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must be 18+ to follow or interact with this blogs or the fics reblogged here as i read mature things
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quick tags, mainly for me and my poor memory:
to be read: what i plan to read
to be read: series: used to track series i plan to read or have started to read but are still in progress
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pairing: mafia enforcer!steve rogers x female reader x mafia boss!bucky barnes
summary: you've spent weeks conning the boss of the brooklyn mafia, but when you're steps away from stealing the Blue Diamond of Alqualondë for your employer, you're caught by the boss's most trusted enforcer. then, things take a turn for the worse when you realize you weren't conning the mob boss—he was luring you into his trap.
warnings: mature content, eventual 18+ content (minors dni!!!), sexual tension (resolved in part 2), almost kiss, teasing touches, possessive touches, attempted sexual coercion, enemies to (eventual) lovers, bit of a cliffhanger ending
word count: 3.0k
a/n: i had an idea for @thezombieprostitute's Let's Plan A Heist challenge while i was working on my chef Jack Abbot fic but i didn't want to start it until i finished that fic. then by the time i got around to writing it, i realized the challenge was almost over. so! i've split what was supposed to be a one-shot into two parts, and this is the first part. part 1 is mostly setup/sexual tension while the next part will be mostly smut, and i'm going to work on it next, so it should be posted soon-ish! thank you Zombie for hosting such a fun challenge, and i hope everyone enjoys reading about our tricksy little thief!!
prompts used: mansion, party/celebration, you were hired, long con, solo, rival
“You shouldn’t be in here.”
In the life of a thief—the life you’d chosen, mostly willingly—it was important that nothing rattled you. You had to keep your cool in any situation you found yourself in, or else you could end up dead. It was a skill you’d honed over the years and it meant you could be held at gunpoint and not even break a sweat.
But those words, said by that voice, sent a shiver of unease down your spine like nothing you’d ever felt before. A guilty grimace contorted your face before you could stop it, and you could only thank the universe that the man the voice belonged to was behind you, so he had no way of seeing it.
Taking a breath and reaching for the calmness that seemed to exist in endless reserves on all your other jobs, you steeled yourself. You schooled your features into an expression that was much more innocent before you turned around and faced the source of that voice.
Steve Rogers cut an intimidating figure, clad in a tailored suit that exquisitely highlighted his tall stature and broad shoulders. His narrow waist and thick, muscular thighs looked like a million bucks in a simple black suit with a white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, giving you a tantalizing tease of all that golden skin he had under his clothes…
You nipped that thought right in the bud, focusing your gaze on Steve’s face—his stupidly handsome face—which was contorted into a cold, furious scowl. You couldn’t help but notice that even that expression looked good on him, and you had to force yourself to concentrate on the problem at hand.
Because the frown on Steve’s face wasn’t the one he typically wore in your presence. No, this particularly charming glower was because he’d discovered you in the secret, locked room in his boss’s Brooklyn mansion. The one that housed the mafia boss’s private collection of art, jewels, and other priceless valuables in a cramped maze that looked like an elegant version of a museum’s storage room.
It was a room that you absolutely, one hundred percent, shouldn’t be in.
But not everything in that room was priceless. The Blue Diamond of Alqualondë would fetch your employer a cool $5.8 million on the black market. All you had to do was retrieve it, steal it away from the mansion and put it in your employer’s hands. Then you’d get the $1 million you were promised…and your debts would be forgiven. Finally.
Giving your head a subtle, impatient shake, you reminded yourself that you didn’t have time to ruminate on the mess you were in. It didn’t matter that you’d been forced to get close enough to a mafia boss to be invited to one of the exclusive parties at his mansion—or that you’d enjoyed your time with the Brooklyn mob boss more than you should’ved.
You had to focus on the problem in front of you. Namely the fiercely protective and extremely dangerous mafia enforcer standing between you and your freedom.
“Would you believe,” you began, sauntering toward Steve and putting a little extra sway in your hips. The gown you wore hugged your curves lovingly, a slit up the side offering teasing views of your bare thigh. It was meant to be a distraction of a dress and it was doing its job. “That I got lost while looking for the bathroom?”
A little zip of satisfaction shot straight down your spine when Steve’s cold, blue eyes dipped briefly to your body, raking quickly over your chest, your hips, your legs, like he couldn’t help himself. But the excitement you felt at getting the man’s attention fizzled when his gaze returned to your face, harder than before.
But you wouldn’t—couldn’t—be deterred. It was imperative that you distract Steve and get him out of the room so you could sneak back later and steal the Blue Diamond of Alqualondë from his boss’s collection. How exactly you’d do that when the enforcer who already didn’t trust you, would be on higher alert? That was a problem for later you.
All you could do was deal with one problem at a time. So you moved closer to the big, intimdating man and slunk into his personal space, placing a hand over the breast pocket of his jacket while you fluttered your lashes at him.
“This place is just so big and confusing,” you murmured demurely, trying to play the role of damsel in distress while you surreptitiously searched his jacket for something, anything to help you get free.
But aside from a couple guns in shoulder holsters, all you found were the hard muscles Steve hid beneath his tailored suit. You forced yourself to ignore the twist of attraction in your belly, the melting warmth that sang in your blood, and urged you to do something stupid, something too fucking reckless, even for you.
It became easier when Steve’s lithe fingers wrapped around your wrist and he stopped your wandering hand in its tracks. He gave you a tight warning squeeze before letting his hands fall and stuffing them in his pockets, making a show of how little of a threat he thought you posed.
“From anyone else, I might believe that excuse,” Steve rumbled, staring down his nose at you. His eyes were like two chips of ice, sending even more cold anxiety down your spine, and it was only your years of practice that kept you from wilting under his angry stare. “But not from you, sweetheart.”
It disturbed you how much you liked hearing Steve call you by that pet name, even if his tone was dripping with disdain as he said it. In your head, you reached for the calm that typically came so easily when you were working a job, but you found it was rapidly depleting.
There was something about Steve Rogers that left you feeling stripped bare and defenseless, and it took much more effort than usual to gather your charm and clever tactics around you like protective armor. Giving an indignant, offended huff of a laugh, you swatted Steve’s chest like you were old friends.
“You’re so mean to me, Stevie,” you whined in your sweetest, most ingratiating voice, batting your eyes at the scowling enforcer. “I’m just a little lost,” you said, pouting up at him with your most pathetic expression.
At the same time, you pressed closer, your tits brushing against his chest, sending sparks of pleasure rioting in your belly, your nipples tightening beneath the thin, slinky fabric of your dress. It took everything in you to hold back a shiver as desire ran rampant in your body, making you feel hot and achy.
“Cut the shit, sweetheart,” Steve snapped, his anger bleeding over into his tone in a way that made his voice hard and unrelenting. It got you thinking about other things of his that would feel hard and unrelenting and could help soothe the ache between your thighs…
“This room is kept locked, so try again,” Steve growled, leaning in until he was looming above you, using that stupid heigh to his advantage.
However, the movement also pressed you closer to him, your tits brushing his chest and making your breath hitch as your nipples rubbed against him again. Steve’s eyes dropped to your tits, which were heaving in the low neckline of your dress, in danger of spilling out.
A sound, like a choked off, hungry growl, rumbled in Steve’s chest, and the air in the room crackled with unresolved tension. It went straight to your head, that sound, and you could feel your brain melting a little at how much pure, undiluted lust was etched into Steve’s handsome face.
For a moment, between one breath and the next, you thought Steve Rogers might kiss you. You were already sagging in relief at the thought, your body sinking deeper into him, your hands pressed flat against the lapels of his jacket, ready to grab him and haul him even closer.
You knew the kiss would be good. It would be devastating for the both of you, and your body lit up with the anticipation… but the kiss never came.
With a violent jerk of his head, Steve wrenched his gaze from your mouth, where he’d been staring at your lips like they were the answer to all his life’s problems, and he looked past your shoulder, deep into the maze of the room. He swallowed thickly, put some space between your bodies and finally looked back at you.
When he did, his expression was guarded, and all the lust that had filled his face had been buried deep within the span of a few seconds. All that remained was the distrust that had haunted his blue eyes since you first appeared in his boss’s life.
“Now, answer me, sweetheart,” Steve rumbled, his voice going infinitesimally softer on the pet name before he continued on. “What were you doing in here?”
The sudden shift in Steve’s mood was effective in waking you up from the lust spell you’d fallen into, and you realized you had one last card to play in an effort to get out of your disastrous situation. It was a long shot—Steve was so loyal to his boss, that it was unlikely he’d betray him for anything—but you had to try.
So you pressed your soft body more deliberately against the hard, unyielding bulk of Steve’s form, taking care to keep your wits about you as you danced your fingers along the line of his jacket. You let your fingertips trace the buttons of his white dress shirt, down to his abdomen, feeling the muscles of his stomach spasm at your touch.
Steve’s face remained a stony, unforgiving mask as you teased your nails along the hem of his pants, toying with the leather of his belt. You sucked in a breath for courage, emboldened by the bulge brushing against your hip and looked at the handsome mafia enforcer from under your lashes.
“What’ll it take to make you leave and forget you ever saw me in here?” you asked silkily, pushing up onto your tiptoes so you could murmur in Steve’s ear, your breath ghosting tantalizingly against his bearded jaw. “I promise to make it worth your while, sir.”
You were pressed so close to Steve that you felt his body go rigid at the honorific, his breath rushing out of him like you’d knocked the air out of his lungs. A pleased smirk teased the corners of your lips and you took his reaction as a sign to press your advantage, brushing your hand lower until your fingertips teased along the hard ridge of his cock in his pants.
But before you could cup his bulge through his clothes, Steve’s hand shot out, grabbing your wrist and pulling it none too gently away from his lap. He yanked so hard on your arm that it put you off balance, and if it wasn’t for Steve’s other hand settling on your hip, his palm a possessive, heated touch, you might’ve tumbled back onto your ass.
“You’re delusional if you thought that would work on me, sweetheart,” Steve growled, the barest hint of teasing in the pet name as it rolled off his tongue.
A shiver skated down your spine, one you weren’t able to temper, and you felt more than saw Steve’s smirk. Using his grip on your wrist and your hip, he drew you closer, and—damn him—your stomach swooped when you felt the hard length of his cock press against your belly.
It was all you could do to breathe normally and not pant over the hot mafia enforcer like a dog in heat. But that had its downsides, too, because Steve smelled good. Expensive cologne mixed with something dangerous, like gunpowder, and god help you, but you thought you could get high off his scent.
You were so close to huffing Steve’s scent like a desperate hussy when his hand around your wrist squeezed, making you blink the lust from your gaze and look up at him. A smirk teased around the edges of his mouth and he looked so fucking devastatingly handsome, you wanted to kick him—or kiss him.
“Tell me what you were doing in here,” Steve rumbled, looming over you once more in a clear attempt to intimidate you into answering. “And who you’re working for. Be honest, be honest—if you’re honest, we might go easy on you.”
At the reference to your employer, your spine went ramrod straight, and panic flooded your mind. You were so distracted by the thought of who’d hired you that you didn’t notice the way Steve’s eyes flicked briefly over your shoulder. Nor did you notice his use of “we” when it was only him in the room.
As far as you were aware at least.
In the life of a thief, these were the kinds of rookie mistakes that could get you caught, could get you killed. Unfortunately for you, you were too scared of your employer and too off-balance by the closeness of the mafia enforcer, to even realize you’d made such amateur errors.
You thought you were still in control of the situation, so you huffed an indignant sound and tossed your head, giving the appearance that you were offended by Steve’s words and the implied accusation.
Tipping your head back, you managed to look down your nose at the taller man as you scrambled for another way out of the room so you could return later for the diamond you’d been hired to steal. It took only a moment for your clever mind to come up with something, even if it wasn’t your best work.
“Your boss told me to meet him here,” you said, latching onto the first excuse you could think of that you hadn’t tried already. It didn’t matter, in your mind, that it probably wouldn’t work. It had to work because you couldn’t disappoint your employer. It wasn’t an option. “He said he wanted to show me something, but I think he just wanted to get me alone.”
It felt stiff and fake, even to you, as you winked at Steve, but using his boss’s attraction to you was your last-ditch effort to get the enforcer to let you go. You just needed his grip to ease up long enough for him to check in with his boss so that you could use the distraction to escape.
However, you hadn’t accounted for the universe—and the mafia boss and his most trusted enforcer—to be working so expertly against you.
That time, you did notice when Steve’s gaze moved from your face to something over your shoulder, something deeper in the maze of the mansion’s secret room. Anxiety flooded your body and no matter how much you tried to remain calm, you could feel yourself beginning to panic.
“Is that right?” Steve asked, and despite all your instincts telling you that he wasn’t speaking to you, you opened your mouth to answer him. But he went on before you could. “Did you ask her to meet you here—did you give her your key?”
Your stomach was sinking down to your knees, which were in danger of wobbling as panic consumed your chest, making your heart hammer against your ribs like a bird trying to escape its cage. Your mouth was dry, and for once in your life, you were too stunned to speak.
You could only watch in horror as Steve’s gaze—cold, blue and knowing—returned to your face, even as he continued speaking to someone else. You had a sneaking suspicion that you already knew who that someone else would turn out to be.
“Or did she pilfer it and sneak in here like the dirty little thief that she is?”
“That depends,” came a voice from behind you—one that was warm and filled with humor, even as it held a dangerous edge. One that you recognized.
It was the voice that belonged to the man of the house, the one you’d spent the past weeks cozying up to so you could steal from him. The one you’d secretly begun to like, along with his loyal enforcer, though that was a secret you planned to take to your grave. Unfortunately, it seemed tha might happen sooner rather than later.
“Does it count as stealing if I let her lift it off me so I could see what she’d do with it?”
Bucky Barnes sauntered into you line of view, shooting you a devastatingly charming grin that made you feel like your panties wanted to melt right off your body. You’d worked hard to ignore your attraction to the Brooklyn mafia boss, but in that moment, you couldn’t deny the way your body responded to him.
With his broad shoulders, bright eyes and towering stature, Bucky was one of the handsomest men you’d ever met. He was hot enough to give Steve a run for his money, and he had the charisma to wield those good looks like a dangerous weapon. You thought you’d been impervious to his hotness and his charms, but in that moment, you realized you weren’t.
Still, it wasn’t until Bucky slid in behind you, curving his big hands possessively around your waist, and caging you in between him and Steve that you realized just how much trouble you were in. Because the whole time you’d been thinking you were conning the head of the Brooklyn mafia and his right-hand man, they had clearly been three steps ahead of you.
And now you were caught in their trap—literally. You were caught between their big, strong bodies, with nowhere to go and no tricks left up your sleeve. All you had left was to see what they’d do, and hope you could escape with your life, if not with the score that could save you from your employer’s wrath.
The life of a thief wasn’t for the weak, and it was a good thing you were made of stronger stuff than most. You just had to keep your head in the game and not get distracted by Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers, and maybe, just maybe, you could still win your freedom.
But too bad for you, that might be easier said than done…
thank you for reading, part 2 is coming soon!! reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! ♡♡♡
The way I would’ve fake passed out so hard once Bucky came up behind her 😭
Just a sack of potatoes dropping so quickly that they’d better catch me before I bump my head and claim to have amnesia or before I end up on my knees for….other reasons 🤭😏
— Story summary: All you wanted was to get to Austin, but instead of your brother, it's Frankie (Santi's best friend, the one you can barely stan) who shows up in Dallas. He's just doing your brother a favor, but the trip takes an unexpected turn when a stop puts you face to face with your ex; the guy who broke your heart three months ago and is now about to get married.
Out of pride, you blurt out a lie: Frankie is your boyfriend. And surprised but willing to play along, he agrees, but just with one condition; you must accompany him to his mother's birthday. His plan? Dodge his family's meddling and their endless matchmaking schemes.
— Warnings: 18+ / MDNI / No Y/N use / story based on Triple Frontier, but with creative liberties taken ofc.
Fic content below the cut
PART ONE: "The one with the proposal"
PART TWO: "The one with the purring traitor"
PART THREE: "The one with the birthday party"
PART FOUR: "The one with bruises and blue excuses"
PART FIVE: "The one with the Red lights"
PART SIX: "The one with the late night talk"
PART SEVEN: "The one with the unexpected visit"
PART EIGHT: "The one with Dante and Beatrice"
PART NINE I: "The one with the wedding"
PART NINE II: "The one with the wedding"
PART TEN: "The one with the skydiving"
PART ELEVEN: "The one with the things we shouldn’t talk about"
PART TWELVE: "The one when nothing happens"
PART THIRTEEN: "The one with the day after"
PART FOURTEEN: "The one with the nightly calls"
PART FIFTEEN: "The one with the cabin and the river"
PART SIXTEEN: "The one with the unnamed surprise"
PART SEVENTEEN: "The one with the vampire girl"
PART EIGHTEEN: "The one with the Halloween party"
PART NINETEEN: "The one where Frankie Says Relax"
PART TWENTY: "The one where they don't know that we know and bla, bla, bla!"
PART TWENTY ONE: "The one with the guilt"
PART TWENTY TWO: "The one with Benny’s date"
PART TWENTY THREE: "The one when Frankie pays"
PART TWENTY FOUR: "The one with the Boston trip, part one"
PART TWENTY FIVE: "The one with the Boston trip, part two"
PART TWENTY SIX: "The one with the New Year's kiss"
More parts soon soon soon!
EXTRAS:
The Boyfriend Act timeline
The Boyfriend Act moodboards
Frankie's playlist
TBA playlist by Lev! @dontlookatme121
"A Divine Comedy", a TBA playlist by Saige! @dreamsunwind ‐> Apple Music - Spotify
Author's Note: How yall feel about the Findom/Femdom world? I've been doing a little research and uh... I got inspired. I hope yall enjoy too.
I might turn this into a lil series too... cause... yeah.
Money make the world go 'round.... and make the 🐱 go, woot woot.... 🫵🏽
(Pls Don't mind me yall LMAO)
Let me know if yall want it. 😏
OMNISCIENT | Bronco N.
Bronco didn’t mean to click her page.
It was a late scroll, post-shower, hoodie still on, phone glowing in the dark while Orlando rain tapped against the window. He’d been half-watching random gym clips, half-ignoring the algorithm until her profile slid onto his timeline like it knew what it was doing.
No thirst trap.
No loud captions.
Just presence.
Black screen. White text. Clean. Minimal. Dangerous.
Nyah Rivers.
No emojis. No extra words.
Her bio stopped him cold.
I'm not nice. You can call me Madam.
To gain access it costs $350
Blocked? $500 to fix it
Bronco blinked. Then laughed under his breath.
"Yea...aight."
It's 2025, Instagram was a minefield of bot–OF creators, AI girls with perfect faces, recycled captions, and links that led to scams or nowhere.
He seen it all.
So naturally, he assumed that's what this was.
A scam page.
But. Something felt off.
The pictures weren't polished the way AI usually was. No uncanny perfections. No repetitive angles. Just "Nyah". Brown skin, tattoos that were placed almost too perfectly for her own good. She didn't smile in for the camera in some of her pictures. It's like she allowed it to see her.
And from what he seen, she doesn't post often.
That's what really got him.
One post every few weeks. No desperation.
No engagement.
Just, existing. And being paid for it .
Bronco tapped through her highlights.
ACCESS
RULES
REMINDERS
Each one was short and to the point. Firm. Almost polite– but not really.
You don't talk unless I allow it.
Money is respect.
I don't have to convince "Grown" men.
He sat up a little.
"Okay," he muttered. "Shorty talkin' kinda crazy."
But kept scrolling.
What caught him next wasn't even the money she was posting about. It was the composure. Nyah never begged. Never explained herself.
He realized that he wasn't aroused... but curious.
Nyah noticed him lurking immediately. She usually did when they had a blue check next to their handles.
It always amused her on how many "high end" creators or social media staples finger through her platform.
Men like him always thought they were slick though. Quiet likes, watching stories with no interactions.
But Nyah, grew accustom to recognizing the patterns and reeled them in.
She noticed this one was a big man. Broad shoulders. Gym clips. Dimples. Semi-private life.
And verified.
She smirked– not because she wanted him. But... because she knew exactly what he was doing.
Watching.
Contemplating
Wondering if she was real.
She didn't reach out. She NEVER did. That was the #1 rule.
She didn't need to.
Two day's later, a notification popped up.
bronco_wwe followed you.
Nyah stared at the screen for a moment.
Then she posted.
Lurking isn't access. Follow the rules.
Then logged out.
Bronco saw it ten minutes later.
His jaw clenhed before he could stop it.
"Damn," he muttered, half-amused, half-annoyed.
The post wasn't aimed– but it definitely landed. And that's when it clicked.
This wasn't a damn bot. Maybe it was a gimmick, but Nyah didn't chase for attention.
She knew how to filter it.
He immediately opened a DM and hovered over her DMs longer than he's like to admit.
Didn't type.
Just remembered the bio. To gain access $350
And money wasn't the issue. It was the fact that for once... he wasn't sure who'd be in control if he paid.
Nyah didn't flinch when she got that cashapp notification.
That was the first mistake men usually made. Assuming access meant affection.
Bronco sent the $350 without a message. No emojis. No explanation. Just a clean, quiet transaction.
Minutes passed. Nothing.
An hour. Still nothing
Most men would've been yapping away in her messages. Double texting. Confirming if the payment went through. Begged to not be blocked in the future.
But Bronco didn't.
The man went about his day. Lifted. Showered. Picked up his brother. Cooked.
Let the silence sit where it was.
And that shit.... Lowkey annoyed her.
Nyah finally decided to do something she usually didn't do.
Respond first.
Ladyrivers: You bought access, Not my attention. Don't confuse the two.
Bronco read it. Then started typing.
bronco_wwe: Good. I don't like confusion .
She frowned and stared at the screen longer than she needed to. Knowing she should block his ass right now. But, something was telling her not to.
Most men tried to posture. Some tried to flirt.
Others tried to submit too fast.
But him?
He wasn’t reaching. He wasn’t shrinking. He wasn’t chasing approval.
He was just... present.
And that pissed her off just a little more.
So she escalated.
She tested him the way she tested all of them—pressure, distance, calculated disrespect.
Delayed replies.
Short responses.
Cold reminders of rules he never asked for.
Ladyrivers: Don't message me like we equals
Ladyrivers: If I wanted conversation from you in particular, I would've invoiced it
Bronco leaned back in his chair when he read that.
A slow smile tugged at his mouth.
bronco_wwe: You talk a whole lot for someone who claims time is money.
Silence.
Ten minutes.
Then...
Ladyrivers: Careful. 🫵🏽
He didn’t apologize. Didn’t backpedal.
bronco_wwe: I am.🙏🏼
That’s when Nyah realized something uncomfortable.
She wasn’t breaking him. She was circling him, like a shark...
And he wasn’t flinching.
The following day she raised the stakes. Blocked him.
No warning.No explanation.
Just—gone.
Most men scrambled when that happened. Sent emails. Made burner accounts. Panicked over the loss of access.
Bronco noticed the block while tying his shoes. He paused.
Checked the page again.
Then opened his Cash app.
$500 sent.
No message. No attitude.
Just payment.
Nyah’s phone buzzed. Her jaw tightened.
She unblocked him immediately—then waited.
Surely now he’d say something. Anything.
Instead, three minutes later:
bronco_wwe: Fixed.
That was it.
Nyah exhaled slowly through her nose.
Because that?
That wasn’t submission.vThat was control meeting control.
He wasn’t trying to be broken. He wasn’t trying to dominate her either.
He was matching her frequency— and refusing to lose himself in the process.
For the first time since she started this, Nyah felt it.
Not arousal. Not fear.
But tension. The kind that doesn’t resolve easily.
The kind that makes you wonder who would crack first if the rules stopped being theoretical.
a/n: one day I complain about being all out of juice and the next I'm brainstorming whatever this is during Christmas lunch..
Pairing: Pirate!Bucky x Mermaid!Reader
Word count: 5k
Warnings: drinking, stalking?, DUBCON, SMUT, mean!bucky for like... a moment, p in v, oral (m receiving), wet dreams, chains, biting, creampie, reader is said to have silver/really light eyes (rumor mill says she has it, one line in the fic alludes to it fr), mentions of almost drowning, virginity/virginity loss.
Summary: Captain James Barnes doesn’t believe in tales of mermaids until he wakes up chained in a cave and there’s one staring right at him.
+fran: mermaids in this universe have a tail that starts at upper/mid thigh so they still have lady parts. special thanks to everyone in the bwa who helped me bounce a few concepts off of them on CHRISTMAS DAY of all days. dt @earthsmightiestbenders for being a fellow mermaid lover.
➼ this was the playlist I listened to! also the first song can be played when she's taunting him lol.
also if you like the mermaid vibe and like Steve please go read the lighthouse by @epiphanyrogers, I feel like its sort of the Steve girl twin to this fic.
this was inspired by one of @artficlly 's many delightful moodboards I took a peek at that she's doing for her event! heh
Captain James Barnes was born for the sea.
Anyone who knew him would say so. Since a young age he would find himself compelled to be near the water, always playing by the dock, interested in how ships are built and how they work, and what sorts of wonders the ocean guards.
Some would say his heart was lost at sea and he was looking for it.
His best friend would say he just had a death wish.
Bucky wouldn't say anything. He just couldn't explain it. He felt like he couldn't breathe unless sea salt and ocean breeze were pumping through the chambers of his heart like the only fuel he'd ever need.
It wasn't ambition that made him captain at an age one should still be too drunk to man a ship, it was devotion. To what, he wasn't certain yet.
His crew joked it was the calling of a mermaid. Bucky chuckled in response every time. He had heard every sailor’s tale a dozen times over.
The ones about ghost ships, sea beasts, and specially women with scales who sang men to madness. His crew swapped those stories often—late at night, rum-soaked and wide-eyed, tossing salt over their shoulders and glancing nervously toward the dark waves just past the firelight.
"No such thing as mermaids, John." He took another swing of rum.
“They say they got eyes like lantern fire.” another chimed in.
Bucky snorted. “They say a lot of things. Usually when they’ve had too much to drink.”
“And tits that’d make even you fall to your knees,” someone else added with a laugh.
That got a smirk out of him. Sharp and cold. “I’ve been brought to my knees before,” he said, rising from the table. “Wasn’t by a fish.”
Still, the stories kept coming. That mermaids would flash their tits just long enough to crash your ship on the rocks. That they'd pull you under with a kiss. That no man who touched them ever came back.
“Must be one hell of a lay,” he muttered one night, tossing a bone overboard as the crew gathered around lanterns, whispering like boys. “If she’s even got the parts for it. Gills and all.”
“You don’t believe in mermaids, then?”
Bucky looked up, expression bone dry. “I believe in storms, disease, and mutiny. Haven’t met a fish I’d risk my life for yet.”
He stood, stretched, rolled his neck with a low pop.
“If you boys want to get off thinking about imaginary sea pussy, be my guest. I’ll be on deck making sure we don’t die.”
The laughter that followed was familiar, easy. But behind it, some of the men still glanced toward the waves like they expected to see something rise out of them.
The fog came in before nightfall and by the time Bucky was pacing aimlessly, it was thick already.
It slithered across the water like it had a mind of its own—low and white, unnaturally thick for this part of the sea. It blurred the horizon. Smothered the sky. Turned the sun into a dull smear of gold that slowly bled into grey.
By the time the first lanterns were lit, The Howling Tide was deep inside it.
And Bucky hated it.
He stood on the creaky dark wood, gloved hands gripping the wheel, watching the mist close around them like a curtain. The sails groaned. The compass needle spun lazy circles in its case.
The water was too quiet. No birds. No breeze. No swell beneath the hull. Just silence.
The kind that pressed in against your ears and made your heart beat too loud. “Cap’n,” came a voice behind him.
Bucky turned. It was Steve, his quartermaster—broad-shouldered, superstitious, and the second best on the ship.
He jerked his chin toward the fog. “This is bad water.”
Bucky said nothing in response. Another voice chimed in—young Bob, wide-eyed and nervous, hands white on the rope he was coiling.
“Could be ghost current. My cousin said ships vanish in fog like this. Like they hit nothin’ but never come out.” Bucky’s jaw ticked.
He didn’t believe in ghost stories. Not really. But he did believe in feeling. And the sea felt wrong.
“Trim the foresail,” he ordered, voice quiet but sharp. “Slow our heading.”
Steve hesitated. “You think we’re drifting?”
“I think I want eyes on the water. And silence from anyone who doesn’t want to be thrown overboard.” Bob nodded fast, muttering apologies, scurrying off.
Steve gave him a long look. “You smell it too,” he said. Not a question.
Bucky didn’t answer. But yes, he did. The fog smelled… sweet. Like honey left out too long. When night fell completely, he couldn’t see more than ten feet off the bow.
He looked down at the golden compass in his hand, a present from his father, and watched the needle not know where to point. Not fast and frenzied, just lazy. Like it was drunk.
Below the fog, barely above the surface, you watched them interact, muffled gravelly voices worming their way into your brain, and only one stood out. They referred to him as Captain.
You liked this one. Liked the tension in his shoulders, the edge in his tone, the way the other men fell silent when he looked at them too long. You liked the way he moved—confident, coiled like a predator, but never wasting a step.
And gods above, you liked how angry he sounded.
So serious. So stubborn. So sure that the ocean was his to tame.
You observed the men like you were peeking out of your bedroom window, you had been circling the ship for a few miles, watched them get drunk, trade horrible jokes, and even worse stories about women, fights, and the lore the human world thought it knew about your kind.
You tilted your head, fingers brushing your bare chest as you let yourself float higher on your back, just enough for moonlight to catch the swell of your breasts, water dripping off your nipples as your hair floated around you like a halo, and the shimmer of your wet skin.
He didn’t look down. “Pretty thing,” you hummed under your breath. “All that rage, and nowhere to put it.” Your tongue darted across your lip. Your tail swayed with slow interest. “I bet you taste so good.”
You giggled, soft and close as breath. Up above, he flinched and turned sharply, basrely seeing your sillouette through the fog.
Bucky was taken aback by the image, rubbing his eyes to try to see more clearly, and when he opened them again the water was still. Nothing there.
But his heart started beating faster.
He stumbled back from the rail, breathing hard. Muttered something sharp under his breath and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
"Not real,” he growled. “Not real, not real—too much rum, not enough rest."
That night Bucky's dream felt so real, he could smell it.
He could smell the salt, the freshly inked rag paper that gave him direction, the cotton on his sheets, and the sweetness that was so undoubtedly you.
The night sky roared with a storm, harsh drops of water hitting the window of the captain's cabin with every gust of wind.
He had his back to the wooden headboard and the lantern on his bedside table in the far corner of the room was the only source of light, bouncing off of your skin and helping his eyes trace the curve of your breasts, the peak of your nipples, and the way your juicy lips held an 'O' shape when he thrusted up to meet your rhythm.
"Bucky, oh my—" You head lolled back in ecstasy as he had a hand splayed on your back to keep you upright Abs! flush with his chest.
God, what a view you were
Skin damp with sweat, whining so sweetly into his ear, begging for his cock like you were made for it. Made for him.
"Y'sound so sweet, sugar." He licked his thumb and brought it between the two of you, to rub your clit as you rode him. "Let 'em all hear you come f'me, mmm?"
You whimpered, nodding and whining a few 'yeah' and 'please's back at him. "Let the whole crew hear you, baby, c'mon."
Bucky woke up being thrown out of bed by the motion of the ship, yells of the crew outside the cabin almost as loud as the noise of the rain. He scrambled to his feet to try to reach for the door, but the ship moved again and capsized this time.
He was thrown off balance, hitting his head on his dresser, and everything went dark.
He woke up with his head throbbing.
If it was the water, or the dresser, or the rum, he did not know. And his mouth was dry, he could taste sea salt on the corner of his lips when his tongue came out to wet it.
He felt the cool stone on his back, his clothes still damp with ocean water, and when he rolled his neck he realized his wrists were chained above his head.
That sobered him up quick.
His arms were stretched taut above his head, wrists bound in chains that rattled when he tried to twist out of them. The sound echoed through the cavern—low and hollow and wet.
“What the fuck—” he breathed.
Bucky looked around the grotto, the ceiling above him glistened like the inside of a seashell. The walls rippled with moisture and strange reflected light.
Pale stone. Cracked coral. Pools of seawater lining the edges. There were barnacles growing where bricks should’ve been.
This wasn’t his ship.
It wasn’t even any ship.
His vision blurred for a moment, still heavy with the edges of a dream — he gritted his teeth and shook his head hard.
He’d been asleep. Had to have been. This was a dream. Or a joke. Or—
“STEVE?” he shouted, voice hoarse and echoing. “BOB?!” Silence. “Anyone?!”
His own voice was the only answer, bouncing back at him. Mocking. Smaller.
He yanked at the chains again, muscles flexing hard as he tried to find give—but the rusted links didn’t budge. The cuff was tight enough to scrape skin.
“This isn’t funny!” he muttered.
The mossy glow of the walls painted his skin in ghost-light green and gold, slick with seawater and sweat. His damp shirt clung to the sharp lines of his chest, half-open, revealing the slow rhythm of his pulse.
And then he felt it.
Almost imperceptible, a slight shift in the water, so delicate it didn't even disturb the surface, but he knew he wasn't alone anymore.
The water didn’t even splash when you surfaced. It rippled like silk, hushing around you as your hair spread out behind you like seaweed caught on the current.
Your face was mostly hidden, lips and chin still submerged, but those eyes — god, those eyes — watched him like a creature who had waited too long and grown too hungry.
The moonlight bounced off of the water and reflected off of your eyes, giving him the impression they were the most beautiful and pale blue-ish silver he'd ever seen.
Your lashes were wet. Your expression unreadable. Your stillness more terrifying than if you'd lunged at him with teeth bared.
Bucky, however, had absolutely no clue who — or what — you were.
As you let more of your face and neck be exposed above the surface, he started to talk.
“Hey,” he called out, voice low, gentling it the way he did with frightened animals. “You—uh—you shouldn’t be down here. Dangerous place. Lots of rocks. Tide comes in quick.”
No response.
He tried a little smile. The one that got him into trouble in taverns. “You alright? You lost?”
Still nothing.
He cleared his throat. “Listen… sweetheart—” he winced inwardly, realizing how stupid it sounded. “I’m Captain Barnes. My crew—well, they’re probably worried sick about me. If you could just… come over here, maybe find a key or something, I’d be real grateful.”
You blinked slowly.
He gave a dry laugh. “I swear, I’m not usually the type to get tied up. Unless… well, unless the lady asks nicely.”
A pause.
Then your head tilted, just a little.
Encouraged, he smiled more genuinely this time. “You got a name? Or are you the mysterious silent type?”
Still no answer. But you floated a little closer, and Bucky’s eyes flicked to the surface of the water.
“I bet you’re cold,” he said, gentler now, lacing it with just enough sweetness. “C’mon, angel. Be a sweetheart. Help me out of here and I’ll owe you one. A drink. Dinner. Hell, name it.”
Nothing.
But your mouth curled slightly—just a hint of a smirk. He narrowed his eyes. “You can hear me, can’t you?”
You blinked again. Then slowly, slowly, you started to move toward him. That’s when he noticed the ripple of something long behind you. Something not quite right.
He frowned.
“What was that?” he asked, voice suddenly rough. The water shimmered, revealing a fleeting flash of scales. His blood ran cold. “…What the fuck was that?”
Then he saw it fully—the curve of your tail, sleek and gleaming, vanishing again beneath the black water.
He went still.
And then everything clicked.
The chains. The grotto. The silence. And you. Bucky's eyes widened.
“No.” He jerked against the cuffs. “No fucking way.” You gave a little giggle. Light and bright as seafoam. Like his horror was a joke to you. “You—you did this.”
You only smiled. “You’re one of them,” he hissed, heart hammering. “A fucking mermaid.” You cocked your head again, innocent.
“You’re even prettier up close,” you said, circling lazily through the moon pool. “That’s the thing about human men. You all look rough from far away. But you—”
You floated higher, your arms folding over the rock at the edge, tail swaying behind you like a lazy ribbon. Your voice dropped to a purr.
“—you’re delicious.”
"You chained me here!" And there it was. He sounded angry, fiery. Mad at you and at himself for not being able to break free from the chains clicking at every movement he made.
You shrugged, the water rippling around your shoulders. “Well... You nearly drowned. I didn’t want to have to save you twice. It’s exhausting dragging around all that muscle.”
“You know,” you said airily, “it’s really quite rude to repeat false information about someone who’s literally within earshot.”
He blinked. “What the hell are you talking about now?”
You floated closer, tail glimmering just below the surface. “You know. ‘Fish waist down,’ ‘nothing but scales,’ all that nonsense. Hilarious, really. I mean—do you want to check?”
Your hand reached up and you ran your index finger up the length of the underside of his foot, tickling him. A giggle escapes your lips when he jerks away.
You propped yourself up on your hands, coming out of the moon pool and resting by him, the end of your tail still dipping onto the ocean water.
“Is this what you do?” he bites. “Lure sailors with your tits and your pretty lies and keep them in your cave until they go insane?” You giggle. Actually giggle.
He goes silent, blinking at you like he wasn’t expecting that.
“What,” you smile, “you think this is something I do often? No, Captain.” You bite your lip, tracing your index finger down his chest. “You’re my first.” You whisper it like it’s a dirty little secret only he gets to know.
“I’m honored,” he deadpans, narrowing his eyes at you. “Truly.”
You played with the hem of his pants, enjoying the way he couldn't decide between recoiling and stating at your tits a little too much.
He shifted, chains clinking above his head. “If this is your idea of flirting,” he muttered, voice low, “you might want to work on your delivery.”
"I think... delivery is just fine." You pointed at his crotch with your eyes, he groaned when he noticed you were talking about his hard on.
“Goddamnit,” he muttered, rolling his hips subtly like he could somehow will it away. The chains above him rattled again as his biceps flexed, but all that strength did nothing against enchanted iron.
You tilted your head, lashes fluttering. “Oh, Captain. Don’t act like that’s my fault.”
He glared at you. “You’re half-naked and rubbing on me.”
“You’re fully hard and chained up.” You smiled sweetly. “Seems like you’re the one with the problem.”
He swallowed thickly. “You’re not even human.”
“Mmm, but I feel awfully human from the waist up,” you purred, leaning forward until your breasts brushed his chest, warm skin meeting cold saltwater sheen.
You brought your lips close to his ear. “And I can assure you…” you whispered, one hand drifting lower, “the important parts below are very compatible.”
You kissed just under his ear, then his jaw, and nipped on the skin there, making him grunt. Your lips found his in a chaste kiss that would be the only tell you'd never done that before.
When you pulled away you stared into his blue eyes, biting your lip, and as if the dazed look on his face was invitation, you went back for more, hungrier this time.
Like you wanted to burn the shape of his mouth into your own. Like you needed to know the taste of him to survive.
And when your hand slid over his ribs, up to his throat—just enough pressure to make him tilt his head back—you smiled against his lips.
“I like when you sound like that,” you whispered, dragging your mouth along the corner of his jaw.
His head thunked softly against the rock wall behind him. He shut his eyes, swallowing hard, his breath ragged and hot against your cheek.
“You’re a monster.” he muttered.
You hummed sweetly. “Mmm, yeah,” you said, nuzzling into the skin between his shoulder and neck. “But I’m a pretty cute one.”
His eyes flew open again when you sucked a mark into the skin just beneath his ear—no hesitation this time. Just hunger. Bold and messy and new.
Your lips brushed over the strong column of his neck, pausing where his pulse hammered beneath your kiss. Each time your mouth touched him, his breath stuttered, chest rising hard under your palms.
“Careful,” he muttered, voice already rough, already gone. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”
You smiled against his skin and kept going.
Down over his collarbone, across the broad plane of his chest—warm, solid, alive. You kissed him like you were mapping him, like you wanted to remember exactly how he felt beneath your mouth. He groaned softly when you lingered there, when your tongue traced the faint scars and salt-slick skin, when your hands steadied him as if you were the anchor now.
Your lips drifted lower, unhurried. Teasing. Intentional.
You kissed down his abdomen, felt the way his muscles jumped beneath your touch, the way he tensed as you got closer—closer to where his need was unmistakable, impossible to ignore. He sucked in a sharp breath, chains clinking faintly above him as if his body knew what was coming even if his mind couldn’t keep up.
Your palm pressed down gently over the thick ridge of him. “Oh.”
He inhaled sharply, hips twitching despite himself.
“…Are all humans this big?” you asked with a faux-innocent tilt of your head. “Or is this a captain thing?”
You let out a breathy giggle and palmed him through his pants. Bucky groaned through gritted teeth, and you pressed your hand down harder, feeling the length of him.
"You can talk, y'know… I won't bite." Another giggle and you undid the front of his pants. "Too hard." Pulling it apart just enough to let you see the tuft of hair at the base of him.
"You're a demon." He tried to look away but couldn't pry his eyes off of where water stood still in drops on your tits.
"You have a thing for demons, then?" You teased, pulling him out of the fabric that barely constricted him.
Your mouth watered at the sight. Thick, long, perfectly pink, and hard. You pumped his length a couple of times and Bucky bit back a whine.
"Didn't know they looked like this up close."
"You're disgusting." He barked back.
You hummed, letting your head fall lower, licking a strip up the underside of him, pressing your tongue against the angry vein, "And you're tasty."
You didn't let Bucky get another word in, just closed your lips around him and moaned at the salty taste of him. He lets his head fall back onto the stone, squeezing his eyes shut, desperately trying to pretend he's not enjoying it at least a little bit.
“Fucking hell.”
You take more of him into your mouth, inch by inch, until the head hits the back of your throat. Then you pull back, eyes locked to his, letting your tongue flick the slit at the tip.
The wicked smile on your face would be enough to undo any man, but he wouldn't look at you.
You stroke the base of his cock with your hand as you suck the tip again, letting your saliva drip down to meet your fingers, slow and obscene. As you do it again, this time bobbing your head just a little his hips twitch and his breath catches.
“Oh my god,” he whispers. “I forgot what it feels like to be touched like this.”
You hummed around him again, flattening your tongue along the underside as you sank down deeper, your tail flicked behind you lazily, keeping you perfectly balanced between his legs as you suck him off like you were made to do it.
You swallowed him deeper this time. Gripped the base tighter. Let your eyes flutter shut as you worked him in slow, devastating strokes.
“You’re gonna make me—fuck, fuck, I’m gonna—”
He was a mess now. Long gone was the restraint of one Moaning openly. Hips twitching despite the chains.
“Oh my—fuck—fuck—fuck—”
He thrashes against the chains, but he can’t go anywhere, and he doesn’t want to. You’re too deep. Too wet. Too perfect. Your mouth slides over him like something holy. Your tongue swirls under the head like you’ve known him your whole life.
He tried to breathe deep and failed. “Shit—don’t stop—don’t stop—don’t stop—”
You don’t.
You suck harder. Stroke faster. Moan around him until the sound rings in his skull like a song he’ll never forget. “I can’t—shit—I’m—I’m gonna—”
You reach up with one hand and cup his balls—just the right amount of pressure—and that’s it.
He comes with a full-body sob—loud, raw, helpless—his back arching off the stone as he spills into your mouth. It just keeps coming, thick, hot, endless.
You took all of it.
You let him out of your mouth with a soft pop, drool and cum dripping from the corners of your mouth.
"I was right." You collected it from one corner with your thumb and sucked the digit clean. "You taste really good."
Bucky gulped. "What the fuck do you want from me?"
You only shrugged in response. "Just…" you sighed. "you."
You licked, and kissed, and bit your way up his torso. "I followed your ship for a while, you know…" Another kiss, right under his pec this time. "Saw you order those men around, work yourself to the bone…" another not so gentle lovebite to his chest.
"Heard you try to cum so hard when you forgot your window open…" You licked your way to his neck. "No pretty girl to help you out…" You kissed right under his jaw, and your voice got lower, almost mocking, imitating the sailors. "No women on the ship! It's bad luck!" You laughed softly.
Bucky's mouth went dry. He felt like prey, knowing he'd been stalked for only you and God knows how long.
"What'd you think of? Mmm?" You pressed your breasts to his chest, pebbled nipples ticking his skin. "Did you think of pretty tits, kneeling in front of you, waiting to be painted white?"
Your hand enveloped him again, "Y'think of a warm pussy to stuff your cock in? Mmm?" One stroke, then another, still wet with your spit. "Over and over again until she couldn't remember which way was up?"
"You're insane—" He tried to speak, but your thumb rubbing over the slit on the head of his shaft cut his sentence short.
"Technically, I'm not a woman." You mused, pretending to think innocently. "I wouldn't bring you bad luck, would I?"
“I’m gonna kill you,” he mutters. “The second I get out of these—”
“You’re not going anywhere, silly." You pecked his lips softly. "You're my keepsake. Forever."
The next kiss was much less chaste, Bucky still pretending to resist, albeit less than before. "You should’ve let the sea take me.”
"Mmmm, no. I think I'd rather keep a pretty thing like you all to myself." His tongue licked into your mouth, tasting himself, making him groan and making you sigh.
"I promise I'm just as warm…" And up and down your hand kept going, you bit his lower lip and tugged on it.
Your hand parted from his length, and a muffled, disapproving sound came from deep in his chest. You turned, your back now to his chest, grinding your lower half to his bared length.
You used your hands on his thighs as leverage, biting your lip at the feel of his size.
In your mouth it was one thing, but feeling the girth and length so close to where you needed it? A whole other ball game.
You reached back and grabbed his length, lining it up with your pussy, and sinking down on it, inch by devastingly thick inch. "Fuck me—"
You let out a breathy laugh at his words, "You're doing a wonderful— oh!— job at that, Captain."
You rocked your hips back and forth and Bucky groaned, hips straining ever so slightly, jaw clenched so hard you thought he might crack a molar.
"Just let yourself feel good…" Your right hand came back to tangle in his hair. "I promise I'll take care of you."
The cave echoed with the wet, obscene sounds of your bodies meeting, his low moans growing rougher by the minute.
“Faster,” he begged, bruising your hips as he thrusts up into you, deeper. You felt his nose nuzzle your hair and the side of your head and you smiled to yourself.
Bucky let out a low, ragged groan, his voice dipping into something darker, sweeter. “You keep doing that,” he muttered against the curve of your shoulder, “and I might start thinking you actually like me.”
You giggled—soft, amused, teasing. “Oh, I like you just fine, Captain.” Your hips shifted again. "So big inside of me." You squeezed around him on purpose.
The moment stretched—tight as a drawn bowstring.
Your movements slowed, became deliberate, reverent, like you were listening for something only the two of you could hear. The grotto seemed to hum around you, water glowing faintly as if the sea itself had leaned in closer.
“Don’t stop,” he murmured, voice stripped bare of bravado. “Please.”
The word landed heavy between you.
You smiled—soft this time, almost tender—and pressed closer, grounding him, anchoring him. His forehead rested on the back of your head, and you wanted nothing more than to free his arms so you could feel his hands all over you.
"Never wanted to ruin you, Captain."
“I’m already ruined,” he growls. “Might as well — fuck, enjoy the wreckage.”
But silly little pirate, he couldn't be freed yet.
You whispered to him then, low and steady, like a promise, a spell you were casting on his soul, to damn it forever to be close to you for eternity.
“That’s it,” you said. “I’ve got you.”
“Please, let me—let me come inside you—”
Finally. All the restraint and whatever honor he had, in your posession to be devoured.
"Give it to me, Captain." You rocked your hips harder. "Please, I want it all…"
His body finally gave in—shoulders sagging against the stone, chains clinking once as if even they were surrendering.
He spilled inside of you with a sound that wasn’t quite a moan, wasn’t quite a laugh—just relief. Just release. Like he’d been holding back a tide his whole life and finally let it crash.
You followed him there, breath hitching, a quiet gasp escaping you as the warmth between you peaked and then spilled into something gentler, softer.
Your hands curled into his legs, grounding yourself in the feel of his body beneath your palms. For a moment, there was nothing but the two of you—salt and skin and shared breath.
Bucky felt dizzy. Like he was drunk, and high, and dreaming all at once.
When it passed, you stayed. Pressed close. His breath fanning by your cheek as you let your head fall back on his shoulder. Listening to his heart slow.
He kissed your cheeks and the side of your jaw, and let out a shaky exhale and laughed quietly. “Well,” he said hoarsely. “Guess I was wrong.”
You looked up at him, eyes bright. “About what?”
He met your gaze, blue still stormy, but warm now. Open.
“…Mermaids.”
this was actually a lot of fun to write since I don't usually write reader being this much of a top, and I hope the... anatomy part wasn't too confusing. my girl was putting in work!
anyway don't forget to tell me what you think! it's what keeps me going like tinker bell when people believe in her!
cameraman! joel miller x celebrity! female reader || masterlist
summary: After your album tanks, you'll do anything it takes to stay relevant - even sign up to get engaged on reality TV. You're not doing this for love, and you harbor no delusions about finding it. But then you meet Joel Miller. He's a guarded single dad with a love of your music, and he sees straight through your act. You want him desperately, and you think he wants you too. The problem is, Joel isn't a contestant. He's your cameraman - the only guy on set that you can't have.
tags: afab reader, forbidden romance, gratuitous smut, the hooking up burns fast but the romance burns slow, pining, angst, fluff, no outbreak AU, sarah is alive, jealousy, healthy mix of plot and porn, no y/n, siri play "i can do it with a broken heart"
rating: Explicit - 18+ ONLY. A lot of development of the characters and their relationship happens through sex, and cameraman!Joel loves to dirty talk.
status: Complete. 92k words
read on ao3
chapter one: Twenty Perfect Guys
chapter two: Best Seat in the House
chapter three: I Know Your Type
chapter four: Nice Outfit
chapter five: Secret Talent
chapter six: Hågernås
chapter seven: Mock the iPod, Lose the iPod
chapter eight: Filthy Celebrity Riches
chapter nine: Mr. Right-Now
chapter ten: Crush
chapter eleven: Take Me Home
chapter twelve: Dealbreaker
chapter thirteen: Anything You Want
epilogue: Dirty Mind
Playlists*
joel and cinderella: I'D TELL THEM PUT ME BACK IN IT. for scenes that lean heavy into forbidden love vibes
cameraman! joel: I can't believe I captured your heart. for free-writes from Joel's POV, scenes in his truck and with his family
cinderella: I’ve been up on a pedestal, but tonight I just wanna fall. for the sad princess in all of us that loves joel miller.
glass slipper : I would trade it all for your sweet kiss. For scenes where Cinderella plays or writes her own music. Made with the help of a guitarist friend because I know nothing about guitar.
*(tw that i only know like 4 artists)
Influences
If you enjoyed What You Can’t Have, you may also enjoy the books and fics that inspired it.
Reality TV romances
The Charm Offensive by Allison Cochrun: one of my favorite books. this series is an homage to it.
One to Watch by Kate Stayman-London: for anyone else tired of the reality TV beauty standards
Character growth through sex
Red, White and Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston: just read it. Casey's writing is so alive that it oozes off the page.
So Much to Lose by auterdelabre: the GOAT Joel Miller fic
blue as cut sapphires and shining like gold by suchgreatheights: Different fandom, but I have read this 4 times and it’s 312k words, somebody hospitalize me. Truly a pinnacle of what fanfic as a format enables unlike any other.
Emotionally stunted creatives falling in love
Beach Read by Emily Henry: grouchy banter and then more grouchy banter
Comments, questions and reblogs give me so much life! This is my first fic and I love talking to people about it.
warnings: 18+ material (MNI), the girl next door trope, neighbor! Steve… sub! Steve if you squint, immortal/supernatural! black/fem! reader, blood play (only one scene), smut, dom! reader, biting, choking, pnv sex, oral (m receiving), sacrificial/ demonic talk..
*
Steve really didn’t mean to pry.. or keep staring. He’d probably tell you that it’s been a while since he’s had a new neighbor.
The usual curiosity of seeing a moving truck was amplified when he saw the driver.
You— long dark hair, bone straight and down your back. Blue jeans and a simple white camisole shirt that stopped just above your belly button.
Steve couldn’t help but to sit up straighter in his chair that sat on the porch of his large residential home.
He watched you walk near the back, ready to unload. But like you could feel him staring, your eyes met. You raised your arm with a wave and smiled.
“Hi there!”
Steve’s cheeks turned pink as he waved back. He opted to ask if you needed help but you were faster. Unlatching the back of the truck and grabbing the bits and pieces.
The seemingly inhabited home across from his was pretty similar in structure and that’s why his interested was piqued.
You were significantly younger than Steve’s other neighbors. He’d gotten comfortable with the Eden’s, the Robert’s, the Tom’s, the Eleanor’s.
Houses like his and in the neighborhood fit those kinds of people. Not that he cared, he just hoped you were kind.
And with ease, Steve was proven right. A faint but firm knock on his front door a week later took him from the usual task of cleaning.
He wasn’t expecting anybody.
Pulling back the front door, he was met with your smiling face. Your smiling, very pretty face.
“Hi there! I’m (Y/N), I just moved in across the street”
You stood draped in a simple black, thinly strapped dress. Your straight hair twirled into a messy updo, held together by a chopstick, two strands framing your face.
“H-hi! Hi, I’m Steve. Nice to meet you”
Steve’s eyes didn’t mean to drink you in the way that they did but it wasn’t until he noticed what you were holding: a ceramic plate covered in plastic wrap, luscious brownie squares underneath.
“I’d shake your hand but they’re a little full as you can see” You giggled.
“Are those for me?” Steve smiled nervously.
“They absolutely are! I made them myself. I have yet to meet everybody else but it seems like everyone’s stuck in the house. I waved out to you the other day and you waved back.. figured you were as hospitable as the HOA said this neighborhood was. Figured I’d do something nice and introduce myself”
Your smile was hauntingly beautiful to the man. Something like the Cheshire Cat.. something like Heath Ledger’s Joker.. something like the glint of your smile reaching your eyes that had the man a bit intimidated.
He shook off the thoughts and gratefully accepted the warm pastry plate, your hands brushing against one another with the exchange.
“Well thank you, (Y/N), these look delicious. I’ll uh, be sure to return the favor. I hope the move in wasn’t too bad. I-I wanted to to come over and help but—“
Steve’s rambling halted when you waved him off, your smile calmed his minor worries.
“Oh don’t worry about it. I had everything under control and thankfully I packed light from where I was coming from. But thank you for wanting to.. not a lot of people do”
No one said anything for what felt like the longest second in the world. Your eyes studied in each other, observed each other, memorized each other. What was this energy?
“Well I should be heading back, I’ve got a little gathering I’m planning for and some people to feed. Hopefully I’ll see you around, Steve. Keep the plate. Enjoy!”
Your wave was sweet as you turned on your heels and began trekking back to your house.
Steve was on brownie four by the time the night rolled around, he stayed up longer than he intended to. The clock struck 3 am.. way past the man’s bed time.
He stood to put the brownie plate back in the fridge. From the view out of his kitchen window, a blaring red light coated the first story windows of your house. Steve frowned.
He tried to look away but his sight made out a shadow that stood in the middle of the room. Then another shadow joined. The two stood for another set of seconds, no movements.
Steve sought to look away but his attention was grabbed once more. He watched the first shadow raise their arm, an object in hand. Was that a—
Suddenly their arm cut a hard right. Steve watched a sputter, shower spray like liquid rain out.. the head of the other shadow dropped back.. then their body fell.
Steve gasped, a look of horror in his eyes. Was that you? Were you hurt?
The man rushed out of the kitchen to grab his landline, his fingers were pushing down on ‘911’ but as he was ready to hit the call button, the scene from his kitchen window was no more.
No red lights, no shadows, nothing. Just pure darkness. Was he seeing things?
The next morning, Steve was still on edge. Confused mostly but on edge.
When he stepped outside to take his trash bin to the curb, he found you outside on your lawn. His eyes made out simple gardening tools and a dirt pot of roses.
You were dressed in rugged denim overalls, a white tank underneath. Your dark hair cascading down your back as you sat on your knees. You smiled and waved at him.
“Steve, hi!” You waved him over. “C’mere, I wanna show you something!”
A part of the man didn’t want to— actually his entire being didn’t want to. It felt like he had no control over his body, his feet moved anyways.
He gave you his best cordial smile the closer he got to you. The view of you became even more clear and something within Steve made him uncomfortable.
You suddenly grabbed his hands to help yourself up and the man felt taken aback. Not just at your odd level of comfort to touch him that way but because you touched him.
Your hands were ice cold.
“Thank you!” You grinned up at him as you stood. “Please excuse my appearance, I’m finishing up some planting”
You gestured towards the roses, beaming. “Aren’t they beautiful?”
Steve’s smile was fake but he nodded. “You cold?” He instead asked.
“Huh?” Your eyebrows raised.
“Y-your hands. Fall is rolling around but it’s not too cold out here yet, they’re like ice packs” Steve chuckled, trying to seem friendly despite his growing nerves.
You stared at him for a moment before giggling yourself, waving your hand. “Anemic! Sorry, I always forget to mention that to people, I tend to run a bit cold”
The man somehow found that hard to believe.
Steve watched you begin a tangent but it all felt like white noise radio silence. Even more when Steve looked down at where you were digging at.. a pale, almost blue tendril like thing stuck out to be buried.
Was that a hand?
Steve felt his chest get tight, the feeling of pure discomfort settling within. What were you hiding?
The man glanced back up at you as you continued talking.
Who the hell were you?
.
.
.
.
I know I said this would be a full one part.. I lied. Last part coming this weekend 🤭 HAPPY SPOOKTOBER!
warnings: mostly fluff, some nsfw content, cam's an ass man in this, not proofread!
notes: might use some of these as prompts for fics hmmmm
cameron cade who . . . loves to take you everywhere he goes. whether it's the store, to practice or to a party, he has to take you with him. it's comforting to him knowing you're there with him at all times, plus that's just the type of person he is ─── he wants to live in your skin.
cameron cade who . . . thinks the world of you. you could be cussing him out for making you draw a wonky line on your lips with all his yelling and he'd just be all "uh huh, yeah, you're so pretty and i love you."
cameron cade who . . . can't keep his hands off of you. he has to be touching you in some way, a hand at the small of your back, your legs in his lap as you lay on the sofa, hand holding in public is a must !!!! he just likes having you near him.
cameron cade who . . .unintentionally gatecrashes your online classes. you have a couple classes where you don't have to attend in person but the only con with those are that you have to have your camera on. so there you are, sat at the dining table in cameron's apartment at half seven in the morning.
it's a little while later when he walks down the stairs groggily, rubbing his eyes as his feet take him to you. you smile briefly at him, attention back on your laptop and hoping it's enough to let him know you were busy at the time. it seems he didn't notice or just didn't care, because he pulled the bench seating on the other side of you back a bit so he could get to you easier.
before you knew it he was kissing your cheek, nuzzling his head in your neck. "cam, baby, i'm in class" you'd whisper, shoving your laptop in any other direction. "what?" he'd mumble, before looking back at your laptop, eyes widening a little. "oh shit, sorry."
"y/n, i hope we aren't interrupting you there?"
cameron cade who . . . can't handle you not speaking to him. you guys get into an argument and you start giving him the silent treatment? that's not gonna run. he'll go as far as tightening every jar or container in the house just to get you to speak to him. even your lotion.
cameron cade who . . . looks for you in the crowd whenever he's playing. it's become part of his routine on game days, one of the first things he does when he comes out of the tunnel. you're usually seated in the same area as his family, so when he glances over and sees you there, his shirt on your body with a huge smile, he knows he's settled.
cameron cade who . . . is your designated photographer. in the time you've been in a relationship together, he's definitely sharpened his photo taking skills. you're always handing him your phone or digicam whenever you sense the perfect opportunity for a picture, and you've gone from telling him how to angle it correctly to clapping and kissing his lips when he captures the perfect candid.
cameron cade who . . . needs to be deep in that pussy 24/7. i'm talking bout you just got comfy in his bed and he comes up to you, eyes all low and zeroed in on you, whispering "you gon' let me eat it?" how can you not?
cameron cade who . . . talks you through it !!!!!!!!!! sex with cameron is always something different, you don't know how you went so long without it. he can't stay quiet for long outside the bedroom, but in it? he's saying allllllll sorts of shit. "that's it, baby" or "you got this, i know you do." gentle reassurance paired with kisses. then there's the other side of his verbal cues. "you like that?" or "look at me, mama, i wanna see you" and let's not forget "nut on your dick, baby, it's yours." insane.
cameron cade who . . . is obsessed with your ass. hands always on it, sometimes without him even knowing. you could he cuddling against him watching a movie on the sofa and his hands would just trail down to your ass and start rubbing it slowly, kneading the flesh through your pyjama pants. or when your lying down in bed, he'll make you lay down on your stomach so he can rest his head on your ass, kissing it every now and then. and god forbid you wear anything that shows it off... long day for you.
Series summary: Dilf. That's what young women think when they see Joel. He doesn't mind. In fact, he welcomes it and uses his status to get what he wants. His scheme works smoothly until he meets you. You seem to be the only one who sees through his bullshit, the only one he should avoid. And now the only one he craves.
Series warnings: 18+ mdni | smut | angst | fluff | smutty slow burn | switching pov | age gap (Joel’s in his late 40s, reader is in her early 20s) | no outbreak | Sarah is alive | alcohol consumption | fingering | m/f!oral | protected/unprotected piv | slight daddy kink | m!masturbation | parental abuse | mention of a parent’s death | daddy issues | mention of infidelity | smoking | swearing
summary: Tommy meets Joel's new girlfriend and takes a twisted liking to her live-in daughter.
pairing: step uncle!Tommy Miller x f!Reader
warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI. step-cest, age gap (unspecified, but reader is 20, Tommy in his mid 30s), unprotected piv, oral sex (both f! and m! receiving), attempted seduction (from reader), pussy pronouns, praise, dirty talk, creampie, begging, dacryphilia, alcohol consumption, no outbreak AU, Tommy POV
note: genuinely this is the filthiest most diabolic thing I've ever written and I'm absolutely terrified to post it!!! if it's not your cup of tea pls keep scrolling, and if you do read it, let me know what you think!! also, I wrote the nightclub scene with the song Feel So Close by Calvin Harris in mind (iykyk), but feel free to imagine whatever you like!
wc: 12.1k
[series masterlist]
[main masterlist] [AO3]
You’ve always been close.
Since that first night you’d met in Joel’s kitchen, Tommy has always felt drawn to you. Like you were one and the same. Two peas in a fucking pod, despite how…indecent it sometimes felt.
It was late summer. Hot. Your mother and Joel had arranged a dinner. They’d wanted everyone to ‘get to know each other.’ Grilled burgers and made pasta salad and poured glasses of cheap champagne. The whole nine yards.
Joel had warned Tommy about you ahead of time. Talked about his new girlfriend’s daughter, about how you were a bit…wild. Impulsive. Too pretty and too smart for your own good.
You’re a couple of years older than Sarah, freshly out of high school with a devil-may-care attitude. The two of you get along well—Sarah thinks the whispered comments you pour in her ear all night are just hilarious. The two of you spend most of the afternoon on the side of the pool chattering while Tommy…well, Tommy certainly feels a bit like a third wheel.
He knows it’s not intentional. Joel isn’t like that, he’s just…excited. He loves your mom and is eager to start this new chapter of his life, to expand his family the way he’s always wanted to. And your mom is nice enough. Sweet and easy going, a good match for his brother. But she’s a mom. And Joel’s Joel.
It’s Saturday night, and Tommy Miller is bored half to death sipping champagne and watching two teenage girls giggle over something on their cell phones.
And it’s not like he can leave right away. At least, not until after his desert has settled. But he knows where Joel keeps the good liquor, and dismisses himself in search of it.
He’s pouring two shots of whiskey into a glass tumbler when he hears the back door open. Tommy expects it to be Joel, coming to offer a penny for his thoughts. He opens his mouth to soothe his brother's nerves, to reassure him that his other half does fit him as perfectly as it seems. To tell him that he’s crazy for letting another little girl live under his roof, to warn him it’ll be double the hormones and double the attitude, but if it makes him happy…
“Hey.”
It’s not Joel who speaks at all. It’s your voice, soft but sultry. Tommy smiles at you over his shoulder. “Hey, kiddo.”
You saddle up to his side, so close your elbow brushes his as you lean on the counter, eyes focused on his hands as he pours. “This is the most boring party I’ve ever been to,” you say with a dispirited sigh.
It makes Tommy laugh. He sets the bottle down and lifts the tumbler to his mouth, grinning all the while. “Can’t say this little soirée is particularly, uh…exhilarating,” he says, sipping from his glass.
He can feel your attention on him, hotter even than the burn of the whiskey. Your eyes slide down the column of his throat, over his chest, stopping at his waist. You turn your head the smallest bit, not dissimilar to that of a curious little puppy. Crude and shameless in your examination. You look back up to find him staring at you, unable and unwilling to fight his knowing smirk. “Can I have some of that?”
“You old enough?” Tommy doesn’t even know why he asks, because he already knows the answer.
With a shrug of your shoulders and a sweet little smile, you say, “No. But it’s not like it would be my first time. No cherry to pop here.”
Filthy mouth for a girl your age. Funny, though. It’s kind of endearing. He was an awful lot younger than you are now when he started drinking. The first time he’d blacked out had been his sophomore year of high school—barely sixteen, woke up in the middle of a field two hours away from home. He’d had to use a pay phone to get ahold of Joel to come pick him up.
And it’s better this way, isn’t it? To do it at home, surrounded by people who care about you. Who will keep you safe. It’s not like one drink’s going to put you on your ass, anyway.
He nods slowly. “Alright,” he says, opening the cupboard to find another tumbler.
You stop him, delicate hand around his wrist. “Are you crazy? That’s evidence.”
Tommy furrows his brows. “What, the cup? I’ll wash it when you’re done. S’alright.”
“Waste of time.” You take the whiskey and twist off the cap, pushing the smooth glass bottle into his hands. “You know how to waterfall without drowning me?”
He likes you, Tommy thinks. Probably more than he should. He gets that familiar tug in his lower abdomen, the one that urges him to move closer, to speak slower.
It’s a little fucked up, he knows. You’re so young, and odds are your mom will marry into the family, and then you’d be…well, you’d be his niece. Kind of.
His heart races a little faster at the thought.
“Well?”
“Yeah,” Tommy promises. “Yeah, I got you. Tilt your head back.”
You step further in front of him, spine pressed against the edge of the countertop. He can feel the heat of your skin against his, and it makes Tommy feel dizzy. You tilt your head back, just as he said, but it’s not quite enough.
He reaches up, cradling your jaw in his hand, thumb pressed against the underside of your chin. He knows he could just tell you, could just use the words ‘a little more’ and you’d do as he asks. But the heated look in your eyes as he touches you so gently…it’s worth it. “Like this,” he tells you, pushing your chin back. “There you go. Now open your mouth.”
It sounds so vulgar in his ears. And Tommy doesn’t mean it that way, but you smile up at him and say, “You’re supposed to take me out on a date first, I think.”
“You think?” He scoffs. “You ever let another man in your mouth and he doesn’t wine an’ dine you first, you let me know so I can take care of him.” Tommy’s only sort of kidding. If you ever asked, he’d do it in a heartbeat.
“Alright,” you say. “No other man, then. Just you.”
He has to look away, unable to contain his amusement. “Christ, girl.” Tommy shakes his head, delighting in the sound of your giggling. He can feel the vibration of it in his hand, still pressed against the side of your neck. “Ridiculous.”
Joel’s voice cuts through the kitchen, calling Tommy’s name.
He tries to take a step back, get some distance, but you hook your leg around his to keep him close, bare and exposed to him from the hem of your denim shorts down. Tommy grips your thigh tightly but doesn’t quite push you away. “Yeah, Joel?”
You tilt your head back, perfect this time, just like he showed you.
Tommy shakes his head again, surprised by your brazenness, but he just can’t seem to stop smiling. He lifts the glass bottle and pours the whiskey slowly, holding in his laughter all the while.
“Bring out another slice of that pie,” Joel says from the back door. “The key lime one. Sarah wants some more.”
“Yeah, sure. One slice of key lime,” Tommy calls back, watching with rapt attention as the amber liquid pools in your pretty mouth. And then, more to you than to Joel, he says, “You got it.”
He stops just before your mouth is too full and sets the bottle back on the counter as the back door closes. You tilt your head back down, grimacing as you swallow. You have to do it twice, and Tommy knows that shit burns.
He’d feel bad if it weren’t for the drop of liquid that spills from the corner of your pursed lips, leaving a trail of whiskey as it drips down your chin. It’s such a sight to behold that his mouth waters. It takes every last ounce of his common sense to keep from leaning forward and licking it up.
Instead, he runs his thumb across the seam of your lips, collecting every last drop, and proceeds to suck it clean. “No man left behind,” he says playfully, painfully aware of the slight lift of your hips and the almost unnoticeable arch of your back.
“Right, no. Of course,” you say, words just a little breathless. “It would be, like, alcohol abuse.”
Tommy chuckles as he finally steps away, surprised by the complete lack of guilt he feels. He pulls a plate from the cupboard and finds the remainder of the key lime pie in the fridge.
Your steps echo in the kitchen when you leave, the screen door creaking as you push it open. He catches the words as you speak them under your breath just before disappearing from view. “Certainly not boring anymore.”
Tommy returns to the backyard with Sarah’s key lime pie in one hand and his refilled glass tumbler in the other, a newfound spring in his step.
It doesn’t take long for family dinners to become a tradition. They’re moved to Sunday nights, though, which works a hell of a lot better for Tommy. He usually shows up hungover, sporting a headache and a bad mood.
You’re real good at pulling him out of it, though. Always making those dirty jokes, uncaring of who hears, often earning a scolding from your mother when your humor graces the dinner table.
Eventually, it takes nothing but a shared glance before you slink off to the kitchen, one at a time, to steal more of Joel’s whiskey. Like a secret, shared language that only the two of you understand. As if the moment the thought crosses his mind, it crosses yours, too. Almost like you’re connected, somehow.
Sometimes Sunday dinners will be paired with a movie. Often, it’s a film Joel rented for the weekend that he claims has ‘good reviews,’ but never has a satisfying ending.
Tommy doesn’t stay for the popcorn or the candy, though. He doesn’t even stay for the movie, in truth.
He stays because you always sit beside him on the loveseat.
It always starts innocently enough. You pull the scratchy, old blanket from the back of the couch, draping it over you both. And then you’re poking his thigh while murmuring comments in his ear.
You’ll say, “God, that guy has the worst fake crying face I’ve ever seen. Looks like he’s constipated.”
And Tommy will laugh, and Sarah will scowl and shush him, and your hand will linger on his knee.
Halfway through, you’ll shift in your seat, trying to get comfortable. You’ll lean back against the armrest and lay your legs across his lap. And Tommy, impulsive man that he is, will slide his hands between your thighs and rub circles into your soft skin, careful not to move too fast, to be too obvious.
Once you reach this point of the night, Tommy doesn’t pay attention to the movie at all. He focuses on you instead, on the way your breath catches in your throat when he squeezes hard, on the way your knees slowly drift further and further apart, on the flush that crawls up your cheeks each time he catches your eye.
It never feels quite so innocent when the movie ends and Tommy has to sit on the couch with that blanket over his lap just a little longer than everyone else.
In September, Joel tells him you and your mom are moving in permanently. No more weekend sleepovers. You’re taking the spare room across the hall from Sarah, the one Tommy knows like the back of his hand after crashing in it countless times.
He’s not sure why, but there’s something satisfying about knowing you’ll be there, sleeping in the bed he’s slept in hundreds of times.
Joel asks him to help move some of the furniture, and Tommy doesn’t hesitate to agree. They move the larger things, while you and Sarah excitedly unpack cardboard boxes and talk about sharing clothes and shoes.
Tommy remembers the times Sarah would beg Joel for a sibling when she was younger, and it warms his heart to see she’s finally gotten the sister she’s always wanted.
He sees you a whole lot more often after that. Tommy picks Joel and Sarah up every morning and drops Joel off after work every day.
Most of the time, you’re still sleeping when he shows up at seven. But the evidence of you is littered all over the house; your shoes by the front door, your jacket slung over the dining room chair, your denim shorts on the floor beside the laundry basket in the bathroom.
And after work, he always comes inside to visit you. Just to see how you’re doing, to see if you’ve had a good day, often making some silly joke just so he gets to hear your sweet laughter. Sometimes he finds you watching one of those teen dramas in the living room, and he loves to poke fun at you for it. “These weird ass vampires again? What, now there’s werewolves, too? How original.”
“Shut up,” you’ll say, tossing a throw pillow at his head.
“I’m just fuckin’ with you, darlin.’ I know how you love that freaky shit.” The embarrassment will show on your face, and Tommy will laugh but his shoulders will drop as all the stress from the day melts away.
Some nights, he’ll find you in the backyard by the pool with that tiny lime colored bikini on, lying on your belly, soaking up the sun. He’ll try to scare you, try to get close with soundless movements.
But you always catch him. Can always sense he’s there. “Now, what if I suddenly decided I didn’t want tan lines and took off my top while you tried sneaking up on me? Tits out. Then what?”
Tommy stops just a few paces away from the spot in the grass where you’ve thrown out your beach towel. He towers over you, casting shadows across your spine. “Wouldn’t be nothin’ I haven’t seen before,” he says.
“You peeping on me, Tommy? Is that where you got your name?”
He snorts, but the idea isn’t half bad. “You fuckin’ wish.”
“Yeah, maybe I do.” The comment gives him pause, but he doesn’t have time to think too hard about it because you’re turning on your back and reaching for the string tied loosely around your neck.
You stare up at him, eyes all glittering and mischievous, hair splayed out in a perfect halo around your head. Tommy knows that he should stop you. Should laugh it off and walk away.
He doesn’t, though. His feet stay firmly planted, pressure building in his lower abdomen, cock pulsing behind the chrome zipper of his jeans.
You tug at the strings until the fabric falls slack. Still covering your chest, but only just barely.
Tommy thinks green might be his new favorite color.
You hook your thumb around the thin string across your ribcage, the only resistance left between this moment and the next, a lone scrap of polyester that stands between Tommy being the fun uncle and the weird one.
He doesn’t say it out loud, doesn’t say anything at all. But he admits to himself only that he does want it. That he wants you. To see you, to touch you, to feel you. It’s wrong and perverted and maybe even a little gross, but you’re just so fucking pretty.
Slowly, those loose-fitting triangles drift lower and lower, almost there. His breath comes fast and labored. The seconds tick by, feeling much longer than they truly are.
And then—
“Dinner!” Your mom’s voice carries through the backyard, kind and airy. “Are you staying, Tommy? We’re having pasta tonight.”
Tommy clears his throat and looks over his shoulder at your mom, who stands on the back deck completely oblivious. “Uh, no,” he says. “Not tonight. Thanks, though.”
“Suit yourself,” she says before disappearing back into the kitchen.
You extend your hand to him, the other held tightly over the fabric of your top to keep it in place. “Help me up,” you say, and he does.
He watches as you turn your back to him, straining to memorize every last second of this moment because he never, ever wants to forget it. The smoothness of your skin, the shallow slope at the small of your back, the delicious curve of your ass—if this is all he ever gets to see, Tommy wants it stuck in his brain like glue. Permanent.
You move the arm that’s held to your chest, and the green fabric finally drops, exposing you completely. With your back still to him, all Tommy can see is the subtle curves of the sides of your breasts, but it’s enough to make his heart race. You gather your hair at the nape of your neck and ask, “Can you tie it for me?”
Tommy knows you’re doing this on purpose. Trying to get a rise out of him, and it’s working. “Course,” he says, stepping forward, placing his rough, calloused hands on your delicate shoulders. He reaches down your body and gathers the nylon strands between his fingers, careful not to touch you more than what’s necessary.
He wants to, though. Christ, does he. His lungs stutter at the thought alone. It takes everything in him to resist lowering himself to his knees and giving you the tender, loving care you deserve. He’d worship you, Tommy decides. He’d demonstrate how a girl like you is supposed to be treated. Touched slowly, gently—until you beg him for more, until you whimper and cry and remember no words but his fucking name.
Until his touch is so deeply embedded in your skin that you’d never be able to root him out.
But he doesn’t give you so much as a clue to what he’s thinking. Instead, he exhales a shaky breath, fanning across the back of your neck, and ties the lime colored strands into a perfect bow. He presses a chaste kiss to the crown of your head and says, “Be good, now. Alright?”
You turn to face him, that familiar, provocative smirk on your sweet mouth. “Never,” you promise, and he knows you mean it.
Tommy doesn’t even notice he’s speeding the entire way back to his shitty apartment. What’s worse is that he doesn’t even make it inside. He sits behind the wheel of his truck, right in the open, empty parking lot, squeezing his aching cock in his hand, head filled with thoughts of you.
The next time he stays for dinner, your mom makes fajitas. You sit beside him on the steps of the back porch and pick red peppers off his plate.
You and Sarah belly-laugh about some YouTube video you watched together late last night, mimicking impressions of an animatronic voice. And it’s at this very moment that Tommy realizes he might be in real trouble.
Because he wants to fuck you. Thinks about it almost every goddamn night. Can’t even get off with the women he meets at the bars anymore without closing his eyes and recalling that lime bikini or the arch of your back or the way your thighs fit so perfectly in his big hands. It’s a carnal desire. Uncontrollable.
But this? Feeling a sense of elation provoked only by knowing you're here beside him, safe, happy, and fed? It’s something else. Something heavy. Something he can’t quite put a name to because he doesn’t have any experience with it, despite his age.
All Tommy Miller knows is that he smiles just at the sound of your name.
The thought crosses his mind that he should try to keep his distance, and he tells himself he will. He lies in bed thinking about it, conducting a plan in his head while staring at the ceiling at two in the morning. He can’t not see you. But maybe he doesn’t have to be so inviting. Maybe he doesn’t have to seek you out every afternoon, doesn’t have to check in and make sure you’ve had a good day.
Maybe he sits on the opposite end of the table during Sunday dinner. Maybe when you give him that look and head to the kitchen in search of whiskey, Tommy keeps his ass on the couch.
But then the next morning rolls around, and he’s picking Sarah and Joel up with dark circles under his eyes and a cigarette hanging from the corner of his lips. He sits on the front steps and glances over his shoulder when the door creaks open and is only a little surprised when you step outside with bare feet, wearing nothing but a thin tank top and a pair of sleep shorts.
Your hair’s messy, and there’s an imprint from your pillow on your cheek. Still half asleep, you let out the cutest whimper he’s ever heard and crawl right into his lap like it’s where you belong.
Tommy spreads his knees apart to make room for you, stubbing his cigarette out on the concrete and tossing it in the grass. He brackets his arms around your waist and interlocks his fingers at your hip while you curl up against him, stealing his warmth.
It feels so easy, so natural that he doesn’t fight it for a second. Doesn’t even realize he should. All those big plans he made six hours ago to right this wrong dissolve as easily as sugar in water. He kisses your forehead and holds you close and says, “Hey, sweetheart. You alright? Somethin’ wrong?”
You nuzzle your nose against the crook of his neck and murmur sleepily, “Missed you.”
Just two words, but that’s all it takes. He decides that the heavy feeling inside his chest is his to cope with. He won’t make you suffer for it. Can’t imagine ever pushing you away or sitting across from you instead of at your side.
There’s only one word for this, he knows. Only one explanation for why he continuously fights for your laughter, your comfort. Only one reason he’s memorized the pattern of your breathing and would know the touch of your hands with his eyes closed.
It’s not right.
It’s not, and Tommy knows it, but he doesn’t have the strength to fight it. So, he cradles this feeling in his hands. Holds it gently. Sees it for what it is.
And then he tucks it away. Locks it up tight and promises never to speak of it.
Joel takes your mom to Galveston for the weekend on their anniversary. He asks Tommy to keep an eye on you and Sarah, to keep his phone on in case the two of you need anything.
He brings takeout over after work on Friday night, but leaves the two of you to your own devices after that. Tommy remembers being your age and doesn’t want to hover, doesn’t want anyone involved to consider him a fucking babysitter. So he gives you the space he wanted when he was young. Figures if you need him, you’ll call him, and he’ll come running.
The phone doesn’t ring until late Sunday afternoon.
Joel and your mom are due home in the next few hours, and your voice is panicky on the other end of the line. “Hey. Can you—can you come over? We sort of broke something, and I tried to fix it but I think I only made it worse.”
Tommy’s in his truck before the call even ends. He asks a hundred questions, tries to get some sort of clarification on the way over. But you don’t give much in the way of answers, and his confusion only increases when he pulls into Joel’s driveway and sees you standing on the porch with a trash bag in hand. “Okay, before you come inside, you have to swear to secrecy,” you say.
Tommy’s brows furrow. “Christ, kid. What the hell’d you do? There a fuckin’ dead body in there?”
You roll your eyes. “Just promise you won’t tell Joel or my mom.”
“Can’t promise nothin’ if I don’t know—”
“Just promise me, Tommy,” you say, frustration building. He’s never seen you this serious, he realizes.
Even if there was a dead body behind the front door, Tommy knows he’d do nothing but protect you from the fallout. And he hates how nervous you look, so the decision comes easily. “Hey.” He reaches out and takes your hand in his, running his thumb across your knuckles. “I promise, alright?”
You let out a sigh of relief. “Good. Cause Sarah’s in there freaking the fuck out cause I called you.”
Tommy follows you inside, mouth open with the intent to ask more questions. But they’re all answered rather quickly when he sees the state of Joel’s living room.
There are half-empty beer cans and red solo cups littered all over every viable surface. Pink and green and orange streamers hang from the ceiling fan and over the stair bannister. Confetti covers the floor and there’s a shattered glass bottle in the kitchen sink, but the most obvious stressor is the six-inch hole in the wall beside the fridge.
Sarah’s footsteps rush down the hall, finger pointed at Tommy. Her eyes are wide, and there’s genuine tension on her face. “Did you swear?”
Tommy raises both hands in surrender. “Cross my heart,” he says, and means it. “Let me take care of the wall first. I’ll get the broken glass after. Don’t wanna see either one of you near it. The last thing we need right now is a trip to the emergency room for stitches.”
Between the three of you, it doesn’t take long. Tommy finds a mesh patch, spackle, and a half-empty gallon of paint in Joel’s garage that matches the kitchen walls. He fills the cavity as quickly as he can, using the box fan from Joel’s bedroom window to speed up the drying process.
You make quick progress, and yet still, he feels his heart sink to his feet at the sound of tires in the driveway.
Both you and Sarah freeze in place, staring at each other with expressions that are somehow both horrified and amused. “We’re so fucked, dude,” you whisper.
But when it comes to hiding things like this, Tommy Miller might just consider himself an expert. “Not just yet,” he swears. “Throw it all out back. I’ll keep them outside for a minute, and then when I leave, I’ll take care of it, alright? Be quick.”
He tries not to laugh as you and Sarah launch into action, running around the room and filling your hands with what remains.
Tommy meets Joel at his truck and asks him how their vacation was, making comments and drawing the discussion out as your mom talks about the aquarium and the restaurants on the pier and how the hotel staff folded your towels into the shape of little swans.
Joel asks how you and Sarah behaved, asks if there had been any trouble. Tommy shakes his head, leaning against the side of the truck. “Nah,” he lies easily. “They were perfect angels as usual.”
When he can no longer make viable conversation points, he very nosily helps them bring their luggage and souvenirs inside. He finds you and Sarah cuddled up on the couch, both reading books that Tommy knows you’ve never cracked open a day in your life.
You both look so out of place that it almost gives you away. He tries not to laugh, but it doesn’t quite work. Joel stares at him in confusion while you and Sarah glare at him from across the room, and so Tommy dismisses himself quickly. “Gonna head home,” he says. “Have to, uh…check on the neighbor's cat. Watching it for the weekend, too.”
He leaves through the front door, but sneaks around through the gate and quietly grabs the trash from the backyard just as he promised. It takes two trips to get it all, and he throws everything into the back of his truck on the off chance that Joel checks the bin before trash day.
Tommy’s tossing the last one when he sees you come sprinting off the front porch. He thinks maybe he’s forgotten something, or maybe Joel and your mom had seen right through the lie and all that acting was for nothing.
But then you’re throwing your arms around his neck and wrapping your legs around his waist, face buried in his shoulder.
Holding you is as easy as breathing. He keeps you upright, keeps you close, with his big hands spread wide over your back.
You say, “Thank you, Uncle Tommy,” and the air is punched from his fucking lungs.
It’s the first time you've said it. The very first time, and he feels giddy and nervous, and his stomach gets all tied in knots like he’s some teenage boy. He squeezes you tighter, and his laughter slips out unrestrained this time.
It’s filthy and dirty and disgusting, but he loves it. “I’ve always got you, darlin',” he says. “You know that.”
You lift your head to look at him, and your pretty mouth is suddenly so close to his that you share the same breath. “Yeah,” you giggle. “I know you do.”
It warms him from the inside out to hear it. He loves being this for you. A holder of secrets, a shoulder to lean on, a solver of problems. He loves that you make him feel needed—wanted in a way he’s never been before.
He loves being your Uncle Tommy.
You press your forehead to his, and desire creeps up his spine, hot and thick and asphyxiating. His limbs feel heavy, and his breath gets caught in his lungs. It’s painful how badly he wants you. Like a peak he can’t quite reach, an itch he can’t quite scratch. You thread your hands in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling gently, and his eyelids flutter closed.
Nothing has ever felt as good as it feels to be touched by you, Tommy realizes. And he knows nothing will ever compare.
“Fuck,” he hisses. “Fuck, sweetheart, I…”
There are no words to say. They get all jumbled in his head, and the only thing he can make out in the chaos is his yearning.
“I know,” you say. Because of course you do. You’ve always known him, have always understood him in a way no one else has. Have always been able to see the look on his face and read the thoughts in his head. “I know.”
Slowly, carefully, you untangle your legs from around his waist. You slide down his body and he knows you can feel it. Knows there’s no way in hell the throbbing of his cock could ever be mistaken as just his belt buckle.
But you say nothing. Just smile up at him with those hungry eyes and press a sweet, soft kiss to his cheek.
He drives home in silence.
No music, no news station. Even the windows he leaves up. Tommy can’t think beyond the taste of your oxygen, can’t see past the absolute fucking shit show he’s gotten himself into. He sits in his truck outside his apartment for twenty minutes before he moves again, scratching the stubble along his jaw.
And then, as if he hadn’t almost kissed you in broad daylight, the world keeps turning.
He cleans out the bed of his truck, showers the smell of paint and cheap beer from his skin, and then he goes to work the next morning. He teases Joel about the swan-shaped towels, but there’s no salt to it. Truly, he’s happy for his brother.
Joel’s been so selfless his whole life. Has given the first half of it up to raise Tommy and the second half to raise Sarah and never complained, not even once.
If anyone in the world deserves that gooey, cliche kind of love that’s just good and uncomplicated and easy, it’s Joel. They really are perfect for each other, he and your mother.
Tommy tries not to think about how his happiness for his brother is paired with a simmering jealousy underneath. Decides to take that green-eyed confession to his grave.
Friday afternoon, one of the electricians Joel hired a few months ago invites Tommy out to a nightclub. “The whole team’s going tomorrow,” he says. “Booze, girls, drugs if you’re into that kinda thing. One of those pop-up ones. It’s in that old warehouse on the other side of town.”
Sounds tempting, he’ll admit. Right up his alley. But Tommy knows himself, and knows that in a place like that he’s likely to go a little overboard. Spend too much money, have too many drinks, wake up the next morning with a girl in his bed he doesn’t remember talking to. And if he does that, he likely won’t make it to Sunday dinner at Joel’s.
Which means no time with you.
No stolen, longing glances across the room. No heat of your thigh pressed against his. No thieving fingers on his plate.
Tommy shakes his head. “Thanks, Mike. But, uh…I’m—I’m good.”
He thinks that’s the end of it. But then Joel asks, real gently, “You got a girl or somethin’ I don’t know about?”
“What? Nah, man. No. Definitely not.” Tommy knows his answer comes too quickly, too dismissive for it to be even remotely believable. But it’s true, isn’t it? You’re not his girl. You just…well, you’re his niece. Sort of.
Joel eyes him suspiciously. All he says is, “Never would’ve imagined you’d skip out on that.” But it’s enough to convince Tommy that his brother doesn’t believe him for even a second.
He lay awake that night, head filled with thoughts of you. Because Tommy knows Joel’s right. Before you’d waltzed into his life and altered its course, he would’ve been all over that. Would’ve jumped at the opportunity for an exclusive warehouse party, even knowing what would likely happen. He’d take the migraine and the dehydration and the overdrafted checking account at just the plausible idea of a good time.
And he’d declined so quickly. That’s the part that gets him. The thing that gives him perspective. He hadn’t even debated it for a single second because the things that once brought him joy pale in comparison to simply being at your side.
Saturday morning, Tommy makes a phone call. Says he changed his mind and gets the address of the warehouse.
He spends his afternoon running errands, doing everything he knows he won’t have the energy for tomorrow. And then he showers and puts gel in his hair and picks out a nice outfit. Starched blue jeans that fit him nicely and an expensive leather belt and a white t-shirt. He puts on a simple gold chain and sprays his favorite cologne (trying not to think about the fact that it’s only his favorite because one afternoon you’d said he smelled so good he was ‘edible’).
On the drive over, he has to hype himself up. Has to try and convince himself that this is a good thing. It’s what he needs. To get out there again, to find someone who makes him feel the way you do. Someone nice and age-appropriate and not loosely familial. Someone who doesn’t know Joel or your mother or Sarah or you in any fucking capactiy whatsoever.
Tommy doesn’t think it’s likely that he’ll find that person here, of course. But there’s a possibility, right? To meet someone who could be the love of his life. A slim chance, but a chance nonetheless.
There are more people than he expects. The warehouse looks almost dark on the outside. Quiet and empty. But once the bouncer checks his ID and lets him through the double doors, the inside is a different world entirely.
There are three different bars. One on the left wall, one on the right, and one in the very center of the room in the shape of an oval. There’s a big stage with a live DJ and house music playing loud over the speakers. The dance floor is lively and drenched in neon lights and the air is thick with humidity and the smell of liquor.
Excitement trickles into his bloodstream. It’s been a long while since he’s been in a place like this, but Tommy thinks it might just cure him.
All it takes is a quick text before he finds Mike and the rest of the guys from the work site that decided to show up. There’s only a handful of them, but they all split the bill for a round of shots, and Tommy orders a whiskey and coke.
They’re here for one reason, of course—and Tommy’s no different. They chat for a while, but eventually the guys all peel off from the group one by one after buying a girl a drink and then proceeding to disappear into the crowd of dancing bodies.
Mike has a wife, but even he finds someone to dance with, and eventually Tommy sits at the bar alone.
He pulls out his phone. Opens your thread of messages and smiles to himself as he scrolls through them. It’s filled with silly photos and dirty jokes and the occasional text from you that reads, ‘miss you today<3’ and his perpetual response, ‘I always miss you more. Be good, sweetheart.’
Tommy’s so deeply focused on his phone that he nearly jumps out of his skin when his drink is pulled right out of his hands.
He looks up with a scowl on his face, not anticipating a fight but preparing for one, and then—
“Can I have some of that?” You don’t wait for his answer before sipping from his glass, leaving lip gloss stains in the same place his mouth was moments ago.
“What in the fuck?” A crease forms between his brows as he takes in your familiar face, backlit by green and yellow lights. “They’re checking IDs at the door,” he says. “How did you even get in here?”
You roll your eyes. “Oh, come on, Uncle Tommy. You’re telling me you never had a fake when you were my age?”
Tommy knows he probably should say something…responsible right now. Should probably warn you of the dangers in a place like this, especially for a girl like you. Should be taught about covetous men with wandering hands and powders dropped in drinks and cigarettes laced with God knows what.
But he did have a fake ID at your age and could be found at places a whole lot like this one. Two peas in a fucking pod, he thinks.
So, instead, he asks, “Did you, uh…come here with someone? Friends or…I don’t know. A boyfriend, maybe?”
He steels himself in preparation for your answer. You’ve never mentioned a boyfriend before, but you’re at that age. Probably experimenting a little, sifting through the options to find which one suits you best.
But you’re standing at a bar, all alone, buying your own drink. Shitty fucking option, Tommy thinks.
“Why? You jealous or something?” There’s a teasing lilt to your voice, and Tommy knows you’re just trying to get a rise out of him. But the sad part is that you’re not too far off, and that’s what has him turning to the bartender and ordering another.
“Got no reason to be jealous,” Tommy answers with a shrug. “Ain’t exactly like I’ve got a spot on the roster, darlin’.”
Your smile falls. Just barely, almost undetectable. But Tommy notices. Would notice it even if you were across the room. “Is that what you think?”
“It’s what I know.”
“Well, then you’re a fucking idiot, Tommy Miller.” You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. The words are sharp, icy. You take a long drink from his stolen glass. “What stops you?”
His brows furrow. “Stops me…?”
“From doing what you want to me.” It gives him pause, laying it out so boldly like that. The truth he’s never spoken aloud falls so easily from your tongue. “We get so close,” you elaborate. “Just one moment, one choice away…but you never do it. You always hesitate, and then the moment’s gone. So what stops you?”
His morals, your age, your vibrance. You’re so good, so lively and carefree and happy. How does he explain that he doesn’t want to ruin this? Ruin you? How does he explain that taking that next step with you would tarnish both of you forever? Red to blue, green to yellow. It would never be the same.
He’s supposed to protect you. Supposed to give you a shoulder to cry on and a soft landing in your time of need and spot you a twenty when you’re short on cash. Supposed to be a guiding hand as an uncle should. He’s not supposed to be…whatever this is.
Tommy’s relieved when the bartender hands him his drink. “You know what stops me,” he says as if it’s obvious, throwing back half the glass in one long drink. The whiskey burns.
“Would it be different if you didn’t know me?”
“Very,” he answers honestly, his mind filling so easily with those obscene possibilities. “But I do know you, so it doesn’t matter.”
That familiar, troublesome smirk finds its way to your glossy lips. You toss back what remains in your glass, set it on the bar, and say, “I’m going to walk away. Okay? And you’re going to have one of those cases of temporary amnesia.”
Tommy laughs and shakes his head. “You’re crazy,” he says.
But you don’t pay him any mind. “You’re going to forget everything you know about me. Every last detail. I’m just some girl at a club, and you’re just some guy at the bar.” You put your hands on his shoulders, shaking lightly, staring up at him with starry eyes. Tommy’s heart races behind his sternum, but he can’t stop grinning. “I’m not me, and you’re not you. And tomorrow, you’ll be cured. Everything will go back to normal, just like it was. Okay?”
“S’a real bad idea, darlin’,” he warns.
“So don’t make me do it alone.”
Tommy swallows hard. He’s never said no to you in all his life, and it’s just…it’s just one night, right? Maybe it’s what he needs. A slow release of pressure, a controlled indulgence to prevent an explosion.
You see the decision as he makes it. Know what he’s thinking without him speaking a single word. Tommy covers his mouth to stifle his rugged amusement as he watches you take five steps away from him, turn in a complete circle, and then make your way back to the bar.
In a dramatic show of film-esque seduction, you lean against the bar and say, “Well, aren’t you a tall glass of water?”
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Tommy mutters to himself, smiling so hard the apples of his cheeks hurt.
You playfully slap his bicep with the back of your hand. “Aren’t you going to ask if you can buy me a drink? Wine and dine me?”
He recalls your very first conversation, that one in Joel’s kitchen when you’d promised not to let any man inside your mouth without properly romancing you first. “Alright, then,” he resigns. “What’re you havin,’ sweetheart?”
“Whiskey,” you say, and he’s not the least bit surprised.
Tommy buys your drink and says, “You look…really beautiful.” You’re wearing a silvery satin dress, sinfully short, tight in all the right places. The straps are thin against your otherwise bare shoulders, and he reaches out and gently runs his knuckles down the curve of your collarbone. He thinks it might be the very first time he’s ever touched you here, and it’s not inherently a sexual caress, but it feels so… intimate. Heavy.
You glance down at yourself, at the strappy black heels on your feet. “Thank you,” you say. “But I think it’d look even better on your bedroom floor.”
“Fuck yeah it would,” he agrees, chuckling.
“Do you wanna dance?”
Tommy’s never abandoned a drink so fast in his life. He takes your hand in his and says, “I thought you’d never ask.”
He leads you through the crowd while the DJ plays some bass-heavy pop song he’s heard on the radio a hundred times. He finds a reasonable space and raises your hand above your head, turning you so he can properly appreciate the sight of that dress.
“You’re fucking perfect,” he says. “Do you know that?”
You roll your eyes like it’s a joke, but Tommy’s being dead serious. You say, “Shut up.” But he sees the way your cheeks heat, even beneath the flashing lights.
You sway your hips in time to the beat, body moving in sync with the music. There’s nothing shy or timid about it; that allure of yours comes so easily, glowing from the inside out.
Tommy’s never been a good dancer, and he knows it, but it doesn’t feel that way at all. You seem to find such amusement in his nonsensical movements, not a drop of apprehension trickles into his psyche.
When you grab his hands and place them on your hips, he lets his instinct take over. Pulls you in close, chests pressed together, his thigh between your legs. You sing the lyrics as if every song is your favorite with a face-splitting grin and those sweet giggles falling from your lips. He pushes you away and spins you around, only to pull you right back. Right into his waiting embrace, right where you belong. Your breath comes fast, but you don’t slow down, and neither does he.
He’s not sure he’s ever felt like this in his entire life. This open, this full. A strange sort of nostalgia passes through him, a homesickness, missing the moment before it’s even passed, knowing he’ll eventually look back on this night as the best he’s ever had.
The air is hot and stiff, but he breathes in your oxygen, and it gives him life. You move together so seamlessly, and Tommy thinks about how he’d come here seeking the possible love of his life and wonders if it’s fate that you were here.
Fate that you had a fake ID, that you somehow knew about the same exclusive pop-up party he’d declined and then came to anyway. Fate that you’d be here alone, that you’d choose one bar out of three others, and that he just happened to be standing there at the very same time. In a warehouse filled with a thousand strangers, you’d somehow found him.
The songs flow and fade, bleeding from one to the next. You dance and dance, and Tommy watches you—enthralled, obsessed, in love.
He loses track of the time, thinks hours could have passed without his notice, and he wouldn’t have even cared. But when he sees a bead of sweat trickle down your neck, he asks, “Wanna step out for a minute?”
You nod once, and Tommy grabs your hand again and pulls you out of the crowd. He gives the bouncer a tight-lipped smile as you slip out of the wide doors. There’s a designated smoking area near the entrance, and that’s where Tommy leads you.
The music can still be heard outside, muffled and low. He pulls the pack of Marlboros out of his back pocket, lights one, and inhales deeply. When he looks up, he finds you watching him, leaning back against the concrete wall of the warehouse, the blue light of the moon reflected in your eyes.
You outstretch your hand and take the cigarette from between his fingers, taking a slow drag. “Do you bring girls you don’t know home often?”
Tommy can see right through you. Sees that unease beneath your smile, sees the way you feel the need to ask but don’t want the answer, and relates to it. It makes his stomach turn, though. Because he doesn’t ever want you to think of yourself that way, doesn’t want you to think for a single second that this is anything like that.
Because you’re not a girl he doesn’t know. Not just a means to an end. You’re you.
You’re everything.
“I don’t like this,” he admits quietly. “The pretending.”
You pass the cigarette back to him, and when he puts it to his mouth, he can taste the cherry flavor of your lip gloss on the orange filter. “Would you have as much fun, though? With all that added weight.”
Tommy doesn’t know. Has never had a fucking clue about anything in all his life, really. Never knew what he wanted to do or who he wanted to be.
The only thing that has ever been clear to him is you.
“If we stopped pretending,” you say. “What would you do?”
He hesitates.
And then decides not to let this moment pass him.
He places both hands on either side of your face and kisses you hard, hungry. Tasting you feels like a breath of fresh air, like relief. Your bottom lip slots between his so perfectly that he thinks you must have been made for him, that there could never be anyone else. When you let out the most delicious whimper he’s ever heard, Tommy slides his tongue into your mouth and moans.
It feels like time wasted, like this is what he’s been meant to do his whole life, and now he has to make up for the opportunity lost.
When he pulls away, it’s reluctant, still cradling your pretty face in his hands. Your eyes are wide, and your breath is labored.
“That’s what I would do,” he says.
A minute passes, and you just stare at him, searching his eyes for something. Doubt, maybe. But you won’t find any, because Tommy Miller has never been more sure of anything in his entire life.
And then, finally—
“Uncle Tommy?”
No more pretending. “Yeah, sweetheart?”
“I want you to take me home. Right now,” you say.
“Now?”
“Yes. Right the fuck now. Please.”
He smiles widely. “C’mon, baby.”
Tommy takes you to his truck and buckles you in. The ride back to his apartment feels like a blur. He’s barely had two drinks, but you make him feel drunk.
You can’t keep your hands off him. It only takes three seconds once he pulls onto the road before you’re unbuckling your seatbelt and sliding across the cab. You press wet, open-mouthed kisses to the side of his neck and run your hands over his strong thighs, giggling all the while.
He has to reel you in a little after almost running a red light. “Careful, now,” he says, taking your hand in his free one and pressing a kiss to the back of it. “If I die before I get to eat your pussy I’ll come back and haunt the fuck out of you.”
You throw your head back and laugh, but Tommy means it.
It’s a relief when he pulls in the parking lot in one piece, but before he even cuts the ignition, you’re crawling into his lap.
His pretty, desperate girl.
You kiss him deep, tongue sliding against his, hips tilting over the already hard cock in his jeans. He could cum just like this, Tommy knows, with you on top of him and your hands tangled in the curls at the nape of his neck. You smell sweet and seductive, and he can think of nothing beyond this singular moment.
“Let’s just do it right here,” you say, panting, hands sliding beneath his t-shirt. “I want you so bad. I’ve wanted it for so long, please.”
There are no words to describe how much it satisfies him to hear it, to hear you beg for him. But you deserve better than this. Deserve so much more than a back seat fuck. He wants to give you everything, wants to give you all of him. “I know, sweetheart, I know,” he says. Because he does. “Wanna see you in my bed, though.”
You wrap your arms around his neck, and Tommy uses it to his advantage, holding you close as he quickly gets out of the truck and locks it behind him. You’re a giggling mess, pressing kisses to his face as he makes his way inside and up the stairs to his apartment. “You’re so handsome,” you say. “Have I ever told you that?”
“A hundred times,” he says, kicking the door closed behind him. “But one more won’t hurt.”
His apartment is a mess. There are dishes in the sink and clothes on the floor and an empty plate on the coffee table, but just seeing you here makes his heart swell in his chest.
He begins to wonder if this is where you’re meant to be; taking up room in his space, kicking off your shoes at the front door.
Tommy’s cock pulses in the confines of his jeans.
“Kiss me again,” you say. “Kiss me like you mean it.”
He does. His mouth clashes against yours, tongue licking into your sweet mouth, savoring the taste of what remains of your shimmery lip gloss.
Tommy’s hands drift lower, squeezing at the round globes of your ass, pulling you impossibly closer. One of his hands dips between your thighs, feeling the soft lace you wear beneath that sinful dress. “Fuck,” he hisses. “Fuck, I need to taste you. Been dreamin’ about it.”
“You dream about me?”
He wraps his big arms around your waist and lifts you. “Every fuckin’ night,” he admits, turning towards his bedroom.
Doesn’t make it very far, though. Because when you wrap your legs around his waist and rut against him, Tommy lets out a low sound from somewhere deep inside his chest before laying you back against the kitchen island.
“Fuck it,” he murmurs to himself. Close enough, he thinks.
You look so fucking pretty like this. All sprawled out for him, flushed with your swollen lips parted and your pupils blown wide. He’d always known it would be a sight to behold, but this…it’s something else entirely.
Cataclysmic. Divine sacrilege.
He leans over you and kisses your chest softly. “Tell me you want this,” he says. “That you want me.”
Your answer comes fast. “I want you, Uncle Tommy.”
And he feels a deep-seated desire swirl low in his abdomen. Because it’s fucked up. He knows it is. Is completely, lucidly aware that this is all wrong. Filthy and twisted.
Yet he wants it anyway. Maybe not despite it, but because of it. Pleasure heightened with this sick perversion.
He slides his hands under your dress and hooks his fingers around the lace, pulling it down your legs. You’re so wet for him he can see it stick, webs of slick snapping as he groans at the sight. “Goddamn, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Didn’t tell me it was like this.”
“I need you so bad it hurts,” you tell him. “Get so wet just thinking about it.” Your voice is low and desperate, almost a cry.
“Don’t worry, baby,” he says. “Uncle Tommy’s going to take care of you, okay? Gonna make that ache go away.”
He kisses you slowly. Starts at your ankle and slowly works his way up. He kisses and bites the insides of your thighs, savoring the moment not for you but for him, leaving indentations of his teeth in your flesh. A memory, he thinks. A promise that you’ll think of this tomorrow and the next day. That you’ll remember the way he made you feel.
Then he’s rolling your dress up your hips, delighting in the way you get all shy and squirmy as he takes you in, unashamed in his study. “Such a pretty little pussy,” he says. “Gonna make her feel real good, sweetheart. Don’t you worry.”
He surges forward, licking through your folds. memorizing the way your slit feels beneath his tongue because he never wants to forget this. Never wants to forget the way you gasp beneath him or the way your hands pull at his hair. “Oh my god.”
“Shhh,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you, pretty girl.” he kisses your clit. Once, twice, before sucking it between his lips. He spreads your legs wide and presses his mouth to you, nose crinkling against your pubic bone.
He could die here a happy man. You taste divine, better than anything his mind could have ever conjured up. He licks and sucks until you’re writhing, and when he presses two fingers gently into your opening, your back arches off the counter top.
Tommy hooks two fingers inside you, hitting that sweet spot, your perfect moans echoing through his kitchen. He wraps an arm around your thigh and pulls you roughly to the edge of the counter. His tongue is warm and wet as he uses it to circle your clit, groaning against you, sending vibrations through your body.
His name falls from your mouth between gasping breaths. You grind yourself against him, making a delicious mess of his face and pulling at the roots of his hair.
He can feel you clenching around his fingers, chasing that high, chasing release. Tommy decides to give you a little encouragement. “Go on, now,” he mutters against your spit-soaked clit. “Take it, baby. You deserve it. Been so fuckin’ good for so long. Deserve a reward.”
Your breath halts, just for a second. And then you let out a long, salacious moan and your legs tremble around his head. Tommy feels your walls pulse around his two fingers, squeezing them hard. “Fuck, fuck—”
“That’s it,” he praises, flicking his soft tongue gently over your clit, fingers working you through it, pressing in deep. “There you go, shhh. Just like that.”
He looks up at you, branding this image in his brain. The arch of your back, the strain in your throat as you desperately take in oxygen, the way the shimmery, silver sequins on your dress cast little rainbows across his apartment. He’ll never forget it for as long as he lives.
“You look so beautiful, darlin’,” he says. “So pretty when you cum for your Uncle Tommy.”
Only when your writhing stops and your breath evens out does he slow the rhythm of his fingers, caressing your insides slowly, gently, making sure he coaxes it all out of you and delighting in the little whimpers you make in response. And then he carefully slides them out of you, digits slick and glossy with your release. Your eyes are glued to his as he brings them to his mouth and licks them clean, not wasting a single drop. That smirk of yours forms as you say, breathless, “Kiss me.”
Tommy grips the back of your neck and pulls you forward, grinning as he gives you what you need. He kisses you eagerly, tongue finding yours, licking into your mouth.
“Can taste it,” you mutter, giggling against his lips. “I made a real mess of you.”
In more ways than one, Tommy thinks. “Tastes fuckin’ good, though,” he says. “Just gettin’ started, anyway.”
He lifts you off the counter, laughing as you squeal in surprise when he tosses you over his shoulder so easily. You fist your hands in the bottom of his wrinkled t-shirt, seeking stability. “I bet you have blue sheets,” you say.
Tommy snorts. “You’ve thought about the color of my sheets?” Such a simple thing, an irrelevant part of his life that has never mattered to him in any capacity.
“Duh,” you say as if it’s obvious, and Tommy’s suddenly overwhelmed with warmth. He likes that you think about it—his sheets, his bedroom, him. Likes knowing he’s not been alone in his mania. “Always knew I’d end up in them.”
He laughs darkly as he pushes open the door and shoulders you onto his bed, right in the center of his navy blue sheets.
You smile up at him, beaming with pride, and he shakes his head as you say, “Told ya.”
It doesn’t surprise him that you’d guessed correctly because you know him. Better than anyone else ever has. Because you and Tommy are one and the same, two sides to the same twisted coin. “Yeah, yeah, alright,” he teases, crawling over you, knees braced on either side of your thighs. “S’enough outta you, know it all.”
You open your mouth, probably to make some filthy joke, but whatever it is never sees the light of day because Tommy hooks his fingers around the thin straps of your dress and pulls them down your shoulders. He tugs at the fabric until your breasts are bared to him, pretty and soft and perfect.
He cups them tenderly in his hands, thumbs grazing the hardened peaks of your nipples. He watches goosebumps rise across your chest, and it brings a sick smile to his face. “S’that feel good, sweetheart?”
“Yes,” you breathe, eyes heavy. “Touch me more. Wanna feel you.”
Tommy’s never heard a more tempting request in his life. He leans over and presses his mouth to your chest, hands roaming over your skin. He takes your nipple in his mouth and flicks his tongue over the sensitive flesh, sighing against you at the sound of your moan.
He pushes your dress down to your hips and lets you shimmy the rest of the way out of it, kicking the shiny fabric onto the floor. You lift your hips to meet his, and his cock is so hard and needy that the smallest bit of friction nearly knocks him on his ass. “Shit,” he hisses, trailing kisses across your chest, spreading his worship. He plans to take his time, wants to see just how close he can get you with just his mouth on your tits.
But then your voice breaks through your breathy whimpers. “Uncle Tommy,” you say. “Wait. Wait, I—”
He stops, pulling back, giving you room to breathe. The coldness of fear begins to trickle in as he anticipates your next words. Has he gone too far? Said too much, moved too fast?
“I want you in my mouth,” you say with those pretty eyes, and he convinces himself he’s dreaming. “Please.”
Because this can’t be real. There’s no way in hell he’s looking at you, naked in his bed, begging to suck his cock. His pretty, perfect girl. Tommy runs his hands down his face, and a sound of utter disbelief escapes him. But then he’s nodding, just as eager. “Yeah, baby,” he says. “Course you can.”
Your responding smile sends a shiver down his spine. Carefully, you move from beneath him, hands tugging at the buckle of his leather belt. He can do nothing but watch with reverence as you unbutton his jeans and pull at his zipper, tongue wetting your lips.
The air gets stuck in his lungs as you reach into his boxers and pull him out with gentle fingers. It’s hypnotic, the way you touch him. You press a sweet, chaste kiss to his tip and with that one touch alone he’s already fighting for his fucking life.
But he lets you do what you want to him. Lets you move at your own pace. Tommy’s grateful you’re slow in your pursuit, though. Tasting him, tongue gliding down the underside of his shaft, savoring.
When you finally take him fully in your mouth, his head falls back and he sighs deeply. It’s almost too much to feel you and look at you, but Tommy doesn’t want to miss it. He strokes your hair as you hollow out your cheeks and greedily swallow him down. “Fuck,” he groans. “Look so good with my dick in your mouth. Yeah, there you go. Just like that.”
You suck harder, take him in deeper. His vision blurs, and pleasure builds and builds and builds, rushing to the surface of his skin.
“Easy,” he warns. You look at him through your lashes, lips parted around his heavy cock. It’s the most pornographic image he’s ever fucking seen and it’s going to have him cumming down your throat. “Easy, easy, easy—” Tommy takes a handful of your hair and pulls you back, dick pulsing as he watches strands of your spit stick to him. “Jesus Christ, sweetheart.”
Pure, sprightly giggles bubble from your glossy lips. So beautiful it hurts him. “Can I tell you what I want?”
“Always,” he promises, and means it.
You move across his bed, crawling back towards the headboard. Your voice is low, a seductive whisper as you tell him, “I want you to take off your clothes.”
He does. Starts by pulling his t-shirt over his head and tossing it to the floor. Then he takes off his boots and shoves his jeans and boxers down, discarding them beside your pretty little dress.
“I want you to come over here and kiss me,” you say. Tommy moves on instinct, crawling towards you. He’s nearly there when you speak again, mouth hovering over yours. “And then I want you inside me, Uncle Tommy.”
He shivers as you spread your legs slowly, putting on a sweet little show. All for him. “Yeah?”
“Mmhm,” you murmur. You slide your hands down your body, that troublesome look on your face, teasing. As you glide your fingers through your pussy, slick and glossy, you continue. “Wanna watch it go in. Wanna see it here,” you say, pressing hard against your lower abdomen.
Tommy’s always given you everything you’ve ever wanted. Has never had any problem satisfying all your needs. And that doesn’t change now, either.
He kisses you slowly. Meaningfully. There’s intent behind it. Love. Adoration. He hopes you can feel it. Hope you can sense it.
With his forehead against yours, he lines himself up at your entrance. He cradles your face with his hand. Says, “Tell me if it hurts.”
And then he’s pushing inside you, and his hands shake. You watch it, just as you wanted. Watch his cock split you open, watch your pretty pussy make room for him. And Tommy watches you, delighting in the way your eyes go wide and watery, in the way your lips part in a gasp.
He sinks into you all the way, hips pressed tight against yours. And when he pulls back out his cock is covered in your slick. “How’s it feel, baby?”
You nod frantically, chest heaving. “S’good,” you answer. “So fucking…God. You’re so big.”
Tommy tilts his hips, quickly finding a cadence that makes you cry out his name. You feel like heaven. Warm and wet, soaked. The sounds echo in his bedroom, obscene and filthy. He kisses your forehead, your nose, your temple. Every part of you he can reach. “This what you wanted? Hm?”
“Yes, yes, please—”
“Shh, s’alright, darlin’. Ain’t gotta beg me. Uncle Tommy’s got you.” Your silky walls grip his cock tighter as he says it, and he knows then and there that you’re the same in this, too. Knows that you like the perversion, the corruption, the filth.
He thrusts harder, deeper. Your back arches, and your hand reaches for his. Tommy laces his fingers through yours and has never felt closer to anyone in his life. You say, “I needed you,” and he agrees.
“I know, baby. Me too. I’m here now. Gonna make you cum for me.” He uses his free hand and presses it to your lips. “Open your mouth.”
You do. His perfect girl. He presses his fingers past your lips, into your mouth. Your tongue swirls around them, coating them in your spit. And then he snakes his arm between you and circles your clit, torturously gentle. “Oh my fucking God,” you cry, squeezing your eyes shut.
But Tommy won’t have it. “Nuh-uh. Look at me, baby,” he says. “C’mon. Wanna see the way you look cumming on Uncle Tommy’s cock, huh?” You do as he says, and a tear rolls down your cheek. “There you go. Just like that. Good job.”
“Tommy,” you whimper, pussy fluttering around him. He’s not going to last long, not like this. Not when you cry for him so beautifully.
He circles your clit faster, fighting off the bliss that creeps up his spine. “Right here,” he says, kissing your tears away, salt clinging to his lips. “Stay right here with me, sweet girl. Takin’ it so fuckin’ well for me.”
Your fingernails dig into the back of his hand and he knows you’re there, can feel your pussy sucking him in deeper. “Cum with me,” you say, breath ragged. “Cum with me, please.”
“Fuck, fuck…baby, I don’t know if—”
“It’s okay, I promise,” you tell him, voice pleading. “I’m on birth control, I swear. Just…I want to feel it, Uncle Tommy. Want you to fill me up.”
This will damn him, he knows.
“Please, please, please. I’m gonna—I’m gonna cum, oh my God—”
He’d do anything for you.
“Always gonna give you what you want,” he says. “My favorite girl.”
Your eyes are starry as you crest that high, somehow even more exquisite than the first time. Sweet moans fill the room, and your thighs shake as your release rocks through you, spine bending off his blue sheets. You cry out his name, and that’s what sets him over the edge.
His cock pulses inside of you, painting your insides with thick, sticky ropes of cum. It’s the most intense orgasm he’s ever had, and he knows he’ll chase this high for the rest of his fucking life. “That’s it,” he whispers, his breath hot against the shell of your ear. “Such a filthy little thing, beggin’ for your Uncle Tommy to fill you up with his cum. You’re so perfect for me.”
He gives you every last drop, thrusting in deep until his cock is so overstimulated it almost hurts. But he circles your clit with his spit-soaked fingers until you come down, walls spasming uncontrollably around him.
When he finally pulls out of you, he does it gently. And then he collapses on the bed beside you, panting to try and slow the racing of his heart. He turns his head to look at you and catches your eye, and he’s not quite sure why, but you both grin and just laugh.
There’s no dirty joke or any sort of amusement. Nothing’s funny, but Tommy supposes he’s just…well, he’s happy. Seeing you on the right side of his mattress, all naked and fucked out and satisfied, it just feels so right.
And he knows it’s not. Knows it’s so far removed from the idea of right that it’s absurd, but you’re stifling your laughter behind your hands and turning away from him to try and find some sort of composure, and Tommy thinks maybe he just doesn’t fucking care.
Doesn’t care about right or wrong, doesn’t care about what anyone would think or say. Because how could he when you’re at his side? How could anything else on God’s green earth ever matter to him as much as you?
It can’t happen again. He knows that.
But this is enough, Tommy thinks. This one night. A stolen moment in time that will forever belong only to the two of you, where nothing and no one matters beyond his apartment. The life here, the love between you, encased so perfectly in these four walls…it’s a gift. One he doesn’t deserve. Sweet as maple syrup and warm as the hot summer sun.
And yet it’s been given to him anyway, and Tommy Miller’s going to cherish it for the rest of his life.
When you finally turn back to him, you lie on your side with a face-splitting grin. “We’re so fucked,” you say.
Tommy laughs. “Oh, absolutely,” he agrees, pulling you close. He wraps his arms around your waist and treasures the weight of your head on his chest. “Totally, completely fucked.”
“Well, at least we’re together.”
He smiles. Presses a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Yeah,” he whispers. “At least there’s that.”
Two peas in a fucking pod.
(ermmmm ik i said i wanted to write more single part fics this year but if literally just one person asks for a part two I'll cave)
💖💖 Send this to other bloggers that you think are wonderful. Keep the game going, make someone smile!!! 💖💖
Hi AJ, just dropping in to say ily. Your sense of humor always makes me crack a smile when i see you on tumblr, and you're also so kind. Have a great weekend 💖
I am forever late and am just now seeing this! Thank you toxic 🥹 ily toooo and I appreciate you for sharing your amazing self with the world 💛💛
Short Smoke x Annie, Smoke's POV. Idk what this is (i do) but it is what it is (which is true).
Warnings: Mature (not so explicit but mature? Talking mainly about one thing 👀😂 but an introspection tied within I believe...you'll get it if you read after the cut.)
They were his safe place.
When Smoke first laid eyes on Annie's titties, he held his breath for so long he thought he'd faint. Thinking if he exhaled too quickly, her titties would disappear. He wasn't a man to ogle like his brother, but when God presents a beauty like her, that called him to his knees to worship, he couldn't help himself.
It was during a visit to the farmer's market, Uncle Jed had gave him a list to go buy and he diligently carried out the order. That's when he was able to visually see Annie, the conjure woman in the making that he heard about in Clarksdale around then. How her Grandmama was teaching her as a successor, learning all about Hoodoo - the practise he was familiar with in a sense that his mother had talked about it when he was a child, adorned him with all the root work she could think of and whispered prayers over him. It didn't fancy him to think about it often, practise died with his mother as far as he was concerned at the time and life had been cruel to him - but the town praised their healing abilities and the people around his age would gossip about her when she had moved from Louisiana to stay here. He didn't care for that either, he knew from one look in a person's eyes to tell what they are, gossip never aided him that way.
And he hadn't had a chance to look into hers when she came into his view, but his mind and body were already screaming at him to get to her.
He lost time from how much he was staring, watching her bend down to inspect apples, she hadn't noticed him. The top of her titties spilling over the edge of her neckline. If she glanced up from where she was, she would of seen him over the boxes of produce on the other side, with his half lidded eyes and losing his sanity.
Her Grandmama had appeared beside her, hand on Annie's shoulder. He had to pinch the skin of his thigh through his pants pocket to wake up out of the trance, knowing the older woman would detect his tunnel vision. He busied himself with checking the honeydew melons on his side, which didn't help, his eighteen year old mind making him wonder how her titties felt when his hand stroked down one of the melons. Smoke thought to himself, that maybe he can put the image of her, that was searing his brain, out of his mind. Could chalk it up to her not being polite, a cruel person, probably boring. Make her uninteresting, just pure lust he was feeling.
When she spoke? The smooth velvet voice with her accent, his knees were weak for the first time in a long time. He glanced their way and finally saw into her eyes, she was still not looking at him but her rich, round brown eyes told him she must of been sent to earth personally by angels.
The irony, he wasn't much a believer, but he was praying to God that what he was experiencing was real.
He knew at that moment, that he had to dedicate his life to get closer to her, know everything she would allow him to know. To just, be with her. He had overheard the conversation with her Grandmama, nearly knocking over a basket of cabbages to continue hearing her smart mind. He wondered if she'd even want to talk to him.
Somehow after the first look, later down the line of time with fateful encounters and deeper conversations, some way, she let him in. Took a liking to him too. Wasn't entirely sure what she saw in him, he did his best to present qualities that weren't exactly his own mixed in with himself, qualities that she might of liked based on the women who he saw his brother hang around had liked - but she stripped the false barriers down to reveal his true self.
Smoke in his older age now still couldn't believe it sometimes that she loved him.
First time she caught him staring at her titties was during their third date, when he snuck her out her Grandmama's house in the night to a party. She pressed them up against his chest and he nearly lost all sense of being on this earth. Hands immobile at the back of her waist, her eyes, carrying her worries and joys, teasing him.
The times after that, she made it known to tease him every time she caught him. She was a smart woman. Knew so much knowledge his brain would overload at times. Her soft, kind, beautiful heart was big enough to have space for him in her heart, somehow not letting his tarnished life plague her own. In fact, the more he spent with her, it was as if her radiance was healing the knee deep wounds in his soul.
All of that, was protected by the heavy cushioning of her titties.
He found out eventually how heavy they were. Her poor back. After dreaming about them every night, imagining how she'd sound once he got his hands and mouth on them. His dreams were way off, she was ethereal. He swore on his father's grave that he was going deaf when he first got to see them bare. Taste them, he was so invested only with them initially that he couldn't hear the sounds she was making. The ones he was desperate to hear, had to look her in the eyes while he caressed her how she wanted, in order to really register how she sung under his touch.
She was mesmerised by his own body, running her hands all over him when she could. Similar to him, she watched him to see his reactions as she touched him. The look in her eyes reflecting his own desire to watch her under his touch. He let her have all of him.
Her titties were perfect for his head to rest on in the quiet of the mornings, safe and secure on her chest. The gentle rise and fall of her breathing as her gorgeous hands held the back of his head. Her scent calming his nerves from the ordeals he had to face throughout the days. The gentle hum she would do when he laid with her like this vibrated in his ear and lulled him to sleep.
Before he met her, he never believed he would find a piece of solace, never mind a whole person that he believed he was unworthy for, but had wanted him. So he tried his fucking best every day to be the man she deserved, meet her needs, her dreams. She never made him feel like he was undeserving, just told him the truth. That they were here for one another, they had to have an understanding, and that'll lead them ahead. And it did, for a long as they remained together, it did.
And a glance at her chest cured a lot of things within him. She rolled her eyes at it when he made comments about them but he always saw the smile she was trying to hide. He betted she knew that his comments were coming from his heart. Her titties on their own wouldn't really mean much to him, he was only becoming a mad man for them cause they were attached to all of her. He loved all of her. Put them on any other woman, and Smoke did end up seeing many women, all shapes and sizes, he didn't fucking care. None of them had her mind, her heart, her smile, her striking eyes, her voluptuous curves, the list went on.
Her titties were special.
Which made it even more insane that he let his brother talk him into a twisted plan in Chicago. His need for money to support his wife, after the loss of their child, scared the hell out of him. Vulnerability pulled him away from his wife, with a promise to come back as soon as possible.
Seven years was not that. All sorts of fucked up shit that he never wanted to witness had happened, but they achieved their plan.
And he was miserable. Making it everyone's' problem.
Wanting to see her again, also knowing she might shoot him on sight for being gone for so long, made him build up a wall when he saw her after years. Putting up a front, hiding his internal screaming to close the gap and hug her and rest his face on her magnificent titties, with explaining why he was back. And hiding his truth. Maybe she didn't want him anymore.
He had so many questions to ask her, but she pushed all his good and bad buttons. Life away made him defend his actions to her, help her out of the life she was leading. As if he had the right? He was having an outer body experience, seeing himself tumbling down the wrong path at their stand off until she felt the Mojo bag.
Smoke shook his head watching her bless his mojo bag, at the practise and also how he wasn't resting his head on her chest already. He held up his wall again, until she called him by his actual name and he crumbled. Watching her, hoping, begging, that she still wanted him.
She was right, he was a fool.
Admitting his love for her, as if he never used to say it to her all the time before he left, set him down the right path. Her head tilted down, pausing for a second before moving around the table towards him and his heart rapidly pumped in his chest, eyes locked onto her approach up to him from where he sat. Her hands smoothing around his shoulders to the back of his head and brought him closer to her chest.
He paused, as did she for a split second, where he wondered if he was allowed to be here but her fingers nudged him and his heart flatlined when he pressed his face down onto her plush titties, her chin on the top of his head.
His hands around her waist, fingers right above her curvaceous ass.
His eyes started to sting, tears forming and he stopped himself from reeling back to hide it. The droplets wetting her skin a little and it must of alerted her as she called for him but he couldn't respond. He inhaled through his nose, her citrus scent bringing him home.
She called for him again, attempting to pull back to look at him but he held her in place and mustered up the will power to speak, with his face still on her chest.
"Fucking missed your majestic titties" he mumbled into her skin.
Her laugh pieced his heart back together.
He planned on doing the same for her.
~~~~~~~~~~~
That screenshot made me write this. He was in there, nose and everything. I can't remember if i was supposed to tag someone i vaguely remember i might of? but i lost track, and get scared still tagging 👀 I think it was you @ultralspblr ? 👀💖 Anyways, HAVE A GREAT DAAAAAY. God pls send me someone to yearn for me like this 🤧😔💔
Summary: Men your age don’t do the way a twenty five year old future helicopter pilot can.
A/N: this is basically all smut and no plot, just a quick synopsis of your/her past. This fic is written in first person and I basically have no idea where this came from. I just woke up feral over the idea yesterday and here we are! Thank you @lotusbxtch for reading it and then saying you have no notes lol. Support banners by @saradika-graphics.
T/W: Divorce, mention of alcohol consumption, oral (both sides), cum swapping, kissing, lots of sex and talks of sex, dirty talk, pet names (baby, sweetheart, etc.), age gap (she’s 40, he’s 25), riding, talks of doggy style, talks of shower sex, squirting (because who wouldn’t with Frankie). I’ve probably missed a bunch, you’re responsible for the content you consume, but there’s really nothing that dark happening here; just a girl getting throughly and properly dicked down.
Which is probably how I found myself in the situation I’m in now. With an indescribably hot twenty five year old private helicopter pilot nestled between my thighs, lapping endlessly at my pussy with his magic tongue.
My Masterlist
You know that infamous saying, “Time flies when you’re having fun”? Well, it also flies when you get pregnant at nineteen, married at twenty, pregnant again at twenty-one and twenty-two, and then stuck in a dead-end marriage with a guy who peaked in high school and had a combover by the age of thirty.
I know what you’re thinking, ‘why not just leave him’, right? Well, truthfully, it wasn’t all bad. We made great memories as our kids grew up, but as they older they got, the more alone time he and I had. One evening, as he was passed out on the couch at 7:30 pm on a Friday night, I realized that I fucking hated him.
Shortly after my fortieth trip around the sun - our kids are now twenty-one, nineteen and eighteen - I had officially packed the last one up for college and then myself up for a divorce. You should have seen the way my ex-husband grovelled.
“But I love you!”
He bought me lilies for Mother’s Day three years in a row, I’m fucking allergic. But sure, you love me.
He offered to make spaghetti and meatballs for dinner two nights before I left him. And then called and texted me relentlessly simply to ask me what he needed to get from the store. But sure, you love me.
I have never been able to sit out in the sun (thanks to my Irish grandparents for that gene) and he tore down the gazebo in our backyard because “no one uses it”. I sit out there almost every day afterwork. But sure, you love me.
Forty for some people is scary. Not for me. For me, it was a metamorphosis. Not over the hill, standing at the top of the hill, conquering it, and building a goddamn castle. Only letting in who I choose and if they think they can stay for nothing, they can fuck all the way off. That might make me seem like a heartless bitch, but that couldn’t be less true. I’ve spent all of my twenties and thirties caring for other people. It’s time for me to take what I want now.
My new motto for my fourth decade on earth? “If you aren’t actively contributing to my life…leave”.
Which is probably how I found myself in the situation I’m in now. With an indescribably hot twenty five year old private helicopter pilot nestled between my thighs, lapping endlessly at my pussy with his magic tongue.
“Good boy,” I hum, arching into his puffy, slick-covered lips. “Don’t fucking stop. Oh god.”
He groans at my words, alternating between slow, calculated licks and a swirl of his tongue around my clit. We met two nights ago in a small bar. I entertained him at first because he was cute and dopey, plus, even though I’m not an “older woman” per se, in comparison to him I am, and who doesn’t enjoy a little attention? I don’t know how it happened, maybe the tequila, maybe the way he could two-step, maybe just the insane rush of hormones from being premenopausal, but for almost 48 hours now we’ve been as naked as the day we were born and have fucked on almost every surface of my apartment (aka my castle on the hill).
I swear we’ve had more sex since Friday night than I had over the last few years of my marriage. It’s wrong and depraved. He’s so much younger than me and easily could date my oldest daughters, but that’s the thing about turning forty. You just don’t give a flying fuck anymore what other people think. This can just be my dirty little secret.
“Jesus Christ, Frankie. Your fuckin’ mouth.”
I’ve lost count of the number of orgasms Francisco Morales has pulled out of me, and giving him more of them seems simultaneously easy and impossible.
“Fingers,” I gasp. “Please, baby. I want more.”
He obliges, slipping two of his long, skilled fingers inside of me and curling them forward as I adjust to the intrusion. The facts that he can get hard over and over again - mixed with his eagerness to please and disinterest in being in a relationship - are the absolute chef’s kiss trifecta of fucking younger men.
His fingers pump up and down again and again. A steady, teasing, delicious motion and when he sucks my poor abused clit into his mouth I fall apart. I scream his name for the hundredth time this weekend as my body shudders, the walls of my pussy throbbing and clenching appreciatively around his fingers. Frankie doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up until I’m a human puddle. Boneless. Muscle-less. Connective fucking tissue-less. I look down as he pulls away from my cunt, and after slipping his fingers from me he sucks them clean while giving me that goofy grin he gave at me at the bar.
“My uh friends think that someone as beautiful as you wouldn’t talk to me. So, can you laugh like I said something funny?”
“Shit, Frankie. That was amazing.” He crawls up my body, kissing my stomach and up my sternum before lying beside me. I roll to face him, both of us using our arms to support our heads. “I can’t believe we’ve been fucking for two days straight.”
He smirks. “My favourite time was still when you rode me backwards on the shower bench.”
“Ya, that was good. Especially when you figured out the detachable shower head.”
He tucks some hair behind my ear and then slides closer. He’s hard again, I can feel his cock pressing into my thigh, already leaking that salty-sweet pre cum.
“What was your favourite?” He whispers, then kisses the tip of my nose.
“Hmmm,” I fake like I’m in deep thought - I already know what my favourite was. “When you had me bent over the back of the couch, one of my legs propped up.”
I swear he blushes as he remembers it. “Good thing that couch is leather,” he says with a wink.
“Who knew I could squirt, but maybe everyone does at five orgasms. You’re kind of a menace.” I grind into him, ready for more already.
His hand comes to my hip, gripping and pulling me closer.
“Me? You’re the one who seduced me. They introduced me to the best sex of my life.”
“Haven’t introduced you to everything quite yet, baby boy,” I murmur, my lips ghosting over his. When he tries to kiss me I pull back, revelling in the needy little whine he makes. “Want me to show what it’s like when a real woman sucks your cock?”
How I managed to go this long without getting to blow him is beyond me, he’s just always giving.
“Talk a big game there,” he quips, challenging me by raising an eyebrow.
I push at him, forcing him to roll onto his back and rake my eyes unapologetically over his body; tanned, broad chest, the V cut of his hips, the little line of hair from his belly button to his beautiful cock.
“Francisco,” I rasp seductively, getting on all fours to shimmy down the mattress. “I’ve been sucking cock since before you were born. I am about to show you why the lyric “I like my girls a little bit older” is so popular.”
I don’t waste any time, I don’t slowly suckle on him or tease him with my tongue. Instead, I open my mouth as wide as I can and swallow his thick cock greedily. When my nose meets his pelvis and the leaking tip of his dick hits the back of my throat I close my lips around him and moan.
“Holy shit,” he breathes from above me, but he hasn’t seen anything yet.
I slowly pull him free from my mouth, his cock like steel, standing straight up. “Hands up, grab onto the headboard. I want to feel your cum down my throat.”
When he reaches up the headboard my mouth and pussy salivate at the way his biceps look with his arms over his head and how his forearms pop as he grips tightly to the metal bars of my bed frame.
Again, I don’t fuck around, sliding him to the very back of my throat. This time, when I get to the bottom I push my tongue past my bottom lip and it flicks along the top of his balls.
“Fuuuuuuuck, that’s my girl,” his voice airy and on the edge of a moan. “God damn you’re gonna make me cum soon if you keep that up.”
I move my mouth almost agonizingly slow up his cock, my warm tongue trailing along every vein and ridge on the underside of his length. When I get to the tip I wrap my hand around the base, pumping as I swirl my tongue around the tip, paying extra attention to the bottom ridge every time.
“Fuck, fuck. Yes,” he mumbles, his hips flexing forward and I take that as my sign to move my hand and swallow him down again. I can taste my pussy on him from when he fucked me recently and something about my heady sweetness mixed with his salty flavour that’s innately him makes me absolutely fucking feral.
His body falls to the mattress. “Again. Please, do that again.”
I‘m tempted to tease and taunt him, make him beg for me, but since he was so happy to give me everything, I decide to give him what he wants. Slowly, so very slowly, I pull up along his shaft. I can feel him trembling beneath me and it’s intoxicating. Thank god his refractory period is about three point five seconds because after I swallow every ounce of his cum I’m going to ride him until neither of us can breathe.
I reach the tip, glancing up at him as I swirl my tongue. His knuckles are blanched from how hard he's squeezing my headboard, assumingly to stop from grabbing at me.
“Such a good listener,” I praise, watching the way the words make him more pliant. His cock twitches in my hand as I say it. “You like being praised, don’t you?”
He nods, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “That’s my good boy,” I practically coo at him before sucking his entire length down my throat again. I bob up and down and up and down. Moaning at the taste of him and I, my hand following my mouth, I feel him getting harder - a telltale sign that he’s getting close to coming.
“Fuck me, that’s so good. You’re so good. Don’t, oh shit, yes. Don’t fucking stop.” He slurs the last bit of his pleas of pleasure. “I’m gonna come soon. Oh god.”
I can taste the cum that’s already leaking from his cock, so I swirl around his tip a few more times. His body twitches.
“Let me taste you. Swallow you. Give it to me, Frankie,” I slam him to the back of my throat again, pushing my tongue further to tease at the sensitive spot where his balls meet his body and he lets out a deep, grumbling moan before shooting his cum down my throat.
“D-don’t swallow,” he stammers, making eye contact as he practically drowns me in cum. Another bonus of fucking someone this much my junior, they have copious amounts cum each and every time.
Frankie’s cock throbs along my tongue as I continue to work him through his orgasm. One of his hands comes to my hair and he pulls at me gently. I let his still-hard cock fall from my mouth and look up at him with parted lips, his cum glistening for him to see. He moves his other hand from the headboard, gripping my cheeks to keep my mouth open for him. He pulls again, urging me to climb up to him.
“Kiss me,” he breathes. “Kiss me with a mouth full of my cum.”
I straddle him, my wet and needy pussy hovering over his rock-hard dick. I start to worry that if neither of us tires, we’ll both be calling in sick to work tomorrow.
He pulls my face towards him, his tongue passing my lips, testing to see how much of himself he wants to swallow. He must enjoy it because before I know it he’s kissing me roughly, his tongue invading my mouth in the most deliciously sinful way. My body acts on its own, grinding against his cock until he slips inside of me and we both groan. I bounce up and down as we swap his cum between our mouths, working him in deeper with each flick of my hips. Once he’s fully inside of me we both pull away from the kiss. I sit up, letting my head fall back to stare at the ceiling as I catch my breath. I pant, sucking in air as his hands come to my hips, then up my body to my breasts. His hands cup them, fingers ghosting over my nipples causing me to shiver.
“Shhhh,” he soothes, “Slow your breathing for me, baby.”
I let my eyes flutter shut, pulling air in through my nose and then out my mouth.
“You’re so beautiful. Always so ready to take my cock. Always squeezing me so tightly. How the fuck do we ever stop? Huh?”
I look down at him, a small smile tugging at my cheeks. “I was just thinking the same thing.”
“Ride me,” he growls. “Make yourself come again. Let me feel the way your messy little pussy pulsates around me.”
I don’t hesitate; I’m probably more needy than him at this point. I lean back, my hands gripping his strong thighs and roll my hips at a slow, albeit rough, pace.
“Frankie,” I whine, the e of his name lasting a few seconds longer than it should.
“That’s it, baby. Use my cock. Make yourself feel good.” His hands run along my body. “Oh shit, that feels so good. God, your fucking pussy.” My thighs start to tremble and he kneads my sore muscles. “I love watching you use me. Watching the way you go all soft before you fall apart. I’m so fucking deep, I bet you feel so full right now. Don’t you?”
I nod, incapable of forming words as I chase my next high.
“Yeah?” He says, a cocky smirk pulling at his cheek which carves a dimple into his patchy facial hair. “Needy little pussy is dripping for me. Isn’t it?”
“Fuck,” I whimper in a high pitched almost pornographic way.
“Yes. Fuck. That’s all I want you to do. Fuck me, or let me fuck you. I’ll never get tired of seeing you come. God, you’re so wet right now.”
It feels like it did when he had me over the couch. The pressure is almost unbearable, the squelching of my pussy getting louder. I have the same thoughts I did then; it’s too good and too much, I should stop, but I really fucking don’t want to stop.
I lean forward, grabbing the vibrator that Frankie discarded on the pillow after we fucked earlier.
“You’re gonna squirt again, aren’t ya?” He asks rhetorically, smiling, his eyes soft and encouraging.
“Keep talking,” I murmur, leaning back again and clicking my vibe on.
His hands burn a path along my hips and up my sides. “Your skin is so soft. Every. Single. Inch. Love the way it feels under my fingertips. I think you like it, too, based on the goosebumps that follow my touches.”
“Mmmm, fuck fuck,” I feel like I’m being lit on fire from the inside out. I up the speed of the vibrator swirling it easily along my soaked clit.
“Do you feel that? The way the soft head of my thick cock kisses your g spot?”
“Yes, yes,” I chant like a church prayer.
“Fuck, baby. I can feel all that cum just waiting to be released. So damn wet. Turn the vibrator up. I want you to soak me.” His voice is deeper, more demanding and I do what he says.
“Frankie!” I gasp, slowing my movement because it’s all too much.
“I know,” he soothes, gripping my hips and taking over rocking motion. “I’m right here. Right fucking here.”
“Can’t,” it’s a weak croak between breaths, pulling the vibrator away just a hair.
Frankie sits up slightly, one of his hands laying a sharp smack on my ass, then he uses that hand to grab my wrist and push the vibrator tightly to my clit. A scream of pain and pleasure rips itself from my lungs before Frankie thrusts up into me. I’m going to split in two but fuck this is a good way to go.
“Give me that fucking cum, sweetheart.” His thumb finds the button on the vibrator and he pushes it once, twice, increasing the speed until I’m brainless and dumb and practically floating with relentless pleasure. “Eyes on me. I want to see your face when you explode around me.”
I open my eyes and everything falls away except for Frankie and his coffee-brown eyes, plush lips, and hooked nose. I snap, no shatter, into millions of pieces. My pussy constricts so tightly that I’m sure I’m hurting him but he doesn’t let me move the vibrator. I’m definitely screaming but can only hear the blood rushing through my ears. I can only see Frankie looking at me like someone seeing a sunset for the first time. I can only feel the way my orgasm rolls through me and the gushing of my pussy, making his pelvis and my thighs slippery as he continues to fuck up into me.
“Shit,” Frankie whispers before I feel his thrusts getting sloppy and then he comes, filling me and marking me with his release.
Just when I feel like I might black out, all my muscles go slack and I fall on top of Frankie. He pulls the vibrator free and clicks it off before wrapping his arms around me. Holding me and stroking my hair and back as I try to come back to my own body. I bury my face into the crook of his neck, letting the woodsy scent of his skin relax me further.
When I finally have all five of my senses back I whisper, “Holy shit.”
Frankie’s lips press to the top of my head. “My thoughts exactly.”
“I think I saw the afterlife just now.”
He chuckles quietly. “I knew you were an angel.”
“That was so fucking cheesy,” I joke, but secretly I soak it all up. One of my hips pinches and I hiss at the jolt of pain.
“What do you need?” Frankie asks, pulling his head back so he can look at me.
“New legs. New muscles. Food.” I list, holding up a finger with each point.
“Okay. Ready?” Frankie’s ability to go from a deep, growl while talking dirty to this soft, sweet man has my stomach doing cartwheels.
“Ready,” I confirm and then he helps me off his cock. He’s soft now, for once, as he slips out of me. I left out a disappointed whine at how empty I now feel.
“I got you,” he whispers as he rolls me to his side and pulls me in tightly, my head resting on his chest. I hook my leg over him, careful to keep my sore pussy from pressing against him. “Are you okay? That was intense.”
I smile into his skin, looking down at the mess we’ve both made. “That was phenomenal.”
“Yeah?” He kisses my hair again. “Should we do it again next weekend?”
“Only if we can go for all you can eat sushi every Sunday night.” I’m famished, and can only imagine he’s feeling the same way. “Unless you’re worried about people seeing us together.”
“Abso-fucking-lutely not. They can mind their own damn business,” he responds. “Shower, then sushi.”
I nod and he squeezes me into a tight hug before rolling off the bed and heading to my bathroom to start the shower.
Ok, so maybe he won’t be entirely a dirty little ecret, but I do plan to spend every weekend of the foreseeable future with my fingers entangled in his curls as he licks or fucks me. Being forty has never felt so good.
Tags: brief canon-divergence (spoilers/references to ep. 6 & 7), reader is mid/late 30s, canon-typical violence / mentions of death, found family, angst, wounds, hurt/comfort, smut (iii-v), soft!dom joel, competency kink, oral, face-sitting, piv
When a break-in startles you awake, it’s hard not to assume the worst. But when the thief is revealed to be a teenager just trying to help her wounded guardian - you find your heart softening.
Because after all… you suppose your cabin has enough room for three.
"Oh, you nasty freak! Why didn't I know about this right after it happened?! Did you do it at the same time?"
"We are in a church parking lot! Have some couth!"
It's the summer of 2003 in the deep heat of Mississippi, and Juicy's just trying to live life loud-jewelry clinking, hips swinging, and lip gloss always fresh. Between running around with Mary, eating good southern cooking, keeping her name clean in a town full of loose talk, all while taking a break from behind a perfect college student, Juicy doesn't have time for love... not that it stops love from finding her anyway.
The Moore twins are back, and so are the memories they all tried to keep buried. Elijah 'Smoke' Moore is silent and steady. And he still had those burning eyes like he knew things she hasn't even admitted to herself yet. Observant as ever. And Elias 'Stack' Moore is still as bold, reckless, and shameless in the way he flirts, always saying the wrong thing at the right time just to see her blush.
It was just like old times. They're her brothers best friends, and she's not supposed to fall for either of them-let alone both. But in the hectic summer of '03, feelings begin to slip through the cracks as they all depend on one another, just how they did when they were younger.
What starts as teasing glances and late-night conversations grows into something tender, tangled, and far more complicated than Juicy ever expected. She's never been one to choose between sweet and wild... so why start now?
𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞 | 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲’𝐫𝐞 𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤 | ★ ★ ★ ★
𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐨 | 𝐒𝐨 𝐰𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐰 𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 | ★ ★
𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 | 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐤 | ★ ★ ★
𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫 | *𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 | ★ ★ ★ ★
𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐢𝐯𝐞 | 𝐅𝐮𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐮𝐧 | ★ ★ ★
𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐢𝐱 | 𝐖𝐞𝐭 ‘𝐧 𝐖𝐢𝐥𝐝 | ★ ★ ★ ★
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a/n: i don't have any other explanation than he smiled when the gun was to his forehead and the rest is history. i have a thing for sad unhinged men. and apparently seeing deadpool and wolverine was the stepping off point for a new fixation. so enjoy my mindless rambling and possible borderline obsession.
summary: logan was familiar with death. he understood why it happened, what could cause it to occur, and finally how to accept it. so when his family - the people he cared for most - died...he thought he could handle it. only you didn't die. you left. now he's found himself in a new universe with a person who wears your face, yet doesn't hold your memories.
pairing: logan howlett/wolverine x f!reader
each chapter has it's own warnings, but the story is 18+ only!!
INSPO TAG | PLAYLIST
MAIN STORY
➛ in dreams we rest
➛ lost in time and space
➛ bridge over troubled water
➛ felled by you
➛ angel of small death
➛ time can never mend
➛ beneath the stains of time
➛ losing dogs
➛ desperado {COMING SOON}
➛ epilogue: right where you found me {COMING SOON}
EXTRAS
➛ earth 1400
➛ forty five minutes in the closet (ch4 au)
➛ angel of the morning | logan howlett x f!reader x wade wilson
