. You're all I think about lately, I mean that." You shiver at his words, closing your eyes and willing yourself to believe that he really does mean them like he says. "Most beautiful little thing I've had in my bed for a long time."

You press a gentle kiss to his collarbone in response, nose trailing along the skin. He didn't shower but you're sort of glad he didn't; he still smells like sex, a deep masculine musk that you can only attribute to him now, a scent that makes you feel safe.

"I just feel bad...making us sneak around and all that," you admit, "I know it's childish and silly, but I'm so scared of disappointing my parents. I shouldn't be but I am."

"You're young," he says softly, tenderly, "That kinda stuff still matters, especially when you're livin' with them. I get it, honey. You don't have to defend yourself."

You grimace against his skin, "I just wish this could be more normal. That you could just be a guy I'm seeing instead of my guitar teacher," you shake your head, "It's not fair."

He pulls you in even closer with a soft chuckle, "Well, if it's any consolation, I'm lookin' forward to teachin' you how to play."

You make a face, "Hymns," you say with a roll of your eyes, "You're teaching me how to play hymns. I don't see anything exciting or sexy about that."

"We'll make it sexy," he murmurs, inching his face downward so it's more level with yours, eyes casting down to your lips, "Thought you were my good little Christian girl."

All thoughts suddenly seem arbitrary when he's looking at you like that, your gaze immediately going hazy as he leans in and kisses you deep, pushes his tongue inside your mouth softly and tastes you. You hum against his mouth as a response, thighs tightening together as if on instinct the second you feel yourself begin to throb again.

"Are you?" he asks huskily when he pulls away, eyes dark but tired, "Are you my good little Christian girl, baby?"

You nod, swallowing down your arousal, "Yes, Mr. Miller."

"You gonna let me touch you while I teach you guitar?"

You nod again, biting back a whimper, "Yes, Mr. Miller."

His eyes dart back down to your lips, hand on your back traveling downward to cup your bare ass beneath the nightdress, "You gonna let me fuck that soft little pussy while you play one of your hymns?"

"Yes, Mr. Miller," you repeat, leaning forward to bury your face in his warm skin and inhale him again, moan softly against the hair on his chest, "Yes."

He squeezes your ass for a moment and then brings his hand back up, pulls you to him and wraps his arms around you tightly, "See, babygirl?" he whispers, "Told you we'll make it sexy."

Joel's alarm wakes you around six, rousing you from one of the best sleeps of your life. You open your eyes groggily, feeling him lean over you in bed to turn it off, warm chest brushing your arm. You roll over in bed and cuddle into him again, humming sleepily to yourself when he pulls you in close.

"I gotta get ready for work," he murmurs gently into your hair, "Go back to sleep, I'll wake you when it's time to go."

You frown sleepily but don't have the energy to protest, eyes closing again as you melt back into his pillow. You feel him release you from his embrace and press a kiss to your forehead, a simple reminder that this isn't some dream you're having, it's somehow reality. You smile and fall asleep again within seconds.

He wakes you up again after about half an hour, seats himself on the edge of his bed and strokes your hair. You peer up at him with a sleepy and satisfied expression, unable to stop the words that fall immediately from your lips:

"Kiss me."

He doesn't need convincing, still thumbing your hair behind your ear as he leans down and kisses you softly, bumps your nose against his and lets your tongue lazily explore his mouth, tasting mouthwash. You sigh contentedly, pulling back to smile at him while he strokes your cheek.

"Sleep good?" he asks you softly.

You nod, remembering the closeness the two of you had shared all night, the soft hugs and tender cuddles, the quiet intimacy you've never experienced with anyone else. "Amazing," you whisper.

He kisses you again before you get out of bed, then takes your hand as he leads you downstairs. You grab your jacket on the way out of his bedroom, still hanging on the back of his door. You look down at yourself as you both reach the top of the stairs, realizing there's no way you'll be able to walk home in an outfit like this without certainly being accosted by a nosy neighbor.

You push down your worry when you reach the kitchen, unable to stop the grin from spreading across your face when you see that the kitchen table is set with breakfast; scrambled eggs and bacon.

"You made me breakfast?" you ask in awe, looking from the food to Joel and back again.

He laughs, walking over to the coffee pot and pouring himself a cup, "I did," he says with a smile, "And as much as I'd love for us to just sit and enjoy it," he looks down at his watch with a grimace as he takes a sip of coffee, "we have about ten minutes before I gotta drive you home and then get to work."

You sit down at the table, picking up your fork and immediately digging into the eggs, "You're gonna drive me home?"

He seats himself across from you, watching you enjoy what he'd cooked with a fond smile, "Can't have you walkin' home in that tiny little thing, can I?" he says teasingly, "Your parents would wring my neck."

You groan, "Oh god, please don't even joke about that. If they knew..."

He just chuckles and starts to eat, looking up every now and then to give you one of those crinkly-eyed crooked smiles that makes you weak. You smile through mouthfuls of food and feel your skin alight every time you feel his gaze on you.

"I don't usually eat this fast, I promise," you say through a mouthful of bacon, covering your mouth, "It's only 'cause we're on a time crunch."

He shakes his head, still smiling, "You're so damn cute."

You try your hardest not to reach across the table and pull him toward you for a kiss.

The drive from his house to yours is extremely short, no less than two minutes. Still, you enjoy the short time you spend in his truck, his big hand spread out on your bare thigh while he hums along to a tune on the radio and gives you soft little sideways glances that makes your heart flutter. You can't help but feel like someone else when you're with him, someone more carefree and outgoing, happier and more experienced. It's only when you slowly near your house that you realize maybe this person is who you really are.

"Stop here," you tell Joel with a grimace, still a few houses away, "My parents are still home."

"How're you gonna get in?" he asks with an edge of concern to his voice, eyeing your house, "Think you can climb the fence?"

You bite your lip, "Probably. I've never done it before but I don't have much choice," you lean your head against the backrest in irritation, "God, why did I choose now to rebel? I coulda learned how to do all this shit when I was a kid if I hadn't been so obsessed with being perfect."

He gives you a sympathetic look, thumb stroking your thigh reassuringly, "I'll stay right here 'til you're inside."

You yearn to lean over the small space between you and kiss him, but you know there's always a risk of a neighbor coming out of their house and seeing you. Instead, you place your hand atop the one on your thigh and squeeze his fingers gently, giving him a small smile.

"I had a really nice night," you say quietly, unsure how exactly this kind of thing is done, "And morning."

"So did I, sweetheart," he replies, voice tender, "We'll do it again, promise."

With one final squeeze of his hand you slip out of his truck, tying your jacket around your waist to cover up your legs a bit. It leaves your upper half more exposed than you'd like, your eyes going wide when you realize how much cleavage this nightdress really shows.

"Here," Joel says, understanding your reaction immediately, "Wear this on top." Without giving you any time to protest he's unbuckling himself to undo his plaid button down, shirking it off his shoulders and handing it to you. It leaves him in a t-shirt and jeans, your eyes trailing to his strong arms without meaning to, the arms that had held you close all night.

"Thank you," you murmur, brow furrowing a bit, "You're sure?"

He smiles crookedly and buckles up again, "I'm sure, angel. You keep that."

Your heart flutters as you wrap his shirt around you, slipping your arms into the much too long sleeves and inhaling the scent of him - your new favorite smell - surrounding you. You're never getting rid of this. Ever.

With a wave you hurry down the sidewalk, feeling slightly ridiculous in your layered and baggy outfit but relieved that you're covered up. You eye the tall white fence of your backyard, trying to formulate a plan in your head as you go. Hop the fence, get a ladder from the tool shed and climb up to your bedroom? But did you even leave your window open? You can't help but feel rage in your chest for your parents rules, the curfew, all the nonsense you've been living with for your entire life. Why the fuck don't you have a fucking key to your own fucking house?

You can feel Joel's eyes on you when you reach the fence, still sitting in his truck a few houses down.

Please, God, you think to yourself as you slip one of your sneakers in between the fence posts and yank yourself up, I know I've sinned. I know I'm a mess. And I'm not even sure I really believe in you anymore. But please, if you're there, don't let me make a fool of myself in front of Joel Miller.

Surprisingly, your prayer seems to work. Climbing up the fence is relatively easy; you keep an eye out for your neighbors as you quickly pull yourself over and flop down on the other side, extremely grateful that neither your jacket nor Joel's shirt gets caught on anything. You hurry to the tool shed, eyeing your bedroom window as you go and feeling beyond relieved when you see that it's wide open; God bless Texan summers.

You decide to wait inside the tool shed until your parents are gone, not wanting to draw any attention to yourself with the ladder. You close the door behind you and sink to the concrete floor, heart pounding in your chest as the reality of what you've just done overwhelms you.

You snuck out to see a man. You slept in his bed. He drove you home so you could sneak back in.

Quiet laughter fills the tool shed, all coming from your own mouth. You grin to yourself and shake your head in the darkness, leaning back against the door and closing your eyes. Who are you? Who is this new person you've become? You don't know, but you love her.

You find yourself pulling your phone out of your jacket pocket and typing out a new message, but this time it's not to Joel - it's to your friends from college:

i think i'm officially a bad girl.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #fic: feelings on fire #*

2K notes · View notes

tillthelandslide · 4 months

Text

Same For You (13) : Take Me Higher

A/n: hi!!! i'm so sorry it took me so long to post this, to those tha saw the unfinished version i accidentally posted, sorry haha. Once again I need to thank @procrastinatinglikeapro for listening to my ideas on this one and helping me always :). I miss you all and hopefully soon can get to a more regular posting schedule. For now, I hope you enjoy (p.s i love this series hehe)

Series Masterlist

(12) June

warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI. Smut. p.s its a long one but trust me its worth it

She's stressed when she arrives at the studio, hands shaking with everything she does. The writing on the page is unsteady, fingers trembling against the strings of the guitar, making the music sound wobbly and flat. She doesn't have the band to fall back on, she can't ask Abbie to record her parts and she most definitely cannot escape the worried looks from the four men. Oh yeah, Jamie was sitting in on the session too. She wanted to impress him, but instead she feels like a mess. It's a nightmare.

George sits at the soundboard, thumb resting under his chin, fingers playing with his lip. He wants to ask if she's okay, but he also doesn't want to put more pressure on her. She sighs deeply, running a hand through her hair before throwing it up into a messy bun.

"Sorry one more time" she says, rolling back her shoulders and adjusting her grip on the guitar when it inevitably slips. Ross’ hand clamps around the arm of the chair, watching her, knowing how she was feeling, wanting to envelope her in his arms and take her worry away.

It was hard seeing her like this, from the moment they met her there was an indescribable ease that radiated from her, like meeting someone who was already exactly who they were supposed to be. Music came naturally to her and seeing her like this was… unsettling. They all felt sympathy for her, knowing (without her having to mention) that something was seriously wrong.

"We can take a break Y/n/n" George says, eyes finding hers through the glass as his fingertips press the button that allows her to hear him. Her eyes flick to Jamie's who smiles and nods, agreeing with George.

"No I'm good G, once more I swear" she says and he nods.

Matty’s hand hovers over George’s fingers, they don’t touch but when George sees his eyes flick to his, one look in his eyes and his finger stays put on the button for a moment, broadcasting Matty’s next words into the other room.

“This is it Y/n/n okay? You’ve got this” his words have her easing slightly, shoulders rolling back before she breathes in deeply, eyes shutting before they open again and she smiles, nodding at Matty.

She sees the red button light up, indicating that recording is in progress and her fingers move against the guitar again. She plays the guitar solo flawlessly, but all of the guys notice how her fingers buzz slightly. She finishes and sighs deeply, she still thinks she can do better.

"That was really good Y/n" Jamie says, smiling widely at her, putting his thumbs up, normally she’d tease him for it, call him an old man just to make him laugh, but she doesn’t… even he knows something is up then.

"Perfect" George says, and her eyes find him through the glass again, he knows she's going to ask to record it once more before she does and he speaks before she gets the chance.

"Don't ask to do it again Y/n/n, it was perfect... get outta that head of yours okay?" he asks and she nods with a sigh. George looks at the guys, leaving the microphone on so she can hear him.

"Going to go for a fag okay" he says and she nods mumbling a "be there in a minute, don't wait up" she says, nodding to both Ross and Matty. Jamie follows the man, phoning someone on his way.

Matty thinks about hanging back, but since his conversation with Ross he's apprehensive. It seems that ever since Ross told him to act the same, he’s been doing the opposite, he didn’t know why, but he felt a level of pressure now, although he knows that wasn’t the man's intention. But when Ross' hand finds his shoulder and he smiles, he knows it's okay.

"Hang back okay?" he says and Matty nods. When he enters the room, she's unplugging her guitar, placing it into its case. It's then that he realises she's using the light blue guitar, the first of two her brother had bought for her.

"You alright love?" he asks, she doesn't speak but nods and he knows she's lying. He crosses his arms over his chest and looks at her, she stands from her spot, standing opposite him. She lasts three seconds before she sighs deeply, rolling her eyes and chuckling at him.

"That's not fair" she says, pointing at him. He shrugs and mumbles a "don't know what you're talking about darling" she sighs again. Her hands find her hair, letting it fall down her back from its place in a bun.

She finds it funny how quickly she breaks around him, walls falling down and colliding with his own, destroying them in the process.

"Liv called me this morning, apparently something happened at June's school, some bully pushed him over in the playground and he busted his lip... just shook me up a bit" she explains, hands resting against her forearms, almost to protect herself. She finds it a little ridiculous that she's shaking so much, but she wanted nothing more than to be there with June.

"Hey it's okay" Matty says, stepping forward, hands finding hers against her arms, running along them to calm her. She looks up at him with soft eyes, he smiles softly down at her and some of the tension eases from her.

"Is that what's gotten you so shaken up?" he asks and she nods, he pulls her in then, hugging her tightly.

"And why I'm messing up" she says, he pulls back slightly, shaking his head down at her.

"Don't do that... you're fine, we all get off days" he explains and she sighs.

"Mine had to be on a day when Jamie's here... wanted to impress him" she admits, despite thinking it sounded a little silly.

"He's impressed, trust me" he says, pulling her to his chest again.

"Do you know what's happening with him?" Matty asks and she nods again, mumbling her next words into his chest.

"He's in the emergency room at the moment, waiting to be seen" she explains and he nods.

"Want me to drive you there?" he asks and she shakes her head.

"No it's okay... He'd hate that" she says, laughing at the thought of an angry June. He hated fuss.

"Okay, but he'd forgive you... do you want to be with him?" Matty asks and she nods.

"I do... but it's fine... I'll wait until Liv calls me again" Matty nods and hugs her again. There’s a moment of silence before Matty speaks again.

"Any reason you're using that guitar" he points to the open case and her eyes fall to it.

"Didn't feel right using the green one today... don't know why, just a feeling" she says and he nods, placing a haste kiss to her forehead before pulling away.

The pair leave the room after that, joining the other men downstairs, both who have finished their cigarettes now, Jamie still on the phone. She smiles at Ross who wraps an arm loosely around her shoulders. George begins talking to Matty but he doesn't really listen, too busy eavesdropping on what Ross says to her.

"Heard anything from Olivia yet?" he asks. Of course he already knew. Matty still appreciates the fact he encouraged him to talk to her.

"Not yet..." she says. After Matty and her share a fag (mainly to save time) they return to the studio. She records some more for the track, less shaky this time. Half way through her recording some vocals, her phone rings by the sound desk. George pauses the track and speaks through the microphone again.

"Phone's ringing Y/n" he says, she rushes into the connecting room, taking the phone from the drummer's hand. "Girls" is the ringtone and they all smile.

"Sorry... Liv's favourite song" she says making them all chuckle before she's picking up.

"Hi" she answers, before her face is covered with panic. They can hear someone talking quickly on the other side of the phone.

"Okay, okay, okay" she says quickly "Liv! Breathe!" she says and they hear the phone go quiet. Her eyes flick between the guys and she speaks again "I've got an idea but just bare with me okay?". Liv mumbles a "okay" before Y/n removes the phone from her ear to speak to the guys.

"Okay... June's had stitches, but Liv's boss is being a dick and demanding she goes back to work but it's too short notice to get a babysitter and he can't go back to school" she explains and all the guys nod. George is slightly confused, but Jamie the most confused out of all of them for he didn't know who Liv or June was. Y/n and George had briefly spoken about the passing of her brother but hadn't spoken about his son or his girlfriend.

George shares a look with Ross, one in which reads "I'll catch you up later".

"I know it's a right pain in the arse and I understand you saying no... but could he come here for a few hours? Just until Liv can pick him up?" she asks.

"Of course love" Matty says and Ross smiles whilst Jamie nods, he doesn’t know who she’s talking about but he didn’t mind if it helped her out.

"Yeah... no problem at all" Ross says and then George nods too. She brings the phone to her ear again and continues talking to her sister in law.

"Bring him here okay? - Yeah the guys said it's fine... Yeah? I'll send you the address" they hear her say.

"Love, I can take you to pick him up," Matty says, drawing her attention to him. She shakes her head but smiles at him, mouthing a "thank you" as Olivia speaks.

"Okay... see you soon. Love you too" she says. She hangs up then sighs deeply.

"Sorry about that" she says, eyes finding George's then.

"You must be so confused" she says to George and Jamie, both who nod. She proceeds to tell him about June and Olivia whilst Matty and Ross clear up a little, having heard from her that her nephew was a bit of a menace and had already sustained an injury today and didn't need anymore.

20 minutes passes by and her phone buzzes with a text from Olivia, explaining that they were here. She leaves the guy's in the room, each working on something and not wanting to disturb them. She walks down the stairs, leading to outside. She finds them outside, June smiling widely at her and running and jumping into her eyes. He lands with an "omph" from her and it makes him giggle.

"Careful Junebug, don't get any more injuries whilst I'm gone" Olivia says.

"Mum!" he complains "don't call me that" it makes Y/n laugh, pulling him gently back by his chin to look at his lip. He has a few stitches on his bottom lip and it's a little jutted out, making him look poutier than usual. He also has a small cut on his chin that’s clearly been cleaned but didn’t need stitches.

"Ooo, look at you" she says and he laughs, pulling back and straightening up as if proud.

“Look cool huh?” he asks and it makes her laugh, eyes flicking to his mum who rolls his eyes.

“It was that Rory kid again” Olivia says, clearly angry at the fact. Rory was a child in June’s class who was a huge dick, he often made stupid jokes about how June didn’t have a dad and truly deserved to be shoved himself. She puts June down, placing a hand on the top of his head to keep his attention on her.

“Better have pushed him back June” she says and Olivia laughs when June’s eyes flash with mischief.

“Oh he did a bit more than that, didn’t you June?” Olivia says, the child's eyes flick up to Y/n and he nods proudly.

“Punched him” June says matter-of-factly, the tone making her laugh.

“Good on you bud” she says, turning to her sister-in-law. She doesn't doubt that Olivia had to have the mandatory "we don't condone violence but well done for sticking up for yourself" talk which gave her plenty of space to be the proud auntie, congratulating him for giving a mean kid what he deserved. Problematic or not, she didn't care.

"Thank you so much for this Y/n" Olivia says, pulling her into a brief hug and accepting the bag of his things.

"Happy to help... tell the boss to" she leans forward slightly so only Olivia can hear "fuck off" it makes her laugh. The door opens behind her and she turns, seeing Ross. She smiles at him and he smiles back. She's kind of happy that he'd be the first to meet her nephew.

"Sorry, was just checking you were okay" he says, stepping onto the street. It's very kind, a fact not going unnoticed by Olivia.

"Ross this is Olivia... Oliva, this is Ross" she says and Ross smiles at her, offering her his hand to shake.

"Lovely to meet you" he says "Nice to meet you, heard a lot about you" Olivia says, making the man raise his eyebrows at Y/n who rolls her eyes at her sister in law.

Ross' eyes then land on June and Y/n watches as he kneels down to greet the little man.

"You must be June" Ross says, each of the women chuckle when June grips onto Y/n's calf and hides from the man.

"The bassist" his words have the boy coming out from his hiding place, smiling widely at the bearded man.

"Nice to meet you, how about we go upstairs and you can have a go on my bass huh?" he asks and June nods happily, grabbing his hand in that completely uncaring way children did. Y/n stands mouth slightly agape at the sight, heart beating rapidly in her chest. Just when she thought she couldn't find him any more attractive.

"Thank you again" Olivia says, pulling her into a hug again, murmuring a "he's hot" before pulling away.

"I'll call you when I finish work" she says as she opens her car door.

"Junior" she says, drawing the child's attention from the man who he was talking excitedly too.

"Be good for auntie Y/n okay?" he nods before his mum shuts the door and carefully drives off.

"Ready for this bud?" she asks as June takes her hand again, one holding hers, the other holding Ross', he nods and the three of them walk him upstairs to the studio. Jamie meets them at the top of the stairs, introducing himself to the child. Maybe it's because Jamie is a father himself but June isn't shy around him, immediately talking his ear off and allowing him to take him into the studio.

The boy's eyes fill with childlike wonder when he enters the room, clinging to Y/n when he sees two tall men sitting in the room. One with curly hair like his, a guitar resting in his lap and the other tall man sitting behind a drum kit.

"Don't be shy June, they won't hurt you" she says with a laugh, one hand finding the back of his head and giving him a gentle nudge forward. Suddenly, the June she knows springs to life, straightening his shoulders and moving forward confidently.

"I’m Junior, but you can call me June" he announces and it makes her laugh loudly, her head thrown back. Ross smiles at the sight, his heart doing a harsh pitter-patter in his chest and skipping a beat. Matty puts his guitar down and walks up to the boy, leaning down and offering a hand to him.

"Hey mate, I'm Matthew, but you can call me Matty" he says and June accepts his hand, shaking it harshly.

"Matty" he repeats and the man smiles and nods.

"Some grip you've got there mate" he says, eyes flicking up to her, the both of them smiling widely at each other.

"You've got hair like me" June says happily, flashing a toothy smile at the man, his dimples showing on his cheeks. Matty nods at the boy before he loses interest and walks over to George, staring up at him with his mouth open. Y/n watches with her finger in-between her lips, trying to hold in her laughter.

"I'm June!" he announces again.

"Hey mate, I'm George" he says, shaking his hand too.

"Just George?" June says, cocking his head to the side.

"George Daniel, but you can call me George or G" the man says and everyone begins to smile.

"George Daniel? Aren't they both first names? That's weird" they all laugh loudly at that, George cackling, eyebrows raised at her.

"He's got a point mate" Matty says and she laughs.

"He's cheeky" Ross says and Y/n nods "little Dylan" she says with a smile, June then runs up to them, clinging to her leg again.

"He sounds like Dad" the kid mumbles to her. The guys fall silent then, waiting to see what she says.

"Dylan had a really deep voice just like you G" Y/n says to the guys before she looks at June again. When she met June, Olivia asked for videos of Dylan so June could get to know his dad despite him not being able to meet him. She doesn't quite know what to say.

She's grateful when she feels a large hand rest against her back, before the man is speaking.

"Your dad used to play bass too, right?" Ross says and June nods.

"How about I show you some stuff?" Ross asks and June jumps excitedly, taking Ross' hand and dragging him towards his bass which rests in a stand. She finds Ross' eyes and mouths a "thank you" he just smiles at her. She watches as Ross takes the bass in his hands, playing the bassline to one of their songs, it makes June smile widely, raising his eyebrows at the man.

"Wanna try?" Ross says and the boy nods excitedly. He hadn't been learning for too long (a fact he tells Ross) as the bass was a big guitar and even now looked a little funny resting in the small boy's hands. Despite this Ross teaches him something simple, smiling impressively when he plays it easily.

"He's good, '' he says to Y/n who smiles and nods. Ross tries to teach him something a little more advanced, an original baseline he had written for the song they were recording today and she smiles when June gets frustrated because he can't quite reach the right strings.

It's like watching a splitting image of her brother, when he'd get frustrated at her for not getting things quite right. She walks over to the pair, sitting down opposite June, next to Ross.

"Try this" Ross says, adjusting the boy's hand slightly, this time when he tries his fingers reach the right strings and he cheers happily.

"Hey mate" George says as he joins the group, "that sounds good" June smiles up at him at that.

"Ross taught me it!" That makes her smile widely and she can't help but reach for her phone, snapping a quick picture of the child.

"Wanna record it? Be on your first record?" George suggests and June nods excitedly.

"Alright with you, auntie Y/n?" George says, his tongue peeking out at the corner of his mouth, making her laugh and roll her eyes at the man.

"Of course... going to be on your first record at the age of 6 bud" she says. Ross takes the bass from the child and he hugs Y/n tightly. Matty and Y/n set up everything ready for him, plugging in the bass.

"Okay mate, so this is how it works, see this" Matty says, pointing to a little red button to the left of where they stand, the boy nods.

"That will turn red when George clicks record" June nods again.

"And then you'll hear these little clicks in your ear phones" Matty says, nodding to George who clicks play briefly so June can hear what he's talking about. He then pauses the track to allow Matty to continue to explain.

"The metronome" everyone smiles at the boy's words, it also raises a few eyebrows, each of the guys impressed.

"That's right" Matty nods.

"Then you'll hear Y/n's beautiful voice okay?" June nods again and smiles at her. She rolls her eyes at the compliment but smiles at Matty.

"We can count you in and then you can play yeah?" June nods.

"What if I mess up?" June says.

"Don't worry about that mate, auntie Y/n messes up all the time" Matty says making her laugh loudly.

"Unfair" she says, eyes finding him, he sticks his tongue at her and it makes the child smile and laugh.

"Ready bud?" she asks and he nods. She shuffles back, allowing Matty to take over, the man counting the child in when needed. She watches proudly as he smashes it, getting the short baseline right on the first go. Ross steps in to take the bass from him and watches as the child pounces on Y/n excitedly, knocking her from her crouched position.

She cushions the child's fall with two hands on his back as he hugs her tightly. She laughs loudly and everyone smiles fondly at the sight.

"Smashed it kid!" she says, nuzzling her face into his neck and embarrassing him.

George does a quick edit of the new recording and then plays the track out loud. June sits up suddenly, clutching her hand tightly.

"You did that bud" George says through the microphone.

"Rockstar" Matty says, making him smile widely again.

By the end of the day, June is well and truly tired: having had a go on the drum kit (accompanied by George and making a load of racket), taught a simple guitar riff by Matty (after they spoke about their curly hair together, something y/n found ridiculously adorable) and having played Ross' bass again (crawling into the man's lap and working with him to reach the right strings, something yn snapped a few pictures of, immediately sending them to Olivia).

Now he's asleep in Y/n's arms on a sofa in the studio, with an inflated ego (having received a multitude of compliments by the bandmates), indented fingers and a happy smile resting on his busted lips.

"You're really good with him" Jamie says, sitting opposite her. The guys are working on this and that whilst laughing together.

"Thanks" she says, smiling down at the child as she smooths a hand through his curls.

"How old is he?"

"6"

"Ooo rough age that" Jamie says, making her laugh.

"Matty told me about your brother... Sorry to hear it" Jamie says.

"It's okay... been a while"

"6 years I'm guessing" Jamie says and she nods with a smile, eyes back on her nephew.

"You're really close with him huh?"

"Only known him for 4 years... but he's the most important person in my life" she says, eyes moving upwards and finding the boys. They were all sat at the sound desk, Matty's legs resting below the various buttons, arms hooked over his knees as he laughed with his head thrown back. George had a hand hooked behind his shoulders, laughing that bizarre cackling laugh he did that instantly made her smile. And Ross, sat next to Matty, eyes crinkled as he smiled widely, dimples showing and eyes sparkling, Ross’ chesty chuckle ringing around the room.

"One of the most important people" she corrects and Jamie looks behind them, where she's looking and smiles widely.

"They really care about you, you know" Jamie says and she nods.

"I know..."

"Think they would've been heartbroken if you guys hadn't signed the contract" he admits and she chuckles.

"Was always going to sign the contract Jamie" she admits and he nods.

"I know..." he pauses but she knows he has more to say, he hesitates but then speaks again "just want to make sure you're doing it for the right reasons" she knows what he's suggesting. That she was doing it because of them. She couldn't deny they nudged her in the right direction, made the decision an easier one, but it was always going to be the right thing to do. The offer was too good to refuse.

"I've wanted this since I was 6 Jamie... And we had plenty of opportunities but they were never... right? This feels right" she explains and he nods slowly.

"But does it feel right because of them?" he asks; it was a fair question. But she knew the answer. Her eyes find them again anyway and she smiles.

"It feels right because this is the first time we have worked with people who haven't shut down our ideas the first chance they get. It feels right because Abbie and Matty work well together, because Clara and Ross come up with dope basslines and because for the first time ever Jay doesn't fight against others' ideas, he rolls with them. It feels right because we've met people who are just like us, with a creative vision that they nourish instead of stomping out and a label who supports that. So yes it feels right because of them, but not just because of them" she explains and Jamie nods and smiles.

"Good" he says, reaching for her hand and squeezing gently before leaving her. Her phone begins to ring and the boy in her lap stirs gently, but not enough to wake up. She answers quietly.

"Hi" she says in a hushed voice.

"I'm downstairs"

"Okay... June's asleep..." she says.

"You got him?"

"yeah I've got him, be down in a second" she hangs up, hand drifting through the child's hair again.

"June my love... gotta wake up bud, Mum's here" she says and the child groans, stirring in her lap and nuzzling his head into her hand.

"Everything okay?" she hears, her eyes snap up and she sees Ross smiling down at her.

"Yeah just a stubborn child" she says, chuckling and attempting to wake the child again. When he doesn't wake she stands unsteadily, the child heavy in her arms. She begins walking with him but struggles.

"Can I?" Ross asks, gesturing to the child in her arms. She trusts him with her life and the offer is so sweet it has her stomach dipping and soaring. She nods with a smile and allows the man to carry the child, the two of them walking down the stairs. Matty watches him and smiles when their eyes meet.

"Hi!" Olivia says when she sees the pair, practically fawning over the man that's carrying her child.

"Thank you Ross, that's really sweet" she says, opening the back door of her car and allowing the man to slide him into the back seat carefully.

"No trouble" he says, smiling down at her.

"How was he?" Olivia directs her question to Y/n who smiles widely.

"He was an angel" Olivia raises her eyebrows at that.

"He played the bass with Ross and even recorded a bit for a track" she says, Olivia smiling at that.

"Oh that's amazing, thank you squish" Ross smirks at the name, reminding himself to ask about it later. "Forever going to be the best auntie, he's never going to shut up about his rock star aunt at school now. Thank you again... all of you" she says, directing the last of her words to Ross.

"Our pleasure truly... He's welcome anytime" it makes Y/n smile widely and Ross smile back at her. She knows Olivia is going to ask something a bit personal before she does but she doesn't have the chance to intercept it before it happens.

"Do you have kids Ross?" she knows he doesn't, Y/n had told her basically everything there was to know about the man. In fact, she was one of the only people that knew how confusing her thoughts about him and his friend were.

"No" he chuckles "my brother has a son... he means the world to me to be honest" he admits and it makes Y/n smile again.

"That's really sweet" Olivia says, eyes landing on Y/n and she smirks and raises her eyebrows again.

"Anyway... we should be going" Olivia says "thanks again", she steps forward, wrapping her sister-in-law in a tight hug.

"If you don't fuck that man I will kill you" she murmurs into her ear. Ross catches the gist of the words and it makes him smirk, turning his head so as to not look like he heard on purpose.

"You're so annoying" she murmurs back before pulling away, Y/n hands her June's bag and she then enters the car, stopping once she's nearly inside.

"Seriously do it, it will be good for you" Olivia says.

"Goodbye Olivia!" she says, rolling her eyes and shutting the woman's door. Y/n then turns to Ross, as Olivia begins driving off.

"Sorry about that" she says, awkwardly running a hand through her hair, hoping he didn't hear her words.

"Thank you for today... you were really good with him" she says, stepping forward slightly so they were closer.

"You're welcome... he's a good kid" Ross says, pulling her closer, hands closing around her waist. Someone drives past and beeps at them, Ross pulls away and takes her hand, taking them round the corner of the building for some more privacy. He pulls her towards him then, his back finding the wall of the building as he holds her flush to him.

"Care to explain what squish is?" he asks, one hand hooking under her chin, gently holding her face in his soft grasp.

"You caught that huh?" she chuckles and he nods. She laughs and rolls her eyes at the thought of having to explain this just because of Olivia.

"Promise not to take the piss out of me?" she asks, hands finding his chest, flattening against the covered flesh, smoothing against it and smiling at the sight.

"Me? Never" he says and it makes her laugh again.

"When I was younger... whenever people said things I didn't like, didn't agree with or things that made me uncomfortable, I would try to hide my opinion but without knowing it I would squish my face up... I showed videos of Dyl and I to June so he'd know his dad a little more y’know… Olivia has been calling me that ever since" she explains and Ross smiles.

"Well now I've just got to see that" he says, pushing forward slightly, nudging her body with his a little.

"Never" she says.

"Please" he begs, she shakes her head. He pulls her tighter towards him, nuzzling into her neck and mumbling another "please", drawing a "no" from her.

"I can be really persuasive" he mumbles into her ear before his lips find her neck, lightly moving against the skin. Her eyes flutter shut at the feeling and she sighs.

"Please" he mumbles against the skin, leaving a simple peck there before pulling back. She supposes it's because she knows he may reward her if she does it so her nose scrunches up, her eyes squint and her lips purse.

"That's simply adorable" he says, a jokey tone to his voice before he places a peck to her scrunched up nose. Her face falls back to normal and she shoves him lightly. He copies her previous face, scrunching his nose, lightly mocking her.

"You're mean" she says, hands pressing against his chest, sending him backwards against the wall again.

"And you're adorable" he says, leaning forward before he dips to the left, nuzzling back into her neck making her giggle, hands finding the back of his head, attempting to pull him away from her. Her hands grasp his bun, lightly tugging at it, he moves with it, pulling back from her neck, smiling down at her.

"Careful squish... might have to listen to Olivia if you do that again" he jokes but his words let her know that he did indeed hear her sister-in-law’s words earlier.

"Don't get cocky now MacDonald '' she raises with a huge smile. They fall silent for a second before her eyes flick to his mouth. It's a comfortable silence, undeniably sweet.

"You made his day today... thank you again" she says and he smiles down at her again, hands finding her chin again.

"It was nice... made me miss the little man though" he admits, referring to his own nephew.

"When do you get to see him again?" she asks.

"I'll arrange to visit them soon" she nods at that.

"Could come with me if you'd like... if you're not busy of course" he suggests and she nods.

"I'd love that" she doesn't think that it's perhaps too early for them, that it would be hard to explain to his brother what they were when they were asked, she didn't even think that she'd likely have to come up with an excuse as to why she wasn't available. She just agreed.

"Yeah?" he asks.

"Yeah" he smiles down at her, liking her answer.

"Besides" she says, tugging him forward slightly until their lips graze "you with kids? Hot." she admits making him smirk.

"Oh really?" he says with a raised eyebrow.

"Very" she says before pulling him the rest of the way, their lips meeting in a passionate kiss.

Meanwhile in the studio, Matty is tidying up the space, putting things back into their original places. But when he goes to walk across the room, his foot hits something, kicking it slightly further across the floor. His eyes flick down, spotting the black notebook in which he's seen her scribble in a fair amount now. He leans down, grabbing the book and raising it up, but something slips from between the pages, landing folded at the tip of his boots.

He should've picked it up carefully, and gently placed it back in-between the pages. But Matty was just a man, a curious one who often did things against his better judgement. Things he knew would likely cause him more trouble than they’re worth.

But not this, not when he unfolds the paper, and reads the first line and knows this is definitely worth it. It’s a song scribbled out onto the page, the ink spills across the paper, the words almost completely linked, as if it was pouring out from her and she couldn't stop it. The title is directly in the middle, written untidily at the top of the page.

“Take Me Higher” it reads. A complete contrast to all the other writing of hers he’d ever seen.

Let our passions ignite, bodies tangled in the night

Don't lie, don't deny, I set your souls alight

"Souls" he murmurs to himself, hearing George mutter a "hmm?" To which he quickly rushes out a "nothing don't worry" before he continues reading.

You're the fire, dark desire, come on now, feed the fire

Heat rising, bodies colliding, dripping sweat, tastes like sex

Rhythm pounding, hearts racing, together we're finding what's next

Matty feels his heartrate pick up, his chest constricts just slightly, the air expelled from his lungs in a sharp exhale, one which comes out shaky and broken. He reads over the last two lines of the verse “heat rising, bodies colliding, dripping sweat tastes like sex”. Images flash through his brain, all of her in compromising positions, her beautiful body lathered in sweat, glistening under the dark light of his room. He feels his body heat, cheeks flushing as his eyes darken. “Rhythm pounding, hearts racing, together we’re finding what’s next” he reads the line again, mind plagued with thoughts he shouldn’t be having. Like her lips wrapped around him, or pressed against his own, or him, in between her thighs, driving into her until all he knew was her name and all she knew was his.

Her back is the one pressed against the concrete now, thighs spread, one leg hitched up, resting against his hip as his lips move quickly against hers, tongues fighting, saliva mixing until they don't know where one begins and where the other ends. She feels slightly exposed, the skirt she’s wearing hitching upwards the longer she holds her thigh up over his hip. The cool air meets her clothed core, her panties visibly soaked. Resisting him this long had been a difficult feat, but this, right now, was harder than any of those days combined. This is reckless though, she had been trying her hardest to hide this, but all it would take is for one of the others to come out and they'd be caught. Maybe it added to the thrill of it? Maybe it would be easier if they were caught?

Her back arches as he pushes forward more, she feels him against her core, hard and desperate. He pulls away when he realises what he’s done, not wanting to push her too far. But with a sigh she grabs his shoulder, hand drifting down his chest, down across his stomach, beginning to dip down until he’s breathless, curving back up at the last minute, landing on his hip.

“Tease” he mumbles against her lips making her chuckle against his mouth.

“I'll show you a tease” she murmurs, teeth closing around his bottom lip and taking it with her as she pulls away a little, the hand against his hip pulls slightly, until his clothed member collides with her clothed core. She releases his lip from the attack of her teeth, letting it snap back to place before he pushes them back to hers, tongue pressing eagerly against hers. He grunts into her mouth, one large hand finding her thigh, his palm squeezes the flesh and her skirt slips slightly, revealing more skin to him. He rolls his hips forward experimentally.

“Fuck” they say in unison. This was the furthest they had gone, it wasn't much, but my oh my it was euphoric.

Matty reads the words “touches” what seems like a thousand times, plural. His mind spirals at that, what was this about? Who was this about? He looks around the room, George sat with a pair of headphones on and of course Jamie is nowhere to be seen. Surprise surprise he thinks. He slides from the room then, escaping to the bathroom. He perches on the lid of the toilet, hand placed on his thigh, nails digging in when he reads the next words.

Now we're touching the sky

We are ready to fly

Take me higher, we'll soar and defy

I got the feeling that we're gonna -

He feels his blood rush south, imagining the way she’d sing this, voice breathy and high pitched, hitched in her throat as if she was about to… he imagines her again, sweaty body sprawled out on his bed, thrashing about amongst his bed sheets, back arching off his bed. She’d moan, a breathless sound, something akin to his name. His cock twitches under his jeans and his hand finds his hair, tugging harshly, other hand gripping the piece of paper so harshly it crinkles. He tries his hardest to resist the urge to please himself… tries.

“Fuck” he says, what would it feel like if she tugged his hair? That image of her arching her back flashes through his mind again. Only this time he’s hovering above her. His hand moves back down from his hair, he shouldn’t - he knows he shouldn’t but he can’t help himself. His palm finds his aching member, pressing flat against the hardness, eyes fluttering shut as he imagines driving into her. The way she’d sigh, the way she’d moan his name, begging for more.

Hit that level, strum that bass, flick that switch

Let's get sinful, baby, let me be your demon's itch

Craving your touches until we unleash hot rock and roll

“Ross” she says, hands moving from his back to his bun, tugging at the hair until he growls into her mouth. Well he definitely liked that, she thinks. His hips move against hers, rolling forward, hitting her clit with every rotation.

He pulls back for a breather, eyes snapping south, accompanied by hers. He watches as he rolls his hips forward again. He sees his member bulging and straining against his jeans. Her eyes snap to the same thing he’s looking at, although it affects her much more. She caused that. Her, the one who had been shaky all day, messing up things that were supposed to be second nature to her. She did that to him, the man she had idolised since a teenager, loving the way his quiet nature fascinated her, the way his passion for music shone without him having to thrust it into people’s faces.

The man who belonged to her favourite band, the man who she had grown close to, the man she had begun to picture a life with, before hers had really begun.

She also can't help but notice how well endowed he was. She’s not surprised, the sight only confirming her suspicions, but it has one too many dirty thoughts bedevilling her mind, like how he’d feel inside her, how he’d likely reach places inside her that no one had ventured to before. She knew then, that she'd let him, and only him, paint those places with his cum.

He hears her moan his name again and his eyes snap to find hers again. Mouth falling open as he grunts, seeing her like this - back arching, chest pushed against his and she moans, eyes dark like the night - made him crazy.

He leans forward, lips finding her neck, kissing up to her ear, sucking the flesh behind her lobe.

“Let me please you” he demands into her ear.

“You are” she says, pulling him back from her neck, not wanting him to leave a mark. He shakes his head as he looks at her.

“That's not what I mean,” he says, lips pressed against the skin that's exposed at her chest, wandering downwards, over her covered skin, drifting south.

“Oh fuck” she says, realising what he means. He's on his knees then, lips pressing against her skin, moving to the left until they’re grazing her inner thigh. Her head falls back against the wall as her hands weave their way through his hair, goosebumps rising across her flesh.

We'll ride on passion's wave and lose all control

In your eyes, I discover lust burning inside

Matty’s hand dips below the waistband of his jeans and underwear, rolling his palm against his cock.

“Fuck” he grunts, he hunches slightly, slipping down the toilet a little. When his head snaps backwards it lands against the china, it digs into his head but he truly doesn't care. Nothing could get her off his mind, the lyrics she had written plaguing his mind with dirty, filthy, devilish thoughts. He imagines the way her small hand would wrap around his cock, he copies the movements, hand finding himself aching and hard, his fist encloses around himself. Her hand would be softer. He'd still be warm in her hand just like he is his own, but he knows it would be better, because it was her. He gives himself an experimental stroke as his eyes snap open, finding her words and reading them again.

“Fucking hell” he says as his eyes scan over the page, his hand moves slowly, up and down, up and down. His eyes mirror the movement of his hand, but quicker, trying to decide which line to reread, which line is his favourite, which line would make him…

He moans, thumb running over the head of his cock, spreading the precum that's seeping from him down his shaft. His eyes land on a particular line again, and he mumbles it out loud, wanting to hear how it would sound, not in his head.

"In your eyes, I discover lust burning inside" he reads out loud, doing his best to keep quiet. But then a moan is tearing from his throat and his hips are snapping up, thrusting into his own hand.

Explode like dynamite, carnal desire can't be denied

In this darkness, we'll do what we want, our secrets we won't hide

"Ross wait" she says, fingers finding his chin, tugging lightly at him sending him backwards, feeling the way his hair scratched her fingertips, making her think of heavenly it would feel in-between her thighs.

"Do you want to stop?" He asks with a rogue kiss to her inner thigh, tongue peeking out just so before he pulls away with a smirk. Her dark orbs find his: reflections of each other. She shakes her head with her mouth agape, the way he smirks has her core fluttering and her pulling her lip between her teeth.

He stands, fingertips pulling back her lip "don't bite that lip" he warns.

"Why? Wanna do it for me?" He grunts, pushing his mouth to hers, nibbling her lips before his tongue finds hers, fighting with each other, his winning in the end.

"Do you want this?" He asks against her mouth, his voice is soft, letting her know that it truly was okay to stop, if she wanted. His hand finds her core as he poses the question, stroking against the wet fabric of her underwear, making her sigh against his mouth.

"I want this… just not here" she allows him to weave his hand through hers, dragging her body with his willingly, giggles and laughter falling from them easily as they practically run back up the stairs. Her palm finds his mouth when they are near the top, silencing the laughter coming from him. His hand finds her waist, tugging her towards him, spinning them at the last instant until he's pressing her against the wall, trapping her against it with his lips. She moans into his mouth, her body working on its own accord, arching her back until her chest is flush against his. It was reckless, all it took for them to get caught was Jamie to come back from wherever he had disappeared to or for Matty or George to round the corner and see them in their current position. Which was getting more compromising with every second, because now, Ross is pushing his leg forward, her thighs separating and making way for the limb. She holds back the moan that attempts to tear from her throat when she feels the muscular flesh press against her in a way so heavenly her eyes flutter and the moan slips from her mouth into his.

“As much as I love those pretty little noises, you've got to be quiet” he says against her mouth. She gently shoves his shoulder, intertwining their hands again and pulling him further along the studio corridor, opening the first door she finds. The room is small, cold and dark, various cables and different pieces of equipment are placed on shelves which line the walls. She tugs him in the dark room and he quietly closes the door behind them, spinning them again until her back is pressed against the dark wood.

His lips bruise themselves against her neck as her hands weave into his hair again, and she doesn’t stop herself from tugging at his hair time, she wants to know his reaction. And she's so glad she does, because when she tugs the strands, it sends him a little further away from her neck, he growls as he pushes forward again. That singular noise accompanied by a subtle bite of her neck has her raising her leg again, hooking it over his hip and behind him, her heel landing on his behind and pushing against it, loving the way he grunts again, one hand sprawling out to catch himself against the door. It forces his clothed member to rub against hers again and she loves how he isn't hesitant when he rolls his hips forward once more. The seam of his jeans rubs against her clit over her panties and she can't help but moan into his mouth, a little bit louder than before.

His hand finds her thigh, pushing against the fabric that sits bunched there, pushing it further up until it rests against her hips, revealing herself to him. And what a sight, it has him salivating, panting, needing her - desperately needing her. But this wasn't about him, no this was about her. And god when he sees that little wet patch seeping through the fabric of her panties he so desperately wants to taste her.

His lips find her ear at the same time his hand moves down to her centre, pausing at her inner thigh until he speaks “let me please you love, will you let me do that?” he murmurs into her ear, taking it into his mouth after he utters the sentence. She nods vigorously, his hand begins moving and she wishes he’d stop staring at her like that for she knew if he continued she wouldn't last long.

Her eyes fall down to his hand as it moves again, he watches too, slowly inching closer to where she needs him. She didn't want to miss a single second of this. His hand drifts across her thighs, upwards grazing against her core before he jumps over it with a smirk. Purposefully missing it and landing on her lower stomach. His large hand lays flat against her abdomen, practically covering the whole of it, slipping under the hem of her top. Two fingers find the little piece of jewellery attached to her belly button, ghosting over the metal before it disappears again, inching south, back to where she needs him.

"You're such a tease" she says, making him look at her once more. He watches the way she bites her lip again and the way her eyes have darkened with lust for him.

"You're so beautiful" he says as his hand moves down again, fingers hooking under the top of her underwear and her breath hitches again. Two fingers toy with her folds making her sigh, pulling him forward until their mouths graze again. They don't kiss though, she simply pants into his open mouth as his fingers tease her, playing with her, searching her face, watching the pleasure appear.

"So wet for me" she swallows his words with her lips as he easily finds her clit, beginning to rub slow torturous circles against the bundle of nerves. Her back arches, her tits smearing against his chest.

"Fuck Ross" he pulls away after she says it, mouth hanging open as his fingers still.

"Why'd you stop?" She says but then he's slowly inching a finger inside her, making her sigh, the loud moans she's been trying to suppress getting harder and harder to do so.

"I've been waiting to hear you like this for so long" he groans as he kisses her again. His moans fall into her mouth and she moans back, knowing he'd swallow it. His finger slips from inside with a whiny protest from her, but she immediately shuts up when he begins tugging the lace down. She watches the way he pockets the fabric with a smirk, she mirrors his expression, her tongue peeking out of her mouth and swiping against his bottom lip.

He looks down at her again, without the barrier and he moans her name, pulling back completely away from her, her thigh nearly falling from his hip. His hands weave into his hair as he stares at her, eyes raking down her form, not knowing what to land on.

“I knew you’d be perfect but jesus christ Y/n…” his words trail off but they're everything, the best collection of words she thinks she’s ever heard. Suddenly the words, I and knew and you and be and perfect and especially Y/n are her favourite sounds. And the way they fall effortlessly from his lips: they’re perfection. He is perfection.

“Don’t make me wait any longer” he’s back in between her legs in a split second then, holding her thigh against his hip harshly.

He mumbles a “keep that there, pretty girl” before he lets go of the flesh. Pretty girl. They were her favourite words now, definitely.

His finger moves back down, faster than ever before, he slides one in, just one, feeling the way she convulses around it. He swears at the feeling, eyes trained on the way she takes it, so perfectly. She sighs and it's his favourite sound. He thinks he should record the noise, hide it in tracks for the world to hear, without the slightest inclination of how lucky they are. He pulls back his finger before pushing back in and curving and oh my it's heavenly.

"Ross" she moans again, gripping his shoulder harshly "more" her eyes find his and his hips move forward on their own. His body fails with a singular sigh of his name, the man never hearing it sound so perfect. Another finger joins the other, working in tandem.

His eyes fall down to see his fingers working inside her, curving slightly and snapping up to see her reaction. Nothing could've prepared him for it, a clench of her hand on his shoulder, her eyes fluttering shut before immediately snapping open, eyes bearing into his, glassy and glistening. Her back arches again and a pretty sigh of his name falls from her lips again.

But what really gets him, what causes him to twitch in his jeans, his eyes to darken impossibly more and him feeling the hardest he had ever been in his life, was the way she clenches around his fingers.

"Look at you…" he murmurs, eyes unwavering from her cunt now. "So fucking pretty, clenching around my fingers like that" her eyes fall to see what he's talking about, and she can't deny… it's hot. The way his thick fingers move in and out of her, the way her cunt looks wrapped around them and the sounds… the sounds might just be his favourite, that and the way she moans his name.

“Is this good for you?” he asks with a smirk, knowing the answer anyway. It's cocky, but it's hot. Really fucking hot. All she can manage is a quick nod, her mouth falling open and a moan beginning to slip. He quickly catches it with his mouth, not wanting to be heard by anyone else.

“Rhythm pounding, hearts racing, together we're finding what's next” Matty reads those words again, and he’s unsure whether it is his imagination or whether he actually hears her moans, but he swears he hears them. His hand halts on his cock, and he steadies his breathing, focusing his attention on listening. It rings out again, barely there and oh so quiet but it’s something. His hips fail him again, rising on their own accord until his thrusting into his hand, once and then once more before he wills himself to stop again.

And to focus… to listen.

Ross’s fingers curve again as his thumb finds her clit, applying euphoric figures of eight against the bundle of nerves. His pace accelerates and she really tries to hide the moans, hide her pleasure, but she fails… Miserably. Her back arches again and he fails to cover her mouth with his this time. He thinks the noise she lets out is beautiful, his new-found favourite melody, but he knew if they got caught they’d be screwed. And so his unoccupied hand snaps to her mouth. She giggles against it, a moan tearing from her half way through, muffled by his mouth.

“Shhhh” he says, laughing because she laughs. “You’ve got to be quiet love… we don't want to get caught” despite his words his movements don't falter. His hand loosens from her mouth, allowing her to reply. But it comes out high pitched, a mumble through her teeth, trying her hardest to remain quiet.

“Stop being so good at this and maybe I’ll be able to” she says, eyes fluttering as her voice hitches again. Her words inflate his ego and he smears his mouth to hers, meeting her tongue with such an unfathomable force that her head clatters against the wood. He mumbles a “sorry” into her mouth but she doesn’t seem to care, clenching around his fingers again as her tongue fights against him.

Matty sits in the bathroom next to them, hearing little noises here and there, not able to stop his imagination from running wild, allowing his hand to set an unforgiving pace against his cock. He muffles his own moans with his fist, biting into the knuckles to silence himself. He knew this was wrong, getting off to her noises well aware that it was his best friend drawing those pretty noises from her. He feels conflicted when he doesn't feel jealous… it just turns him on further. Making his hips stutter upwards, pistoning up into his hand.

“Fuck” he moans. He wonders what it would be like to be there with them, he swears he'd deal with just being able to watch, if they’d let him. He wonders if Ross would let him touch her too, if he’d allow him to join in. He thinks… he would. If it's what she wanted.

His pace quickens, the sound of skin colliding against his hardness filling the room. The paper has been discarded to the side, still in his line of vision and when he manages to keep his eyes open, they never leave it. He lowers his fist away from his hand for a second, opening his mouth and letting his spit fall, coating his cock just like he'd imagine she would. The sounds are wetter now and it feels better, so much better.

It feels like she'd feel, wet around him, clenching him, ready to milk him for all his worth. He tightens his grip, hoping she'd be just as tight.

“I want to taste you” Ross murmurs into her mouth, catching the oncoming moans with his own again. He wants to taste her, she loves that. “I need to taste you” he repeats. She loves that even more. She pulls away, lip tucked in between her teeth as she stares at him.

“Want that?” she nods, vigorously.

“You’ve got to stay quiet darling” he says and she nods again.

“I will” she won't.

Her head falls slack against the door with a thump as he drifts down to his knees, he looks up at her through his eyelashes and if that didn’t do it for her there would be something seriously wrong with her.

“Careful sweetheart” sweetheart, she sighs. She giggles a school girlish noise that slips from her lips before she has the chance to stop it when she sees him smirk again. She was never one for pet names, but when they came from his mouth, she loved them. She was obsessed with them, never wanting him to say her name again, only sweetheart and darling and pretty girl.

He fucks up into his hand, continuing to bite into the flesh, although it doesn't silence his grunts as much as he wants it too. He grunts when hears a thud against the wall next to him. What were they up to? He didn't know. But he could imagine. And by god did he imagine.

He settles himself in between her thighs, one hand gripping the back of her calf, drifting up and down once as his eyes land on hers again, wanting to check once more that this was what she wanted. With a singular nod his tongue meets her skin, separating her folds, causing her back to arch again. Her hand snaps to her mouth, covering it completely, the moans falling freely into her palm, dulled out as she bites into the flesh.

Her other hand falls into his hair and she smiles against her palm as his hand finds hers, manoeuvring it until his hair band is out and she can tug against the free strands. His fingers cover hers and he tenses them together, silently letting her know she could do what she wants.

So she does, tugging harshly and likely hurting him when his tongue swipes through her folds again. He moans into her and she moans into her hand. His beard scratches against her skin, a new feeling to her, but she likes it. The dull pain mixed with intense pleasure is a blissfully heady mixture that she’d never experienced before, her previous partners being subpar in comparison to him.

He pulls back briefly to mutter a “taste so good love” before he dives back in, swiping through her folds and collecting her juices just to quench his thirst before he focuses on really giving her the pleasure she deserves.

He finds her clit again, sucking the bud and making her clench around his head. He couldn’t wait to do this without her hand swallowing her moans, to really hear her, hear the noises he was easily pulling from her.

“Oh fuck that’s good” she says, hand slipping from her mouth momentarily before its back there again. He can do better, he knows it and she does too when he smirks up at her, fingers finding her puckered hole again. Two easily thrust in and he loves the way she instantly flutters around them, the pace he sets is unforgiving and it's not long until she’s on the edge.

She pulls away slightly when he sucks at her clit again, tongue swiping through her folds in the next moment. His fingers leave her to grip her hips, holding him to his mouth but she doesn't care, because it's not long until they’re pushing back in. He has her reaching a high she knows she's never reached before. Safe to say he’s ruined her for anyone else, not that was even an option now. She had him now and was never, ever letting him go.

His fingers curve, finding her g-spot and the way he caresses it, it has her shaking beneath him. The way his tongue moves against her is possessive and when she feels his tongue moving, in a very particular way that sure feels like his name, her eyes fall to him.

He's already looking up at her, and her hand falls from her mouth but it still hangs open. She’s his, he’s marking her from within, she’d feel him for days, she was convinced of it and the thought was a welcomed one.

Her mouth falls open and no noise comes from her but she spasms and shakes as his fingers pull from her before pushing back in and curving and hitting her g spot again and again, over and over.

“Fuck ross” she says, although her words are barely formed and end up sounding much more like nonsense. Her fingertips envelope his chin, thumb smoothing over his beard, coated in her wetness. It's a sinful sight, one which a cold shower or two would definitely not fix. Her mouth falls open further and her back arches again. His fingers hook one last time, mouth completely closing round her clit and she breaks. She shakes and he sees her through it, fingers held inside her, caressing the bundle of nerves within her, as he kitten licks at her clit, finally pushing fully against the whole of her as she cums.

“Ross” she moans, a quiet murmur of his name that might be his favourite yet. Accompanied by a shake of her body and the closing of her thighs.

Her hand is still holding his chin gently and when the sensation becomes too much she lightly tugs against it. He obeys, pulling from her and licking his lips clean. She watches as he brings his fingers to his mouth too, cleaning them off with a smirk. Her hand grips his chin. It's her new favourite site.

“You’re good at that” her head falls against the door and she sighs, smiling to herself “really fucking good” her hand slips from his chin. He chuckles at her, standing from her thighs, hand enclosing around her waist. He wanted to kiss her but wasn’t sure she’d like that. But then she's pulling him to her, lips finding his, tongue finding his. He tastes like her and she moans, it's erotic but he loves it.

Her fingertips find his chin again as she pulls back, looking at his beard which was still slightly glistening with her, she chuckles at the site.

“Made a bit of a mess” she laughs and he smiles.

“Good” he murmurs, pressing his lips to hers again, a brief kiss.

“Never gotten head from a guy with a beard before” she admits and he raises his eyebrows.

“Don't want to hear about your ex-boyfriends after I just made you come” he says and it has her raising her eyebrows too.

“Guess I won't tell you how shockingly bad they were in comparison then” she says, turning her head slightly, his lips find her jaw, pressing against it as he mumbles a “oh no… that I want to hear… tell me more”

His hips thrust into his hand once, twice more, before they're sputtering upwards. His cock twitches in his hand, ropes of cum hitting his stomach, he groans a loud, drawn out noise into his bawled up fist.

"Oh fuck…." He can't help but think how she'd take it if she was here, would she let him coat her chest? Would she beg for him to cum down her throat? He shakes the thoughts away, guilty grabbing handfuls of tissue and wiping himself clean.

"For God sake' he says, hastily removing the obscene amount of come from his stomach. He tucks himself back into his trousers, zipping them up, lifting the lid if the toilet and flushing the tissues. He washes his hands and takes in his reflection.

He shakes his head at himself "fuck off" he murmurs, talking to himself.

He shakes a hand through his hair, and splashes his face with water before he leaves the room, taking the paper, folding it up and placing it in his pocket. He sends a text to George explaining that he wasn't feeling too well and heads home.

Her hand drifts down his chest, but he encloses it before she gets the chance to touch him. Her eyes find his and she furrows her eyebrows.

"Your turn" she says and he smiles but shakes his head, placing a simple peck to her lips.

"That's not why I did that love… I wanted to please you" he explains.

"And you did, you really did" she smirks "now I want to return the favour" he pecks her mouth again after that.

"Another time I promise… we should get back" he says and she frowns. Did he not want her?

"Trust me love… I want to, I want you so badly, but if we're gone another minute I fear our little secret won't be so secretive anymore" he says, silencing her mind as if he could read it.

"Okay" she says and smiles at him. His fingertips envelope her chin lightly, bringing her lips to his for a sweet kiss, one which disabled her momentarily.

"Trust me love… I promise we will have another chance… I'd quite like to get between those pretty little thighs of yours again" he says, his voice dropping an octave. It makes her blush deeply.

"Okay" she says coyly, smiling a dopey smile up at him.

"Let's get back, yeah?" She nods at his words leaning up to press another kiss to his lips. He smiles into it and suddenly everything feels different between them but at the same time it's as if nothing has changed at all.

George is somehow none the wiser when they return to the studio, too buried in work to realise how much time had passed. She asks where Matty is and George shrugs explaining that he left a while ago but he wasn't sure where he went. George lifts his phone and sees the message his curly haired friend sent reading it aloud to the pair.

"Hope he's okay" Ross says and George nods, placing his phone down again.

"It's getting late, you should probably head home soon too" George says and both Ross and y/n nod.

"And you?" Yn asks and George smiles.

"I just want to finish this up and then I'll head… you guys go" George says with a smile. Yn smiles back and leans down to hug him and Ross' hand clasps around his before they're leaving.

It's dark outside the dark and a chill runs through her body but it's not long before Ross is wrapping an arm around her frame, warming her instantly.

"I'll walk you home if you like" the air around them feels different now, it's somehow both more comfortable and more exciting. She wants nothing more than to let him walk her home, invite him up to her room and let the night unfold. But Matty is on the forefront of her mind now and she's worried.

"I'd love that…" she hesitates and Ross frowns slightly at her, reading her facial expressions and somehow decoding what she's thinking. She half expects him to sigh, for him to step away from her frame, but her heart swells when he pulls her in tighter. She’s surprised once more at how he seemed to be able to read her mind.

"You want to check on Matty…" his voice trails off and she nods, unsure on what his reaction would be.

"Is that okay?" She asks, one hand gently holding his face. She feels the way his cheeks shift, a smile tugging at the edges of his lips until the crinkles that she loves form. He nods at her. He knows now that on some level, she was his, and he'd do anything to keep her.

"Yeah love, text me when you're home though yeah?" She nods. She watches as an idea seems to pop into his mind, his face lighting up and his smile spreading.

"We have a day off tomorrow…." we have the day off tomorrow, she liked the sound of that. In fact she loved it. They were a we now, or at least in some way.

"We do…." She smiles and he smiles back, just as wide.

"Let me take you on a date" he says.

"Hmm… what's in it for me?" She jokes.

"Oh absolutely nothing… I'm not worth the trouble really" he jokes back, stepping away from her briefly, as if to walk away. She’s quick to grab his arb and pull him back.

"Hey hey hey, where do you think you're going?" She asks, making him chuckle a short laugh.

"Yes I'd love to go on a date with you" she says through a giggle.

"We'll go on a date then…" he says.

"Good"

"Good" he confirms it with a brief kiss before pulling away, she watches as he scrunches his nose up, eyes crinkling at the edges as he does and his lips pursing.

"It's a date then squish" he says and she lightly shoves him, but before he goes too far both hands wrap around her small wrists and he tugs gently. She crashes into his hard chest with a little "oomph" and he looks down at her with a smirk and all thoughts and ideas of scolding him for it disappear.

"I'll make it worth your while" he says, his voice low, it makes her shiver. She blushes, her mouth opens and closes, at a loss for words. He chuckles, the kind of one that's just an exhale through his nostrils and his grip loosens around her wrists.

"Go check on Matthew, text me when you get home and I'll see you tomorrow, 10 work for you?" He asks and she nods.

"Sounds perfect" she watches as he looks both ways down the street and then back over his shoulder and up to the studio, before he turns back to her. No one was around, the street dark and empty. So he leans down and captures her lips in his, in a kiss that completely blows her mind. His soft ones against hers, tongue folding over hers, blissful sighs falling from her and soft groans from him. In those few moments, all that exists is him and them, the world slowing around them like something out of a romance novel.

He pulls back and all she can do is nod and she chases his lips with hers. It makes him laugh and she slowly opens her eyes to see him again.

"Wow… that was some kiss"

"You should go… see if Healy is okay" Ross says and she nods, leaning up for one last kiss.

'Dream about me' he says against her mouth, their lips momentarily separated and she nods before his move against hers again.

"As long as you dream about me…" she says, pulling back until their lips just graze.

"I have every day since I met you"

Taglist: @scooby-doodoo @thereisaplaceintheheart @promocodesorry75 @eaglestar31 @thefrontofmymind @fallingforel @partoftheairforce @procrastinatinglikeapro @poisonmedaddy13 @xthe1975 @all-things-fic @jstbeeingme @rossgirly @juliardk @you-muppet @moodyyyychickx @k4tie75 @insidemymind19 @zzzhealy @maybeiwouldlikeyou @at-her-very-foreign @not-alien-girl-v @sinarainbows @friedlandblog @momentum2023 @youlooklikeshitandyousmellabit @Inhalerbea (add yourself using the link in my bio 😊, those with a line through are the ones i couldn’t tag)

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wowbright · 6 months

Text

Fic: Alone

Fandom/pairing: Glee, Kurt/Blaine

Event: december klaine fanworks challenge 2023

Words: ~1,200 words

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Soon after returning from his mission, Blaine gets to do the thing he’s been looking forward to the most.

Notes: This is part of my Mormon!Klaine universe. It takes place after Out of Eden, which I am still in the process of posting to AO3.

“Alone. Finally. Now I don’t have to die from a fatal case of sexual frustration,” Blaine said, tugging at Kurt’s top button. He appreciated the effort his family had made to welcome him back from his mission, but this—this was the thing he’d been looking forward to most.

“Slow down, cowboy. I'd like to keep this shirt in one piece.”

Blaine tried, but between the sounds Kurt made as Blaine kissed him beneath his ear and the way the adrenaline was making Blaine’s hands shake, he wasn't sure how to get Kurt's clothes off without tearing them.

“Here.” Kurt rolled out from under Blaine and stood at the side of the bed, his fingers making easy work of the buttons. “Why don't you watch?”

The smirk on Kurt's face—it was so hot and so unfair. He knew what this was doing to Blaine, lighting all his nerves up like fireworks on the German new year. “Like our first time?” Blaine said, trying to play it cool but his voice cracking on the vowels.

Kurt nodded sweetly as he peeled his overshirt off to reveal the garment top beneath. “Sometimes, the best presents are the ones that are unwrapped for you.”

The words sparked Blaine into action. He could take care of his own clothes while he watched Kurt—because it wasn't like he was going to stop watching Kurt, like he would miss the way the pale expanse of Kurt’s belly and chest were revealed as he pulled his garment top off over his head—but maybe he could be a gift for Kurt, too. Oh, how he wanted to be—to unfold himself completely and let Kurt take what he could for pleasure.

So Blaine echoed his lover’s moves, dispensing of his layers in the same order, enjoying the hungry way in which Kurt watched the revealing, until they both had nothing left to shimmy off.

“I wasn't sure if you'd still be wearing your garments,” Blaine said as he stacked his garment bottom with as much respect as his trembling hands could manage on top of their pile of discarded clothes.

Kurt arched an eyebrow as he climbed back onto the bed. “But you could see them through my clothes, couldn't you? I mean, the top, at least.”

“Yeah. I meant, I wasn’t sure before I saw you. I thought, maybe you'd stopped.”

Which was the stupidest thing Blaine could have possibly said, because before Blaine had spoken them, Kurt was in the process of crawling on top of him and Blaine was pretty sure that the next thing he'd been planning to do was sandwich their bodies together, and oh, Blaine wanted to feel that, it had been so long since he'd felt Kurt's skin and heat and the heaviness of his arousal in that unfettered way. The months he'd spent imagining this moment, recreating their touches in his mind, longing for all the things he had ever done with Kurt and for things they hadn't yet done—but now, Kurt stopped mid-air, hovering over Blaine on all fours in a way that both tantalized and tortured him. “Would that have bothered you?” Kurt said softly—not nervous, not fearful of being judged, but full of concern only for Blaine’s feelings.

Blaine shook his head. “I love you. Garments or no garments, church or no church. I love you because …” and that was a stupid way to start a sentence, because no words existed in the English language—or the German one, for that matter—to explain love. All he knew was that it was good, and holy, and that God smiled every time Blaine said those three words to Kurt in any language. “… because I love you. Because you’re my person.”

Kurt smiled. It felt like the light of a thousand heavens. “Well,” he said, his expression shifting toward the sly, “I don't wear garments all the time. Sometimes I'm practically naked under my clothing. Sometimes all I wear is a pair of red bikini briefs.”

Blaine groaned audibly at the image. His dick grew heavier against his belly. Kurt put his hand around it, sizing it up with the gentle appreciation of a connoisseur. “You like that?”

“You know I do, Kurt. Everything about you—”

But he couldn't finish, because Kurt's hand was moving on him now, skin against skin, flesh becoming one with flesh. “Only red bikini briefs? Or would other colors do it for you too?” Kurt teased. “Because I have a whole collection in my suitcase. Maybe I could model them sometime.”

“Kurt,” Blaine groaned, and then he ran out of words. He kissed Kurt—on the neck and on the mouth and on that spot right below his ear until Kurt was as desperate as Blaine.

“I’ve thought about this so much,” Kurt moaned as Blaine worked his kisses down Kurt’s belly. “Your mouth, Blaine. You have no idea what it does to me.”

Blaine had some idea. Kurt was hard and leaking, and when Blaine tongued the tip, Kurt gasped.

“It makes me come, Blaine. Thinking about you. I’ve thought about you in so many ways. I want—”

But now it was time for Kurt to lose his language. Blaine took him into his mouth and sucked, lovingly and desperately. He was out of practice, and his jaw might regret this later, but—

Kurt jerked out of his mouth. “Not so fast. I get my just rewards, too.” He flipped Blaine onto his side and did something that reminded Blaine of a somersault and suddenly Kurt was back in his mouth but he was inside Kurt's mouth, too, everything hot and wet and oh, oh, oh God, Kurt was making sounds—deep, guttural, pleasured sounds like having Blaine inside his mouth was the better end of the bargain—and they vibrated into Blaine and through him and Blaine sucked like his life depended on it, clenched his fingers into Kurt’s buttocks and pulled him as deep as Blaine’s mouth and inexperienced throat would allow. And he couldn’t say I love you but he could show Kurt, he could show—

Kurt arched into Blaine, his body stiff with pleasure, and he grunted around Blaine’s penis as he came and that was so hot—the sound of Kurt and the flood of semen that was almost too much for Blaine to swallow, and oh Blaine was so close to gone, and he curled his fingers through Kurt’s hair and tried to guide him off, but Kurt refused to budge, just kept sucking on Blaine like his life depended on it, and Blaine had no choice but to let go.

“So,” Kurt said a few minutes later, when they’d wiped their mouths and caught their breath and kissed and kissed and kissed, tasting themselves on each other’s tongues, “was it worth the wait?”

“Um, definitely.” Blaine giggled. “But I don’t think we should wait that long ever again.”

“Good,” said Kurt, rolling half on top of Blaine and looking him in the eye. “So maybe a snack, a shower, and a fashion show courtesy of the underwear collection in my suitcase, and you’ll be ready for round two?”

Blaine felt his arousal stirring again. “That’s an awfully long list. Maybe we skip straight to the fashion show?”

#let me know if you spot any out of place words because spouse wandered in chatty in the middle of me posting w/dication on #december klaine challenge 2023 #day 2: bikini #mormon!klaine #wowbright writes fic #klaine fic #klaine fanfic #klaine fanfiction

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spacecowboyhotch · 1 year

Text

Blue Scoops: Chapter 3

summary: sometimes others are the only ones who can see our purpose.

pairing: eventual f!reader x javier peña, chucho peña

contents: 18+/nsfw/minors dni, food mention, depression, grief, brief mentions of drugs/substance abuse

WC: 2.2k

AN: happy blue scoops day! (yes im early but i was just too excited). thank you thank you for the patient wait for this chapter. as the end of the semester approaches I'm hoping to be able to stick to posting a new chapter every 10th of the month as ended but i appreciate everyone's understanding. we are a bit farther away from blue and javi meeting than i anticipated, but as i was writing this chapter, the importance of blue and chucho's bond really stood out to me. her allowing chucho into her heart is what makes her relationship with javi possible and its important to take time to develop it.

chapter 2 | series masterlist | misc. masterlist

You’ve memorized every single word of the business card that Chucho’s given you. You’ve traced the letters of his name and ran your finger over the shiny golden cow silhouette that sits above his name.

Chucho Peña. Little Cattle Farm. 956-458-2384.

Your hand has hovered over the landline more times than you can remember. You aren’t sure of the reason for your hesitation– you crave that warm feeling you had when Chucho sat in your kitchen, smiling and talking as if he had no better place to be. And he’d made it clear that you’re welcome to call him at any time, that he was waiting for you. But, perhaps your nervous system outweighs your heart, remembering the emptiness that followed. Those alarms of self-preservation blare loudly, identifying even the potential similarity between your relationship with Chucho and your grandfather as a threat.

Has your heart not been fractured enough? Has the grief not settled itself deep enough? Has it not swallowed you whole and changed you so much that you left the only love left in this world for you?

The battle takes a week.

Back and forth, many internal talks with yourself. Bargaining, reasoning, crying. In the end, you somehow convince your brain to believe that you’re doing this for him. That he said you owed him dinner and who are you to argue with a man who’s been doing you and your family repeated favors for years now? Your hand shakes as it hovers over the phone, trembling so violently when you start to push the buttons that you have to start over a few times. It feels dramatic– it's a simple phone call. But, it holds so much promise, it opens another door that you were sure you never wanted to open again. The line rings and rings and rings and you’re just about to hang up when someone picks up the phone.

“Peña.”

“Hey, um, Chucho. It’s me. Blue, I mean, the woman from the house that you take care of. Are you free for dinner anytime soon?” You cringe at the shaky sound of your voice, waiting for his reply.

He chuckles at the way your words rush out, “Sure, mija, how’s Saturday?”

“Saturday’s good.”

He gives you directions from your house to the ranch and bids you goodbye. Saturday comes quickly and despite the nerves that invade your stomach, there’s an excitement in you. The road that you’re winding down slowly but surely crumbles beneath your tires, turning from a smooth road to bumpy gravel to dirt. As it does you see miles of green fields and buildings in different various states of condition. All of it is fenced in, and in the distance, you see the river.

Chucho’s waiting for you on the porch and to your surprise, he scoops you into a hug that is brief but tight enough to convey just how happy he is to see you. Though, if the hug wasn’t enough of an indicator then maybe his smile is. He guides you inside, giving you a quick walk down the hall to show you the bathroom before he leads you back to the front of the house. The living room and kitchen are separated by a small dining space that is a round table and four chairs. Fit for a family.

He gestures, “What’s mine is yours. I haven’t cooked much in a long time, hope there’s no cobwebs.”

You chuckle, shaking your head, “Nothing a little soap and water can’t fix. You go sit, I’ll take care of things here.”

With those words, Chucho leaves you to it, going to putter around the house.

You had decided on roast chicken when you’d gone to the store. You went as soon as you hung up the phone with Chucho, knowing that if you’d given yourself any more time to think about this dinner you’d cancel and avoid him. It would drive you to do what you’ve already done, leaving this place behind. Except this time there would be nowhere to go. Nowhere with even the traces of those that once loved.

Once you’ve got a soap mixture of water and an all-purpose cleaner on one side of the porcelain sink, you give everything a quick cleaning. It’s a practiced routine– cleanest to dirtiest– starting with an array of dishes you’ll need, the counters, the stove. There’s not much grim or grease on anything, just a light layer of dust.

This recipe is reminiscent, its muscle memory, and though it forcibly reminds you of your grandfather, you attempt to find comfort in it. It's one of the first things he’d ever taught you to make. As you cut fresh herbs, rosemary, thyme, and parsley, the woodsy smell takes you back to that memory. You see yourself, small, no older than 10, standing at the counter. Your grandfather’s hands guide your own as you slowly chop. It's easy for you to get lost in the past with the ease of your hand, mixing the herbs into butter, spatchcocking the chicken like its second nature.

For the first time in a long time, you feel secureenough to sit in that memory because you’re not alone. You’re with Chucho and the last time you’d been together was the easiest moment of your life since your grandfather passed.

But sit in it you do as you take your time. You notice the smile on your grandfather’s face as he watched you grate your first clove or garlic, the patience in his tone as you got distracted slathering the chicken with the butter mixture. The pride in the sit of his shoulders as you removed the perfectly cooked chicken from the oven, and plated everything yourself at much insistence. How it seemed both your hearts swelled when you sat down at the dinner table beside him. “Dinner’s ready,” You murmur as you do the same in the coziness of Chucho’s kitchen.

“Thank you for this, looks wonderful. Smells even better,” Chucho says with a smile as he joins you from the living.

“It’s no problem at all— but don’t give me credit just yet, you’ve gotta taste it,” You tease as you dole out servings of chicken and potatoes and veggies to the both of you.

By the way his eyes widen after the first bite, it’s safe to say he thinks it tastes as good as it smells.

After lulling into a relaxed silence, Chucho asks, “So, what’d you do before making your way down here?”

“I’m a baker. Was a baker. Want to be a baker, I don’t know,” You give him a sheepish smile before looking down at your plate.

“This isn’t a test, mija, just two people talking. You can relax. What do you plan to do here?”

You aren’t sure why you feel like you owe him an explanation. Maybe because you’re searching for one yourself. It's mortifying to tell someone that you’ve uprooted your comfortable life for the unknown without reasoning. There is reasoning beyond your simple words to Oliver– buried and unmoving–but the proper words escape you, sat just on the tip of your tongue.

You try again, saying, “I hope to get a job at a bakery but if not…I’m not really sure. There’s not much purpose in my life right now.”

“Everybody’s got purpose,” He insists.

You shrug, not completely convinced. What was your purpose right now? To be swallowed whole by grief and loneliness? To leave the only love you’ve ever known? To live the rest of your days living by yourself in your grandparents’ home, melting in the sweltering Texas heat?

There are worse things. You could be sick like your father, finding life bearable only with a sweet high coursing through your veins. You could’ve never known love. You could be dead. But none of that is truly purpose— the more you think about it the less you believe you’ve ever had one.

“I don’t know, I’m not so sure,” You muse softly, your throat growing slightly thick.

Chucho hears the change in your tone, looking over at you with concern, “Sometimes others are the only ones who can see our purpose.”

You narrow your eyes at him skeptically, “Let me guess, you think you can see mine.”

“Crystal clear,” He says simply, his expression completely deadpan before he takes another bite of his food.

You don’t ask him what it is. Your gut tells you he wouldn’t tell you even if you beg. You’re not sure you’re prepared to know anyways.

Sometimes others are the only ones who can see our purpose.

As the weeks pass, you and Chucho find a rhythm in your companionship. He makes sure to have the tea you like in his cabinet and to ask about your day. You ask him about the ranch, and catalog the old movies and shows he watches on his tiny little box tv. He tells you a little bit about the town and the activities here which are lots of block parties and bingo— not your scene. There’s a lot of silence and without the spin of a record, you can get in your head, though most of the time you can lose yourself in the cooking. Eventually, you build up the courage to ask him about bringing some music when you finish dinner one night.

“The next time I’m here…do you mind if I bring my record player? It’s just jazz, nothing distasteful,” You add quickly, hoping it’ll make your odds better.

He waves you off, before taking the plate you’re offering, “Bring whatever you’d like, mija.”

Things are starting to feel…well they’re starting to feel like home.

****

It’s just a couple of weeks later that with the help of Chucho’s badgering, you build up the courage to go into one of the bakeries you’d visited in town before. Sam’s Bakery felt oddly familiar when you stepped inside. It was small, cozy, and had the typical Southern love for white wood finishes all around. There were pops of color everywhere, giving it an almost retro look. The selection of treats was small, but that didn’t bother you, it just meant that they were focused on a craft, pouring their hearts into a curated menu. It’s what you prefer instead of the high-paced, stressed-out reality that was working for a well-known bakery that couldn’t pick a specialty– like the one at home.

Jo—the owner—is tall and lanky, her blonde hair pulled up into a bun just like it was the first time you’d walked in. When you walk up to the counter and practically beg for the job, you see something glimmer in her storm colored eyes.

“I can do you one better. What do you think of this place? Its runnable isn’t it?” She gestures dramatically to the space around her.

“Runnable?” You say lamely, brows furrowed in confusion.

Jo’s grin just widens, eyes brimming with mirth, “Why don’t you flip that open sign to close and we can talk about it.”

When you look to the door for the sign, you realize that you’re the only one here. Slowly, you do as she says, but not without voice your continued confusion, “I’m not sure I understand.”

“Well, Celia and I have been thinking for a long time about packing up and living out on the road. We’re not getting any younger. But I’ll only give you the spiel if you’re open to being the owner and running this place yourself.”

“The spiel?” You squeak out.

“Inticied?”

Even though the idea is terrifying, you find yourself nodding. Is she— she couldn’t be implying that she wants to sell you this bakery? You? A woman off the street that she’s known for all of 5 minutes. A woman who moved to destroy any chances of her past life flourishing. Well— perhaps that is the kind of woman who might need to take a chance no matter how fearful.

She clasps her hands together, raising her brows, “I knew you would want to hear it. I can just see something in you, I could tell the first time you walked in.”

You sit in Jo’s office over coffee and sweets, hearing her out and you see some of yourself reflected in her words. She loves the bakery but there’s something else out there for her. She offers you a cigarette as the two of you go back and forth, and you decline, watching as she gracefully lights one for herself.

It all happens really slowly— or least it feels like it does. The words pour out of her thick like syrup, your brain going fuzzy as you listen. Could you really? Could you do this on your own? Have you ever done anything on your own? Leaving. Moving here.

“And you’re sure?”

“About getting out of here? Hell yeah. We’ve been here all our lives,” She gestures around the room, the trail of smoke from her cigarette wafting through the air.

“No, about me. You’re sure?”

Her eyes warm despite their cool color, and she places a hand over yours, squeezing it gently, “There’s something about you Blue that just fits here. I have a feeling you were made for it. I swear, I knew it as soon as you walked in the door, call it god or the universe or whatever. But, I knew.”

“What if I’m not?”

“You are.”

Sometimes others are the only ones who can see our purpose.

> chapter 4

blue scoops taglist: @lesbianhotch, @honeybrowne, @jazzelsaur, @mccn-bcys, @jxvipike, @thevoiceinyourheadx, @hotchs-bitch, @laurensprentiss, @pedrito-friskito, @lola766, @amb11, @vanemando15, @emilianamason, @iamskyereads, @welcometostayingawake, @alpaca-swimsuit

#javier peña x fem!reader #fem!reader x javier peña #javier peña x reader #f!reader x javier peña #blue x javier peña #javier peña fanfiction #narcos fanfiction #arson writes narcos #not sfw #blue scoops

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tumbledfreckles · 3 years

Text

Glad

Look, things escalated once I saw a post about in the name of fairness and equality, having a shirtless Lily Evans July, to go along with shirtless James Potter May (wasn’t that a cracker). I went off and wrote something, only to find my colleagues had smartly decided to move it August, give we’ve already got the @jilychallenge going on this month. But I’m all about instant gratification, so seeing I was late to shirtless JP, let me be early to shirtless LE. I doubt it’ll be my only entry, regardless.

"Does it hurt?"

Lily shook her head, biting down on her bottom lip to keep from wincing or crying out, as pain tore through her back with each of the shuddering breath.

"Can I see?"

James’ hand hovered in the region of her shoulder, she could see out of the corner of her eye. He hesitated, waiting for permission.

"I'm fine." The words ground out of her with another excruciating shake of her head.

"Evans." His fingers brushed her top, withdrawing the second she flinched, a sharp hiss escaping before she could stop it. "You're not fine."

"I'm okay." Lily turned as she spoke, not wanting her back to him, not wanting to let him keep seeing what had to be the grossest, nastiest thing he'd ever seen. Her eyes met his, surprised to see frustration where she'd expected pity, or worse, disgust.

"Let me help you."

She stared at him, long moments, until the burning pain in the wound was worse than the burn of desire she felt around him, and she gave up on the idea of appearing brave and fierce and worthy.

James’ touch was hesitant, even after she nodded. He didn't seem to know where to start. A gentle caress along the torn and exposed muscle of her shoulder blade drew a groan, a firmer tug at the frayed fabric of her shirt a more strangled, stricken yelp.

"Shit, sorry," he was instantly apologetic. Lily snuck a look over her one intact shoulder, to see James had stepped back, face pale, hand running through his messy locks. He looked nervous, uncertain. Like he knew the answer, but didn't care for the result.

"What is it?" Her voice was husky with pain and fatigue. She wasn't sure how she hadn't passed out yet.

James sighed, looked away, looked back. He grimaced, finally spoke. "It's your shirt. It's stuck, from the," he paused, swallowed, "from the blood."

"Okay," Lily nodded slowly.

He could see she didn't understand. "It has to come off."

"My shirt?"

"Yeah," James sighed, his shoulders dropping. "Your shirt. It has to come off."

"Oh." Eventually, effortfully, her fingers moved to comply. A whimper escaped soon after. "I can't."

He blinked at her. "What?"

"My shirt. I can't get it off." She was horrified to find her eyes pricking.

"Oh." A tick flicked across his jaw as James processed. "Do you want me to -"

"If you don’t-”

“I don’t”

“Ta." Her gaze went to the floor as he stepped closer, reaching for the top button. He clearly tried not to touch her. An absolute failed mission. Warm fingers brushed her throat, her chest, knuckles soft against her breast, her stomach. It wasn't until she felt his hand tremble as he pulled one side of the shirt away, exposing her to his view, that her eyes flew back to his face.

James wasn't looking at her. Not directly at least. Maybe somewhere over her shoulder, possibly near her ear. Lily was fascinated to see a tinge in his cheeks, a flush in his neck. Lips pressed in concentration, he didn't even seem to be breathing. Long lashes hid a storm of hazel behind his wire framed glasses as he work the material towards her shoulders, and paused.

"I'll have to rip it."

She jumped, immediately regretting it as a fresh wave of nausea swept through with the blinding pain. "What?"

"Your shirt," he gestured uselessly.

"My shirt?"

"I can't get it down your arm. Unless you can roll that shoulder," he raised an eyebrow, "I'm going to have to rip your shirt off."

"All your wildest dreams come true, huh, Potter?" Lily couldn't help the quip, despite the pain, and in the moment the grin split across James face, it was worth it.

"Not quite the way I pictured this, believe me," James shook his head as Lily snorted, his face growing somber before she was ready for that one moment of lightness to be over. His hands hovered over a seam. "Ready?"

Lily curls her hands into fists, feeling her nails cut into her palms. "Do it."

Despite her best efforts, a low moan escaped for her throat, a harsh breath as James pulled the material away. Audible, so loud it would have been embarrassing if she'd had the capacity to care, panting came next as he painstakingly peeled it from where it stuck to her skin. So all consumed by her agony, she barely had time to process that she was now shirtless before him.

"I'm sorry." He leant so close, she felt his breath on her now bare, now exposed neck.

"It's okay. Keep going."

"Here." She felt James’ hand reached around her, take hold of hers. He prised her fingers apart, entwining them with his own. "Hold tight."

Lily squeezed gratefully. Probably too tightly, but James gave no indication he minded if she broke any of his bones, as he knitted her back together. The burn of torn flesh was replaced slowly but surely with just the heat of his touch as he healed.

Finally, but all too soon, he was done. But the feel of his rough, calloused fingertips remained. Her skin tingled with awareness. James' hand slid across her now smooth shoulder, catching on her bra strap. She thanked the high heavens it was one of her better ones, having been out for dinner with the girls when she was summoned to the battlefield.

"Alright, Evans?" His voice was soft as he trailed along the lace edge to her collar bone, stopping at the nape of her neck.

Lily leant back, until his shirt brushed against her bare skin. "Much better, thanks." She kept going, leaning her weight onto him, sinking into his warmth. "I was stupid."

"Taunting Lestrange may not have been your best move," James agreed, cheek to hers. His arm stole around her waist, causing her to gasp at the novel feel of his forearm against her stomach. Not wanting him to read her sound of surprise for anything less than pleasure, her own arm covered his, spanning the corded muscles.

Bold from adrenaline, left over from the battle, high of the thrill of surviving another night, she turned her head, until her lips caught his cheek. "Thank you for hauling me out of there."

He nuzzled against her. "You're welcome."

"And thank you for healing me." Her lips landed on the corner of his mouth this time.

"Of course."

"But mostly," she twisted in his arms, hand curling up into his hair, slipping on the unruly strands. "Thanks for hitting that bastard for me when I couldn't."

"Always."

Lily's lips covered his, a perfect fit, like she'd long suspected they would. She heard his hum of pleasure as their mouths moved together for the first time, and all the last bits of tension from the horrible night slipped away. It might have been his kiss, it might have been her relief at their escape, but all of a sudden it didn't matter why her shirt had ended up in tatters on the ground. She was just really glad it had.

#jily #jily fic #jily fanfiction #shirtless lily evans august #james potter #lily evans #post hogwarts jily #taking back always #freckles writes #bit of a different tone #I know #the next one will be lighter #maybe

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ghostbustermelanieking · 3 years

Note

7 or 11 jmart for the kiss prompts??

thank you so much for the prompt!! asdfgghjkll i swear i didn't mean to post a post 200 separation fic on the same day as you (i was actually working on this last night).

this is a version of the scenario i wrote in love letters where martin and jon are separated after 200. but there is absolutely no need to read love letters to understand this.

warning for discussion of the panopticon scene in 200, and for a moment of jon wishing for the Eye to return (limited to the first section).

7. “I’ve missed you” kiss & 11. “I almost lost you” kiss

Waking up without Martin almost feels like dying all over again. That horrible moment where Jon opens his eyes in the hospital, on the other side, and doesn't see Martin… he'd take being stabbed a dozen times over this.

When he wakes up and finds Martin gone, he thinks he's lost him. That Martin's died, that he's trapped on the other side buried in rubble, dead because of Jon, and Jon's survived somehow when he really doesn't deserve to… or that Martin's alive, maybe, just maybe, but he's somewhere else entirely. One of the other worlds Annabelle spoke of, or their original world—which maybe Jon should hope for; Martin would have the others, assuming they survived, and he'd be safe from the fears, safe from whatever horrible things they've unleashed on this world with one quick motion of a knife.

Jon should hope for this, that Martin is safe and that he has the others. But he's selfish, and they promised together, and he misses Martin with everything in him.

He's at a hospital in London, he figures out eventually. The hospital closest to where the Magnus Institute was, in another world. The nurse reports that they found him on the site where Millbank Prison used to be, and isn't that weird? And that they found him there alone. (Jon's throat closes up at that, his eyes stinging, and he pretends he's tired so the nurse will leave, so he can cry in peace.) Martin wasn't with him. Martin didn't come through.

But after a few days lying in the hospital with nothing but his thoughts, nothing else to do, Jon starts to question this. They have no idea how this all works, the tapes and the Web and the crack between the worlds… Surely he wasn't the only one to come through. Annabelle Cane thought she'd come through or die, and if Jon came through… and they didn't find her where they found Jon, either. (Of course, maybe Annabelle ran off before Jon was ever found, but somehow Jon suspects she wouldn’t. She strikes him as someone who likes to be at the center of things.)

If there's a possibility that Annabelle came through, and landed somewhere differently than Jon, then there is a possibility that Martin came through, too. That he is somewhere, here, and maybe he is alive.

It's a small possibility. But Jon clings to it with everything in him.

He can't Look for Martin ( or for Annabelle, really). The Eye is gone. If it is here in this world, it has left him. Jon tries to be grateful for this, and a part of him is—he's been reaching for humanity for so long, all while sinking further and further into something he never wanted, he should be beyond grateful that it's gone, that he is alive and can live, without fading, somewhere else. (Although a part of him insists it doesn't matter if Jon hasn't made it.) But after so long with the Eye as a captor, a safety net, a part of him he thought he couldn't cut away… trying to live without it is strange. It hovers like a phantom limb, something severed by the gaping scar in his chest. He keeps reaching for it, for the horrible comfort of Knowing, and he hates it, but he wants it back deeply. Wants it because he knows he could find Martin with it, just maybe. He keeps thinking, Give it back, just for a moment. Thinks, I'll use it to find Martin and then I'll let go, I won't ever again, I hate it but I need it, I NEED to find him…

It doesn't come back. If Jon is ever going to find Martin, he'll need to do it on his own.

He asks all the nurses and staff, anyone he comes in contact with, if they've ever met a Martin Blackwood. Asks if there's anyone in his files with that name, or a name like it, begs the nurses to please look around for anyone like that. No luck there. Jon asks for a phone book and gets an odd look; he guesses phone books are out of fashion in this 2018, too. He can't do much while he's in the hospital, and he's about to give up hope on making any progress until he's been discharged.

But then he manages to get a hold of a laptop. After days of asking, a nurse offers to lend him one, if he promises to keep it quiet, and not to exert himself.

Jon searches the Internet for hours. There are dozens of Martin Blackwoods, actually, more than he ever could've guessed, and none of them seem to be Martin. He has to consider the fact that Martin may not have existed here—just like Jon didn't exist here, or doesn't seem to have, before they woke up. Which will make it nearly impossible to find him using the Internet—using anything, until Martin has been here long enough to establish a paper trail—if Martin was ever even here in the first place…

Desperation. Panic. Jon's last resort is to write a letter. To write down every single thing he's wanted to say to Martin, the things in his head when he woke up, the things in his head when he realized Martin wasn't here. He writes it all, says the things he knows only Martin would know, so Martin will know it's him if he ever reads it. And then he spreads it across the Internet. Posts it every single place he can think of. Every social media site. A lot of forums that are frequently visited. Comments on blogs he thinks Martin might read. Anywhere he can think of. He even prints off copies and mails them to every address he can think of that Martin might be at: his Prentiss flat, his post-Prentiss flat, his mum's care home, Upton House, the safehouse. He puts his real name on it, at the very top, and Martin's, hoping that if Martin is searching on the Internet, it might come up…

Jon's desperate. He'll try anything, any desperate, silly scheme like spreading a love note all over the Internet. Anything to get Martin back.

By the time Jon leaves the hospital, his letter has gone viral. Plastered all over the place. There's people picking it apart, speculating about whether it's real, calling it an excellent work of fiction, speculating it's all a joke. There's even some commentary from other Jonathan Simses and Martin Blackwoods, swearing it's of no relation to them.

None of it is what Jon needs. He checks every iteration obsessively: every comment, repost, retweet. None of it is Martin. None of them are Martin.

He's still looking. Every single day, he looks, in places beside his letter and its hundred iterations. He searches as far as he can, in every record he can think of. He tries to find places in London that he and Martin frequented—the ones he can find. He even goes back to the Institute, or where it should be. It isn't there, of course. Probably never was. Jon can't decide whether to be relieved or disappointed.

It's all he can do, to look and to keep hoping. It's all he can do.

It's hard, being alone again, after so long always being at Martin's side… They'd craved space sometimes, and they'd had it, he supposes, but now… Weeks without Martin, one, two, three weeks, and it's excruciating. Jon had said together at the end, he'd promised , and he'd tried so hard to believe it, and now he's here, impossibly, alone.

He has nightmares almost every night. Nightmares of the Panopticon and the end of the world, the ritual, words forced up through his throat—being at the center of the Eye, at the center of the world with Jonah Magnus at his feet and Martin dying in his arms. Martin forcing the knife into his chest. Jon hasn't dreamed of anything but the statements of others for so long, and he'd thought he missed it, but now… He wakes up almost every night shaking and crying, reaching for Martin. Like clockwork. He thinks he'd do anything for a dream that isn't his, a dream that's not an endless reminder of what he's done.

He checks the forums. He searches in familiar places. He lies in bed and thinks of Martin, tries to look for Martin, silently begs for help from anyone who might be listening (the Web, the Eye, anyone). Nothing works. Nothing.

The reminders come like clockwork: Jon might be looking for no one, might be shouting out to someone who isn't there. Martin might be dead. It might be too late to get him back.

Three weeks in, Jon finds a comment on the original forum, the original place he posted the letter on that first day. A comment from an m.blackwood .

Jon reads it with his heart in his throat. Trembling with hope. Unable to hope completely. There's a dozen different things it could be besides him.

The comment says I thought you were dead. It says, I'm sorry. It says, I love you, says, I'm coming.

Jon's chin trembles, his eyes stinging. He fumbles at the keyboard with shaking fingers to instant-message m.blackwood, types out his address immediately, without thinking. (He has to type it out three times before he gets it right, his hands are shaking so hard.) And after that, I miss you. Even though he said it in the letter, even though it might not be Martin—it could be someone else fucking with him, a troll or whatever it's called; it could be the Web or the Stranger, luring him into a trap. But Jon doesn't care. He doesn't care. If there's any chance, any chance it's Martin…

The reply comes a few minutes later: I'm coming. I'm so sorry. I miss you too. I'm coming right now. And Jon wipes his eyes, presses his face into his hands, and allows himself to hope.

An hour and a half later, someone is buzzing for his flat. Jon runs so fast to the door that he almost slips and falls in the hall, hits the button with entirely too much force and breathes, " Martin? " into the intercom.

Silence for a moment, long enough that Jon starts to wonder if this is just some random person he's practically sobbing down the line at. And then a voice answers, tear-choked: "Jon?"

Jon nearly collapses with the weight of this voice, Martin's voice. He leans hard against the wall, his eyes burning, and says, "Martin, I-I'm buzzing you in," wiping his eyes frantically.

He doesn't move from the door, stays leaning against the wall like it is the only thing keeping him up, until he hears a tentative knock on the other end. And then he's yanking it open, as hard as he can, and on the other side is Martin. Not something pretending to be Martin, not another Martin Blackwood, but his Martin. His Martin, standing there with the faded marks of bruising, his left arm in a cast and a new scar across his forehead, tears pooling in his eyes. Martin. Jon can't breathe for a moment, can't move, can't go to Martin because it doesn't feel real, none of it.

And then Martin's saying, "Jon?" and bursting into harsh, frantic sobs. And Jon's rushing forward. He's rushing forward and letting Martin collapse in his arms, gripping Martin tightly, his fingernails digging into Martin's shoulders, his face pressed into Martin's neck. He's trying to hold on without squeezing or holding too tight, in case Martin's hurt worse than he knows—he's saying Martin's name over and over again, a senseless litany into Martin's skin: Martin, Martin. He's crying, too, hot tears dotting the fabric of Martin's shirt. He's burrowing as close as he can, pulling Martin into him, desperate to feel every part of him—it's him, he's here, it's Martin, they haven't lost each other.

Martin's holding on just as tightly, trembling in Jon's arms where they've sunk to the ground, right in Jon's doorway. He's crying so hard, it's difficult to understand what he's saying, but eventually Jon begins to make it out. He's saying I'm so sorry. Again and again, muffled into Jon's hair: I'm so sorry.

"No," Jon says, suddenly desperate. " Martin. No." He pulls back to look Martin in the eye, to try and wipe the tears off of Martin's face (even though he is crying, too). Leans up to press a kiss against Martin's forehead. "Martin, please, please… p-please don't apologize, please…"

"I killed you," Martin chokes out, his eyes shut, his dark lashes wet against his cheeks. "I killed you, Jon, I hurt you, a-and I… I thought you were dead, wh-when I woke up here, w-without you, I thought I'd never see you again, because of me… "

"I thought I'd lost you, " Jon says, quietly, through his own tears. He wipes the tears from Martin's face again and again. "A-and it really would've been my fault, because I lied to you, I-I was the reason you were up there… Martin, please. "

" Jon. " Martin tugs him a little closer, burrows closer still, his face pressed into the juncture between Jon's shoulder and his neck.

"It's okay." Jon kisses Martin's forehead again, his temple, his cheek, the top of his head. "Martin. Martin, it's—you're here, it can all be okay now…"

Martin leans up abruptly to catch Jon's mouth with his. It's salty and lingering and desperate, every single thing Jon has felt in these long horrible days without Martin, every single kiss he wanted to give Martin while he was gone. Jon sinks into it, gripping Martin as tightly as he can, gripping onto his shirt, kissing Martin fiercely, with the panicked relief of being alive, of finding each other again.

Even when the kiss finishes, they don't let go. They stay there, clinging to each other in the doorway, leaning against Jon's open door. Martin's still crying, still trembling in Jon's arms; he says, I missed you too, I missed you so much; Jon says, Martin, I missed you every single day. Every single moment.

Martin whispers I love you against Jon's hair. Saying it back is as easy as breathing.

#tma fic #mag 200 #jonmartin #the magnus archives #post 200 #i wrote this #i might write more fics in this specific 200 scenario. like especially if i wanna write something where they talk things out

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svnflowervol666 · 3 years

Text

Pinky Promise (dad!Harry)

Word Count: 2.1k

Summary: Harry introduces a certain special someone to the newest addition of his family.

Author’s Note: Surprise! Here’s some boy dad!Harry on this fine week night. I feel like Harry is almost always written as as girl dad (guilty as charged tho), so I wanted to show the boys some love. I didn’t really call this one an ‘x reader,’ because this one’s mostly about Harry and his bub, but the missus is still there, don’t worry! I hope you enjoy and as always, feedback of any kind, likes and especially reblogs are super helpful to keep me motivated to post more. Take care and TPWK.

The Styles household was always filled with noise. Whether it was contagious laughter echoing off of the walls in the kitchen, the pitter patter of pudgy feet bursting through the back door from the garden, or the low humming of the secondhand record player coming from the living room. The sounds were comforting, reassuring to those that lived there. While the ruckus caused by something like which Joni Mitchell song Harry should play on the guitar before bedtime or what color everyone’s nails should be painted each week might seem chaotic to some, it represented a kind of tranquility that at one point did not seem possible to grasp.

But today, in the modest, ivy-covered cottage with a pastel-yellow door, it was quiet. The sun poured in from the two open windows of the living area, filling the room with a still brightness that only London could emote. Dust particles danced in the light, drifting along through their own invisible current. The beginnings of the city could be seen in the distance, visible in a foggy haze with promises of sweet treats and adventue-packed days. But no sound, as the newest member of the Styles family had commanded the attention and affection of everyone within its walls.

“She’s so little,” the youngest spoke up. Although he was now technically the oldest. He outstretched his hand out to caress the petite foot that stuck out from beneath the periwinkle-colored muslin blanket.

“I know,” Harry replied, watching the swaddled newborn’s toes curl in reaction to being tickled by her brother, “I remember when you were this tiny, too.”

“I was?” he asked, scratching at his chocolate brown curls that never laid flat.

Harry nodded in affirmation, recalling the early morning when his son had been born prematurely. He’d spent nearly ten days resting in an uncomfortable vinyl recliner beside his girlfriend’s, who was now his wife, hospital bed counting down the minutes until the nurse would give them the “ok” to go visit their bub in the NICU. Harry stared in awe at his newborn through the glass of the incubator, using the open portal on the side to reach in and stroke his cheek with the faintest of touches. He was covered in wires and tubes, surrounded by monitors and beeping machines, all tasked with keeping his underdeveloped organs afloat. It was the most pitiful thing he had ever seen, and Harry still has those nights where he’s plagued with memories from the hospital. While the day he became a father was most certainly the best day of his life, it was one of the most traumatic experiences he’s ever been through.

“Mhmm. You were actually even smaller when you were born,” Harry prodded, playfully wiggling his eyebrows at him.

“No I wasn’t! the toddler jabbed back, crinkling his nose up at his parents, his aquamarine colored eyes turning into tiny slits on either side.

“Umm, yes you were,” Harry’s wife replied with a chuckle from where she sat beside the rest of her family on the couch, “We bought the tiniest size clothes we could find and they still didn’t fit your teeny little bum.”

The boy sat confused, trying to comprehend how a person could be smaller than his sister, let alone be so tiny that clothes didn’t even fit them.

“Well, I’m big now. Right?”

“Much bigger,” Harry reassured him, “But now that you’re bigger, you have t’ take care of your sister. You have to teach her how to be kind and share your toys with her. Think yeh can do tha’?”

“Yes! C-can she swim with me in the pool?” he stumbled over his words, overjoyed by the idea of someone always being around to play his sacred water games with him in his nana’s pool.

“Not yet, bubba,” Harry laughed, tickled by his son’s enthusiasm, “We have t’ wait until she’s a little bit older. But I’m sure she’d love to swim with you at Nana’s when she knows how.”

“Okayyy,” the boy replied, slightly defeated.

“Do you want t’ hold her?” Harry asked, gesturing to the sleeping bundle in his lap, her puffy eyelids closed peacefully as tiny, sporadic grunts left her little belly.

“Yeah, but I don’t know how,” he professed, his plush, pink toddler lips turning down into a frown.

“’S alright, I’ll show you,” Harry then carefully shuffled from his position on the couch, turning so that he was facing his son.

“So, first, you have to make sure you hold her head because she can’t keep it up on her own,” Harry started, reaching over to place the baby girl into his son’s arms.

Unlike the last time, Harry’s hands didn’t shake. He wasn’t afraid like he was before, when his arms trembled as he took his newborn son into his arms for the first time, petrified that he was going to accidentally smother him or drop him and that the worst thing he could imagine would come true. No. This time, his hands were sturdy, protective over his new daughter as he was preparing to introduce her to his firstborn for the very first time.

Harry’s wife looked on lovingly as his son took the baby from him excitingly, his left hand cupping her head gently. Her tired eyes were filled with love when he wrapped his arm protectively around her little tufts of peach fuzz in the best way that a five-year-old with mediocre hand-eye coordination could.

“You also have t’ hold her bum so she doesn’t squirm out of your arms.”

Harry took his son’s hand into his, guiding him to place his tiny forearm along the baby’s back with his palm resting on her diaper-clad bottom. When he was confident of his son’s grip on the infant, he pulled back. He made sure to hover over him with his brawny, tanned arms just ghosting over his son’s. Just in case.

The boy was elated. His sister was warm and soft, and she looked like one of the stuffed animals that he slept with every night. He couldn’t believe that the person he talked to in his mother’s belly every night for nine months and gave kisses to each morning before nursery school was here and real and now she gets to live with him forever.

“She’s so cute,” he spoke in gentle whisper this time, remembering what his mum had told him about being quiet around the baby so that she doesn’t wake up cranky.

He was absolutely smitten over her. Everything about her was the cutest thing he had ever seen in his brief time on Earth: her button nose that sat perfectly above her lips, her miniature fingers wound tightly her fist as if she was ready to fight, her little tongue that barely poked through her mouth each time she yawned. He could stare at her forever if he could.

Instinctively, he pulled her into his bony chest for a hug, squeezing a little too harder than he should have. The baby girl tensed in his grasp at the motion, the beginnings of a shrill whine escaping her pruney lips.

“Whoa, bub. You have t’ be careful,” Harry intervened, loosening his son’s arms so that the baby rested peacefully in the boy’s lap again.

“She’s fragile. You can’t squeeze her like that,” the boy’s mum reminded him.

“Sorry, Baby,” said the boy as he reached down to press his tiny lips to her eyebrow.

Her forehead wrinkled up at the contact, similar to one of auntie Gemma’s baby puppies, thought the boy to himself. He also thought that she kind of looked like one of the puppies too, but he kept that to himself.

Harry and his wife watched their children interacted, how his son was brushing his thumb along her skull, how her face relaxed at the steady motion. They were already in sync with each other, already comforting each other just by their presence. They were both besotted with their daughter, but Harry thinks he might be just a bit more in love with her than his wife. Harry had gotten used to raising his son, while he taught him to be a kindhearted and gentle creature, there had always been a degree of roughness to which he interracted with him. His daughter, however, was made of glass, Harry had convinced himself. He vowed to do whatever it took to make sure she never shed a single tear because of him or anything else he had control over.

Now, Harry had two babies. One boy and one girl, just like his family before this one. The similarities slightly terrified him. His son was soft and gentle and loving, just like Harry had been as a child. He was sensitive, always yearning to be held and touched in the way that Harry had when he was his age. His daughter, even though she was only a few days old, was already a stubborn little fighter like his sister. She cried her lungs out within her first few hours of being born, kicking and screaming until it looked like her face was turning blue. She hated the harsh lights that the doctors shone in her eyes and their cold hands that poked and prodded at her belly like she was a science experiment. It wasn’t until she was in the arms of her family that her wailing subsided.

It was thoughts like these that felt surreal to Harry. He never saw himself as someone that could be in the position he is now. He’d always thought he’d be an eternal bachelor, someone who only ever stayed with someone for a certain period of time before everything inevitably blew up in his face and he’d be back at square one. He never thought that he’d be the type of person with a wife and a white picket fence and a slew of babies; he never thought that he could be the type of person who could be this happy.

“Bubby, can I ask you to promise me something?” Harry asked as he scooped the boy into his lap, making sure the baby was secure so that the three of them laid in one pile on the couch.

He pulled his wife closer as well, making sure they were shoulder to shoulder and he felt surrounded on all sides by the ones he loved the most.

“What?” his son asked, peering up at his papa with huge eyes that resembled saucers, his long, dark eyelashes brushing his brow bones.

“I want you to promise me,” Harry began, wrapping his arms tighter around his two babies, resting his chin in the crook of his son’s neck, “tha’ whatever happens t’ the two of you, no matter how many times you get into fights. No matter how mad you might make each other. That you’ll love her. No matter what. That you’ll always be her big brother.”

Harry hadn’t realized, but his voice trailed off near the end. His voice was just above a whisper, so quiet that only his son could hear. He pressed his lips to side of his bub’s forehead, an attempt to soothe both his son and himself.

“Can yeh do that f’ me?”

The boy in Harry’s lap pondered his father’s words. His finger went absentmindedly to stroke his sister’s hand, astonished when her fingers unfurled from the tight fist they’d been bound in all day. He slipped his pinky into her palm just as her muscles relaxed so that she was now clutching tightly to his digit.

He had no idea of the weight that Harry’s words carried. He had no idea of the thoughts of uncertainty that haunted Harry about never getting to this point in his life. He doesn’t understand the cruelty that exists outside the walls of his home besides the pesky little boy in his class that borrows his crayons and doesn’t give them back. He doesn’t know that other children don’t grow up in homes with parents that love each other like his do.

He didn’t know any of these things, but he sensed that it meant a great deal to Harry, and he wanted to make sure that his father knew he could count on him for anything because he loved him with all of his heart and Harry proved that to him every single day.

“Pinky promise, papa,” the boy responds, loosening his hand that was wrapped around his sister to offer it to Harry.

#harry styles x reader #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles fluff #dad!harry #dad!harry x reader #dad!harry styles x reader #dad!harry styles

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wistfulcynic · 3 years

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The Outlaw Killian Jones (and the legend Emma Swan)

SUMMARY: Emma Swan is a schoolteacher, respectable and respected in the small town of Haven, Wyoming. She does her job and minds her business, but she has a secret. One that brings meaning to her dull life and excitement to her restless soul. One that she knows could end at any moment.

Killian Jones is a man with a powerful enemy and nothing to lose. He’s prepared to sacrifice every bit of that nothing for the sake of his revenge.

Or, at least, he was.

I am THRILLED to be here, kicking off the @cshistfic Historical Fics event! I’ve always loved reading romances set in the past and Westerns are a long-time favourite. Given how deeply entrenched the Western genre is in American culture, it’s funny to think about how a) most of it was made up for dime novels and, later, radio and television shows and movies, and b) the actual historical period that we call the Old West only lasted roughly thirty years—from the post-Civil War westward expansion under the Homestead Act to around the turn of the 20th century. This fic is set right around the end of that time—late 1890s to early 1900s—in the waning moments of the open range and the “lawless” frontier and the start of the modern era with its trains and barbed wire and cars and world wars. I’ve tried to capture a bit of that sense of transition in the story, mostly with the way it ends.

Huge thanks to @shireness-says for coming up with and running this event, and to @thisonesatellite for Just Being Her.

Words: 4.9k Rating: T Tags: Western AU, historical, outlaw Killian, schoolteacher Emma, all the historical detail, I did so much research for this

on AO3

The Outlaw Killian Jones (and the legend Emma Swan):

The hour was late, afternoon edging into evening in the town of Haven, Wyoming. ‘Town’ as a designation flattered it, this tiny settlement tucked back against craggy and striated formations of rock and nestled amongst ragged brush, being, as it was, scarcely more than a handful of rough-hewn cabins, a church, a general store, a blacksmith and livery stable, a saloon with its attendant whorehouse, and a school.

The store and the smithy did the town’s most active business; unsurprisingly, seeing as they were the only examples of either within the radius of a good fifty miles. The residents—those who lived within the town’s scant limits—were certainly insufficient in their numbers to support either one, but the owners of those ranches that lay outside the town, they and their ranch hands, their wives, and their daughters, frequented both with pleasing regularity.

The general store doubled, as such establishments generally did, as a post office, in which capacity it served as the sole tenuous link between this stark western land and the fashionable cities of the east. The Sears and Roebuck catalogue and that of Montgomery Ward, both prominently displayed beside the till, were tattered and well-thumbed, and the monthly mail delivery never came without piles of brown-wrapped parcels containing the latest in fashion and technology from the wider world—hints at the wonders promised by the new century.

Very little of this prosperity touched the actual residents of Haven. The lives they lived were hard ones, scratched from unforgiving soil, but they were good folk, honest and hard-working. They lived simply and piously and for the most part happily. They tended their gardens and their livestock, read their Bibles, loved their children, and whenever possible sent those children to school.

The Haven school, a single room with two windows, one on either side, and a disproportionate bell-tower on the roof—both this tower and the bell it contained were gifts from a local rancher, who considered them a better use of his money than blackboards or books—was located well away from the town’s main street. It had no fireplace, only a tiny, smoky, potbellied stove, and in the warmer months no breeze blew through the unglazed windows. The pupils sat on simple benches and copied their lessons onto slates that sold at the general store for rather more than their parents could comfortably afford; lessons their teacher laid out for them on a thickly-whitewashed wall with a piece of charcoal, the dust of which stained her fingers and her clothing, and embedded itself beneath her nails so deeply there were times she felt she’d never be free of it.

This teacher’s name, the one she used, was Miss Emma Swan. A solitary and self-contained woman of about twenty-six, far too pretty for a schoolteacher most said, and if pressed these same would likely agree that teaching was not what folks might refer to as her calling. Though none could deny that she did her best and was kind to the children—a thing not always guaranteed from schoolmarms—she exuded such a restless air, an impatience with the tedium of her job and the pace of life in Haven which she did not trouble to conceal, that it was a subject of great curiosity amongst the residents why she continued to stay there.

“I have my reasons,” she would say, whenever anyone dared to broach the subject, “and those reasons are my own.” There it was and there it would remain as far as Emma was concerned, and as the townsfolk knew her to be a courteous woman but one who never minced her words when riled, they declined to press the issue.

By the time Miss Emma Swan had finished up in the schoolroom on this particular late afternoon, the floor swept and the board cleaned and lessons all prepared for the following day, the sun was already slipping behind the craggy rocks at her back and casting upon the town a peculiar sort of distended twilight—shrouded in shadows beneath a glaring blue sky. As she made her way the short distance between the schoolhouse and her own cabin—or rather, the schoolteacher’s cabin, perhaps the most compelling perk of her job—a brisk breeze ruffled the hem of her skirt and the few flyaway hairs that had escaped her tidy Gibson bun. The night would likely be another chilly one, and Emma wondered absently if she had enough wood left to leave the fire high for an extra hour or two or if she should resign herself now to another cold, dark evening spent alone.

The cabin where she lived, she and sixty years of schoolteachers before her, was small and rough like most in Haven and comprised only two rooms: a small bedroom to the rear and a larger space at the front used equally for sitting, cooking, and dining. In this front room was both a fireplace and stove, the latter surprisingly modern and another gift from a different rancher, to the previous teacher. Near this stove sat a small wooden table and two matching chairs; a soft and generous armchair had pride of place before the fire.

The bedroom was by far Emma’s preferred room. The walls in it were painted, in a pale and soothing blue, and on one of them a charming watercolour of forget-me-nots was hung. There was a white wardrobe with a mirrored door, a washstand and a vanity table, and a large bed with a sturdy iron frame. The curtains on the single window were of dotted swiss that Emma had sewn herself, and in the morning when she opened them she was greeted by the colours of the dawn.

Emma removed her buttoned boots the moment she was through the door; they pinched her toes and she disliked wearing them indoors. She replaced them with a well-worn pair of carpet slippers then headed for the bedroom, there to change out of her school clothes and into the more comfortable, loose wrap dress she preferred at home. When she entered the room she had already undone most of the buttons on her high-collared blouse and so made straight for the wardrobe, without so much as a glance at the bed.

The mirror on the wardrobe door as it swung open flashed the brief reflection of a face, just as Emma heard the sound of a chair leg scrape against the bare wood floor. She gasped and spun around, eyes wide and one hand pressed against her chest.

There could be no question that the man currently in occupation of her vanity chair, sprawled in it with an air as casual as it was deceptive, was one who had followed quite a different path of life than that afforded to the residents of Haven. His untidy hair and the thick scruff on his jaw might not be especially remarkable out in this still-wild corner of Wyoming, but the narrow cut of his coat and the embroidery on the waistcoat beneath it, the silver chain of his pocket-watch and the ostentatious knot of his tie marked him as a man who knew his way around a gambling table for both good or ill and could likely acquit himself equally well in both scenarios. A man who dealt with the hardships of life by shooting rather than working his way out of them—as the gleaming six-shooter currently pointed straight at Emma would most certainly attest.

Emma forced herself to breathe, slow and steady. Her heart was pounding. The man greeted her with a brusque nod, and cocked the hammer on his revolver.

“Don’t let me interrupt you, love,” he drawled, in an accent that suited this town less even than his clothes or his gun. “By all means, keep going.”

Emma swallowed hard and with trembling fingers undid the remainder of her buttons. Her blouse hung open to reveal the hooks of the corset underneath.

The man gave his gun a menacing wave. “All the way now, there’s a good lass.”

She shrugged off the blouse and let it fall to the floor.

“And the skirt.”

She unhooked her grey wool skirt and released it to pool around her ankles.

His voice rasped. “Take down your hair.”

Emma shivered.

Three pins and two combs held her hair in place. She removed them, dropped them into the pile of clothing at her feet; the bun tumbled down and over her shoulder.

“Shake your head.”

She did, vigorously. The bun unraveled further and strands of silky blonde fell across her face.

He swallowed audibly. “Now the rest.”

Emma hesitated, fingers hovering over the hooks on her corset. She wore nothing beneath it but a combination made of thin cotton lawn.

The man raised his gun and growled, “All of it.”

She tossed her head back, jutted her chin out high in defiance. Her belly churned with a dark thrill of anticipation as she unhooked the corset and flung it away. He chuckled, low and rough. Emma fumbled with the buttons on her combination as he uncocked his gun and set it aside, then undid the belt designed to hold it. His eyes locked with hers as he stood, pale blue and profoundly tired, eyes that had seen far too much.

She finished with the buttons but left the combination on, parted to reveal a thin strip of pale skin. Her heart thundered as he approached, her breaths short and heaving. He swaggered up and stopped in front of her, close enough that she could smell the dust and sweat on him, so close she had to tilt her head again to see his face. His hand slipped beneath her shift to curl around her waist, fingers rough on her soft skin.

“I—” Emma gasped as he pulled her closer, flush against him. His voice was a rumbling growl in her ear.

“You what, love?”

“I was expecting you yesterday!” she snapped, and then she kissed him.

“Gold is dead.”

Emma’s head shot up from where it had been resting on the bare and hairy chest of Killian Jones. The most notorious outlaw in three states, or so the Wanted posters would have folks believe. Train robber, bank robber, high-stakes gambler—but only the trains and banks and gambling dens controlled by one particular man. A man in whose side Killian Jones had been an exceptionally troublesome thorn for near to six years. A man whose wife Jones stood accused of murdering. A man who was, it seemed, now dead himself.

Emma stared down at his face, at the sharp definition of his cheekbones and lines of strain around his eyes. Such heavy burdens he’d been carrying for as long as she’d known him, but now, despite the exhaustion writ plain on his face he seemed lighter. Relieved, in some intangible way.

“He is?” she gasped.

“Aye.” Killian nodded, grimly satisfied. “Shot him right through the place where his heart should be. That’s why I was late.”

“Oh, Killian.” It wouldn’t do to feel happy about a murder, even that of a wicked man, but Emma found that she too was grimly satisfied. “You did it.”

“Aye, it’s done. And now I have a price on my head so high I’d turn myself in if I could, and special team of bounty hunters hired by Gold’s son to bring me to him, dead or alive.”

“Oh.” Her fingers flexed on his chest and his tightened where they curled around her hip. “What—what will you do?”

“Leave the country.” He spoke as though the answer were obvious, and Emma supposed it was. “I’ve no choice.”

“Will you go back to England?”

“No. There’s nothing left for me there.” He paused and his hand slid up her back to tangle absently in her hair. “I was thinking South America. Argentina.”

“Argentina?”

“Aye. Land’s selling down there for cheap and I’ve enough saved to buy myself a ranch. I’ve never tried ranching before so it’ll probably be an utter failure, but the idea’s crawled into my head and made itself a nest there, so I think that’s what I’ll do.”

Emma slipped from his arms and out of bed. She could feel his eyes on her as she took her house dress from the wardrobe and wrapped it around herself, as she tied it at her waist with jerky movements.

“You must be hungry,” she said.

“I could eat.”

“Stew?”

“Perfect.”

In the front room Emma piled wood on the embers in her stove and coaxed a fire to life beneath the pot of stew she’d left on the hob. She swept the ashes from the fireplace, arranged the logs and the kindling, then struck a flint to light it. She could hear Killian in the bedroom washing and dressing in the spare clothes she kept on hand for him, and by the time she sensed his presence behind her the larger logs were catching nicely and the hearty aroma of stew had begun to waft in from the stove.

“Shouldn’t be too long before it’s ready,” she told him without turning around. “There’s cornbread too. It’s a few days old, but—”

“Emma.”

“—it should still be good if you dunk it in the stew.”

“Emma, love.” Killian’s voice was soft, full of the tenderness he showed only to her. “Talk to me.”

“About what?”

It wasn’t as though she hadn’t known this day would come, this one or another very like it. She understood the dangers of the life he lived, out on the edges of society, pursued by an influential man with a terrible grudge, and she’d done all she could to make her peace with it. Killian could have died any number of times in the three years of their acquaintance; she had always been aware that every time she bid him farewell might be the last.

And now she knew for certain that it would be. Nothing had changed.

She heard him pull out one of the dining chairs and sit down in it, and though she kept her back to him she he knew he would be leaning his elbow on the table and running a hand over his face. She could picture the gesture in her mind’s eye with perfect clarity, so often had she seen him do it before, and her heart hurt because she knew he only did this when he was deeply troubled.

“Emma, you know—you know why I spent so long trying to kill Gold,” he said roughly.

“For Milah.” Her voice hardly broke on the name. “To avenge her.”

“Yes. That bastard hunted her like an animal, shot her right in front of me then framed me for the crime, and all because she couldn’t bear to spend another moment as his wife. He took her life rather than allow her to live it free from him, because he couldn’t countenance her finding happiness with another man. And I swore to her as she lay dying that I would make him pay for that.”

“Because you love her.”

“I did.” In the silence of the cabin, she could hear the rasp of his scruff against his palm. “I did.”

Emma had been watching the fire, now dancing merrily in the hearth, and it took a beat or two for his words to register. When they did her heart gave a shuddering thump and she spun round to gape at him. “Did?” she repeated.

Killian’s lip quirked and humour flared briefly in his eyes before they became solemn again, and heartrendingly soft. “It’s a funny thing, revenge,” he remarked. “It begins as a simple quest for justice but so easily descends into obsession—almost before a man knows what’s come over him, it’s all he’s got left to live for. That’s how it was for me, for years. Until…”

He trailed off and Emma found she was holding her breath. “Until?” she prompted.

He looked up at her. “Until I met you.”

She inhaled sharply as their eyes met, his own warm and such a brilliant blue, full of an emotion to which she didn’t dare give a name. “I kept after Gold because of my vow to Milah, yes, but also because I had to, because it was him or me. His life or mine. When that bullet pierced his chest and I saw him fall, I realised that it wasn’t about Milah for me anymore and it hadn’t been, not for a long time. I was fighting for my life, my right to have it and to live it in peace. That’s all I want, just peace and a simple life. And you.”

“Me?” gasped Emma, blankly and ungrammatically, as she attempted to grasp what he was saying.

Amusement coloured the tenderness on his face, alongside a hint of exasperation. “Don’t you know, Emma?” he asked with a shake of his head. “Why do you think I kept coming back here?”

She offered a weak smile and an abashed shrug. “My cornbread?” she ventured, and he laughed.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, darling, but your cornbread is dry. Try again.”

Emma elected to ignore this ungentlemanly slur on her culinary skills. “Well… I suppose the town is quite secluded, good for hiding out,” she observed.

“It is that. But that isn’t the reason, love.”

“Isn’t it?”

“You know it isn’t.” Killian stood and moved towards her, slowly as if she were a baby faun he was apt to startle, or possibly a sleeping mountain lion. “It’s you, Emma Swan,” he said softly. “You are what I will always come back for. You are the reason my soul is hale and unconsumed by hatred. Because it wasn’t revenge I was after, in the end. It was the future I wanted with you.”

Tears clogged Emma’s throat and pressed insistently behind her eyes. “Killian,” she choked, “I—”

“Shh.” He closed what small distance remained between them and folded her in an embrace to which she clung tightly, face pressed against his shoulder so the soft flannel of his shirt might absorb her tears. “Emma, I know I have next to nothing to offer you.” Killian stroked her hair soothingly as he spoke. “A tenuous existence in an unfamiliar country, backbreaking work that likely won’t pay off, a struggle for everything we have. I shouldn’t ask this of you. I should have the decency to walk away and let you find happiness with a better man than me.” She could hear tears in his voice now, and when she looked up she saw them glistening in his eyes. “But I won’t,” he continued gruffly. “I can’t, because I am a selfish bastard and I love you. I love you so much, Emma.” His voice broke. “So much. And if you could see your way clear to coming to Argentina with me, I would spend every day I have left on this earth working to make you happy.”

A rush of joy filled Emma Swan then, joy such as she had never known before. Her tears fell freely and unheeded as she tightened her hold on the man she loved and pressed her forehead to his own. In that stance they remained for some considerable time, until Emma became aware that the silence had drawn out far too long and she must speak. There were words he needed to hear from her, crucial words, and yet Miss Emma Swan, despite being quite a competent schoolteacher in all respects including her vocabulary, had always found words failed her when in the grip of strong emotion.

“Did I ever tell you I grew up on a ranch?” she blurted, then shook her head. That wasn’t what she’d wished to say.

Killian’s brow wrinkled. “You’ve mentioned it.”

“My daddy’s place out near Casper,” Emma pressed on. “A thousand acres of cattle, mostly, and some horses.”

“It sounds nice.”

“It was.” She snuffled and shifted until her head was resting on his shoulder and she felt cradled in his arms. This wasn’t the speech she’d planned but now she found herself determined to give it. “I was his only child, his only family after my mama died, and he reared me all my life to take over from him,” she continued. “But then when I was nineteen he got married again, and had a son. And suddenly ranching was ‘no job for a woman,’ or so he said, and I should look into teaching instead. Or better still get married and become some man’s pretty possession. Preferably the son of a neighbouring rancher, ‘for the future of our family’s land and legacy’.” She paused, remembering, and rubbed her cheek against his shirt. “I told him to go fuck himself.”

Killian’s laugh rumbled through the both of them. “That’s my tough lass,” he said, with a pride in his voice that warmed her, and made her desperate.

“But you do know what I’m saying, don’t you Killian?” she persisted. “You hear what I’m telling you?”

“What I hear is that in addition to being beautiful and brilliant and tough as old boots, you also know how to run a ranch. Which would be bloody useful I must admit, as I haven’t got the first faint clue where to start. Is that what you wanted me to understand?”

She nodded in relief. “That’s it.”

He brushed the hair back from her face with fingers gentle as the wing of a butterfly. “And is that... all you have to say?”

She felt caught in his eyes, and like to drown in them. “There may be one more thing.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. It’s that I—I—” Emma drew a steadying breath. “I love you too, Killian, and of course I’ll go to Argentina with you.” A smile broke across his face, that rare and brilliant smile of his that set her heart to soaring and broke the dam that held her words in check. “I’d go anywhere with you,” she declared, laughing as he squeezed her tight. “To the moon. To hell itself, and then back out again.”

“Let’s hope that won’t be necessary.”

He leaned down to her and she swayed up to him and their lips met in a kiss that sang of love and of hope and of a most solemn promise, if something of a dramatic one. He dipped her back and kissed her until she was dizzy and overcome with laughter, and then swung her up again and into a dance.

Emma put her head on his shoulder and leaned into him as they danced to music they alone could hear, all around the cabin with the aroma of stew in the air and hope for the future in their hearts.

The disappearance of Miss Emma Swan, schoolteacher and respected resident, shook the town of Haven, Wyoming as nothing had before. Even the escape and subsequent stampede down Main Street of Mr Murchison’s pigs had caused less consternation, since, as the residents all agreed, for that at least there was an explanation. A rusty gate hinge, investigation later revealed, had been the culprit behind the Spectacular Pig Hullabaloo of 1893, whereas Miss Swan had simply vanished, with no explanation given or obvious method of egress. She owned no horse and had not boarded the stage; no one matching her description had been observed at the train station in Casper or anywhere else that a woman alone on foot might reasonably have been expected to turn up. She had taken nothing with her save some clothes and a few books and left nothing behind but a brief letter hastily scrawled on a scrap of paper—her resignation from her position as schoolteacher effective immediately, and a recommendation for her replacement.

Haven residents were thoroughly baffled, and for many months afterwards the Fantastical Vanishing of Miss Emma Swan was the number one topic of conversation amongst them. Theories were dismantled nearly as quickly as they had been constructed, replaced by newer and ever more fanciful speculations, and each resident had his or her own pet notion as to how and why the trick was done. Rarely had they felt so stimulated or enjoyed themselves so thoroughly, however time, as it inevitably does, soon began quite noticeably to pass, and the town’s attention moved on to other happenings. For although new events in such a quiet place may never again be as deliciously sensational as the mystery of the vanished schoolmarm, they do possess the not insignificant advantage of being new.

And thus Emma Swan passed into Haven legend.

Some years later, on the eve of her wedding, Miss Mary Margaret Blanchard—soon to be Mrs David Nolan—sat at the very table where Miss Swan’s letter had been left and composed a letter of her own, to an old friend she’d first met at the State Normal School of Colorado. In her letter Miss Blanchard informed her friend of the imminent blessed day and thanked her for the recommendation that had not only brought Miss Blanchard many years of enjoyable work as schoolteacher to Haven’s children but also led, in that roundabout way life sometimes takes, to her current state of blissful happiness.

This letter travelled by mail coach from the Haven general store—where Miss Blanchard posted it to the care of a P.O. Box in San Francisco—to the main post office in Casper. From there it went via train to Cheyenne, where it was loaded onto the mail car of the Union Pacific Railway and thence made its journey to the west coast. In San Francisco its fortunes underwent a curious change, for it was redirected by a clerk there, in accordance with instructions, and placed back on the Union Pacific, headed this time for Denver. From Denver it voyaged onwards to Kansas City, then Chicago, and finally to New York, where it abandoned train travel forever in favour of a steam ship bound for Buenos Aires.

Upon arrival at port it was placed in the charge of a courier who carried it along with a scant handful of others over the rough roads of the Argentinian coast to Puerto Santa Cruz and then inland, where it finally, many months after its departure, came to rest at a tiny, dusty outpost in southern Patagonia. And it was from this inauspicious locale that the letter was collected, at long last, by its intended recipient—a woman none of the residents of Haven nor indeed the erstwhile Miss Blanchard herself would be likely to recognise as Emma Swan.

The clothes she wore were utilitarian in design and plain in colour, liberally coated in fine brown dust. Her pale hair hung loose and wavy down her back, and her face beneath her wide-brimmed hat was tanned and marked around the eyes with the fine lines characteristic of those who spend a good deal of time squinting into bright sunlight. But these were superficial changes. The woman who collected the well-travelled letter and rode with it back to her ranch, who sat at the table in her kitchen and read it with a wide smile and sincere pleasure at the news from her friend—this woman was happy, as Emma Swan had surely never been. It was a happiness born of deep contentment and the satisfaction of a life lived on one’s own terms. And it was the happiness of a woman who is loved.

Emma was reading the letter a fourth time when the sound of boots on the porch alerted her to Killian’s arrival; she looked up just as he came through the door with a smile on her lips the like of which neither Mrs Nolan nor any other in Haven could ever imagine her smiling.

Killian hung his hat on a hook and met its brilliance with a smile of his own. “What are you thinking about, love, that has you so radiant?” he inquired.

“A letter from Mary Margaret.” Emma indicated the sheet of paper in her hand. “She’s getting married. Is married now, I suppose.”

“To a fellow worthy of her, I hope?”

“A rancher, but not one of the arrogant ones,” Emma replied. “I think he is. Worthy of her, I mean. I think they’ll be happy.”

“That’s good news indeed.”

“It is.” She set the letter aside and went over to him, tucked her head beneath his chin as he enfolded her in his arms. “But that’s not why I’m radiant, as you say.”

“I say it only because it’s true, darling.”

“It’s because I’m happy,” said Emma softly. She nuzzled her nose against his neck; he smelled of sweat and dust and horses. “For Mary Margaret, of course, but also for me. It struck me just now, reading her letter, how happy I am. I’m so happy, Killian.”

His arms around her tightened and she felt him stroke her hair, and when he spoke his voice was gruff. “No regrets then, about abandoning everything you’ve ever known to live out your days on the lam with me?”

“Nope.” Emma pulled back just enough to look up at him, to caress his cheek with her fingertips and press her forehead to his. “No regrets at all.”

Historical Note: Emma in this fic is based loosely on a woman named Etta Place. Very little is known about her, but she is thought to have been romantically involved with Harry Longabaugh, a.k.a. the Sundance Kid, and to have accompanied him and Butch Cassidy to South America. However, verifiable details about her are scarce—even her real name is uncertain—and only one photograph of her remains. Some believe she may have been a prostitute but in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid the writer chose to make her a teacher instead, and honestly I have always found that such a compelling tale. A “proper” schoolteacher having a secret affair with an outlaw, then running away with him to another continent? The romance, am I right?

And thus the inspiration for this story.

@ohmightydevviepuu @thisonesatellite @katie-dub @kmomof4 @killianjones-twopointoh @mariakov81 @stahlop @optomisticgirl @spartanguard @shireness-says @snowbellewells

#cs fic #cs ff #cs ff au #cshistfic #captain swan #western au #historical fic #historical romance #Emma is a teacher #killian is an outlaw #many many historical details #like so many #i make no apologies for this #it's more of a warning #the outlaw Killian Jones (and the legend Emma Swan)#profdanglaisstuff

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ahloveisboo · 3 years

Text

light a flame (m.)

pairing: lee jihoon x fem!reader

genre: smut, 18+ (fingering, hand job, mutual masturbation, orgasm denial, mentions of oral sex both male and female receiving, basically just one long description of foreplay and no climax bc jeonghan's a bitch (not really jihoon's just too Dependable for his own good)).

wc: 2.2k

summary: jihoon has a meeting in 30 minutes but he’s wearing that one shirt that absolutely drives you crazy.

i posted a moodboard to go with this.

a/n: just a quick thank u to both @hobbitoh & @bbugyu for taking a look at this for me since i’m not that used to writing sm*t and giving some pointers (u da best) and to @secndlife for letting me complain abt writing this and not blocking me adkjsmhq.

"We're going to have to make this quick," he mumbles into your mouth. He’s unbuttoning his jeans with one hand, the other latched into your hair.

Jihoon's cheeks are tainted slightly pink, lips swollen and wet as he pulls himself away from yours. The sight tugs at something in the pit of your stomach, eliciting a barely audible groan in the back of your throat. "I said I would meet Jeonghan in," he says, clearing his throat and glancing at the silver watch adorning his wrist, "...30 minutes."

This time you groan out loud, allowing your lips to protrude into a pout. Your fingertips dance along the skin at the hem of his jeans, gradually pushing the material down. "Tell him you'll be late."

Jihoon tugs at the strands of hair still in between his slender fingers, causing you to angle your head back. Leaning in to nuzzle your neck, he hums disapprovingly. "I'm a man of my word," he states, letting his tongue roll over the side of your throat and scraping his teeth over the sensitive skin. "It's the one thing I pride myself on." You tremble at his actions, hiking a leg up to hook behind his thigh and pull his body closer. His hand moves to pin it against his hip instantly, fingers digging into the material of your jeans. It takes all of his willpower not to jerk his hips forward and into your clothed crotch.

"Jihoon," you whimper, desperately tugging at the buttons of his shirt. You manage to undo a couple despite your frantic fumbling, "please stay." He glances up at you for a moment, his gaze travelling over the flushed apples of your cheeks, the way your bottom lip rests between your teeth, and your eyelids droop over your blown pupils.

He lets out a shuddered breath, wanting nothing more than being able to stay. Nothing more than being able to take you up to the bedroom and take his precious time. To tease you until you beg, to bask in the beauty of you, the sound of your voice as it crumbles until it breaks, and to make you feel so damn good.

He doesn't reply. Instead, he cups your cheek, pressing his lips against the curve of your mouth so hard you're pushed backwards, your shoulders slamming into the wall. You respond with fervour, fingers clutching at his shoulders to keep your knees from buckling as he licks into your mouth and robs you of your breath. This time he bucks his hips forward and you can tell he’s already semi-hard.

Your hand falls to grab onto the little hallway table, steadying yourself as Jihoon’s full weight now leans into you.

Your breath mingles with his as his hands roam over your body, all clashing teeth and open-mouthed kisses, needing to feel all of you.

You yank the ends of his shirt from his trousers, pushing the fabric off his shoulders to let it join your now discarded jeans on the floor. Jihoon’s gaze falls onto the lace panties you're wearing, making him pause. They're pastel pink, a tiny floral design leaving little to the imagination. His tongue briefly peeks out, wetting his lips as he lets his index finger sweep over your clothed entrance, trying to get a sense of just how ready you are for him.

"N-no teasing," you plead, barely coming out a whisper as you rest your forehead on his shoulder, overwhelmed by how sensitive to his touch you already are.

Swiftly, he moves to cup your ass in response, his other hand sliding back into your hair to keep you pinned against him as he spins you around, blindly leading you until the back of your knees hits the sofa. His arms wrap around you to make sure you land softly, his mouth never leaving yours as he lowers his body along with you and rids you of your blouse.

With each heaving breath Jihoon releases, you’re acutely aware of all the nooks and crannies of his body moving against you—the lean muscle in his thighs, the pressure of his now fully erect cock against your mound, the gentle bulge of his biceps flexing as he pushes himself up to look at you. For a second you forget how to breathe, his hooded gaze fixed on yours as his palm trails over your abdomen, leaving goosebumps in its wake over the exposed skin. He bites his lip, pushing up the floral see-through material covering your breasts and greedily cupping a handful.

Your mind goes blank, finding it hard to think about anything other than the man hovering over you and how easily he takes your breath away, butterflies erupting in your stomach and pussy throbbing at the slightest touch.

Jihoon has always had this effect on you. Not only did he complement you mentally—all hard work and determination, often providing that one final push you needed, and a heart so soft and golden you never felt unloved—the physical side of your relationship had never been lacking either. Jihoon wasn’t shy of exploring, gradually finding every sweet spot your body had to offer as your relationship bloomed, playing with them until they made you squirm under his touch. He left you craving more, intoxicated, always wanting (needing) to have one more taste.

People often told you they found Jihoon to be intimidating. A man of few words and unwavering morals, his infectious laugh usually reserved for the people closest to him. But to you, he was just Jihoon, the guy that cuddled up to you after a long workday, asking for kisses behind turned backs and chasing your moans in the dark, and you worshipped him.

Jihoon brushes a thumb over your nipple, demanding your attention. Your pupils dilate, refocusing on your boyfriend and the way his damp fringe sticks to his forehead. He repeats the action, lifting his hips to rut against you at the same time, watching you intently for any signs that he’s affecting you as much as you are him. You can already feel yourself unravelling, breath stuttering and meeting his thrusts with your own. His eyes flutter shut as the friction increases, throwing his head back as he allows himself to get swept away in the feeling of you for a moment.

"Jihoon," you whine, snapping him right back. Your back is arching off the sofa, needing more of him. Much more. Jihoon hisses as your nails dig into his shoulder, the supple muscle underneath contracting with the effort of holding himself up.

"Say that again," he breathes, releasing your breast in favour of cupping your heat. There's a noticeable pink flush creeping up his neck and travelling down his chest. He wets his lips. "My name, say it again."

You obey his command, lowering your tone and lacing it with lust.

Jihoon all but growls, pressing his knee between your thighs to give him better access. You allow it to happen, but Jihoon is still in his fucking jeans and you’re aching to touch him. You voice the sentiment out loud, earning a slow nod from Jihoon as he raises his hips to help you slide his jeans down his thighs, dragging his boxers along.

The sofa is uncomfortable for you both, but Jihoon doesn't have time to think about how sore he will be in the morning, nor does he care. Your fingers wrap around his member at once. Jihoon’s lips fall into a silent ‘o’ before dipping down his head to watch you stroke him up and down, agonizingly slow, with a sharp flick of your wrist.

He doesn't even pretend to bite back a moan as you work on him, spitting into your hand to make sure it doesn't burn. You thumb the slit, gently spreading the precum around, the tip of his cock already flushed.

Jihoon bucks into your hand, shifting his weight slightly to the left to push your legs further apart. His gaze is still trained on your hand as he plays with the fabric of your panties, pushing them to the side. You exhale sharply when he finally touches you, collecting your arousal with his index finger before gently dipping into you. You gasp at the sensation, stilling as you adjust and he pushes a second finger in.

It's when Jihoon brushes his thumb over your clit and feel him stir against you, that you remember his dick in your hand.

Jihoon’s entire body quivers as you pick up the pace, lowering his head to find support on your chest. His breath ghosts over your skin, panting as he tries to keep himself from fucking into your hand, and to focus on his fingers inside of you, curving them up with each thrust. He brushes over your clit as he moves, sending shockwaves of pleasure down your spine and into your core. The arm holding himself up is starting to cramp—you can tell by the way he's shaking and squeezing his eyes shut.

You open your mouth to propose a position switch, just as he lifts his head enough to swirl his tongue around one of your nipples, and you whimper in surprise. Your breath hitches, your fist involuntarily tightening around Jihoon's cock as he grazes his teeth over the nub.

He lets out what resembles a mewl, his head snapping up to claim your mouth in an attempt to swallow the desperate moans now escaping you both. The air around you is electric, hot and sultry and sticky as Jihoon is pressed against you. His kisses are sloppy, his focus too trained on his fingers and your fist to pay attention to anything else. A coil tightens in your gut as he continues to fuck his fingers into you, and it won't be too long until it snaps, toppling you over the edge.

"Jihoon, I need you to fu-," you breathe out, every inch of your body burning, the words releasing into his mouth before getting lost in the loud blaring of Jihoon's ringtone.

He can't help it. Call it an incessant need to know, or the years of having a demanding job that requires his constant availability, that makes Jihoon inevitably avert his gaze to his phone situated on the coffee table. Jeonghan's name flashes obnoxiously on the screen and with it, in big white blocked numbers, the current time.

Jihoon curses as he realises he is, in fact, late to meeting Jeonghan, despite his promise to leave on time earlier.

"Baby, I have-" he pants, pausing his fingers and resting his forehead against yours. "I have to go."

"Are you serious?" You whine, the underlying tone in your words leaning more towards annoyance than disbelief. "But I'm so close."

He leans over to meet your lips, eyes fluttering shut as you thumb over the head of his swollen cock once more, trying to convince him to stay.

"I can't," and he sounds truly sorry, his voice hoarse and tongue still thick with desire.

"What if..” he offers, brushing a strand of hair out of your face before kissing you again, his tongue lapping at yours languidly. Every inch of you burns with longing, the blistering embers of your previously imminent orgasm feeding into the flame. When he tilts his head back, a small thread of saliva still connects your lips. “--If you refrain from touching yourself until I return, I'll let you sit on my face tonight." It’s an apology cloaked in a dare, you realise, and Jihoon seals the unspoken deal with a kiss to your nose and a final flick to your clit. Your body responds with a shiver, your walls clenching around his fingers as you allow your mind to remember the last time he guided you onto his mouth—hands slithering up your thighs to rest at your ass for a long moment, kneading at the skin before settling on your hips, locking you into place as he reached up to swipe his tongue along your slit.

Your mind is swirling. The feeling of Jihoon's fingers still inside your dripping cunt mixed with the anticipation of riding Jihoon’s face is almost enough to make you cum on the spot.

You rest your palms on his chest, pushing him up enough to look at him through fluttering eyelashes. “Fine,” you huff, trying to level your breathing and sound more collected than you are.

"But let me at least suck you off before you leave," you counter. "I promise it won't take long."

Jihoon quirks an eyebrow, almost tempted to give in. "Hmmmno," he hums, giving you a quick peck on the lips before pushing himself up and removing his fingers from you. He brings them to his mouth, licking them clean, keeping your gazes locked before shooting you a lopsided grin. "Thank you, but I'll manage."

You whine as you watch him collect his clothes, readjusting your own underwear with a pout on your lips like a petulant child not getting its way.

"Keys?" he calls as he fixes the top button on his shirt and you reach behind the sofa to throw him the requested item. "I'll be back before you know it," he promises, voice low and loaded before pressing another warm kiss to your mouth.

#lee jihoon #caratwritersclub #jihoon smut #woozi smut #woozi #seventeen smut #jihoon scenario #woozi scenario #seventeen scenario #jihoon fanfic #woozi fanfic #seventeen fanfic #i may edit this a few times over the next few days bc i may have overlooked a few things and i always see things to improve-#-whenever i go over it again lmao

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hawkinsindiana · 4 years

Text

i don’t want you to worry

ALMOST PARADISE: PART THREE - CHAPTER ONE OF ELEVEN (?)

pairing: steve harrington x henderson!reader

word count: 3.8k

a/n: six months later, here’s part three! i’m not gonna lie to y’all, i have no idea how many chapters there are gonna be or if it’ll get updated regularly, but fuck it. i’ve been sitting on this for a while and figured we could use a bit of levity! thank you for your patience! hope you enjoy! lmao i didn’t feel like making a gif pls forgive me

masterlist

Fog is hovering just above the ground; you can practically feel how thick and wet it is against your skin. The hairs on the back of your neck all stand as a gust of wind flows through the air - the freezing temperature makes you shiver.

The ground is wet, squelching underneath your sneakers as you move forward, still uncertain of where you are; the environment’s been completely coated in the dense fog. When your surroundings finally begin to clear a bit, your heart starts to race in fear once you recognize where you are.

It’s the junkyard.

“Stay close, yeah?”

The voice sounds like it’s right inside your ear, but at least he’s here - you’d recognize him anywhere.

Steve’s to your left, bat slung effortlessly over his shoulder, and his presence helps calm your nerves. You won’t have to face this alone.

You want to thank him before the situation gets any worse, but your mouth won’t cooperate. All you’re able to reply with is a nod.

Suddenly, the palm of your hand feels heavy with the weight of your weapon; Steve presses on, moving through the space to approach the threat that lurks beyond. A form begins to take shape behind the grey clouds, hunched down on all fours as it stalks towards your position. Your fingers tense as you prepare to fight and adrenaline begins to overtake you, until the silhouette rises onto two legs. It’s not supernatural, it’s human.

You want to call out to Steve, tell him to fall back because it’s too dangerous but your voice still doesn’t work - you can’t warn him what’s coming. The soles of your shoes dig into the ground as you run to catch up with him, fingers extended out to grab and yank him away.

But it’s too late. One moment he’s right there in front of you, the next he’s gone, vanished right before your eyes. You blink.

On the ground, Steve’s in the dirt, blood spilling from his face; Billy Hargrove quickly approaches.

And then, it’s just like that night. You’re unable to move, unable to save him as Steve tries to fight back but Billy’s too quick. His crimson colored fists are tearing skin with each impact until the brunette boy on the ground is lifeless, as if all warmth was drained right from him. Billy’s twisted grin never falters as he relishes in your pain, tears streaming down your face until-

You wake with a gasp, body jolting, hands shaking.

God, it feels so real, like you’re still there; your nose can smell the disgusting metallic scent from the blood, skin still chilled from the temperature, veins still threaded with adrenaline.

That was only a dream… right?

As soon as that thought is introduced to your worried mind, you throw off the covers before grabbing the nearest hoodie off the bed post. Tugging it over your head, your bare feet skid across the hardwood floor as you rush to the phone in the living room.

Your fingers are trembling as you press the buttons of the number; you have to know if he’s okay. You have to confirm it was just a dream.

“Fuck, Steve,” You start to mutter to yourself, counting the rings to attempt to steady your breathing, “Come on, pick up, pick up.”

The longer it takes, the more nervous you become. The darkness that surrounds you starts to close in, and when you squeeze your eyes shut, the image of him bloodied and lying dead in the dirt haunts you.

“I swear to Christ - Dustin, if that’s you and those bozos again, I’ll come kick your ass myself,” Steve’s voice, tired and very irritated, comes through the speaker.

“Steve! Oh my god-” The back of your throat starts to burn at the feeling of tears welling up; the relief crashes over you in a wave, “Are you okay? Where are you?”

“What? Jesus-” He pauses, his tone softens once he hears it’s you, “Why wouldn’t I be okay? It’s nearly-”

Steve stops again; you reckon it’s to glance at the time.

“Shit, sweetheart it’s nearly two in the morning, what’s goin’ on?”

You sigh, finally realizing that you must’ve awoken him, “Fuck I just-”

The phone is gripped tighter in your hands as you speak, “I really just needed to know that you're okay. It’s stupid, I shouldn’t have called. I’m sorry-“

“No, no it’s okay-”

“But I-”

“No, it’s fine. Don’t worry about me,” Steve’s reassurance helps to slow your pounding heart; he’s okay. He’s safe at home.

There’s nothing to worry about anymore.

You repeat that to yourself multiple times, whispering it to yourself under your breath. At this point, you think that you’d do anything to forget that night.

Your back slides down the wall as your body grows exhausted from the severe reaction; Steve’s voice continues through the phone, “Did something happen?”

“I had-” You force a deep breath through your lungs, face scrunching in fear at the memory, “I had a really bad dream, Steve.”

Your arm wraps around your knees to pull them into your chest, forehead coming down to meet them and dig into the soft material of your pants, “I woke up and fuck, I was so scared. I was so scared and all I could think to do was call you. And I’m all alone. I’m all by myself tonight and I hate that I can’t be alone anymore. And I haven’t slept through the night in weeks-”

“Weeks? What do you mean weeks? I mean - I knew you weren’t sleeping well right after, but Christ it’s been nearly two months!”

You curse at yourself for rambling, words suddenly escaping your mind as you hesitate to respond. With your silence, Steve huffs; you can imagine the disappointment and worry over his face, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You bite down on your lip before answering, only letting up on the pressure when the taste of blood touches your tongue; you’re ashamed of the answer, “I don’t know… I’m sorry, Steve.”

All you feel is guilt in the moments that follow. Something like this… dreams about him dying in front of your eyes isn’t something that should be kept from him.

“Hey,” Steve’s soft tone reels you back in, “You call me whenever you have to. I’ll always pick up, okay?”

You exhale as you nod, before remembering that he can’t see your reaction through the phone, “Okay, yeah. Thank you.”

“Of course, anytime. Are you okay?”

You weave the phone cord between your fingers, “I’m better now. Uh, I’ll let you go then.”

“Okay. Try to get some rest, for my sake,” Steve pleads. You twist the cord tighter, “I will.”

He sighs at your oath, finally able to relax a bit more, “Hey, we don’t have to do anything tonight, if it’s too much. Or if you’re tired… ”

You hum at his words, head leaning back against the wall. A smile creeps over your lips at his consideration, wishing that you could thank him in person for his words, “No, no let’s do something. It’ll be good for me.”

He laughs a bit; even with how horrible the quality might be through the receiver, it still makes your stomach flutter with butterflies, “Okay, good. I’ll see you tonight. Get some sleep.”

“I’ll try, Steve.”

After wishing him a good night, you place the phone back onto it’s base. Standing up on wobbly legs, a shaky exhale leaves your lungs when your fingers remove themselves from the smooth plastic. The image of him is still there when you blink.

Fuck - you should’ve told him.

—

Three taps against the window pane startle you awake. Rubbing your eyes as you sit up, you check the time - you were only able to finally fall asleep twenty minutes ago. Anxiety starts to creep over the back of your neck - until you see the culprit.

“Jesus…” You mutter to yourself. You can’t help the small smile that erupts over your face at the sight of Steve, fingers nervously drumming on the window sill. His expression relaxes a bit once you come over, and you’re already rolling your eyes as you move to pull it open.

“You know that I’m the only one home, right?”

Steve nods, not following your logic, “Yeah? And?”

“You could’ve just come to the door, Steve.”

The boy in front of you shifts at your words; his retort stutters as he tries to come up with an excuse, “Okay, alright. But you know, I didn’t want to scare you or anything!”

You step back to cross your arms over your chest, “And coming to my window while I sleep seems a whole lot better to you?”

“Alright whatever, Henderson,” He answers quickly, waving off your tone, “Will you just let me in already?”

You gesture for Steve to enter, laughing quietly to yourself as he does. As soon as he’s crawled his way through the opening, you latch and lock the window closed. He huffs, “You have no idea how thrilled I am that your house only has one floor.”

“Did you drive across the neighborhood just to scare me?” You ignore him, pulling the cord on the lamp by your bedside. The light illuminates the worry on his face.

“No, I just-” Steve pauses as he fiddles with his keys, “I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said. I had to know you were okay.”

You nod, crossing your arms over your chest once again, “Y-yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Steve’s brow raises at your deflection, “Um, did we not have the same conversation over the phone?”

“We did,” Your answer is laced with a bit of aggression, “You didn’t need to come all the way over here, okay? I’m fine now-”

“But are you?” Steve interrupts. His voice is genuine, soft, and you want to spill everything because he has that look in his eye; you’re not sure you can push him away forever.

“Of course, Steve-”

“Don’t lie to me,” Steve puts more force behind his words - it’s like a demand. He takes a few steps closer, “Please don’t lie to me.”

Hearing Steve plead with you like that makes your heart shatter. It’s killing him to watch you stand before him like this. He’s known you long enough to know when something’s not right, and he’s gotten especially good at reading you over the past few weeks. And by the way your jaw clenches, Steve knows you’re about to crack.

A shaky inhale comes through your lips; you have to tell him something. But how much?

“I just… I don’t want you to worry,” You mutter. Your voice is just above a whisper, although it doesn’t matter; it’s not like there’s anyone home to overhear. You’re scared to admit there’s something wrong. He shouldn’t have to do this for you.

Steve almost laughs. He runs his free hand through his hair, “It’s like, a year too late for that, you know.”

You sigh, realizing that he’s absolutely right. Of course he should worry, especially with how vague the conversation over the phone was. Letting him in is something that you’ll have to get used to.

Even though you’d been friends for a while, it was always more about him than you. You always wanted to be there for him, if he ever needed anything, how he was doing. It’s something neither of you understood was happening until your relationship became more; it was no one’s fault.

All of a sudden, Steve realized just how much you’ve done for him - he’s wanted to return the favor. And this… is all new to you; you’re not used to someone checking in.

“Oh god, you’re right,” You mumble under your breath. Your hands come up to cover your eyes in shame as you continue, “I’m sorry, Steve. I shouldn’t have lied to you.”

Witnessing your sudden change in mood, Steve moves towards you; he sets his keys down on your nightstand as he does. He goes to reach for you, pulling your body into his, “Hey hey, it’s okay, it’s fine.”

He wishes he could come up with something better to say. You’ve always been better with words than him. You’re better at a lot of things than him. But he’s trying - he’s trying to be better to be worthy of you.

Your arms wrap tightly around him once Steve’s pressed against you. He smells like freshly washed cotton, like pulling sheets from the dryer when they’re still warm.

It’s all so overwhelming, it makes you want to cry. You feel like you should, but the familiar burn behind your eyes never comes. Instead, you resume speaking.

“I guess I just…” You trail off, wanting to give him a reason - he deserves one.

Your fist knots the fabric of his tee; Steve’s palm slides up over your back, “I’m just not used to leaning on others for help. I’m trying to get used to it.”

“Sometimes it’s okay,” Steve’s reply is muffled by your hair. He ponders what to add, lips pressed into a firm line as he thinks, “Sometimes you gotta do stuff on your own and sometimes you need somebody else. That’s just how life works.”

Your chest heaves as you sigh at the weight of his words, this moment cements a single fact inside your brain - you won’t plan on hiding anything from him.

Well, except for that one thing. You’re still not ready to admit that to him yet.

You wish that pulling away didn’t mean losing his warmth; but his gentle eyes meeting yours mimics a feeling like it that fills your chest.

“You can lean on me, you know,” Steve says, and the smile that was already pulling at your lips widens even farther. And then he nudges you - his mouth curls into that stupid smirk of his, “However you want.”

You crack a laugh, accompanied by a roll of your eyes, “Yes, I know. Sometimes I just need a little reminder."

Suddenly, you remember just how lucky you are to have him. How fortunate you are to have him there to brighten your darkest moments, even if he’s sometimes battling his own demons at the same time.

“Thank you,” You say, bringing your gaze back to meet Steve’s again. He nods slightly, tone genuine and soft as he answers, “Of course. Anytime.”

The pads of your fingers graze over his cheekbone before tucking a strand of brunette hair behind his ear; Steve shivers a bit at the gentle touch before you meet his lips in a kiss.

He still gets a bit nervous each time, only because this feels so much more different than the others. The level of comfort and security he feels when you’re in the room was never there before he met you. Like really met you.

And you - well, you’re still so overwhelmed that you finally, after all that time, get to be with the one you love - you feel like you could jump out of your skin with joy. You’ve treasured every single moment, because it’s never been lost on you how it all could be taken away in an instant.

The brilliant grin you two share after pulling away shakes it all from your mind. Your fingers move to grip his hands in yours; you just like being able to do it, even if it is in the privacy of your own bedroom.

But then that feeling settles in your stomach, the one that doesn’t go away until morning. The dread that something’s going to happen. Steve can sense your growing anxiety - it’s almost like the air surrounding you changes. Leaving you now, something about that doesn’t sit right with him.

“I’ll uh, stay if you want.”

He mentions the idea quietly because, well, you’re not officially together. But to be fair, he hasn’t asked - but neither have you. Even though your hands are still in his, pressing into his skin, Steve finds it important to ask and make sure you’re on the same page.

You can’t lie - the idea of Steve spending the night makes you a little nervous. Although, knowing that you’re safe with each other might just be the push you need to relax. And with that thought, you’re stepping away from him, “Okay. Yeah, sure.”

The doorknob is so cold against your skin as you exit to grab an extra pillow from the closet in the hallway. The darkness of the living room seems to go on forever; it almost feels like something’s creeping up your neck once your back is turned to it.

After quickly shutting the door once you’re back inside, you turn around to see Steve, perched silently on top of your comforter - his presence warms the entire room, bringing life and love into it.

He hasn’t spent that much time in this space; he’s trying to take everything in, because it’s very reflective of you. There are neat piles of VHS tapes and comics on top of the dresser, a closet dominated with dark colors and sneakers, and some of your well worn denim tossed over the desk chair.

But his eye catches on a stack of photographs on the desk’s surface, and he’s halfway across the room before you can interject. You clutch the pillow a little tighter to your chest as Steve flips through them, laughing at one of you and Dustin from a few years ago at Christmas wearing matching pajamas.

He spins to show it to you, “I’m never gonna let him live this down.”

You approach his side when he finds another one of you as a child, playing with a cake battered spatula in your previous house. Baby curls framed your face, and your eyes were wide with adventure and wonder, “Holy shit, look at you!”

“I don’t know why I remember that day so much,” You mutter.

Steve’s silence pushes you to continue, “It was Mom’s birthday, and my grandparents baked her a cake - double chocolate I think. I wasn’t tall enough to reach but I wanted to help so badly. So they sat me on top of the counter and let me mix everything. They even let me tell her that I made it.”

You laugh quietly before the memory turns cold in your mind, and your wistful smile turns to a slight frown, “I haven’t seen them since we moved here.”

Steve isn’t even looking at the picture anymore. He listened to every word that left your mouth; you don’t speak much about the rest of your family. Instead of trying to probe further, he leans over to press a kiss to your forehead, a gentle and silent reminder of his support.

This feels strange. Opening up to him like that, making yourself that vulnerable - that’s a level of intimacy you haven’t explored quite yet. At least not with him… or anyone really.

Thankfully, it hasn’t seemed to scare him off. If anything, Steve’s more relaxed. He likes knowing how you feel.

Steve flips through the others while you rest your chin on his shoulder, your eyes intently watch his reaction to each one - you think you could stay in this moment forever.

And then he comes across one - an image of you and the kids on Halloween a few years back all dressed like Jedi. He pauses on it, “When do you think we should tell them?”

A sharp inhale comes through your nostrils at his comment; you hadn’t thought about that.

In all your bliss, you had completely forgotten - no one else knows. Not even your brother.

“Oh God, Steve-” You start, removing yourself from him, “I don’t even know how we would do that.”

“What are you talking about?” Steve replies, turning back to meet your gaze, “We just… tell them. It’s not rocket science.”

You squeeze your eyes shut as you answer, clenching the pillow a bit tighter in your grasp, “It’s really not that simple with them, Steve. You know that. And honestly, I still feel like I’m trying to figure out how to do all this.”

You sigh, running a hand through your hair, knowing just how messy involving the kids could make your relationship, “I’ve kinda liked it just being about us. You know, we’re together because we wanna be, it’s not for anyone else. And trust me, they’ll have so many opinions-”

“So let’s keep it to ourselves then,” Steve interjects, shrugging his shoulders a bit as he answers, “We’ll tell ‘em when we think it’s right, when we’re sure if this is serious or not.”

You hated keeping your feelings for him a secret. You hated that you were never able to tell him, but this is different. The idea sends a rush of excitement through your veins, you can’t deny it.

He smiles a bit and sets the photos down before continuing, “I know it might be too early to tell, but I feel like this could last, you know.”

You feel blood rise into your cheeks when he looks at you like that - irises filled to the brim with admiration. His hands come up to cup your face as you reply, “Me too.”

Steve leans in to drink a slow kiss from your lips, the kind that leaves you breathless when it’s over.

“Good,” He mutters, earning a small grin from you. Steve takes the pillow out of your grasp, “What do you say we try and get a couple hours of sleep in? I guess Dustin wants to go to the arcade before lunch.”

You laugh, pushing your hair back away from your face as you answer, “I will never be able to get used to that, I’m sorry.”

Steve tosses the pillow onto the empty spot on the mattress while you pull back the comforter. The bed dips as you both settle under the covers; Steve’s arm starts to slide over your waist before stopping abruptly, “Is this okay?”

You clear your throat, “Yeah, yeah that’s fine.”

The darkness washes over the room after you pull the cord to the lamp; it doesn’t feel as scary with Steve lying behind you. His touch stops your mind from wandering as it so often does - it can’t concoct anything to torment you with.

That being said, the sight from the earlier nightmare does appear behind your eyelids when you blink.

“It was about you,” You mutter, “The dream.”

It’s spoken before you can stop yourself. You instantly regret it, due to the lack of a reply that follows.

But then Steve tugs you closer, and you feel like you could melt against him. He tucks his nose right underneath the base of your hairline, deeply inhaling as you relax into him.

“I’m sorry,” He mumbles against your skin; your fingers curl around his as a quiet thank you.

Steve thinks that this is probably what home is supposed to feel like - warm clothes, the scent of your shampoo, a comfortable silence to lull you both to sleep. He doesn’t think he’s ever been more comfortable.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, the pair of you have finally found a bit of peace.

—

taglist: @stevebabey / @mrsukai / @hannarudick / @crazycookiecrumbles / @hellisateenageheather / @alewifex / @l0ve-0f-my-life / @naomiiiiiiiiiii04 / @daddystevee / @thecaptainsgingersnap / @let-the-imaginationflow / @asianravenpuff / @im-a-stranger-thing / @mikariell95 / @pilunb / @harringtherin / @royalestrellas / @ultrunning / @buggs177 / @poutfull / @yoheyyosup / @duchessdaisybat / @janieavalos / @sassisaluxury / @beththebubbly / @i-bitch-you-bitch / @captainstilinskis / @juliebean247 / @im-nada / @whatabeautifulsurrender / @rexorangecouny / @pass-me-jeez-it / @ahoy-scoops-troop / @halefirewarrior / @jointhehunt67 / @wallacetdog / @ketchuplukehemmo / @m-a-r-i-n-t-p / @fangirl485 / @emmegirl827 / @lookalivesunshine-x / @elite4cekalyma / @marjoherbo / @just-my-fandom / @idumpyourgrass / @alafolieee / @mochminnie / @phantomalchemist / @dustyblueboo / @alonewolfsblog / @ggclarissa / @hufflepuffing-all-day-long / @bippityboppitybabe / @readinthegarden12 / @bakugouishusbando

if you wanna be added to the taglist, just lemme know!

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x henderson!reader #steve harrington fic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x you #st fic #st imagine #my writing #almost paradise

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inagetawaycarxo · 3 years

Text

All Tied Up | Damian Priest *NSFW*

❛❛ it was the gifs i tagged you in I reckon damian would be dominant so what if one night the reader decides they want to look after him after tough match and rides him, teases him and he isn’t allowed to touch the reader and if he does, his hands get tied to the bed frame 👀❜❜-@x-idontknow-x

Pairings: Damian Priest x Fem!Reader

Featuring: Damian Priest, Y/n (Reader).

Summary: Y/n looks after Damian after a tough rough.

WARNINGS: smut, sex, 18+, errors I may have missed, oral (male receiving), swearing, bad smut writing.

Word Count: 1256

A/N: Got a Damian Priest or WWE/NXT request? Send it in! FEEDBACK IS GREATLY APPRECIATED!

You gently helped Damian, lay on the bed. Helping him take his boots off. you then laid next to him.

“Even though you didn’t win, I’m still proud of you,” You spoke. Rolling on top of him. Straddling his waist. Legs on either side of him.

Your hands cupped his jawline. Closing the gap between him and you. Pressing your lips against his lips softly. Damian’s hands grabbed your waist, as the kiss got more heated.

You pulled your lips away from his. Hands trailing down to the hem of his shirt, as you trailed kisses along his jawline. Pulling away from his jawline so you could pull his shirt up and over his head, tossing it to the side.

Damian grabbed the hem of your shirt, trying to pull your shirt up, only for you to stop him. Grabbing his wrists. You narrowed your eyes at him shaking your head. Damian gave you a questionable look, arching his eyebrow.

“Ah, this is all about you,” You warned him. Letting go of his wrist.

Damian half smirked. Then let out a moan as you left a trail butterfly kisses down his neck. Trailing kisses down his chest, to his stomach. While your fingers fiddling with the button of his jeans, undoing the button, you unzipped the zip. Your index fingers slipping underneath the waistband of his boxers, thumbs grabbing the waistband of his jeans, you tugged his boxers and jeans down to his ankles, freeing his cock, his cock sprung up. You pulled his boxers and jeans off of him. discarding them to the side.

You crawled in between his legs. Damian watched you with lust-filled eyes.

You smirked at him as took his shaft in your hand. Lowering you’re your mouth down to the base of his cock. Licking his base to his tip. All the while looking at him.

“Fuck,” Damian moaned. Grabbing your hair. You pulled your head away from him. Giving him a look.

“AH, no touching me, if you touch me again, I will have to tie your hands to the headboard.” You threatened him. Damian let out a small grunt of frustration. His hands grabbing the sheets.

You moved your head back to his tip. Your tongue darting out of your mouth. You licked the top of his dick, making Damian moan. hands gripping the sheets tightly, as he tried to fight the urge to grab your head. Or grip your hair.

You continued to lick his tip like a lollipop for a while, before putting his cock in your mouth. Your other hand resting on his hip.

Damian held the bedsheets even tighter. Knuckles turning white, as you bobbed your head up and down. Hollowing your cheeks, as you sucked him. Head tilting back. Eyes closing.

Damian let out loud moans. Bucking his hips up, making you gag as his tip his the back of your throat.

You continued to bob your head up and down, moaning against his shaft. Making Damian moan louder. Waves of pleasure coursing through his body.

Using your salvia as a lubricant. You felt yourself get wetter.

Damian’s toes curled. As he felt his climax arise, trying his best not to let go of the sheets and grab your hair.

Damian’s cock convulsed in your mouth, his warm seed spilling in your mouth.

“Y/n,” He moaned loudly. Making you hum against his cock.

You pulled his cock out of your mouth. Salvia coating his cock. Damian’s eyes snapped open. Looking at you through glazed eyes as you swallowed his cum.

You got up from the bed. Taking your shirt off.

Damian set up, but you gave him a look. Making him stop in his tracks. You slowly undid the button of your jeans, unzipping the zip of your jeans. Slowly stripping your jeans down. you slowly stepped out of them. Leaving you in your bra and underwear. Damian’s eyes darkening with lust.

Damian felt his cock get hard as you took your bra and underwear off.

You slowly got on the bed. Crawling on top of him. Giving him a seductive look. Damian looked at you intently. Taking his bottom lip in between his teeth.

Positioning your entrance with the tip of his cock. You slowly lowered yourself down on his cock. Both of you letting out a loud moan.

Damian’s hands went up to your side. Hovering above your sides.

“Don’t make me tie your hands to the bedhead,” You threatened him. Damian cursed underneath his breath. Resting his hands near his side. You smirked.

“Good boy,” You praised him. as you rested your hands on his chest. Slowly thrusting up and down his cock.

Both of you letting out another moan. your pace slow at first. Damian gripped the bedsheets, as your walls tightened around his cock.

You threw your head back, eyes squeezing shut, as you fastening your pace. Moans escaping your mouth.

Damian got lost in pleasure, to notice his hands reaching up to grab your boobs. But you did. Your eyes snapped open. You quickly moved your head forward. Stopping your pace.

Damian quickly looked at you. Quickly taking his hands off your boobs. Raising them in front of him. Giving you a pleading look.

“Please don’t, I promise I won’t touch you again,” Damian pleaded. Making you let out a sigh.

“Too late,” You responded. Reaching over to the bedside draw. Opening it and taking out a pair of handcuffs.

You quickly wrapped the handcuff around the headboard post. Then cuffed his wrists.

You smirked at him. lowering down to kiss him. Your boobs pressing against his chest. Your hands cupped the side of his face. as you thrusted in and out of him. Speeding up your pace. Your walls tightening around his

Damian thrusted up, every time you thrusted down. Hitting your g spot. Shoving his tongue down your throat.

Pulling against the handcuffs.

Both of you feeling waves of pleasure. Toes curling.

You broke the heated kiss. Kissing his jawline, then going down to his neck. leaving a litter of love bites along his neck. Moaning against his neck as you felt your orgasm arise.

Damian’s moans and grunts made your orgasm wash over you. Toes curling, you buried your head into the crook of his neck, as your orgasm took over, body trembling, your walls tightening around his cock even tighter. Eyes rolling back. Moaning into the crook of his neck. As you came on his cock. This caused Damian to climax for the second time. Straining against the restraints you put on him. Tilting his head back, eyes rolling to the back of his head. Cock convulsing as he spilled his seed inside of you. Filling you up.

Kissing the crook of his neck gently. You pulled your head away to look at him. Resting your head on his shoulder. Craning your head to look at him. Only to find him already looking at you.

He quirked an eyebrow.

“Are you going to untie me?” Damian asked. Making your eyes dart from side to side, you bite your lip as you pretended to think for a second.

“Maybe,” You replied, winking at him, as you sat up reaching over him to grab the keys. You unlocked the lock, taking the handcuffs off his wrists. Damian quickly flipped you over, pressing his body weight against your body. Pinning your wrists above your head and cuffing them. He smirked at you while you stared at him in shock.

“Payback,” He smirked, as he tied your other…

#wwe x reader #damian priest x reader #wwe smut #nxt x reader #damian priest smut #wwe #damian priest

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totallyexhausted · 3 years

Text

What I Deserve...

Yurio leaned against the brick wall behind him, pressing his spine against the harsh cement as rain continued to drip down is face, soaking into his already wet clothes. He shivered, wiping his nose with the back of his hand as he closed his eyes, swallowing thickly as tears formed in his eyes, as the air around him became hot and heavy, hard to breathe. He smacked his head against the brick behind him, sliding against the rough brick as it scrapped against his back until he was sitting on the cold ground, and he opened his tired eyes, looking up at the stars that littered the night sky. He didn’t want to be alone… but he didn’t want to go to Viktor’s apartment yet… he wasn’t ready. He felt like shit. But whether that was from his mom’s phone call, her leaving a day prior, or the nausea coursing through his stomach, the 15-year-old wasn’t sure.

Rain beat against his face harshly, mixing with the saltwater washing down his pale cheeks, and the teenager took a deep breath as his mother’s words echoed in his head. They don’t love you, honey… and if your grandfather was trying to keep you from me, then maybe he deserved what he got….

Yurio flinched again, choking on the sob he refused to push past his lips. He was drowning, and the past few days spent with his mother hadn’t help anything… it had made things worse. He needed someone right now. He needed anyone… he needed to stop being so damn weak… he was weak. The Russian punk glanced down at the blue and green surrounding his ankle, grimacing as the slightly swollen flesh throbbed as he pressed against the bruise. He shivered again as the cold water fell from his chin, collecting in a puddle in his lap.

He pulled his phone from his pocket with shaking fingers, letting his thumb hover over Otabek’s number, knowing he had already tried calling the older boy twice. You’re just being annoying… they don’t really love you, honey. Yurio shook his head softly, biting his lip, wondering if he would have the strength to call Yuuri… wondering what would happen if he did. The phone buzzed in his hand as his mother’s name flashed across the screen. Yurio cringed, shoving the phone in his pocket harshly, not really caring if the already broken glass cracked more. She had called earlier in the evening, when the teenager had found enough energy to pry himself from the bathroom floor… to explain. To explain her absence. Medicine- she had told him. She was grabbing medicine. But the money Yurio had offered earlier was gone… and so were most of her things.

Lights flashed across him briefly as a car drove past, splashing water in Yurio’s direction as the teenager pushed himself off the dirty sidewalk. He leaned against the wall, pulling his wet jacket closer to him as thunder boomed overhead, and lightning struck a street sign a few feet away. He sucked in a shaky breath as he pushed himself away from the wall, shoving his trembling hands in his pockets as he started walking towards Viktor and Yuuri’s apartment.

They were going to ask. Fuck, they’d probably freak… after Yurio’s fight with them. The teenager stumbled slightly before catching himself against the wall and stopping momentarily. Would they even want to see him? Shit… Shit.

Yurio had been with them only about a month before his mom showed up, begging to be apart of her son’s life again. Things had happened… horrible things over the past few months that felt crushing. Numbing. His grandfather had passed. His mother showed up. She came to one of his performances, and the teenager had fucked up so badly that he ended up having a panic attack in the locker room… and it’d been a few weeks after that that the teenager finally agreed to meet with her. A month later, he agreed to stay with her for a while, while she got back on her feet- and that had made things difficult between Viktor, Yuuri, and him. He’d gotten into an argument. He had said some things he couldn’t take back… and he hadn’t really talked to them since.

But he had nowhere else to go. He couldn’t stay in that house. In his grandfather’s house. Too many memories etched between familiar fabric and musty walls. With his mom, he could ignore it. But by himself… he couldn’t. He just couldn’t be there. And his mom. The 15-year-old knew it was stupid; it was so fucking stupid, but he believed she’d changed. That she really wanted him back… and he told himself not to fall for it, not this time around but she was his mom. And he was fucking stupid. So fucking stupid.

His phone vibrated again, and the teenager pushed himself away from the wall again, kicking some water towards the road as he glanced towards Viktor’s apartment. Despite it being late, Yurio knew the two older skaters wouldn’t be home just yet. They practiced late for more privacy, and the thought of them wanting more privacy was nauseating to say the least… or maybe it was the thought of trying to explain his appearance after a month of avoiding them.

Yurio swallowed harshly as he entered the building and trudged up the 13 flights of stairs. Normally, he’d just take the elevator, especially since he felt like shit… but he was nervous, and running through explanations, trying to find a quick excuse. To find an apologize, something, anything that didn’t require a lot of effort because the teenager had been up for a while, not to mention he’d been sick earlier. Something he would rather avoid the Geezer and Pork Cutlet finding out. He didn’t need the drama. And he definitely didn’t want their concern. They can’t love you the way I do, honey. You’re an inconvenience to them… nothing more than a publicity stunt.

The 15-year-old is standing in front of their door before he realizes Viktor and Yuuri might tell him to leave. They might reject him… kick him out, tell him he wasn’t welcome anymore. The teenager grasped the key in his jacket pocket as he bit his bottom lip, staring at the numbers posted to the door in bright gold. 1326. The apartment he’d memorized… the place he’d lived and had become comfortable in. But he hadn’t stepped foot in their apartment since his mom. And they hadn’t tried calling him. Because he’d been stupid and mean. The Russian Punk was mean… And he had said things he regretted the moment they left his mouth. Yurio had fucked up… and he didn’t deserve Viktor or Katsudon.

He deserved his mother, and his dead grandfather. They were his family; the ones who were supposed to be his family. And in the end, they’d left… his grandfather unable to trust the teenager enough to ask for help, and his mother not caring enough to stay when the 15-year-old needed her most. He’d been let down by the people he loved, and he deserved it. He didn’t deserve to be back here. The Russian Punk wasn’t good enough for that. And he’d never be.

A soft meow echoed through the wooden door, followed by a light scratch, and a small smile broke across the teenager’s face. Potya. Yuuri had agreed to watch him for the teenager since his mom was allergic. And since the fight, the 15-year-old had been too afraid to come back to visit her. Another meow trailed through the door, and Yurio glanced down to see a shadow moving on the other side of the door before a furry paw was shoved under the door.

The teenager laughed softly, shoving his key in the door and shivering as he pushed the heavy door open. He sighed loudly as silence met his ears, and Potya pounced at his shoes, clawing at the laces as the teenager bent down to pet him. Makkachin raised her head from the bed in the living room, wagging her tail quickly as it smacked against the bookshelf before rising and coming to greet the teenager.

Yurio bit the bottom of his chapped lips as he pet her head, scratching between the dog’s ears as she licked his warm cheek. Potya meowed as he rubbed against the teenager’s legs before the 15-year-old picked him up, cuddling the fluffy cat against his face as he walked towards the couch. After a few moments, Potya squirmed, jumping from the teenager’s grasp as Yurio collapsed against the couch.

He glanced around the small dark room slowly. The lights from the city bled through the sheer curtains, and the teenager let out a sigh of relief as he realized nothing had changed. Everything looked the same. Exactly where it’d been a month prior. Everything smelled the same. Felt the same… but he was alone right now. In an hour, when the two skaters came home, things might not feel the same. They might not be. But Yurio didn’t have anywhere else to go, and he didn’t know how to fix what he had already broken.

The 15-year-old swallowed thickly as he leaned his head against the couch, pressing a hand against his stomach as nausea ate at him. He was nervous. And shivering… and cold. The teenager cursed as he realized his clothes were still wet from the rain, that he was still wet from the rain. He groaned as he tried to find the energy to force himself up and change, but his head was beginning to hurt again, and the teenager was pretty sure the handful of Tylenol he’d choked done earlier was beginning to wear off.

His phone vibrated against, and Yurio shivered as he pulled the moist device from his pocket. His mother’s name flashed across the screen again before going black. The 15-year-old pressed the home button, wincing as he realized he had 28 missed calls all from her… and 30 unread messages. He inhaled slowly as he flipped through the messages, wiping at the tears forming in his eyes as he browsed through the texts. I’m sorry, honey. I’ll be back later… those two bastards don’t love you like I do! They will never love you like a mother can! Just like your pathetic grandfather couldn’t love you like a mother could! Like I do! Pick up. Yuri, pick up! You’re just like your father…

Worthless. His phone smacked against the wall before the 15-year-old realized he’d thrown it. He gasped softly, watching the device crash to the ground, the screen cracking further as a small corner of the glass shot off. Potya ran from the room, and Makkachin raised her head from her bed as the teenager continued to stare at the device. Despite it cracking, the screen was still going off every few minutes, the bright screen flashing green as his mother’s face filled the window.

The A/C kicked on and rain continued to patter against the balcony outside as the teenager leaned further back against the couch, clenching his hands, his fingernails digging into the already visible cuts in his palms. Silence evaded the room again except for the soft snoring from Makkachin and pinging from his phone as another notification was pushed through. Yurio sighed loudly, closing his eyes as his headache pushed itself down his neck.

……………………………………………………………………………………

Something felt off the moment Viktor stepped through his apartment door. The hair standing up on the back of his neck as he scanned through the dimly lit living area, glancing towards Makkachin rising from her bed, Potya sitting on the counter gracefully, his senses on guard as he glanced back towards Yuuri, placing Chinese takeaway on the counter slowly.

The older man bent down, rubbing Makkachin’s neck gently before she pushed past him, towards Yuuri. Viktor stood offended, a shocked look crossing his face as he turned towards Yuuri, and the Japanese man stuck his tongue out towards him as the dog circled him happily. Viktor scoffed, “At least Potya loves me.”

He reached towards the cat, petting him briefly behind the ear before the cat jumped from the counter, running from the room. Yuuri clicked his tongue before laughing loudly as Viktor put a hand over his heart. He sighed loudly as he took his coat off, slipping his shoes off slowly and began pulling the Chinese from the bag as Yuuri grabbed some plates.

“What are you staring at?” Yuuri asked as he set the plates down on the counter, an eyebrow raised towards Viktor as the older man watched him, leaning against the counter. Viktor shook his head, smirking as he ran a hand through his silver hair. He liked evenings like this. Him and Yuuri. Chinese takeaway. Rain… everything. Everything, every evening like this made Viktor love him more, made his past okay, made his life without his parents or his little sister okay. Evenings like this made Viktor feel okay, whole… and he’d never trade this for anything.

Yuuri pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose as he repeated the question, and the older skater reached over the counter, pushing some of Yuuri’s black hair behind his ear. The Japanese skater blushed, and Viktor laughed softly, “I’m just so happy to have met you. So lucky.”

Yuuri glanced down, smirking slightly as red flushed across his face. Despite being married for a year, Viktor still had the capability to make him feel like some lovesick teenager. He could still make him blush. It was almost embarrassing. Yuuri looked back up, shoving the plates to the side softly as he climbed on the counter, sitting on the edge where Viktor was standing. The older skater raised an eyebrow as Yuuri took his glasses off, running his fingers through his hair slowly.

Potya brushed against Viktor’s legs as the older man pulled Yuuri closer to him, surprised momentarily when the younger man pressed his lips against his, running his fingers under his shirt. Viktor forced Yuuri closer, shoving his hands under his wet jacket as he rammed it off quickly, Yuuri’s fingers pulling Viktor’s shirt over his head. Viktor gripped against Yuuri’s jeans, kissing against the younger man’s neck as he exhaled slowly as Yuuri pulled Viktor’s face back towards him, letting the Russian slip his shirt off frantically before Viktor pulled Yuuri from the counter.

They stumbled slightly, crashing against the table laughing, slamming against the bookshelf in the living room as Yuuri fumbled with Viktor’s belt, Viktor pressing his lips along the younger man’s collarbone, breathing heavily. He felt Yuuri slide his belt off, slinging it across the room as Viktor pulled him up again; Yuuri biting against Viktor’s neck gently as Makkachin whined, and the older glanced towards the couch.

“Fuck!” Viktor blurted, dropping Yuuri as his eyes connected with the small teenager sprawled across his couch. Yuuri scrambled up quickly, confusion crossing his face as he reached for the light, flicking it on before following his husband’s gaze, cursing softly. The Japanese skater fumbled, pulling his shirt from the floor before tossing Viktor’s towards him, hitting the older man in the face. Viktor grasped his shirt, shoving it inside-out over his head as he took a step forward.

His foot collided with something hard, and Viktor glanced down, his eyebrows drawing together slowly as he reached for Yurio’s phone. He inspected the cracked screen, missing edges, the dented side, harboring a small amount of white paint from impact; he pressed the on button only to find the phone dead or broken, maybe both. Yuuri shoved his glasses back on his face as he bit nervously at his thumbnail, “What’s he doing here, Vitya?”

Viktor glanced towards him before kneeling next to the slumbering teen. Anger washed through him momentarily, and Viktor’s hand hovered over the 15-year-old’s jacket before he shook his head and lowered his hand. The older Russian let out a long sigh, looking over the teenager’s complexion.

They hadn’t seen Yurio in a month. No phone calls. No texts. No visits. Nothing. He and Yuuri had stopped by Yurio’s grandfather’s house about a week after the teen left, only to find the kid’s mother, telling them to get lost. Yurio didn’t want to see them. Ever. According to her. And despite his judgement, Viktor was willing to oblige if it was easier for the 15-year-old. Besides it wasn’t like the kid answered his phone calls or texts anyway. But now? Why was he here now?

The older man sat there for a few minutes, thinking. Makkachin whined against, nudging Viktor’s shoulder before sniffing the teenager’s right arm, dangling off the couch. A chill washed over the older Russian as the hair on the back of his neck stood up slowly. Yurio looked like shit. He was pale, his lips chapped, a small cut across his cheek as a soft pink stood against his complexion. The older man reached for the teenager’s outstretched palm, seeing bloody indents from his nails forced through skin. The kid had had a panic attack at some point. Self-destructive, Nikolai had told him. Yurio didn’t know how to deal with his emotions, and he relied on self-destruction, self-infliction as an outlet.

“Viktor,” Yuuri said softly, and Viktor let go of the teenager’s hand, glancing towards Yuuri, who was kneeling near the kid’s feet. He’d slipped the younger’s socks off before his fingers ghosted over the swollen and bruised flesh on the kid’s left ankle. The older man rose slowly, gently prodding the black and green flesh, his lips forming a thin tight line as he set the 15-year-old’s ankle back down softly. He glanced towards the kid’s face as Yuuri picked at some of the skin on his thumbnail before whispering, “He’s seriously out.”

Viktor hummed in response, pressing his back against the coffee table as he leaned back, anger washed through him. Yuuri was right, the kid should have woken by now- it’s not like Viktor or Yuuri had known he was here, and they weren’t exactly quiet. But he was still asleep… which meant the kid was exhausted. He hadn’t been sleeping. And he looked like he hadn’t been eating much either. His cheekbones were more prominent than a month ago, his face paler; he seemed smaller which was concerning because the kid wasn’t big to begin with.

Viktor ran a hand over his tired face, clenching the bridge of his nose as tension began to spread up his neck, through his shoulders. He turned towards Yuuri who was still tearing at the hangnail on his thumb, smiling sadly before standing as one name raged through his mind. Over and over and over. Micha. Yurio’s mom- she had lied to him. To Viktor. She said she’d make sure nothing bad would happen to the kid… but if he was here, if he had come back, something bad had obviously happened. And she was to blame. And Viktor was going to fucking kill her.

Yuuri sighed loudly as he watched the older Russian stand, pulling his phone from his pocket, flipping through his contacts before pressing the phone to his ear. He watched Viktor pace through the kitchen, running a hand through his hair before pulling the phone away, pressing call, and pressing it against his ear again. He stood there, hand on his hip as he shook his head, scoffing. He redialed as Yuuri sat down on the coffee table, running his fingers through the teenager’s hair gently.

It’d been a while since they’d seen the kid. And truth be told, Yuuri was slightly relieved to see him now… but if Yurio was here, that meant something had happened. Something with his mom. Yuuri’s stomach clenched as he brushed his thumb over the small cut on the kid’s face before pressing his hand against his cheek, then forehead. Yurio whimpered softly as Yuuri’s hand connected with an uncomfortable warmth radiating from the teenager’s skin.

“Viktor,” Yuuri whispered, his fingers still carding through the younger’s hair as he glanced towards his husband. Viktor was still pacing, still trying to get whoever he’d called to answer. He shook his head, cursing before throwing his phone against the counter, running a hand over his face slowly. Yuuri cleared his throat again, “Viktor!”

The older Russian paused, glancing in Yuuri’s direction as the younger skater stood. Yuuri crossed his arms gently, “He has a fever.”

Viktor raised an eyebrow as he crossed through the small living room, kneeling over the teenager as Yuuri brushed past him. Viktor pressed his hand against the kid’s forehead before pushing the blonde’s bangs away from his face, cursing again. He leaned against the arm of the couch, forcing his hands against the fabric as he took a few slow breaths, closing his eyes momentarily. He should have known better; Viktor should have known better- he should have trusted his instincts. Micha was bad news, and Nikolai had warned him about her, warned him to keep Yurio from seeing her. But she was his mother. And Viktor was just glad to see the kid happy again. But Micha had played them. She had played the kid since he was here, and she wasn’t. And now Viktor and Yuuri had to pick up the pieces, fix the damage she had done to the teenager… because Viktor had been a fucking moron.

Something nudged his side, and Viktor opened his eyes slowly, turning to see Yuuri kneeling next to the teenager again. He pressed a few wet paper towels against the kid’s forehead before running his fingers through the blonde’s hair gently. Viktor watched as water dripped from the towels, rolling down the teenager’s temples, soaking into the old grey fabric of the couch. This was Viktor’s fault. He was the adult. He should have known.

The 15-year-old stirred slightly, his fingers reaching for the small compress on his forehead before Viktor’s fingers grasped his, pushing the kid’s hand back down. He leaned over the couch as Yurio blinked slowly, and Viktor gave him a soft smile, carding his fingers through the boy’s hair. Confusion crossed the teenager’s face before he choked loudly, tears welling in his eyes.

“V-Vitya,” Yurio sobbed softly as his eyes met the older Russian...

#Yuri on ice #Yuri Plisetsky #Viktor Nikiforov #yuuri katsuki #sick yurio #picking up the pieces #Yurio's mom did a number on him #trying to get back into things #self-harm #depression and panic attacks #crying #sick character #sickfic #kb #teenage yuri #protective victuuri #unfinished #fanfiction

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